Six-Year-Olds Make No Sense

Ours doesn't, at least.

One day over Christmas vacation, she essentially had a six-hour crying fit about . . . writing a single thank-you note. And getting dressed and brushing her teeth to go skating at the skating rink. Which she CLEARLY didn't get to do after all, because of the crying. And the screaming. And the lying on the hallway floor, the ripping up of the paper on which I had nicely written the names and gifts she needed for her thank-you notes, the slamming of the bedroom door, the threatening to run away in the snow while still wearing purple footie pajamas, etc.

The next day, she giggled almost constantly, hugged us a million times, went to church and sat still and quiet as a mouse. She built a fairy house and threw snowballs at the fence from her perch in the hot tub. Just before bed, she laughed so hard over something her sister said that she peed her pants and all over her bedroom floor.

Just now, she came downstairs after being tucked in ten minutes ago, wearing an entirely new set of pajamas than she'd been wearing when we turned out the light. She said her nose was itchy. She also said she'd already had a scary dream about a bat.

She started yoga class yesterday and is smug about how many of the poses she already knows from her kid yoga video. She loves her cats. She reads constantly. She resolved (possibly to impress her teacher) to "eat helthy food" in the new year. (Also: to "lisin on the first triy," to "riyd my to well bike," and to "do chors evrey day.") (I would welcome them all.)

You know how sometimes, your kids turn ages, and it seems wrong, and you can't believe they're that age? Well, that's not the case here; I can believe she's six. She turned it in a blaze of glory, with a chocolate raspberry torte from Julienne Tomatoes, surrounded by her cousins up north, followed by sledding and a (very) little painting party with friends when we got back home.

She's mostly happy, except when she's not. She mostly skips through the house, sings to herself while she's drawing or writing, hugs me fiercely when she gets home after school. She still comes to find me first thing in the morning, says, "Snuggle", and gets under the covers with me. She still sits on my lap at night when we read books before bed, and I feel the weight of her as she turns to let me scratch the bare skin on her back. Her hair smells like Cheerios and shampoo, and sometimes a little bit like gum.

She drew this self-portrait yesterday. She is six.

Sunrise, Sunset

Traditionally, I write Annie a letter here each year on her (our) birthday. It's fun to look back on the year that has passed, think about the ways she's grown, praise her for her persistence or her passion, wonder anew at how big she is getting. This year it doesn't seem necessary.

Annie is eight. She remembers everything that happened to her (to us) over the course of this last year. She has her own stories to tell. As of today, along with the rest of her third-grade class, she has her own (semi-private, school-sponsored, teacher-moderated) blog. So I'm not sure I need to be keeping track of the highlights of her years for her anymore. (Though I can keep doing it for me, and I will.)

Plus, I've started writing Annie real letters. She and I both communicate better, more succinctly, and more (ahem) calmly in writing than via conversation, especially when there's an ongoing challenge or a tricky subject involved. I wrote her a letter a few weeks ago after her first, disastrous soccer practice - a dashed-off-in-desperation three-pager about how hard I know it is for her to not immediately be good at something, to have to fail and make mistakes and learn in front of other people. I set out three basic expectations for the season, and she's risen to the occasion since then, adopting a new, positive attitude and even having a genuinely great time at her first game on Saturday. I wrote her a letter the night before school started. I write her notes in her lunch every day.

So I didn't write her a letter yesterday. What I did do is bake her a double-chocolate layer cake for her family party on Sunday PLUS thirty Pinkalicious cupcakes to bring to school for yesterday's treat. Jason and I got her the American Girl doll (Julie) she's been pining for since June. I took her (and Jemma) to get a birthday pedicure, then to piano lessons, then met up with Jason so all of us could go out to dinner to Rose's, where she and I took full advantage of free birthday dessert by ordering key lime pie AND creme brûlée. I tried not to think too much about how eight means halfway to sixteen which means driving; relatedly, I tried not to equate 35 to confirmed middle-aged, even though that was pretty unsuccessful.

I looked at this picture of us, taken right around her first birthday

and tried to wrap my mind around the fact that this picture of us is the reality these days:

She wrote me a letter on my (our) birthday, though - gave it to me just before she left for school in the morning. It says, "Dear Mom, Happy birthday! I love you as much as anyone can love anything! You are the best mom ever! I hope you have a great birthday! I love you sooooo much! Love, Annie"

Best birthday present ever, that one.

Jemma is Five

Dear Jemma,

Just typing that title - FIVE! - makes me amazed, proud, and sad. Nobody here can believe that you are five whole years old, and yet you are. We have been blessed with five whole years of your delightful, inquisitive, silly, sweet, social, confident self, and we feel so lucky.

Right now, you're at school, which you continue to love, and you talk almost daily about how much you can't wait for next year's school, when you'll be at the same school as Annie. You have learned SO MUCH this year: you can write all your uppercase and most of your lowercase letters; you can read short words; you can spell short words; you can add little numbers; you are fascinated by science; you are intrigued by maps, globes, and Google Earth; you love to read and be read to; you have learned to swim and scoot on a big-girl scooter and do the monkey bars all the way across, both forwards and backwards. We are so proud of you.

At home, you do puzzles, draw pictures, beg to play checkers on the iPad, play with the bazillion stuffed animals and babies we have, and want to be doing anything Annie is doing. You are usually the last one up in the morning and now that it is winter, you prefer to start the day by sitting on the heat vent in your room before you come out to eat breakfast. You can dress yourself completely - even all your snow gear! - and you never, ever, ever want to wear jeans. You want to grow your hair out long again. You love to have your toenails painted.

You are silly. You tell knock-knock jokes that make no sense, you love to watch silly cartoons, and when we read a funny book you've read before, you start giggling even before the funny part happens. Last night you had me and Annie both belly-laughing in my bed just anticipating what Tacky the penguin was going to do.

You are tender-hearted. Even during the limited amounts of time when you watch even the most innocuous television, you're known to run from the room or cover your eyes if anything even sliiiiiightly uncomfortable or loud or scary or awkward is starting to happen. Your compassion makes you such a good companion to our family, because often, just as the rest of us are at our worst in difficult situations, you'll save the day with a kind word, a hug, or by running to get some little thing (a glass of water, a book, a stuffed animal) to make us feel better.

You are enthusiastic. When you are excited about something or hear especially good news, you pump your arms triumphantly in the air and do a little wiggly dance of joy. The smallest things make you happy: dessert, time with beloved family and friends, a good song, a fun time sledding or ice-skating, a good story-and-snuggle session before bed.  When I read this quote this morning on my daily happiness calendar, I thought right away of you:

"We act as though comfort and luxury were the chief requirements of life, when all we need to make us really happy is something to be enthusiastic about" - Charles Kingsley

We still tend to baby you sometimes, call you Roo and Moppet and Snuglet, pick you up when you should really have two feet on the ground most of the time. But in spite of your status as the little one in this family, you have so much to teach us about how to be, and you have such a bright future. We are sure of it. We love you so much, and we have loved our five whole years with you in our family.

Happy belated birthday.

Love,
Mommy

Christmas and Birthday, Recapped

Now that Christmas, Jemma's birthday, and all the assorted celebrations seem like the distant past, I'm loathe to do a holiday recap but know I'll regret it later if I don't. So.

Christmas Eve: For the first time in my life, I did not gather with my mom's side of the family for an evening of appetizers and plates and plates of little sugared treats. In the spirit of less is more and quality over quantity that we tried to embrace this holiday season, we made Christmas Eve about our own little family of four instead. We went to church at 5:00 p.m. for the family service (in years previous, we have never, ever attended church on Christmas Eve or on Christmas because of various family obligations) and it felt sweet and right to be singing O Holy Night on that very special night.

On our way home, we took time to drive up and down the streets in our area that deck out the curbs with luminaries every Christmas Eve. At home, we began a new tradition of Christmas Eve fondue dinner by candlelight. We had sparkling grape juice for the girls, and while we took turns spearing tart green apples and sourdough bread cubes to dip in the hot cheese, we also took turns toasting each other, our not-present family members, and our favorite places and things and events of the year. I may have cried a little.

Cookies and milk set out for Santa and girls tucked in beds, Jason and I filled stockings and talked about where we'd been and what we'd done for the last fifteen Christmasses we've been together, then went to sleep knowing the house was fully prepped for a morning of chaos and cheer.

Christmas Day:  I've written before about how all our Christmas mornings (and seasons) are bound to blend together in my mind, so every year I try to single out a few memorable details. This was the Christmas, then, when

• the green grass predominated over snow, much to the girls' dismay.
• the girls and I led Jason on a scavenger hunt to find his new skis.
• the furnace quit at some point during our present-opening frenzy and we spent lunch squeezed together at a little table we'd pulled to stand in front of the fireplace and spent the night with space heaters and air mattresses until the repairman could come the next morning, when the majority of the house was 53 degrees.
• Santa brought Annie an iPod touch (onto which she immediately loaded an awesome-in-its-randomness mix of The Beatles, Toto, Justin Bieber, Abba, Michael Jackson, Billy Joel, and Brandi Carlile) and Jemma a pink Razor scooter which she scooted up and down the hallway.
• we spent the afternoon with my family at my parents' house opening presents, playing fun games, and eating dinner with my grandparents.
• I snuck in a run around the lake with a friend and Jason got out on his bike on Christmas Eve in the sunshine.
• Annie and I made marshmallows for the first time together and Jemma destroyed the kitchen rolling them in powdered sugar.

Two days later, Jemma turned five. Five. Five is huge, big-kid, momentous (for me) and I can literally not believe she's five years old. We woke her up with balloons and YET MORE presents, celebrated with a Sugarplum Fairy dance party with eight of her friends in the afternoon, and had Smitten Kitchen double chocolate layer cake, homemade macaroni and cheese, and raspberries for dinner. We measured her, and sure enough, she's half an inch taller than she was just six months ago.

We've filled the holiday break with a trip up north, ice-skating downtown after dinner out, a million art projects, a night of cozy fun with friends and neighbors, a couple hours of burning energy at the gymnastics place, swimming at the pool, hours of Lego-building, an epic trip to the library, playing checkers and tic-tac-toe on the iPad, a lot of television and a lot of bickering. Just now, I'm hunkered in a coffee shop, post-yoga, trying to snatch a few minutes of quiet before I take the girls roller-skating this afternoon. I'm trying to gather my thoughts about this year that's almost over, figure out what 2012 is going to be about for me and for our family, and capture the texture of this exact time in our life. 

Birthday letter to Jemma and bunches of Christmas photos to come, but for now I'm just sweaty, tired, a little hungover, and trying my best to get the details of the last week down before they're gone.

Seven

Dear Annie,

You turned seven on Sunday, though (as usual) we celebrated your birthday all weekend.  On Friday, donuts and cider to school and then the football game with grandparents while Daddy and I went out with friends.  On Saturday, you did the thing you've been waiting to do for well over a year now:  you got your ears pierced.  Jemma, Grandma, Mimi and I were all gathered around to watch you pick out your blue-green studs with such poise and heft yourself up into the chair with calm confidence.  I snapped one last photo of you as you were:

Then you squeezed the heck out of my hands while the earrings went in simultaneously - pop! - and you didn't flinch or cry at all, just smiled shyly when you saw your newly-pierced ears in the mirror.

Afterwards we all went to get pedicures together for a special girls' afternoon.  You and Jemma charmed all the women in the salon.  You chose polish specifically to match your earrings and then were delighted when you got tiny flowers painted on every single toe.

Then, presents in the front yard

and blowing out seven candles on your chocolate cheesecake.

The next morning - the morning that you were officially, finally seven - you looked like this:

And just like that, you're another year older.

I've read a few less-than-encouraging books lately about the challenges of raising happy, healthy girls in our current culture.  Instead of coming away feeling educated and empowered, I've closed those books feeling overwhelmed and confused.  Don't tell girls they're pretty! goes one theory, or they'll base their entire self-worth on their appearance.  And then, in another book, Don't tell kids they're smart! studies show, or they'll actually give up more easily and perform less well in school.  In another chapter:  Don't bother emphasizing honesty; it doesn't have any impact on how honest your kids will grow up to be, and even the "best" kids routinely lie to their parents.  For a week or two there, I felt like nothing was safe to say, like there was just no way we hadn't already messed things up forever.

Then school started and your birthday happened and life became one big flurry of activity, and I was reminded again of what a resilient, competent, persistent, compassionate, and - yes - pretty and smart person you are.  Sometimes I see you do something - take the monkey bars every-other-one, smash a tennis ball across the net, run around the track, play a new piano song perfectly, solve a tough math problem - and I can hardly believe it is you.  You can make your own peanut-butter-and-nutella sandwiches, switch the CD in your player from Suzuki piano to the Justin Bieber your sister gave you for your birthday, sign your name in cursive, do a cartwheel, swim real strokes, twirl spaghetti on a fork, and read yourself to sleep at night.  You are a patient teacher to Jemma, telling her how to spell words she wants to write, reading to her on the hallway floor, chasing down frogs and bugs as a team.  You are a big kid, and we are so proud of you.

I am going to forget about those books and forget about censoring myself around you.  I'm going to think instead of something better I read in another book, The Gift of An Ordinary Day:


"The hardest part of being a parent may be learning to live with the fact that there are so many things that we simply can't control, so much of the journey that is not our doing at all, but rather the work of the gods, the unfolding of destiny, fate.  We give birth to our children, we love and cherish them, but we don't form or own them, any more than we can own the flowers blooming at our doorstep or the land upon which we build our homes and invest our dreams.  We may tend the garden for a while, take our brief turn upon the land, nurture the children delivered into our arms, but in truth we possess none of these things, nor can we write any life story but our own."

So even as I see you blossoming into the big kid you are becoming, I'm remembering that it's you who is doing the hard work of growing up.  And because it's not due to me saying the right things or the wrong things, I'm going to go ahead and keep telling you that you're beautiful, reminding you that you're smart, and telling you to be honest, parenting books be damned.  Looking back at the seven years we've had together and looking forward to the treacherous, wild, messy territory that is still uncharted, I want to say, too, that you're a great kid and I'm so lucky to be your mom.  I tell you that every day.  I'm so glad you were born.

Happy Birthday, Jemma

Dear Jemma,

Yesterday, you turned four.  You popped out of your room at 7:00 a.m. sharp and wanted to show us how much taller you were, now that you were four.  You wanted to be measured on your growth chart.  So we marched upstairs and measured:  you are 38 inches tall, and you weigh about 28 pounds.  You are a little sprite of a four-year-old who loves to cuddle, sleep in, stay up late, swim, dance, draw, spell, write, and make snow angels.

You are in that bed right this minute, still awake, proclaiming that it is "too dark" in your room, despite the two night-lights and one glowing doll that you sleep with.  You are sweet, but you are stubborn, and when you insist on something, you won't be reasoned with the way your sister will.  You are still offended by the taste - the smell! - of certain foods, and while you will pretend to go along with our "no-thank-you bite," you have, if anything, shortened the list of foods you will eat over the course of the last year.  You love fruit, cheese, bread, and treats.  Not in that order.

For your birthday dinner, I let you choose the meal, just like my mom used to let me choose on my birthday.  You chose homemade macaroni and cheese, garlic bread, raspberries, and turkey sausage (for Annie, who is our carnivore).  We spent the day playing with all your new Christmas gifts, delivering thank-you's from your party, doing your kids' yoga DVD, building elaborate LEGO creations, traipsing around in the snow, and making your birthday cake.  I had spied a fancy pink cake on my favorite cooking website and thought you would love it, so our afternoon involved several cups of cake flour, sugar, and butter, plus three packages of cream cheese and a bunch of pureed strawberries.  Your face when you saw it in all its triple-layer-cream-cheese-frosted glory was priceless, as was the expression on it when you were trying to blow out your four candles.  Your favorite part of the dinner, though?  The ring pop you had been asking for all day.  We could have made Kraft macaroni and cheese, gotten a cake from a gas station, and let you have that damn ring pop, and you would have been just as birthday-happy.

I really, truly cannot believe that it was four years ago that we were getting to know you.  I can still picture almost every detail of those first blurry days - the orange knit hat you wore, the way your face was scrunched up just so, the way you sounded when you cried, the way you smelled all swaddled in a hospital blanket.  You're four, but you're still the baby, and so the fact that you can write your letters and spell actual words continues to shock me.  We are looking ahead to spring and summer, you and I, and you're already asking to sign up for things like dance, swimming lessons, and safety town, which in my mind Annie just did, and how is it possible that you are ready to do them, too?

For now, I am treasuring this year, complete with your senseless stubborn moments, when we are almost always still together.  I am already so proud of the you that you're becoming - polite, sweet, sensitive, fun-loving, brave, silly, thoughtful, curious, kind - that even as part of me wants to freeze you here at four, another part of me can't wait for the things I'll get to see you do in the next year's time.  Our family is so, so lucky to have you blessing us with your sweet silliness every day, and we love you so, so much.

Happy birthday, baby Jemma.

Purplicious Party

We had Jemma's party this afternoon, and it was a party.  There were purple cupcakes, purple balloons, purple favor bags, and little birthday girls dressed in purple.

Jemma's party fell on Marta's actual birthday, so we lit a candle and sang to her, too.  Everyone had a great time, and now we're getting used to the idea of having a four-year-old in our midst, even though her actual birthday is still a few days away.

Someday (Annie is Six)

Dear Annie,

On Saturday, for our birthday, I took you in the afternoon to get your first pedicure. You picked out your polish color (pink) and climbed up into the chair next to me. I knew you would love it, and you did: the vibrating massage chair that tickled your back; the warm, bubbly water; the orange pop the receptionist brought you; the fashion magazines; the teeny-tiny flower they painted on your big toe. We decided it would be our birthday tradition.

You are big enough to love grown-up things like pedicures, yet you are so small in the massage chair that you need a pillow to prop you up. And this is how six is for you, so far. In-between. First grade is wiping you out, though I never hear you say anything negative about it. When I ask you what the best part of your day was, you usually say "Writing." You love eating at a table with your friends, playing at recess, hearing new stories from a new teacher. When you come home, though, you are just plain out of everything: coping skills, energy, patience, rational thought. One minute, you are channelling a sassy teenager - "I don't want that! I want PIZZA!" - and the next you are as limp and wordless as a toddler, melting down and clinging to the front of my body when I try to jump-start the bedtime routine. You are six, going on sixteen. You are six, going on sixteen months.

On a related note, you have occasionally been going to bed during the six o'clock hour lately in an attempt to shore you up for the next, long day. We choose your clothes for tomorrow, arrange your stuffed animals just so, and I try to build in some extra time for talking, reading, and snuggling because there are so few minutes in the rest of the day for those things now. You have questions - about the next day, about the weekend, about places on your new globe, about the tomato sauce you tried at the CSA pick-up this week - and I want to talk to you about them. At your first night of catechism on Monday, the deacon talked to all of you about God. "God loves you even more than your mom and dad love you," he said, and you turned to me, eyes narrowed suspiciously: "Is that TRUE?"

"What do you think?" I asked. It is usually what I say when you ask those kinds of questions. You looked hard at me for a minute, then turned back to listen more, to put your head down on my lap and let me scratch your back, again simultaneously six and sixteen and sixteen months.

Tonight when I tucked you in we talked more about love because of a conversation I had with Jemma while you were at school. She's been watching the recent post-school meltdowns and dramatics but not saying much about it, so I wasn't sure how much she was processing. While she and I were having lunch today, she said something adorably ridiculous ("Daddy's underwear isn't what makes him beautiful.")

"Jemma," I said, "I love you so much. I'm so lucky to be your mommy."

"You love me all the time," she said.

"Of course I do," I said.

Then she said, "But not Annie. You don't love Annie all the time," and my heart broke a little as I tried to figure out how to explain it. We talked about how I might not like the choices you were making or the words you were using, but that I loved you (both of you) every single day since before you were born, no matter what, because I am your mommy.

So tonight I talked with you about that. I wanted to be sure you were clear about just how much I love you, both while you're looking like the happiest girl in the world as you blow the candles out on a cake surrounded by family and birthday gifts, and while you're yelling your frustrations from behind your bedroom door. We decided to be kinder to each other tomorrow, and I hope we can, because I think we have a long, winding road ahead of us in this department.

Right now: you still love your dolls. You still hold my hand sometimes when we walk to school, and you always rush to give me a last "kiss-and-hug!" just before you follow your class line into the building. You still have to stand on a stool to spit your toothpaste into the sink and sit in a booster seat in the car. But you do your hair by yourself every morning. You want to make tomato sauce for dinner. You can read most of the birthday cards people gave to you. Your world is widening, but not too much.

On your birthday, after the presents and the cake and the pedicures, I tucked you in and I read you the book that stopped me in my tracks at the bookstore weeks ago. When I brought it home and Daddy read it, he couldn't believe that I thought I was going to be able to read it to you without crying. I did, though.

Someday, by Alison McGhee and Peter H. Reynolds

One day I counted your fingers and kissed each one.

One day the first snowflakes fell, and I held you up and watched them melt on your baby skin.

One day we crossed the street and you held my hand tight.

Then, you were my baby, and now you are my child.

Sometimes, when you sleep, I watch you dream, and I dream too . . .

That someday you will dive into the cool, clear water of a lake.

Someday you will walk into a deep wood.

Someday your eyes will be filled with a joy so deep that they shine.

Someday you will run so fast and so far your heart will feel like fire.

Someday you will swing high - so high, higher than you ever dared to swing.

Someday you will hear something so sad that you will fold up with sorrow.

Someday you will call a song to the wind, and the wind will carry your song away.

Someday I will stand on this porch and watch your arms waving to me until I no longer see you.

Someday you will look at this house and wonder how something that feels so big can look so small.

Someday you will feel a small weight against your strong back.

Someday I will watch you brushing your child's hair.

Someday, a long time from now, your own hair will glow silver in the sun.

And when that day comes, love, you will remember me.

For now, I am amazed that more than six years have passed since the Saturday afternoon when I first saw your tiny, perfect face. Six years ago just now, you were swaddled up in a white cradle at the end of our bed in another house entirely. You wore a pink knit cap on your head. It was your first night home from the hospital, and I barely knew who you were. But I was waiting to see what you needed from me next, wanting to give it to you, loving you no matter what. That hasn't changed.

Love,

Mommy

Hot Dog Party Photos

Jemma is Three

Dear Jemma,

You are three. You woke up this morning and stumbled out of your room, wearing the red nightgown you got for Christmas and have barely taken off since, your cheeks all rosy and your hair a mess. We hugged you and wished you a happy birthday, and you looked pleased. You chose oatmeal for your birthday breakfast, and while you were waiting for it to cool, you kept asking, "Am I three? Right now? Is it my birthday?" When we assured you that it was, you followed with a sly, "Can I open presents? Can I eat cake?"

We got you some Playmobil figures, a Melissa & Doug cookie tray, and the book Pinkalicious, which you asked me to read instantly. We sat on your bedroom floor and read. You turned to me when it was done and said, "Thank you for the book, mommy." You are always doing that: giving hugs, kisses, and grateful words without prompting. You run up while I am washing dishes or stirring something on the stove and give my leg a squeeze. You give hugs and kisses to your friends and family when they come and go. You run right up to guests in our house and answer their questions, say hello, show them your stuff. You are so thoughtful, giving, considerate, and kind - almost to a fault, because when Annie asks you for something that you have (food, a toy, a doll), you usually give it to her, and she's come to expect that this is how the world works.

And though this is not about Annie but about you, we have been going through this year's photos and videos and some of my very favorite shots are of the two of you together - eating ice cream, making snow angels, building sand castles, picking peaches, holding hands in the garden, dancing in the living room, wearing all manner of dress-up clothes. And I am so glad that she has you, and you have her, and that you are growing into two of the best friends the other will ever have.

Along those lines, there's a lyric in a Joshua Radin song that I heard just this morning and made me think of you: "I like the way you’re not afraid/You’ve got the world planned in your mind/People say you cannot do it/But they don’t know a friend like you." You, truly, are not afraid. In fact, you're so wide open to the world, so prepared to be charmed by what you find that you are almost always delighted.

Of course, there is another lyric from a poem called "That Little Girl:"

There was a little girl
And she had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead,
When she was good,
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.

This one fits you, too, from time to time, because you are three now, and because you can go from delighted to devastated in one fell swoop if play time has to end, if you have to get dressed, if we have to turn off Sesame Street, if Annie is making a noise you do not like, if your shoe is too tight, if I try to help you buckle your carseat . . . in short, if any little thing is not going your way. You particularly hate to wear any clothes that are not a dress and inform us that you "don't look good in this" or "look like a boy" on the rare days when the dresses are all dirty and you are forced to wear pants of any kind.

You love to brush your teeth, chew gum, eat any type of melted cheese, dance, swim, help me cook and bake, play with your (many) babies, and do anything that Annie is doing. You hate to be hurried, have your hair done, get out of the tub, walk Annie to school on cold mornings, have any food on your plate that you do not like, be cold or hot or in any way uncomfortable. Your favorite color is still purple, but pink is a close runner-up. Your favorite food is probably (sadly) "treats," but you also love almost all fruit (minus the skin), black beans, peas, Boursin, yogurt, scrambled eggs, and anything bread-based.

You weigh 25 pounds. You. Are. Tiny. I watch your little body swinging through the air on the rope at gymnastics; I see your tiny little bottom perched on the toilet; I hear your adorable, screechy little voice raised in happiness or frustration and it always makes me smile, so much spunk coming from such a tiny package.

We went last week to pick out your cake for today's little party. Standing in the grocery store, you on my hip, Annie whining impatiently at my side, we paged through the bakery display book until you found the picture you wanted. I thought for sure you'd choose something princess-y, but you were immediately sure: "I want this one," you pointed, and it was a Dora cake. On the display page, the cake had been filled in, "Happy Birthday, Jemma!" and I did a double-take, seeing your name in print like that in a cake book. For a second, I think I was even a little confused - but that's OUR name! - before it sunk in. Because when I hear that name, all I think of is you, you, you and the way you surprised us with your early entry into the world three years ago today, the way your hair stuck straight up all over, the way we looked and looked at you before finally choosing your name. Because Christmastime is now inextricably linked with the memory of you bursting into our snowy world, changing everything. Because now, three whole years later, I can't imagine life without your enthusiasm, affection, questions, noise, and energy.

Happy birthday, Jemma, to a sweet little girl who has gotten so, so big.


Love,
Mommy

Could We Cram Any More into One Day? I Don't Think So.

Soccer game? Check.

Grand Rapids Kid's Marathon? Check.

Pass kids off to my parents in the YMCA parking lot so Jason and I can drive directly up north and throw his mom a surprise 60th birthday party? CHECK.

Yes, she was very, very surprised. And we are very, very tired.