Five!

Dear Mallory:

Tomorrow you will be five years old. You can write your name (and mine); you can draw bunnies and spaceships and people and flowers; you can make yourself “go high” on the swings; you can get lost in the imaginary worlds you create with your dolls. You ask the strangest, most impossible questions; you beg for dessert seventeen times a day; you scream louder than I ever thought possible for a child. You can probably do many, many things that you claim that you can’t (pedal a bicycle, for example, or put on your own shoes). You love family hugs and ice cream, princesses and dancing, singing and “Pinky Dinky Doo.” You like to rhyme words, to do art projects, and to dictate elaborate notes to your friends. You love to play with your friends and get wild with excitement when we have visitors. You prefer dresses to pants and you don’t like to have your hair brushed. You have beautiful hazel eyes with long lashes and when you’re telling us something very, very important you squeeze your eyes together and curl up the left side of your mouth. You are a sweet, sweet big sister to Phoebe (when you’re not knocking her over). Your trademark phrases are “always remember that,” “are you telling the truth?” and “how do you know?” You’re not a baby anymore, but you still like to sit in my lap, and I’m always happy to have you there.

Five years ago, a few hours after you were born, you and I were all alone in our hospital room. You wanted to nurse and I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing, but somehow I got you latched on and you gave it a try and your little, dark blue eyes rolled back in your head and you smiled like you were in heaven. That’s when I fell in love with you, and I swore that I would do anything in my power to keep you just that happy for the rest of your life.

I learned soon enough that it would never again be quite that easy (although sometimes I have to remember that it’s not that hard, either – for as much as you love big spectacles like Sesame Street Live or Disney on Ice, you also love little things like surprise picnics in the yard, or just sitting down to read a story). But I’ve already failed spectacularly too -- lately another phrase you use often is, “Mommy, you’re mean!” You’ve had to learned – in some cases, earlier than I’d have liked – that you can’t always have what you want; that sometimes I have to leave you; that not everyone else in the world wants to be your friend (as impossible as that is for me to believe); that things don’t always work out the way you think they should. And what I’ve learned is that it’s my job as your mom not to make you happy, but to give you enough confidence and support and love so that you can create happiness within yourself.

One night, probably six months ago, we were coming home from someplace and you fell asleep in the car. I had to carry you through the garage, through the house, up the stairs, into your room, and then hoist you up onto your bunk bed. You’re a heavy kid and I wasn’t even halfway there before I realized I couldn’t carry you any further. My shoulders were singing, my back was on fire, my wrists were about to snap. But I held on, and I got you there, because the alternative was letting you fall.

And that’s what parenting is about – doing more, every day, than I consider myself capable of doing. It’s pouring endless cups of juice and making millions of peanut butter sandwiches. It’s reading “Max’s Dragon Shirt” over and over and over when I wish I could be reading The New Yorker instead. It’s listening to the same ridiculous Elmo tape every time we get in the car, for four years. Its countless bath times, and arguments about bedtime, and tedious explanations (every morning!) about what’s going to happen that day. It’s hundreds of reminders not to push your sister, or sit on the dog, or stand on the coffee table. It’s answering questions and playing games and complimenting artwork and finding socks (why can’t you keep those socks on?) and giving horsey rides and saying “Great job!” even when my patience is utterly exhausted. And it’s loving you more and more each and every minute of every day.

So here’s my new promise to you, my no-longer-a-baby girl. I have every confidence that you are smart and brave and strong enough to go down life’s road on your own two feet. But if you ever need me to, I will carry you as far as I can: and then I will carry you farther.

Happy birthday, ladybug. I love you!

Mommy