Dear Aida,
At this time five years ago, I was laboring in a cold hospital room, eight hours away from staring into your startling blue eyes for the first time and feeling your soft, soft skin against my chest.
Now you stand before me -- but not for long -- your knees bruised, your light brown hair falling into those beautiful eyes of yours. Smiling, laughing, dancing, crying, thinking, watching.
At five, you are a kitty, a butterfly, a loud laugher, a princess, a ballerina, a mermaid, a fish. You are running down the street, playing Mother May I, waving to every child who passes, offering a cheery "Hi!"
You are asking me to tell you a story, another story, another story, another story. No, not that story, another story.
You are snuggled against me for bedtime reading. You are closing your door to squeeze your feet into the now-too-small ballet shoes. Asking me to draw a kitty on your face before bed. Teaching me a song then telling me not to sing it.
One moment, you are a shadow of your toddler self. You press that tattered blankie against your nose then pull it away to yank a thread loose and toss it on the ground. The next, you are five. You put your dishes on the counter, dress yourself, ask me questions I cannot answer.
"Momma," you asked tonight from the back seat, "does the world end?"
Where did you come from?
You have asked and asked and asked for a baby over the past few years. When we finally told you you would be a big sister, you responded with a big smile and bigger eyes.
"Is it true?" you said.
Now, it seems that every day I pick you up from school, you have created a new piece of artwork for the little guy who has given me my Buddha shape.
"For baby brother," you say.
My belly has become your megaphone. "Goodnight, Chubby Cheeks!" you yell, smooshing your nose against my gut.
Beautiful girl. How I love your mind, your resilience, your memory, your curiosity, your laughter. How I love your delight in small things, your attention to detail, your focus on finishing your artwork project before moving on to something else -- even if it means not getting out of the car when we arrive at school because, "I'm not done."
I am so pleased to be your mother and so proud of the friend-making, kindhearted child you have become. It's hard for me to close the chapter on early childhood. I get nervous about this world and its potential for damage.
But when I see at you at five skipping down that street, picking up sticks for walking canes, singing songs that only you know, I feel like everything is as it should be and you, my sweet daughter, have exactly what it takes to walk, skip, run, fly in this world.
Because you do.
Happy birthday, Aida Orleans. I love you so.
Mommy
P.S. Meow.
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| Eyes wide open. Nov. 12, 2010, 6 lbs 15 oz, 19 5/8 inches. |
