Dear Adalyn
Dear Adalyn,
You are four today. Four years old. The chubbiness of
toddler days is gone; you are small for your age, but your legs and arms and
torso have stretched out into that of a spry little kid. You’re officially growing
up.
This year was a year of dress-ups and wardrobe changes, of
taped up paintings from preschool, of songs playing from your c.d. player in
your room nearly every hour of the day. It’s the year you grasped Christmas,
met Santa Claus, and picked out gifts for your family. It’s been the year of
Shang, Mulan, Annie and now Muppet Treasure Island. It’s been the year of
check-ups, singing the Doc McStuffins theme song daily so one of the first toys
Bria played with was a stethoscope. This year you learned to ride a bike, you
learned to be a kind big sister (with a healthy shove here or there just to
keep it real), you rocked gymnastics and got your first basketball jersey, even
if it was Carolina Blue. You swam at the pool in the summer, though you begged
us not to let go in the ‘deep part,’ a whole 3 feet deep, sprawling on the lay
out chair when you needed to warm up in the sun. You were fearless at the
beach, jumping through waves, building castles, riding the digger, cooking at
the farmhouse. You discovered teaching Bria and Gracie tricks, and talking on
the phone with loved ones further away. Friends became absolutely delightful to
you; every day, you ask to see Ava and Michael, Tobin, Miya, Declan, Gavin, and
all the new and old playmates that come into your life.
Some days you drive us nuts. You show it when you’re mad.
You try to wiggle your way out of trouble with a smile and sidesteps like,
“Bria wanted to play throw the toy!” You take forever to pick out your pajamas
and eat like a dang bird. You can be stubborn as…well, all your relatives, and
persistent as those squirrels going after our pumpkins.
But every single day, I’m proud of you. I’m proud when your
teacher says you’re sweet and kind to your classmates; I’m proud when you try a
new, higher slide that may have scared you off last year; I’m proud when you
write your name and even prouder when you laugh at yourself if you get it
wrong. I’m proud when you hug Bria when
she’s sad, and how you say Baby Belle talks to you when you lay on my belly.
I’m proud when you brush it off after a wipe out, and when you create wacky
games out of your imagination. Every day, you surprise me with what you’re
capable of, and I know that is only going to get better.
Every year on your birthday, we’ll remember going to the
hospital, waiting for labor to kick up, and the minute you came into the world,
how tiny and perfect you were, all six pounds of newborn-smelling love. You were our first baby; the first grandbaby
and niece, and while our family keeps growing, you will always be who first brought
us the magic – when we held you, when you yawned or rolled over, crawled,
babbled sweet baby nothings. Our family started with you, being in awe of you,
loving you, and watching you turn into this sweet, wonderful, willful person.
You’re teaching us that the best part of parenthood is watching you become.
For that, for the smile you love to give, and for everything
you are, I am so grateful. Every single day, I know the world is brighter
because you are in it.
I love you,
Mom
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