Dear Adalyn
Dear Adalyn,
You are five today.
Five sounds so old to me, so
legitimately a “kid,” so beyond-baby, poised at the edge of a chapter, ready to
jump into the next phase of childhood. You keep growing, growing, growing, getting longer and leaner and smarter
and stronger. You are becoming you.
Today, we celebrated you with
orange rolls for breakfast, glitter tattoo art, lego building, LC romping, a rainbow
carwash per your request, waffles for dinner, a Green Bay win complete with
popcorn, and Tag You’re It. It was perfect, because it was You. Yesterday, you
pranced around at one of our normal chaotic gatherings that you think is a
normal birthday-party, your friends in “Addie-gear” of sparkles and costumes
and creative fun; you were thrilled about life.
I can’t believe you are five.
You are still shy around strangers, but want to be friends with everyone in
your class. You are funny and goofy and try to sneak armpit tickles daily to
make us laugh. You are adventurous but cautious, looking out for the littler
ones around you. You are creative, cutting paper and straws and ribbon to
creating something at your “desk,” the shelf you and Pops made for your bunk
bed. You let Bria join you sometimes when you’re busy creating; she copies
everything you do. You sing often in ‘shows’
we have to watch, falling in love with every musical you see from Hello Dolly
to Sound of Music to White Christmas. You can pay attention now through chapter
books. You love to doctor, love calling our names… “Carly Sheaffer? Bria
Elizabeth-Rose? You’re next.” You love playing, directing, organizing at times,
but mainly destroying neat spaces. You test boundaries, but you nurture. You
learned to swim this summer; refusing to try at first until you realized it was
possible. You write letters. You love helping Bria do things. You’ve (I think
joyously) discovered telling on the little ones. Gracie follows you around
constantly, and you love playing with John, retrieving baby toys for him to
play with. You want to have people for dinner all the time. You love family
hugs and ‘snuggle parties.’ You are patient, but stubborn. You are Wonder
Woman, princess, Moana voyager, doctor, rockstar, baller, Dolly, fashionista. Your
outfits draw comments everywhere we go. You
sparkle on.
You are an optimist. You want
to hope for good. And you are so loving. You remember Abram often, healing our
hearts these past months in ways you can’t understand at 5, but that matter so
much. You point out his star every time in the sky; you water his tree; you ask
about him; and some days, you simply say you miss him; others you smile and
laugh imagining him, always with Grandma and Gladys in the sky. You hold him in your small but powerful heart
that already shows its sweet quiet strength. Every day, I see kindness and so
much love within you, and it makes us so proud.
I’m writing this right when
you were born. October 8, 2012, 10:24pm. Your hair was dark brown and you only
weighed 6 pounds 4 ounces. You looked like a funny, squishy newborn. To us and
your village, you were perfect. I could (and I will) tell the story of how you
were born 1,000 times. It was the night we became parents. It was the night the
world met you.
I still remember in the
blurriness of those tired nights how tiny you looked in your dad’s arms, how
small you felt, a newborn ball curled up on my shoulder, like you had always
been there. And still tonight, while you’ve
grown so much, you were still small, laying on my shoulder reading in bed as I
tried to soak in all you are right now.
I hope one day, when you are grown, when you are Wonder Woman with a
life of your own, you still come to us and lay your head on my shoulder, and
know this is where so much began, where we fell in love with your heart and the
story of you that it yields.
I love you, sweet girl.
Love,
Mom
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