Dear Adalyn

Dear Adalyn,

I had to wait until I found “aqua” as a color I could write in because that’s your favorite color right now. You think it’s awesome, and point it out everywhere you see it. It’s one of the many, many things I love about you right now.

I can’t believe you’re 6 this year. Every year, I’m amazed that you’re another year older, as though time would actually stop and freeze you at 1 when you just toddled around climbing anything you could or 3 when you never stopped singing Let It Go, or even last year when you changed outfits at least six hundred times a day. The years start to run together, and whether you read these letters or not, I’m relieved to have them because one day I will read them and remember the phases, the phrases, the things that made you you, year after year.

You are six. And honestly, it’s been a big year. You started your last year at preschool with Mrs. Padgett, whom you and your buddies called “Teacher” and adored. Your favorite part of the day was the playground with the group of six boys in the class, and you loved bringing in things you made to show the class. Mrs. Padgett said you were so quiet explaining it in circle time, but that all your friends listened intently to you.  You still love to play “graduation” with Bria, dressing her up and awarding her with a diploma and shaking her hand, presenting her to us with pride. Your own graduation was adorable. You came a long way from the 2 year old whose chin wobbled the first two weeks every day when we dropped you off.  

You were Robin Hood for Halloween, making us make the costume, even though I’d never sewed a costume in my life. It was fabulous. You still love musicals, and added Singing in the Rain to your list of favorites. You were disappointed Star Wars didn’t have singing, but were still into it. You asked Pops if Darth Vader ever “got good,” showing me you always want to see the best in people, even in galaxies far far away. 

You and Bria tried ballet this year. Both of you spent most of the time rolling on the floor, swinging from the bar, or making up your own games when you got bored between positions. We went back to gymnastics pretty quick. You learned to swim and to ride a bike without training wheels – your own request – but refuse to try on sidewalks, and usually would much rather just run. You grew out your bangs and regularly ask us to check for loose teeth every 15 days or so. You love board games and patiently teach your sister, letting her slide when she doesn’t get the rules down right away. Or ever. You love science experiments and sewing.  You love sprinting through the Dell; you love watching Magic School Bus and Cat in the Hat and practice your persuasive campaigning skills when you want to watch something brainless like Strawberry Shortcake or Sheriff Callie.  You love Iggy Peck the Architect, looking for your “kindergarten words” when we read, and you’ve never said no to a Lego contest.

You love to create and invent and make stuff – anything. No cardboard box can be thrown away without taping ribbons or drawing a steering wheel on it, with a story, plot and purpose to go with it. You’ve begged to build a car, just like Peppa and George did. You request “sewing mornings,” and draw out your designs of puppets or bean bags or whatever it is you feel like putting together. You nail together pieces of 4x6’s to make stools or beds for the barbies or Elephant. You want to paint, glue, cut out paper plates to make masks or glue together toilet paper rolls for binoculars. Old wood, pieces of paper, pieces of fabric – it’s all your happy place. You love to create. I love that about you too.

Kindergarten started this year, and girl, you have rolled with the changes like a pro. Far better than me. We asked how you felt about starting, if you were excited or nervous or both, and you just said excited. The first day, you asked last minute if I could walk you in, but since we were already in carpool, you had to go in yourself. Your Wonder Woman backpack was about as big as you, but you walked in, brave as could be.  I cried the whole day. When you switched to TC Miller 3 days later, you were totally good with it, excitedly telling us about everything you were learning and doing. We started the bus routine late, and even when the driver didn’t see you and forgot your stop until I called an hour later, you hopped off – last kid on the bus – and told us how fun it was seeing where all the kids got off. Totally unfazed. Everywhere you see the number 8, you point it out saying “My bus number! My bus number!” You come home and immediately start writing on paper or the easel – the words and sentences you’re learning, or you show Bria the books you got from the library, usually one you hope she will like too, or teach us sign language letters. You don’t seem to realize that you have been brave; you have been easygoing; you have been beyond positive in such a huge transition time.  You have also had some hilarious meltdowns for some pretty suspect reasons– things like using the wrong straw or having the ‘wrong kind’ of tacos for dinner. So don’t get me wrong. You keep it real, too, kiddo.

You are a big sister. You love Bria. Everything is a contest – who can get dressed first, who can brush their teeth first, who can swing the highest, who can run the fastest. But you also take care of her, holding her hand at your Back To School night to show her all your friends. You bring her Elephant when she’s upset, and draw her pictures all the time. You two play school, play Doc, play store, play all kinds of things all the time, and I love it.  This year, you watched Bryce grow in my belly. You asked about him; you felt him kick; you could find his heart beat with our doppler as fast as I could. You remembered Abram, and celebrated your new little brother when he arrived. You ask to hold him all the time; cooing as you do, “shh-shh”-ing while we change his diaper, laughing hysterically when he pees off the table on Daddy.

When you were little, probably 18 monts or so, you had these round little cheeks and what we called your one-eyed pirate smile, where your whole face would pile up into a grin. You’ve grown so much, and your cheeks aren’t as chubby, but it’s still there, that pirate smile. It lights up your face, and it lights up whatever moment we’re in. Every single day, I am so thankful for the joy behind that smile. I am so thankful I get to watch you become. I am so thankful that me being a mom started with holding your tiny little newborn self, because you teach me every day how much there is to love about our story, how much there is to love about you.

Every time I tell you this, you still smile.

Guess what. I love you.

Mom