Bria [5]

May 9, 2020

Dear Bria,

You are five today.

A real big kid. You’ve been counting down. You’ve told everyone that your birthday was coming. That you are going to be 5.

I think one day when you ask what you were like at this age, your dad and I will both laugh. Because right now, you constantly crack us up.  You have phrases like “Holy Cow A-Moly!” and “WHAT? Oh My Dod!” and “Oh come on Dave!”  You’re a hilarious paradox between fiercely brave and super worried…you were the first to go off the diving board (which is the only thing that motivated Addie to try herself) yet are afraid of lawn mowers because they are “too loud.” You want to ride a bike with two wheels but refuse to let anyone help “in case we let go,” so go literally about 2 inches at a time, wobbling one way then the other, saying “ok, ok, almost got it,” to yourself the whole time. You will talk to almost anyone, typically telling them a random awkward fact like you like strawberry toothpaste or you have a monkey toy that farts. When you’re excited, you run and jump, flying into the air without even looking, sure that we’ll catch you. You love to laugh.

You still love purple. Honestly, I hope you always love it. You love being queen when you’re playing with Addie. You love your friends at school and answering Mrs. Dolin’s questions; you miss them from the virus so much. You could play with little characters/animals for hours. You love reading site words on your bunk bed and finding them in books. You don’t love practicing speech, but will work so hard at it, and you’ve come so far, it makes me beyond proud. Last year this time, you couldn’t even say the f or s sound, and now you can switch from a k to a t in the same word, which is pretty hard work for you!!

You know all the words to The Greatest Showman and Frozen 2, and would watch Sophia on repeat for hours. You have these running monologues where you go on about 50 tangents in a stream of conscious, and I very clearly see what my parents got to listen to as I was growing up. You started basketball this year at the YMCA, and made a few baskets in the game. The coach had to tell you to, because you were so shy to go after the ball, but you were so proud when you did. You loved playing soccer once you got past the high socks, and even cheered like crazy when Gracie and Addie’s team scored a goal against you.

You and Adalyn play together all the time; you pretend, you project, you craft, you dress up as twins, you are so close. Bryce drives you crazy when he knocks down your stuff or tries to take what you are working on, but you love when he’ll snuggle with you, splash with you, and play on the swingset with you. You wrestle with John, and imagine with Gracie. You’re perfectly fine playing by yourself – and often need that – but you also stepped out of your social bubble this year at school, goofing off with friends and telling us stories on the way home from pick up. When you wished on a “god leaf” (?) the other day, you wished to marry Urijah, that the virus would go away, and that Wallie wouldn’t die.  “And maybe a unicorn.”  You love your grandparents and adventures with them, and you love the store with Daddy. You’re a celeb at TCM where everyone says “Bria’s here!!!” each time we pick Addie up or go to the playground.

Right now, you think talking about poop is hilarious. You dislike most food and let us know. You will eat 10 bowls of yogurt just to get the 4 chocolate chips we put in there. You are stubborn as heck.  You don’t like pants or socks or your hair pulled back. You almost knocked a tooth out this year; you’ve fallen off the swing set and swings, wiped out numerous times in the driveway, run into things on a daily basis, and injure us fairly regularly by accident. It seems you have my coordination and lack of physical awareness.

I wrote a picture book manuscript about Bria the Dirtinger this year, as you announced to us this Spring that you were going to be a dirtinger (someone who builds things with dirt). It’s a pretty perfect career choice right now, as any mud puddle, dirt patch, sand pile, etc does not stand a chance to be left alone if you are around. It doesn’t matter what we are doing, you will stop to explore and somehow come back covered in dirt and mud. It may or may not drive your dad crazy, but it’s so you, and I love your love of outside.

You love stories. That’s how I know you’re going to ask about what you were like one day. Because you just love hearing about our family’s story. All the chapters. All the tidbits. All the funny moments. All the sad ones. All the details about what we said or someone who was important to us. After we watched Onward, you immediately wanted to know more about Grandma and Abram. I remember feeling this when I was a kid; I begged Dad for stories about Grandad’s voice and dress and what he was like; I asked Mom what Jean and Papa were like when they were young and married; I listened to my 80 year old neighbor tell the same stories over and over about her kids growing up on that street.  I think you have that same love of stories, of history, of people your heart holds.

I hope as you keep becoming, your bravery feels strong and your caution feels steady. I hope your imagination flies through the trees and over oceans, and I hope your hands and toes stay grounded in the cool earth you love so much right now. I hope you always have a pup by your side to curl up with and a sister and brother in the next room, ready to adventure. I hope you always love snuggles, because even now as I type this, you are sneaking in to ask for one. I hope you stay you, because everything about your dirt-loving, purple-tastic, wild and wacky self is what I love.

I remember holding you 5 years ago. 1:30am. You were tiny, 5 pounds 14 ounces with dark hair and the sweetest little face. I loved you with all my heart then, and baby girl, I love you with all my heart now.

Happy birthday 5 year old.

Love,

Mama