her able hands

I’m two days late with this post because I couldn’t pull myself out of the vortex of busy that swept me up over the long weekend.

You’re three now (July 3,) and in the past week you’ve almost flawlessly potty trained because you’re so excited about the possibility of *school* and spending time with somebody other than your cranky, busy old Mom every day. You’ve also developed a new independent stance on everything from walking down the stairs, to climbing to the top of the jungle gym, to riding your poor mother’s last nerve like a two dollar pony, “No! Let me go first!”

I wish I could find the photograph your Pink Gramma Carol took of you when we first brought you home from the hospital, slightly jaundiced and hopped up on breast milk and Vicodin. In the photo you’re laying on your side on my (soon to be our) bed in a patch of sunlight. You have one eye open wide and the other scrunched closed so tightly that you look like Popeye the Sailor Man. (I wanted to tell you then not to worry, you’d more likely grow up to look like Olive Oyle—just like your old Mom.) Your mouth is set in a bit of a grimace, lips pursed and nose turned up in mock disgust—I say mock because I doubt any being who coos and grins while laying in a sack of her own poop can truly feel disgust.

Well, you started making that face again whenever you feel challenged by any kind of authority. You push your face forward and scrunch it up like that and I really wish I could find that baby picture because it’s amazing that you can still do that and I’d like to be able to show it to you when you’re a teenager—maybe on prom night—and prove to you, and impress upon your date, that you were born obstinate. I almost caught it in this picture, but not quite.

You now have a small family swimming pool in the back yard, and a swank pink wet suit to keep you from sinking to the bottom.

A bunch of people who love you came to eat hamburgers, pesto and salad, and to watch you blow out the three tall candles on your ice cream cake. You tried to get us to stop singing so you could tell us something very important. “I have ice cream cake!”

You blew out all of the candles in two tries.

Your brother tried to get you to sit still for a shot of the two of you, and you paused for a moment just long enough for me to snap this picture, then you pushed him and told him to get away! What a charmer.

You then proceeded to eat two slices of DQ ice cream cake.

A lot of other people who also love you very much wanted to be here but couldn’t, but they all sent huge hugs and kisses from around the country. Lucky me, I got to deliver them all. Happy third birthday, sweet girl.

Love,

Mom (I can’t believe you won’t call me Mama any more, that you correct me and say, You’re not Mama, you’re Mom.)

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