Four now

Three months old in your first matching outfits

Dear Audyn,
This morning you padded downstairs and announced, "I'm four now!" You are. You are four years old and I look at you and see that my baby has vanished before my eyes and in her place is a young girl full of expectation, full of ideas.

Last week we went to visit a preschool. I could hardly get you through the door. Eyes to the ground, you planted your feet firm just over the threshold. "No," you told me. "I'm scared. I'm not evah going in." I scooped you up in my arms and you wrapped them tightly around my neck.  My baby.  We faced that room of fours together. Little faces and bodies kept popping into our safe corner to say hello or ask you a question, and finally you couldn't resist when your good friend Emily hopped over with stickers all over her face. "Look, Audyn!" she laughed. And that was all it took. I imagine you took your own advice in that moment, the advice you gave Emelyn once. "It's OK," you told her, "you don't have to be scared. Sometimes when I'm scared, I pretend I'm not, and then I'm not!"

Big girl on the job

Before long you had joined in with the group, claiming your carpet square and your seat at the craft table.  You sat longer than anyone assembling your letter "P" parrot.  We went out to lunch afterwards. Usually, you hold my hand in parking lots, but that day, you pulled back.  At the cross walk you looked up at me and announced, "No, Mama. I can do it myself now." So I let you. And it made us laugh, two girls crossing the street together, like friends.  I saw, again, how big you've grown. I was a little sad without your sweet hand in mine, but I was proud, too. Proud of the way an hour at preschool had given you the confidence to stand on your own two feet and do something you hadn't done before.

Last night I tucked you into bed. "It's the last night you'll ever be three in your whole entire life," I teased. But I felt the push of a choke against my throat. This is what it's like to mother a daughter. I held you close as long as I could and now comes the season of letting go just a little at a time. And every release makes me swell with pride--who you are, who you're becoming; and every release bears a tiny bit of grief.  The practice of letting go isn't so easy.

But today we celebrated the promise of four: banners and shiny star streamers and pink frosted butter cake and presents and family. Your guests of honor: Grammy and Papa. Even in the midst of your day and tearing through your gifts, you didn't forget to give in return. A handmade Valentine two days in the making, pink with lots of glitter and hearts. (You knew Grammy would love the sparkles.) Inside, families of forest creatures and a stamp--"Hugs and kisses." I think sometimes your kindnesses go unnoticed. But I noticed. And so did Grammy and Papa. And so did Daddy, when you were the first to come running with a similar card for him on his birthday morning.

I also notice the way you encourage Emelyn when she's in a funk and the way you help her remember what Mom and Dad have asked her to do.  I notice how you read to Kaleb, how you play with him on the floor, showing him how to do the things you've already learned but that he's still working to master.  Your favorite morning game with him is wrestling on the couch. You like to wrestle, but I think you play this game because it makes him so happy. He pays you in uproarious laughter.

Wings at work

Sometimes I think you might be part bird, using the expanse of your wings not just to prove your independence from the rest of us (though you definitely use them for that), but also to shelter the people you love most. You shelter well. Your name, it seems, suits you.

Cajoling

I know that sometimes you feel a little lost in our clan.  Sometimes I feel you next to me just below eye level, Kaleb in my arms.  And I know that this is how it will be for you. Your brother does steal the spotlight. Your sister, too. Emelyn does everything first. Kaleb gets a lot of attention. And my heart twists under this. You should know, though, you hold an equal share of my heart. And it's all your own. We traveled great lengths to have you in our life.  Don't think for a second you take second fiddle to anyone.

You gave us a challenge this last year, Audyn girl. You did. Three has been rough and tough for all of us.  But I know it's all part of your growing.

Please stop growing! I pleaded with you on the days that led to this one. You laughed and told me, "I have to, Mommy. Sometime I will be a mommy. But I'll come back." I do hope so. Always come back.

My beautiful girl--inside and out--the one with big brown eyes held under the longest, darkest lashes I've ever seen, the one with fine and perfectly straight hair, the one with jutted chin perched delicately in her hand, the one in dresses and tights and never ever pants, the one who can be one minute silent and timid and the next carrying on a very grown up conversation with the check out clerk at Trader Joe's, the one who uses her wings to shelter close at home as much as she soars wild and free, my blooming artist, my thoughtful one, my precious daughter, "I love you till tomorrow morning" and all the mornings after.

Happy Birthday, Pookie-doo.