6.5
Dear Emelyn,
I owe you this letter. Your brother and sister have gotten two birthday letters in the past two years for your zero. I have no good reason for this, other than to say that September is a very busy time of year, indeed. This past September you turned six. And at that time I had made a decision to take a break from writing, to be more present to my family, because I felt you three were growing up so fast and I was distracted by so many unnecessary things. Now, I think Mother's Day is the perfect time to write a letter to the little who made me a mama. Writing this now, midway through a milestone year, allows me to tell you all the amazing ways you've grown and all the wonderful ways you're still the same precious bundle I beheld the day you were born.
One of the primary reasons I quit writing for the fall was that you started Kindergarten. It was August 28. Daddy and I devoted ourselves to making that transition as easy as possible on all of us. It turned out to be easiest on you...and Dad, who got to tuck you into the back seat of his car every morning and whisk you to the same building with him. Even though you insisted you two walk through separate entrances each morning, and even though you didn't need him to walk you to your classroom, I was still just the tiniest bit jealous of how close he was, and how far away I felt.
Your sister and brother and I--oh, how we missed you every aching minute of the day. We still do. We miss your smile, your laugh, your ideas, your stories and your jokes when you're at school. But I also love watching you grow from your minutes and hours and days there. And hearing stories about the goings on of K-A is a highlight in my day now. I hope you always cherish the friendships you grew, the wonderful teacher you have, who devotes so many, many hours to making your first big kid school year memorable and sweet and meaningful. She is a real treasure. And this mama, for one, is so grateful for the care and love she serves up six and a half hours a day, five days a week.
Since you are yourself a wordsmith, I thought I would let this letter be a gift of the words I collect about you and store in my heart. Some of them are my own and some come from your widening sphere of friends and acquaintances and teachers. Together, they equal a sampling of the whys and ways you are beloved. (Of course, no letter could capture the breadth and depth of that.)
Your smile. Your laugh. You know how to brighten a dreary day with them. When you start laughing, everyone else around you laughs, too. Your joy is contagious. And your heart is full for seeing the silly, the unusual, and the extraordinary in ordinary, every day moments.
Your friendship. We hear from school that you are a good friend to your classmates. We know from experience that you're a whiz at manufacturing imaginary games and worlds where everyone has a role and everyone gets to join in. Sometimes your enthusiasm bubbles so high that you're whisked away by the power of your own imagination. When that happens, friends might feel a little "bossed." But I see your good intentions and I see the magical places your flights of fancy take you. Some of them are places I visited once upon a time, and some of them are places only you've traversed. Sometimes, when I can give you my full attention, you take me along for the ride. And oh! The fun we have!
Your words. My dear, you started talking at ten months old and haven't stopped since. You love words-hearing them, reading them, trying them out, and making up new ones. I don't know what you'll do with all those words someday when you're big, but I'm pretty sure whatever it is you make of them will be beautiful to behold. One of my favorite things is digging through your school bag to discover an illustrated story you've written. Your teacher tells us you are a beautiful writer with a wonderful imagination.
Your independence. You're a confident girl. Your undying faith in your grown ups makes you courageous enough to stand on your own two feet. You walk through the halls at school high-fiving kids twice your age. You climbed the rope in the school gym this year as high as your teacher would let you, and you would have gone higher if someone hadn't held you safely back. I still remember the first time you took a flying leap off our swing set, holding on to the climbing rope, your wiry, lithe little body clinging to the frayed edges, a huge smile on your face, and no fear of the ride back again where you'd whack your little bum on the climbing wall. "Look what I can do, mommy!" Whack. Whack. Whack. You were three. And that look-what-I-can-do spirit is alive and well at six, too.Your willingness to try new and dangerous physical feats is the nail-biting part of being your mom.
When you're mad or sad, you want to be left alone, and it's the worst kind of torture to pin my hands to my side and not reach for you. But in those moments, you don't want me. Maybe I needed you more than you needed me when Grammy and Papa's dog Jak died this past year. I needed to build love around your hurt, but you put up a wall of your own that said I can handle my hurt all by myself. And you did. You have. I'm learning that you do need me, but you have your own way of needing. Even as a newborn you preferred to be put down on the floor when you were upset. In all my years of being a big sister, a babysitter, a nanny, I had never seen that. I wasn't prepared for it, but you are teaching me every day to love you just as you need to be loved--a little distance between us so you can sort your struggles out first and plenty of hugs and talks after, when your heart seeks a close companion.
Your heart. And this is my favorite part of who you are. Your heart is tender. How I could ramble stories of all the ways you love on us. The way you reach for your brother to hug him whenever you can and go out of your way to teach him what he needs to know. How you bear with your sister when she's having a hard time reigning in that wild heart of hers. How you always accept my apologies for the times I haven't given you enough of myself or when I've given too much. Just two days ago, K tipped his high chair backwards and gave himself a huge bump on the head. He was pretty banged up, and I needed to call the doctor for a refresher on head injuries. During those first stressful, tear-filled moments while I held your crying brother close, you got to work. You started making us dinner. All on your own. Out came the step stool. You climbed up and started whipping up your favorite meal--breakfast for dinner. Before I even knew what was going on, you had two waffles in the toaster and your head in the freezer looking for sausage. You're a do-er in all situations--a combination of your Daddy's servant heart and your Mommy's nurturing spirit. The impulse to feed people in any kind of crisis must be inherited, too!
I had the sweetest conversation with you a few weeks ago. "Do I have Down syndrome, Mommy?" you asked me from the back seat of the van as we headed off for a mommy-daughter date.
"No, sweetie, you don't," I answered.
You paused to let that soak in a bit. "Did I used to? When I was little?" you followed.
"No," I replied.
"Does A? Did Did she used to?"
"No, not A either."
"Will K always have it?"
"Yes, honey, he will."
"Why?"
It was the opener to a precious conversation in which you concluded, "It's a good thing K has me and A, Mommy. That way, we can always take care of him." I've sometimes worried that you'll feel you have to take care of your brother. But the way you said it that night was so matter-of-fact, so proud of the need he'll have for you, so ready to meet the challenge. I trust that the Lord gave you to each other for a reason. I think I already see glimpses of why.
Love Bug, it seems I spend a great deal of time watching the back of your golden
head these days, long waves bouncing off to school, or flying backwards
in the breeze as you zoom around on a big kid bike, or tied neatly in a
pony tail as you head off to dance class, a pretty braid as you flounce
off to a birthday party. There seem to be no end to the creative ways
you can leave my side now. I miss the baby girl who needed me all the time, but I love watching the big girl bloom before my eyes--her own person, her own ideas, her own gifts and dreams and challenges. I suppose this is the beginning of standing on the sidelines and watching you blossom. What a joy. What a privilege and a gift. You are. To me.
Happy Belated Birthday. Happy Mother's Day. Happy Every Day.
I owe you this letter. Your brother and sister have gotten two birthday letters in the past two years for your zero. I have no good reason for this, other than to say that September is a very busy time of year, indeed. This past September you turned six. And at that time I had made a decision to take a break from writing, to be more present to my family, because I felt you three were growing up so fast and I was distracted by so many unnecessary things. Now, I think Mother's Day is the perfect time to write a letter to the little who made me a mama. Writing this now, midway through a milestone year, allows me to tell you all the amazing ways you've grown and all the wonderful ways you're still the same precious bundle I beheld the day you were born.
One of the primary reasons I quit writing for the fall was that you started Kindergarten. It was August 28. Daddy and I devoted ourselves to making that transition as easy as possible on all of us. It turned out to be easiest on you...and Dad, who got to tuck you into the back seat of his car every morning and whisk you to the same building with him. Even though you insisted you two walk through separate entrances each morning, and even though you didn't need him to walk you to your classroom, I was still just the tiniest bit jealous of how close he was, and how far away I felt. Your sister and brother and I--oh, how we missed you every aching minute of the day. We still do. We miss your smile, your laugh, your ideas, your stories and your jokes when you're at school. But I also love watching you grow from your minutes and hours and days there. And hearing stories about the goings on of K-A is a highlight in my day now. I hope you always cherish the friendships you grew, the wonderful teacher you have, who devotes so many, many hours to making your first big kid school year memorable and sweet and meaningful. She is a real treasure. And this mama, for one, is so grateful for the care and love she serves up six and a half hours a day, five days a week.
Since you are yourself a wordsmith, I thought I would let this letter be a gift of the words I collect about you and store in my heart. Some of them are my own and some come from your widening sphere of friends and acquaintances and teachers. Together, they equal a sampling of the whys and ways you are beloved. (Of course, no letter could capture the breadth and depth of that.)
Your smile. Your laugh. You know how to brighten a dreary day with them. When you start laughing, everyone else around you laughs, too. Your joy is contagious. And your heart is full for seeing the silly, the unusual, and the extraordinary in ordinary, every day moments.
Your friendship. We hear from school that you are a good friend to your classmates. We know from experience that you're a whiz at manufacturing imaginary games and worlds where everyone has a role and everyone gets to join in. Sometimes your enthusiasm bubbles so high that you're whisked away by the power of your own imagination. When that happens, friends might feel a little "bossed." But I see your good intentions and I see the magical places your flights of fancy take you. Some of them are places I visited once upon a time, and some of them are places only you've traversed. Sometimes, when I can give you my full attention, you take me along for the ride. And oh! The fun we have!
Your words. My dear, you started talking at ten months old and haven't stopped since. You love words-hearing them, reading them, trying them out, and making up new ones. I don't know what you'll do with all those words someday when you're big, but I'm pretty sure whatever it is you make of them will be beautiful to behold. One of my favorite things is digging through your school bag to discover an illustrated story you've written. Your teacher tells us you are a beautiful writer with a wonderful imagination.
Your independence. You're a confident girl. Your undying faith in your grown ups makes you courageous enough to stand on your own two feet. You walk through the halls at school high-fiving kids twice your age. You climbed the rope in the school gym this year as high as your teacher would let you, and you would have gone higher if someone hadn't held you safely back. I still remember the first time you took a flying leap off our swing set, holding on to the climbing rope, your wiry, lithe little body clinging to the frayed edges, a huge smile on your face, and no fear of the ride back again where you'd whack your little bum on the climbing wall. "Look what I can do, mommy!" Whack. Whack. Whack. You were three. And that look-what-I-can-do spirit is alive and well at six, too.Your willingness to try new and dangerous physical feats is the nail-biting part of being your mom.
When you're mad or sad, you want to be left alone, and it's the worst kind of torture to pin my hands to my side and not reach for you. But in those moments, you don't want me. Maybe I needed you more than you needed me when Grammy and Papa's dog Jak died this past year. I needed to build love around your hurt, but you put up a wall of your own that said I can handle my hurt all by myself. And you did. You have. I'm learning that you do need me, but you have your own way of needing. Even as a newborn you preferred to be put down on the floor when you were upset. In all my years of being a big sister, a babysitter, a nanny, I had never seen that. I wasn't prepared for it, but you are teaching me every day to love you just as you need to be loved--a little distance between us so you can sort your struggles out first and plenty of hugs and talks after, when your heart seeks a close companion.
Your heart. And this is my favorite part of who you are. Your heart is tender. How I could ramble stories of all the ways you love on us. The way you reach for your brother to hug him whenever you can and go out of your way to teach him what he needs to know. How you bear with your sister when she's having a hard time reigning in that wild heart of hers. How you always accept my apologies for the times I haven't given you enough of myself or when I've given too much. Just two days ago, K tipped his high chair backwards and gave himself a huge bump on the head. He was pretty banged up, and I needed to call the doctor for a refresher on head injuries. During those first stressful, tear-filled moments while I held your crying brother close, you got to work. You started making us dinner. All on your own. Out came the step stool. You climbed up and started whipping up your favorite meal--breakfast for dinner. Before I even knew what was going on, you had two waffles in the toaster and your head in the freezer looking for sausage. You're a do-er in all situations--a combination of your Daddy's servant heart and your Mommy's nurturing spirit. The impulse to feed people in any kind of crisis must be inherited, too!I had the sweetest conversation with you a few weeks ago. "Do I have Down syndrome, Mommy?" you asked me from the back seat of the van as we headed off for a mommy-daughter date.
"No, sweetie, you don't," I answered.
You paused to let that soak in a bit. "Did I used to? When I was little?" you followed.
"No," I replied.
"Does A? Did Did she used to?"
"No, not A either."
"Will K always have it?"
"Yes, honey, he will."
"Why?"
It was the opener to a precious conversation in which you concluded, "It's a good thing K has me and A, Mommy. That way, we can always take care of him." I've sometimes worried that you'll feel you have to take care of your brother. But the way you said it that night was so matter-of-fact, so proud of the need he'll have for you, so ready to meet the challenge. I trust that the Lord gave you to each other for a reason. I think I already see glimpses of why.
Love Bug, it seems I spend a great deal of time watching the back of your golden
head these days, long waves bouncing off to school, or flying backwards
in the breeze as you zoom around on a big kid bike, or tied neatly in a
pony tail as you head off to dance class, a pretty braid as you flounce
off to a birthday party. There seem to be no end to the creative ways
you can leave my side now. I miss the baby girl who needed me all the time, but I love watching the big girl bloom before my eyes--her own person, her own ideas, her own gifts and dreams and challenges. I suppose this is the beginning of standing on the sidelines and watching you blossom. What a joy. What a privilege and a gift. You are. To me.Happy Belated Birthday. Happy Mother's Day. Happy Every Day.
Beautiful post Sara...seems like just yesterday that you brought her home from the hospital. I can't believe it's been 6.5 years. I can relate to watching those ponytails, braids and locks bounce away...I had that very same thought as I watched my A walk down the driveway to leave for school this morning...Oh how the time does fly.
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