Dear Daughter,
Today you turn four years old. Everyone around me seems to be saying, “Can you believe she is four? It seems she was just born.”
And in some ways I agree. It’s strange to think that I am the parent of a four year old. That sounds grown up to me.
But I cherish the fact that it seems that you were just born. Because I remember every moment so vividly.
I remember when the nurses wheeled you into our hospital room at 6am for your feeding. You were the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. You had these almond shaped eyes and bow lips and you reminded me of a little bird.
Your face still slays me with it’s beauty. You are many wonderful things, so don’t focus on this too much, but you happen to be extraordinarily gorgeous.
I remember holding you in the hospital bed; you were so tiny, yet so alert. And in those moments, my dreams came true.
I tell you that all the time, that you were what I’d always wished for, but you complete me in a way that I never thought was imaginable.
Every day when I pick you up from school I reach back from the driver’s seat with my right hand and grab yours and hold it in mine and exhale.
I love that you love school, but when you’re gone I miss you. It feels like there’s an appendage missing. I don’t like to harp on that, or to give you separation anxiety, but, as I said before, home is wherever I’m with you.
You hear all the time that you are special. I am glad for that. Sometimes I think it makes you think you’re the boss,
like how you call me “Becca”,
but I want to tell you the reasons why you are special:
You are creative: You are a true method actor, so invested in whatever part or role you are playing, and the world around you morphs to fit the scene. We become supporting characters to your fantasy, and you see each story through.
You are talented: The way you draw and paint is just unbelievable. You are so careful and meticulous, but not nervous. You are decisive. You are the perfect balance.
You are kind: You tell daddy to be nice to mommy if you fear that we are fighting. You hug kids around you. You are friendly. You shower your brother with kisses and love.
You are smart: You have my memory, kid, but maybe even more outrageous. You remember things from years ago, you can place smells perfectly, you remember peoples’ names and special details about them, making everyone around you feel special.
You are funny: You make us cry with laughter, both intentionally and unintentionally. You are a ham. You love the spotlight. I get you.
You are loving: You love to snuggle, you give spontaneous hugs, you tell me you love me more times a day than I can count. You kiss me and tell me that my kiss was “just delicious”.
You are sensitive: You pick up on the smallest nuances of human emotion. You are empathetic.  You are intuitive. You are things that cannot be taught.
You are everything. You, my dear, radiate. Sweet girl, you glow.
I love how you tuck your animals in at night. I love how you dance around naked and act like a twerp. I love how you give people nicknames.
Someone just told me that she is a lucky little girl, but darling,
I am the lucky one.
I think back to that first night in the hospital, your head covered in that pink hospital hat. Never could I have dreamed the joy
the laughter
the light
the love
that you have brought me in these four years.
Keep being strong; rebel against something if you think it is unjust. I promise to keep you in line; Keep being brave; Keep being humble, because you are exceptional and will be told that your whole life.
And, most of all, keep knowing that you are more loved than you could ever imagine. You light up every life that you touch.
You are four,
but you are so much more.
I love you,
and I like you,
for always,
Mom