To mark the birthday of each of my babies, I write a letter for each of them. These notes are sentimental and reflective and often I wonder whether it's for their benefit or mine that I observe the tradition. No matter, we dip into the schmaltz big time in the summer, when my two littlest celebrate birthdays. This year, Finn turns one and Malindi turns three.
Dear little tousle-headed boy,
Could it actually be that a year has passed since I was granted the gift of (of all things) a son? Looking back, I can't imagine how we whiled that precious first year away, you and I. Perhaps I lost track of time gazing into those sparkling eyes, or musing over the wickedness that is a baby learning the art of being a boy.
You are a force of nature, little Finn. Never content unless you're pulling CDs out of a rack, sorting through jars in the refrigerator or ripping Kleenex out of the box. Then you leave the wreckage in your wake, and move on to the next enterprise. You delight in the constant discovery of your surroundings, leaving nothing unexplored, even the contents of the toilet — what a wonderful quality.
At night, when your whirlwind of activity has finally let up, the house feels so still, and a part of me aches for your bustle again. But it's upon us soon enough, heralded by the squawks of a baby in a crib, wondering why a world as exciting as this has turned out the lights.
My last child, you are the punctuation to our family. I feel your passage through the stages keenly. You tore far too quickly through all the diaper sizes, and didn't spend nearly enough time in all those sweet baby-boy playsuits I bought for you the same day the ultrasound revealed that my third wouldn't be a girl after all. Had I only known then, as I set about on the journey to convince myself that a boy couldn't be all that bad, what I know now. What a trip it's been, Finn, one year into the excursion. What a trip it's been.
Dear little Malindi,
It is your third birthday. How could it be? Three full years that your sturdy little legs have carried you on this planet. Three full years since you so serenely slid out of my belly and into my life.
You, who has her own little language of self-conscious Malindi-isms ("keppage" for ketchup; "pickage" for picture and strange announcements, a propos of nothing at all, like "I'm thinking about penguins" or "you're in my day!") You, who has recently so excellently mastered the art of the potty and who only occasionally insists on a reward of Smarties. You, who torments her older sister and disdains her younger brother but loves nothing more than being the sandwich filling between them.
I love you, sweet, funny little girl. If I could guarantee that the image of your scrunched-up nose and your wildly mischievous brown eyes would be permanently imprinted in my brain, a piece of my soul would relax. But, alas, you are on the move. An evolving miracle, my love, charging towards the brass ring of "big-girldom" dangled by Kenya.
You're a clown, Malindi Kia, who couldn't be more aware of her charms if they were read off a scroll. "I'm funny," you'll announce, to no one in particular. Or "I'm a cute little girl," piped up from the backseat of the minivan. No one dares to dispute any of your claims.
Today, you removed your Go-go from your mouth just long enough to proclaim, "Mommy, you will be a singer when you grow up." But what will you be, my charming, independent middle child? It hurts my head to project that many years forward, but even when I force myself, I come up empty. You are too many things, my love, to zoom in on one. Surely it will be something batty. Something imaginative. Something that makes you smile. As for me, I will stand by and watch with wonder as the mystery unfolds.
And for now, my darling, we've got three years in the bag, you and I. I have loved every last moment (except perhaps that day when you pitched such a fit at McDonald's you got keppage in my hair). You are my sweet and forever baby girl.
mother's day
