Four.

You're four.

FOUR.

You slink around us with such a smug, gorgeous, satisfying belief in yourself.  You believe in unicorns and you think anyone not wearing pink is suspect.

FOUR.

I'd like to write novels about the things I have yet to teach you, the lessons I'm wistful to pass along like family heirlooms worn with time and a million second chances.

The truth is you came along and became my anchor.  You keep me from straying too far into the past and tug me back gently when I get too anxious about a future I can't predict.

You're only FOUR, but a thousand times a day you show me magic, teach me temperance and remind me over and over again why every day I wake hoping to do the very best I can.

You are magic, love.  You are worthy, you are able, you are kind.  You are magic.

Beautiful Broken Pieces

Your little face plays host to such complex emotions now.  When you tell me you're angry, you mean it.  Your cheeks flush, your fists clench, you level your tiny little frame towards me in that bittersweet way little girls level against their mamas sometimes and you dig in for the fight.  And you feel it baby girl.  I have no idea what to do with that passion.  I thought I would have more time to search for the right answers before you would start striking me with waves of questions and 'what ifs' and 'but whens'.  

Right now I doubt I am even truly competent to answer our littlest girl's incessant pleads of 'why?'

I don't know why.

Maybe there is no right answer to why or true answer to when. 

You are still young and free enough to lash out and run and fight against me and anything else you disagree with.  When I gather you up in my arms, I try to control your fight because it's proper and correct and expected of us.  But if I'm honest my loves?  Sometimes I want to just let you be free.  

Free.

There may come another, later day when you are older and grow tired of your mama and want to break free again but please keep these lessons close.  

You're going to always be beautiful because we are all born beautiful and you are certainly no exception.  You were born honest and whole and will remain perfect just as you are.  Just as you are, as we all are.  No more and no less.  You can never be damaged beyond repair.  Ever.  Life is a long string of lessons but learning them never diminishes your value.

Nothing you do will ever make me love you any more or any less.  And just the same, you will always be a work in progress.  That's the point of this mess.  Keep working, keep pushing and most of all, keep loving.  Loving will never steer you wrong. 

   

Dirt Is Necessary

I've given up on wiping the dirt away from your faces before snapping the shutter.

Maybe dirt is necessary, maybe, just maybe, we need to dig deep enough to be tarnished with it if we're ever going to find something worth holding on to.

I watch you two lay the stones in the path you are creating that will eventually lead to the private island only sisters find and I want so desperately to smooth the way but understand that I can't.  It's your journey.  Be wild and free my loves.  Be wild and free.

Letter to My Little One

Two.  Soon you will be two.

In the early morning hours you still call for me and once settled you curl your tiny little body against me and go limp with the comfort.  I feel your tiny fingers curl around my ear and the deep, deep calm take over you.

I would sell my soul to guarantee you a life of comfort and calm.

I can't recall a single day since you were born into this world that you haven't awakended with joy in your heart and light your eyes and I will be forever grateful for that.  How miraculously lucky we have been my angel.  You light up our lives with your spirit and there is fire in your eyes.

You are eager in your independence.  You want to dress yourself, ride your bike yourself, do it all yourself.  You walk with a little swagger and smirk that we all adore so very, very much because it is the very essence of you my little wanderer.

We see you.  We cherish you.

They See You

They see you.  These little people that carry your heart around outside your body balanced precariously like a sippy cup without a lid.  They see you try and try and try until your strength gives out and crafts lead to meltdowns and holidays dissolve into sugar tantrums and the most menial of tasks to clean up the million scraps of torn paper becomes capable of shaking your belief that you are actually doing a good job.

They see all of the messy, beautiful effort.  They see you fail and they see you succeed.  They see you struggle because you don't have all of the answers right now, but for their sake you so heartbreakingly, desperately want to.

They see you.  And they love you because of all of it and despite all of it.

Let them see.  Let them see the messy, beautiful effort of it.  Because with every tantrum, every tear, every day that wasn't so hot and every day that was, you teach.  You teach that they should get up each day and struggle and fight and dream because their dreams are always valid.  You teach them that they are worthy of struggle and their values are worthy of the fight..  You teach them that because maybe there will be a day when no one else will.

You teach them that they are worthy of being seen.  They are always, always worthy of being seen.

Let them see you.  Because you are worthy, too.