Please tell me that one day things will be easier.
That you’ll see gas as funny—not the end of the world.
That hiccups will not induce mass panic.
That your ability to poop won’t take an act of God.
That you’ll have burping contests where you burp yourself.
That you’ll use your words to communicate—not shrill
shrieks or dying-cat wails.
That you’ll view bath time as fun and not waterboarding.
That bedtime will involve a quiet bedtime story, lullaby
music, and sweet prayers—not hysterical screaming, crocodile tears, and
quivering chins.
That you’ll understand that you outnumber Mommy and
Daddy, who only have so many hands.
But please tell me you know how much I love you.
I love that you’re Daddy’s mini me. How you flash your
one-eyed Popeye grins and love to laugh. The way you talk to Mr. Duck, Mr. Fox,
and Mr. Owl; the animals on the activity mats; the slats on your crib, the
blinds next to the changing table—anything. The way you snuggle. That you try
so hard to keep up with your brother and sister but still walk to the beat of
your own drummer. That you’re our pipsqeak.
I love the way your hair sticks up crazily on end and the
way your smile lights up your face. How you’re sometimes more interested in
talking and reaching for your feet than you are eating. That you take great joy
in kicking it out and love to have dance parties. How music speaks to you and changes
your whole demeanor. The way your entire body relaxes when I’m soothing you.
That you’re our instigator.
I love that you’re quiet, observant, and thoughtful but
have a feisty side. How your Snuffaluffagus eyelashes give you a dainty look,
while your chunky thighs illustrate that you’re a growing girl. That you can
look so pretty in pink but hold your own in a burping and tooting contest. The
way you shyly smile and giggle at Mr. Fox. How you’re doggedly pursuing rolling
over. That you’re our favorite. (Shh! Don’t tell your brothers.)
Please know, my babies, that you were prayed for, longed
for, and wanted. Please know that I love you.
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