Friday, June 26, 2015

Dear Emily

Dear Emily,

From the moment I laid eyes on you five years ago this month, there was no doubt you were my daughter. From the first look at your scrunched- up cheeks to the first nuzzle of your face against my neck, I knew you were a part of me.

Over the last five years, I’ve felt this eerie feeling that I am watching myself grow up all over again. Looking at you-- with your unruly blonde hair, the wrinkle in your nose and the wiggle in your walk—brings me back to the age- old nature versus nurture question. In what ways have I taught you to be my mini- me, or is it just wired in your DNA?

Regardless of how you ended up being my mirror, you are also a window to me. As I look out upon the world of Emily, there is so much about you to admire and remember.

You are sweetness. You snuggle. You give kisses and hugs. You want to be close to me. If you can’t sit beside me all by yourself, you want me in the middle. When I leave, you have this elaborate goodbye ritual where you kiss me a hundred times—wherever you can reach me—on the cheek, on my stomach, on my leg. You blow me kisses as I pull out of the garage, and you sign “I Love You” in between waves.

You feel deeply. While it often comes out through dramatic meltdowns, it is most evident in quiet moments like when you ask me, “Mommy, why are you sad?” Sometimes I think your meltdowns and emotional outbursts are your way of letting out all of the feelings you absorb from others. You remember emotions like others remember events. Just this week, you asked, “Mommy, you know Great- Granny, Papa’s mama, is in heaven? You were sad and you cried when she went there.” Yes, baby, I did.

You love Andrew, and it’s rare that we find the two of apart. We thought we had the kindergarten question settled, and that the two of you would start school in different classes, but when we asked what you wanted, both of you were adamant—you want to be together.

You are thoughtful of others, too. I love to listen to your prayers. In them, I hear your heart—what you love, what you fear, what you see. You pray nightly for your family, right down to Minnie and Sophie, your stuffed animals. You pray for the sick, like Uncle Tom and the boy in the hospital you’ve never met. You pray for all your friends at school. You pray for your cousins, each by name. All in Jesus’ name.

You love art. It’s your favorite center. You write letters to all the kids in your class. This week you made a string of hot air balloons you taped to the mantle. For Christmas this year, you asked for an art table, and if messiness is the sign of a good artist, you are definitely destined for artistic greatness.

You are logical. After telling you that you didn’t need an umbrella because it was only 25 feet to the door, you walked to the door, turned around, and said, “No, it was 31 steps.”

You love girly stuff, but not as much as you love getting messy. You often ask for help picking out a necklace or a beautiful bracelet, but five minutes later, you are outside rolling down a hill with Andrew, scratching up your leg for the fifteenth time this month and wrapping the necklace around the handlebars of your bike.

You are a teacher. What do you see? What do you think? Why do you say that? Just yesterday, Daddy was joking trying to get you to give him clues about his birthday gift. You said flatly, “Did you tell us what our birthday surprise was?” After Daddy said, “No,” you replied, “So why do you think I would tell you?” True story.

You remember. Everything. Vacations from two years ago, words to books and songs, promises made in passing, and anything Drew does that can later be used against him...

You love ice cream. Grandma Retha would have loved feeding you from the freezer. To watch you eat ice cream is to know the joy of living. We love to watch you close your eyes as you relish every bite (and drop) of chocolate with sprinkles.

You hold your own. Some might say it’s bossiness. Or assertiveness. Or sassiness. Whether it’s your toy or your idea, or your space, you will boldly claim it. I say, whatever you call it, hang on to it. Use it. Embrace it.

You have a heightened sense of fairness and of rules. If Andrew gets two breaths of air from the room, you want two breaths from the exact same spot. If Andrew gets an extra cookie, you want an extra cookie. While we were at Disney, you ended up getting two more baths than Andrew because he happened to be asleep at the right time. Offended by the injustice, you decided, “When that boy wakes up, he’s getting two baths because that’s fair!”

You are an obliger. Honestly, it worries me sometimes that you are so like me in this way. You don’t want to disappoint us, and you will often do what you think we want you to rather than what you really want to do. After realizing you were only playing soccer because you thought we wanted you to play, we decided to quit. While we want to provide those opportunities for you, we are going to let you take more of the lead and learn to advocate for what you want. Remember what I just said about you holding your own? Something tells me you have what it takes to balance the tendency to please with the need to please yourself.

You love movies. Right now, you are into Mulan, a movie about a girl who holds her own, disguises herself as a man, and fights for her family. I can see why she’s your favorite.

You love books and words. You told me recently, “I’m reading a book like kids should do.” Wonder where you’ve heard that?

You notice things others may miss. Maybe that’s why your favorite game is “I Spy.” When we get tired of the regular old “I Spy,”” we invent variations, all of which rely on your powers of attention. Maybe one day you will play the “Boom Bam” game with your kids. Don’t remember it? Well, it was this game Mommy invented in desperation one night to keep you and Andrew from killing each other in the backseat. The rules are simple: if you see Christmas lights, you have to yell “Boom Bam!” Oh, the fun we’ve had, especially around the middle of December!

You love surprises. A cookie waiting in the car after school, a trip to Dairy Queen, a new book, a pack of stickers, a trip to the neighborhood park, or Walt Disney World park.

Emily Anne, you are my daughter, and I hope that you know how much you have charmed me, challenged me, and changed me.

Beautiful, messy, sweet, hard, loving, logical, fair, unfair, seen and unseen, expected and unexpected, giving, taking, remembered and forgotten.

For what I passed on to you, either through genes or means, I am confidant that you will take it and write your own story. For me, thank you for helping me write a love story.

Love, Mommy

1 comment:

Tami said...

I couldn't help but cry over your sentimental words. When Emily is old enough to appreciate this she will hang onto every word and feel how much you love her.

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