My Darling Girl,

As I was zipping up your favorite warm pants (cherry colored corduroy) a few days ago, I realized with a start that they are now a bit loose around the waist. When we bought them back in October, they were on the long side, and snug snug snug. Now, they are b-a-r-e-l-y long enough, but miraculously can accommodate your belly just fine. Your babyish body, my darling, is disappearing. Last fall, when you walked, it was still with that endearing toddler posture of leading with your belly. Round in the cheeks, with the chubs of a year of greedy nursing still lingering in your legs, you sallied forth, more belly than anything else, laughing your way through your days.

Now, the giggle remains, but I can see in your face the little girl you are becoming, rather than the baby you so recently were. With braids in your hair (yes! you will sit still now for me to braid it! and there is enough to braid!) and a sparkle in your eyes, you tell me complex stories of your days.

Your pronunciations are still charming: your favorite treat is "smarshmallows," and you always ask for "lotsn lotsn smarshmallows," though you know I'll only give you two.

Recently, you have taken to using the word "soakin" as a magnifier for concepts. "I can't use this s'arp knife," you told me, "it's soakin soakin dang'rous." It took me a while to figure that one out, but here, I think, is the logic: most of the time, we use "so" to emphasize things: "I love you so much," or "that is so dangerous." But then, a few weeks ago, you stood in the dog's water dish in your socks just to see what would happen, and I complained that now you were "soaking wet" and would have to change just as we were supposed to be leaving the house. The tone of my voice clearly conveyed that "soaking wet" was even more problematic than "so wet," and hence a new superlative was born. "Good, better, best." "More, most" "So, soakin." Makes perfect sense. If something is REALLY bad, it's not "so bad"; it's "soakin bad."

Personally, I find this soakin hilarious that it's hard not to laugh out loud when you announce these things in a very serious voice. "Mama, the fish are soakin hungwee. Let's feed dem!"

When I came home late from work, as I always do on a Monday, I peeked in on you to tuck you in. Breathing softly under your "princess tent" (a confection of soft mosquito netting), you looked so peaceful. As soon as I leaned in, though, to pull the covers up to your chin, your small arm shot straight up out of the bed, and you hooked my neck in the vise-grip of your tiny hand. You pulled me down towards your pillow, opened your eyes halfway at most, and murmured, "I love you, Mama." You would not let my neck go, and so I stayed. As you settled down, you patted the back of my neck, even while you looked already asleep. Your mouth was opened just a bit, lips full and sweet around the tiny O of your breath. Your whisps of hair tickled my nose. Your face grew calm. It was only when you were breathing deeply again that I could raise myself, untangle your hand from my hair, and seek out my own bed.

You have had your first visit to the dentist (just yesterday), and you are learning to swim with a lifevest on. You drop whatever you are doing to run to the door when either your Daddy or I come home, and the deep, husky belly laugh you emit when your brother makes butt jokes is almost impossible to resist. You are marvelous at sharing, insisting that I dole out treats for your brother if you are getting some, but you will not put up with being taken advantage of. Good for you, for not letting him snatch whatever he wants, just because you are smaller. You don't always have to have the smaller portion in life, my daughter. Always remember that.

There is no occasion to mark with this letter. It's just a Tuesday. But there are so many tiny details of what you are like on a daily basis that I am afraid I will forget, as the older you replaces the younger you, and so I am writing them down here, so that we will have a record to chuckle over together when you are older.

This afternoon, when I sang out, "who wants to tuck me in and read me stories?!" you were the first one up the stairs, and you grabbed such an armload of books that you had to ask for help carrying them. Of course, you cannot really read, but you have memorized quantities of stories and love to recite them and turn the pages for a captive audience. Unlike your brother (who knows the same trick), you will keep the book all to yourself as you "read" and then hold up the pictures to show us both, as if you are your own preschool teacher.

The combination of utter silliness and intense seriousness in you is remarkable -- and something I hope you never lose.

For so many reasons, my little Birdie, I am proud of the little girl you are becoming, even as I feel a pang at the babyhood you are leaving behind. I cannot wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Your loving,

Mama


(If you have children in early elementary school, you might want to learn more about a truly fantastic online supplemental math system that Son adored -- including a giveaway, because I adored it too!)