Little Miss Wonderful

Six years ago today, we finally met. The doctor put you into my arms and the wondering about what it would be like suddenly stopped. There we were, face to face. It was love at first sight.

"So nice to finally meet you."

Six years ago I had no idea what I was in for. All I knew is that I would love you so much, and that I
would be your biggest fan, your fiercest ally, and your most vigilant protector.

How tired and greasy am I in this picture?

Six years have gone by and I still wonder. I wonder what you're going to do or say. What you're going to learn next. You've learned so much already. You get dressed all by yourself, and have quite an eye for fashion.

Peanut the fashion plate

There's so much more you do on your own: the potty, the tooth brushing, buckling your seat belt. There was a time you needed me for everything. Now, you need me for less and less every day.

Fearless. Independent.

You're smart too. You're reading and writing. Doing math. You have a keen sense of humor. You quote movies at funny and appropriate times and know Frank Sinatra and Bruce Springsteen. I've learned so much in the past six years as well. I learned to be calm. Gentle. Humble. Patient. (Still working on that one.) I've learned how to discipline fairly and appropriately, to love someone so much that I would kill or be killed for them. I've learned to edit myself. To bite my tongue in public at times. Diplomacy. And to take myself less seriously. I've learned all of that for you. I've learned all of that from you.

Nothing like a face full of snow.

You taught me to slow down. To live in the moment. To find the best possible hide and seek spot. The one that will not only stump you, but make you belly laugh. You taught me not to be embarrassed to wear plastic, clip-on earrings and a tiara. To climb through that petri dish of a jungle gym at Chuck E Cheese. To let you fix my hair when it "looks crazy."

We also wear crazy hats.

In turn, I've tried to teach you respect, humor, responsibility, but most important, independence. To help yourself. To get your own dish for dinner. To throw away your own trash and clean up your own room. To figure it out on your own. Just like I didn't have all of the answers that night I held you and soothed you in the hospital six years ago today, you're not going to have all of the answers right away. But you've helped me figure things out. In turn, I will help you.

You'll always be my baby.

Two nights ago I kissed you goodnight before I went to bed. My nightly ritual. I must have woken you because as I turned to close the door behind me I saw your head pop up. You didn't see me standing there in the hallway. I shut the door quietly, leaving it cracked just enough to watch you. I watched you find your water cup, drink it dry as if you were dreaming of walking through a desert, put it on your bedside table, make a face that said your thirst was satisfied, and go back to sleep.

You didn't need me in that thirty seconds, like you might have four years ago or even four months ago. But I'm watching you. From farther and farther away. I am always watching you, and listening, with a smile. Even if you don't need it, I will always be here to help you.

Happy 6th Birthday, Peanut. You're not such a Peanut anymore.