You are four years old today, which sounds just about right and unbelievably WRONG at the same time.
I worked myself into a bit of a state this week, over your birthday. I wanted it to be perfect and I wanted to make you all kinds of homemade gifts, staying up late into the night obsessing over the details. I do this around holidays and I do this when I'm feeling things that I'm scared to really feel. I know better. It didn't need to be perfect. It is perfectly imperfect. Just like us both.
I know this is your birthday but I can't help but feel emotional in a very personal way every time it rolls around. This is the day I became a mother. Your birth was the most cataclysmic day in my life thus far. And so all day today as we celebrated you, I felt this internal stirring, a celebration of my own, a remembrance of what this day means in my life.
At four, you are smart and chatty and silly and full of feeling and deeply invested in people and relationships. You love your sister and your friends and cookies and dolls and macaroni and cheese and you always wish I would let you pick just one more flower. You don't want us to call you "Boo" anymore, the nickname that has, for the last three years pretty much supplanted your given name, and we're trying to not let this break our hearts.
Yesterday as I pushed you in the swing, you said "Mommy, can you hold me and then let me go?"
And I thought That's what I do every day: hold you. And let you go.
Your Clueless But Hopeful Mama