Love

Dear daughter,

Words are completely inadequate to capture you. Joy doesn't fully describe how you bound into a room and make everyone fall in love with you. Passion doesn't convey the range of your emotions - one minute you are hugging and kissing with all the strength you can muster while another you are shoving an older brother with such force you send him across a room.

Beauty is a weak set of six letters next to you. You are beyond beautiful on the inside and stunningly so on the outside. People touch your hair in wondrous awe. People smile as you say "Nice to meet cha, ma'am." They marvel at your deep, blue eyes and clear pale skin. You are a Botticelli cherub personified.

You love food. Since you were a baby you have eaten more than your older twin brothers, combined. You used to sing to your food. Now you just take charge of your hunger. There are times when I find you, sitting on the kitchen floor eating chicken nuggets from the freezer because I am not moving fast enough. Yet even at almost three years old you have the patience to bake, to wait for each ingredient and to find something to do while the cookies are in the oven.

Generally that something involves music. You cannot help yourself. You dance. You sing. You make up songs. I've watched you going down the stairs as if you are Gabriella from High School Musical singing that ridiculously emotive song when she thinks she's jilted. Much to the delight of more than a few people at church you get up on the Great Hall stage and throw your arms out wide as you offer another song. And you will actually get up from a plate of food to dance. The look on your face when you first heard The Blind Boys of Alabama's version of Stevie Wonder's Higher Ground was one of awe. You were incredulous that anything could sound this amazing. So you danced.

Sometimes I get to be your dance partner. Other times you order me to clap as your audience. Whatever my role, it is an honor to be your mom.

Now you are three years old.

Happy Birthday, Love.