Dear Harper, on your 4th birthday

Dear Harper,

You and I have had quite a year. QUITE A YEAR. If you'd have told me I'd have a girl as "girly" as you, a child with whom I'd spend hours fighting about clothing, a child who gracefully flits about from place to place like a prima ballerina, I would not have believed you.

I would have told you that gender is manufactured, that it's nurture -- not nature -- that decides these things. I'd tell you that because I encouraged you toward balls and cars and running around outside that I could never have a girl child who doesn't believe in "too many" ruffles, "too much" glitter, or "enough" pink or purple. I would have been wronger than I'd ever been in my life. I don't say this insultingly, just honestly: I cannot believe a child of my body and blood is into frilliness and fanciness as much as you are. It dominates so much of who you are right now, so that's why I'm writing what I'm writing.

But then... I'm speaking as my adult self. When I think back on my childhood (now fuzzy, as there just isn't enough room up there any longer), I remember fighting with my mom at age 4 because I didn't want to wear pants. I remember obsessions with leotards, Annie, Grease, and gymnastics. I remember wearing out the flower girl dress and matching barrette with flowing ribbons I showed off at my aunt and uncle's wedding. I remember my bride costume -- MY BRIDE COSTUME. (I later decided I would never marry, then along came your daddy.)

But I am calmed. Because even though I must have been a walking embodiment of twee, I grew into a feminist with my own mind, rules, and ideas about life. And so shall you.

So this is to say that I don't think that "girly girls" are weak. You, my darling daughter, are anything but. (See: hours of fighting) You know what you want. I simply -- frequently -- disagree. This leads me to my next point about you. You have inherited my control issues, and for that, I am truly sorry. There are good points to this, Harper.
Stuff gets done.
You'll have a clear vision of what you want.
Your need to be right about all things means that you value and retain knowledge (although not always wisdom).
You'll surround yourself with people who have met your high expectations, who have proven they can deal with your crazy shit and planning and need to have things just-so, and you'll therefore have close friends to whom you are devoted.

But this also means that when things don't go your way, you don't react well.
It means when people disappoint you, it makes it extra difficult to get over.
It means that when you want something done your way, and then it's not, that you have hard choices to make about whether/how you can deal with it.
It took me years to accept your father's way of doing things around the house and with the kids. I'm still working on it, and I probably will be for life. I hope I can provide you with the coping mechanisms you need to have a content, fulfilling life in spite of this little personality trait. But ultimately, daughter, it's up to you.

When you are happy, nothing compares. You walk around singing, dancing, twirling. You play with your dolls for loooong periods of time lately, and that is awesome. You are pretty excited about Wonder Woman (who, interestingly, you keeping referring to as Super Woman. Every time, every day, several times a day). You love your sister and you adore your brother. You are so darn smart, so inquisitive, so imaginative. You have a smile that lights up the world, just lights it up. You're kind to your friends. You launch yourself at Daddy when he walks in the door.

Who will you be? What good will you do in the world? Will you always choose skirts and dresses? Will you go cheerleader or goth? Only time will tell. But I love being your mother, and I am proud and hopeful and excited to share your journey with you. I hope you know you can always lean on me. I know you know that I'll always offer unsolicited advice. I love you beyond all measure, beyond my wildest dreams. Be you, Harper, just be you. And the world will continue to love you too.

Love,
Mommy

Dear Bayla, on your 4th birthday

Dear Bayla,

Here you are, turning four. You light up my life every day.

I write these letters for you because I am terrible with keeping up your baby book. Because I lost my mother far too early and can't ask her about my childhood, and I always have this niggling fear that I too will die before I can answer your parenting questions, I want you to know about you. I wonder all the time if you're like me. I suspect you are, even more so than your brother or your sister. I wonder how my mother dealt with me, and I could sure use her help and advice right now.

When you read these as an adult, I want you to know that these thoughts are written with all the love in my heart, though they are also written from my maternal philosophies of honesty and straightforwardness. With that said, this has been a tough year, Bayla-Boo. I thought Brady's threes were tough because he had new sisters, and I'd been in the hospital so long, but as it turns out, it's just the hardest possible age. You're all programmed to be jerks. Your "threes" really started at about age 2.5. So for 18 months I have dealt with irrational screaming, fighting, and stubbornness all day, everyday. Of course it's all age-appropriate -- you're supposed to be pushing your limits, and thank God, you are not one to back down easily -- but when it's up to me to get you out the door every morning, or to eat, or to go to bed at night, the defiance gets to be too much WHEN IT IS TIMES TWO. If you're not screaming or pushing my buttons, rest assured your sister is taking up your slack. (If you're interested, of the two of you, you have been the [relatively] more rational, easy-to- please daughter. But not lately.)

Apparently, twins often switch personalities. This just happened a few weeks ago, and I've been given frequent reminders of your lung capacity. You loved broccoli up until a few months ago, then one day, you decided you hate it. Sorry, kid. You have the eat the damn broccoli. Some days, you dress yourself proudly, brush your own teeth, and get your own shoes on. Other days, you can't be bothered to do it yourself. And this leads to some disagreement. You have no need to please me. While this secretly thrills the closet punk in me, this infuriates the mother (who's ruling about 95% of my personality these days). Again, totally age appropriate. But no fun when you're in it day in and day out. Every day is a marathon, and every night you go to bed without me running out of your room screaming is a victory.

But make no mistake: you, my darling girl, give me so much joy.

You are a snuggler. One of the best parts of my day is lying down with you at bedtime.
You are full of curiosity.
You are creative. The imagination you've got!
You are an artist. I mean it -- you already have an eye I can only dream of.
You are an actress. I watch your face as you're talking or playing. So expressive.
You are so funny.
You are smart. You can't seem to get enough of learning.
You love animals and babies. You want to pet both.
You want to experience everything. My daughter, I'll do all I can for you to keep your joie de vivre forever.
You still have your belly laugh. It fills me with light and love.
You are aggressive. You go after what you want.
You are kind. You are helpful to your friends -- and even your siblings, often at the expense of your own happiness.


I never seem to have enough time or energy for everything, for everybody. I am sorry that I yell, that I get frustrated, that I rush you from place to place. I am not always the best mother, I am almost never patient, I am torn asunder by my bad mothering choices, by not being who you need me to be all the time. But I love you, I love you. I am proud of the person you are, of whom you are growing up to be.

I predict you will be a strong, smart, assertive woman. I hope you never take any shit from anyone, but that you tell them so nicely. May I be the kind of mother who can give you the wings you need to be the best person you can be. May you be the kind of person who isn't afraid to fly.

Love,
Mommy