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