4th birthday

I confidently approached this day.  Maybe even a bit pridefully, silently, just to myself, softly mocked the mothers who gush and weep and moan and groan over how fast their children are growing up.  How “they are going to be moving out before I know it.”  I mean, come on now, each year we tick off with another candled cake is 365 bedtimes stories, 1095 meals to prepare, serve, and clean up, and countless socks to unsuccessfully match up.  But more nobly, or so I though, each year we celebrate with our child is countless opportunities to teach, grow, learn, experience, and love them.  We should embrace each birthday as a celebration and be happy that she is a year older.  

But it is the Eve of my firstborn’s 4th birthday.  And I cracked.  I blame it on her.  Yes, Malana, it is your fault.  You were so happy to be turning 4, so excited.  “I can’t wait to be four” seemed to be the common phrase around here.  But then you lied down in your bed and found the truth.  “Mom.”  Pause.  Quiver.  “I like being 3 so much.  I don’t want to be 4.”  Surprised, I tried the typical, “But it will be so much fun being 4.”  Blah blah blah.  This exchange continued for about 15 minutes before my precious 3 year old went to sleep for the last time as my 3 year old baby.  

Malana, It’s your fault that I am sitting here with emotions that I thought I was stronger than.  You usually hold it together for me.  “It’s ok, Mom.”  Why didn’t you whip out that line?  And while we are playing the blame game, I’d like to remind you of a few other things that are, well, yes, your fault.  

It’s because of you that on the shivery -32 degree night I went to the hospital and experienced the shock of my life - the labour pains that I confidently said “couldn’t be that bad” turned out to be “more than that bad.”  And it’s your fault that I had to learn to change a poopy diaper, watch for signs of UTIs, buy a penguin shaped thermometer, wake up at consistent times throughout the night, wipe your snot with my sleeve numerous times, wear poop on my dress at the formal event, and stew over the “big” choices like what school, what friends, what church, and how to teach you to love.

But along with all those things you made me learn, you also have taught me that you don’t have to say words like other people do.  By golly, you can use an s sound for an l sound or a z sound for a y.  You’ve taught me that not everyone gets lost as much as I do, not even if you’re 3.  You’ve reminded me, in times of lengthy distractions, that “Mom, you have CHILDREN.”  Right.  Take care of children and work later.  

And you are still teaching me things.  You’re teaching me that when I am frustrated with someone, I should make them a card.  You’re teaching me that to make it a good day, all we have to do is be together.  Your words, not mine.  You’re showing me that sometimes you can sacrifice things you want to make someone else (specifically: brother) happy.  

Basically, Malana, it’s your fault that I love you so much that it actually hurts.  It hurts because I desperately want happiness and fulfillment for your life, but I can’t make that happen.  It hurts because I intensely want you to learn what it feels like to be full of the love that comes from God.  But I can’t choose that for you.  But Malana, you are daily teaching me that love is simple, love is forgiving, and love is unconditional.  

So come on now.  Slow it down a bit.  You’re going to be moving out before I know it.