Dear Daughter

I'm going to start this letter with a future apology. I can not promise that I will keep this letter writing business up. Things get hectic, my stress level gets high, things have to balance, and things have to take a back seat.

But I can try. And I promise I'll do that.

So, let's begin again.

Dear Daughter,

You're two. Scratch that. You're two and one month. Twenty-five months, to those mothers who are weird about things and can't put their childs age in years. It's not making them sound younger, people.

You are two, but you are also six, and on certain days eight, and then sometimes the attitude is closer to sixteen. You laugh, and shout, and sing and cry and whine. But best of all, you joke. Boy do you know how to joke. I am floored by your sense of humor. You're jokes are beyond your years in so many ways. Your timing is impeccable, you know just when to capture your audience and for how long to drag it out. Often times I forget to laugh, as I stand there frozen with my jaw dropped to the ground in complete amazement.

I am so proud of you. For that. But for many other reasons too. Forewarning: I'm going to tell you endless amounts of times how proud I am of you over the rest of your life. And you'll nod your head and say "Thanks, Mom." and roll your eyes both literally and many times figuratively. And I'll lick your my finger and straighten your hair, and you'll brush me off. Thinking it's not such a big deal. Until you have a daughter of your own one day. And then you'll know exactly what I meant. Much like I know exactly what my mother meant. Except the hair straightening part, I'll try to contain that.

So here it is again, KTK. I am SO proud of you. You have such personality. BIG personality. You've got brains and attitude, and you're really starting to blossom into .... well, YOU. It's such an amazing thing to watch. I'd say from the sidelines, but I am an active participant.

You're teacher calls you "Loquita" - translation: Little Crazy One. But it's true. And it's a compliment. When we call you Loquita at home, your face squishes up and your eyes narrow and you shake your head like "No way, I'm not crazy" and then you giggle, as if proving that denial false right away.

Very often we play the "Oh no! Where's my hand?" game when we are in the car or the bath tub or chilling. Point is, we play it a lot. You hide Olivia behind your head as if she becomes invisible to everyone, except you. And we roll with it, because your enthusiasm is too awesome not to.

You've become fearless in play, opting for the big girl swing instead of your blue "bucket". And you lean back on the swing with your face to the sky and I could watch you all day like that. Smiling. Both of us.

And even when you make the occasional wrong decision, almost always having to do with the fact that you choose not to listen to us, you have the best disposition. Tearful and apologetic, you give hugs and kisses, and "yes, mama"s and "sorry, daddy"s. And then it's 0 to 60 back to awesome.

In short, you amaze me. Every day. Even on the days we don't get to spend much time together.

Never stop. I have a feeling you won't.

Love, Mama