Dear Squeezy Bug,
I wish I knew words to describe my heart for you. For so long our family was four– just me and my guys– and they were good years, and my life was filled with trains and dump trucks and blue blue blue everywhere (and red and bright yellow and orange and green, but mostly blue). I never felt anything missing, really– I was happy as a mother of just boys, happy to be the princess in the family, happy to wear the skirt in the house.
And then you came along, and everything changed. You filled a part of my heart I didn’t know was empty. You with your big blue bespectacled eyes, your one curl in the back of your head, your love of all that you deem pretty. I can’t really remember what it was like to be happy without you for so long, although I know I was. I remember the fact of it, just not the feeling.
Oh little girl, you make me laugh every single day with your fat thighs and your pearl necklace and your undying affection for scrambled eggs. The way you say “daaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” when you want something, the way you toddle up and hug my knees unexpectedly, the way you insist on bringing me things I don’t want and dumping them in my lap or at my feet over and over until I take them, the way you try to sit on our laps even when we’re standing up.
Not that living with you is all sunshine and roses. You have opinions– many of them– strong and never kept silent. You are not content, as your brothers were, to happily eat your food in order– vegetables, meat, bread, fruit, dessert. You will have your sloppy joes right on top of your corn, and your watermelon right on top of that, and don’t bother with the bread unless you happen to be in the mood. I try to stick to my guns, but I’m afraid my will has met its match in you. You are scared of loud noises, suddenly– the sight of the vacuum sends you into hysterics even though I said I was never going to be the mother who only vacuumed when her child was out of the house. Tonight the electric mixer made you cry.
You still, after fourteen months, have issues with the whole sleep thing. Let all the sleep experts with their solutions and their cry-it-outs come and match wills with you, my dear. Me, I am resigned that you may never be a champion sleeper, and I’ll fuss and pray and sigh heavily when I get up with you in the night but I will still love you more than you can even think about when you get up in the morning and start shrieking for attention from your brown wood crib.
You have brought something precious to this family– a joy and a laughter– that we didn’t know was missing. You have taught your brothers a new kind of love, and a new kind of responsibility. And patience– you have taught us all new levels of that.
Sometimes I admit that I fear what you will be like at two– at twelve– at seventeen. Such a firecracker you are! How will we ever handle you? But I cannot dwell on those fears too much. God calls me to trust Him with you– with your relationship with Him– with my relationship with you. I know things will be bumpy, but the God who gave you all those opinions and all that energy and all those moods and all that shining, vibrant, rainbow personality also gave you me. So I guess He has plans for the both of us.
I can’t wait to see what He’s going to do with you.
I love you so much.