I don't mean that literally, of course. (You know that, right? I don't need you developing a height/weight complex at just shy of three-and-a-half.)
But, in so many ways, I do mean it. You're longer than I could've ever imagined those endless nights of cluster feedings, those early days when you rarely napped, those exhausting hours of carrying you interminably in my arms. When I wrote about you being nearly a year and your toes tapping at my knees, when I mourned the shorter nursing sessions and wondered if I were still needed, I had no idea what this would feel like--this moment when you would still declare your need for me but when I would be the one who knows that need is fleeting.
Everything about you is more independent, from your desire to totter solo across tonight's balance beam (handcrafted by your dad) to your self-sure knowledge of what you'd like to consume for dinner (Hawaiian pizza, hold the meat). With your independence comes frustrations for your dad and me but also--if we could admit it--pride. We want you to be fiercely autonomous, to know who you are and to fight for what you believe is right. (Remember, though, that sometimes a steady diet of macaroni and cheese isn't "right"--and that's where we come in.)
Ultimately, though, I write tonight's letter not for you (or for anyone else who might stumble across this blog in the years to come). I write it for me, as a reminder that there is always a bond between a Mommy and a Lily, that "rocking" is a consistent comfort, that a tired chin resting on a silky head can be the greatest comfort a mother and a child can know.
I write it because--when I am exhausted on a Friday night, when all I want is rest in spite of friends on my doorstep, when all I need is a pillow and not another cry for attention--there is peace and joy in remembering that, together, we will find sweet rest.
You are nearly too long, but you will never outgrow my arms, my sweet girl.
Love,
Your Mommy
