This little lady turned three this weekend.
In a quiet minute between parties--we had two, more about those later--I sat down on the couch, and the way the sunset was coming through the window took me back to the year she was born. It was Christmas. I had a new baby. And I think I spent whole days just watching her sleep next to the Christmas tree, smelling her delicious skin and wondering who she would be.
I wonder--if I could travel back in time and show off my "big girl" to that mama and baby--would then-me be surprised at who she's grown into in just three short years?
"Hurricane Bette", I call her in my head. Because she's three, but also because she's her.
Sweet and happy and busy in her best moments. Changing clothes five times a day and mothering her "Rosie" doll. Cracking me up with her made-up song lyrics and funny questions. Dreaming of the day she can have her own pony...or a bunny rabbit as a potential substitute.
Fierce and angry and stubborn in her...um, less-than-best moments.
Although even when she's shaking with rage--and even when it's directed at me--I kind of admire her for it. I think the world needs women who know how to get good and mad, ya know? And while I'd rather she direct her outrage at something less passing than the fact that her Christmas pajamas are in the wash, I also don't want her to learn to tamp it down too much.
Plus her plaintive "I love you, mommy" when we're making up is enough to make you forgive her for anything.
Happy birthday, peanut butter. We're so glad that you're you and that you're ours.