4

Dear Zoey,

Last night I read you "Five Little Ladybugs," and then you asked me if you were going to die. Not until you are an old, old lady I said. Something about the circle of life, and then I took probably too long describing all the stages that you will go through during your happy, happiest life. Above us your starlights twinkled, 5 little ladybugs sleeping by the shore, along came a fish--then there were...
Tomorrow you turn 4 and I laugh at how cliche it all is, this motherhood thing spent inside out, how it feels as if it was just yesterday, how one minute I cannot wait for you to pour your own milk and then the next, how the soft curve of your cheek can stab me in the throat with its very now-ness. And then? What? At some point you won't crawl into our bed at night, Daddy smushed against the wall, me teetering on the edge of the mattress, you sound asleep, the crossbar that structures the night. 3 little ladybugs drinking up the dew, along came a duck--then there were...
Too often I hurry. Perched on the edge of the couch, I trim my split ends. I blog, write. I wash the dishes. Talk the dinosaur! you say, which means you want me to play. Be the girl, the fish, bark! Hold on, I say. In a minute, and god, I just really suck at playing Barbie. But on this, your birthday eve, I see it, the stop motion speed of cumulous clouds. Was that the last time? Is this? Because you know what comes next, don't you? I mean, it's not as if the story isn't predictable. Two little ladybugs basking in the sun, along came a frog--then there was...Today I told you the story of your birth, how Daddy and I were watching "Caddyshack" on tv when I felt something, the drive to the hospital, how when you came out you looked like a smurf. And I was just so happy to meet you! I said, but of course that wasn't quite right. What is right is that I already knew you, maybe not the smell of your hair like bread or the way your eyes are the exact color of the ocean, but how when you lay next to me it was all so familiar, is all so familiar, my verbs of being mixed up in a space somewhere without tense or skin. All that time, I thought, still numb from the spinal tap, all that time it was you! When I close my eyes now my scar itches, crawls. It is still you, one little ladybug sitting all alone, along came a breeze--then she was...

Home. Sweetie pea, promise me nothing but this: never forget that you are loved. Are lovable. Were born of love and have so much to give. Tomorrow you turn 4 and so tonight I will kiss your closed eyelids as you sleep next to me. Happy Birthday, baby girl. Hold on.

Love,
Mommy