On this day, you are



On this day, you are fast; so fast I can't keep up with you, and neither can your chubby legs and the wide feet tripping over slightly too big crocs as you stomp off toward the nearest escalator. You are loud, banging the sides of your crib and along the walls with whatever will suffice as a drum stick. You are too big to be caged in, but not yet big enough to be trusted in a real bed for a whole night. You are smiling and laughing and crying and talking, all at once or never at all. You are affectionate with a mild, infrequent streak of meanness, which you regret as soon as it appears and cover with kisses and snot, all over my face and yours. 

You are going to be three in 23 days, and I cry; grieving the baby you were, savoring the boy you are.



On this day you are rebelling, squealing, screaming when you don't get your way, which is several times a day including this very moment. You are fists clenched tightly at your side, brown eyes wide with rage, quivering lips of remorse. You are wild, flailing movements of exuberant joy your lithe body cannot contain. You are a ninja warrior in a world filled with princesses. You are a fighter, a builder, a wrestler, a runner, sprinting and winning and finding your way along a very narrow pink road. You are going to school soon - Kindergarten in America - against your will because you'd rather be in Ireland, rather be a Senior Infant girl, rather match the boys in a navy blue jumper.

You are seeking me out, every night, close enough to touch but never needing to, because you are all your your own; a mysterious, beautiful creature I am still trying to know.



On this day you are so good; the absoluteness of this goodness sometimes leads to dissidence. You are so sure of what is right, that the logic behind quiet times or naughty steps or the inconsistency of your mother just doesn't add up. You are starting most sentences with, "according to my calculations," learning and maturing faster than we can keep up. You are running out of space for imagining, you say, and I know you are aching for room and for freedom. You are entirely reasonable, listening and hearing everyone, ready to engage us all, if only we'd just be patient enough.

You are anxious and I am so sorry; you got this from me, the fears and the worry, and we pray together to trust enough so the anxiety doesn't become who we are.

On this day, who are you? What are you waiting for, living for?