I have to start this by apologizing for another very personal and non-food post. I so appreciated the comments on my rant, and will respond soon, probably with another post because I really love that some dialogue has started. But today is my baby’s seventh birthday, and I’ve made it a tradition to write to her each year on the anniversary of the day she joined us on this side of my body.
Today you are seven. And like last year (and the year before, and the years before), I can’t imagine where the time has gone. The sometimes-long days sure do blend into very speedy years.
Trite as it may sound, this year I just want to write about loving you.
I love how from your very first moments, you knew what you wanted (and it was me!) and wouldn’t accept any substitutes.
I love that you wanted to be held and nursed pretty much constantly.
I love that as a nursing toddler you told Daddy that mama milkas were much better than Cold Stone ice cream.
I love that you still say your nursing days were the happiest days of your life. (Mine, too, my love.)
I love how you remind me of
me a crotchety old lady when you complain about how people can be so weird.
I love that you retell your conversations and the stories of your day… and you really need a reaction.
I love that you love to teach others.
I love that you ask Daddy how his day was.
I love that when I say something is “cool” you ask , “how do you know?”
I love that you write worship songs.
I love that you love being naked.
I love that this conversation happened a few days ago:
You: I can’t wait until my birthday: the one day of the year when I get all the attention.
Daddy, after laughing his head off: I’m pretty sure that’s every day of the year.
Daddy: Who gets the attention then?
I love that when I’m sad you will hold my face very close to yours, with both hands, and then lift my cheeks into a smile.
I love that you still want us to dress alike.
I love that you make me understand my own mother, and that even though she is gone, I have a connection to her that I would never be able to have without you.
I love your feet.
My dearest Abigail (Abi, Aba, Aba-doodle, Abacadabra, AbiLyn, Abs, Poopa, AbiDabba), thank you for seven years filled with more love than I could have imagined.
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