My girl

Gracie,

You are seven! Actually seven plus a week. Ish. Forgive the fact this is not on your birthday. But uh, I’ve been, uh, otherwise occupied. As in, uh, just… blue. But loooovin’ you. Gimmie a break, I also haven’t been sleeping. It’s still your birth MONTH, so it COUNTS. It does. It counts because I say it counts and I’m the mom. That’s one very nice thing about being The Mom. Soooo, back to you. Slow. it. down. PLEASE. It's hard to believe you're 7. 100% Kid. Little kid no more. (Sob!)

I both love and dread the fact you're getting older. You're capable of so much. You can be told to get ready and you’re on it. Except when lured away and distracted with pretty pretty markers and an empty whiteboard. You're my 'go to' girl and you generally do things I ask with a good attitude, except perhaps when I bombard you with 9,438 things in a row. Geez. Sooo picky.

You don’t need me nearly as much. You don’t require tucks every night, although you still like them. You brush your own hair (although not terribly well), brush your own teeth, fix your own food, roll your own smokes (just wanted to see if you were paying attention). It’s like the “need” for me is mostly gone. Which is both heart-breaking and glorious. Heart-breaking when we’re referring to your (former) need to come find me in the morning to get hugs; glorious when referring to wiping your own poo. Also glorious knowing you’ll learn to wipe your brother’s poo!

You are both a conflict instigator and the sweetest big sister on the planet. You think Mary's "so cute, very very cute" and say you'll miss her when she gets bigger and isn't a baby (I love how 3 is a baby to you, and me too, for that matter). "When she gets really bigger, like a grown-up, I'll really miss her unless we can live in the same neighborhood." Mary's taken to clinging to me, possibly pushing you and/or Coco out of the way, saying, "MY Mommy!" You patiently say, "Yes, she is your Mommy" and then mutter under your breathe, "and I'm not even going to mention how she was my Mommy FIRST."

You've heard me say I like it when you call me Mama, so you call me Mama more often. The way you say it just has such a sweet ring to it. I'll have plenty of years of being Mom or MooooOOOOmmmMMM. (Oh, teenage years - please be good to us!)

I send love notes in your lunchbox every day. You wrote back one day last week. It said:

Dear Mommy,
Thank you for sending me notes. You are the best mom in the whole world. You are an awsome mom. I love you up to heaven and back down to the water under the road. And even more than that. So the thing is I love you a lot and a lot and a lot.
Love,
Gracie

These are the things that keep me going every day. Especially the water under the road – c’mon, that there’s some serious lovin’, even though I have no idea what that actually means.

I love you. So much more than any combination of words can convey. You are.... amazingly wonderful. Plus a kadrillion other affectionate descriptive words. With a cherry on top. To the power of infinity. Plus two. So the thing is I love you a lot and a lot and a lot.

Love up to heaven back down to the water under the road (and even more than that),

Mama