Rachel, you are four. I can hardly believe it. My heart is bursting and breaking at the same time. I am so proud of you for being four, and at the same time it was very sad for me to say good-bye to your year of being three. Every year I have loved you Rachel. When you were born, I loved watching your newborn yawns and later your smiles that would light up a room. When you were one, I loved waching you struggle for independence, to do things yourself, even when you couldn't. When you were two, I loved watching you struggle to express yourself, and you were always so good at telling us about your feelings. "I have tears!" you used to cry, touching them. "I'm sad."

And this year you were three, Rachel. Again, I loved watching you. This year, however, you took my breath away. It was a year of grace. And I want to remember you at three, my love.

I want to remember how your short blond curls grew long and spiraled. How your legs grew about a half a foot and your baby fat completely disapperared. I want to remember you finishing projects with determination and such seriousness. Taking on chores, like wiping Hannah's nose, table washing, folding. I want to remember our conversatons. Such serious conversations. And how I wasn't supposed to smile or laugh even when you would say the most beautiful and surprising things.

I want to remember what a great big sister you were, Rachel. How even when you were so frustrated with your sister, you wanted her to be with us (preferably napping). How you worried for days before Hannah's doctor appointments and then would cry along with her when she started to cry.

I want to remember the hard times, too. The times when you just couldn't pull it together and listen. These times came often, too. It was hard to be three sometimes, wasn't it? The great thing is, you were usually able to articulate your feelings eventually--after tears and perhaps a time-out. And you were also good at helping me talk about my feelings. Like this afternoon when Hannah was sick and sleeping in my arms and I was wiggling to get comfortable. You turned to me and asked, "Is it hard to be a mom when your baby is sleeping in your arms?"

I want to remember how you were always forgiving of me, even when I was inexcusably impatient. I also want to remember how you were often the first one to comfort me when I cried. And how you were not at peace until my foot started to heal last month.

I want you to remember that I loved this year, Rachel. And that now I welcome your year of being four. As I always tell you, my love for you never stops growing. If you struggle even more for independence, my love will still be growing. If you turn away from me for a time, I will be sad, but I will know that it is what you need to grow, and my love will still be growing. My love will continue growing because each day I will know you more.

You are four. I love you more.

Mama

(Yes, it has become a tradition of mine to write these birthday letters at least a month late.)

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