Tuesday, October 2, 2012

You Are My Sunshine; My Only Sunshine

Three years ago this month, Daddy and I began a new chapter in our lives, and that chapter, we assumed, would be the short and sweet story of how we made you a big sister. Three years ago this month, you were a darling 22-month old who finally learned how to say thank you and sported the tiniest of ponytails. I had this to say about you, then:

You were the center of our universe as you still are. We were about to enter the third year of your life as we planned your second birthday party. Plan, plan, plan- your Mama is good at that. Some days, I feel like I majored in planning. Except I forgot to take the final and all that test included was how to plan for failure. How to accept planning to unplan. I never got around to planning for that.

So now, three years later, you are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You'll forever be an only child. I've begun telling you that now, more forceful than ever before and you seem to understand and accept it, too. It doesn't mean you don't cry or whine at the acceptance, when the frank reality of it seems so damn unfair, as I do at times, too. It doesn't mean you don't ask me one hundred questions of why. But you know the truth. You know our little birdie of hope has finally flown the nest, and this fall, he's flying south to never return.

And we're fine. My favorite four-letter F word. Fine. But we are. And in most ways, we're way better than fine. We're healthy and happy and have a gorgeous home in a sweet neighborhood in a village that's beyond anything we could ask for. We eat fresh food we handpick, we seek doctors we trust, we sleep on bedding of thread counts higher than we need. There's money for music, coffee, and the future; there's insurance to cover the unexpected, and 47 text messages from people who love the shit out of us. There's freedom to go to school and church and vote as we damn well please. There's guidance and acceptance and forgiveness and celebration every single day.

I wrote above that you're the reason and the answer to everything. That we're so delighted to have you in our lives- the same is still true three years later. Even more so, now. It's a powerful feeling to so brightly see the path you've lit in our world, what your true role on this earth would be. Think about it! What you have given to your parents and who you made them, will forever be unrivaled. Unparalleled by another human. That's pretty cool- I promise. It's a big deal. You're the only human being with the title of Our Child. Celebrate it!

With that title, I know there comes responsibility. As you get older, you'll likely feel it more and more. I want to apologize in advance for any burden you have to bear simply because of semantics. I mean, with the knowledge that I'll never, ever give birth again, I could simply go bat-shit crazy. I could quit my job and pull you out of PreK and daycare and never let you out of my sight. I could deny you the opportunity to ever sleep somewhere other than right beside me. I could hover and suffocate and squeeze the life out of you. I could, and hell, I maybe even want to. But I won't. There is your Daddy and your Aunties and maybe a therapist and definitely several bottles of Shiraz that will see to it that I don't. But ... give me a break once in a while and cut me some slack. I promise to only ever do the best I can as your Mama. If you want to go to college on the East coast, fine. If you want to go home with your roommate your first Thanksgiving break, fine. If you want to stop vacationing with your parents someday, fine. You're lucky I am allergic to cats otherwise I might have ended up with a farmhouse full of them someday, named after all the Disney princesses you loved so much as a child.

You're lucky.

There. The post of a lifetime, full of truth and hurt and heart. I promised to always tell you the truth, and I intend to continue doing so. Just this morning, you asked me what gray wolves eat and I told you, small woodland creatures, and you started to cry. Well, it's true. They are carnivores. Sorry honey.

And no, wolves don't eat little girls. You're not a small woodland creature.

I love you to the moon ... to Starbucks and back. I love you bigger than the sky and deeper than the ocean. I love you more than you have stuffed animals or I have lipgloss.

My only sunshine. We are lucky ladies, indeed.

Mama loves.


Jessica aka Mommy said...

Beautiful! Thinking of you...you have such a wonderful soul. :) LD is such a lucky little girl--I've said it before and I MEAN it--you're such an AWESOME mama.

Kelley with Amy's Angels said...


Mama--you're loved. :)

K.A.H said...

Dear Village mama, there is a reason I have called you in the past to say "my kid is sick/has a rash/might have a tooth, what do I give them?" There is a reason my son said to me THIS evening "Mom, remember last night (everything happens the night before in his world) when "LD" and her dad came over for dinner and we played. Yeah mom, that was fun. Tell them to come tonight." There is a reason you were there for every loss I had. There is a reason we met 10 years ago. And there is a reason we have a Village. I heart you. My h hearts you and so do the my babies - right now they only show that love to "LD".

Rachel said...

I haven't read your blog in months (maybe even a year). I love being a part of your village, and I adore the Little Dude!!