Four years, two months

Dear River,

A friend of mine has a daughter a couple years older than you. She seems so grown up. Her feet, so large. Her eyes, wise. I can't believe that is my near future. When I was pregnant with you and when you were an infant, a baby, a toddler--I couldn't see very far ahead. Each day passed slowly and I had time to savor you. Now I can feel kindergarten approaching. Yes, we have a year and a half--but it's coming. Just thinking about you climbing onto a school bus with you huge backpack over your narrow shoulders and thumping along against her skinny bottom... It makes me feel soooo incredibly old--ancient even. And I know, from those parents with nearly grown and grown children--that I will always have this sense of disbelief that you have grown so much and so much time has passed. Somewhere in my mind, time has frozen around this imagine of you as a screaming newborn placed on my chest. On the moment I became a mother. 

You still love books. You bring one with you everywhere. Into the bathroom, the car, the store, to bed. I often loose my temper when you are trying to put on shoes or your coat with a book in one hand. "You have two hands for a reason! Put the book down!" The rule is often that you must leave books in the car when we go out. Well, we were on a school field trip and I look down twenty minutes in--you have a book. The entire time you are running and playing with you friends--holding a book. I took it away at one point and you just asked for it back ten minutes later. Books are your security blanket or favorite stuffed animal. When I made this comparison (that you had no favorite stuffed animal to sleep with and showed you my stuffed lion I still keep by my bed) you lamented that we never let you sleep with a book. Could you please sleep with a book? So I let you keep it under your pillow. Often, in the morning, I find you naked reading a book. You got your pajamas off, but stopped to read before getting dressed. I waver between pride that you love books as much as I do (maybe more--since I dress before reading) and screaming in frustration. Especially on mornings when we are running late. There is a home video of my family where we are taking a walk down to a stream. I, about age ten, am reading a new book for the entire walk. My mom asks me something and I look up over the book and glare. While we were skyping with Grandma, you would not stop looking at a book. Your face, your glare, your body language...it was me. I call you my divine retribution. You are karma. You are everything I sent out into the universe, brought back to me as you.

You are clumsy. All the knees of your jeans or worn out or torn because you fall so much. You are oblivious to what goes on around you--knocking into things, knocking things over, bumping into others, talking into conversations from the middle of your thoughts,  totally not noticing me buying you Valentine chocolates when you were right there with me, sensitive, friendly, kind, and easily forgiving. In all ways, so much like me that it sometimes hurts when I loose my temper with you and remember what it felt like when my mother lost her temper at me. You always have good intentions and I know this--that doesn't mean you aren't incredibly frustrating. 

You have become helpful lately. I ask you to help me in little ways. Throw this dirty dish towel in the hamper, pick that up, hold your sister's hand, carry this bag of groceries. Usually, you are quite willing. You have also become far more independent and often tell me-- "let me do that myself".

You are a wild man on your bike going fast down hills, wavering and almost falling, and if you fall--getting up again without tears. We've really been working on your writing and math skills. You prefer the former oh so much more and get frustrated easily with math. Your reading comprehension is right on. You can summarize stories back at me, answer my questions during reading, and make great inferences. During preschool, instead of playing midway through after snack--you stole a book from my school pile and started flipping through it. I had to threaten you with a red card to get you to give the book back and come sit in the circle to continue. 

You are very gentle with Sage most of the time. You often whine and tattle rather than hurt her. Which is good although sometimes the whining drives me to a temper tantrum of my own. Sometimes Sage climbs on your back while you lay looking at books, so you give her a ride around. You hate when she touches your books and will pile them in places she can't reach. But then you begin games of chase with her. She plays with you in just the same ways she plays with me. She's such a lucky girl to have you.

Last night was Daddy's night to stay with you kids as you fell asleep. Before I left, I lay with you in bed and pushed back your curls. The ones that still spring, corkscrew tight at your hairline. The rest has gone mostly straight. I recited the poem you are named after and told you the story about how I knew that would be your name before you were ever made. Then you wanted to know about my name, so I told you that story. Then Daddy's, so I told you that story. I marveled at the places you look like me in your face and the places you look like Daddy. How all together it is just you--always changing, growing, but familiar and adored. Your eyes are so warm. They are a homecoming. When I look into them, I feel content. I feel so thankful that my eyes fill with tears. I think, "I made him. I grew him inside me. I get to be with him." 

In this life, so often filled with horrors, I understand that the love for and from my family are precious. 

I often wonder over how I have been so blessed in this life. 

You are one of those blessings.

Love, 

Mommy