*I am a month late in writing you this letter but I had a baby just a few days before your birthday so I figure I get some leeway.*
My dear Lua Grace,
You are seven years old. After seven whole years I am no closer to figuring you out, my sweet little enigma. You are by turns outgoing and shy, creative and technical-minded, gentle and fierce, sullen and joyful. You are like a puzzle that, just when you think you have it, the pieces change shape.
This year you are in first grade. You love learning. You love playing. You also love chatting about nonsense with your friends. You love being a little girl. And let me tell you, Lua Grace, you are one kick-ass little girl. You've officially given up ballet in favor of karate. You even started sparring this year. One of your favorite things to do is rock-climb with your uncle. You are so brave: no fear of heights, of falling, of getting kicked by a boy twice your size in karate. You take it all in stride. But saying a prayer at Feast? That freaks you out. I guess the fear of public speaking even extends to the elementary crowd. The amazing thing about you is that you still do it, even when it scares you. Even when you think you can't.
When I think back on you at this age I will remember you like this: you are dressed in a ruffled blue skirt, clashing blue leggings, even more clashing blue sequined shirt, white socks and black mary jane shoes. Your hair is long and parted in the middle. Your eyes are bright, your smile a little crooked. You are a bundle of uncontrollable energy. Possibly you are wrestling with Charlie. Maybe you are coloring quietly at the table. Probably you are laughing.
I hope when you grow up you will like being a big sister, Lua. I know it's not always easy. You've taken the brunt of the need for attention since Maxwell was born. You've crawled on the floor, sucking your thumb. You've begged to be rocked. You even went through a couple of weeks of baby talk that had me cringing whenever you opened your mouth. But you are such a good sister. You try really hard to love Charlie, even when he is trying his hardest to drive you crazy. And although you've definitely had a tough adjustment with baby Maxwell, you don't take it out on him. In fact, this morning you made him laugh for the first time ever. The two of you were sitting on the couch - 7 years old and 6 weeks old, respectively - giggling together.
I know you wanted a baby sister, but can I tell you a secret? I am sort of glad that Max turned out to be a boy and that you are my one and only daughter. Because you, Lua Grace, are my girl. You are the one I will call every day and you won't mind (I hope). You are the one who will remember people's birthdays. You are the one who will understand what to do and do it without being asked. You are the one who will take over when I can't. And you will do it, even if it's hard. Even if you think you can't.
Sometimes I look at you and I can't believe how lucky Daddy and I are to have you.
I am so, so proud of you.
Love always,
Mom