Yesterday, you turned 3 years old. You had been waiting for this day for an eternity it seemed, singing Happy Birthday to yourself for months. I hope it lived up to the hype.
You are now a big girl. Not a baby, not even a toddler. You’ve crossed the threshold into preschool age.
This past year, you have surpassed all expectations. We carry on conversations, an honest back and forth, where your strong opinions are always known. You also make me laugh like no one else, your smile beams like the sun across a room. You love the iPhone and markers and that darn Curious George. You also enjoy chasing after your brothers. In fact, you follow Buzz everywhere you shouldn’t. I firmly believe you enjoy the thrill of getting in trouble, a harrowing sign of what’s to come, and you find yourself in plenty of it. Yet, you are my helper, my tail, my girl who wants to do it all.
And when your small hand hugs around my neck, your head resting on my shoulder as I inhale the strawberry scent of your curls, I think this. This is exactly how it should be.
My pretty girl. My silly girl. My Abby-mouse. You are the epitome of vibrant. Better than I could have ever imagined a daughter could be.
I love you, sweetheart. Always.