Dear Talitha,
You are two. A year ago you were just a baby, and now you are a little girl who runs around and speaks in complete sentences.
“I fall down.”
“I fast.”
“I a baby daughter.”
“Juice, pleeeeease, mommy.”
“I dry!” (With a grin, when your diaper is clearly wet.)
My favorite things about you are all the ways you are different than me. I like books and writing and being inside. You like to run and climb and be outside. I am serious and disciplined as I move through my day. You are cheerful and silly from morning to night. I can be clumsy. You are smooth and coordinated. You catch yourself gracefully when you slip, when I would fall on my face. I don’t have a shy bone in my body. You are quiet in crowds. I just learned from your teachers that you haven’t talked in your classroom for the past six months, even though you love school and run through the doors with glee each day.
I love that we are so different, because every day with you is a grand adventure. You teach me to laugh more. To slow down (when we are building with blocks). To speed up (when we are racing around the house). You teach me to be tender with your still-chubby baby cheeks and big-girl grin.
Here’s to so many more years of you teaching me new things. To be active. To be silly. To be joyful. Just like you.
Love,
Mommy
