Happy Birthday, Princess Claire!

Darling Claire,

Today you turn 4. With every year and with every subsequent child, time seems to race by at an ever increasing pace. Seems just yesterday I was dozing away my always too brief maternity leave with you on my chest and Grace and Sam on either side of me in my bed. And now you are a big, grown up girl of 4.

I think often of the world's reaction to your birth. To so many, we had our perfect family with our one daughter and our one son. Many people responded to my third pregnancy with a bit of bewilderment--why do you need a third child? I already had (as one person put it) the "million dollar family". Silly people, how could we ever have been complete without our Claire? What would our family be without you?

Clairabelle, you are easily my biggest child. Not by size or age, but by personality. Everything you do is full out, fast, no holds barred. You race headlong into the world, scooping every tiny bit of joy from every last second of every day. I hope you never lose this. I love your enthusiasm, your energy, your courage. You are exhausting but you are exhilerating. We can almost see how big your heart is--barely contained in that perfect little body of yours--it shines out of those forget-me-not blue eyes so much that we can almost see sparkles dancing right out into the air around you, like dust in a sunbeam.

And your unbridled affection! When you are united after being away from anyone or anything you love, you literally hurtle towards them, laughing, arms outstretched. You hold nothing back, to the point where many of us pull back just a bit from the impact, because you won't slow down until you have your strong little arms clutched around the neck of your beloved (me, your daddy, your grandparents, your cousin Bridget, your sisters) at which point you joyfully exclaim, "Mommy (Daddy, Papa, Gracie...) I love you!" and pepper us with a thousand kisses. We have to be careful with you and siblings and cousins who are smaller--your affection outweighs your caution most of the time. You are almost never malicious, just a little like a Labrador puppy. Your eagerness and strength outweigh your restraint. And you are so generous with compliments, spilling verbal cheer as you race by. "Mommy, I love you," you must say a dozen or so times a day. At our fourth of July picnic this year, you were snuggling and squirming on my lap during the fireworks and suddenly turned to me and said, "Mommy, I love it here. Thank you for bringing me here." And just yesterday after you went potty you looked up at me with those wonder-filled eyes and said, "Mommy, you are such a nice wiper." The only word for you is joyful.

And you are beautiful. I think sometimes you take people's breath away, when you slow down enough for them to see your face (and it isn't marked by some bruise or scratch from your many mis-adventures, and it isn't obscured by your big wild curls. You recently gave yourself a haircut--just the parts around the face--so now you have layers all around those round cheeks of yours. And we're trying to grow your bangs. When you wake up in the morning--especially if you go to sleep with your hair wet from your bath, your hair is a riot of sunstreaked curls tumbling into your face. I sometimes call you my lion--an apt metaphor for your commanding presence). You are completely confident in your perfect little body--loving all it can do and enchanted by your vision of yourself as the pretty princess you are. I've often wished for your utter contentment with your physical presence.

You decided this year that you were not "CC". We had called you by your initials (Claire Cecilia) for years, since the name "Claire" never seemed to fit you. I sort of had this image of a dreamy, mild little person with that name; CC seemed more rambunctious. But you made your choice this year and we respect that. You know nothing if it isn't your own mind. And I have grown to appreciate how right the name--the given one--is for you. Claire means "clear"--a perfect metaphor for you whose clarity of thought and purpose are as pure as water.

18 months ago we made you a big sister and in the same week you decided you were done with diapers for good. When we told the doctor at your annual physical he was speechless for a moment. "That never happens," he finally said. He doesn't know you very well. You are the baby who ran (never pausing to just walk) at 9 months. The one who decided one day that you were done with your binky, took it out, looked at it, tossed it to the floor, and refused it from then on. The one who learned to climb on the kitchen table at 10 months the first (and only) time your Papa agreed to take you and your big brother and sister to school. The one who almost never cried as an infant and the now sturdy pre-schooler whose tolerance for pain is astronomical. Two stories on this subject. Last fourth of July, I glanced over at you dancing with the other children. You were holding your dress above your waist, revealing your Dora panties to the world. I dashed over to you, intent on protecting your modesty, and only then noticed the blood dripping down your leg. You had scraped your knee and noticed the blood, but were unwilling to stop playing to take care of it, though you knew you didn't want blood on your dress. Another time you insisted on running barefoot (you usually insist on this) in the mulch around the swingset, and you ended up with several slivers. I immediately resorted to the best, most tried-and-true method of removal. Call Grandma. We went over there and you thrashed and cried and screeched (nothing more than what I have come to expect with splinter removal). Somehow we figured out, however, that you just wanted to observe the process. It wasn't the PAIN of a needle digging through your flesh that was upsetting you, it was your CURIOSITY being denied that really ticked you off.

But you can be a bit exhausting at times. We struggle to keep up with you, to keep you occupied and out of mischief, and to meet your demands which can be tremendously insistent at times. And you are so loud! You talk loud, you sing loud, and you cry even louder. When you are upset, people in 3 neighborhoods know it. You can be a bit destructive, whirling through our home like a tornado. When you were a toddler we called you the taz (as in the tasmanian devil. Though you were more angel than devil--just so very, very BUSY). Poor Gracie struggles sometimes with sharing a room with you. You aren't the greatest at boundaries and a have a habit of getting into, well, just about anything and everything. It can be hard on your perfectionist sister.

But people love you, Claire. How could they not? You are fearless, tireless, and have a heart completely free of malice or judgement. You are kind and you throw your whole self into everything you do. You are earnest and honest. The big kids in the neighborhood never hesitate to include you in their activities because you never slow them down, you never demand extra attention or act like a baby, and you are, when all is said and done, a whole heckuva lot of fun! Once when you were about 4 months old you were having a rare fitful day. You were restless, discontented. I tried everything, and finally set you on your boppy pillow near where the big kids were playing. You kicked and cooed and smiled and never asked for another thing until it was time for your next feeding. You are my little social butterfly (though not nearly so delicate and quiet). You are more like my little social, well, to stick to the earlier metaphor--labrador puppy. You are bouncy and cheerful and energetic--all in all a complete delight to be around. If you had your choice, you would say you are my princess dolphin. So maybe that's another good metaphor. Dolphins are all those things, too, right? And princess dolphins even moreso!

I love you so much, Claire. There's no one quite like you in the whole wide world. In fact, I'm pretty sure the world isn't big enough for two of you!

Last year, we celebrated your birthday with spiderman cake. This year, you insisted on princesses. You always seem to struggle between your image of yourself as a dashing super-hero and a beautiful princess. Your magic, of course, is that you are 100% both. I have no doubt you'll be the one saving the day some day. In a tiara and sparkly lipgloss.

Never forget that you are my special, darling, super-princess girl. I love you a million kabillion!

Mommy