Amazing Grace

Dear Gracie,

Today you are 8 years old plus one day.

I would have written yesterday, but you kept us very busy with your vision of the perfect birthday. First Mass (it was a Sunday, after all) where you sing so beautifully that people always stop us afterwards to comment on the voice of an angel, then Panera bagels at Eagle Point Park, then home to play with your cousins (Eli and Nico are still visiting), then the beach at Finley's Landing and finally supper at Grandma Ellie's complete with your selected menu--hamburgers on the grill, corn on the cob, guacamole and chips, fruit salad, french fries, and, of course, ice cream cake. After supper you opened presents (lots of art supplies, new clothes, and our version of your longed for "pet"--a live butterfly garden).

Oh Gracie, what to say about you? I've probably written the most about you, both here and in various journals and essays I've kept sporadically over the past, well, 8 or so years. You were my first baby--the one who introduced me to this wild, wonderful world of motherhood. It was only after you that I knew I wanted a lot of kids. Anyone who started with a child like you would want a whole houseful, too. Not only are you beautiful--and you are, stunning, perfect. You have the most sought after combination of features in the world--sparkly aquamarine eyes, shiny blonde hair (your aunt Carrie always tells you how lots of people pay good money to get that perfect color), unexpectedly tan skin, long, thin limbs--but you are so kind and generous. People are so drawn to your sweet spirit. I can't tell you how many times parents have pulled me aside to tell me how wonderful you are, and how happy they are when you spend time with their children. I really don't know where you get such a big, big, generous heart. Your dad and I are good people, in general, but the two of us combined don't have even a fraction of your sweetness. You are always thinking of others. (And, by the way, I know I am breaking all the rules about hyperbole for writing--you are supposed to use stories to illustrate character--not just rant and rave with adjectives and words like "always" and "most" so much. But with you it is impossible to avoid. The stories don't do you justice because there are a dozen or so every day--each one small and sweet, but unremarkable in and of itself. It is the combination of these daily acts of selflessness that make you who you are).

You are an amazing big sister. Sometimes I have to remind myself that you are still only a little girl. Your baby sister often turns to you for comforting--especially when I am frazzled or crabby. She knows she can count on you for a patient cuddle, a soothing lullaby, a gentle hug. The adoration in her brown eyes is sort of breathtaking. And the same goes for Sam and Claire. They all adore you, look up to you, try to imitate you. You are such a little mother, helping to ensure everyone is fed, cleaned, loaded up--whatever the grown up task we are attempting to complete, you are right there next to me, an extra set of hands and an added voice of authority. I know I am hard on you, at times, expecting more from you than I think most of your friends are required to do. Sometimes when I see your skinny little body bent almost sideways trying to hold the baby on your hip, I think how I need to give you a break. It's just that we truly depend on you to help us in the daily chaos of our lives. What would we do without you?

I always tell you that every mommy needs a Gracie. And it is true. Not only are you a big help around the house, you also love me so unconditionally and maturely that I find myself leaning on you emotionally, as well. Once when I was hugely pregnant with your sister Claire, I found myself slumped on the swing in the backyard. Never one to miss the chance at a snuggle, you had dashed to my side and crawled up beside me. I sighed over some ache and you climbed on my lap and took my face in your hands (you were just 3 years old). "Mommy," you said, "I know you are tired and this baby is making you sick. But I am going to love her and play with her and roll down the hill with her!" Your point, of course, was that this would all be worth it, and you were grateful that I was giving you a new baby to love. But you were only 3! How perceptive you were and have always been. Of course, it was just what I needed to hear. That was 5 years ago. You are still the child that sees when I have reached the limits of my limited patience and steps in to help before I lose it. You are the one who hugs me and tells me you love me just when I'm about to burst into tears. Gracie, daughter of my heart, what would I do without you?

Sometimes I worry that I am not a kind enough mother for you. I'm not gentle enough for your gentle spirit. I am hard on you. I don't slow down to cuddle you, my little lover of a daughter. You were often pushed off my lap when a younger sibling demanded my attention. You have always had to be patient while I cared for one baby after another--waiting for your drink, your story, your bath while the little ones were tended to. You always had to be more mature than your age, because I needed your help and because our lives were always full with another baby. You are the perfect oldest child, though, sweet and yielding--much better than bossy I ever was. You lead by love.

Your school friends all adore you, too. Every year, I feel the world pulling you away from me a little bit more--from Girl Scouts to swim team to slumber parties--you are becoming more and more independant and less and less my little peanut. You are away so much, it seems. Our house and our lives feel so off when you aren't with us. I miss you.

I know this is normal and good and I'm glad you are so confident and talented and popular. It's just there's a part of me that wants to throw my arms around you and declare "she's mine" while glaring over your head at all these well meaning opportunities and friendships. I'm not sure I'm willing to share you. I do, of course, but I still always feel more whole when you are back with me, back in our nest with all my little ducks.

Thank you, Gracie--for introducing me to the greatest blessing I've ever known--being a mom, your mom. I am eternally grateful for you and proud of the unbelievable young lady you are becoming. You inspire me, truly you do. Last night at dinner your dad said this: "In 10 years, this will be your last summer before college," and my heart skipped a beat. I know how fast time is flying, and I know that these years while you are still in our home will always be the greatest of my life. Don't grow up too quickly, little one. Give your old mom a break, huh?

I love you so much, sweet pea. Happy birthday.

Mommy