You are huge. Remember that Friday, a few weeks back, when I had to roll up your size 4T pants so you wouldn’t trip over them, and then on the following Monday, when they fit you perfectly? You have grown so much over the past few months. You’re not even a toddler anymore – you’re an actual kid, who can think abstractly and conceptually and who asks so many questions that sometimes I just have to say, Molls, let’s take a break from questions for a minute so we can get to the end of the story/page/sentence/thought before school/dinner/bedtime/the end of days.
You’ve started soccer, and every Saturday the entire outfit stays on all day – shin guards and all – because Saturday is Soccer Day! You can write all of your letters and numbers and you’re starting to sound out consonants and vowels and phonics. You sign yourself in and out at school and make up stories and draw multiple-page books that have a defined beginning, middle, and end. You love robots and skeletons and dinosaurs and monsters and are planning to be a mermaid (possibly a skeleton mermaid? Still working on that one) for Halloween. You create intricate pretend play games with your (imaginary and real life) friends and will differentiate your voice and let me know, “oh that’s my brother talking” if I’m not clear on if I’m speaking to someone who exists in this world or exclusively to you.
You are intermittently the best and worst sister ever to Lucy. Some mornings I’ll hear you two over the monitor before I even realize you’re awake, and I’ll turn on the video to a picture of Lucy snuggled up against you while you read out loud with one arm around her shoulder. Other times you get right up in her face and scream at her, pushing her over or smacking her until she cries and I come running. And sometimes when you’re in the middle of a whining fit, she will straight up laugh in your face and you’ll shout, “it’s not funny, Lewc!” and I have to admit, it’s so very satisfying when she goads you.
You’re developing a taste for mine and your dad’s music and that has made car rides so much more fun. Pink Floyd, the Ramones, The Lumineers, and Arcade Fire are in heavy rotation and there’s not much better in life than hearing you sing “Home is wherever I’m with you”. You tell me you want to be King of all the Wild Things and I tell you that you can be whatever you want. We spent Labor Day with my college friends and their kids and seeing you and Lucy play with the children of my best and closest and oldest friends lifted me up in a way that I have needed for months. I didn’t stop hearing, all weekend long, how great my girls are. My friends love you; their husbands love you; their kids love you – you are just so very easy to love.
You are funny, thoughtful, silly, strong, sassy, smart, moody, beautiful, stubborn, amazing, wonderful and all of the adjectives I can think of still don’t sum you up because your sparkle is infectious and magnetic and truly unique to you and even the words I love you feel like not enough to capture the depth of how you bring me to life. I’ve started to tell you one nice thing every night before bed, because I get so caught up in the day to day and the logistics and the repeating myself and the moodiness and the whining and the exhaustion that sometimes I feel like a whole day goes by without giving myself a chance to pause, to remind you how much you amaze me; to acknowledge that I see you, in there, ensconced in crayon and scotch tape and emotion, and I appreciate who you are and who you are becoming. I tell you one nice thing and no matter how much of a battle the day has been I can see it push through to your core, shift your confidence, build you up. There are so many nice things about you, Molly, that even if I started today I would die before I cover them all. I can’t tell you all of the nice things but I can promise that I will always have one to share with you, because I’m yours, and you’re mine, and that alone is the nicest thing of them all.