To Ana, who is 4

Lately, your dad and I keep passing photos of you as a baby back and forth to each other. It's hard to believe that you're turning FOUR. That we're buying you a bicycle for Christmas, that we're talking about "Big School," and that we've had hard conversations about so many things that we'd hoped you'd never know. And in the same silly way my girlfriends and I joke about feeling old at 33, you're still my baby. The road ahead is, God willing, a long and exciting adventure. Each day with you now is a wonderful journey.

You love a good story. It's been a year and a half since I introduced ToraLora to you, and she is the way we talk about love, fear, loss, and friendship. This year, Halloween Monster and Halloween Witch joined our repertoire in a growing pantheon of made-up characters. And now, it's not just a bed-time ritual. Now you ask for "my story" when we get in the car, even for the short ride to school or home. When I don't feel like it, we look at the window for ideas for our stories, and you talk about the process of getting ideas. "Look at that bird right next to the horse. (to yourself) Look for ideas out the window."

Great words you use: Curiousity, dramatically, soonly (my favorite).

You go through periods of requesting scary stories, and sometimes it seems like ToraLora is more Nancy Drew than ordinary girl. But in many ways, she is you, and you are her. I love her, too, and those moments in the dark when your eyes glow like two moons peeking from the edge of your quilt, are precious to me. You are my story.

You are willful and independent. You negotiate, or attempt to negotiate, most everything.

Me: We're leaving in 5 minutes.

You: No. 6 minutes.

Me: (raised eyebrow, teacher look).
You: Mama, can we please leave in 6 minutes?
Me: Ok.

We joke that you'll one day be a negotiator for the UN. Or a lawyer. Truth is, all I want is for you to be happy. Right now, your happiness is greatly defined by getting your way. And you work to understand the world by putting things into discrete categories: right/wrong, my fault/your fault, yes/no. When I explain something that doesn't fit into either, I'm met with thoughtful silence. Like learning about how mean people were usually treated badly themselves, or never knew love.

You are adventurous, and sometimes fearless. You climb trees and monkey bars relentlessly. The couch is your jungle gym. The neighbors raise eyebrows at your crepe myrtle climbing, but you have yet to fall, and are so skillful dad is threatening to build a loft in the Japanese Magnolia in the back yard.

You are competitive. And you love being "the rotten egg." You believe that the first one there gets the unique privilege. If anyone else is the rotten egg you get mad.

And while you're all over the place pushing the limits, you heed my warnings about what's safe and not. I simply say "Parking Lot" and you put your hand on the car, and in my hand and slow down. "Street" has the same effect. I hope my neuroses about this doesn't make you into an anxious adult. But I don't think so. I think you trust that I have your best interests in mind. Like when you tell Tita that what is on TV at her house isn't appropriate for you. It amazes me, and her that you are as interested in protecting yourself as we are.

You rarely play with toys, and prefer to explore everyday objects or create elaborate imaginary worlds. Among your top favorites these days are tent houses from pieces of fabric which you fill with pillows and collected items from around the house. I love looking though these baskets to see what you've assembled: a snowman sock, a mismatched earring, a roll of tape, a CD cover, a pink wig. You are content to do this on your own, although Elliot loves hiding, and will often conspire with you in your hideaway world for quite some time.

One of my favorite things to do with you is cook. You love trying to cut and peel vegetables, and are an excellent egg-cracker. Making stock for soup and baking cakes are some of our best moments. You love to eat the batter, and raw noodles, or take a mouthful of brocolli, or uncleaned carrots, and like any good chef, you're eating while you're making. You and Tita make baleadas on Saturday morning, and bring them over to us after your sleep overs. I'm glad that you're learning how to make those delicious tortillas directly from the source.

You have tremendous compassion for others. You ask about people who are homeless and hungry, or who lose their pets and loved ones. You willingly give old toys and books to those who don't have what we do. I'm tremendously proud of your caring that inspired our Heifer fundraiser.

We brought the caterpillars home over Thanksgiving and watched one take it's first flight. We watched it a little too long, and saw a bird come take a bite, and take off a wing. You wanted to call the police and the vet. After we tried tending to the butterfly for the rest of the day, we let it out. I closed the door. I couldn't bear to watch another National Geographic moment. Days later, she returned (or never left?), and you held her on your finger and let her crawl on you for an hour. We tried feeding it sweet fruits. At some point, the butterfly struggled a great deal, then became still, and lifeless. Elliot grabbed at it, and you ran to me with this horrified look on your face. I held the monarch and announced it dead, and asked you if you wanted to kiss it goodbye. As soon as your lips touched it's wings, it opened them again! It was magical, and we all thought you quite powerful at that moment, as did you. You're bonded to that butterfly now. And are so gentle and concerned about how she grows.

Today, you gave me a necklace you made at Tita's house. It has each of our names on it. You love to string things, and make collage, and PAINT. Your graphic depiction has recently exploded and you're drawing suns, flowers, hearts, people (body-less, with wide eyes and long legs), and your name in a nice neat line. I feel like we'll be lost in all the paper of yours that I want to save.

Elliot is now your best friend. He's grown up too (and is overdue his birthday letter), and his defiant insistence has gained him some credibility in your book, it seems. You and he can play together for hours happily. As long as you aren't building something, or playing with something that's just too good to share. It amazes me how readily you DO share with him...your popsicle, or purse, or tent, or game. In the last week, you've taken turns comforting each other during massive meltdowns. And succeeded in calming the other. Something I couldn't do, despite my efforts. You hold hands in the car. You ask him to use lefty, and ask him what the kitty says. You are his cheerleader, and look out for him when he's getting into a bad situation. Sometimes, you prod us into moving a little quicker...Mom, Elliot's fussing to get out of his crib. I think he's ready to get out. I never imagined the joy I'd feel watching the two of your together. You are an amazing sister to him at only four. That seems like when the role would be the hardest, but you relish it, because you love him so.

You tell me you love me throughout the day. You fill my pockets with treasures: rocks, loose beads, smooth stones, pieces of string or branch, flowering weeds. I know that you are always thinking of me, and it fills my heart, because I, my dear, am ever thinking of you. I am grateful of the opportunity to watch your imagination at work, and enjoy the spirited and loving person you are. And I'm so proud of you. Happy Birthday, Ana! I love you.