Dear Tessa: Unbirthday

Dear Tessa,

Your big sister turned four years old a few weeks ago. You're just old enough to get involved with celebrations and just young enough not to care that you aren't the center of the party and the one getting all the presents. My best guess is that this will last approximately another two months, just in time for you to share in the Christmas explosion of wrapping paper and your second birthday less than two months later.

You attended Anna's birthday parties at school (brownies, ice cream, and party hats - hooray!) and at the local bounce place, where we entertained a smaller group of sugar-fed four-year-olds for a few hours. You were the consummate guest - riding the slide with Daddy or me, not planting your sweet little fist into the Ariel cake we procured for Anna's delight, and then shoveling cake and frosting in like a pro.


In other news, you started coming home from day care with fine little geysers of ponytails on your head. Two, with an immaculate part between them. I'll admit this hit me where my mommy inadequacy resides, so I took up the task as well. Your hair grew in very differently than your sister's; you both had fine, silky baby hair that came in blonde with just a hint of strawberry. Anna's came in over her face, rendering her a tiny Cousin It by the time she was 14 months old. We've been on regular haircuts ever since. Your hair grew down the back, leaving your face unobscured, and I will resist your first haircut as long as humanly possible.

I've since learned that the perfect part produced at day care is the result of your hairdresser getting your hair damp first - it's just too fine to actually part cleanly otherwise - which makes me feel a little better. There was that one morning when I got your little fountains installed while you were fully on the move. I was so proud of myself but was dismayed to learn later that, when Daddy picked you up at day care, the teachers asked him with raised eyebrows whether he had done your hair that morning. Now I try to catch you when you're having breakfast in your high chair.

You're almost 20 months old. You'll be two before I know what happened, and the last vestiges of this baby stage will be gone. I feel every day like I'm trying to grasp onto a stream of water in wishing I could make this last longer. Even though I know how much fun stuff is yet to come - Anna is walking, talking, singing proof of that - I am so afraid of forgetting what a joy it has been to raise you even just to this point in your life. I know the finer details will inevitably slip away over time, but I don't think I'll ever have to reach very far to remember the absolute delight.

Love,
Mama