Nipped

Dear Ava,

Last night at dinner, on eve of your third birthday, I looked at you and was struck with disbelief yet again. I leaned over and asked your Daddy, "Can you believe she's ours?" Like so many other things in my life, you seem too good to be true.

"I know," he replied. "If she wasn't ours, I'd be jealous."

That pretty much sums it up, my dear. We are completely smitten with, impressed by, and in love with you. So indulge me for a few minutes as I tell you a few of the reasons why.

You are beautiful. Your Daddy often confesses to me that he is intimidated by your beauty. Your smile, those dimples, big hazel eyes and curly red locks ("orange!" you insist) captivate us. And your beauty is more than just outward. Despite your occasional rebelliousness, you are most often delightful to be around. I can see even now how God will use and redeem your spirit. I pray that He will every day, entrusting you to the only one who can accomplish it.

You are charming. Your outgoing, pleasant nature draws people in, Love. We cannot go to the grocery store without making new friends. In fact, most of the friends we have are our friends because you introduced us. Multiple people have told us that you make them want to have children.

You are dramatic. You often surprise people when you announce: "This is my concerned face." You can pull almost any emotion out at the drop of a hat. Sad. Mad. Hurt. IRATE. It's really quite difficult not to be amused by your flair for the dramatic; I fear I don't do a very good job. I need to remind myself that it won't be cute for long. I'll have to work on my poker face. Can't have you turning into a diva.

You are funny. You say countless funny things every day. Like today, when you told me that sunshine hurts your feelings. Or yesterday, when we had a talk about authority and you told me that God put you in charge. Oh, and "God said sit right there, Mom." Or we told you that disobedience wasn't funny and you looked at your Daddy with a straight face and asked if poop was funny. Again, I have to work on the poker face.

You are smart. Lately, you've been reciting books to yourself. I'll come into a room to hear you reading yourself "A Treasury of Curious George" or "The Mixed up chameleon" verbatim. It's such a pleasure to hear your small voice speaking in paragraphs. Your drawing skills are improving too. Until just recently, it was hard to get you to draw anything. Suddenly you are drawing people with arms and legs and facial expressions. I think you were storing it up until you could make it look like you wanted. So you're a bit of a perfectionist. You come by that honestly.

You are mine. You are so, so enjoyable, my love. You shower me with affection, make me laugh, make me proud. But the biggest, most important reason that I love you is that you are mine. God gave you to me. Nothing you could ever do could shake the fierce, unconditional love I have for you. It is my earnest and daily prayer that my love for you would mirror of a more perfect, gracious Love than I could ever muster. Ultimately, I pray that you would rest in God's love for you--that He would draw you up into Himself and into joy. I love you so much, little one. Happy birthday.

Mama

Three.

Today you are you! That is truer than true!
There is no one alive who is you-er than you!
Shout loud, "I am lucky to be what I am!
Thank goodness I'm not just a clam or a ham
Or a dusty old jar of sour gooseberry jam!
I am what I am! That's a great thing to be!
If I say so myself, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!"
~Dr. Seuss, Happy Birthday to You

Tidbits

Last night, we put Ava to bed sometime around 7:30. As always, we gave her a sippy cup of milk, read to her, sang to her, prayed with her, cuddled with her. For the next 5 hours, silence. Then, piercing the darkness at 12:45 a.m, Ava's groggy voice: "Mom! I'm finished with my milk! I'm finished with my milk!"

That was important for me to know.

***

Ava has a really terrible fake cry which she uses to get attention. Last week, she was whining and complaining and pretending to cry. Growing a little impatient, I gently said, "Ava, stop." She looked up at me with her big green eyes and asked, "My crying doesn't work?"

***

This last one is not for the faint of stomach, but too funny not to share. You have been warned:

We have, unfortunately, had to correct Ava about picking her nose an awful lot lately. I try to reason with her, but she insists boogers are not gross. Well, I caught her the other day, and said, "Ava, don't!" As I did, she put the booger in her mouth. "Oh, Ava, that's gross," I said. "It's in my teeth," she replied. "I'll brush it later."

Well, that makes it all better.