"and though she be but little
she is fierce."
Okay. So I dropped the ball on your letters. But let me assuage your feelings of neglect. 1.) The amount of guilt I carry with me because of this causes me a diagnosable amount of anxiety, so there's that; 2.) I'm going to tell you something that I have revealed to no one: I still don't know how to juggle two kids. It's been two years and I still scream into a pillow weekly; so when I DO get a moment to myself, I binge watch Netflix to give my brain a break; 3) You don't sleep well. I'm sorry...that's a gross understatement...YOU ARE THE MOST HORRIBLE SLEEPER EVER TO LIVE...EVER!!! Your night time regimen rivals what I assume Beyonce goes through every night. You.are.a.diva. I am required to rock you for a MINIMUM of 30 minutes, and that's a good night. Then, when I do put you down in your crib, you wake up and cry unless I feign sleeping next to you on the blow up mattress that has taken up permanent residency in your room. Then, when I'm sure you've crossed into REM sleep, I sneak, Catherine Zeta-Jones-from-Entrapment-style out of your room. "Mom, just let me cry." Okay. Well, that goes on for several hours and usually involves you pooping your pants. So, my sleep has been robbed by both my obsession with teenage dramas on Netflix and your inability to sleep well. I know. I know. Your poor sleep patterns are a direct result of poor parenting. But, I'm tired.
Anyway. I'm sorry, my precious girl. The thought that you may someday look back at letters I've written you and feel slighted makes my heart ache. Because, you are precious to me.
So, your second year.
I know I have said this about your brother, but one of my biggest life worries is that I would have serious children. And when you first meet people or are in a crowd, you are serious. I mean, you gotta keep your guard up...we do live in Jackson. But when you're comfortable, you are a regular Gilda Radner. You're a master of physical comedy. You go all out. You fall down, you use props, there's usually a costume change, you add music, there are silly voices. You are a master. And I applaud it. I laugh constantly with you, and I hope that you nurture this ability to laugh and have fun. This world is a serious place and it can depress a gal. Don't ever stop laughing (eesh...sounds like a super lame country song). Also, don't listen to country music.
We've had some bumps and scrapes this year...all of which seemed to happen in one month. In May, you got two fingers slammed in a door, you ate Vicks Vapo Rub, and you fell into a stagnant pond after which I was convinced you had contracted a rare, water-borne bacteria that would leave you dead in a week. It did not happen. And I don't want you to think that I just let you wander around by yourself. "What, Whitney? Oh, she's in the basement playing with matches and turpentine." None of that. I was literally feet away from you when all three of these events occurred. Finger in door, I went into the other room to get my keys. BAM! Vicks Vapo Rub, I walked into your brother's room to grab something for you. BAM! Pond, I was millimeters away from you. BAM! I know you are going to break a bone before you get into kindergarten...and then the guilt will multiply exponentially.
On the lighter side, you love to dance. It is the most wonderful thing to watch...ever. Better than that sea lion who has rhythm. You bounce up and down, sway side to side, put your hands in the air, there are props. No genre of music is beneath you. Pop, R&B, Christian Rap...all is fair game. And you're not shy about it. Walking around the grocery store listening to smooth jazz. You don't care. A lot of times there doesn't even have to be music; you'll just start dancing. It is an immediate mood booster.
You also are a definite nurturer. I'm amazed by how you and your brother have gravitated toward things that seem to represent your gender. Honestly, I haven't been shoving dolls in your face and making you watch Toddler in Tiaras (you totally flip to TLC on your own). You've had ample access to cars and trucks and dry wall...manly things. But you have preferred pushing your doll around in a stroller and "changing her diaper" and carrying her around. You like shoes and pink and purses and nail polish. You are a lover. You hug, you snuggle, you give kisses. You are not shy with your affection (unless I take your "pappy" (pacifier) away, then you're ready to throw down). It does my soul good to watch you want to take care of and comfort people.
You are an incredible human being. You're fearless (unless I leave you in church nursery); you're gentle; you're hilarious; you're assertive; you're smart; you're beautiful. I pray that you will continue to grow into a confident, capable, loving, independent young woman. I pray that you will be centered on Christ in every aspect of your life. You are special, my love. I count being your (and Eli's) mama as my life's greatest achievement. I will never be able to tell you enough how much I love you.
Happy two years, my Whitney Elizabeth.
