Oh my Ocho

My Lulu, my little Scootles, how I love you! As I sit down to write you this letter, I’m very aware that for the first time, you’ll be able to read it right away. I feel happy about that and proud and also a little funny because you are my littlest baby and now the word little doesn’t really apply.

The first seven years of your life taught me that you were going to be an individual, and this last year has been further proof of that. You’ve started to achieve things that others recognize, but even as you do, you keep doing it all your own way. You look at the world and see patterns. Visual patterns, story patterns, behavioral patterns. Sometimes you point them out with words and sometimes with pictures, but I can see how you are fascinated by the beauty of ordered design. Yet even as you trace out structures, you are happy to ignore them all and go where your imagination leads. How many times have you showed me a drawing and said that it started out to be one thing, but as you drew, it reminded you of something else so you just turned it into that? Your special ability to understand patterns and still break them at will is going to take you somewhere exciting as you grow.

Your bright future is something to look forward to, but for now, I’ve never seen anyone so intensely happy in the moment. I have these images of you from this year: splashing in the pool long after everyone else got out, riding your scooter around and around in the driveway, snuggling up with Toby making up songs about him, racing home from the bus stop all out of breath but still bursting to tell the news from the day. You are curious and carefree and joyful and wonderful. I love watching you enjoy every bit of being a kid. That’s how it should be.

So many of my memories are of holding you close. (On your birthday, I always think of you at every age, so hang with me, okay?)

When you were just a few weeks old, I strapped you to my chest and took you along to a soup kitchen in Argentina. You snuggled in there and slept while I chopped vegetables and peeled eggs and shared mate with the ladies. It was cold, and the little lump of you kept me warm. It was our first time there, and a sweet sleeping baby made for easy conversation with strangers. I remember kissing the top of your head and whispering, “This is our life. This is your life, already started.”

When you were four, we went to Soma for the very first time. You weren’t used to that kind of church service. You were unsure about the strange location and the group of strangers. You didn’t know how you felt about the loud music. I picked you up, so much heavier now, and you wrapped around me, pressing your head to my shoulder. I sang and sang, feeling the vibrations of the music echo through your big little body, and you amplified my joy in the song. I hugged you tight and sang some more, praying that my gratitude would seep into you along with the sound.

Sometime last fall we fell into our daily school routine. Each morning after you finish tying your shoes, you climb onto my lap to get your hair brushed, but before we start, I wrap my arms around you and give you a long, tight squeeze. I think I started doing that because we were always rushing and sometimes snapping, and it felt like we needed a positive moment before running our separate ways. I don’t know how you feel, but even now that we aren’t usually so grumpy or hurried, I still find that one moment of snuggle is a vital part of my morning. There’s something about stopping all the forward motion for just a moment. Your hugs are an anchor in a whirlwind of life.

You have done so much this year that I am proud of. You have been successful at school, performing well on tests and achieving your goals. You have dived into books and can read like a pro. You write funny stories and draw beautiful works of art. You’ve gotten braver and braver at swimming and climbing and softball. You stand up for others, and even your teacher has noticed your heart for justice. You are learning to be thoughtful and helpful. You walk Toby and help in the kitchen and let Mommy sleep in on Saturdays. You are growing up and engaging your world and finding your place. I love the things you accomplish and the way you interact with your life.

You want to know a secret, though? None of those things are why I love you.

With you, my baby, more than any other person in my life, I have learned to understand how God feels about his children. As happy as it makes me to see your successes, as proud as I am of your good behavior, at the end of the day, none of it makes me love you any more. I already love you as much as anyone could love anyone…just because you exist. At the end of the day, whether you were at your best or at your worst, you are my Lulu, and you fill my heart.

So go out there and conquer the world, baby. Do all the things. Make all the beauty. But also know in your heart that just by walking this planet every day, your life is a part of God’s plan, and you make this mama so very happy.