My baby is three. Her birthday was actually on Friday, July 9, which is also the Argentine independence day.
We spent the whole day having a BBQ in the backyard. Argentine’s are simply mad about BBQ. They all (at least, all the affluent houses in this neighborhood), have these huge hand-built brick BBQ ovens in their backyards. They’re not like anything I’ve ever seen in the states, or anywhere outside a fairy tale. Somewhere in Argentina, the witch from Hansel and Gretel is enjoying her retirement. These ovens are hardcore.
I digress. The point is that the whole family gathered on this unseasonably warm and sunny day to roast burger and choricos and provoletas and corn and so much food that not even 11 hungry cousins could eat it all… to celebrate my baby turning 3 years old.
Which she totally did. And then everything changed, and nothing seemed different.
Serena, at three years old you’re the least serene you’ve been in your life. You’re finding your independence and trying out new everything. Words. Puzzles. Willpower.
This is, frankly, exhausting for me and your dad. I’m sorry for the days when I’m cranky. I know how to be a great mom to a 3-year-old, but I don’t have the resources every hour to be fully present, fully in control and fully flexible. You need Mary Poppins these days, little girl, and all you get is me.
I do love you, and this moment of your growth, even if I’m spending half our time together lying face down in bed pretending to sleep and praying you’ll take the hint and pass out. When it’s not 2 a.m., or bedtime, or naptime, we have a lot of fun.
Here’s you, little girl: your words are coming in clearer and clearer, and you’re using them to put the pieces of your world together. You think the bidet is a bird bath, the dog is terrifying and your big sister the Best Kid Ever. You do not want to share your toys, but will sometimes be hit with a wave of generosity and give them to her so tenderly.
You love spending long hours alone, some days, just playing quietly with your dolls or looking at a book. I wonder who you are, inside those quiet spells. Your sister has gone off seeking time alone like that approximately never. I’m just now, at 31, starting to see the value of letting some of my hours lie fallow that way. It seems like uncanny wisdom that you at 3 can know you need to be alone sometimes and just go there.
You love to eat. When we were flying here, a scary drunk man harassed our family until the flight crew moved us all to first class for our safety. You slept through the scary part and just woke up in my arms when we carried you to your new seat. Where a flight attendant showed you how to operate your personal video screen. You sat on a pile of pillows eating delicious food and watching cartoons for the rest of the night, and cried when the stewardess took your empty plate away.
Today, you ran across the kitchen with a jar of dulce de leche under one arm and a jar of honey under the other, and when I asked you where you were going you gave me the most mischievous grin and said, “To taste!”
That’s my girl: loving ease, luxury, rich food and passive entertainment. Also lightning quick at puzzles, at Figuring Things Out, at claiming what’s yours. You’re amazing, and so unlike me I wonder how we’ll ever get to know each other, even with a lifetime to figure one another out.
Also: you make me smile like anything. You look like a ray of sunshine with that ridiculous halo of blonde curls, and your voice is still baby sweet and lilting whenever you speak. My face cracks open in a smile at the sound of your voice. And then I clean up the spilled milk, try to sort out your fight with your sister, and collapse again.
I love you. And I hope you sleep through the night someday soon.
Happy Birthday, Serena Rose.
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