To my daughter, who is two

Dear Emmeline,

I'm sitting on the couch in the living room of the house we brought you home to two years ago, and above me, I can hear you running around your room more than an hour into your "nap."  Your father and I have been up to reprimand you at least three times, once having removed a wad of wipes from your bed and another a pile of toys you took from the toy bin.  (Your dad said when he walked in you looked at him, smiled, and yawned.)  This moment, perhaps as well as any other one, embodies what it has been like to be your mother for the past two years.

If I could choose a few words that describe you, I would say busy, independent, spirited, and tough.  You have been a busy little girl since conception.  I remember sitting in one of my first classes as a PhD student, while one of my classmates looked at me with this strange face.  She could see the sharp kicks I was getting from you in utero and couldn't believe how strong you were.  Once you were born, you squirmed.  Once you could crawl, you were off.  And now that you are totally mobile, well, you are everywhere -- most recently climbing the couch and standing on chairs to reach the light switches.  Yesterday, your dad and I just laughed as you stood on a step stool in the bathroom for ten minutes or more turning on and off three switches.  In the last few months, you have become very independent, sometimes thanks to the six inches the step stool gives you.  Independent is not one of the many words you know, but there are three others that pretty much say it all: "Emme do it."  It's usually four words, though: "No," -- in response to whatever we are trying to help you with -- "Emme do it."   You are also a very willful child.  When your daddy came home from the hospital after I gave birth, he told your grandmother, "She likes to be held."  And you've been fussing your way into whatever you want since then -- or trying to.  You fussed as a baby.  You cry now, until I tell you that I don't know what you want unless you tell me.  You've been in the "terrible twos" of tantrums for at least six months.  You just have certain expectations in life, and "no," "not now," and "wait" are not words you like to hear.  But you're learning.  Sometimes when I've told you the same thing over and over again, you parrot it back to me with the same intonation.  So I know you're listening, even if it's not something you want to hear.  Spirited is maybe a nice way to say willful.  You have this adult-size personality in this little bitty body.  (We haven't weighed you recently, but I doubt you're much more than 25 pounds, the size your brother was at age one.)  And yet you take a lot of energy to keep up with.  You make these great faces, roll and cut your eyes, and recently have begun to harass your older brother, who is surely the meeker of the two of you.  "Sit down!" you tell him at dinner.  And when he's acting up, "Time out."  He doesn't think much of it (and for that matter, neither do I, though it's hilarious to watch).  And in the midst of your busyness and independence, you fall down, a lot, and usually don't make much of it.  Complete strangers have commented at the playground on how tough you are.  I suppose you've been made this way, quite literally, through the four surgeries you've had since birth.  Who else has hunks of skin removed and sewn back together without needing really any pain medication afterwards?

You are lots of other things, too.  At two, you can already converse with me, though not everyone else would understand it.  You used to answer every question with "yeah," like Sandra Bullock at the beginning of Miss Congeniality.  You've recently switched to "okay."  You are daytime potty trained (with an 80% confidence margin), which is just fantastic.  You love to read, maybe even more than your brother if that's possible.  "Read" was one of your first words, always used as a command.  Sometimes I think you say you need to go potty just so we'll read to you.  You can almost sing the ABC song, can count to ten, and can sing several little tunes.  You know your siblings' names and love to go pick up Oliver when I get you from daycare.  Your teachers at daycare think you're hilarious.

There are so many little things I wish I could capture about you right now.  Your funny run.  The sassy glint in your eye when I go up to get you after nap and you're sitting in your bed completely naked.  The way you and Oliver play together.  The way you lie down on Lucy's bed with her and pat her, or how excited you get to feed her.  How you laugh with glee after she takes the bone out of your pocket (one of your favorite games with her).  The way you ask to watch something before bedtime -- "Daniel Tiger?" you ask.  Or "Poppins?"  Or one of my favorites, "Soobya," which translates to "Scooby Doo, where are you?"

One of the things I love most about you is that you are a momma's girl.  When you feel sick or scared or upset, you want me.  (Of course, when I tell you "no," you want daddy, but still.)  You love to sit in my lap, and when I don't realize that's what you want, you climb up and insert yourself in my lap -- usually with a book.  I can't tell you how many times I've been sitting at the computer, checking email, and you're suddenly there in my lap asking to do letters on Starfall.  It's that kind of persistence and determination that I think will get you far in life.  I just hope that at the end of the day, you still climb into my lap and read with me -- for a while, at least.

In the next few weeks, we will bring home your little sister, and I have no idea what you will think of her.  I am confident that, over time, you will come to love her just as you do your older brother, but I don't think you will instantly be the doting older siblings that Oliver was with you.  And that's fine.  You'll have lots to teach her in time, and she you.

I hope you know, more than anything, how much I love you.  I tell you so every night, and I'm pretty sure that some nights, you try to tell me back.  I so wanted to have a daughter, and you have been so much more than I could have hoped for.  And I cannot wait to see who you become.

With love and nostalgia, your adoring momma.