Her Third 3/15

The clock read 7:05 when I opened my eyes this morning. Light starting to appear on our east window. Her eyes still closed. Resting.

I went to the bathroom, drank some water, and thought about writing today’s slice before she woke up. But then I thought, today is already a “plan B” kind of day, maybe I’ll wait and see which moment I choose to document when I climb into bed.

When I saw Elena moving on the monitor, I woke Tim up so we could greet her together. The night before, we had put together her birthday gift, a cute little tent and some balloons, and left it ready in the living room so she could see it in the morning. We already knew it’d be a “us” kind of day because of her random fever the day before, urging us to cancel the birthday celebration plans.

We came into her room, singing happy birthday, and stood by the crib, watching her slowly come to it. A hint of a smile, thumb sucking, still my baby girl.

Three years is a long time, but how?

Having a child messes up any understanding of how time works.

My boss says adults feel time at a visceral level. Visceral is the right word for what it feels like to watch her grow right in front of my eyes. My brain can’t truly comprehend how so much can occur in three years. Too soon, I’ll be back here on another 3/15, slicing about another birthday, remembering that she inspired this writing challenge for me, and feeling that tug of gratitude for the present and sadness for what is now gone.

Here’s what I choose to capture today:

Your eyes scanning our faces as we sang to you.

The way you learned about hot wax—grabbing the candle right after blowing it.

The way you moved your shoulders every time we played La Banda.

Your fingers tasting the frosting on the cake before we started singing.

How you snuggled me while reading you a book inside your new tent.

Happy birthday, sweet girl.