July 9

You woke up at 5:30 this morning. At least, that's when you came crashing into my room and bounding into bed with me, all smiles and shrieks. I can't really blame you, though. You don't turn five every day. That kind of excitement seems appropriate.

With your curly hair, blue eyes, and chalk-white perfectly square teeth, you have the classic beauty of the Gerber baby. Rare is the day we go out that someone, somewhere doesn't stop you to tell you how gorgeous you are. And you almost never fail to please, with that quasi-shy grin and those long, batting eyelashes you use to reward the bearer of the compliment.

You'll start kindergarten this fall, impossible as that is to believe. Petite enough to still clamor up into my arms, wrap yourself around my neck, and snuggle your face beneath my chin, you're nonetheless a spunky little elf. Your voice carries for miles--oh, Lord, my ears beg for mercy by the end of the day! And while the shy smile charms strangers at the grocery store, any hint of familiarity brings out the real you, and the real you is the polar opposite of shy. I knew you were above and beyond most preschool girls when your teacher told me she was going to call me in 20 years, to see if you "ever stop talking." We joke in whispers after your bedtime that your kindergarten teacher should go ahead and start drinking now, to take the edge off.

In the parking lot at big-kid school, they already call you "the mayor." You're a tiny woman in charge with your peers, and they inexplicably follow you around like so many lemmings. Show me a crowd of children your age, and I'll find you in the dead-smack center of it, guaranteed. 

You have a temper that rivals something from the Old Testament when something strikes you in just the wrong way. The salt pillars and massive floods have nothing on you when you're angry. "Don't make eye contact," we mutter to each other. "Just slowly back away. Don't show fear." 

Thankfully, those moments pass. And at night, when I check on you before I go to sleep, you epitomize the cliche. You're an angel in the soft glow of the nightlight, perfect and peaceful and serene. I love that. I love your curiosity (although the 10,000 "why" questions a week can stop anytime, just between you and me). I love your snuggliness and your open displays of affection, and I love your spunk.  When your teacher commented about calling me in two decades, I said "You won't have to. She'll be president by then and you can see for yourself." And then I laughed...but it wouldn't surprise me a bit to see you running the world. You've got that "it" about you, even now.

Thank you for five wonderful, challenging years. I can't wait to see the next five. I love you more than you can possibly understand.

Happy birthday.