Three and a half years ago I wrote a post about my eldest child’s ninth birthday. Number nine has come to the Rabbit house again–this time to my youngest, my Little Bit. She and three of her pals are giggling in the next room, all of them snuggled into an immense pile of cushions and blankets they fashioned into a nest.
If you met my child, you would find her quiet. She keeps her own counsel with most people, preferring to watch and listen without speaking much, until she’s confident that her input will be welcomed. With friends and family, she’s goofy, fun, hippity-hoppity, and full of joy. She’s a hugger, this one. As a baby, she wanted to be held All. The. Time. Now, still, I have only to open my arms to have her run into them.
My daughter is tall for her age, slim, and strong. She reads voraciously, writes long and wonderful stories, plays the piano, and creates art out of scraps of this and that. She feels deeply, and loves generously. Little Bit strives for perfection in all she does. A mathematician at heart, she knows she can always arrive at the right answer if she works her way methodically through the problem.
Little Bit, we used to play the “how much do you love me” game, and you could always think of bigger numbers and longer distances than I could. But here’s something true: your mama’s love for you has no limits and no boundaries.
Happy birthday, baby girl. May all 525,600 minutes of your nine-year-old year be awesome. (I used a calculator to figure that out, but I know you would’ve done it in your head.)