Five

Allegra,

You are five.  FIVE.  One whole hand old.  We had just a little party for you because in a few weeks, you and Luke are sharing a big birthday party at the trampoline park.  You asked for a princess birthday cake, and your Dad worked all day on a four-tiered pink castle cake with butterflies on it and a staircase...with hand-rails, because princesses can't go up staircases in their high heels without something to hold on to, right?  It was pretty amazing.  Logan and Linkin came over for some cake, and you giggled and shared your new play-doh sets with them.  It was a pretty great night, and I took a picture of your epic cake so you can remember it later. 

I think you're great.  Soft-hearted, compassionate, intuitive, competitive, persistent, expressive...and all this at five.  I can't wait to know you at ten, at fifteen, at twenty.  Kids like you make the best kinds of adults.  Keep it up, little lady.  You are something great just waiting to happen.

With love,
Mom

Uncle's Cabin

Dear Allegra, 

We are at the cabin this week.  You call it Uncle's Cabin; really, it's your Dad's Great Uncle Paul's cabin.  You love it here, and rightly so.  It's an important place for us.  

This was where your Dad took me on our first date.  That is a long story for another time, and really, it wasn't a smart move on my part all those years ago.  I barely knew him then, and I let him drive me hours into the dark for a 'surprise' - to an empty cabin to build a fire.  I had a sense about him, and I was right. Luckily. Anyway.

He came here every year with his family for two weeks on vacation.  It was one of the few places your Dad (almost) connected with his own Dad.  There's no TV, no internet, barely a cell phone signal. It's quiet and it sits right on the riverfront.  It's old, has never been updated, and is really kind of disgusting if you've never been there before.  Your Great Uncle Bill owns it now, and he has all kinds of things written on the wall with Sharpie.  Instructions, warnings, and some pure crazy talk. It's these things that give the place character, that make it truly quirky and unforgettable.  

When we didn't have much money, we used to try to come out here as often as we could.  It was a free getaway.  And now, we come once a year, because it's free and because it's a great place for kids and because it's full of the memories of all the years that have gone before.  I almost forget how nasty the place is when it's bathed in sunset and memories.  That's a lot of the time.  But there are days when it's been cool and dreary and raining for too long, and I remember.  You might remember me on those days, too.  Sorry.  I always was more of a beach girl myself, but oh the things we do for love.  I come to the cabin.  I actually, almost all the time, love it myself.

Today was a great day, but it didn't start out that way.  You had a nightmare last night, something about a meowing rat.  Sounded pretty scary to me, too.  You crawled into my bed before 7 AM and thus the day began.  The last few days have been cool, rainy, indoor days.  I was grumpy.  Your Dad was sick last week and was in the hospital for almost a week and it was hard on all of us, and we're all in need of some extra rest this week.  Anyway, somehow your Daddy in his great love for all of us saved the day and pulled us out of the dumps with a bike ride and a visit to the Double Diamond Deer Ranch.  You built your first council fire and made apple mountain pies with him.  Your face was so happy and so dirty and so tired, but he asked you if you wanted to go twilight fishing and your eyes lit up.  Off you both went.  I imagine you learning to cast a line as the sun sets on a 70 degree day in early June, your hand in your Dad's hand.  

Maybe someday, when you're reading this, you'll still know this place well.  Or maybe life will do what life does and surprise us with something even better in the future that takes us somewhere else every year.  I hope you remember these moments, these days with your Dada and your Mommy and your little brother.  These are good days, Allegra.  Not perfect days - few days of your life will be perfect - but as close as it gets in this life.

Here are some memories for you to keep, Allegra.  Memories of really fantastic days, when you were not quite five years old, and you spent the twilight fishing with your Dad.  Good, good memories.

Four

Allegra,

You are already four.  Four years old, but smart as a whip and with a heart as deep as a well.  You love Frozen and Hello Kitty and pink things and ice cream at night.  You have endless energy and a killer vocabulary and you're super proud that you've finally figured out how to say the aaarrRRR sound.  "Say it like I say it, Mom," you say, so that you can work on your pronunciation.  You're precise and determined but not terribly patient yet.  I think that's a four-year-old thing.  Your wide eyes speak volumes about the way you process the confusing, surprising, beautiful world.

I am learning that it's not easy being four, having so many questions but not being able to read or to do things for yourself yet.  It can be scary growing up, too, and you have found that sometimes, you don't want to do the things for yourself that you know how to do.  It's nice to have company in the bathroom.  It's more fun to fall asleep with someone beside you, keeping you warm.  How do you navigate independently?

I see in you already the persistence, the intelligence, the empathy of a young woman who will leave an indelible mark on the world.  I am so proud of you already; the way you share, the way you show compassion and yet advocate for yourself.  I love you and I can't believe the privilege I get to watch you become just who God made you to be.

Love,
Mom