Oh, you.

You are the perfect child.

Now normally, when it comes to me doling out praise in braggadocios raves to strangers, it’s The Bella that gets most of it and you’re left with a “Oh, she’s just like me.” And you are, but that’s not what makes you perfect.

It’s that you embody everything of a child there is to love: in every one that’s ever been adored on television and in movies, in every one that’s been described as ideal in pregnancy and parenting books, every bit the sweet happy child with the balloons floating just off the ground in the paintings and sketches around the world. But also the ones we turn our noses up at during playgroups and read about as having auspicious behavior in the latest issue of Parents at the doctor’s office.

We spend all day together, every single day, and neither of us really tires of it. You’d always rather be with me than with anyone else, and I know it won’t last so I cherish it.  You let me hug and kiss and love all over you, you grab my hands and face and legs at random opportunities, and I’m the only one: physical affection isn’t your thing except for when it comes to mommy. I treasure it. I’ve seen with your sister that time is fleeting. I don’t have long to appreciate all your subtleties and nuances, your blaring characteristics, and blazing personality.

You are beautiful, and you are exasperating and you are the best and worst of me concentrated down and poured into a petite and big eyed frame; a girl with the biggest dark brown eyes that can convey any mood so heavily it becomes contagious, and most beautiful hair, even first thing in the morning, with it’s shine and chestnut highlights and cascading waves that everyone envies.

I love that you run with your chin in the air, giggling without a fear of a misstep, even on the uneven gravel. That when you tire me with so much to say that I reply an exasperated “Yes? Whhaaatt?” to yet another one of your “Hey mommy, hey mommy“s, you answer “Um, I love you.” and melts me.

You are the good and the ‘bad’. The the ideal and the less than ideal. You are my frustrating, enthralling, my knows all too well too soon how to milk being the baby, baby. That calls herself “Baby” in 3rd person, strips down naked at random occasions, whom I’m lucky to have running around in underwear at least, and who’s arms are still too short to fully hug around my neck, baby.

Today you’re not a baby – officially, like we discussed -  anymore. That hurts me so, but it makes me happy as well. Today you are four years old and you are so excited.

I hope you continue to be you forever. Maybe a little less like me, but still very much you: the perfect child.

I love you, forever, right now, and Happy Birthday, Goobalicious.

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