Hi, Morgan. Happy birthday, tootsie lou.
So you are seven today. So seven. And because you are older and so seven, I started wondering when these letters to you might stop making an appearance here. I mean, someday, the collection of these will be yours, yet despite the private readership of the folks here, these words about you are still very public. Even though I share this journal of our lives, would you share your baby book details and photos with mere acquaintances? I'm not so sure.
For that reason, the birthdays ahead and the letters to you (and your brothers) may no longer be located in this place, but still written with as much love and thoughtfulness. Will I know when that is? Perhaps when the accounts of your year and the details of your moments become too much to share, when too much has to be withheld to make a complete picture of you.
Last week I clicked my way through hundreds of pictures since your last birthday. Pictures of you and your adventures. Pictures of moments that caused Daddy and I to smile as we recalled the memories. Pictures that captured the essence of you, of your talents and God-given abilities. Your interests, your fears, your struggles, your ever-building confidence. I love photographing you, Morgan. You are beautiful. My beautiful baby girl, changing right before my eyes. Observing and absorbing and applying.
The first of your adventures happened in the late spring when Daddy removed the pedals from your bike. You spent a week slapping your feet on the pavement to gain the momentum needed to learn about balance. And just like that, you were off and rolling, tooling around on your own two wheels, pedals back on, beaming smiles when your eyes met ours.
You spent more time outside this summer than ever before. I used to think you would be an inside girl, but there's hope for you yet. Bare feet and water, the simplest summer provisions, embraced. Your brothers have helped in this arena, showing you that all fun doesn't have to be limited to the house.
Those boys of yours sure do love you, Morgan. They will never show it in a way that a sister could, but it's there. In the way that Andrew prays for you at dinnertime, thinks of putting you first, asks your preferences. In the way that Matthew allows you to guide him, cuddles into you on the couch, smiles as you are the first to greet him crib-side every morning. You don't realize this yet, but as the only daughter, you will be the connecting point for years to come, such an important role in togetherness.
You told me at bedtime once that we should get a girl pet so we'd have some equality in our household. The idea of being outnumbered seems unfair to you, and as the firstborn, fairness matters greatly. Justice and correction and upholding all of the rules at all times, those things bring a sense of stability, and unfortunately, there aren't any perfect people in this world, our family included. As a responsible rule-follower, I'm not sure you realize this about yourself just yet. I suppose this is something Daddy and I need to work on with you - not just handling the process, but knowing when, in the outcome, to ask for forgiveness, lose graciously, or let errors slide.
And this takes us to school. What a revealing year. I remember when the two of us went to visit First Grade. Our 20 minute time slot, your nerves, exploring the classroom with Mrs. H. while I tried to stay in the background. Unable to gauge your impression, we walked back to the van, and as I drove out of the parking lot, you suddenly blurted, "I want to stay in first grade forever!", which was followed by giggling and smiles. You are loving first grade, even if your reserved personality says otherwise while you are there. Your award-winning teacher is such a loving influence. The daily expectations are clear and you constantly achieve rock-star status for meeting them.
Learning comes easy for you, Morgan, and because you are quick to catch on, you have steps 2, 3, and 4 figured out before completing step 1. Not a big deal in the land of first grade where homework is repetition from the day's learning. But the bonus work that is sent home shows me a side of you that can be quite ugly. And truthfully? It makes me happy. You need some struggle in your life. You need to fumble your way through problems, whether they are academic or otherwise. Without these challenges, you will never know true success or be able to appreciate your circumstances. The struggles aren't pretty, but they are necessary.
Swimming lessons was one of those struggles. Daddy and I wrestled for months about signing you up. Like most of your other life-encounters, would swimming and water come with the extra time you usually require? Or did you need our nudge to not only to stay safe, but to enjoy yourself during our summer water excursions? It broke my heart to peel your body off of mine the first day at the pool, to send you so recklessly into scary territory without so much as a hand-hold. It hurt even more to see you connect with me seated in the stands, tears streaming down your face, with a look that mixed fear and abandonment.
Months later as a family, we memorized an excerpt from Isaiah: "The Lord says, 'I will help you. I will keep you safe." I pray often, Morgan, that God's Word becomes your source when you feel that panic well up. Someday, you will no longer be under our roof, but under one of your own. It wasn't until I flew the coop that I really, truly depended on God. Because until that point, my parents - in conjunction with Him - were the ultimate safety net, no matter how high the fall. I love being that for you, to affirm you, to arm you with ideas on how to handle challenges, to suggest solutions, to scoop you up after the struggle. But I know that won't always be my role.
So what does the year ahead hold for you? Piano lessons, perhaps? I hope. Something music related. Other than the short Pep Squad season, the world of extra-curricular activities hasn't appealed to you much, and that's okay with me. I'm not interested just yet in sacrificing family time for the sake of perceived enjoyment. You want Cooking Club? I know just such a kitchen open for learning. What about soccer, you say? A garage full of balls and grassy yard to kick them in. My motives have nothing to do with preventing you from growing up, Morgan, or taking a stand against social norms, and everything to do with protecting your childhood. You will never be able to relive these carefree days.
Last night at bedtime, we spent our 15 minutes together in the dark, a new addition to your routine. There were no deep, situational school questions, but instead randoms inquiries: You asked if Daddy and I walk to our Sunday morning Bible class with our friends in a straight line. You shared the highs and lows of your celebratory weekend. And after telling you where I was exactly seven years ago, you asked if Daddy and I made it to the hospital on time for you to be born. Indeed we did.
You've had an interest lately in where you've come from, pawing through your plastic storage box, looking at your pictures, reading snippets from your baby book, inspecting baptism memorabilia. Included in the collection is the printed edition of your birth story that I wrote when you were just two weeks old. Thinking I would always want written documentation of the journey that made me a mother, I described every moment, from the pizza we ordered the night before, to the 7:00 a.m. we're-headed-to-the-hospital-phone-call I made to Grandma M. that took me from well-prepared and confident to a shaky, vulnerable mess. Little did I know that seven years later, those memories would be as fresh as the day you came.
I know I won't be folding your clothes forever, Morgan. I won't always be packing your lunch or helping make the seams of your tights line the tops of your toes. You are growing up. Daddy's back now aches when he picks you up one too many times. And soon the smiles I capture will have gaps where new teeth are expected.
Each year that passes, we are allowed to see more of you, more of who you will become. Of all these things that combine to define you, Morgan Grace, never forget that first and foremost you are a child of God (Galatians 3:26). Loved beyond measure.
Happy seven years, Morgan.
I love you.
Mom
