Coming up to 4: Letter to Nora, part 1

Oh, Nora.

You're almost four years old. You aren't a baby anymore. You're not even a toddler anymore. You're a little girl, a long-limbed, stubborn, electrified, brilliant little girl who can argue me down to a dull nub one moment, and love me up to the highest heights the next.

I'm so proud of the way you've suddenly begun running into school, right through the gate without looking back. This week, twice, you wanted to do the drive-up drop-off; I just pull up to the school and you unbuckle yourself, slide out the car door, and off you go. How is that even possible? The teacher had to carry you in, wailing, for three weeks at the beginning of the year. And I've walked you in, hand-in-hand, every day since. We've had a special arrangement with the director, for her to meet us outside your classroom. You just didn't want to leave my side in the mornings.

But just when I think you're growing up way too fast, you remind me how little you are. On Thursday we were late to school, and I walked you to the door, and you clung to me fiercely. I didn't think I could peel you away. You wanted to kiss me and hug my neck, and wouldn't let go. It is the strangest feeling to want you to be OK with me walking away, while at the same time wanting to scoop you up and just go home.

This morning, I woke up so tired. And there you were, your smooth, sweet face and warm breath next to me on the pillow, your thin little arms curled up under your head. You looked so small. I wanted so, so much to just let you keep sleeping, to fall back to sleep myself and let us wake up whenever our bodies might, to smile and stretch and have pancakes and stay in our pajamas until we felt like wandering off somewhere to pick raspberries.

Instead, I had to pry you awake, force you into clothes, dress myself, and toast each of us a waffle to eat in the car.

I hate that we have to do that so often.

Nora, you are wind and words and wide eyes. You run everywhere and you hardly ever stop talking, and you see the world in such vivid layers and colors. At the beach, your cousin settled down into a pile of trucks and sand, while you flung your clothes off and fairly flew down the beach. Not stopping until the stone jetty stopped you. Your feet are so light, you looked like a sandpiper tippy-toe racing along the edge of the sea.

The running is not like me, at all. I don't run -- don't think I ever really did, not the way you do, so fleet-footed. I wonder, how does that feel? To just run, light as air, to be nearly weightless, to feel the breeze lift you up?