Dear Maya,

Words fail, my littlest love.  

To define you.

To describe my love for you.

To characterize everything that you are.

I know because I tried.  I decorated your bedroom door last night in nothing but words I intended to capture you.  I got to forty seven before I gave up.  

Because you are so much.  You are every one of the basic qualities that all of the greats embody - smart, funny, beautiful, good.  And, you are all the important character traits of any good cartoon villain - wily, brilliant, ornery, and oh so very charming.

My love,  you have always been more.  And, every year, I find undiscovered territory through your eyes.  Challenging heights and breathtaking vistas.  Indescribable pride and unfathomable storylines.  Being your mama is, to put it simply, the source of most of my gray hair and almost all of my laugh lines.

Whether they're from your patient teachers, your impatient sisters, your many admirers or your exasperated mama, all stories begin with the same sentence :  "I love her, but you won't believe what Maya did."

We do believe it though.  Because, at nine years old, you are simply more than other kids.  Not better or worse, just more.

And we would have you no other way.  No matter how unbelievably ornery you are proven to be, you continue to be soft and loving.  Brave and strong.  Genuine and full of love.

More than forty seven words.  More than I could have ever dreamed of.  Undefinable and free from anyone's simplification of who you should be.

Happy birthday to the girl who overflows my patience and my heart.  Thank you for never giving me rest or calm.  I remain grateful you allow me to bask in your shine.

Always,

Mama

I'm NOT scared of you!

Every time one of you throws a fit I say it - I'm not scared of you.

During ever hormonal outburst and from in front of every slammed door I yell out - I'm not scared of you.

Even each time you're coming at me in driveway soccer and we both know you'll probably score on me - I ain't scared of you.

I'm not scared of a little eye roll or a foot stomped on my rules.  You don't make me tremble when you anoint me Meanest Mama Ever.  Not even a little.  Ok, maybe the ball flying at my head gives me pause, but I'm not scared of your athletic ability.

What I don't tell you, though, is this:  you three terrify me.

Like no one else ever has (and many have tried), like nothing else ever could (and we all know how I feel about snakes).  I am scared of you every day.

What if you wake up one day and decide rules and broccoli  just aren't for you anymore, and you decide you want to live with him?

What am I going to do when you realize that I'm just making this up as we're going along and I know no more than you do about raising three girls?

Not to mention the fact that there will come a time when you realize that I'm gravely outnumbered and sadly outclassed.

And, my biggest fear, what the hell am I supposed to do when you leave for "good"?

Every night I update my countdown to nothingness.  I have nine years, eleven and a half days left before Maya graduates high school.  And I'm scared for me.  

That's it.  I'm not afraid of you, but I am petrified for me.  You are the only people on earth I couldn't live without.  But I will.  

Three days are coming that will leave me breathless and empty.  Three days I longed for when you were throwing mashed peaches and diaper pails rendered my house unfit to breathe in.  Three days I thought would bring me full nights of sleep and full days of nothing Disney related.  Three days of completed thoughts and leisurely walks in the grocery store aisles with a basket instead of a cart.

So you don't scare me, my loves.  Knowing I'm working this hard to get you comfortable on your own feet does.  Understanding that nothing will make me more proud or more sad than watching you pack up the room I've rented to you for so long - those moments keep me up at night.  And the idea that I only have nine years, eleven and a half days left?  I'm shaking now just thinking of it.

When do I know I'm done?

Knowing you're done having kids is a lot like knowing you're ready to have kids.

You don't know until it happens.

I wasn't the person who grew up wanting to have kids.  I did a little babysitting, but that was for the need for money - not the need for a little person in my life.  I honestly don't remember a single instance where I just couldn't get enough of someone's baby.  Then, when I was about nineteen, I hung out with a group of slightly older people and they had kids.  I didn't relish their lives at all and I was glad to leave and go to my own quiet apartment.  Until, one day, I couldn't put down the baby girl they were babysitting.

* And, by babysitting, I mean they still had huge drinking parties but now there was a one year old attending too.*

I don't know if it was my protective instincts or my childhood filled with drunk and dangerous people in my personal space; but, I wouldn't put that baby down.  She sat on my lap while I played dominoes and I carried her around the empty bottles and full ashtrays rocking her to sleep and staring at her perfect face.

Still, I didn't contemplate having children at all.  I just didn't mind being an auntie when someone needed one.

Until Sofia came along.  The instant I knew I would be a mama, I knew I could be one.  I could do it.  I didn't know how or why I could, and I didn't know who she would be; but, I was ready for her.

And I was ready for Eva.

And I was ready for Maya.  

*in hind site, no one is ready for Maya, but I was as close as one will ever be.

By the time she rolled around to two years old, I knew I was done though.  That was the age each of the other two girls were when we started trying for another baby, but I didn't feel that urge at all after Maya.  She was supposed to be my last child, and I remain completely comfortable with that decision.

Babies are incomparable and amazing.  But so is eating dinner when it's hot because they can cut their own food.

Snuggling up with a warm, soft face pressed to your neck is quite simply the best feeling in the world.  But a close second is holding onto the edge of the bleachers while your kid scores a goal with a move she's practiced for years.

Little, high pitched voices calling your name because it's the only word they know is a beautiful song.  But hearing your child's name from the podium at awards night ain't too bad either.

Undoubtedly, there are things you just can't get once they're too old to scoop up and carry on your hip anymore.  And, yes, there are absolutely times that I would love to see the look you get when the school doors open and they catch sight of you through the crowd.  There is nothing that compares to tiny arms wrapped around your neck and the smell of baby hair pressed to your chin.

But it's so much easier to get that from other people's babies.

That way, they go home and you don't have to change the diapers.

I suppose what I'm saying is this:  I'm done having little black haired girls.  My hands are overflowing.

But there's always room for your little person to hang out for as long as they're willing.