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
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