At this moment, three years ago, you made me a mother for the first time. A mother. A little bundle of eight pounds, five ounces, you arrived in this world red faced and crying. You were two weeks late. Two weeks! A couple of days ago, you asked why Amelia was born in the living room, and you were born in the hospital. I explained that you were overdue, so I had to be induced, and Millie came just before my due date, so we were able to have her at home. You looked at me wide eyed, and said, so matter of fact, “I didn’t want to come out of your belly, Mama. It was so warm and cozy in there! Warm like Daddy’s hands, and soft like Millie’s cheeks.”

My heart.

Lilah, in a matter of three short years, you have changed me inside and out. You have made me a better person. A more patient person. You make me laugh every day. You surprise me every day. You challenge me every day. You stretch me to my limits and then melt my heart with a simple, “I love you.” As you grow, I grow with you. As a mother and as a person. As I write this post, you are in the kitchen, making crafts with your daddy. Pink, of course.

You love the colour pink. As much as I have tried not to establish any gender biases in our home, you have still become the girliest of girls. You have an entire drawer filled with adorable jeans which you flatly refuse to wear. You are not a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. You would wear a party dress every day if you could, and most days, you do. When we discussed having a birthday party, you wanted a girls only Pinkalicious party. It was your own idea, the inspiration coming from your current favourite book. How could I refuse?

We started off your party-day (Friday) with a giant bowl of pink Fruit Loops (the night before, your Aunt Karla and I separated all of the pink cereal out of the box).It was a very special treat. You were off the wall from the sugar, and at one point during your party, squealed with delight (or too much sugar in your system), “I’m just so SO excited that all of my friends are here!”

You are three years old. Three! You are so creative. You love to pretend. You could sit on my lap and listen to me read stories for hours. You love to dance in the kitchen while you look at your reflection in the fridge. You love nail polish and hairspray, Mary Poppins and rubber boots (always on the wrong feet, because they are “comfy that way”). You love to dress your little sister up like a princess, and your “puppy” can often be found sleeping beside the wood stove adorned with pearls. You drive me crazy sucking on the ends your hair and sticking your finger up your nose. No matter how many layers I dress you in the morning, you somehow always seem to end up running around the house wearing nothing but undies.

You are and will always be my baby. Whether you are three or thirty three. All of the sleepless nights, the worry, the tantrums and timeouts are worth every moment of YOU. Sometimes I wonder at the marvel that you grew inside of me and now you are this little person walking around outside of my body in sparkly shoes.  For nine (and a half) months, I carried you in my womb, warm like Daddy’s hands and soft like Millie’s cheeks. You know what my heart sounds like from the inside. At night, while you moved inside of me, I wondered what you would look like and who you would become. You are so much better than anything I could have imagined. My little spitfire in pink shoes. My firstborn baby. My three year old girl.

Mama loves you, Chick-a-dee.