To My Daughter, on Her Third Birthday

1/12/2022

Dear Presley, 

You recently started calling me “mom.” The first time it happened, I wasn’t sure I heard you correctly. 

“Did you just call me mom?” I asked.

You smiled coyly, and just like that, we had our first little inside joke. The boys told me you learned this from Daniel Tiger, and, considering you’re watching roughly five hours of television a day right now (don’t tell the pediatrician), that checks out. 

A while back we left you home with a babysitter for date night and as we were walking out the door, you called out, “Bye mom and dad!”—as if you were twelve—and even the sitter laughed. I guess “mommy” and “daddy” had a nice run.

You and I recently huddled on the floor in the laundry room to do your favorite chore: migrate the wet clothes from the washing machine into the dryer. We’ve done the laundry together dozens of times, but on that particular day, for no apparent reason at all, you turned to me halfway through and said, “I love you, mom … in my heart.” 

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Where did you learn this phrase, in my heart? Is that from Daniel Tiger? I have no idea. But I grabbed you and squeezed you and held you in a hug for a solid ten seconds, my heart bursting. I will never get over how many times you tell me that you love me, on any given day, unprompted and unsolicited. You tell me you love me in the kitchen. You tell me you love me in the car. Sometimes you just walk up to me and wrap your arms around my legs with a simple, “I love you sooooo much, mom.”

But that phrase, “I love you in my heart,” has become our little mantra, another inside joke.

You’re obsessed with Alexa and frequently ask her to play music so you can dance around the house. Your top request is typically Gummy Bear (Lord help me if I hear that song one more time), but sometimes you go rogue and ask for something more generic, like “Alexa, play Jesus music!”

Last week, when all the boys were at basketball practice, you and I were home alone and you walked over to Alexa and said, “Alexa! Play, I love you mom in my heart!” 

I don’t remember what Alexa started playing, but your request translated to a country song.

If I could bottle you up at this age forever, I would. I probably said that last year, and the year before, but maybe this is just you, getting better with age. You’re so funny. You repeat everything you hear (yikes), always in the right context with the right inflection. When the boys are hassling you, you say, “You’re driving me nuts!”

(Pretty sure you learned that one from me.) 

You tell me several times a day your “tummy is rumblin”—a problem you love to solve yourself. We keep a metal rolling cart in the kitchen stocked with canisters full of crackers and snacks, and I’m not sure when you learned to open those, but sometimes I walk into the kitchen to find you sitting at the table eating a mountain of pretzels off a plastic plate. I’m not sure what’s funnier—that you learned how to open the containers, or that you always get yourself a plate first. 

You love to help me unload groceries. Whenever I come home from the store, you say, “Wow, mommy, did you get all these groceries for ME?! Great job!” And then you proceed to take every single item out of every single bag, creating a snake-like trail leading to the kitchen. Lining things up on the floor is one of your favorite pastimes. You love to line up magna tiles, pictures, bath toys, books. You call it “making a rainbow.” Several times a day you make a rainbow on the floor, and then instruct me to close my eyes, before grabbing me by the hand and pulling me toward your surprise.

You’re fiercely independent, just like me, except when it comes to cleaning.

A couple months ago, I refused to help you pick up the dominoes you had left strewn all over the floor. It wasn’t an impossible task, putting 20 dominoes back into the metal box, but you threw a fit. I told you I would not make you lunch until you had cleaned up the mess you made, and you cried and cried and cried. I did not back down. You threw your body on the floor, tears streaming down your face, while I went to work cleaning up the kitchen.

Finally, you acquiesced and started cleaning up. Plink! Plink! I could hear each domino being deposited in the box and smiled to myself. A few seconds later, you called out, “Hey! I’m doing it! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it, mom! I’M DOING IT!!!” 

You almost seemed shocked at this discovery—that you could, in fact, clean up your own mess. I was so proud, and also couldn’t help but laugh. 

You’re obsessed with art. “I made dis for you, mom!” you say, bringing me a crisp white sheet of printer paper with a handful of colored scribbles on it. Every time, I gasp in delight, tell you how much I love the picture, how you’re such a good artist, and then you ask if we can hang it on your picture wall. First-time Mom Ashlee would have set up something official, a darling art gallery with washi tape, something you’d find on Pinterest. Third-time Mom Ashlee has been attaching all of your artwork to the walls around your room at random, in no particular order or fashion, with blue painter’s tape. 

(You’re really getting the best version of my mothering, do you know that?)

You love to get into my stuff, my shoes, my makeup, my hairbrush, my jewelry. Anything you can get your hands on, you take and stockpile—in your room, your toy bins, the laundry basket. I constantly find my belongings all over the house. The shoes entertain me most of all, you are obsessed with my shoes. Wearing footie jammies, you’ll tuck your feet into my high heels and strut around the house like a pageant queen. Everyone who has seen you do this is impressed.

We’re still living in a global pandemic, and the grief hits me fresh today, on your birthday, because I don’t even know what to do with you to celebrate. You’ve had a cold for weeks, which is pretty much gone except for the lagging cough, but in the time of Covid, one cough in a public setting is enough to rattle people. I think I might take you to the movies.

Aside from your brothers and occasional excursions to church, you are rarely around other children. Every day, I tell you you’re my best friend. You’ve just started telling me I am yours, too. I know that won’t last, so I’m soaking it up while I can.

You fill our days with so much joy, humor, charm and delight. Everyone who knows you is enamored by you. Your smile lights up every room, your voice beckons us like a birdsong. You are equal parts hope and wonder, comfort and bliss. 

You’re a little piece of me, as life-giving as an organ, my favorite answered prayer.

Happy third birthday, sweet girl. 

You’re my best friend. I love you in my heart. 

-“Mom”