Happy birthday to my favorite girl

Dear Moriah,

You are in bed asleep; our day was so full, and began so characteristically early, and you didn't nap this afternoon and so by 6:30 tonight you were exhausted and went to bed without our routine books and prayer. But what a day it was--your fourth birthday! This is the first year that you've understood, really understood, what a "birthday" is. Last night you couldn't fall asleep because you were so excited; you kept calling me back to your bedroom to tell me something else about your birthday ("Mom, cake! Ice cream! Open presents!") or to sing (yet another) chorus of Happy Birthday to yourself ("happy birthday, Moriah, happy birthday to you") or to demonstrate for me how to blow out candles. I hope the day was as happy as you anticipated; we were able to spend most of the day today at Papa and Gramma's house with your cousins, and I know that for you, any day with cousins at your grandparent's house is a happy one indeed.

I think this is the first birthday that I've also really understood. What I mean is, I've understood it as your birthday, and it hasn't made me at all sad. Yesterday I was baking birthday cupcakes for you and suddenly remembered something I had forgotten about the day you were born: Orilus and Jackson had brought a birthday cake they had made with them to the hospital, so that we could celebrate your very first day of life together.

This had been my idea, a way to help them, too, to feel included in the day you were born. And yesterday I suddenly had this flashback: the cake pan sitting, untouched, in the hospital room all that day, a sort of sad symbol of things that didn't go at all as we had expected. I think that cake traveled with me in an ambulance, as I rushed the next day to follow you to Boston; eventually, Dad took it home, completely unopened and uneaten.

We didn't celebrate your birth-day, Love. We were all just too surprised with you, and too worried about you.

I remembered this cake in its covered pan yesterday, and you know what I did, Moriah? I laughed. Here we are, girl, four years later, eating pink-frosted cupcakes at 7 o'clock in the morning, watching you attend to your brand-new dollhouse (all I can say about that gift is that you must have really changed my life, my dear, because anyone who knows me cannot possibly fathom how I disciplined myself to spend the 40+ hours I've spent in this last month painting and putting together that yard sale find with your dad), listening to you talk to the Dad-doll as you forced him into a dining room chair ("No sleep. You eat. Sit down right here. C'mon!"), laughing as you gasp in surprise at (yet-another) Elmo video from your really patient and kind older brother, taking you a ba-zillion times to the potty today (you are nearly potty trained and we are so proud of you), watching you give your cousins huge hugs (Them: "Hug me again, Moriah!" You: "Squeeze!"). You are the girl of nose kisses, laughter, a strong will, smarts, and love. You have a way with babies (Miss Julie likes to call you the "baby whisperer") and music and basketball (you can dribble now and are pretty proud of yourself).

You climb stairs--up and down--on your own now, and you continue to jump despite the therapists' declarations that you probably wouldn't. You love to read--you read a couple books on your own now, pointing to each word and getting that "I'm so pleased with myself" look again and again. You are learning to swim--we had so much fun in your swim class this morning--and to go across monkey bars. You love to throw rocks in the pond at the end of our street. And--as you did before bedtime tonight--you love to bring people together, this time, grabbing your Dad and me and insisting that all three of us give one big giant hug.

That's you, Moriah--the girl who connects folks to each other.

Four years ago, when terror gripped our hearts and worry flooded into our lives, we couldn't have anticipated this day. Today, Love, we celebrated you. I didn't remember your birth-day with any sadness today; I didn't think about your future with any fear. Not once today did I even think about Down syndrome. Today was just about YOU, Moriah--amazing, remarkable, funny, beautiful you.

For many years now I've been telling you that you are my "favorite girl." This started as kind of a joke with your brothers, who always wanted to know which of them was the favorite when they were little. By calling you my favorite girl, I was choosing no one, and everyone. This year I've said to you nearly every day: "Moriah, out of ALL the girls in the world, YOU are my favorite." And Moriah, if there's one thing I hope you get in this life, it's this: Your mom thinks you rank right up there with the most accomplished, most inspiring, most interesting, most wonderful women who have ever walked this earth. You are the girl I most admire. For all you've overcome, for all you work with and through every day, for all the joy you are to all of us who know you, and for the particular gifts of groundedness, joy, and acceptance you have brought to my life...

...happy birthday to my favorite girl.

I'm in love with you, always.

Love,
Mom