Happy Birthday Skadi!

Five? 5? Not four? Not three? 5? For reals, five?

How can it be?

Dear Skadi,

I remember five years ago walking the halls of the hospital - up and down, up and down, wondering when we were going to get to meet you. By that time, being my second baby, I felt I was an old pro at this. It was just a matter of time and I would have my baby in my arms. But the contractions weren't coming, nothing was moving, except that hand that seemed to be waving at us, giving us an ahead warning of your stubbornness.

I thought I knew it all, but as all babies are, you were different. You are different. You arrived at 1:59pm on March 23rd, 2007. I should have guessed - all prime numbers are in your birthday and time. As someone who loves numbers, this did not escape me.

Over the last few years you have grown and changed in such amazing ways. There are days I know exactly you are my daughter - like when you beg for a pedicure, want your hair braided and jump up and down with excitement when I announce it is gymnastics lessons night.  Other times I look at you and wonder where you may have come from - like when you scream at the top of your little lungs, sass the boys in your class (instead of shrinking in a corner like I did), tell your teacher where she can stick it (not literally, thank goodness) and beat your brother up while playing swords.

I look at you and occasionally see myself as a five year old. I remember the first day of kindergarten well and I hope yours is as magical this year as mine was.

You love to bake and cook and I know you got that from me, your grandma Barbara and your great great grandma Hanna. You are about the pickiest thing around and would live on Dinosaur nuggets if we let you. You don't like berries or stone fruit or pears, but love apples, oranges and bananas - I can't figure this out. You will eat them if they are dried though, so I am assuming it is a texture thing because I can officially say that you have never had a berry in your mouth.

Did I say stubborn? Yeah, that goes without saying.

You like everything pink, though purple and blue are alright too. You prefer that everything be "girl" and an effective marketing campaign to your type would be to mark everything with "Girl" in front of it. "Girl food", "Girl toothbrush", "Girl Hangers", "Girl Paper"...

Amazingly you do eat and enjoy broccoli and broccoli rabe. You seem to like canned carrots for some unknown reason. (Can I just say, nasty?) You like chicken tikka masala, rice, quesadillas, and of course we can't forget cheese pizza. Sweet tooth? Again, goes without saying.

You love Barbies and Princesses (Ariel is the best, followed by Tiana and Rapunzel). But you also like Legos and building. You really like art and your teacher has figured out that is an effective bribe - to threaten to take away art privileges. I only wish the threat worked because too often you end up losing those privileges.

Your best friends are Olivia, Maddie and Raquel. This coming year though you will switch schools and leave them behind. We went and registered you for kindergarten one day. You were so brave as we marched up to the school and filled out the hundreds of forms that are somewhat akin to buying a house. After we left we went for a Starbucks treat and you got a tear in your eye as you told me, "but I didn't even get to say goodbye to my Apple Tree friends". I felt so bad! Of course you were still going to be in Apple Tree for 6 months but your capacity for emotions always amazes me.

When you are asked what you want to be when you grow up it is something like a "mermaid princess". Personally I think you will be an amazing doctor or lawyer. Your teacher thinks you will excel as a fashion designer. Of course, maybe the mermaid princess thing will work out? You are an amazing little swimmer and gymnast.

Whatever it is, I know you have the capacity to succeed. When I tell you that I love you, you always reply, "I love you more". I assure you that you don't, though I can tell you never believe me.

I love you more Skadi Jeanne.

Love, Mom