Once again it’s been a year since I’ve written you one of these letters. Now you are nearing eight years old, and I can’t believe how much you’ve changed in the last year.
You are incredibly smart. I feel like I don’t tell you that enough, but you are. You are smart. You get concepts and ideas easily, for the most part, and you love trying new things. Mostly. Sometimes you offer up these weird moments of complete stubbornness about something new that perplexes me; for instance, I do not understand why you don’t want to learn how to ride a bike. Bike riding is awesome, and at your age I rode my bike for hours every day. But we’re not going to force you to learn how, of course, and I try to keep my eye rolling behind your back.
You are also incredibly creative. You are continually seeking new ways to tell stories, to build things, to draw things, and to make things. You start new clubs at your school (a fitness club was your latest), and you organized your friends into a gymnastics team called The Diamonds. You build forts on play dates that are substantial enough to play and sleep in. You make recordings on the iPad of you and your friends singing songs, and you practice over and over again so you get it right. You draw amazing pictures, sometimes dozens a day. I love watching you create. You are amazing.
One of my favorite things about you, however, is that you are FUNNY. I mean seriously hysterically funny. Sometimes it’s hard to get you ready for bed because you and I are laughing so damned hard at stuff you say. I have such a good time hanging out with you these days because you make me laugh so much. You obviously inherited your humor from your daddy – I’m not that funny, but man, he makes me laugh every day. It’s why I married him (in part). Laughing every day with you keeps me both sane and happy.
Of course, it’s not all sunshine and kittens. This morning you asked me to blowdry your hair because it’s freezing as all fuck outside and because it wasn’t combing “right.” So I did, and this caused a meltdown of epic proportions because your hair was too “puffy” and still wouldn’t style right. I thought it looked adorable, of course, because it highlighted how great your current haircut is, but you lay on the floor in my office weeping about going outside “looking like THIS!” as you pointed to your hair that is only about two inches long and really doesn’t have all that many places it can go.
But seven is like that.
You are currently obsessed with the movie Frozen. This isn’t a shock to, well, anyone, as nearly all little kids allowed to see that movie are crazy about it. You are Elsa in your heart – mostly because I think, like me, you wish you had a magic power – and sing Let It Go at every opportunity. You sing it beautifully, by the way, even if you force yourself to have a vibrato and that cracks me up every time. You sing it in particular with your friend Sasha, and I love hearing it even when it drives your daddy a bit crazy. I confess I love the song and the movie too, even though I didn’t love it the movie the first time we saw it.
You’ve swung back into loving girly things this year. You have been asking about wearing dresses again, and you play with my old makeup when you do dress up. You recently conned me into buying a flowered headband, and you wear it all the time. It looks adorable, of course. $3 well spent. You go back and forth on letting your hair grow out; you still love it short because it’s so easy to care for, but you dream of an Elsa-like braid. But the short hair is winning out for now. As long as I don’t blow it dry, of course.
Tori Anne, you do have a magic power. You inspire deep love in the hearts of everyone who knows you. You are a magical wonder of a kid, and I love you beyond reason. But even more remarkable is how much I like you, and I like being around you, and I like the person I see you becoming. You are just amazing, my darling girl. I love every little thing about you. Even the meltdowns.
You are the best daughter in the world. You are my favorite person. I love you.