Dear Brielle

This week I'm writing to my girls, first a letter to Ashlyn, our youngest by 5 minutes, then a letter to Melía, her twin sister. Now it's time for the big 4-year-old.

Dear Brielle,

From the blood and afterbirth, your beautiful face emerged and changed my name to "Daddy." A few minutes of cleaning later and you were in my arms staring up at me, clear-eyed and trusting, shell-shocked but at peace. You had me.

It didn't take long for us to see that you are a child who knows what she wants and assertively pursues it. Your will is strong, you "begin with the end in mind," and you are not afraid to express your preferences. At the age of a few weeks, this meant lots of screaming at odd hours for no reason apparent to us. At 18 months, it meant plenty of tantrums, time-outs and swats. But the more you mature, it is showing up as thoughtful, goal-directed behavior and increasingly reasonable negotiation.

We still have our share of conversations about the cardinal virtue of flexibility, choosing to be happy even when we don't get exactly what we want. There are still times when I remind you that you're acting picky--especially when we want you to wear pants or anything warmer than your princess dresses--but more and more you are becoming my flexible girl.

You are a born leader. Melía especially copies so much of what you do, repeating your words verbatim, requesting whatever food or clothes you're wearing, "like Brielle has." You set the tone for what your sisters are going to do. That is power; and more and more I'm trusting you to use it well.

You have a deep love for people, always excited when guests are coming over, whether you've met them or not. If you know we're going to a restaurant, you are on board as long as there's hope that friends might be there. You have always loved school, partly because it stimulates your amazing mind, but also because it's a day of being with a lot of friends.

Speaking of your amazing mind, we have never had any doubts about how bright you are. Your inquiries into ethics, theology, science and dental hygiene blow us away. You ask questions beyond your age, soak up my explanations of things like "photosynthesis" (which you can pronounce to a T), and can write down anything we spell out for you. The teacher in me delights in your curiosity and in offering answers that I hope you can understand. Sometimes your questions help me understand things with a new simplicity.

You are a princess. You want to do things right, and you want things done right. You are more fashion-conscious than I can keep up with. Function follows form in your hierarchy of needs, but your utility-oriented father hasn't given up yet on that one. You have superstar poise and charisma, knowing how to smile for the camera and put on a show for the audience.

Best of all, you are incredibly full of love. You give big hugs at random moments, snuggle during books, and tell us you love us. You make increasingly beautiful drawings--of people, houses, animals and even Martin Luther King, Jr., and then inscribe on them dedications to us. Just yesterday morning, you danced with me to James Taylor and learned the basic salsa step. Yesterday afternoon, you squeezed Ashlyn's leg and said, "I love you." At night, you say, "I love you, Daddy. Miss you till the morning."

I love you too, sweet Brie. I am so glad you are my firstborn big girl; you'll always be my baby too.

Dear Melía

This week I'm writing to my girls. Yesterday, I wrote a letter to Ashlyn, our youngest (by 5 minutes). Today it's Melía's turn....


Dear Melía,

You are sweetness in a powerfully tiny package. Your cries of "Hold me, hold me, hold me!" are gifts, even when we already have both hands full. In our less grateful moments Mommy and I mislabel it "clingy," but when we're thinking straight we eat up your cuddliness. I hope you never stop asking us to hold you--even when you are no longer tiny enough that your 24-month-size pants sag on your 26-pound frame.

You are my sharing and caring girl. When you get access to a treat, you make sure that there are two more for Ashlyn and Brielle. You delight in feeding us bites of your food; just don't foget to eat some yourself, little one. This weekend you were on Kleenex duty for Ashlyn, both fetching clean ones and disposing of dirties. You put up a fight when one of your sisters is trying to take a toy by force, but immediately share it when they ask nicely. You even shared the womb, enduring quietly while your zealous twin breakdanced on your head.

You are all about family togetherness. When the car starts and one of the family is not aboard, you protest vigorously, "No! Wait per Mommy!" "Where is Ashlew?" "Where is Bwielle?" "No! Wait per Daddy!" When it's time to go and Ashlyn is lagging behind playing or destroying valuable objects, we ask her (in that distinctively scary tone) if she wants to come with us or stay. You hear the thinly veiled threat to leave her behind, grab her hand and nearly drag her where she needs to be, crying, "Tome on, Ashlew."

You have no time for television. Instead, you are about doing things involving people, organizing things into bags (by a system known only to you), staying busy. You value relationships, and you have already recognized the degree to which TV can starve them. Even eating lacks that personal connection you savor, unless you can talk us into spoon feeding you. And going to sleep is such a bore for a night-owl socialite like you, especially when you can sleep in till 9 on good days.

Despite your meager food intake (excepting anything sweet), you have managed to grow a giant head of hair that is blond, curly mirth. It streams blithely down onto your face, though never enough to hide the impossible blue of your eyes, several sizes larger than your little mug might suggest. And though you are my "mini-Melía," you stand up for yourself enough to allay any fears we may have had of you being a pushover.

You are just now getting mastery of words, and we like the way you take your time growing up. It is a relief to see one of our babies who still reminds us at times of a baby--although if we slip and call you one you ferociously remind us, "I'm not a baby; I'm a bid dirl." And you're right; your potty-training prowess backs up the claim. You love to anticipate turning four. Who knows how many times you've asked, "What tind birday party I doing to have? A Belle party or a Minnie Mouse party?" Whichever answer we give, you say, "Oh," smile in your winning, bigger-than-possible-for-a-face-that-size way, and ask the question again about another ten times.

Your auntie sees a nurse in you, given your empathetic interest in people's owies. Maybe so. But I think your tender, merciful heart will thrive on any pursuit in which you are loving people the way your Heavenly Father intended we all be loved.

I just pray He helps you sense something near how much we love you, little Melía Grace.

Dear Ashlyn

I think I'll write letters to each of my girls this week.

Dear Ashlyn,

You are so far ahead of your time. You were saying things that blew our minds just weeks after you learned to walk. The time I used a diaper to wipe your nose on the changing table, you protested, "Don't wipe diapew!" You sang Happy Birthday to your Baba just a couple months after your first birthday. You were the first to pray before meals, naming every item on the table, one by one. You have a precocious knack for seeing the connections between things. And yesterday you insisted on sleeping in your beloved bridal gown.

And yet you are our baby. You are in no rush to potty train, too into whatever you're doing to hassle with all that anal retentive bother. Melía is your elder by 5 minutes, and though you outsize her by 11 pounds and a couple inches, she takes care of her "little" sister.

Your essence dances and sings. Even in the womb, you showed promise of becoming a hiphop dance star, gleefully pummeling your longsuffering sister below you. Your cradle roll Sabbath school class got weekly front-row seats for your ecstatic pirouttes around the classroom while the rest of the class engaged in more mundane activities (i.e. the planned ones). You bubble over with music, performing covers of previously produced hits (Spoonful of Sugar is one of the latest) as well as original compositions (usually a melange of words from church and Disney princess music, something like, "My dreams come true in my heart with my prince for baby Jesus"). You sing--and scream--with a strength worthy of the opera, savoring the power to produce sound (as much of it as possible). Amazingly, a lot of it is on pitch.

And your music has its own beat, changing meter every few measures, unsullied by the seduction of conformity to the rest of the orchestra. When the ballet teacher tells the class to "make a circle," the masses hold hands and form a ring on the floor; you spin in circles and giggle uncontrolably, pulling your skirt over your head, then down to your ankles. Yes, this sort of self-expression makes your Mommy and me a little nervous when you're singing in the church choir--but by the time you can read this it will be safe for you to know that we are as tickled as we are mortified by your random acts of craziness.

You are committed to having a good time, all the time--unless you've missed your nap. When other kids would cuss (or its 3-year-old equivalent), you just might crack up. You beg for tickling and giggle like a cascade of Gatorade, slaking the thirst of the dry soul. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" you cry, and pause just a beat before saying, "Do it again!" Most of your tantrums are only a silly word and a tickle away from hilarious laughter.

You are the child with whom I have been most angry. Too many times I have had to come to you, penitent for having lost my temper, heart broken, fearing that I have played a part in breaking the spirit that I so cherish in you. We are a lot alike--our individualism, focus on the moment, penchant for breaking things, playful spirit, silliness and infatuation wtih the sound of our own voice. Our similarities breed an affinity that is magical, and a frustration that is more about my own self-loathing than any fault in you.

I am sorry. I am so sorry.

And I love you more than I'll ever be able to show you.