You are already 3 1/2 months old. For the past month or so, I've been waiting for a good, quiet time to sit down and write another letter to you, but that time just hasn't come. If I wait any longer to write this, you'll be 1. So: Hello, my dear girl. I'm gonna have to make this quick.
In the past couple of months, you have really started to come alive. You wave your arms and kick your legs like you're trying to go somewhere. You have discovered your hands, and they are your snack of choice. You like your bouncy seat, but you love the play mat even more. You laugh—you laugh!—and it is one of my favorite sounds in the world.
You probably know by now that you have joined a zany family. Your brother makes music all day long, singing at the top of his lungs and banging on every surface he can with two spatulas he calls drumsticks. He runs laps in our living room and practically bounces off the walls. Sometimes, your papa roughhouses with him, and they make up ridiculous games like "Kaboom!" Sometimes, I play, too, and together we fill the house with lively song and raucous laughter.
For the first two months of your life, Maira, you napped through it all. But now, you are starting to join in the fun too. Your eyes follow Henry wherever he goes. Your lips curl to a smile. When we're lucky, you giggle and coo along.
We're no Family Von Trapp, but oh, it is so much fun! I hope you think so, too.
Last week, you got your first cold. We all got sick, actually, but you were the last to catch it. You lost your appetite, you stopped sleeping soundly, and you only wanted to be held upright. If anyone tried to veer from this plan, you cried and screamed and arched your back in agony. It was heart-wrenching to see you so upset, especially since you're usually so calm and chill. I started to worry that something serious was wrong with you, but the doctor said, nope, just a cold. So we did all we could do to keep you comfortable and, after a long and hard week, you were back to your normal sweet self.
Let's not do that again anytime soon, okay? I never want to see you hurt again.
Oh, I know I will. This is life, and it gets rough. But I wish I could always protect you. I wish you could always feel happy and safe and loved.
Being a mother to a little girl has filled me with so many new ideas and emotions I'm barely beginning to understand. I am going to have to save it for another letter, though. It's almost dinner time. Your brother just woke up from his nap, and you just let out a big yelp. I feel a meal coming on—and maybe a song and dance, too.
For now, lovely Maira, just know that I am so grateful that you are my daughter.
I love you like mad.
This is the second in a series of letters to my daughter, Maira. I also wrote letters to my son Henry almost every month for the first year of his life. You can read previous ones here, here, and here.