Birthday Girl

Happy Birthday, big girl. Three years ago, I remember walking circles around the house, wondering if this was "it." Indeed it was, and you were born the next morning at eight sixteen, a delicate, blue eyed beauty. One of our visitors, holding you adoringly the evening after you were born, described you as a rosebud. I thought this was a perfect word for your newborn self. And for your three year old self, too. Throughout the day you are a wild child, run run running everywhere, constantly moving to the next activity, a whirlwind of energy and fun. But if you could only see your sleeping self! It is the very same porcelain skin, the full, pursed lips, the fan of thick lashes. I still see my rosebud baby. (Thankfully, however, I no longer see that plaid couch! Ahem.)