Dear Sara Felice,

I am late in writing this month, but my excuse is valid; we lost your GG (Great Grandmother) on March 5th, and the family “moved her to heaven” yesterday (the phrase I used to explain our absence to you). Her services truly were a celebration of life, but I’ll admit having cried almost every single day since last August, when we discovered how little time we had left with her. As you well know, I am the token crier in the family, and I did not shirk my duties. I cried very few of those tears for me; I cried for you and Kelly. I so desperately wanted her to live long enough for you to have even a glimmer of a memory of her. I could never describe her to you, as she defies all descriptives. Perhaps the easiest and most succinct picture comes from your Aunt Jenny who called that 85 year old, 4’11” wonder, “Just about the coolest chic I’ve ever met.” You are the spitting image of her, and the two of you share the same birthmark on your right arm. If I can raise you to be even a little bit like her, it will so be: Universe: 1, Dark Side: 0.

On a lighter note, you returned to your asteroidal growth trajectory this month. And when I say “growth”, I am using that word figuratively. Kelly continues to bridge the gap between the two of you in weight (currently you are less than 6 lbs apart), and by her 18th month birthday, you two should be sharing clothes. It’s been wonderful having you back to yourself after the long winter. And by wonderful, I mean sometimes. We are having endless fun with you, but you continue to be oh-so-very-two. You continue to cry A LOT (I should add, when you don’t get your way), and I walk you to the Alone Space (only 4x this afternoon) and tell you to gather your thoughts and calm down. It never fails. In 1 minute or less, you come out smiling and announce gleefully, “I stop tying now.”

In more advanced techniques, you’ve learned to negotiate. It went something like this a few weeks ago:

Sara: Tam I watch Mickey? (to say Mickey correctly, you must lift your voice 7 octaves at the end and REALLY emphasize “MiCKEY?!”

Mommy: Well, first we must have a negotiation.

But before I could get out, “I want you to pick up your toys first”, you put a tiny finger up and said,

Sara: Otay Mommy. I watch Mickey ONE time.

Um no, sweetheart: the negotiation wasn’t centered on the number of times you would watch Mickey. Not that I don’t love watching Professor Drake turn Goofy into a baby OVER AND OVER AND OVER until I want to pluck out my eyeballs with a spoon and turn my eardrums into some kind of chowder, just to get them underwater where I can’t hear the words, “OH TOODLES!”

We play a new game at dinner called, “What did you do today?”, which you call, “What you do day?” Each person tells 2 truths and 1 lie, and then we giggle and call out the lie. Daddy and I started this game before we discovered you had not mastered lying. I guess we assumed the girl who regularly wears chemistry lab goggles with princess dresses was creative enough to tell a fib. You LOVE this game. It usually goes like this:

Sara: Daddy, what you do day?

Daddy: I went to work, I had a sandwich for lunch, and I….RODE ON AN AIRPLANE!

Sara: NOOO! You didn’t ride an airprane!

Daddy: Sara, what did you do today?

Sara: I prayed at stool (played at school), I tyed (cried) on my tot (cot)….[followed by eerie silence as you peer about the room waiting for us to bust out laughing]……..MOMMY! What you do day?!

So rather than teaching you a funny way to make up a story, we are apparently working hard at turning you into a pathological liar. Score Update: Parents of the Year: 0, Dark Side: 1.

You’ve started using abstract phrases lately. Hmm, where do you get that trait? I had the newspaper open to a large ad for an Elmo show coming to town, to which you pointed and yelped, “That’s my favorite Elmo AT ALL!” Close, so very close Sunshine. One morning I asked you, “Did you hear a sound?”, and you confidently replied, “Oh the cats are knocking on the door or something.” Just plain as day, or something. You now add the words “Otay” to everything, and very emphatically. You might be turning into a drama queen, but why jump the gun on that judgment? Just because you have a total and complete NERVOUS BREAKDOWN if I don’t let you carry lip gloss around with you at all times? I mean, I don’t want to make you sound maudlin because after all, you are flexible on the FLAVOR of lip gloss.

I had a super-duper-don’t-ever-want-to-forget-it moment in Motherhood this month. You are obsessed with singing “Tomorrow” from Annie. Since our last posting of the singing video, you’ve added entire verses (when I’m suck wit a day, that’s grway….and oh-ohnwee), and perhaps most importantly, hand gestures. You are an entire Show Choir unto yourself. I’ll break you of the Rising Sun hand movement before your 13th birthday. Otherwise my dear, your high school years are going to be very, very long. Your Daddy and I bought you the movie, as you had no idea it was anything more than a CD in our car. One Friday night (after we did a little mutual beg-fest with your Daddy who would rather sign the Kyoto Treaty than break your bedtime routine), we stayed up late (LIKE PAST 8 PM GIRL!), turned off the lights in the basement, cuddled on the couch eating cookies, and watched Annie. You were mesmerized. When “It’s a hard knock life” began, you nearly fell off the couch yelling, “Dere’s Dancing???!!!!” Annie is one of mine and Aunt Amanda’s favorite childhood movies, so we are pretty sure we can tolerate the one billion times we’ll watch it with you over the next ten years.

The downside is that you figured out Annie and the other girls are orphans. Unforgivable from a Mommy who has never let you see the beginning of Finding Nemo. You turned to me and said, “Miss Hannigan is NOT a Mommy.” And I replied, “Sara, not everyone has a Mommy and Daddy. But YOU DO. And we all live here, together.” (Desperately trying to head off the Mommy-loss nightmares that recently you claim include scary monkeys?) You then pounded your chest and said, “AND I WIB HERE, WIF MOMMY.”

That’s right Duck, you live here. In our hearts and minds, and in our face at 3 am when you are a “wittle bit scared”…you live here. You are so integral to our existence that without you this week, I felt short of breath. Honest to God, you are my air. I nearly had panic attacks when I couldn’t hug and kiss you every 10 minutes. I look at baby Kelly and then I look over at you, my big girl; I was certain you’d be an infant forever.  Tomorrow snuck in and turned you into a little person.  I guess it’s true…tomorrow is really only a day away.

You are both my oxygen, and yet I require oxygen to keep up with you,

Mommy