I remember asking you as your daddy handed you to me for the very first time, "What took you so long?" Little did I know, that would be the story of your so far very short life. And it can be very frustrating for your mama, who prefers to speed walk everywhere. I like to pretend that if we rush into the bakery I'm burning off the calories of the mayhem I'm about to ingest. It's hardly a solid theory, but go with it. GO WITH IT.
The first song I sang to you was Sea of Love. I sang it throughout my pregnancy and I sing it to you now. It makes you so quiet. You usually twirl my hair as I whisper it in your ear.
Your daddy and I fought over your name. Believe it or not, Lucca was not necessarily the name either of us liked best, but it was the only one we could agree on. If it were up to your father, you'd probably be named Wonder Woman or Cleopatra. You're welcome.
But it's funny, because you look like a Lucca. Or a Lu, Luie, Lulu, Goose, Sissy, Squeezy (only Milo calls you that) or whatever we decide you should be for the day. They all fit you. You are unique, and not in that way that people say "unique" but what they really mean is "special".
Daine is my middle name, Diane, scrambled. Your Great-Great Grandma was Louise. Her daughter is Linda Louise. Her daughter, your Babushka, is Linda Diane. And then there's me, Bridget Diane. When I was filling out your birth certificate the nurse kept bringing it back telling me I misspelled your name. So you have a different first name and middle. But it is really easy and fluid to yell "Lucca Daine", so I'm not changing it. I'm sorry if someday you hate me for this name. But I don't think you will. I hope this name will give you power, and comfort in knowing that your parents cared so much they almost got into a slap fight over what it should be.
You currently have a rat tail. It's a good two inches longer than the rest, and I plan on never cutting it. I don't know when it's customary for little geese to get haircuts, but seeing as how you were bald for the first 18 months of life, I really am not ready for you to lose even half an inch of your stringy, rat's nest-esque hair.
You are an intelligent little girl. I watch you when you think no one is paying attention, and you do the most amazing things. And in that same respect, you act dumb when you know I'm looking, in attempt to get me to do it for you. So far, your plan is working. I'm wrapped around your finger and you know it. And it's not just me. Your father calls you Princess. But just so you know that one has an expiration date of yesterday. I will not have an entitled toddler running around. Especially because I am the entitled one around here, and I don't appreciate the competition.
I am in love with you, my little junior. You are the essence of everything I imagined when dreaming of the family I might have some day. My soul smiles when I think of what lies in front of you, and I can't wait to watch your life fold about before you.
I hope you always feel my love.
I hope you always hug your brother like you do now.
I hope you always have neck rolls.
I hope you potty train quickly.
I hope you become really rich so I can come and live off of you someday.
I hope you will be proud of how we raise you.
I hope you never get a tattoo of the Justin Bieber equivalent of your generation.
I hope you won't hate me if you ever come across this blog and see all the things I wrote about you for the whole world to see.
Happy Birthday, my littlest girl. You are wonderful from head to tippy-toe, even when you throw yourself on the ground and I have to actually drag you through the Hy-Vee parking lot. (This is part is more for me than you. It's a mantra I say over and over in attempt to not completely lose it.)
FOREVER & EVER