Charlotte. Charlie. Charlie Warlie. Charlie girl.
Charlotte,
I was planning on going to bed just now, but my mind won’t stop writing this letter to you.
I can honestly tell you that I don’t have a favorite child. The thought of it is ridiculous. I love you and your brother and sister equally and wholly. There isn’t the tiniest spec of difference.
But. But, Charlotte, you are my firstborn. And that is a place that no one else can ever fill (and it’s the same with Ben and Libby, too – as second and third born). You are the one that made me a mama, and it is my most cherished role.
It’s leap year, this year. We had a February 29th, and on that day I composed this letter to you…in my mind. I thought of many things and even wrote them down. I was silly though, Charlie girl, and I wrote them down in my phone. And then, you know what happened? I had to get a new phone. I checked and double checked to make sure every picture, every app was safely saved. Did I check my messages? I glanced at them. I certainly didn’t see the ones to myself, all the way down at the bottom. The 40-50 or so little “notes” I had made myself. A few about Ben, a couple about Libby, one or two about this old house. The rest, though, they were all about you. It’s such a silly thing. Just day-to-day stuff that you do that amazes and amuses me. Things I don’t want to forget. They are gone now. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Charlie, the tears pouring down my face beg to differ. Charlie, I am terrified of forgetting these moments. These moments that leave me in awe, day in and day out and I can’t remember them.
I wonder why. Why can’t I remember everything. Charlotte, I wish I could remember what our day-to-day life was like when you were 1 month, 3 months, 8 months and 2 years old. I wish I could remember everything. Everything. I really do. I wish I could go back in my mind and play it, like a DVD.
I know it seems like, when I write in this space, that I don’t want you to grow up. Charlie, that’s not true. It’s not true at all. Please understand me when I say that watching you change and grow is heartbreaking and wonderful. Each new thing, from sitting up to learning how to read is so sad for me. It means you need me a little less, each and every time. I tell myself that pretty soon you won’t need me at all, but I know it’s a lie. I still need Grammy, you know? Charlotte, I want you to grow up. Tall, strong, confident. I want you to love God first, and love people and love life. I want you to experience all the joys of growing older, and I’ll do my best to minimize any of the hurts. Every milestone you meet is a victory I am proud to celebrate with you.
I don’t know why this “remember everything” compulsion is so strong with you. I feel it with your brother and sister, too. But in a much smaller capacity. Part of it is the simple the fact that I didn’t know I was going to forget. I didn’t take care to remember, Charlie, because in the moments when you were little I thought, “How could I ever forget this?” I didn’t take enough pictures (and many that I did take, are lost forever due to a erased hard drive. Something I still can’t talk about without crying.). I didn’t write anything down. The camera that we had when you were born? I’m pretty sure the camera on my phone is better than that piece of junk (which you and your siblings happily play with now).
This is something that I think about a lot, and it’s brought to my mind even more now that I “lost” those messages to myself. What did mothers used to do? Before photography? Before video cameras? Before even writing stuff down was a “thing”? I think about mothers in other countries whose lives are so very different from ours, and I wonder if they would find my tears a waste. After all, I have you. You are healthy and well-fed. You are smart and beginning to be educated. You have a roof over your head and shoes to wear. I know, deep in my heart, that this is true: if I lost everything – every photo, every note, every picture you’ve made, but still had you, your brother, your sister, and your dad – it would be enough.
Oh, Charlotte. I know that. I really, really do. And yet I can’t stop crying. Here are some recent memories I have of you. I’m going to try to be better, try not to procrastinate so much. Keep up with this, for you, Ben, and Libby. (Can I tell you a secret? I feel like if I keep a more accurate record of Ben and Libby that it’s somehow doing you a disservice. Do you agree with me? I wish I could ask you as a grown up. Are your feelings hurt that by the time they came along, I knew I was going to forget? So I tried harder. I’m sorry, baby girl.)
– You feed the dog most days, most meals. You even remind me, when I forget. You always include Ben and Libby.
– You are an amazing big sister. I try to tell you this out loud all the time. You are. You’re kind and generous to a fault. You love them so much, and try to care for them all the time. You encourage them, and delight in them. You’re always saying, “Look what Libby can do!” ; “Did you hear Ben say that? Doesn’t he sound so cute?” ; and on and on. Tonight Ben said that he was sick, and I told him to go lie down in his bed. You followed him into his room and put the trashcan by his bed. That was so sweet, sissy. I have to say though, Elizabeth is spoiled by you. If she makes a peep about anything, you are constantly trying to make her happy. You ask to sleep with Ben all the time, and when you do it’s all three of you in the same room. I love your relationship with your siblings. I pray all the time that you stay close when you grow up.
– You are type of person who is almost always happy and bubbly. Sometimes, it scares me. I feel like if I snap at you or say the wrong thing I could break your joyful spirit.
– When you play hide and seek you say, “Hear not, hear not, here I come.”
– You are a planner. You always want to know what’s coming next. You constantly ask what our plans are, and every single night when you go to bed you say, “What are we doing tomorrow?”
– You love to listen to the radio and sing along. If you hear one you like, you always ask us to leave it on that station.
– You are at the age where you are outraged by people’s attire. You always say things like, “Can you believe she is wearing that in public?” It’s funny, but I try to be serious for you.
– You like to wear your hair down the best. You like when it’s “curly” (braided when it’s wet, then undone when dry). You like to wear skirts and dresses all the time. You like to sleep in my tank tops. You think that you will fit into my shoes in “about three years” or when you’re “sixteen”.
– You’ve completely mastered the monkey bars, even the really hard ones that go up and down. You can swing completely by yourself.
– You love everyone. You have favorites that you love enthusiastically. You admire women who take time with their appearance.
– You are a big help with anything we ask. You aren’t very good at keeping your room picked up.
This is just a tiny percentage, but if I dwell on what’s gone I’ll be sad again. The point is, Charlotte, that I am glad for an extra day this year. I plan to celebrate you each year as you get older. I am thankful, though, for an extra day of you at five. I love you, sweet girl.
