The second girl to ever paint my toes

You are one of only two girls I've ever let paint my toes. The other is your fave cousin, probably when she was about the same age.  Which is no surprise, as you two are so alike, and I always have a hard time telling you no.

You are fierce.  And tender.  And may you always be.  

One moment, you rage, in a fit of anger and frustration.  The next, you curl up in a fetal and pout, or come to me and softly ask if we can snuggle.  The answer to that will forever be yes.

You have my heart.  And my blue eyes.

You are stu-... ("Siri, what is a synonym for stubborn?")  You are headstrong like your mother.  It is a trait that sometimes leads to battles and exasperation, but one I feel will serve you well as you go out into the world.  A world where so many people still treat and think of women as less than.

You're into princesses and Barbies.  I counted six Barbies last night just in the tub alone.  Probably thirty more are in the bin in the living room.... next to your four-story dollhouse.  I've become quite adept at dressing (and undressing) dolls, a quirk that might be considered somewhat disturbing if I didn't have a six-year-old.

You are a Swiftie through and through.  We took you to see a Taylor Swift impersonator (or imposter, as your brother kept calling her) last week for your birthday.  You danced with your mother and brother whilst Daddy -- one of only four men at the show, and one was the photographer -- sat and held your beloved Kitty and zippy, smiling.

You literally dance your way through life.  Moving gracefully, room to room, day to day, as if you are the star in a years-long musical that no one else knows about.  My dear Harper, may it ever be so. 

You love ketchup.  Any kind of dipping sauce, really.  You unashamedly stick your tongue into the McDonald's sweet and sour container to ensure you get your absolute maximum amount of sauce.  We don't even get food from there.  Your mother just orders a Coke and buys however many packets they will give her for twenty bucks.

You are all about some snacks!  Graham crackers, Hershey kisses, potato chips, cheese--in stick form, shredded, sliced, and grated.  Just last week you licked the top of the grated parmesan container.  One of my favorite snack stories is the time I asked what kind of chips you wanted from the pantry, and you said all three.  A minute later, I had invented the chipcuterie board.

You are sweet and thoughtful.  Anytime I get a cut, or a scrape, or a bruise, you come and kiss it.   A few weeks ago, when your friend had lost her helium balloon and was crying, you gave her yours.  And when the two of you aren't cat-and-dog fighting, you're even kind to your brother.  On occasion.

We play school, dolls, and art class.  We color, paint, and create sidewalk chalk masterpieces.  We play dress up.  Well, you do.  None of the princess dresses would fit me, thankfully.  And yes, we snuggle.  Your hugs and kisses are as plenteous as they are precious.

You used to say you wanted to marry me.  Then for a little while it was your brother.  Now it's some kid named Denver.  "I think I'm gonna marry Denver.  But I might have to make him," I believe were your exact words.

You have truly bloomed over the past year.  Your behavior.  Your maturity.  Your reading and vocabulary have come so far.  You lost your first two teeth.  You learned to swim.

You've been planning and talking about your birthday since February.  So excited to turn six, while I'm dreading fifty-two.  But I really shouldn't be.  Because, God willing, it's another year I get to see what amazing, mind-blowing things you and your brother learn and accomplish.  Another year of hugs, smooches, and snuggles, I hope!

Hope.  I have so many for you. 

I hope you know and believe you can be anything you want to be.  I hope you chase dreams, and I hope you catch them.  I hope you are always kind, curious, honest, compassionate, and fearless.  I hope you love, laugh, cry, and think for yourself.  I hope you live, rather than simply exist.

I hope you treat each person you meet as if they are important, until they prove to you otherwise.  I hope you find something you love.  I hope you have travels and adventures.  I hope you spend breezy, contented evenings under fading sunlight.  I hope you have enough.

And when you're twenty-six and I'm pushing seventy-two, I hope you might find a few precious bits of time to call, visit, or drop off the grandkids.  Whoa whoa whoa!  Grandkids?  I think you and Denver need to slow it down a little.  Just tell him you need some space.  About twenty years worth. 

Between now and then, and all along the way, I hope you're still dancing.  And as long as I or your mother have a breath in our lungs, I hope you know you always have a place to come home to.

Your birth story is one I will always tell.  Your mother texting, "You need to get here now."  Tearing through traffic, trying to get to the hospital on time.  Being so stressed I would be late.  Then walking in to complete calm.  No doctor.  No nurses.  Nobody.  Except for you and your mother, with your tiny head on her chest.   

I had missed it.

And yet, I wasn't upset like I had thought I would be.  In fact, I wasn't upset at all.  Every ounce of stress was gone.

It was a girl.  I was in love.  And I fall in love with you a little more each day.

Happy birthday, Harper.  "As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

*heart hands*