For days now, I’ve been trying to figure out what I could
write about Penny’s fifth birthday. It somehow looms large and significant in
my mind, and yet the words to express why slip away as soon as I try to capture
them.

Is it because I can remember myself at five?

Or because she all of a sudden seems all grown up?

Or maybe it’s that photo–where did she lose her pot belly and become a fashionista?

Or that newfound confidence: “Now that I’m five, I can go
potty by myself.” Or starting to sound out words on flash cards… Or telling me
a story, “Once upon a time there was a little girl and her dad…”

We went out to lunch, just the two of us, the day before her
birthday. I brought a book and a drawing pad to distract her, but we didn’t need
either. She simply sat across the table from me and we talked. There was
nothing profound about our time. She had a cheeseburger and French fries and
was delighted to discover that a free ice cream cone came with her meal. (A few
bites in, I suggested “three more bites.” Somehow she negotiated me up to
seven, and she hasn’t let me forget it.) And we had a lovely evening at a simple
family birthday party. She reveled in the attention and her eyes got wide as
her dad toasted her and she enjoyed every last bite of her chocolate cake. But
none of that strikes me as unusual–for Penny or for any other kid. 

So maybe the reason I have nothing to write is because there isn’t anything that significant about her fifth birthday. She’s just a kid who enjoys being the center of attention like anyone else. But I know there’s more to it than that. 

I suppose her fifth birthday seems so significant to me because
there was a long time, after Penny was born, when I truly couldn’t imagine her
growing up. In fact, when I was afraid to imagine her growing up, afraid that
growing up would mean hardship for her or disappointment for us. I was afraid
that I wouldn’t know her, that we wouldn’t be able to communicate, that she
would be fading away rather than coming to life. But long ago, my fear turned to delight, and the delight only increases.

I could leave it there, but I think it’s important to record
that Penny is no wonder-child. She whines. She complains. She cries and pouts
and goes limp and makes me think I am a failure as a mother when I can’t manage
to get two children out the door in the morning. My wonder at her life is not
because her life is exceptional, or because she is all sweetness and light. My delight
in her life is just how typical it is–a life of challenges and joys, a life of
crying and laughing, a life of anger and embrace, a rich life. A full life.

Happy Birthday, Penny. I love you.