And, today, you're three.

Listen, guys. I try really hard not to be sappy and fall into a pit of hyperbolic nostalgia every time a significant date goes by, but WHO AM I KIDDING? Hyperbole is my life force (here's looking at you, Jen Hatmaker) and when it comes to my daughter, nostalgia dominates my every waking moment. When she was born, I reminisced on the days I imagined becoming a mother, thinking back to that young woman who wondered what her first child would look like, smell like, feel like. The night before Lucy turned one, I rocked her to sleep and kissed her pretty blonde head as I whispered, "You're not a baby anymore, but you're still my baby." Last year, as she stuck out her pinky and took a sip of her birthday tea, I marveled at the tiny human we'd made who would, sooner rather than later, become a big, grown-up human.

And every year, I cry.

Today, Lucy turns three. THREE. That's three whole years of tantrums (me, not her) and diapers, of belly laughs and sweetness beyond belief, of overcoming and remembering and taking deep, long breaths. Three whole years of surviving and, dare I say, thriving in this mother/daughter relationship that honestly just rocks my damn socks off. It's the bee's knees. It is unlike any experience ever before in the history of the world. IT IS ALL THE THINGS.

Lucy was born exactly a week before Thanksgiving, and that will never stop making me happy. She is my reminder to slow down and sit still in the chaos when I'm tempted to run from here to there. She's the sometimes not-so-gentle nudge that life and work and deadlines will always "need" me, but no need will ever trump a dance party with my girl. Lucy is thanks and grace and love and redemption in one sweet little package. Children always are, aren't they? My best friend is 39 weeks pregnant with her first child, a little boy, and we are waiting anxiously for his arrival. I hope she gets to share in the joy of a Thanksgiving baby, a gift with the utmost gratitude to launch a season of thankfulness for the One who granted us these gifts. 

Three years ago, Lucy was fifteen days overdue and I was SO ready to finally hold our girl for the first time. One of the things that stands out most to me about that night was how—when the midwife held her up and I caught a glimpse of her perfectly round, squishy face—my brain simply could not compute the enormity of what I was seeing. I remember staring, wide-eyed, and thinking, a little dumbly, "That is mine". But then, when the midwife handed Lucy over and, through tears, I said, "Hi Lucy", she looked right up at me as though she had been waiting to hear those words. 

I guess we were both eager to finally meet each other.

Lucy Goose, you were certainly worth the waiting.

Happy birthday, my love. My heart. Your mama is praying over your life with eucharisteo (and probably lots of tears).