Dear Z,

Three years ago today, I received a phone call from my brother. He told me, his voice shaking with tenderness, about his newborn son, who had 10 fingers and 10 toes and blue eyes and a cute little cleft in his lip. You were nearly a week overdue, and labor had to be induced because an ultrasound showed that you were in distress. We were all grateful and relieved that the ultrasound turned out to be wrong, and you were born healthy, with no complications. Your parents were euphoric and giddy with love for you.

I met you for the first time three weeks later, when I visited Colorado both to attend some friends’ wedding and to see you. I remember your mother carrying you down the stairs, handing you to me almost reverently, saying to you, “This is your Auntie Monique.” You couldn’t say anything then, of course. Later, when you had begun to speak, you called me “Moke,” and by your second birthday it had evolved to “Mowique,” which it remains to this day. If you ever outgrow “Mowique,” as I imagine you someday will, I’ll feel like a precious era of my life has ended.

When you were about six months old, you had surgery to fix that cleft lip. The procedure was performed at Children’s Hospital in Denver, and you parents were very pleased with the level of service, care, and family-friendliness there. Your room was set up with a bed for them, too, so they could stay with you overnight without having to sleep in an armchair or on a loveseat. It was difficult for your parents–and the rest of us who loved you–to know you were experiencing the pain and trauma of surgery at such a young age. During your recovery, your hands were bound so you couldn’t tear the bandages off your face, and that was especially hard on your mom because she knew how much you loved to wave your arms. But you came through the whole process, and today you have only a small scar on your upper lip as a reminder. It’s not very visible, but when you cry, the tears follow the track of the scar toward your mouth.

Before you were a year old, you loved to bounce in your ExerSaucer. You would make so much noise jumping up and down in that thing! You crawled late, but when you finally got the hang of it, you got around with amazing speed and efficiency.

Before you were two, you had started talking and had a fairly extensive vocabulary for a child of that age. When I saw you at Christmas of 2010, I was going through a difficult time emotionally, and your presence helped soothe and comfort me. Instead of counting sheep when I tried to go to sleep, I counted your words, trying to keep track of how many I’d heard you say and whether you’d learned any new ones. One night, you placed your hand on my shoulder, said, “Moke,” and looked into my eyes with so much gentleness that I almost burst out crying. I can’t tell you what that level of uncomplicated, unconditional love meant to me. Just know that without being old enough to understand what was going on, you helped pull me through some very dark times.

We’ve had some fun adventures since I moved back to Colorado, you and I. We’ve been to the zoo, where you love to look at the gorillas and orangutans, the lions, the giraffes, and sometimes the hippos. (You think they’re cool in retrospect, but they can be a bit overwhelming when you’re in the same building.) We’ve gone to the pet store to see the fish and frogs, even though for a long time I thought you were asking to see “the fox” instead of “the f’ogs.” We look at airplanes and helicopters when they fly overhead, and we blow bubbles in the front yard (you try to pop most of mine!). You love John Deere tractors–any other tractors are “the wrong kind.” You adore the movie Cars and frequently travel to Radiator Springs in your imagination. Last week you had me rolling with laughter at your live-action rendition of the scenes onscreen (you fell onto your back when the tractors toppled over, and then you raced in circles yelling, “VROOM!” to approximate Doc Hudson racing around the desert). You like “driving Grandpa’s car” but only in theory; when your dad decided to take you for a ride, the loud engine noise spooked you. In general, you’re not a fan of loud noises unless you’re the one making them. You play the drums with insane energy and sing at the top of your lungs. But when Grandpa once yelled, “Interception!” during a football game, you burst into tears. You like fireworks, but the bangs sent you flying into your mom’s arms. You love Bugs Bunny–which you watch with your dad every night before bed–and you like “shooting rabbits.” You point your toy guns at imaginary rabbits (and tomatoes, because you’re allowed to shoot those too) and yell, “Bar! Bar! Bar!” For some reason, “Bar!” is your gun noise. You also love to play the guitar, and you’ve corrected my strumming on more than one occasion. You’re a helpful and considerate host; last time I spent a weekend at your house, you showed me to the bathroom and generously offered to help me wipe.

At your birthday party yesterday, you wished everyone a happy birthday. You shared your presents– “Here’s a car for you, Grandma!” You had a little more difficulty sharing with your little sister, but that’s to be expected.

And speaking of your little sister, you love her so much that you’ve spent the last several nights on a mattress on her bedroom floor, because you want to sleep in the same room with her.  You entertain her and comfort her when she cries; you’ve fetched bottles from the fridge when you think she’s hungry, and you try to feed her. She, for her part, adores you and watches you incessantly. When you make noises like ROAR! and VROOM! she makes them too, which is pretty funny.

You’re one of my favorite people, and you’ve brightened the lives of everyone who knows you. I’m privileged and grateful to be your auntie. I hope we’ll remain close for many more of your birthdays, because I look forward to continuing to know who you are and to seeing who you become.

Love,

Mowique