Maya's third birthday is tomorrow.
I find myself in pure wonderment of how much personality this child has developed in three short years, from exiting the womb in a swift four minutes to walking around the house, naked, carrying a winter hat around and saying, "I have a carrot in my hat!" (And sure enough, she does.)
Maya, not unlike the mom whose genetics she shares, is a fiercely independent creature. I remember when Sandi was in labor the night Maya was born. She didn't want to sound the labor alarm for everyone to get in their cars and drive to the hospital. She would lie down and rest a little, read a book to Ella, get up and walk (all the while we were coaxing her to get in the car and let me take her to the hospital.) Finally, when she had trouble talking and standing she said, "OK, I think it's time now." No fuss. No hurry. No crisis.
Maya shares the independence, but negative on the lack of drama.
Maya needs to have the "Annie" soundtrack in each car she travels in. From the backseat comes the demand: "It's a hard knock life!" She knows the words or makes them up, the intonation, the dramatic rise and fall of the music. She kicks to the rhythm, tilts her head back and belts out "Tomorrow" as though she is little orphan Annie desperately hoping to find her parents.
Who are, of course, in the front seat.
Last night at supper she said, "My clip is falling out! My clip is falling out! Help Punjab help!!!" (If you haven't watched Annie lately, there is a scene at the end when Annie is suspended up high, about to fall, and she calls out to Punjab the body card for help, amidst tears and terrified screams.)
She is a girl full of spirit and spunk, fire and determination. She can just as easily wrap her arms around you and tell you she loves you or smack you on the face and scowl at you. Last week she had to be fireman carried out of the mall because she took off on us three different times. As I carried her out, kicking and screaming, "I WANT MOMMY!", I sighed and understood this is all part of having Maya. (Sandi was surprised and a little mortified that no one stopped me, carrying a child that was crying for her mother. Good point.)
We have coined the phrase: "Sometimes Maya's love hurts."
She loves bandans (bandaids) and bloshclothes (washcloths), her big sister (except when she is compelled to bite her), her teacher Miss Lynn at school and pasta. She is a pack rat who always has to take a bag in the car full of puzzle pieces, plastic food, hair elastics and a piece of jewelry. She doesn't care much for dessert but loves candy. She often can't choose between her favorite underpants so she wears two pairs. She is a little bit crazy, a lot hilarious and we marvel at how so much outrageous can be contained in that tiny body.
How can you want so much for your baby to be just a little less dependent on you and then still feel like you want to cry when you realize this is the last day she will be two?