Blythe, this last year as I watched you shoot out of your lingering baby chubs and try to bite apples with missing front teeth, I realized too soon you’ll be learning to drive and talking about boys and venturing out into the world toting your imagination and love of color alongside. And part of me wants to bottle up that toothless smile dressed in mismatched bright colors, but I know I can’t. And so I write and take pictures, relishing each day. Well, I try.
I love you, Blythe. I love the way you naturally watch over your sister and even your older brothers (although this can be source of grief and tension at times). I love the way you dance when you think no one is watching, and put everything (and I do mean everything) into a song — you’re living in a musical, I suppose. Regardless, young heroine, you approach the world fearlessly and with sensitivity. I love this dichotomy in you. But more, I just love you.
You really wanted to ride a ferris wheel this year, so Dad and I surprised you (and the rest of the kiddos) with just that. Dad took a day off of work and we all drove down to the Kemah Boardwalk on the Texas coast. We rode the ferris wheel, along with other things that drop you, twist you, and spin you. You ate cotton candy, ordered soda with your dinner, and squealed in delight most of the day (minus your tears over not being tall enough to ride a handful of bigger, scarier rides with the brothers). As I tucked you in that night, you looked at me and whispered, “That was the best birthday present ever.” My heart is still smiling. Happy 6th year, dear one. We loved every minute celebrating you today.