I’ve been stressed lately, because I’ve been pulled in a million different directions. It seems that I keep having to make choices between one activity and another. Everyone has been requesting my presence or my help or input, more so lately than usual. It’s quite flattering, but I can only do so much, and when I say “yes” to one thing, that means I have to say “no” to the other, in turn potentially disappointing and/or inconveniencing the people associated with it.

I’m a people-pleaser. I don’t do so well with the disappointing and the inconveniencing. But what other choice do I have?

And of course, the one person who is affected most by these decisions is Isabella. Because whenever I’m spending time away from home, she is carted to my parents’ or my uncle’s, or she has to endure a five-hour drive to her dad’s house.

I feel like—as a never-been-married, twentysomething single mom—I’m caught between two worlds: the World of the Young and Sociable, and the World of the Settled and Satisfied. I’m a mom, and Isabella is my family, yet I can’t put myself in the same category as women with a husband and 2.5 kids. In many ways, I’m still a kid myself: I still solicit help from my parents and I still hang out with my friends every weekend (many times I can bring Isabella with me). On the other hand, I often turn down offers to hang out with my non-parent peers because Isabella ultimately comes first.

I’ve struggled with this dichotomy for a long time. I feel like less of a mom when I have to be away from Isabella. Like a REAL MOM wouldn’t be involved in so many other things and would be content staying home with their child. But at the same time, I know that I need to have friendships in order to establish a support system. I know that sometimes I need to put work first because I’m the only one providing income for our household. I know I need to date so that I’m not single forever. I have to look at my “me time” as an investment into our future. And our present, really.

But I also know there’s a line. And that’s where it gets difficult: finding a healthy balance between home life and social life—and accepting that said social life might a little more active than most moms’. I must say, though, that I’m looking forward to the day when staying home with hubby and the chillins is all that’s on my agenda.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about self-discipline. Mainly because I have none. In fact, just a few minutes ago I started to crave chocolate somethin’ fierce. I knew that I shouldn’t have chocolate because of the calories and all that jazz, but I just couldn’t resist the urge. So I went to the vending machine and paid 85 cents for a whopping five Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies.

Willpower is not my forte.

Okay, I’m not THAT bad. It’s not like I do drugs or sit on the couch all day or eat every piece of chocolate I see. (Well, I might do that.) It’s just those little moments in life, ya know, when you have a choice and you know what the right choice is but you opt for instant gratification instead.

How does one become more self-disciplined, is what I want to know. I have such a strong desire to wake up earlier, eat healthier, exercise more… and yet, I can’t just will myself to do these things and call it a day. It seems like it takes more than that. Are some people born with self-discipline and others aren’t? Or is it more of a practice-makes-perfect technique? Like, once you realize what you’re capable of resisting, it’s easier the next time?

This has been heavy on mind for a number of reasons, one of which is my daughter. I’ve noticed that she’s picking up on some of my more lackadaisical habits: She always wants to have “just one more piece of candy, mama!” Or she doesn’t remove her clothes from the floor because she would rather play first. These are things all children do, I know, but I do them too, and I can tell that she’s mimicking the manner in which I throw self-control out the window. Whenever I start to get on her case about it, my conscience says, “Point that finger in the other direction, Miss Thang.”

Ugh, so now I have to teach not only myself how to practice self-discipline, but also my child. That’s a big responsibility. But it’s one that I have to take on, if I want my daughter to avoid a lifetime of folly and consequential regret.

So I’m on a mission to get myself some willpower! I’ll blog about any life-changing epiphanies I may have in the process. And if you have any words of wisdom for me, I will gladly take them!

Whenever Isabella and I come home from work/school, we usually separate and go into our own little worlds. I always shuffle around the house, hanging up coats, opening windows, checking my email, etc. And Isabella takes her daily trip to Isabella Land, where she plays hopscotch with unicorns and performs on stage for an audience of queens, kitty cats and High School Musical characters. (I can’t make these things up, people.)

Yesterday, however, Isabella decided to stay on the Reality side of the fence, but only by a sliver.

She found a tiny black ant crawling on the kitchen floor. The idea of an ant in the kitchen makes me all cringey and paranoid; I immediately envision coming home one day to a whole posse of ants chillin’ out in my cabinets. Yuck. But to Isabella, an ant on the floor is a sacred and beautiful thing. Because ants, apparently, make great pets.

I was off in my bedroom doing whatever when I heard Isabella in the kitchen, opening cabinets and running water and repeating the word “Anty” in a high-pitched voice. Uh-oh, I thought. She has befriended the ant.

A couple of minutes later Isabella went to her room and then excitedly emerged. “Mama!” she said. “The ant is my pet! I named her Anty!”

“Okaaay…” I said, not sure how to proceed. “Where is he now?”

“SHE, mom,” Isabella corrected me. “Anty’s a SHE, not a HE.”

“Okay, where is SHE right now?”

“In my room!” She started to skip away happily.

“Bella,” I stopped her. “Please don’t keep the ant in your room. Her ant friends might find her and they’ll all want to hang out with her. And before you know it, there will be ants all over your room.”

“Oh, I put her in a glass,” she said. “So she’s not on the floor or anything.” I continued processing whether or not this was acceptable. She went on, “I gave her a glass and I filled it with water so she’d have something to drink!”

“You put the ant in water? Bella, ants can’t survive in water.”

Panic took over her face. She rushed to her room, grabbed the glass and ran to the kitchen. I stayed in my room, not taking this as seriously as she was. I heard more rustling with water and cabinets. And then…

“Noooo! Aaaanteeee!” And the wailing began.

I knew what happened. She’d killed the ant. I figured she’d squished her. I found out later that Anty was already dead from floating in the water. (”I just wanted her to have plenty to drink!”) Isabella’s crying continued. I didn’t go to her right away because, well, Isabella cries a lot. She’s overly sensitive. I’m trying to break her out of that habit and by doing so, sometimes it means I have to ignore her.

But there was something different in this cry. This cry contained the sounds of genuine remorse, guilt, grief. Plus it was accompanied by her heart-wrenching calls for the now deceased ant: “Aaaanteeee. Oh, aaaanteeee.”

How does a child become attached to an INSECT, let alone one that she had “known” for less than ten minutes? Maybe it’s because Isabella has been desperate for a pet, or because she was proud of herself for taking the ant in, or because she felt so guilty for killing the poor thing. Whatever the reason, I knew I needed to heed her cries of mourning. I went to her and gave her a long, enveloping hug.

“It’s okay,” I said, running my fingers through her hair. “There will be other ants.” (Yes, I really did just say that.)

Isabella cried for a lot longer than I thought she would. The only way I got her to stop was to give her a cookie. (Sweets trump dead insects every time. Remember that.) After that, Anty was forgotten about. Until bedtime, when I heard Isabella’s sweet voice say nostalgically, “I miss Anty.” My heart broke a little bit at that moment.

Children do such a great job of reminding us that one person’s pest is another’s pet. That the littlest (literally and figuratively) things in life can bring such joy, and also such grief when they’re gone. And that we’re all meant to take care of each other, whether that means providing a home for a little ant or by offering a cookie to a heart-stricken 6-year-old.

Rest in peace, Anty.

At least once a week, I wake up in the middle of the night to the tap-tap-tap of Isabella’s tiny finger on my shoulder.

“Mah-muh,” she says in her cutest timid voice. “I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?”

And because I’m half-asleep—but mostly because I’m a total pushover when my little girl is scared—I usually let her crawl into my bed. (I am aware that this is not a good habit to get into, but try telling me that at 2:00 in the morning.)

I think the bigger problem is that my 6-year-old daughter is having nightmares regularly. That concerns me. But I also don’t completely buy it. Is she just telling me that so she can sleep in my bed? Hmmm.

In an attempt to combat this problem, I stole an idea from the film Stepmom, where Susan Sarandon’s character and her son plan “dream dates” together. Because they can’t be together every night, they talk on the phone about where they’re going to meet each other in their dreams. I use this tactic to give Isabella something positive to look forward to, even though she’s not actually going to dream about what we plan. She doesn’t know that, though.

So before Isabella goes to sleep, I ask her, “Where should we go in our dreams tonight?” Usually she wants to go to the beach or on a picnic. But last night? She picked THE JONAS BROTHERS CONCERT. Oh boy.

But I totally got into it. Here’s how we planned for the “dream” to play out…

Me: If we’re going to a dream Jonas Brothers concert, we’d better sit in the front row.

Isabella: Why?

Me: Because you want to be as close as possible to the Jo-Bros! Look! I can see up Kevin’s nose!

Isabella [giggling]: Eww, gross!

Me: Joe’s sweat just landed on my hand! [I pretend to swoon.] Ohmagoodness, I can feel Joe’s SWEAT!!

Isabella: Mom. You’re weird.

Me: And then, after the concert, let’s dream that the Jonas Brothers invite us to a party backstage.

[Isabella's eyes light up.]

Me: This is the coolest party. Look at all of that food! I’m going to have pizza and Diet Coke. What are you going to eat?

Isabella: Cookies and cake and chips and pizza and… peanut butter and banana sandwiches! And Kool-Aid.

Me: Wow, that’s a lot of food. You’re belly’s going to be so big you won’t be able to dance! What song should the Jonas Brothers play so we can dance?

Isabella: Burnin’ Up! [She starts singing.]

Me [dancing]: I love this song! This is a great party!

Isabella: This is the best party EVER!

Me: Well, it looks like we have to go now. Nick just told me that they’re having a blast with us but they have to go to their next concert now.

Isabella: Bye Nick! Bye Joe! I don’t want to say goodbye to Kevin because I don’t like him.

Me: Aw, poor guy. Well, I’ll say goodbye to him so he doesn’t feel left out. See ya, Kevin!

Isabella then giggled wildly for a couple of minutes. I turned off her light and kissed her goodnight. “See ya in the front row,” I whispered. Another giggle and she was out.

And she slept soundly—in her own bed—all night.

It’s pretty much old news by now, and I know we’re all sick of hearing about it, but I have just a few things to say about the Chris Brown/Rihanna domestic abuse story. It’s been heavy on my mind for the past few weeks, and it’s time I write about it. From a parent’s perspective.

In case you’ve been in a hole in the ground for the past month and don’t know what I’m referring to, I’ll give you a brief synopsis: Hip-hop star Chris Brown beat the crap out of his hip-hop star girlfriend Rihanna. ‘Nuff said.

There is a lot of speculation as to what went down. There are rumors about the specific incident itself. (Chris received a text message from another woman, which made Rihanna jealous, which started the brawl…) There are psychoanalytical theories as to why Chris resorted to hitting her. (He himself was beaten as a child.) And then there is a disturbingly large number of people—primarily TEENAGE GIRLS—who think Rihanna "deserved" the beating and that Chris only deserves "better." Hmmm.

I’m not going to pretend I know the intimate details of Chris and Rihanna’s relationship. No one knows except for Chris and Rihanna. What I DO know is, no matter what the reason, this shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have happened to them, it shouldn’t happen to you, it shouldn’t happen to me, it shouldn’t happen to anyone.

And yet it does happen. All the time. And as a parent of a beautiful little girl, I want to figure out exactly why and how and what I can do to keep it from happening to her.

I’m no parenting expert, but I think there are some obvious things that we parents CAN do, even (in fact, especially) while our children are young:

1) Never, ever hit, push or grab your child. If you believe in spanking as a form of discipline, do so when you are calm and collected, not out of anger or desperation. And give the child warning ahead of time that you will spank her only if she continues to misbehave. This way the child inherently knows that the spanking is a decision made out of control and composure. This is discipline, not abuse.

2) Never fight with your spouse/significant other in front of your child. Kids learn how to settle conflict by watching the adults in their lives. If your spousal fights include yelling, name-calling or hitting, the child will think this is the normal and appropriate way to handle conflict—and he’ll likely be doing the same thing with his spouse later down the road.

3) If your child is a girl, pour your energy into teaching her self-worth and independence. Easier said than done, I know. But when my daughter is 21 years old, and if her boyfriend gets a suspicious text message from another woman, I don’t want her to feel jealous and worthless. I want her to say confidently, "I’m the best you’re gonna get, but if you want someone else, see ya!" And if—heaven forbid—a man ever hits her, I want her to run as far away from him as she possibly can and never contemplate going back to him (which is what Rihanna is reportedly contemplating right now). I want my daughter to know without a doubt that this kind of treatment is wrong and undeserved—and likely not a one-time thing. The only way she will know that is if I teach her.

4) If your child is a boy, pour your energy into teaching him gentle strength… that he can have power without resorting to domination over other human beings. I’ve never been a victim of physical abuse, but I do know that abuse of any form usually stems from profound insecurity. My own psychoanalytical theory is that Chris Brown was so afraid of losing Rihanna that he wanted her to believe it was HER fault that this happened. Our culture has been trained to believe that it’s okay to hurt people when they’ve hurt you first. Action films only glorify this belief. So in the weird and twisted world of abuse, victims are made to feel deserving of supposed vengeful treatment. But in reality, the abusers are just so scared to be rejected that they use force and manipulation to project fear onto the victim instead. My point is, boys need to feel just as loved and secure as girls do. And that’s our job, folks.

All of this is scary and overwhelming, and it’s easy to believe that it only happens to other people. But it happens to a lot of people, and your child could be one of them. If anything, I think the over-exposure of the Chris Brown/Rihanna incident is good in that it’s a big wake-up call to abusive men, abused women… and parents who can stop the abuse before it even begins.

Every single day for the past couple of weeks, Isabella has asked me the same question: “When are we going to get a dog?”

And my answer is always the same: “Someday…”

She doesn’t like that answer very much.

Here’s the thing. Dogs are cool and everything, but I’m just not much of an animal lover. (I cringe as I write this, knowing that some of you may not like me anymore.) I think it’s something genetic, because no one in my immediate family is enthusiastic about pets. In fact, I’m going to share a rather humiliating story…

Back when I was in fifth grade, we had an adorable Shetland Sheepdog named Bosco. He was the most mild-mannered dog ever, perfect for non-pet people. But because he was so mild-mannered and because we were so non-pet-like, he tended to fade into the background. One day, my family and I were sitting around talking when my brother started to look around the room. “Hey,” he said. “Where’s Bosco?”

“I was wondering when you were going to ask,” my mother said. “I gave him away three days ago.”

She wanted to prove a point that we no longer paid any attention to the dog, and therefore we didn’t deserve to keep him. Point proven.

I still feel like scum whenever I remember poor Bosco. Yet not enough to buy my own child a dog. They’re just so much work. And they’re expensive. And they smell. And I don’t know how to talk to them. (I usually do the high-pitched baby babble to dogs. I can speak baby. I can’t speak dog.)

And then there’s the problem of deciding on a name. Isabella and I have been trying to name our non-existent dog for the past year or so, and we have yet to agree on one. My names are all AWESOME (and, oddly enough, food-related), like Ravioli, Chopstick, Granola and Pasta. Isabella’s preferred names are “what everyone else in the world names their dog,” I tell her. (“Nuh-uh!” she replies. “Allison’s dog isn’t named Buddy!”) She’s also a big fan of people names (Ashley and Max are her faves), but I am adamantly opposed to calling an animal by a person’s name. That’s just creepy.

Perhaps one of these days I will grow a heart and buy the child a puppy. Until then, I will continue to give her the evasive “Someday…” response.

But our dog WILL be named Ravioli, dang it.

Isabella was home sick for the past two days. (She had strep throat AGAIN. Don’t even get me started.) But her health took a much-improved turn yesterday evening, so I knew she’d be ready to head back to school again today.

Last night at dinner, I asked Isabella if she was excited about returning to school. She gave me the are-you-crazy? look and said something along the lines of “pshaw” and “as if.” Isabella is a good student, so I was kind of surprised by her response.

“Mom,” she continued. “I don’t like school because my teacher makes me do work.”

“Isabella,” I started, in my wisest wise-mother voice. “Remember how I told you that the reason I go to work every day is so I can make money? To be able to pay for our nice house and good food and nice clothes?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have such nice things if I didn’t have a good job. But do you know how I got this good job?”

“How?”

“Because when I was in school like you, I worked very, very hard. I did all of my homework, I listened to my teachers, and I got good grades.”

“You did?”

“Yes, and because of that, they gave me a good job, which means now we have nice things. So. Now do you know why you have to work hard at school?”

I waited for Isabella’s answer, which I knew would be a brilliant reflection of my brilliant life lesson about how brilliant I am…

“So I can win points for my group!!!!” she shouted instead.

“What? P-p-points…?” I asked, flustered. I started to correct her but then gave in. “Yes, I suppose that is the short-term answer to my question.”

Isabella then went on to tell me how one can earn points for one’s group, and most of it has nothing to do with academic performance but rather with good behavior like throwing away scraps of paper and putting the scissors back in the supply box. Of course, these things are very important for children to learn, but it’s not exactly what I was referring to in my brilliant speech.

It’s scary, though, to think about your child’s academic future. Especially because the high school dropout rate is increasing to alarming levels. We parents MUST play a huge role—dare I say, a larger role even than teachers must play (Shocking, I know.)—in generating enthusiasm for education as well as enforcing work ethic in our children. However, there’s only so much we can do. Ultimately the decision to work hard or not is the student’s, and you just have to cross your fingers and hope that the desire is there.

I know I have a long way to go before I really have to worry about this. Isabella is only in half-day kindergarten, after all. But at the same time, her foundation is being built now. If she can learn at this age that education is, in fact, exciting, enriching and profoundly influential, then she will carry that with her for the rest of her life.

But for now, she is most focused on scoring points for her group, which I think is a positive sign. She’s eager to be obedient, competitive, and mindful of others. If we can keep this momentum going, I think she’ll be in good shape.

Last week, Isabella’s name was drawn to be Student of the Week in her kindergarten class. This means that she got to tell the class all about herself and receive all kinds of praise and special treatment. It’s one of those self-esteem-building measures, you know.

But it also means that the Student of the Week’s Parent has to do a bunch of work.

Last Monday, Isabella brought home a poster (which was due back on Wednesday) with spaces on it for “This is what I look like…” and “This is what my family looks like…” and “This is my favorite thing to do…” etc. We had to find photos to tape onto these spaces. I’m not the world’s best photo keeper—most of my photos from the past ten years are still sitting in their original envelopes—and I don’t have any hard copies of photos from the past year because they’re all on my computer. (I couldn’t print the electronic pics because I don’t have a printer.) So on Tuesday night, I sorted through 200-some old photos in search of a pic of Isabella at the water park, because that’s apparently her “favorite thing to do.” (Which was new to me; the last time we went to the water park she cried the whole time.)

So that’s the poster.

The Student of the Week’s Parent’s second task is to buy snacks for Friday, which is when the Student of the Week “ceremony” was to take place. I had told Isabella that we would buy the snacks on Thursday night.

But…

Friday morning, at about 7:15 a.m., Isabella shot out of bed. “MOM!! WE FORGOT TO BUY SNACKS!!!”

Crap. I ran to the kitchen in search of something—anything—that would pass as a snack for 20-some kids. A carrot stick each? Two chocolate chips a piece? Isabella’s old Halloween candy? None of it seemed appropriate.

I ran back into Isabella’s room. “Okay,” I said, trying to remain calm. “We’ll just have to run to the store and get some. But you’ve gotta work with me, okay? You have to move fast!”

“But maaameeee, I’ll be late for schoooool!”

“Do you want snacks or do you want to be early?”

She looked down. “Snacks,” she muttered.

“That’s what I thought. Now move!”

Somehow, in the next ten minutes, we were both dressed, teeth brushed, faces washed, coats and hats and gloves on. Once I started the car, I realized I had no idea which store to go to. Meijer was closest, but there was no way we would make it out of that monstrosity in time. There was Strack & Van Til in the next town. It’s much smaller but further away. I looked at the clock. 7:35. We’d be pushing it, but it was our best option.

But then, on the way to Strack & Van Til, a CVS store emerged from the horizon, a heavenly sunrise glow shining behind it. It was my saving grace—close enough to her school, and sure to have some sort of multi-pack snack options.

I sped into the CVS parking lot and opened up Isabella’s door, shouting, “Hurry! Run! Run!” Inside the store I scanned the aisle signs until I saw one that was literally marked “Snacks.” (I’m pretty sure an angel crafted that sign, just for me.) We found some Scooby Doo fruit snacks. Perfect. I grabbed two boxes, paid, and weaved through the back roads to the school, only to arrive… 20 minutes early.

I parked the car, and Isabella and I sat back and laughed at what just happened. MAYBE I panicked a little. Or maybe it was our fast-paced efforts that made it all work out perfectly, with a little time to spare. I don’t know. But either way, it sure was nice to see Isabella skip happily into school, Scooby snacks in hand, as if I were the most prepared Student of the Week’s Parent on the planet after all.

If you were to come by my house in the morning (just before school) and/or in the evening (just before bedtime) you would hear some pretty ear-piercing cries coming from my daughter, and you just might consider calling the Department of Child Services.

But all I am doing is brushing Isabella’s hair.

I don’t really know how to describe her hair. It’s very fine, but curly. And it’s only curly on the ends. The hair near her roots is pretty straight, except for the occasional loopty-loop that forms when she’s sleeping. She’s part blonde, part brunette. Some days her hair is perfectly curled and colored, adding even more beauty to her already pretty face. Other days? It could look as if it hasn’t been washed in weeks: flat, messy and browner than usual.

But every day, brushing Isabella’s hair is painful—for both her and me. It’s getting through the curls that’s the kicker. It’s a never-ending mess of tangles down there. (My mom used to call them “snarls,” which is a painfully accurate word.) And, believe me, I’ve tried every “de-snarling” trick there is: heavy-duty conditioner and a subsequent comb-through in the bath; detangling spray; detangling comb; holding her head in various positions…

NONE OF IT WORKS.

No matter what I do, the hair-brushing ritual always follows the same pattern: Isabella starts to whimper, then cry, then stamp her feet. And then—this is my favorite—she blames me. “Maaaameeeee! You’re huuuurting meeeee!” As if I’m TRYING to make her cry. As if I LIKE hearing her wail so loud it hurts my ears. As if I DON’T DREAD THIS NIGHTMARE EVERY SINGLE MORNING AND EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.

Is there any hope? Does anyone have a solution? Or will I be dealing with this until she’s 10 years old?

One of my favorite bloggers, Heather Armstrong (better known as Dooce), writes a letter to her four-year-old daughter every month, describing what’s going on in her life at that time. I’ve decided to do something similar, just this once, by writing a letter to Isabella about her sixth birthday, which was yesterday. Here goes…

Dear Isabella,

Yesterday you turned six years old. When I woke you up in the morning, you groaned and whined like you always do in the morning, until I reminded you that it was your birthday. You immediately perked up, laid across the wide part of the bed, and said, “Look, Mom, I’m bigger than I was when I was five!” You looked at how your feet stretched all the way to the other side of the bed, and then you exclaimed, “See? SEE?! When I was five, my feet only went up to here!” You pointed to the middle of the bed.

Isn’t it cool how you can grow a whole foot overnight?

But it does feel like it happened overnight. I scooped you up in my arms and held you like a baby (which I probably shouldn’t do anymore but I can’t resist). My mind flashed back to the day you were born, when the nurse put you in my arms for the first time. You were so tiny, so beautiful… and then you wailed a cry so loud it nearly broke my eardrums. And me being the mature, gracious new mother I was, I responded, “What do I do?!?”

But here we are, six years later, which seems like a long time to you but feels like a nanosecond to me.

Last night, to celebrate your birthday, you and I had a special Girls Night Out. We went to your favorite restaurant, Red Robin. You were all hyped up on birthday excitement—talking and singing pretty much nonstop, and of course making silly faces, which is your new favorite thing to do.

It’s funny to me how you can be so goofy, so fun and full of life in front of me and others close to you, but as soon as any strangers come your way, you turn into a shy, sweet, sensitive soul. Like last night, when the Red Robin servers came to our table—with balloons and a hot fudge sundae—to sing to you. I think you were happy about it, but it was hard to tell because you sunk into your little hole of adorable shyness.

After we devoured the sundae, we went to the movie theater, to see the film Bedtime Stories. We arrived early, so while we were waiting for the movie to start we took pictures of each other making—what else?—silly faces.

(You look like Madonna doing Vogue, and I look like some kind of angry Elvis. We are one pair of pop culture icon impressionists, we are.)

After the movie, we went home, where you devoured your presents almost as voraciously as you did the hot fudge sundae. Sure, you appreciated the sweet little girl gifts, like the Hello Kitty Hooded Towel…

But appreciation elevated to over-the-top exuberance when you opened your Camp Rock Dance Dance Revolution thingamajig…

(By the way, I’m totally going to play with that as much as you do—if not more.)

It was a fun night… and only a small example of the fun we have together every day. Sometimes I forget that I’m the luckiest mom in the whole world, to have this little girl all to myself most of the time. My favorite part about last night was when I finished a couple of your sentences and you said, “You really know me, Mom. That’s because I live with you and you’re my mom and you know everything about me.”

Isabella, not only do I know everything about you, but I live and breathe you. I never would have imagined, six years ago in the hospital room when I was holding you, that you and I would have a bond so tight that I could practically read your mind, as if you and I are the same person. I never could have guessed that I would put all of my life and love and energy into one human being.

You are six years old now, and before I know it, you’ll be sixteen. I hope and pray that you continue to appreciate the sweet things in life, that you exuberate about the fun things in life, and that you will one day have the same deep, lasting, overwhelming connection with your own child that I have with you.

Happy Birthday, Isabella.