Dear Marta

If by God's grace you are 16 or 17 (though I have a feeling with you it'll be more like 14 or 15) and you've decided to look back at our lives for reassurance of your place in our family because you're full of teen angst or possibly just (please) teen goofiness and you've pulled out this old blog, my feelings regarding your behavior today stand true forever and ever:

Even though it makes you furious, the things I do to restrain you are for your safety, because you are a certified Wild Child. You like to take the scariest, bumpiest, slipperiest route to any destination, you teach your big sister to do stunts she'd never have dreamed of, and you throw body-flinging tantrums when I even suggest you hold back your physical ambitions.

I spend half of my day holding you down, and the other half in sheer joy of your loving existence.

You say the most, The Most adorable things ever in existence in all eternity, like "Come 'ere Mama," whenever you want to be picked up, rubbing your face into my knees all snuggly and sweet. You pretend to cry and then say, "Goodness!" and "Heavens!" over and over until I say it back to you. You thank everybody for everything: "Marta sleep. Thank-you Mama." When the sprinkler spray hits you you get a nervous look and you say over and over, "S'okay-s'okay-s'okay-S'OKAY MAMA-S'OKAY!"

Yet you have the kind of spirit that will get you into trouble. I only hope it's going to be the good kind, the kind that brings you home with scraped knees from climbing trees and riding bikes rather than running with a wild crowd.

If you keep the curls, though, you might make us forget to ground you.