Dear Daughter,

I’ve decided I’m giving up yelling.

No, not at daddy. One step at a time, baby girl.

But at you and your sister.

Because I noticed something a few days ago. You also yell and scream when you’re upset. I’m not sure when it started, but I do know who you got it from.

Me.

I’m sorry.

On those days when I need more sleep and more caffeine and more hands, I yell. Those days usually end in y.

My daughter had her first dream.

She told me so.

It involved a heart and a cloud and toys and her favourite cousin.

She told me it was a very important dream.

And that she’d never had one before.

And I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have these firsts with her.

These tiny, insignificant firsts.

These firsts that mean everything to her.

And to me.

I can’t remember my first dream.

God knows what it was about, but I wager that it also involved toys and, perhaps, my sister.

I was recently sent some free Playtex products to test with my two daughters and while testing, a realization hit me. They both interacted so differently to the same products. Each one using it in a way that is unique to herself. My precious big girl and my darling baby, each showing me a glimpse into their own unique and precious personalities...

My daughters are like all siblings the world over. They’re so different yet so very similar.

Each one is a unique piece of our family puzzle.

I’m the type of mom who can never get into bed before midnight.

You’re the type of mom who wakes up before the sun.

We could both use a few more hours in the day.

I’m the type of mom who buys her daughter an extravagantly detailed cake for her birthday.

You’re the type of mom who bakes her son the biggest Lego cake he’s ever seen.

We both cherish these magical moments.

Coca-Cola aired a commercial during this week’s Super Bowl.

It showed typical Americans doing typical American things all while singing ‘America The Beautiful.’

It was a smart and touching ad that should have had people talking about what a great country the lovely United States of America is.

It should have made its citizens proud.

Except that’s not all that happened.

You're the ONE with your daddy's curls.

You’re the ONE who refuses to crawl.

You’re the ONE who finally holds her own bottle.

You’re the ONE who has always shared the spotlight with your sister.

You’re the ONE who shuffles on your bum in a ridiculously adorable way.

You're the ONE who growls fiercely to show your absolute delight.

You’re the ONE who has cheeks just meant to be bitten.

You’re the ONE who refuses to succumb to cuddles, but will shower us with tiny sweet kisses.

I've been through child birth so naturally, I'm fearless.

Erhm, maybe not so much.

I'm still a little scared of some things. And by little, I mean a lot. And by some, I mean many.

I thought being a mother would mean that I'd be able to handle anything and any personal fears would fly out the window. After all, mothers handle everything. They know all the answers. They never show fear.

I love the holiday season.

I love the spirit of giving, the pretty wrapping paper, the warm drinks, the Christmas carols, the family get-togethers, the sappy movies.

I love all of it.

Except this year.

This year, we lost our grandmother just a couple weeks before Christmas.

Instead of Christmas crafts, we’re putting together funeral programs and memory boards.

You know how everyone sings in the shower or in the car? Well, make that everyone minus one.

I don’t sing. Ever.

And it’s in everyone’s best interest.

Because my voice is just that bad. I’m tone deaf and even I don’t want to hear myself mangling beautiful lyrics. That would be a horrible travesty and I prefer not to be responsible for such travesties if I can help it.

The world owes me one for being so thoughtful.

Thirty years ago, I was just a young child playing on our front lawn. It was a warm summer day and the sprinkler was on. My sister and I were running back and forth in the water, having fun splashing around.

Some men happened to pull up to the stop sign beside our corner house. They rolled down their windows and gave me my first taste of what some of the world thought of me.

“Paki.”

“Go home.”

“Get out of our country.”

I was four years old.

It’s official.

My child has brought home her first cold of the year. And it only took about a month of preschool.

Germy kids are the worst. Mine included.

The worst part is that my preschooler passed the cold onto her baby sister. So now baby has her first cold and let me tell you, that’s no fun at all.

It means even less sleep than usual and snot everywhere.

If I was a first time mother, this would have thrown me into a full-fledged panic. I was a mess when my oldest daughter had her first cold.

My oldest daughter started preschool and let me tell you, it’s hard. It’s so unbelievably hard, people. I don’t know how you parents with school aged children do it. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.

I’m talking about lunches.

They have become the bane of my existence. I am constantly worrying, fretting, thinking about lunches.

My child eats nothing. Nothing.

Nothing I buy and especially nothing I make.

Every day she comes home with an untouched lunch bag.

There is a difference between living life and living the life.

A difference that makes all the difference between finding bliss….

Or not.

The difference is in how you approach the little things. The everyday occurrences. The small moments that are often mistakenly overlooked and taken for granted.

There are days when my daughter will fight me every step of the way when it comes to naptime. On these days, the only way to convince her to lie down is if I promise to nap with her.

Last night, I was staring at my daughter as she slept. Because that’s what mothers do. We stare at our children while they sleep. And our hearts break into a million tiny pieces with the weight of our love for them. It’s both scary and exhilarating to know that I can love so much.

I love my life. I love being a mother and a wife.

But…..

Sometimes I find myself longing for a break from this responsible parenting thing.

I miss being young.

I miss those little things that I took for granted when it was okay to take them for granted. It was okay because it was all I knew and it wasn’t all that exceptional.

But now I know better and every once in a while, I find myself missing those not-so-special memories.

I miss sleepovers with my friends.

I miss drinking Coke.

This parenting thing is hard work.

Wait, scratch that. I feel like I’m not doing it any justice.

This parenting thing is insane.

Ah, much better.

Parenting isn’t for the weak. But luckily for me, I have a helper. She might only be three but she’s been my constant ally in this parenting thing. Albeit when she’s not being parented herself.

Meet my not-so-hired help, Seanna.

She’s a natural.

I am a born and raised Canadian.

But when people look at me, the last place they think of is Canada.

Whether I’m travelling across the country, shopping across the border, or even just going for a walk in my own neighbourhood, I’m inevitably asked the question.

“Where are you from?”

The same country as you if you really must know.

But I know what they mean.

I want to tell them that I’m just like you, only different.

As a mother, I’ve become an amazing boxer. In fact, all mothers are naturally gifted boxers.

The problem is that the only ones we’re beating up is ourselves.

We need to stop. I need to stop.

I am hanging up the proverbial gloves.

My daughter is always getting up to something that she shouldn’t be getting up to.

And the best part? She tells me.

She doesn’t exactly come out and say, “Mom, I’m up to something so horribly bad. You’re going to freak out in about two minutes when you see the mess/disaster/danger I’m partaking in.”

It’s never quite like that exactly.

I have a list of pet peeves. Just those little things that seem to get under my skin.

Only, there’s a slight problem with my list.

See, the thing is….

I commit each of these pet peeves on the regular. The very regular. Perhaps even daily.

I’m the ultimate hypocrite.

Sigh.

It’s not an unusually creative list. Nor is it especially exhaustive:

I hate when people get mindlessly addicted to online games.

I don't know how it happened. First Angry Birds, now Candy Crush. It's a terrible thing.