The Ninth Day of Lent (posted on the tenth day of lent)

Dear Milla,

It's hard for me to believe that you are seven years old. It seems like yesterday that your Grandmom was waiting for you to be born. In that seven years, you've been a ton of fun.

We've played quite a few games, but I have never managed to win. My particular favorite has always been Mother May I, and I'm beginning to think that maybe the games are fixed, since Grandmom always seems to win at the last possible minute.

I also remember when you asked me when Cassie's wedding would finally be over. . . you were 3 1/2 and it had been a long mass. I whispered that it would be over when Cassie and Zac kissed each other. You answered matter-of-factly that you had already seen them kiss at Grandmom's. Made sense to me.

You also saved Rufus the cat by yelling to all of us that he needed to rescued as he sat on the edge of the toilet trying to drink from the bowl. We've played on playgrounds and at McDonald's. I've even sung the Cougar Song and said the pledge when we played school and you got to be the teacher.

Once, when I was hanging out with you, Jax and Cate, Cate asked you if I was your friend. You told her, "No, she's my Angela." The way you said it made me feel somehow that being your Angela was even better than being your friend.

This week you gave me a letter you had written in the writing center of your first grade classroom. It read, "Dear Ms. Collins" (you are fascinated with the fact that at school I have a completely different name), . .. "Dear Ms. Collins, You are the best Angela ever." I'm going to hang on to that letter.

It reminded me that while I have been trying to be the best mom, the best daughter, the best friend, the best teacher, that perhaps I have actually begun to be the best Angela ever. That should have been my goal all along.

Thanks for the lesson.
I love you.
Angela