Dear Sophia,

I could write this whole letter about how yesterday, I left you for one minute to grab something from upstairs, an act that I totally thought was pretty okay, seeing that I birthed you over 2.5 years ago. Then your father, of course, walked into the room and saw that you were getting crafty with the scissors I was using for Christmas cards. My sharpest scissors. It is not as if you were cutting your plump, tiny fingers off...you were just making fringe out of the Christmas Eve mass schedule. Of course, my first thought was to feel like a negligent, dangerous parent, but then I thought no, no she knows what she is doing. She is making fringe on that paper so I can no longer read it because if so help her God she has to wear another scratchy dress and a pair of droopy tights this winter...
Nice try babe. We are going on a 7 night cruise next month and I have purchased scratchy dresses for every day. I may make you sleep in them. Oh, and Christmas mass? Droopiest tights ever.

You see? I am learning to handle you with such grace!

I ran a marathon a week ago today. What got me across the finish line was thinking that I had you at home and I missed you. I know if I never made it, had croaked at mile 2, you would assume that you would have Daddy all to yourself to build you one big fort your entire life and cook you bacon for every meal. Well, I made it and there are once again big tubs of salad in the fridge.

Lucky you, lucky me. Let me tell you something about luck. That marathon showed me how much of that day was luck for me. Yes, I had to do the 4 months of work that prepared my body for five hours of running. The rest was pure luck. I was born in a country where events like marathons that contain over 10,000 people eager to inflict torture on themselves happen every weekend. Luck. We are not distracted by hunting our food for survival or dodging bombs. Luck. I have not been in an accident that has left me wheelchair bound, like so many of the spectators that looked me in the eye and said, "Keep going, great job." Luck. My right hamstring did not snap at mile 9, as it did for a man who was screaming behind me and rolling around on the ground. Luck. The marathon course took us through some pretty destitute areas surrounding Las Vegas, and I grew up differently than the children who were hanging from the walls around their homes watching us with faces that plainly wondered if they would ever be in a position to do something like a marathon. By position I mean rich and educated and under stimulated enough to even think about running a race. Luck.

I hope at my age, you have as much luck, and I hope even harder that you are aware enough to notice. If you do not notice, you will not feel it, it is as simple as that. I will do my part. When we watch a sunrise together, I will talk about this kind of luck. I will even talk about it while searching for the good in a crisis.

Seeing how you react to Christmas lights, sparkly ribbons and unexpected gifts--you make a sound that no animal or soap opera actress can duplicate, like you are replacing breath with pure glee--I am sure you know a thing or two about abundance and gratitude.

Love,
Mom