You are so authentically nine. You are neon and sequins, bunny ears and (sometimes, not often) back talk. You are eye rolls at the silly and embarrassing things I say, and you are contemplative nods of agreement once you've assessed the situation. You have become the girl who writes in her journal while singing along to break up songs on the radio. You are long hair and super cool glasses.
You chose to watch "Fiddler on the Roof" with your family instead of a surfer movie with the rest of your friends. Your art was put on display numerous times. You were beyond excited for the second grade field trip to Chinatown. Your first piano recital was a duet of "Puff the Magic Dragon" with your Daddy. You cried over having to leave at the end of your first two weeks at Camp Yavneh (I cried at getting to see you come home). You appreciated the grand splendor of Radio City Music Hall. You narrated the story of lupines and sang about reason as an alien. From the sanctuary bimah, you led our congregation in a paragraph urging justice written by Anne Frank.
You now have school friends, after care friends, temple friends and camp friends. Your social calendar continues to be busier than mine (though how lucky am I to have made so many friends just because you exist?). You care beyond measure for your family, and are incredibly patient with your brother. I don't know how you do it sometimes, but I am so happy to write for the third year now that Max is your very best friend.
I can't wait to see what the next year has in store for you. Max will be joining you at Kaleidoscope Camp and later at Bowen Elementary, invading on your turf. There will be trips to take, and a longer session of overnight camp that I'll somehow have to get through. And hopefully, there will be a lot more singing along with the radio. Happy birthday. I love you, Hannie.
(You can also see letters for ages seven and eight.)
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