Happy birthday

My dad would have been 64 today. These days, I mostly wish he could enjoy his grandchildren and struggle with the unfairness that it's impossible and selfishly mourn that I can't see him do it (or have him as an on-call pediatrician to humor all my freak-outs -- I won't lie).

My niece Mira is a ridiculously adorable mini-me of my sister. He'd eat her up. Dilan is a little me. He would have gotten his two girls (good and bad) all over again. As much as he whined about being surrounded by too much estrogen, you'd find him strolling Macy's for new clothes, purely content, as if shopping was his happy place. But equally happy watching 10 hours of football, he wanted a boy too. When I was pregnant with D and we were unknowingly saying our goodbyes, he unabashedly stated his gender preference. Well, eventually a boy came along and we now ache that he's not here to teach him that home decor is just as important as football.

Oh dear dad, what you're missing.

Your namesake Dilan is three and a half, a doting big sister, and a daily crack-up. Her determination, creativity, and graciousness put me on the floor. Her teachers say gigglebox, chatterbox, drama queen -- I'm sure that all sounds familiar.

When not at school, she pretends she is, disciplining and praising students through center time, reading, songs, potty, naps, and whatever else. If you could only hear her laugh and pretend and be silly. She makes up elaborate stories to go with her books and narrates to fake students with passion, inflection, and serious volume. She still says a lot of things wrong, and while a good parent would probably correct her, I won't. I enjoy it. Like seegergot (forgot), pomputer (computer), I don't think so (I don't know), whobout (what about) and random spanglish. Those innocently botched words in that sweet little-girl pitch will be gone on their own, leaving us only with the memory and some Flip videos we've yet to upload.

She sings sings sings. And just sits and listens to her CDs, like you. My Country Tis of Thee is her favorite song to hear. She's a horrible dancer, bouncing around flirting with head injury. I don't know how this happened. She plays doctor and uses one of the old stethoscopes you brought home for us.

She knows and understands a lot more than we give her credit for. She also knows and understands a lot less than we give her credit for. And those two facts are what make three-year-olds so delightful yet killer. That's why I lose my temper and then cry about it (probably standard for next 18 years). I'm sure you'd have my reading pile full of parenting and discipline brochures from your office. She's just three and a half, which we need to keep in mind. She teaches us patience like no other and makes our hearts happy like no other. She'll never be three and a half again. I miss it already.

And little Ravi, my squishy little pig. He's a fat chunk of love who we call Sanjay half the time. You would eat him up. He's two months old and gives away his smiles. Only post-partum hormones can make a mix of armpit and sour milk smell so delicious.

Like D, he's a grunting, hair-pulling, thumb-sucking high-maintenance snuggler. I want him to stay exactly the same (but sleep please), yet can't wait to see his babyness unfold. I'm so happy and sad at each passing moment. Like you, he seems to have taken a liking to elephants. The ones on his bouncy chair bring out the coos and flailing legs like nothing else.

At 2 months, he gurgles and squeals away. He's 12 lbs 4 oz and 22 inches -- will soon be bigger than D. I'm sure you'd be maintaining your own growth charts in some stack of table cluttering folders at home.

And Mira -- we don't get to see this doll that much, but she's a happy, smiley, compassionate, fashion-loving, snack-loving sweetie. When you catch her in the middle of something, she has a this look of concern, innocence, eagerness, confusion, and adoration all balled up into one that melts you.

You would entertain them all with your overused jokes, like calling them the wrong name (which I've been using, and yes, kids do crack-up). You would learn to use Skype to see them (or have mom do it for you). I wish I could see what else.

I can't wait to see them all get older together. Who they'll be, what they'll do together, how they'll be their own part of the family. But really, I can wait. They can take their time. Precious time. If only we all had more.