4.

2026

Dear Alba,

Today you turn four.

Your birthday wishlist includes a blue dress with long sleeves, figurines for your music box, and anything with unicorns. All in all, I reckon it’s quite a respectable list for a four year old. This May, during our trip to Ghent, I learned firsthand how you deal with the inability to obtain objects (i.e. toys) because you have insufficient funds and do not yet have a source of income (i.e. you are a child).

First, you’ll ask your mother, and she’ll say no because it is not your birthday. Then you’ll turn your attention to me. I’ll say, “Oh no! This is a decision for Mama.” And then you’ll plead with Uncle Parham and he’ll go, “Sure!”

In Belgium, I learned that you, like me, are no fan of the hot muggy weather. There was one balmy evening where your mum and Parham (drasted heat lovers) went out for a stroll, and you and I decided to hang back at the apartment because you refused to leave it. We read and played card games. It was wonderfully uneventful. Except, of course, a very real Mum’s not here to say no experience:

“Jenny, I want another cracker.”

“Would Mama be okay with you eating a second cracker?”

“Mama isn’t here.”

So, yes, obviously you had the second cracker and I realised I was at the mercy of a three year old.

You slept between me and your mum on this trip, sprawled sideways and upside down, and eventually snuggled deep in my arms after calling out for me in the middle of the night. I recognised my limbs were not my own – as you would rearrange and adjust them frequently for your comfort.

I have no children so this is a new experience for me. Mostly, what I think about is how humbling this is, how extraordinary it is to be this additional comforting, comfortable person for you. I can be very grouchy on very little sleep, but when the reason for not having slept well is because you were having what seems like a lovely time in dreamland – okay. It’s all okay.

It would be remiss of me if I absented the story that made your mother cackle and prompt your father to ask if we were raising a feminist. When I slept over the first time in Betondorp, you woke up nestled between me and your mum, and as the morning light shone through the blinds, you whispered to her: “Mama, Parham forgot Jenny.”

Since before you were born, Mama, Parham and I have come as a trio. We are best friends in all pairings, and best friends together. I hope, in the future, you will be blessed with such a silly and extraordinary friendship group as well. And since you were very little, Parham and I try to visit you and your mum once a week to have dinner with you. You do not have the concept of godparents in your head yet. (In fact, when I tell you that I am your godmother, you go: “No, no, no; you’re my Jenny!”) So, look, honestly: I understand why you think Parham and I come as a pair.

This misconception does not really make me laugh (okay, maybe 10%), but everyone else gets a kick out of it, so perhaps that is why you consistently ask me, “Jenny, where's Parham?” (He tells me you've never asked him after me.) You love making people guffaw in delight, and you love playing pranks. You are laughing a lot at yourself, as well, and telling your own jokes in both Dutch and English. I am constantly blown away by the miracle of you.

We’re also fighting. You are a devourer of stories, a straight up addict. But you cannot read yet, so you require the benevolence of the grown ups around you. I read to you without complaint except, of course, when you want me to read the same story for the tenth time and I’m no longer allowed to use voices or diverge from the first telling:

“Again.”

“How about you read it to me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t read.”

“This book doesn’t have any words!” (I intentionally bought a picture book so that it could be interpreted however the reader likes.)

“I don’t want to!”

“What if I want to be baby this time?”

“Jenny,” you’ll say with a look; “you are not a baby.” And then you’ll detail all the ways in which I am clearly not a baby. And I’ll laugh a lot and you’ll giggle too until I relent and admit that, okay, I am not a baby. And when we have these discussions, I am reminded that you know that you’re not a baby anymore, but you also don’t quite get that you’re a kid – because you are so comfortable with grown ups and aren’t too sure about other children yet. You’ll start school soon; and I wonder what that will be like for you, and how you’ll adjust.

At primary school, I remember making friends over a battered cassette tape of the Spice Girls. Which artist will you and your friends devise choreography for?

After dinner, we have dance parties. We introduced you to Darude’s Sandstorm and you were mildly impressed; better received was Crazy Frog’s Axel F to the point that I can start humming the first seven seconds of the track and you’ll go ding ding and start to dance. But, my goodness, your most favourite, most esteemed piece of lowlander cultural heritage is K3’s Oya lélé. One time Parham skipped this song a minute in and the rage in your eyes was piercing; he immediately apologised and we started it again from the beginning. I think you are the coolest four year old out there.

Earlier in the year, I hadn’t seen you for a few weeks and I surprised you in a line at the parcel pick-up store. I loved your little face as you realised what was happening, and I made sure to brace my core as I kneeled on the floor. You ran and jumped into my arms to give me a long hug. I saw strangers in the line smiling at us and I thought: “Oh, to bottle up this feeling!” In a way, writing this letter is to do precisely that. You are getting so big now – the growth spurts keep coming – and you’re getting a lot stronger every week, and your father just signed you up for a season of kung fu. Perhaps in three decades, you’ll be the one to lift my frail self in your arms to hold me tight.

I cherish all the time I spend with you; and I adore you so much. You bring all of us right to the present, at a time when it’s so easy to get lost in the past and fear future woes (wait, should I also be writing about the backdrop of your childhood being the energy and climate crisis, threats to the fragile EU project, and the impact of AI on the planet and society? – perhaps, another time). You are a bright, sparkling light. I am glad you are here.

Your ninang,
Jenny

3.

2025

Dear Alba,

Today, you turn three. Your favourite word is “why?”; you call all protein products kip; and you laugh at the silliest of things, like Dikkie Dik being told he can't sit on the couch.

You are now in daycare and have friends your own age. Though you are the queen at home, it took a little while for you to adjust to being the smallest kid in the room. I went to pick you up one day, and when you saw me, you gave me the biggest smile. I'll never forget it.

I try to visit you once a week and you are very used to my presence. When you were a baby, I used to ask Ysay, “Do you think she remembers me?” and now I definitely know you do. Sometimes you ask for me when you need a nappy change – this is cute but I wish it was less stinky. I used to hold your limbs to stop you from wriggling but now, while your mother takes care of business, I distract you with tales of firefighters and princesses...

Speaking of...

This Pentecost, we took you to Apeldoorn to visit Paleis Het Loo. It was our first “girls’ trip” with Uncle Parham and you adored it. We checked out big sticks, we read fairy tales, and we looked for princesses. I did not quite realise how intense this phase would be. I thought it was about looking cute but actually, you’re kind of demanding – a little diva. Your response when told no is: “BUT I’M A PRINCESS.”

I find it very funny – your parents, less so. But I’m doing my best to steer you in another direction by taking advantage of the fact that you cannot yet read. At bedtime, I have been describing princesses with traits like “generous” and “says her pleases and thank yous” and “kind, above all”. This came to fruition one breakfast when you strongly requested more melon and, after having given you my breakfast twice already, I told you to ask Uncle Parham. You slid out of your chair, came to him, and said sweetly: “Please, Parham, please may I have a bowl of melon?”

GIRL, THE SHOCK ON MY FACE.

On our trip, you slept between me and your mama. It wasn’t the first time we were bedfellows so I knew to expect some measure of kicking. At one point, you were half asleep-half awake and you shoved your face into my armpit. You stayed there for a while before you turned and fell into the crook of my elbow. Alba, I am not yet a mother but those little moments where you find comfort with me completely melt my defences. I hope – will try my absolute best – to protect you from the craziness of this world. And Uncle Parham’s pranks.

Alby, you are a delightful kid; an absolute joy. One time your mum and Lola made a joke at how easy I was to give into your demands. I said that that was not fair and I was not a pushover. But, you know what, it’s true. I say yes to pretty much everything you ask for. I am on your team, every time.

Your ninang,
Jenny

P.S. Something big happened to me too this year. I discovered I had a nephew – right here in Amsterdam. He lives not too far from you. His name is Isaac, and he’s a real cutie! When I told your mother, she told me: “Girl, this is it. Maybe this is why you have Alba in your life. To prepare you for Auntie 2.0.” I believe it.

P.P.S. I have this magnified look at Life With Alba which makes me someone more likely to write you letters and poems (The Adventures of Albabear and Seahorse coming out now) because everything I do with you guys is so surplus and beautiful to my own actuality. Your mum, who is a great writer, is “busy keeping her [you] alive” right now.

2.

2024

Dear Alba,

You’re turning two today! What a wild couple of years it’s been, since learning your mother was pregnant, to the first steps, to the walking, to the running, and to now. You’re an incredible little human being, full of life and mischief. I wonder what I’ll be up to and where I’ll be when you get to read and understand this letter, but I want to tell you that, right now, in this moment, that being your godmother is one of the greatest joys in my life.

I was not able to make any distinctions between “baby” and “toddler” and “kid” until you. But now I know that you’re a toddler! You’re definitely not a baby anymore. You no longer need my help to drink your bedtime milk. You’ve got that covered. (But sometimes you will pass me your bottle, and you'll stretch out your arms so I can pick you up and lay you across my lap – though you're all limbs now and barely fit there these days – and you'll let me hold the bottle for you. We call it Alba is pretending to be a baby, though you don't realise that for us, you always will be.) You’re so independent and getting more so every day. You’re super silly. You love making fun of your mama – welcome to the club – and you’re starting to catch on that Uncle Parham loves to be goofy too.

Your papa practises names with you every morning on the way to daycare. (By the way, he built you a house this year. Isn’t that incredible?) You’re still calling me Jo, though – waiting a beat to hear the adults around you give big laughs. I’m laughing too. You’re honing in on your comedic chops and I can’t wait to see the silliness you’ll get up to in the future. I’ll be there front row for all your hijinks.

Since you turned one, I can tell you what I remember from our weekly babysitting visits. The first year was rather chill, mostly because you couldn’t walk yet. But, baby girl, now you’re running.

You really love fruit. There was a brief moment when you had really bad separation anxiety, and you cried, and cried, and cried when your mama went to get groceries for all of twenty minutes. Uncle Parham and I were trying to calm you. You wouldn’t let us hug you or pick you up, but you let me rub your back and Uncle Parham discovered that if he pretended to belly laugh, you would laugh too; and if we fed you fruit, you would be too busy eating to cry. (I don’t know if this is a good lesson to have learned yet.) Mandarins are your kryptonite. (Is this a reference you will understand when you read this?)

You’re a little parrot. I gifted your parents a swear jar for your first birthday. I don’t think we really needed it then though. We need it now! It amassed a healthy sum but your mama says that it was all practice for you this year. You’re copying everything. Or, at least, you’re trying to. You’re really good with one syllable words (probably why “Jo” makes the cut and “Jenny” does not) and apparently you’ve been saying “Oh shit” under your breath when something goes wrong but I haven’t yet witnessed this.

You love dancing. And moving. And running. And jumping. And, well, just being really active. I remember going with your mama to an ultrasound to check some of your measurements. It was such a surreal experience for me – seeing your tiny little self inside her. But even then, you were spinning and turning and not stopping for the doctor. It was a long appointment. These days, when you see my phone, you’ll come up to me, point your tiny finger, and in your little voice, you’ll say “Music? Music?” and I’ll put on some random tunes – you like Buddy Holly and Michael Jackson but truthfully, you like everything with a beat – and it gets you and us moving.

You are so loved from The Hague all the way to Manila and in between. I cannot wait to watch you grow in your third year.

I love you so much, Alba bear.

Your ninang,
Jenny