Where did the time go?
No. Really.
Wasn't it just yesterday that your father and I drove like mad down a lonely stretch of highway, to the same bayouside hospital where I was born, to await your arrival?
Wasn't it just yesterday that I was standing in that cold hospital hallway, my eyes glued to that closed door, waiting for you to be born and waiting for your father to return from his "quick" errand?
Waiting for someone to come get me, for someone to tell me, "Yes. She is here! Yes, she really is yours"?
Wasn't it just yesterday that we wrapped you up in tiny pink clothes and took you home with us forever?
Wasn't it?
It certainly feels like it sometimes. Other times it feels like forever ago.
Eleven.
As of today you are 11 years old. No longer just one syllable.
No longer my baby. Not even my little girl. A "Tween," who is nearly as tall as me. Who is nearly as tall as her teacher. And her principal.
Who has outgrown all of the children's sizes in the stores. Who can wear some of my clothes. Who fits in my shoes. Who refuses to wear pink or even dresses anymore. Who fights with me just to comb her hair.
Who hates to go to bed at night almost as much as she hates waking up in the morning.
Who snores like a pirate.
Who has no idea how to fold clothes or put them away, or how to match a pair of socks. Or make a bed.
But who can build her own web site with her eyes closed.
Who has perfected the eye roll.
Who speaks fluent sarcasm -- just like me.
Who loves a wizard named Harry Potter, freaky YouTube videos, Skype, the Annoying Orange, The Beatles, and Adele.
Who can sing like Adele.
Who loves reruns of "Friends" and "Full House" and "My Little Pony" and anything on Teen Nick.
Who loves to draw, especially little characters with crazy hair and big, wide eyes and cartoons.
Who writes wonderful stories about people and things I never could have imagined, and spells everything correctly.
Who uses words like "inappropriate" -- when talking about my parenting.
Who doesn't let me car dance.
Who has brought more joy and light to my life than I ever could have imagined. Who makes me laugh and makes me cry -- often in the same moment.
Who lets dad wake you up a half an hour early in the morning so you can come cuddle with me, and still lets me cuddle with you at night. Who uses that time to tell me me your hopes and dreams and worries and fears and funny stories about your friends.
Who someday will look me in the eye and tell me you're going to the library to study and expect me to believe it.
Who will always be my little baby girl, no matter how tall you get or how many candles we put on your birthday cakes.
Who is my child, no matter what DNA or blood says.
Because I firmly believe that you were destined to be my child all along -- I just didn't know it, or that I was just waiting my whole life for you to get here.
And you were so worth the wait.
Linking up with my friends at Yeah Write #42!
Write, Read and vote for your favorite 3.
No. Really.
Wasn't it just yesterday that your father and I drove like mad down a lonely stretch of highway, to the same bayouside hospital where I was born, to await your arrival?
Wasn't it just yesterday that I was standing in that cold hospital hallway, my eyes glued to that closed door, waiting for you to be born and waiting for your father to return from his "quick" errand?
Waiting for someone to come get me, for someone to tell me, "Yes. She is here! Yes, she really is yours"?
Wasn't it just yesterday that we wrapped you up in tiny pink clothes and took you home with us forever?
Wasn't it?
It certainly feels like it sometimes. Other times it feels like forever ago.
Eleven.
As of today you are 11 years old. No longer just one syllable.
No longer my baby. Not even my little girl. A "Tween," who is nearly as tall as me. Who is nearly as tall as her teacher. And her principal.
Who has outgrown all of the children's sizes in the stores. Who can wear some of my clothes. Who fits in my shoes. Who refuses to wear pink or even dresses anymore. Who fights with me just to comb her hair.
Who hates to go to bed at night almost as much as she hates waking up in the morning.
Who snores like a pirate.
Who has no idea how to fold clothes or put them away, or how to match a pair of socks. Or make a bed.
But who can build her own web site with her eyes closed.
Who has perfected the eye roll.
Who speaks fluent sarcasm -- just like me.
Who loves a wizard named Harry Potter, freaky YouTube videos, Skype, the Annoying Orange, The Beatles, and Adele.
Who can sing like Adele.
Who loves reruns of "Friends" and "Full House" and "My Little Pony" and anything on Teen Nick.
Who loves to draw, especially little characters with crazy hair and big, wide eyes and cartoons.
Who writes wonderful stories about people and things I never could have imagined, and spells everything correctly.
Who uses words like "inappropriate" -- when talking about my parenting.
Who doesn't let me car dance.
Who has brought more joy and light to my life than I ever could have imagined. Who makes me laugh and makes me cry -- often in the same moment.
Who lets dad wake you up a half an hour early in the morning so you can come cuddle with me, and still lets me cuddle with you at night. Who uses that time to tell me me your hopes and dreams and worries and fears and funny stories about your friends.
Who someday will look me in the eye and tell me you're going to the library to study and expect me to believe it.
Who will always be my little baby girl, no matter how tall you get or how many candles we put on your birthday cakes.
Who is my child, no matter what DNA or blood says.
Because I firmly believe that you were destined to be my child all along -- I just didn't know it, or that I was just waiting my whole life for you to get here.
And you were so worth the wait.
Linking up with my friends at Yeah Write #42!
Write, Read and vote for your favorite 3.
Happy Birthday to your beautiful daughter. Such a lovely tribute to such a lovely girl.
ReplyDeleteSpeaking of the eye roll.. I had to laugh on Saturday thinking.. man she really is JUST like me.. considering the folding of clothes and the making of hte bed and THE EYE ROLL! haha .. as she wears my clothes! :)
ReplyDeleteSo I have YOU to blame, eh?
ReplyDeleteLove goes beyond blood. I wish the best for both of you.
ReplyDeleteThat's what I keep sayin'! Thank you.
DeleteThis made me tear up! How sweet. <3
ReplyDeleteI cried the whole time I wrote it. Thank you.
DeleteThis is so sweet. Such a beautiful tribute to your daughter. And a very Happy Birthday to her too!
ReplyDeleteThank you. She is a special girl.
DeleteI read your book recently and couldn't put it down!! what a heartwrenching story with a wonderful end. I work for SCP and know Marty from when he was in Recreation. Congrats on your book!
ReplyDeleteShirlyn Fahrig
Wow. Thank you so much for telling me that. I am so glad you enjoyed it.
DeleteThis is so beautiful. I am experiencing such similar feelings with my 10 1/2 year old - and she sounds a lot like your daughter!
ReplyDeleteThank you. I can't believe it's gone by so fast.
DeleteJust beautiful. What an insightful and touching tribute to your daughter. A wonderful way to document this milestone. I Loved this!!!
ReplyDeleteThank you. I hope I conveyed what a wonderful, complex and exasperating child she really is. :)
ReplyDeleteI never thought about the one syllable thing, that changes things for me! And yes it was just yesterday or at least it seems that way in my house!
ReplyDeleteThe library excuse made me laugh. Of course, by the time she pulls that, she'll have a GPS so you can follow her exact whereabouts.
ReplyDeleteHow lovely is this post? What a beautiful way to wish your daughter a happy birthday!
ReplyDeleteThank you so much!
DeleteWe also live in a VERY small town. Her dad is the local high school baseball coach. Her brother is an assistant football coach at the same school. I cover crime for the newspaper and have the Sheriff's cell phone number programmed. She has NO SHOT.
ReplyDeleteThat was in reply to you, Dude. ;)
ReplyDelete