Today my daughter turned 13. And I considered not writing about it, to give her a break on her birthday from seeing her stories and picture in my blog. And so I’ll do just that.
This blog is not about her.
Just kidding. It’s totally about her. I have to include her a little in this story. After all, she is the one who made me a mother 13 years ago. They laid this little baby on my belly, so close to my face that I could barely focus to see her tiny (well, sort of tiny. She was almost 10 pounds) features, her eyes that could barely stay open as she sleepily said hello to the world. And all I could think of was, “They’re trusting me to take care of this delicate thing?”
It’s been a whirlwind of a ride since that day. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes with her, and she has graciously let my downfalls roll off her back as she kept trucking on. That’s the thing about being the oldest – she’s the one who gets to be the guinea pig in all my parenting experiments.
But somehow I haven’t screwed her up too badly. And she’s wiser beyond her years. And even though she’s now a teenager, I still like her. And sometimes she even shows me she likes me by occasionally forming words rather than grunts, and giving me a nod when I tell her I love her. In teen speak, that means I’m her favorite person in the world.
Happy birthday DQ! Welcome to teenagerhood.
Oy. I have a teenager.