You turned seven a few days ago. Your Golden Birthday!
You had an epic Frozen party; your mother took it over the top.
No surprise there.
It was awesome.
Oh, seven. Those days ... those days are long.
The years ... the years are so very short.
Time's a jerk.
I held you last night at bedtime, like you were an infant.
A 60-pound+ infant, at that. We swayed back and forth.
And I whispered to you seven years ago that very night, we brought you home to your house for the very first time.
We had no idea what we were doing.
We knew you needed to wear diapers, so had a pile of those.
We knew you needed to eat, so had a pile of formula measured into bottles at the ready.
We knew we loved you, so had a pile of that, too.
That seemed to be all you ever needed.
This year for your annual birthday letter, I want to share with you why being a girl is so awesome.
The list of pros is infinite, actually.
We're pretty by nature. Lipgloss is a weapon.
We can eat chocolate and shop at Target when we're sad.
People are always surprised at what we accomplish, regardless of arena.
Our intuition is unrivaled.
We smell amazing.
We get to have the babies, new boots, and ability to wear our men's clothing.
Men are often afraid of us.
It's okay when we cry.
We have ridiculous routines and hallmarks and things we celebrate.
And specifically speaking, you and I have some of the most amazing women surrounding us. I know, while I was pregnant I swore on Starbucks you were a boy. Don't tell anyone, but I am THRILLED you weren't. I know. Parents should never be glutton-y in that regard, but wow, am I so, so glad I have a daughter. The women around you are, too.
You have always had an "I can do it myself!" attitude about life. You have since you were miniature. It's simultaneously heroic and aggravating. Yet as you continue to grow and develop into the person you are, I see it emerging as your most distinct personality trait. And it's no damn wonder given your lineage.
One of your favorite people in the universe, your great-Grandma S. was unable to come to your party Sunday as she was sick. An illness stretching into its third week, she called with the sad news Saturday, and delivered it to you straight. Lesson number one- do it yourself. Go straight to the source and own what you should. At age 83 we talked about her throughout your party, how she A) never goes to the doctor and B) doesn't take any medication nor has she, ever. Her familiar phrase is, going to the doctor will only result in learning things you don't want to learn. Amen, sister. Ignorance is bliss, eight decades later.
Well, one of your equally stubborn aunts drug your great-Grandma to the doctor Monday. Rapid heartbeat, cloudy lung, they admitted her to her first hospital stay since she had her last baby, 48 years ago. Bless her heart! Which is fine, by the way. Viciously pumping away, just a little faster than necessary. She was released 24 hours later- you can't keep a good woman down- and upon hearing her discharge orders of slow down (never) and make sure you keep your follow-up visits (not on your life), she was back where she belongs in her ancient little farmhouse nestled on 180 snowy acres, feeding those sketchy barn cats all her table scraps.
So, to summarize, your great-Grandma S. is our matriarch and if there is anyone you want to be like, be like her.
Happy, happy golden birthday to my best sidekick, my mini-me, and favorite four-foot wonder.
You're going to have one hell of a year, and I can't wait to watch.