The Bigger They Get

Dear Daughter,

Two hundred eighty eight is such a big number. It’s really hard for me to believe just how fast all of this goes. I had no idea when the nurse handed you to me for the first time that just the next day you’d be living in your first apartment halfway across the country and working towards your PhD.

Why, being in labor with you seemed longer than the last 24 years. As I’m sure you remember hearing (over and over and over), it was freaking painful. And long. Towards the end, when things got really fun, Dad had the TV in the labor room tuned to a movie called Hurry Sundown . It starred Jane Fonda and by the time they wheeled me into the delivery room I was totally ready to rip Jane Fonda’s face off. Really, it was a smart move on Dad’s part, I guess, deflecting my pain-induced hostility onto Hanoi Jane, someone whom neither of us could stand. It was not, on the other hand, PC for him to accept food while I was laboring and not permitted to eat. Even if it was my own mother who gave it to him. Lingering lessons from that night include:

Dad: Just how long I can hold a grudge.

Me: Eating a whole pizza in hopes of inducing labor works, but it won’t hold you over if labor lasts longer than 20 hours or so.

Both of us: There is nothing - and I mean NOTHING - in life to compare to cradling your firstborn in your arms, kissing her soft little forehead, just seconds after her birth.

You were a fairly easy baby, sleeping through after six weeks, on the night your Grandad stayed up all night waiting to feed you. You were always game to go, and you and I went everywhere together. Day trips to Linvilla, shopping, out-of-town weddings, visiting your great-grandmothers who absolutely adored you and I’m so glad you got to meet them both. You were surrounded by love from day one and spoiled rotten by our big, extended family.

You were a sweet, adorable baby and toddler who sometimes had difficulty getting to sleep. I remember sitting on the white Haitian cotton sofa in your nursery - the sofa that I never would have bought had I known I would have three kids - rocking you in my arms trying to coo you to sleep. I was cooing you to sleep instead of singing because I found, to my shock and dismay, that I’d forgotten all the lullabyes I’d ever known. What kind of mother was I? The next day I went out and bought myself a tape.

Remember tapes? Yeah, you do because you’re OLD.

I also sang you songs my mom and dad used to sing to us when we were little. Grandmom liked to sing us Que Sera, Sera, Lavender’s Blue, and Mockingbird. Grandpop, whom you never had the pleasure of meeting, had an odd repertoire including Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, I Gave My Love a Cherry, and I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair. You would have loved him.

When you were nearly two, Son One was born. You had wanted a sister, but adjusted quickly and were great about being the big sister and helping us with the baby. When you were four and Son Two was born, I was afraid to tell you he was a boy because you were adamant about the baby being A GIRL THIS TIME, DAMMIT. But you took it in stride. Sort of. You asked us if we could buy an orphan.

It was around this time that you went underground, learning all of Son One’s buttons and pushing them.

Constantly.

You think I’m kidding when I tell you the character of Angelica on RugRats was modeled after you. I’m not. There were times we considered calling in an exorcist. We decided to hold off, but agreed that the minute your bed levitated or your head began to spin, well, we had the rectory on speed dial. And we’re Presbyterian.

Fortunately, you began school soon after and your energies and attention were redirected into other, more peaceful, pursuits. You found the mingling aromas of paste, new crayons, and chalk dust intoxicating and you hit the ground running. And you’re still running. Wow.

For a sensitive child who was shy and not particularly fond of change, we put you through a lot. You’d lived in six different houses in three different states by the time you were seven. You survived the heartbreak and struggles of living with your much loved Grandmom throughout the five years of her illness and dreadful incapacity - in many ways with more dignity, grace and compassion than we adults could muster. You went away to college and found yourself a home and family of friends on campus and positively blossomed.

Through the years, you have frequently blown Dad and me away with your willingness to do what you want, or what needs to be done, despite your shyness. Your beautiful heart, your passion, and your strength of character are incredible. You come from a long line of strong, smart, loving women and let me tell you, I know they are up there in Heaven giving you a well-deserved Standing O. Every day. And so are we.

I know it bothers you sometimes when you hear my words come out of your mouth, or we say the same thing at the same time. I LOVE when that happens, because it makes Dad roll his eyes, shake his head, and sigh. And also because it reminds me that maybe I had just a little bit to do with what an amazing woman you are.

I love you more than I will ever be able to adequately express.

You’re my girl.  Happy Birthday, Sweetie!

Mom

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 14th, 2008 at 3:40 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.