My first born daughter, the child that made me a mother, turns eleven today.
She’s tall (5’3” at the last measurement), beautiful, smart, sweet (mostly) and challenging. She loves to sing at the top of her voice, to play on her tablet until her thumb print has been worn down to nothing (she’s planning a heist and will only touch things with her smooth thumb.)
She still loves horses but her animal love has expanded over the years to include cats, dogs, and yes, even our fish, Bomber.
She’s rough with her sister and still cuddles with me in the evenings.
She’s not especially graceful, can be found spilling cups of water several times a week. We’ve threatened to make her revert to using a sippy cup on several occasions. She doesn’t find this threat amusing in the least. And yet, she can do the most beautiful handstands and cartwheels.
She challenges me and her dad to no end, wanting to know WHY we can boss her around but she can’t retaliate.
She’s asked me several times to remind her not to ever get bangs cut into her hair. Her hair, when short, like to wing and curl and be a nuisance. Been there, Sweetie. It gets better.
I am so glad I get to celebrate the coming year with her. Eleven is going to be awesome. It’s also probably going to be rough and tough and scary. But in the midst of the rough times, we’re going to laugh and hug and snuggle and grow.
It’s just what we do.
Here’s to ELEVEN.