A Sense of Style

This post is in honor of our daughter's birthday. The remainder of the blog will be addressed to her. (If you, dear reader, are very quiet, you may listen in.)
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Dearest daughter:

When I think of you, I am filled with a flood of thoughts. I think back to when I first learned you were going to be a girl. As a mother of "advanced maternal age" (snort), I had genetic testing done. Among the things that testing could tell us was what SEX you would be. When the hospital called, I asked--and what is "it"? The health worker on the other end paused and said--are you sure you want to know? ABSOLUTELY. Well, she said--you are having a girl.


A girl? Since we had a boy, I thought--well, another boy would be easy (HA!), but a girl? Of course, by the time you were born, I had adjusted to the idea. Soon after you were born, I reveled in it. And I still do.

There are many stories I could explore in remembering your growing up. Many, if not all of them, you have heard. They are still among my favorite stories to tell. I will be sparing, and select only one. You know this one.

I remember the day when you were maybe in junior high. You asked me--Mom, when did you get your sense of style? I confess--I was secretly pleased. My daughter. She's growing up. She wants to know when she will begin to be more like her mother.

I am not sure exactly how I answered, but then I remember I said--why do you ask? Well, you said, when I get my own sense of style, I hope it's not like yours.

Crushed! But not really--in the long run, I am so very glad you are your own young woman. I love that you are so strong, so determined, so intelligent, so lovely, so much our daughter.

I know, I know--you're no doubt saying--don't get all weepy on me, mom!

So, on this day--here's to you, to your wonderful sense of style, to you being your own person.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. Love you to the moon and back. . .

Mom