Dear Daughter,
Well, it’s official. I officially have two teenagers officially living under my roof. Because…have you heard? You are thirteen years old now. Which makes you….a teenager. Officially.
I have been trying and failing to sit and write this letter to you. It’s not that I don’t have the words for you, it’s that I have too many words for you. A big, jumbled up love bomb just rolling around in my brain, bumping into stuff. Because when I think of you, I think of a thousand things that make you perfect to me. I think of a million moments I would give anything to have for just one more second all while trying to live in this moment because one day I’m going to write you a letter and you’ll be 20, 25, 30 and I’ll be crying, wishing I could be sitting here again, trying to find the words for my 13 year old daughter.
So for future me, I’ll try and find some words and hope they do you justice.
I admire you so much, Daughter. I really do. I know you’re a mere thirteen years old but you’ve already taught me so much about who I would like to be when I grow up. I hope I’m as curious as you, each thought that pops in my head a reason to explore. I hope I’m as kind as you, never forgetting a birthday and always buying the most thoughtful gifts. I hope I’m as confident as you, as self assured even when I feel different. I pray that one day I can work a room as well as you; that your gift of gab will grace my lips when I’d rather hide in the corner. I would like to be as brave as you, not afraid to ask questions. I wish to be as pure as you, your goodness spilling out, your heart so big it makes mine burst. And I hope I never bump into a tree I don’t try to climb.
I told you it was a love bomb.
But there are hard things, too, Daughter, because we are human. Challenges we face, tantrums we conquer. You can be a bit bossy. A tad stubborn. And you’ve made it very clear that a morning person you are not. Never has the push and pull of motherhood been greater as we circle one another, deciding to duel or duet. One of the relentless, perplexing problems of parenting is this lesson we must always keep learning: I am not you and you are not me. Just as I am not my mother and my mother is not my grandmother. We are bits and pieces of one another but we have whole parts that belong only to us. Mysterious parts even that we spend a lifetime trying to know and understand. I want to tell you so many things about us, Daughter, but I can’t because you must find them for yourself. Find them and then tell me all about it. Please don’t ever stop telling me all about it.
When I pick you up from places, I like to arrive a few minutes early and watch you with your friends or just with yourself. I like to see you in a moment when you’re not aware of my eyes on you. I like to see who you are, all the bits and pieces, the whole parts and the mysterious ones. I watch you and I am filled with the most precious gratitude. Gratitude that I get to be your mom, that I get to be a part of you. Gratitude that I get to witness the totality of you, a big jumbled up love bomb just walking around, bumping into stuff. Gratitude that I happen to know that you are the best person I’ve ever met. But I do NOT have favorites, okay? We all know I worship your brother equally.
But your light is different, Daughter. Even your brother cannot deny your shine.
Keep lighting the way for the rest of us.
You are my sunshine.
Forever.
Happy Birthday.
Love,
Mama
