SEVENTEEN!!
I'm almost done here, people! I mean, we're talking less than one year, and she's an adult! Do I get a new contract then? Does she turn into a pumpkin? How does her adulthood work?
WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?!?!
I kid. I also publish letters to her on the interwebs.
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| I can never get a picture of her looking at me! |
My darling LovelyGirl,
Seventeen years ago today, I was cursing you (and your father) with every breath I took. I think even the nurses were shocked at the depth and breadth of my obscenity-laced vocabulary. In my defense, I had been in labor for three days.
I want you to stop and think about that.
THREE DAYS!
Three weeks after your due date, labor started in the middle of the night on Friday, your 10-pound ass did not arrive until Monday. Okay, nine pounds, fourteen ounces, but I mean, really!
I was terrified. I was in pain, I was worried things weren't happening like they were supposed to, I was scared your dad would get tired of the whole thing and leave, I was scared your grandmother would throw another nurse against the wall.
Above all, I was scared I wouldn't like you.
All the moms kept telling me how they fell in love with their kids the first second they set eyes on them. What if you arrived and I didn't feel like that? What was I going to do? I'm not going to lie, I was already pretty pissed at you for two things - one, being a boy, based on sonograms, and two, trying to kill me getting you here.
(Yeah, yeah, you've heard the story - you were a boy. We had clothes and a name and a room all set up for a son. Again, you caused trouble from the very, very beginning!)
I was being stupid about all of it. Of course your dad stayed. He's amazing. He held my hand and did all of the things he was supposed to, said all the right words (even if I don't remember what they were now.) ignored me telling him to get away from me because his cologne was making my violently ill (it really was) and was generally his good-guy self.
Things were happening fine. Not exactly like they were supposed to, but that's my body's fault for not producing endorphin like it should. Your grandmother did not throw any other nurses around, but I'm pretty sure that's because she announced that the next person to tell me the pains 'weren't that bad' would be murdered on the spot. Also, I think the one she pushed up against the wall and told to 'get the hell out' reported back and gave the others the head's up.
And then - you. Oh.My.God.
You.
When the doctor laughed, pointed and announced "it's a girl!" I argued with him. I told him "Don't fuck with me, man, I know better, I've seen the pictures!" (Yeah, I argued with my OB/GYN right there in the delivery room. True story.) He chuckled and handed you over, assuring me that you were, in fact, sans penis.
I cried. And cried and cried. I kissed your disgusting bloody head and held you and sobbed. I just kept looking at your little smooshy face, only briefly wondering why you were kind of gray-colored, and marveling that you were my own little daughter. I loved you immediately with a fierceness that scared me more than anything had yet.
It occurred to me several hours later that you and your dad were going to share a birthday forever after, and that thought led me to remember I hadn't even gotten him a card. A whole rush of hormones at that point had me crying some more and apologizing profusely about having no presents for him. I think I remember him laughing uproariously and telling me I'd done enough for his birthday.
You also know some of the stories about the following days. You had no clothes that didn't have baseballs on them. You had nothing remotely frilly or girly or sweet or pink.
You had no name. You had no name for almost a week. By the time we'd dubbed you appropriately, you'd already had your family name bestowed.
You know how your family name came about, and while your real name is beautiful and elegant and feminine and all the things I wanted it to be, it's rarely the name we use.
Which brings me to this part:
Seventeen Years of Apologies
I'm sorry about your family name. If I had known how it would stick and that everyone inside and outside of the family would use it instead of the name on your birth certificate, I would have been a lot more careful with what I called your wee nameless self.
I'm sorry for the names you use for your grandparents. I didn't pick those, though. You picked some of them, the others picked their own.
I'm sorry you got my nose.
And hips.
Not sorry about the eyes, though! Or the boobs. You're finding out how useful both can be!
I'm sorry we lived a half hour from all of your schools. Mostly because I had to drive you for 10 years, but really because none of your friends live closer.
I'm sorry you were not allowed to watch more television. I really thought I was doing the right thing limiting you to Blue's Clues and Sesame Street. I see now that I was misguided. Clearly, you would have been beyond NHS and Advanced Placement classes and been able to mix with the normal kids instead of the scarily smart ones.
I'm sorry about the time I told you I was going to sell you the gypsies if you didn't clean your room and that your grandparents knocked on the front door twenty minutes later scaring the bejeezus out of you. I didn't know they were coming, really!
I'm sorry I let you convince me to keep your cat. Clearly, the twelve years of undying love and cuddles she has provided you have ruined you for all other cats in the world.
I'm sorry I made you get out of the car and pick up the puppy on the side of the road. I'm also sorry that I almost peed myself laughing when you were scared of it, especially since it was all of four inches and its growl was equivalent to, well... absolutely nothing. It wasn't even a real dog! She's still not a real dog! She's only four pounds!! And you know she loves you best of anyone.
I'm sorry that I didn't buy you designer label everything your whole life. The cool, fuck-'em-all style you have now is definitely a detriment to your well being. Especially the Chucks. I don't know how you'll forgive me for that.
I'm sorry we introduced you to things like Doctor Who, Star Wars, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, knowing full well the emotional damage each one of them could do to you. Particularly Doctor Who.
I miss the Ponds, too.
I'm sorry your first car was not new. We just assumed you'd wreck it completely within five minutes of pulling out of the driveway. Had we known you'd go so long, we might have reconsidered.
I'm sorry you don't have siblings.
Wait.
No, I'm really not. Never mind.
I'm sorry that I left my awesome job to stay at home about the time you were discovering the number of things you could get away with when your parents aren't around.
I'm sorry about the time when you were an infant and I fell asleep on you while breastfeeding. Luckily, the couch cushions protected you fairly well.
I'm sorry about your dad. He's a mess. He loves you, though, more than he will EVER let on to your face. Trust me on this. Always believe that. And he wants more for you than we have the ability to give you right now. Also, if you could get scholarships to pay for college, that would be awesome. Thanks!
I'm sorry I raised you to be tough and self-reliant and independent. Mostly because I miss the little version of you. The one that needed me to do everything.
I'm sorry I don't tell you more often how proud I am of you. Especially your ability to swear like a drunken sailor in port when you think no one is around!
I'm sorry you're seventeen.
It means I'm way older now.
Happy birthday, beautiful. (And you, too, OldMan.)
I love you both.
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Thanks for posting!