This is one of those posts that I never know how to write.
On February 19, my daughter Hannah turned 11 years old. Somehow, this tiny little baby:
Turned into this young woman:
What do you say about your first-born child? Of course she’s amazing. Of course she’s beautiful. Of course she’s smart, and talented, and funny. And when I look at her I feel so full of mother-love that it grabs hold of my heart and squeezes until the emotion spills out of my eyes and runs down my face.
And what do you say about an 11-year-old girl? Her story hasn’t been my story to tell for a number of years now. She is fully her own person, with her own ideas and preferences and friends and hobbies. She doesn’t need me to speak for her. More than that, it’s inappropriate for me to speak for her. So I don’t, so much, anymore. But of course I think about her constantly. Of course I mentally catalogue all of the milestones, big and small, as best I can. I wish I could do more, but it goes so fast.
So. Freaking. Fast.
Here are the things I can say.
Hannah is an artist who is always drawing. She is in grade five. She started tae kwon do last April and she is fierce. She was one of the MCs at her school Christmas concert, and she sang a solo in the church Christmas pageant. She did a year of tap dance and when she is feeling antsy she does tap steps. Every night I read out loud to her before she goes to sleep. She loves our cat. She tolerates her brother.
Eleven years ago she made me a mother, and every day since then she has made me a better person. And I am proud of the person she has become.
Happy (belated) birthday, Hannah!