My daughter turned 9 this week.
I’ve always made birthdays for her a big deal. It’s the one thing I ever put my foot down about, that we, my daughter and I, WOULD celebrate birthdays. No compromises.
Every year on her birthday I wake her up with tickles and the happy birthday song, she chooses her favorite meals for the day, and we spend some time talking about the day she entered into and became my world. We talk about her name and I remind her that I named her after a strong and defiant woman who stood up for what she believed in. I marvel at how much she’s grown…from a tiny baby only 21 inches long to a beautiful young lady whose head now reaches my chin and whose feet now fit into my shoes. She insists that I play games with her and that I let her win. It’s a day unlike any other throughout the year.
Motherhood has changed me in ways I could have never imagined. It has brought me strength I never knew I had, showed me love I never knew existed, and proved to me that the human body is capable of miraculous things.
As I buzzed around the kitchen preparing way too much food for her party, I joked with my mother that children shouldn’t be the ones who get gifts on their birthdays. They haven’t accomplished anything, really. We as parents should be the ones showered with gifts as congratulations for allowing them to survive and helping them to thrive for yet another year. I admit that celebrating her birthday has always been a little bit about me, but I’m happy to let her shine and feel special, and I hope she is able to look back on these days with a smile when she’s also a mother.
The party went well, my house is still covered in confetti, and I have enough leftover pizza for a few more meals. Nine will be gone before I know it, so I’ll savor in its newness a few more days before we get on with life and routine and a decade creeps up on us.
Thanks for stopping by :) Have some cake!