. . . as now I have an arena in which to confess the following horrible sin: I only remembered my daughter’s birthday when I happened (oh thank God) to see her post on Facebook.
Probably a ” ’nuff said!” there, but really–really really really–I saw it click at midnight, but didn’t want to risk waking her up. But . . . I overslept, which always screws with my day, and . . . since I couldn’t reach Party Girl on the phone–wished her a happy birthday on her wall.
Oh well. You’ll never see it, honey, but . . . happy birthday. Words just can’t express it. Twenty-one years ago tonight, I remember holding you with the feeling–the knowledge–that you were Special; that you were going to be Important; that you would Make History; that you would Save the World. You’re still that person; you are special and important; you make history every day, and you have already saved my world more times than you know, by restoring my faith if nothing else.
I love you, sweetie. Twenty-one years ago you turned me into a Mommy, and although it’s been one tough gig, it’s the one that matters most.