I came home from work tonight to find a jumble of boxes and wrapping paper and mail on the dining room table. Seems Kate got a few early birthday presents. Spuddy in Kansas sent a very sweet card and package of bath goodies, and my mother and two sisters all sent money-filled cards. Needless to say, Cupkate was a happy camper.
So in the spirit of early celebration, I have decided to post my birthday tribute to Kate a day in advance. Besides, we’ve got a whirlwind of a weekend planned -- what with Kate’s party on Sunday; Mr. Mom’s first ever tournament as coach of the Mayberry High School Tennis Team on Saturday; and the Home and Garden Show this evening. (Can you say Friday night date? Mr. Mom and I are so excited. Well, I’m so excited. We’re going on an actual date with our friends Rick and Cheryl to tour the home and garden show, then out for a lovely dinner and drinks. Who knows, maybe I can get Mr. Mom liquored up and convince him to buy a hot tub.)
But . . . back to the birthday girl. I know turning 16 is supposed to be the milestone birthday for teenagers, but for some reason this year -- 15 -- seems so monumental. I’ve noticed a huge difference in the last year, the likes of which I haven’t seen since kindergarten.
See the photo above? It was taken when Kate was six. Six was another monumental year for Kate and for me. At the time, it seemed like my little girl had grown up -- overnight! I so missed the “baby” that had been mine for five years, that I wrote this:
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Six is Wondrous New
A girl of six is a sprite unfettered. A contradiction, a charm, a sly smile of blush and pride.
Even at five, she is a baby, my baby, hand and heart grasped in mine, and not yet initiated into the world of team sports, sleepovers, all-day school.
But at six, she is all about risk and motion and fields undared -- a tumblebug of queries to be posed full speed. And six is wondrous new.
New challenges, new friends, new dreams, new notions unfold before her, a splendent banquet of awe and fear to be carefully tasted, some savored, some spat.
And I in the shadows, impatiently waiting to offer encouragement that is rarely required or even asked, ponder her journey and my place in it.
I am not ready to release my grasp, my being, my daughter to the life that is becoming hers. Hers, not mine, in a separate form I can shape but cannot mold.
How do I capture the essence that is her, that is six, that is all my dream can ever be, of a child that is each day new? I want to hold the moment in my hands forever. Not in my heart, not in my mind, but in my white-knuckled hands where her sum and substance never slip or fade.
And how do I tell her that she is beautiful, and amazing, and strong, and smart without sounding like her mother? Mother, she might soon say, making her disclaimer in a tone I perfected.
Independence. It’s a good thing, right? She runs ahead, skips pages, makes no quarrel with uncertainty, and feels not the qualms I harbor on her behalf. She stands tall and straight, offering a smile at times most needed, unaware of evil or life’s disappointments more worrisome than a lost opportunity for ice cream. Her freckles sparkle in the afternoon sun and her toes reach for the sky, outstretched on a flying swing that traces a menacing arc.
She is my poetry and I struggle to remember full verse. Yet, still I cry at its reading, and it moves me to want another just like her, and another and another and another, as shelter from the dangers of her journey.
But when I go to her at night and reach to share a bedtime hug, she confirms who I am. We lay still, our hearts beating to a matched pace, and we are six forever.
And one time, she holds longer than I, and offers a whispered rhyme as redress for daring to approach seven -- words that could have been mine, but are splendidly hers, and that frame our mutual longing.
I don’t want to let go because I love you so.
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Kate, I don’t want to let go because I love you so. Happy birthday, sweetie.
