Sweet Sixteen (A letter to my daughter on her 16th Birthday)

In some ways – it seems but a minute since I found out I was expecting you.  I still remember the joy.  And the panic.  You can never be truly ready for parenthood, the unknown – no matter how much other people try to tell you – is just too great.  We planned for you for 9 months, and still had no idea what we were doing the day we brought you home.  You were a marvel.  So perfect and tiny and needy.  I remember your milk drunk sleepy face, and exactly how you smelt as you fell asleep next to me after your 2 AM feeding.  I remember the exhaustion and the fear.  But mostly I remember the wonder. And the joy.  Your every smile, every milestone, every tiny grasp of my finger.

You’ve grown and changed so much over the last 16 years. You’ve evolved from this perfect, tiny, needy infant to this perfect, beautiful, marvelous, magic, almost adult woman.  It has been my complete privilege to watch you in this metamorphosis.  And my darling, you have made this journey beautifully. The change from child to adult is never smooth, is never easy, and truthfully never over.  But in the process, you’ve taught me and changed me so much.

You taught me what fear really was.  I was afraid of many things in my childhood and early adult hood.  When I say anxiety has always been my constant companion, I’m not exaggerating. But feeling you move and stretch within me as the towers fell on 9/11 left me wrecked beyond anything I had ever known.  How could I bring a child into a world this evil?  But each day beyond that, I felt my heart in my throat with every breath you took, every small cough and fever, every tumble.  The days you didn’t want to talk to me, the days you did.  The nights you stayed up late and I could hear you in your room, the mornings when I called up to wake you and you didn’t answer immediately.  Even now as I watch you make decisions that could impact your future, as I watch you navigate the social mazes of young adulthood, as I watch you drive the next several stages of your life – I find myself short of breath and teary eyed with fear and worry.

You also taught me about the beauty of hope.  It’s not always been an easy journey – in fact some days it’s been almost impossible, but watching you bloom, watching you fight through the battles, the mire of all you face, and hearing your laughter on the other side is possibly the most beautiful artwork I’ve ever seen you create.  I see hope and beauty in every smile you flash, every sarcastic joke, every plan you make.  I look at you and your friends, and think that the world is in good hands. My fear is sometimes overwhelming, but hope always wins out when I see your face.  Thank you for being a beacon of light even if it wasn’t your goal.

You taught me about the power of art.  I’m not the creative type, I find security in structure and routine.  Prior to you – I might have visited an art museum out of obligation, but not out of enjoyment.  And it would be untruthful to say that your creative tendencies haven’t caused conflict in our relationship, as your messy craft area would make me insane as I attempted to clean up all the glitter (SO. MUCH. GLITTER).  But, oh child, to see what you create.  To hear you sing. To watch you perform.  To see you paint.  Your talent is outmatched only by the joy that shows on your face as you create.  I’ve never understood art – until I watched you.  From childhood plays and handprint art, to high school productions, talent shows, six-foot paintings and floral arrangements…. completely beautiful, and with the power to bring me to tears.  Never stop.  The world needs you, your art, your story.  Wherever your life takes you, whatever career you find. . .never stop creating.

Sixteen is a big year – and I can feel the tightness in my chest when I think of the changes that are coming for us quickly.  I’m imagining a day when I help you move out and knowing that it is coming faster than I can process.  I realize that every milestone is a marker on a timeline of your independence.  And some days it gets me. I find myself holding tighter and tighter to things and ideas when I should be letting go. 

I have this rising sense of panic that I’ve still so much to teach you in the next two years.  I still hold out hope that you’ll one day learn to clean your room (really clean, not just stuff things under the bed/in the closet/behind the desk) and to wash your sheets and rinse your dishes. But mostly I wonder, did I teach you to be strong, loving, and kind?  Did I drive that home as much as I did the ideas of doing your homework and eating your vegetables?

You are so capable – of doing whatever you decide.  I’ve seen you battle through so much and I hope you look back at that and find strength again when you need it.  You are a fighter, I can see it in the tilt of your head and the daring sparkle of your eye. And I pray that you will hold that fight deep in the pit of your stomach and let it rise up when you face the next challenge, whatever it might be.  But you can also always lean on your father and I.  There is no weakness in seeking help, and sometimes being strong means being strong enough to know your limits, to know when the best decision is support.  You are so strong my love.  Let that strength ground you, and ease your worries.  You’ve got this, because we’ve got this together.

I want to remind you to choose to love.  Someone told me that once at a bridal shower. . .”to always chose to love.” And it kind of stuck.  Not just in marriage, but in every relationship, friendship, interaction. Everyone is deserving of love.  Everyone needs it.  Sometimes loving others feels easy and automatic.  But loving people is a hard choice somedays.  Because people are weird, and frustrating, and different from you.  But chose to love them anyway.  Your friends, your teachers, your parents (ahem) – even when they mess up, even when they drive you crazy.   Even then.  Especially then.

            

          Be kind.  Recognize from your own stories and experiences that kindness fixes the brokenness.  And the brokenness isn’t always visible, but each person you know is broken in some way.  Reach out to those you can see are hurting and give them a small smile, an encouraging hug, an extra cookie.  And remember that those that you can’t see hurting would probably still like those things too.  I see you doing this already with me – you can tell when I’m fighting a hard day, and you inevitably reach out with a pat on my back as I cook supper, a snuggle on the couch as I stare at the next day’s to-do list.  And it glues me back together for just a bit.  Spread that around my love, and watch as it fixes others, and yourself.

                I’m glad I’ve got a few more years, I’m glad that day is not today. . .but mostly I want to tell you how incredibly blessed I am to be your mom. You made me a mom.  You taught me fear, and love, and hope, and beauty.  You’ve had to put up with being my firstborn, and have had to take on the brunt of my parenting mistakes as I floundered between promoting your independence and clinging to your childhood.  And we’ll still navigate those waters together, for the next two years. . .and probably forever.  I’m proud of you.  I love you.  Always.