My baby girl will be 11 next Wednesday.
I KNOW.
But, as we will be in the process of moving, I won't be able to post all kinds of Momma Drivel on her actual birthday. So I am posting it now.
I knew I was in for a reality check when you were born. Literally when you were born.
As soon as you were born, you cried.
And cried.
And cried.
I have video taped evidence of the delivery nurses asking the doctor..."What did you do to this baby?"
And you cried for the next 2 years straight.
We quit eating out the day I had to chase you around a restaurant and couldn't catch you. It took us over a year to get the nerve to try again.
You always wanted to be held...to the point your brother (3 years old at the time) would request me to "Put her DOWN, Momma!" So I would. And he would immediately say "Make her stop CRYING, Momma!"
But you also had this crazy belly laugh. No lie....a laugh bigger than most adults I know. It never failed to make me laugh along with you.
To this day you start every day with a long bear hug. And give me several through out the day.
I'm sorry for anytime I ever asked you to stop hugging me because I was busy or in a hurry.
Everyday you prove to me what a caring young lady you are...even when friends hurt your feelings or take advantage of your sweet nature...you love them anyway- more than anyone deserves to be loved. And it's like there's never even a question of NOT loving them. You just do.
Every time we see a lost dog or cat sign in the neighborhood you are on the look out. To the extent of driving your bike around the neighborhood to see if you can find them. You grieve over little hatchlings that get kicked out of the nest, dogs that have to live outside (not like your pampered pooch!) and Heaven forbid a child toss a stuffed animal out to the curb for the trash to pick up.
You still fold your little plump hands when we pray. I love that. (Yes, that means I am peeking.)
If I tell you we can't afford something, you understand. Even when I told you we couldn't have a 'real' birthday party this year...you were perfectly fine with it.
You use your own piggy bank money to buy your friends birthday gifts. And you always ask me "When will I be old enough to get a job making my own money?" Once you were scouring the newspaper Help Wanted ads. I had to break it to you that no one will hire a ten year old little girl. It's illegal.
Thank you for making every day of the past eleven years some of the craziest, most humbling, most loving years I have spent on this planet.
Momma loves you, Peanut.
