Thirty-eight years ago, a beautiful little girl was born. I
was not there, did not participate in that momentous occasion.
About two years
later, her father brought her into my life – all big blue eyes and golden
curls. Soon she started calling me Mommy.
And even though her father is no longer in my life, she’s
still my little girl. She still calls me Mommy.
When I remember all those years ago, I think of dance
classes, costumes, dress rehearsals, French braided hair.
Blue fingernail polish and Guess jeans. Michael Jackson and
Madonna. Cabbage Patch and Strawberry Shortcake.
The olive drab period. The theater. The amazingly beautiful
young woman in the purple homecoming dress.
Climbing out the window at midnight to go to Rocky Horror. (Which we probably would have let her go to legitimately if she'd asked)
I remember fighting battles for her and proudly watching her
fight her own. I love that she stands up for herself. Maybe I gave that to her.
She’s an amazing mother. A thousand times better than I was
when I embarked on the Mommy journey, naïve and ill-equipped to know what to
do.
She is strong and confident, sure of who she is and
perfectly capable of handling everything that comes her way – and some really
ugly things have come her way.
But she overcomes all of them with grace and courage and a
quiet strength I don’t think she realizes she possesses.
Thank you for coming into my life, little girl. Thank you
for staying there.
Thank you for calling me Mommy.
~
