sixteen. a birthday post.

I was 29 years old, just hours away from turning 30, when I met her for the first time.

It was a terribly long, incredibly painful delivery. And yes, I have pretty much forgotten exactly how it really felt, although if I let myself, I can remember enough.

We had two names picked out for her. We had decided to wait until we met her to make the final decision.

Emerson Scout Elizabeth or London Elizabeth Scout.

She was beautiful and she was instantly popular. Riley was infatuated with her. My mom adored her. She had a fan club longer than all the letters in her unusually long name.

I remember those first hours. It was after midnight, alone for a little while in a hospital room in Virginia, just she and I. Trying to figure out nursing a newborn and overwhelmed with exhaustion and adoration and awe. 

It was my thirtieth birthday and I softly sung this itsy bitsy human a birthday song – celebrating the both of us, back to back, birthdays touching from now until the end of our times.

Before she was one, I read every page of To Kill a Mockingbird out loud to her. Her first word was dog. Her first step was on her first birthday – already keenly aware of good timing and proper behavior. She’s been the leader of the pack since before the pack arrived.

London used to obsess over one article of clothing. One year it was a blue buff.  She wore it so much that strangers thought she had a disease and was covering up her baldness.  Then it was a brown and green striped sock hat with a tiny bill. She wore it everywhere – every day, in every season. 

She loves justice and struggles to see viewpoints that vary wildly from her own. She believes in right and wrong, although often she wants to be the one who defines those absolutes. She’s thoughtful and clever and her art skills surpassed mine before she began elementary school.

She’s a homebody who looks for ways to avoid physical labor. She’s funny and places a high value on making people laugh and being around people who make her laugh. She’s a great cook and precise with directions. 

She’s sixteen today and we all know that number feels like it matters somehow.

The fast track is upon us. Drivers license. Junior in high school. Beginning college tours. Thinking about tomorrow more than yesterday. She can babysit. She can feed the family. Shoot, she could manage a small country. 

So much tender and sweet and darling is behind us. Bows in her hair and dresses that match her dolls. Words like “magazine” pronounced “mahz-ah-geen”. Cuddling in my lap and learning to read big kid words. Little bob haircuts and toothless grins. 

If I type too much here, I’ll start to cry.

The times are just too fast. It’s the lament of every parent and I’m not the first one to sing this song.

I cannot bear to watch them grow up and become their own people. And yet, I am loving the show of it unfolding and playing out.

Both. And.

The refrain of parenting. Of my entire life, it seems.

(Happy Birthday London.)

____________________________________