Squish was maybe two months old when I started blogging. I changed blog names when she was a year, but I remember that I wasn’t working and I was writing and I had nobody to tell about my day. I was FUNNY, dammit. I had OBSERVATIONS. And I needed to blog.
And blogging became all sorts of things–advertisement, random fiction, whining about my job (at the time), whining/bragging about my kids.
And behind all of the things it was, there was also the ticking of the clock. Squish was only a little older than the blog…
So Squish is thirteen on the third.
THIRTEEN.
And she’s a LADY. She’s also a snarky teenaged pain in the ass who rolls her eyes at the drop of the hat. But she’s also kind. And she had an eclectic batch of friends, and she’s different and funny and oh so clever.
I’ve called her my dessert baby for thirteen years and she’s still… dessert. She still makes me happy. Squish, Chicken, and I can banter for hours. I mean, I’m sure there will be mother daughter things to come, but right now, Squish still likes me and I am baffled and pleased.
She’s beautiful.
She’s at the King’s Game with her father– he upgraded his tickets so they’re near the arena and he had her name up on the marquis.
He belatedly asked me if I wanted to come with ZoomBoy in the regular seats, but I had work to do. Besides–she has a birthday party on Saturday (when it will HOPEFULLY not rain on us, because we’re at the park) and you can bet I won’t miss that. (I will miss her play for BLC, but she’s been feeding me guilt in small doses since she was cast so I think I might be mostly immune by then.)
But I still think of my career in terms of Squish. I was working on my third book when I was in labor with her. She was four when I was pulled out of my teaching job and started writing full time. She was five when I took my first business trip and got on a plane all by myself.
She was nine when Bells finaled in the RITA awards–one of the first three LGBTQ books to do so– and she and her sister stayed up late to send me Leonardo DiCaprio GIFS when Bells didn’t win. (As a friend said, “DiaBOLical!” )
She was eleven when her big brother came out as bi, and we hauled the entire family cross country and she grinned in every picture.
She was twelve when she had her ass-length red hair bobbed to her shoulders, and we all realized she’d grown up.
And she’s thirteen today, and she looks so much like a young lady it makes my heart ache.
She’s still my Squish. She’ll always be my Squish. But I can’t call her Squish on the soccer field or at school anymore, because I’m trying to be a good mother.
And the last thirteen years have gone by so fast–so very fast. And as surprised as I am to look in the mirror to see that I’ve grown older, I am more surprised to look at my children to realize that they are growing up.
My baby isn’t my baby anymore.
She’s a young woman, and she wants earrings and high heels and she needs to know how to shave her legs.
It’s not fair. I actually had time when this set of kids was growing up. I volunteered in their classrooms. I’ve worked backstage in their theater productions. And it still went so fast.
Happy Birthday sweetheart. You are the family’s bright moment, a bit of serene loveliness among a bunch of screwballs who often let their own snarkiness run away with them. You are the grounded steady happy child who has always pulled us back.
We love you more than words can say.
You’re a teenager now. People have been waiting for you to take over the world since you were born.
Goddess help us–you’re more than ready.
