To my dear daughter,
Recently, I’ve been joking around with you that now that you’ve hit this birthday, you’re entering your last year of being a single digit; once you hit double-digits, it’s all downhill from there, baby. All kidding aside, the ninth birthday is a pretty significant one, in my opinion.
When I was nine, we weren’t called “tweens”. We were just on the cusp of a new stage in our relationship with our parents, and with the world. I could feel then, at the age of nine, drifting ever so slowly, so slightly, from my parents—especially my mother—and my siblings. I wasn’t yet stricken with full-on teenaged angst, but I knew that my relationship with everyone and everything around me was about to change. While I know that this may very well happen with you too, there’s a big part of me that hopes that it won’t, of course.
I’m proud of the little girl that you’ve been these first nine years, and the wonderful older girl (and eventually, young woman) that I see you becoming. I’m proud of your maturity and wisdom well beyond your years; your sense of humour that’s sometimes sharp and witty, sometimes kooky; your silly laugh that makes you laugh even more; your tenderness towards others; your talents in so many fields. I love that you’re not yet too shy or too “cool” to cuddle up and ask for kisses and bedtime stories from dear old mom. I’m proud of the fact that on the day you were born, you erased all doubts and fears that I had about being a mother to you, and especially about being a mother to a daughter.
On this celebration of a most wonderful day, I’m proud of you for having introduced to me one of the most beautiful people that I’ll ever know in my life.
Happy birthday, my baby.