I read an AWESOME post a blogger wrote for her daughter, it SO moved me, I wanted to share! I copied and pasted the post here on my page, or you can click on the link at the bottom of the page to go to her blog. Enjoy! Feel free to share about your own daughter(s)!
I’m so glad I made the impulsive decision to jump in your car Saturday night as we were leaving Grandma’s house to head home.
My car was piled high with horse-sized dogs and your sisters and a few of your girl cousins. And of course, your 15-year old sister at the wheel of my car. It is a well known fact in our family, that your father is the better driving instructor.
Oh, how I hate that part of parenting. I would rather change thousands of diapers again than sit in the passenger seat while you girls learn to navigate the streets behind the wheel of a hulking, tons of steel and glass machine.
Your dad is patient and calm with you girls and your driving, while my Type A self, screams over BRAKING and SLOWING DOWN and STAYING IN YOUR LANE.
He has faith in you girls’ ability to conquer the world. He lets you figure it out on your own, while I rant and rave and want to do it all for you.
Did I ever tell you about the time we learned there would be a you?
It was a usual day for me. A Friday. My job at the bank was in the big city and we lived in the middle of nowhere, just a dull clump of a rural town with nothing much, but orange groves, an ugly strip mall and one mediocre restaurant. My commute was long and so I was up before the dawn every day for that ungodly trek to the city.
On that Friday, I woke up and immediately reached for the pregnancy test, for no other reason than habit. There was no joy. There was no nervousness. It was just another thing on the list that morning.
I’d gone past the thrill of anticipation, long, long before this day.
We’d been trying to have a baby for quite some time. We were still in the testing stages of why. Why had we not been able to procreate, the most important and basic function of humans?
And in that unendurable stretch of time, I never got used to the constant question from well meaning folks, “When are you guys ever going to have a baby?”
Because, I had no answers. There was only the why, with a giant, frustrating question mark behind it.
On this ordinary Friday, the routine pregnancy test, in all honesty, was because I had big plans for happy hour with some of my friends. Our happy hours usually lasted well into the night, and so I needed to just be sure so I wouldn’t gestate a fetal alcohol syndrome baby.
I had done this so many times before, with all my hope focused on that pregnancy stick. There was no hope left in me.
I did my business and laid it on the counter, so I could go about getting ready. I didn’t even set the timer to look at the results. The crushing disappointment of a negative result had ended long before this day. It was now just resignation.
When I finally went back in the bathroom to check on things, I took a step back in complete disbelief.
I thought to myself, “Remember this moment forever.”
2 pink lines. 2 pink lines telling me that from that moment on, life would be decided by a completely different measure.
It only took me a second to scream and race to the bedroom where your father lay, still sound asleep.
It must be awfully jarring to be roused from your dreams by a screaming wife who is holding a pee stick so close in front of your face, you can’t make out what you’re even actually looking at.
But, even with that, I did not expect his reaction.
Subdued would be an understatement.
As the words, “We’re going to have a baby!” brought him out of the land of dreams, the reality set in. A man’s reality so very different from what I saw.
I saw a little bundle that smelled of softness and splendor and the dreams to come. I saw lullabies and impossibly tiny shoes and coos and the fulfillment of a baby tucked into the crook of my arm in the knowledge that all is well and as it should be in our world.
He saw responsibility and the hard truth that his career had not yet taken off. He saw a bigger house and more insurance and cases of diapers and clothing and college and need.
Lots and lots of need.
When I left for work, floating out the door on clouds of joy, he was still in bed staring at the ceiling.
In short, he was freaked out.
I tried to not let his reaction bother me. He was the one, in fact, who wanted you first, long before I saw myself as a mother. I was dancing and laughing at the moon and staying up all night and drinking cold vodka and still basking in the headiness of my youth, when he started talking about babies and our 30’s right around the corner.
He was the one who convinced me, you were essential to our life, right then, right now.
I tried not to let his unexpected reaction dampen my joy. And my joy was out of my mind delirium.
My sister said to me the other day that she thinks I feel things harder than the average soul. And she sees that as both a blessing and a curse. And she’s right. Sadness and hurt and joy and laughter bleed through my fingertips. I am always this walking open wound of sensibilities.
And I was feeling this, this one precious, extraordinary thing, like nothing else in my life.
We went on, announcing it to everyone, me—dancing and shouting, him—quiet and taciturn.
And then there was the day I woke up to blood. And everything changed.
My elation capsized into a fit of despair. Calls were made. An ultrasound was ordered. And we were on our way to the hospital, both of us sick with worry.
I lay there on that cold, hard surface in the darkened room, praying like I have never prayed in my life, your father at my side, still quiet, still keeping his worry about the days to come to himself.
And then the tech said, “Well hello there, little peanut. There you are! Say hello to your mom and dad.”
And your tiny image flooded that dark room with a light of such magnitude, the world at that moment was ablaze for us. You were here. You were safe. You were our little baby. Just a tiny blip on a screen, but healthy and whole, growing and biding your time before you made your grand entrance into our lives, forever changing the scope of our world as we knew it.
Your father, this man who’d kept his joy under a tight lock, leapt from the stool and pressed his face to the screen and exclaimed, “That’s our baby! Look, look, that’s our baby! WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A BABY!”
If he could have danced a jig, he would of. But the thing is, he is a white man and rhythm is not his strongest suit.
We left the hospital with the printed-out image of your tiny peanut self. Your dad stopping every stranger on the way out, to proudly show off his baby. His grin the whole ride home, never left his face and before I knew it, he had swung into the drugstore and said to me with that stupid, silly grin, “I’ll be right back.”
Your image, your first portrait still clutched tightly in his hand.
He was back in no time. And he sat in that car and opened up his plastic bag, pulling out a frame, just the perfect size for that picture, the picture of his child, the picture of his dreams come true. He assembled it right there in the car. And he brought that picture to work with him the next day, showing you off to every one who walked past his desk and some who were dragged there.
That was the moment your father became your daddy.
And so from that moment to this, we are here, in your car driving along, in what seems like seconds of time.
We drive down the road of this country town, a town far different than your first. This one is still small, still rural, but it holds a quiet charm, a village of families who’ve grown up and stayed here, the soul behind a true small town. Your dad built us this house here, because he wanted you and your sisters to have a big yard and a home to fill up with your friends. He wanted to give you girls a childhood you would look back on and cherish.
And as we drive, the night sky above us is black and soft as velvet and the stars shine down, ethereally lighting our way, far better than any street light.
And you play your music loud, just like me. And I can’t chastise you for this because I do the same thing.
And as we listen to your collection of tunes, I am proud of your tastes. Your music is eclectic and oftentimes off-the-beaten path and funky and never, ever staid. Your new love is music from the 1940’s and your dad, that man so fraught with worry over finances when he found out you were coming has told me he plans on hooking you up with satellite radio, so you can enjoy your 1940’s music all the time.
I know your musical tastes are sophisticated because there was no Disney channel or Top 40 played on our radios when you were growing up. I held the reins over the music that shaped your tastes. And we listened to Mary J Blige and Maria Callas and The Clash and Rufus Wainwright and Rickie Lee Jones and Johnny Cash and always, always U2.
And we get to our home, not far from your Grandma’s and we turn into our long driveway, through the acres of woods leading to our house tucked back in a little pocket of country that still makes me feel as if I am living in old Florida. And you park under the grandfather oaks, the Spanish moss draped down like lacy charm bracelets hanging from those trees’ mighty limbs.
And our quiet piece of the world is filled with the music from your speakers as the owls and the creatures of the forest watch over us.
Your father calls, and as I knew he would, he is stopping to get everyone ice cream. He wants to know our requests and to tell us he will be home after the ice cream run.
I notice the boys next door, our few little houses out here in the woods. There are a bunch of them, playing basketball and I hear them calling your name.
I say to you, “Robbie’s calling.”
Robbie, your oldest friend. The boy you have known since the moment he was born. Truly. You two have been together since before your sisters were here. Robbie is the son of your dad’s business partner/other brother.. We have never lived more than 10 houses away from each other. And when you two were babies, you in fact lived in a duplex on different sides. You were and always have been more like brother and sister.
And I know without you saying, that you two have missed each other this past year. He is 18 months younger. But now, he towers over you. And every time you come home, our doorbell rings within moments of your arrival and if it doesn’t, you find your way to his house.
And you say to me in the car, “I know but I’d rather sit here and listen to music with you. Besides, we have to wait for Dad to come home, I don’t have a key.”
And I say, “I gave you one last week to replace the one you lost.”
And you say, “Oh, yeah. But I’d still rather sit here and listen to music with you.”
And I am filled with such a grateful, quiet happiness for this moment, for you.