What? How in the hell is my daughter turning 23 today when I’m only 33? Oh wait — the first line of Léah’s birthday post and it’s already all about me. Ugh. And now it’s still about me, make me stop! Oh, who am I kidding, when you’re a parent and you’re talking about your child, there’s a part of it that is always going to be about you. How did I help to create this amazing human being, you wonder. And then you start worrying about all the things you did that fucked them up, or gave them a skewed perspective on the world, or the stuff you neglected to teach them or prepare them for. And then you try get over your narcissistic bender, realizing you did the best that you knew how to do, and you comfort yourself with the fact that at least you realize how nuts you are, and then you acknowledge that this amazing soul has always been their own person from the moment they were born 23 years ago today, and you are filled with love and gratitude for the incredible human being they are, with all of their unique strengths and issues and interests and challenges and triumphs, and you realize how much they have taught you every single moment that they have been on this planet, not only about what it means to be a parent, but also how to look at the world in completely different ways, and you are filled with emotion about how they enrich your life in every way.
Phew, was that a long sentence? Where’s my editor? That would also be Léah, who’s one of the best writers I know. And one of the most loyal, true, caring, sensitive, responsible people I’ve ever met. A spectacular daughter, sister, and friend.
And now, a full-fledged adult (yeah, it’s hard to wrap my brain around that, I admit) who is about to finish college and continue to make a mark on a world that desperately, fitfully, gratefully needs such people — now more than ever.
I love you, Léah.