Tomorrow my little girl turns eleven.
Eleven fucking years old.
I can’t believe it.
Here she is as a peanut, before she learned I wasn’t as great as I tried to make myself out to be.
Let’s hear it for the firstborns, more specifically for my firstborn. As far as the pecking order of the birth hierarchy goes they get the raw end of the deal. They are saddled with the burden of all mom and dad’s neurosis – the test child who got the disadvantage of inexperienced morons as primary caregivers along with a dash of white-hot fear to put the cherry on the cake of terrible parenting.
To me it’s always a miracle that these kids turn out as well as they do and my daughter is no exception.
She is the highest strung of all three but also a loving and carefree leader who marches to her own drummer. Somehow she manages to become exceptional at everything she decides to put her mind to. There are times when I wish I had her tenacity, talent and can do attitude but I’m usually too busy beaming with pride to bother hoping her attributes will rub off on me.
Happy birthday Tishy! We love ya.