Yesterday, on Birthday Eve.
And with a few of her siblings, also on Birthday Eve. To give you a little window into Every Day Life Around Here.
Today, on her birthday.
“Did you have a good day?”
“Can I take your photo?”
“Um. I have to do a little homework first.”
“Homework on your birthday? You shouldn’t have to do homework on your birthday.”
[Ignores mother. Opens computer.]
Kevin, last night: “Wow, your last day as a twelve-year-old. It’s hard to believe you’re going to be a teenager tomorrow.”
“Dad, I’m turning twelve tomorrow.”
I’m remembering it was a cold and snowy day on which she arrived, eleven or twelve or thirteen years ago, give or take; whatever, we’re getting old. We were younger then. For a few months after she was born I took to wearing my hair in pigtails. In photos I look like a baby holding a baby (I wasn’t, quite), with another baby standing bewildered nearby (her brother was a mere 17 months older).
One more memory: on the day of her birth, I’d received the contract for my first book, Hair Hat, and my agent had called to go over it in detail. Mid-conversation, I broke in to say, apologetically, “I think I’m actually in labour, can I call you back … um … maybe tomorrow …?” Honestly, why had I answered the phone during active labour? It was my first book contract. It seemed awfully important. This would be my first daughter. But labour seemed so normal at the time. It was what I’d been expecting, after all, it was the natural arc of the story. After she was born, it seemed like those sleepy, snowed-in, baby days would never cease, somehow. After she was born, there was a forever sensation to the passage of time. I wanted so badly to have time to write, and my hands were full, literally. I wasn’t resentful, but my hands were full.
Anyway. The good old days. Nostalgia. Etc.
It’s another cold and snowy day today, and the youngest two are fighting in the living-room. It sounds like soccer versus musical instruments, literally.
Signing off. Next up: Birthday celebration.