“Thank you for putting me where your did in math,” she says.
“I did something right?” I joke back.
“No, really, if that is what you think, I haven’t been fair or kind,” she says.
This girl who came into the world three weeks early. I couldn’t believe the hospital would let me leave with you. I was so unqualified; so terrified. And in the bilirubin lights, sleeping on the couch next to you. Not able to bond, but that was the least of my issues. You wouldn’t nurse. I tried to pump. Pumping and postpartum weren’t a good match for me. You refused to drink a thing. You knew what you wanted from the beginning. But...you smile. You grow up. You are stubborn and amazing. So stinking smart. You thrive in school...academically, but you are afraid to even smile for fear of discipline. You are a perfectionist. You grow up; lighten up. Then you get diagnosed with type 1. Blood tests. Counting carbs. Shots for it all. We stick with it. We are both weary. Homeschool it is. One of my, “I could never” things. Now 6 years later, you are my favorite person to hang out with. You are fun, and funny, and smart, and thoughtful, and deep.
We have faced many battles, but I love my teenager. I love watching Gilmore Girls with you. I love talking about podcasts with you, I love car rides to dance with you, I love doing Bible studies with you, I love reading your research paper drafts. I love that you taught yourself lettering and I love when you teach your brother pre-algebra. These are good good years. I don’t want to skip out on gratitude when it is well deserved. Life is hard and life is good. ❤️