She's twenty-three years old
today: the same age *I* was when they rolled me into the delivery room on that
chilly December morning, a bazillion and a half
How scary is THAT?
At twenty-three, I thought
I had it all figured out: life, love, career, art, the
state of the
world, the meaning of the universe. Looking back, the only thing I'd "figured
out" by that point was that I looked ghastly
in yellow, that I should never mix beer and cheap chablis ...
... and that if the baby was a girl, I was
going to name her "Jamie."
Fortunately, she seems to be considerably more
evolved, in every way that counts, than
her dopey dysfunctional mother was at this age. Over the
course of the past twenty-three years she
has grown into a strong, confident, amazingly capable young
woman ... exactly the sort of young woman I always hoped
she would grow up to be. (Hell. She's exactly
the sort of
young woman I'm still hoping *I* grow up to
Plus she looks lovely in yellow.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PUSS!
I love you very