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
years ago.
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, in fact, 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
be.]
Plus she looks lovely in yellow.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PUSS!
I love you very
much!
xoxoxox
