December 9, 2004

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 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.


I love you very much!

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other memorable *jaymi* entries:

December Baby
Eight Simple Rules For Getting Along With My 21 Year Old Daughter
It Was 20 Years Ago Today
Yellow Jell-O
Coming Home
Ten Semi-Useful Things
Mr. Gallagher Says


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speaking of colors: maroon says *happy birthday*!