How Did I Get Here, And Where Is The Next Turn?

Greetings and salutations to all who deem this worthy of your time...

Brought up Jul 29, 2013

Time Is Moving Too Fast

A few months back, on a whim, I bought a jade plant. Now, anyone who knows me knows I have a black thumb. My caring for a plant is the kiss of death for the poor potted friend. Still, the rose bushes I planted last year are still green, and blooming, though the red one just looks weird with one branch shooting straight up about 5 feet in the air with all these dead blossoms gradually falling off. They were gorgeous before. Anyway, I figured that if they had survived me, maybe a nice potted plant would, too.

It isn't thriving well. This little pot held a lovely bunch of thick green leaves when I bought it. Now it looks like the plant assassin has struck again.

My daughter walked into the room the other day as I was grousing over my poor little plant, looked at it hard, then, with a straight face, looked me in the eye and said, "Mom, how did (boy's name omitted) and I survive?"

For a split second, I thought, you aren't out of the woods yet, chick! Then, I started laughing. I said, "You guys cried when you were hungry!" She frowned for a few more seconds, but her eyes were dancing. I could almost hear those wheels turning. Probably thinking, Next time, buy plastic. She is her mother's daughter, with the same slightly twisted sense of humor, after all.

I am proud to say that she and her brother not only survived, but thrived under my care. After all, I was willing to share my body with the brats for nine months, push them out sans pain meds, (well, except for about the last 10 minutes of her labor, which eas too late by then to do any good) and even changed their diapers with barely a gag. I take full credit, or blame, for how they turned out.

Today, that beautiful, lively, ornery, obnoxious, brave young woman turned 21. It doesn't seem possible. I still remember feeling her kick inside me. I remember how she stopped crying in the delivery room at the sound of my voice, just like her brother did when he was born. (You'd cry, too if the frigging doctor nearly dropped you and caught you by your cord.) 21 years ago, I held that child in my arms, and vowed to love her as much as I loved her brother, until my dying breath, and if possible, after that as well.

I remember her first steps exactly 20 years ago yesterday, and the black eye she sported for her first birthday from those first tottering steps. I remember her little mouth in an O at the sight of a teddy bear she received that day. We did manage to catch that on film.

I remember all her little hurts over the years. And the big ones. I still love the smell of her skin when she sleeps, the sound of her laughter, the way her eyes blaze and flash quickly when she's angry and how they dance with mischief just as fast.

My baby is 21, a young woman with her life still so promising and full ahead of her. She's still my baby girl, though, just like her brother is still my baby boy at 25. They have thrived despite me being their mother and care giver, or because of it. I can't decide which, but, I would still give my life for the both of them in a heart beat. I have kept that delivery room vow. I will always love them until I no longer draw breath, at the very least. If there is a hear after, I will love them then as well. Happy Birthday, baby girl.

I think I'll go water that damned plant...


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