Are you really 11 years old? I feel like you’ve grown up more in this past year than in all the other years combined.
Each day, you bring more joy into my life. I love everything about you (except maybe your stinky feet). I love that of all the instruments you could choose from, you decided to play the saxophone. I love that when I was flipping out because I thought my car had been stolen from the movie theater parking garage, you remained calm. I love what you can create with a pencil and a piece of paper. I love that you opted for a gingerbread-pineapple upside down cake instead of our usual themed cupcakes (even though I’ve mastered camo frosting). I love how you reason with me when there’s something that you want.
(You say you want to be a genetic engineer so that you can breed a lizard with a bird to make a dragon, but if that profession doesn’t give you fulfillment, I see a career in law for you even though I love you too much for you to become a lawyer.)
You’re learning patience. You’re learning how to be fair to your little brother, although sometimes when your friends are around, you forget. You no longer cover you eyes when there’s a kissing scene in a movie and you even brush your hair now. You love cauliflower, and thanked me for making it for dinner the other night. Last year, your teacher told me that being around kids like you made her wish she had had her own children. (I might have cried a little at that comment.)
You are empathetic, clever, funny.
I’m so happy to be your mommy, or as you have started to refer to me, mom.
the chelsea chronicles 