My daughter is five today.
Five. years. old.
Five years of mothering.
Mother: A verb, meaning, “to love in agony and elation.”
Oh she talks and my heart melts.
Oh her sweet little hand. Her bottom.
Oh how I sometimes still long for freedom. For quiet. For a morning of meandering in laziness and even gloom, unstructured, before springing into action.
Oh how she snaps me out of myself. Oh how she grounds me. Challenges me. Fills me up.
I am a little drunk on champagne as I write this because my husband and I are celebrating. We are toasting ourselves, on this occasion. Five years.
I want to go eat all the frothy frosting off the edges of her Baskin Robbins ice cream cake that I took an extra subway ride and then a bus to pick up today.
That I ordered the other day, every little detail just the way she likes it.
I want to hold her while she sleeps, to feel her breathing. When she giggles my heart flaps its wings rapidly. Her body and mine, inextricably linked. Like a single organism that can split into two independent forces.
She is a force of nature, my daughter. A friend invites me to his party, encourages guests to dress “dope as fuck”; when I say “I don’t have anything dope, let alone dope AF,” he says, “just dress like your daughter.”
Smart sweet curious
Tender silly intense
Her good moods lift us
The opposite is also true
Today I am lifted.
Today I am dope as fuck.