To My Daughter, on Her 18^th Birthday

Filling in the blanks as we go… ~Taylor Swift, Cornelia Street

Eighteen years ago, I cel­e­brat­ed my birth­day. Well, your birth­day, but my Birth Day; I hon­est­ly did the heavy lift­ing that day. You’ve nev­er made any­thing easy. Ten days past your due date, you final­ly deigned to make an appear­ance, throw­ing your arms over­head in vic­to­ry at the final push. This meant I basi­cal­ly birthed you side­ways, pain like I’ve nev­er known, imme­di­ate­ly for­got­ten as I met you for the first time. Paul McCartney sang Blackbird in the back­ground, and you turned your tiny head toward the sound. We should have known then.

Isabelle for my side of the fam­i­ly, Elaine for your father’s. We’d thought to call you Bella, but the moniker didn’t fit the lit­tle red-faced mon­key that screamed for the first sev­en hours straight of her life on earth. Izzie means God laughed, which obvi­ous­ly fits you like a well-worn shoe.

And here you are, old enough to buy a lot­tery tick­et, mere months away from mov­ing to Nashville and forg­ing your musi­cal dreams. It’s exact­ly as they said: the days are long but the years are short. If I could turn back the clock, I would hold you longer, sing one more song, linger in the snug­gle, let you stay in the bath until your tiny fin­gers pruned.

I love your beau­ti­ful mind, the way you can eas­i­ly do com­pli­cat­ed math in your head. I love watch­ing you bake (con­vert­ing ounces to mL) or sew (decid­ing how much fab­ric you’ll need for a giv­en project) with­out hav­ing to google or use a cal­cu­la­tor. I’m amazed at how you watch Mr. Steve strum some­thing and then just echo him — all you need to learn the intro to California Dreamin’ or the solo in Take It Easy. How do you do that? 

You are equal parts weird and won­der­ful. You hate noise but love music, eschew meat but love BLTs. You are pas­sion­ate about sup­port­ing local farm­ers, but won’t say no to some late-night Taco Bell. You’re loy­al to a fault, your group of friends very small – and very lucky. You aren’t inter­est­ed in exer­cise, but you’ll spend hours still on the rusty swing set you out­grew years ago. And you’re always down for some restora­tive yoga. You love your job at Beech Springs and your audio engi­neer­ing gig at Woodsongs Old Time Radio Hour, but your favorite week­end involves a long nap, a good book, and your dog. 

You’re beyond frus­trat­ing some­times. We’re both fire signs and often butt heads. I look in your Aries eyes and see my Leonine own star­ing back. You’re gen­er­al­ly easy­go­ing but can be insane­ly stub­born when you real­ly care about some­thing. Some things have to be hos­pi­tal-clean and oth­ers can be pigsty messy, the rhyme or rea­son known only to you. Your hands are cracked and bleed­ing from the OCD wash­ing, yet your room looks like a good spring storm flew in, clothes piled every­where and anywhere. 

The three years it took us to get the right diag­no­sis and treat­ment for your incred­i­bly spe­cial brain – and in a glob­al pan­dem­ic, no less – made you stronger and more resilient than any 18-year-old should be. But healed peo­ple heal peo­ple, and you have devel­oped unbe­liev­able empa­thy and com­pas­sion for the true and hard things in life.

So, hap­py birth­day. You have reached this mile­stone, but your real life has only just begun. I eager­ly wait to see what your life has in store for you. Don’t be in a hur­ry to grow up. Your main job for the next few years is dis­cov­er­ing who you are and how you’ll bring your light to the world.

Stay kind. Stay you. Buy the lot­tery tick­et and fol­low its advice. You can’t win if you don’t play.