I’m decompressing this post-changing-of-the-clocks Monday morning—over a plateful
trough of mini whoopie pies and frosted brownies and black and white candy (and copious amounts of coffee)(and then more coffee)—and figuring out how I can share all the incredibleawesome that was my girl’s Bat Mitzvah party, complete with stories of (almost) surprise Thriller flashmobs, a grand entrance in a limo, dancing to Motownphilly, jenga, my poor sick baby girl, some pint-sized adorableness on the dance floor, and, uh, a brother-in-law in a fur coat singing Macklemore, my son and the photo booth.
And some pretty stinkin’ cute kids.
But until I’m able to share everything with you
(and I will, pinky promise)
I wanted to give you a little piece of my little lady, a little piece of what the last 12 years have been like, a little piece of why I smile so often.
Last night at 2am, a very, very tired Bat Mitzvah girl crawled into bed with me, still dressed, to tell me this:
“Mama. Thank you for making me the best, most perfect party ever. I wouldn’t have changed one single thing.”
And as my very, very wise makeup artist said last night: Dab, don’t wipe.