My firstborn, my oldest daughter, my mini-me turns twelve today.
My dancer, my actress, my singer, my LOST addict, my Aritzia-leggings wearer, my Dorothy, my Mary Poppins, my Disney VIP, my chills-giver, my babysitter-in-training, my fashion guru, my ombre-hair coveter, my Taylor Swift lover, my shower concert giver, my dark kiss-scent wearing, my combat boots wearer.
On March 8th.
I can’t imagine a birthday more fitting, as this is the very weekend that my daughter becomes a Bat Mitzvah, a coming of age for Jewish girls everywhere.
Somehow I blinked.
Save for the moments she crawls into bed with me for our cuddles while we watch American Idol (and for her somewhat miniature stature), there’s no trace of baby left in this girl.
She’s fierce, she’s bold, she’s smart, she’s determined, she’s loving, she’s nice, she’s dedicated, she’s funny.
Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of the woman she is well on her way to becoming.
And while it’s slightly scary—teenage years ahoy—and it sure does make me feel ancient—I could not be more excited about the next twelve years, next twenty, next fifty.
I hope she never stops cuddling during American Idol. And I hope she always knows how much I love her.