Go shorty, it's your birthday

 My dearest darling Josephine,

This morning I woke up and found that you had crawled into bed with me during the night. I snuggled up close to you and brushed your hair away from your face and started to sing, "happy birthday to youuu..."

Without opening your eyes, you smiled and put your hand on my cheek. 

"Happy birthday, twelve-year-old girl! Do you want to hear the story of the day your were born?"

You nodded, so I told you about getting to the hospital super early and how lovely and peaceful your birth was. Then we got up and picked up Starbucks for the car pool group and drove to school with the other girls, playing birthday songs (everything from the Beatles to 50 Cent) and gossiping about teachers in your school. 

Today is a good day. 

This year has been hit or miss. 

Being 11 was not easy for you. COVID school sucked so much - you were miserable. You felt stupid and overwhelmed and like you couldn't focus on anything. 

Plus ... you were 11. Being an eleven-year-old girl is awful. Your body is changing, your hormones are flooding, you're going through developmental changes that basically render you clinically insane. 

Let's just say that your hair-trigger temper was even more hair-trigger-y than normal. 

But you're still my sweet, funny girl. It's like living with an improv comedian who is always on stage. Crazy voices, sassiness, riffing different scenarios. You always make me laugh.

This school year is off to a much better start. You have good friends, you like your classes, and you're getting good grades. You're much happier.

You've become very interested in fashion and in what you wear. You and your grandmother recently had a virtual shopping trip together and you picked out a bunch of new pieces. Mimi was concerned about the quality and fit of some of the things, but you made good choices. 

You're so cute. 

But note the shoes. Which are mine. Which I did not give you permission to take. 

This is a thing you do and it drives me absolutely insane. I will walk into your room, which is never not a disgusting mess, and see my black suede high heeled boots. 

"Why do you have my boots?"

"They're stripper boots. They're awesome. I like wearing them."

"They're not stripper boots. The heels aren't even that high. And they don't have lucite platforms."

You take my shoes, my shirts, my photographs, my sweatshirts, my makeup. It drives me insane. 

As you know, there are two things that truly send me into orbit. The first is when people grab things out of my hands. The other is when I put something away in the same place every time, but can't find it because some little turkey - i.e., you - has taken it without asking.  

But this is a teenage mother-daughter thing I will have to deal with, and I will. We have may battles and many joys yet to come. 

I can't wait. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love love love,

Mom