Eight years ago, I became a parent. A doctor cut my belly open, pulled a tiny screaming baby out, and I was a parent. The baby screamed a lot. And then she screamed some more. She screamed so loud that sometimes her dad would hear her from down the street, even though we were on the second floor of a brick house with all the windows closed.
She doesn't scream much anymore. But she sings, and plays the piano, and writes stories, and tells jokes, and smiles, and charms just about anyone who meets her. I can't believe that she was somehow crafted from our DNA, yet she is so much more magical than either my husband and I. Whatever she has going for her right now, it's great, and I hope to the heavens that the pain and agony of teenage girlhood doesn't take any of that away from her. Keep your spirit strong, young Ruby. If I could give you any gift, it would be the ability to do just that.
Anyway, happy 8th birthday, young lady. You're the best.
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