Of all your years on this planet, nine has been my favorite. So there’s a little part of me that isn’t ready to throw in the towel and call it for ten. But I’ve been watching you this summer, and just as surely as I know those legs grow longer by the minute, pushing you up, up, up to my chin, I also know there’s no stopping you now. You are just a few hours in, but ten fits you quite well. It rests comfortably on your shoulders, settling into your shoulder blades that power you across Olympic sized pools. It curves along your spine as you curl into a comfortable arc, book resting between your nose and you knees. It winds its way around your legs, sinew-like, as you wrap them around crimson colored silks, launching your body upwards, to the rafters. Ten sits lightly on ten toes as we giggle on the floor, pressing the soles of our feet together, measuring the sameness. It dances across your deep dimples, as you grin at the thought of passing me – your mother – at something, even if it’s just shoe size.
And then it returns to me, this flitting, glancing, swirling ten-ness, passing over you as my eyes do, frantically soaking you up as much as I can. It returns to my heart, where it lives in every moment we’re apart, reminding me just how much sweeter and lovelier my world is with you in it. Your feet might be the first to pass me, but more will follow. I’m excited for you, for all the things you try and for all you’ve yet to try. I will always tell you, yet you shall still not know, the awesome depth of my love for you – how good ten feels to me as well.
Happy birthday my sweet, sweet girl.