Today my little girl is 10 years old! Double digits. I can’t believe it.
Lara was born in London. A month early. We weren’t prepared. When I woke my husband around midnight on New Year’s Eve telling him my waters broke, sheer terror flitted across his face. ‘She can’t come yet, I’ve got a lecture to write!’ We missed all the operating instructions: the pre-birth classes, the water birth session, La Leche League. Instead she arrived by emergency caesarian performed by the youngest doctor I’ve ever seen. I was tempted to ask for a driver’s license but I was groaning too much. He also still had glitter on his neck from the party I’d obviously pulled him from. He clicked on the CD player and we all rocked out to Eric Clapton’s Layla while he tried to find the right spot on my back for an epidural.
‘It’ll feel like someone’s doing the washing up in your tummy,’ he warned me and sure enough right about when the rinse cycle was due, there she was, our baby, small and skinny with a red downy top of hair. They placed her in a clear plastic tub and she lay quietly, her eyes taking in all the activity around her.
That was the last quiet moment she had. She’s been a whirlwind of activity, opinions and gorgeousness ever since. Lara Lungs our neighbors used to call her. She is smarter and more beautiful than I ever was even in my dreams. And she’s sweet. Too sweet, I sometimes think, for the rocky universe out there. Though her little brother would probably beg to differ.
So at ten, our butterfly is starting to spread her wings. I hope the world is ready for her.