A Letter to my Daughter, on the Occasion of her Ninth Birthday

The other day I was in the car and Cats in the Cradle came on the radio and I had a good cry. And when I got home that I night I went upstairs and kissed you on the forehead while you were sleeping.

When I was a kid I used to hate it when people I hadn’t seen in awhile would say to me ‘Oh, you’ve grown so much’.

There was a great big whopping period in my childhood when my only mark of distinction seemed to be how fast I was growing.

But now I look at you and I think the same thing.

“You’re growing up so much.”

I carry that cognitive dissonance in my head. My daughter, who is growing taller and smarter every day, but at the same time is also that colic-y baby that I would walk up and down the hall for hours on end. (Humming in the hope the vibrations of my chest my help lull you to sleep. Which, as near as I can tell, it never did.)

And even though you’re growing up, some part of me will always see you as that baby.

I don’t know what advice I could possibly offer a nine year old that you would take.

When I was nine we moved house and I entered into a nearly decade long period of unhappiness and 

loneliness. It was the worst time of my life.

• I look at you and I think that no matter what happens at least you’re so much further ahead then I was at the same age,
• But, for the first time, I’m starting to see the leading edge of adult problems poking through the fabric of your life, and
• Trouble with other kids at school.

Difficulty connecting with your teacher, whereas previously you were a borderline teacher’s pet.

And a problem learning how to properly express your emotions when you’re angry and upset.

Normal growing up kind of stuff, but a significant hurdle in the life of any kid.

I want to tell you that none of it matters. That the problems of today will quickly seem like nothing at all when you finally get to examine them in the rearview mirror. But I also know that when you’re dealing with them in the moment, it feels more like these problems threaten to take over your whole world.

You are vast. You carry multitudes.

You’re tough as nails and yet you’re compassionate. You’re outgoing and you’re painfully shy. You brim with a bottomless patience and you have a hair trigger fuse.

You are all these things at once, and I’m never sure which facet of your personality will carry the day.

At this age, my role as a parent is to walk a fine line. To help and shield you when and where I can, but to also step back and realize that that its okay if you fail every now and again.

I’m never sure I have the mix quite right. But I know I’ll never stop trying.