Punkin’ Pie turns 16 today.
My older daughter is a force of nature.
She is brilliant. Though her grades don’t always reflect it, she is sharp and observant and able to draw complex conclusions. I’m often impressed by her insight.
Punk is a riot. She makes me laugh all the time (even over text messages); her timing and her sense of the ironic are impeccable.
My daughter is stunningly beautiful. I know all mothers are supposed to think that their daughters are pretty, but anyone who knows Punk in real life will tell you that I’m not exaggerating when I say that she’s a knockout. She’s coming into her own style, too, and though I don’t always love everything she wears, more often than not, I’m complimenting rather than criticizing.
Punkin is loving and sensitive. She’s got a keen sense of justice (I wonder where she got that!) and is able to read the mood of a situation with a kind of empathic skill. She’s a good friend and she loves with her whole being.
I am so deeply proud of this amazing young woman, and am incredibly grateful that we can share the kind of relationship that I was unable to have with my own mother. That, perhaps more than anything else, is what I celebrate with each passing year; she and I continue to love one another with a kind of dynamic and flexible energy that accommodates both our needs. Punk vibrates at a frequency compatible with mine, and I’m grateful, every day, for being able to share in her life.
Baby Punk, +/- 1 week. Note the creases above her nose; she looked EXACTLY like Mr. Chili when she was born, so much so that the nurse tending her looked at the baby, looked at my husband, looked back at the baby, looked back at my husband and said, simply, “Wow.”
Happy birthday, Punkin’ Pie. I love you, love you.