Yes, I am really blogging about toilet paper again. It’s okay.
I thought I’d interject with a little bit of funny wisdom.
Dear Daughter,
You saw this today, and this was our conversation, over Coffee (decaf for you, strongest mud possible for me) and Coco Pops.
You: “Mom, the toilet paper has your tatto on it. Is that why you got that tattoo?”
Me: “No, love. They just had the same idea because it’s a cool design”
…You paused to think and then…
You: “They should pay you royalties”.
(at this point, I had to excuse myself to go and giggle at the bogroll in the bathroom. I live for these moments of pure funny wisdom from you).
We got to do some fun things yesterday, but I realise now, again, how much I miss you when you’re not here. I don’t think I’ll ever quite be okay with you being away from me, ever.
Last night, we sat snuggled in our bed and talked and read like every night. And we read you these. It’s funny, honey, because you insist I read you everything I’ve written, when it’s published. It’s always an honour to do that, but I have to admit something, sweetheart – it scares me sometimes. It’s then that I realise that the ONLY person who will ever be able to truly, adequately and rightfully weigh and measure me up…is you. So, I read you these columns, articles and pieces and we talk about them (I will admit – and heck, you’ll read this one day so I may as well say it – there are some I don’t read to you now, because I’m keeping those for when you are one day a mom – I know you’ll find a weird comfort in them, then and not now)…I always finish and stare at you.
Why? I don’t know. I guess it’s because…
I know, somewhere in the far off future I don’t like to think about. You’ll be 32-going-on-33, just like I am right now. And maybe you’ll be some ridiculously wealthy businesswoman. Maybe you’ll be a mom with four kids and a nice husband who tolerates me. Maybe you’ll be an aid worker, committed to bringing a little piece of hope and help to a needy community. Maybe you’ll be an accountant and lost in numbers, as you try fathom your way through a client’s income and expenditure. Maybe *gulp* you’ll become a writer. Maybe you’ll become just whoever the heck you are destined to be.
And, on some bad day, when you feel a little adrift in life and can’t call me, for some reason.
I want you to be able to look at your bookshelf, open Google (or heck knows what search engine you’ll have then…or how you’ll access it…) and know that I’m RIGHT there. And maybe something I wrote here or anywhere or somewhere…maybe it’ll make you smile. Maybe it’ll make you laugh. Maybe it’ll stop a tear. Maybe it will just make you feel okay. Maybe it’ll give you a piece of the puzzle of your life – because, honeybun, everybody puzzles about their life at some point. Heck, I puzzle about life every single day, especially now, when I feel a little choked up about a few things.
Maybe it will teach you something you don’t know. Maybe it’ll enlighten you to all the big things that were happening around your world, when you were seven and mostly concerned about next week’s maths test.
May you find my name in something you read one day and – through that – feel my love for you.
I guess that’s why I do this. All of this.