Happy Birthday, Baby

Today, my daughter, variously known as Snoogs, Honey Bunches of Oats and Tigs, turns 21.

My daughter saved my life. Because of her, I gave up my carefree and erratic ways to help us both grow up. While I tried hard to do my best, I wasn’t perfect and I made many mistakes, but she rewarded me by becoming a wonderful person. She considers me her best friend (you can’t beat that.)

She goes through life full steam ahead. She is a spitfire of a girl; all of about five four, with big brown eyes and brown hair the color of mink. When I first looked into her eyes, I dubbed Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison her song.

Shortly after she was born, people told me that I looked too good to have just given birth; I looked so happy. I consider her my greatest creation.

In her first twenty-one years, she has avoided the major pitfalls of smoking, drugs, alcohol and promiscuous sex. She has a good, fulltime job and a meaningful, long-term relationship. She is a firefighter, an EMT and has taken up reading (finally.) She likes RenFaires, let’s me make her costumes and corsets, plays with swords, has a belly button ring but no tattoos and she has about fifty big hoodies. She’s good with her money, doesn’t give up easily, hates injustice and cares for the people around her. She is smart, fun, loves to do things and keeps me in touch with the wider world.

I love when she says, “I have a question…”

I love you, baby.