As of today, I am the mother of an adult human being -- an eighteen year old. (For those who follow her work, she's currently making a hoop skirt out of forks. For those PURE fans, this is the kid who inspired Lyda's bird of wire.) The 12 year old wrote a huge 18 in the snowy front yard with food coloring. She got gifts last night in the style of a game show about her life. I'm not a birthday person generally, but as I've gotten choked up about this birthday a few times last week, I'm thinking I might cry at some point -- to everyone's embarrassment. Dave and I -- third and fourth born in our families, respectively -- are so thankful that we had a first-born, to help rule this roost. Just last week, in response to overhearing a comment by me, she shouted out, "No, I'm not undermining your parenting! I'm just offering another, better option!"
Click here to find this post on her from two years back, titled "Sixteen Years Ago Today, I Gave Birth to a Bad Ass"