Happy Birthday, A !

She'll be 11 today.

When I see her, I remember the first time I saw her. Just a small speck going 'twinkle-twinkle' on the ultrasound screen, and I fell in love with her. At that point, I did not even know if it was a she or a he. All I knew, was that she was my miracle, one that had come to me after whole 7 years of marriage. I was overjoyed, yet worried. It was a tough world that I was going to get her into. I almost lost her along the way, and it was again a miracle when I had her in my arms, whole and healthy, after an excruciating 9 months.

She is today 11, emerging slowly onto the cusp of womanhood. My daughter, I am dedicating this poem by Sarah McMane, (one that I read at this post by Peggy Orenstein) to you today. My wish for you.


For My Daughter

Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes—
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.


Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women—
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.


Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.


Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.


Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress—
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.


Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear—
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.

Life is tough, my lovely A, yet it can be so beautiful. My hope and wish for you is to find your own happiness, in your own special way.

Happy Birthday!


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My thanks to Ms McMane for graciously permitting me to reproduce her poem here.