Just the other day I was looking at some snaps from my own “Sweet 16” birthday party. It was summer, and hot. My parents hosted an open house and I wore a blue toile sundress. I felt very adult. Maybe I was very adult.
My baby is 16. How can that be when this just happened about five minutes ago?
That’s me and my baby before she was mine, actually. It’s sort of like an ultrasound because this was taken on our second visit to the orphanage where she spent the first few months of her life, before she was officially our child. She was still really freaked out by us and our weird sounding language. The next time we visited was the first time she smiled at us.
And now, she is 16. She still occasionally smiles at us. She fights with us. She laughs with and at us at times. She wearing my clothes. I wish I still had that blue toile dress. I’m sure she’d like it. More so if it had been pink. It was girly and floral. That’s the point.
Here she is. Not all grown up, just mostly. Just as beautiful as we suspected she’d be. Inside and out. So many of our questions have been answered:
- How tall? (about my height)
- Will she be a tomboy? (when hell freezes over)
- Will she be funny or serious? (Hello, SNL? Any spots open?)
- Will she be popular? (Sighs as the phone rings and Dh practices his fave line from Say Anything “I have a gun and a shovel…”)
But this story has just begun. I’m clinging to the beginnings of things. She’s 16 but she not all grown up yet. She’s still mine for a couple more years.
I’m so lucky. She’s so bummed. No belly button piercing.
Save it for the next chapter sweetie!