I wrote this poem for my daughter so she would grow up knowing that A) I support her, B) I love her, obviously, C) she is more than her looks, D) I am proud of everything else she is, and E) I wouldn't change anything that happened.
To My Daughter Penelope, Age One
The things I want to tell you and
hope for you and fear for you could
probably cover approximately three
thousand two hundred and sixty-two
pages. But what I will tell you is
that I love you, though that hasn’t
always been the case. When I found out
I was pregnant, I was so scared that
my life was over, that my dad—your
grandpa—would shun me, that you
would be a slimy, mewling creature
thrust from my body. And though you were,
in fact, thrust from my body, slimy,
and mewling—I didn’t and don’t
and never will give a damn. Because
you’re my babe. Anyhow, I want to tell you:
every time you open and close a drawer,
every time you head for the stairs when
I ask if you want to go outside, every time
you flip your book so that it’s not upside
down, I see how smart you are;
every time you babble to yourself,
every time you point imperiously
at the bag of Gold Fish, every time you hold
out your hand to share them and then
snatch it back to pop it in your own mouth,
I laugh at how unintentionally funny
you are; and of course you are beautiful,
gorgeous, etc., and that’s not just your mother
talking, but that doesn’t matter nearly as much
as people will make you believe it does; I’m so
excited to see the person that you
grow into, for you to join your aunt and I
in ‘carpool karaoke’, to read Harry Potter
to you and see the magic take hold
for the first time; I’m so scared that
I’ll let a comment about your
height/weight/fashion choices
slip past my lips, that I won’t be present
enough, that you’ll say what we all say
(“I don’t want to turn out like my mom”)
either in pretense or with candor. That
being said, I will try and try and try
anyways to sit patiently and watch you
struggle to put the lid back on
the Peanut Butter jar despite how badly
I want to do it for you. And if that isn’t
love, I don’t know what is. And
whether you read this or not,
my feelings haven’t and won’t
ever change.
