My 14er

I had always dreamed of having a daughter. I wanted frilly dresses and painted toenails and pierced ears and and shiny lipstick and everything pink and the most fun ever.

And then she was here.  My daughter.

 A little sister for Owen.

And she was adorable.

She might not have slept through the night until she was a year old, but that didn't stop her from growing!  By the time she was 18 months old, she was a force to be reckoned with.

And then she was two, and a big sister to Greyson.  Could there be a more excited little girl?!

She was always striking a pose.

When she was four, she became a big sister again, and this time was given the gift of a little sister!  Her excitement was overflowing.

I think she knew she was the prettiest little girl around.

She just loved hanging out in Nashville, hoping to catch a glimpse of Taylor Swift.

But hey, a spin on the playground was pretty fun, too.

After begging along with her siblings for mom to have one more baby, she got her wish when she was seven years old.  She was like a little mother to Nash.

And then, I'm not sure what happened, but life shifted into warp speed.  She attended her first daddy-daughter dance in Ohio.

She seemed less like a little girl every time I looked at her.

Suddenly she was attending her last daddy-daughter dance in Ohio.

By the time we came back to Michigan in 2014, I was wondering what had happened to my little girl.  She was nine going on nineteen.

And the hits just kept on coming.  BAM.

BAM.

BAM.

Wasn't it a crime for an 11 year old to look this grown up?!  BAM.

I don't know exactly when she became infatuated with cats, but the obsession is REAL.

As she headed to middle school, time wasn't slowing down.

And as social media worked its way into her life, I was instructed, "Don't post that one, Mom.  Send it to me so I can post it!"

But I was happy, as long as she let me keep taking pictures of her, even with braces.

As she navigated her way through the throes of dreaded middle school, her hair got shorter.

Dresses faded mostly away.

Her hair got shorter still.

She was developing her own personal style.

As she headed towards the end of eighth grade, she turned 14.  FOURTEEN.  Hold me.

But I really can't complain, can I?  As a mother, I've hit the jackpot with her.  She is funny and beautiful and outspoken and so smart.

And if you know her, you know how much she despises anything that has to do with running, yet she has always supported my habit; she has always been my cheerleader.

The end of her eighth grade year left me gasping for air a little bit.  I mean, just look at her.

I have to send this young lady to high school next month.  HIGH SCHOOL.  Do you remember high school?  Middle school might be the worst, but high school is no picnic.  These next four years are going to be filled to the brim for her with football games and dances and homework and friendship and choices about her future.  She will have days that feel like weeks, and months that pass in a blink, and I hope she holds on tightly to the good and lets the not-so-good just roll away.  She has always had a carefree spirit.  She has always chosen to do her own thing and be her own person, no matter what anyone else says or thinks.  The things I've written here might all be about the past, but the past is what has made her into the smart and beautiful person she is today.  She knows who she is, and that's the most important thing.

14 years ago, I was given a gift.  A tiny bundle, wrapped in pink, to love forever: my Emerson.  I've got the girl with the frilly dresses and painted toenails and pierced ears and shiny lipstick and she is the most fun ever.

Happy birthday, Em.  Mom loves you.