Happy Birthday My Darling Daughter

My darling daughter,

Named by your grandmother, your mouth a replica of mine, puckered prettily moments after your birth in a peaceful pout you still have when you sleep. Your ears mirror my own, as different as one person’s ears can be, tiny against your big head, and if you’re as unlucky, not very good of hearing. Your eyes are big, hazel enquiring orbs that never miss a tiny detail, my eyes. It seems like I was alone when I made you, I look and I look and I can barely see traces of another’s genes, right down to the screeching laugh and the tendency to be noisy when you are excited. Through and through, your Mammo’s baby.

I love you so, my baby. I remember when I began to call you my Pickle, it was a few weeks after you were born and because you were such a quiet little baby I could read books and we had a fairly good time together. I read a book in which the little girl was nicknamed The Pickle and I just knew that I would call you that forever. And I still am. My Pink Pickle.

I thank you that you were such a good baby because the post-partum depression I had wouldn’t have stood a whining baby. It was like you somehow knew that if anything happened, I would snap and you and I would lose each other. Despite that my baby, we did lose each other for a few years. And I will forever regret that time. But perhaps for your own good it was God’s plan that we weren’t together then.

Today I watch you fall asleep to yet another one of my made-up stories, struggling valiantly against the Sandman’s pull because you’re so fascinated by the tale I am spinning and I rejoice in the miracle that has been you in my life. I laugh as I pick up your discarded shoe, wondering how long it will be before you actually like wearing shoes. Your grandmother, Gwenny, thinks it’s because you never wore shoes as a baby. We couldn’t find any that would fit. You were such a fat little baby. By the time you could hold anything you were only interested in holding your bottle. Mammo’s baby!

I watch you do your homework and your little brow furrows in concentration; as I move to help you, unable to resist the pull to spare you the hardship of trying to figure out new things, your face clears and a small smile plays on your lips as you figure out the answer! Yes baby that is the answer! You grin mischievously as you pretend to not get it and say, “Mammo, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!” Playing the game, I reply “I don’t have time for Grade 1 homework! I passed my Grade 1!” and you join in, collapsing in giggles, “50 YEARS AGO!” Why is that so funny I always wonder as we wrestle, a happy, giggling mess of arms and legs on the floor. Mommy passed Grade 1 50 years ago. Mama is so funny!

I imagine you reading this, years from now; I think of the fat memory box I am making for you and know that if anything ever had to happen to me, I want you to have these reminders of my love. I’m smiling as I recall the answers to your “Anna Questions” and think what you will say in your 7^th year. Will I still be the one you love? Will sardines still be what you hate? So many little things that will change my baby.

Years from now you will also have questions I do not want answer. Questions you will have the right to ask. Questions you have already started asking and still allow me to get away with asking you to wait until you are older. Even though I would rather not answer those questions, you are perfectly allowed to ask them. I promise you to be honest and to be candid. I pray and hope for your understanding and if necessary your forgiveness.

I dream of so much for you, but above all I pray that you will have dreams of your own and that as your mother you will allow me the privilege of helping you realize some of those dreams. I hope for that you will have the determination to follow those dreams and aspire to be a person who makes a difference in the lives of others and the world. I pray for your strength in the many challenges you are going to face both as a child and an adult. Even now I know you already face challenges and I am proud of how you shoulder your little burdens my baby, and I am always there, to lift them away when I can. I protect you from hurt and when I cannot be there to protect you I want to be to comfort you later.

I love you my Pickle, named by her Grandmother, loved by so many, member of the Church’s Youth Guild, Olympiad taker, Zumba dancer, Ngwazi dancer, Vumarista!, Sunday School Soloist, Giggler Extraordinaire, Ice Cream demolisher, dog lover, skipping rope jumper and so many other things you tackle with all the vigor contained in you chubby little package. I love you with every fiber of my being.