My Daughter...

She’s my girl, my daughter.

She loves art. She loves her Converse. She aspires to be a fashion designer, a swim coach, and a chef. She’s in control of herself.

She’s smart. She’s brave. She’s beautiful. She’s motivated by so many things – grades, praise, friends, and Michael Phelps.

She’s a thinker. She’s an organizer. Sometimes she coordinates the colors of her hangers in her closet. I know exactly where she learned that.

It’s astounding, but sometimes I feel that she, at the age of 10, has things more "together" than I do right now. I wish she could teach me.

She’s got a pre-pubescent emotional streak that peaks out every now and then. Neither her, or I, are quite sure how to handle it. I’m sure we’ll both learn together.

She loves clothes. She loves shopping. She loves Hollister. She has a problem with things pink, ruffled, high-waisted or with flowers. She picks out her own clothes these days.

She has had an independent and strong spirit since the day she was born. She spent her first 5 days in this world in the NICU. I sometimes think she has those traits because of that. But don’t get me wrong, they fit her perfectly and they will serve her well as she grows.

She's my child that cries at the loss of a grandmother she faintly remembers. That fact makes my heart ache more than anything. My mom would be amazed at her granddaughter.

She loves music. Upon getting in the car, she somehow changes the radio station without me ever realizing it. That is, until I hear the beat of Lil' Wayne. The only reason I let her listen to rap music in the car is because I love her so much.

I’m her proud mom. She’s something else. She’s my girl.