Today you are twenty.
At this point, twenty years ago, we were still waiting for you to arrive. It was the third day of a labour that had gone wrong at pretty much every stage. My birth plan was about as useful as me having printed the lyrics to Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep onto a sheet of paper, set fire to it and handing the charred remains to the midwife. Nevertheless we persevered and day three was notable for a) the triumphant arrival of the epidural and b) your triumphant arrival around eleven o’clock at night.
I’d go through it all again and more to have the honour of calling you my daughter.
I have absolutely no words of wisdomosity to share with you. You live in your own house, that you bought yourself. Your fiscal responsibility is clearly a genetic throwback and I worship at the feet of your ability to organise your finances. One day I hope you will teach me everything you know. You live with your lovely boy, who adores you and are surrounded by friends who are exactly the right sort of friends because they love you entirely for yourself. You have a steady job with access to free running books, which if you have to have a steady job at all is a pretty good one to have. You are still an artist to the core and I look forward to watching you take the world by storm one day. You seem to be living your best life, and I trust that if it doesn’t feel like your best life you will have the courage to change it, because you are brave and clever.
Thank you for choosing me to be your mum. You have taught me far more about being a good human being than you will ever know. Life would have been duller and meaner in every way without you in it. Today I am feeling very privileged, not only because it’s your birthday but because you’re spending it with me. Thank you.
Happy birthday heart of my heart. I love you.