It’s just a number. I guess. But for the last week, it’s made me think.
Today – in about 6 hours to be exact – she’ll be ten years old. This little person, not so little any more, who never existed before me. This little person who I had a part in bringing into being.
People say they can see it in her. In her eyes, or her face, or her long limbs. I don’t. I just see her, who she is. She doesn’t look like me because she looks like her… the prettiest smile and the brightest eyes and golden hair.
Before she existed, I never imagined what it could be like. Sometimes infuriating, sometimes heart-stoppingly frightening, sometimes exhilirating, sometimes joyous… often varying mixtures of all of this and more. Now, I can’t imagine what it would be like without her.
I remember pushing her on a swing. Her loud, heartfelt laught would ring out, and she’d yell “Higher, Daddy, higher!” And sometimes I’d just pretend to push her higher, and sometimes I really would. Higher, always higher, she never tired of the joy of the swing in those days.
I remember holding her tightly, sitting with her in my lap in the emergency room, while feeding her liquified charcoal to absorb the aspirin she’d swallowed. She fought and fought, and though she couldn’t really speak yet, she could look into my eyes and show me how confused she was that I was making her do this terrible thing. Black muck all around her mouth as we made her swallow more, and I held her… held her because I had to. And I was relieved when, half an hour later, the ordeal over and done, she fell asleep in my arms, exhausted but still forgiving in her trust.
I remember the first time I looked at her and caught a glimpse of the woman she might grow to become. Stretched out on a couch, long legs in flared jeans, completely relaxed. She was eight then, I think, but for a moment she was eighteen in my eyes and it made me gasp to see it. Then she looked at me, noticed me looking at her and giggled shyly, and she was eight again.
I remember coming home from an author’s reading at the university to learn that she had fallen from the roof of our shed in the back yard. I remember my near-panic in the few seconds before I learned that she was indeed just fine, though a bit tender around the edges. Over the next few days, I watched her limp slightly around the house or wince when she turned a certain way, and I was so grateful that, for some reason, I hadn’t mowed the grass in the backyard for weeks.
I feel a little guilty that I don’t remember holding her for the first time after she was born. But I do remember the first time I felt the bond between her and I being to grow, the first time she fell asleep against my chest. Eyes wide open one moment, looking at me, then closing gently, breathing slowing down and evening out, tiny lips slightly open, restless hands quieting, body going limp. It amazed me that this little being trusted me so much, and I had the beginnings of an understanding of what was to come.
I remember reading to her. From Dr. Seuss to Dinotopia to Harry Potter to Coraline. I remember discovering that I, who can’t emote when reading or acting at all under normal circumstances, could let all of that go while reading to her, and give myself up to the different parts of the story. Doing voices, making noises, singing… for her, I could do it. It was (and still is) her reaction I treasured, the way she’d giggle at my silly high-pitched voice for one character (stealing from Monty Python, though she wouldn’t know that for a long time), and listen silently with wide eyes at the more dramatic parts.
I remember her reading to me. Uncertain at first, halting and shy, then gaining confidence as she carried on. Helping her sound out the long words, smiling at her attempts and suggesting different ones. Did you know that some E’s are quiet? Did you know that a P and an H together sounds like fffff? We learned these things.
With shame, I remember anger. Sometimes justified, sometimes not. Usually not. I remember feeling anger because she couldn’t communicate, and later on, anger because she could. Anger, sometimes, that she’s not always as careful as she needs to be, but also stupid anger that sometimes her plans or ideas don’t always mesh well with mine.
With pride, I remember humility. I remember my surprise at how much better it felt to admit my mistakes and apologize for them. I remember that her hugs after these moments of weakness, and how good they felt. She was still there, this little person that was growing under my care.
I remember sitting in front of our old apartment, drawing, while she looked on. Her compliment “Wow, Daddy, you really can draw!” meant more to me than my friends’ or colleagues’ approval.
I remember staying up into the wee hours of Christmas morning, just so I could get very little sleep and then see the look of unbridled joy in her eyes as she saw all the presents she had gotten.
I remember walking her and her sister to school, and picking her up, watching her walk with her friends and talk and giggle.
I remember looking into the window of her Kindergarten classroom, seeing her working hard on a drawing on the table in front of her, and coming to the realization that, at that moment, I wasn’t a part of her life. At that moment, I was the furthest thing from her mind. An exhilirating and frightening thought.
I remember photographs… many, many photographs, but most especially photographs amidst fields of tulips and daffodils. In the spring, we go north to these fields, and we take pictures. She laughs, she runs through flowers, she hugs her sisters or chases them. I see new facets of her every year, and my wife captures them perfectly on film. There is always at least one picture every year that takes my breath away in how well it captures her. Last year, it was one of her sitting in the grass, in a pale pink dress and a white wide-brimmed hat, bright flowers arrayed behind her. She’s looking off-camera and her mouth is open wide, frozen in a big laugh. I know that, at that moment, she’s looking at me. I even remember what I was doing to make her laugh.
I remember moments of comfort, when she sees that I’m sad or tired and she simply gives me a hug. I’ve taught her that such things can be healing in themselves, as many are the times I’ve helped her just by holding her and talking to her.
I remember when she saw her youngest sister born. She watched as the baby was taken from my wife’s body and saw its first breaths in the world. She wasn’t scared or grossed out. She was entranced, and happy.
I remember my arrogance, early on, thinking I knew everything about who and what my child would (and would not) be. I remember seeing how quickly that surety faded once she started developing her own personality despite my best efforts. When I realized that the only real similarity this little person bore to me was that she would grow to be her own unique spirit, with her own flaws and her own wonders, I stopped trying to mold her and I started trying to nurture her.
The things I’ve learned from her – about myself, about others, about responsibility, about what it means to be a member of the human race – I don’t think I can ever repay them. The best I can do is to help her to reach a point where she, too, might be ready for this sort of understanding.
It’s a bit of a cliche to say this, but like most cliches there is much truth to it, especially in my case: the moment she was born, my life was new. Nothing in my life before coud prepare me for this experience, for the cumulative effect of all the experiences that would come after. Everything since then has been affected by her presence in my life. This little person who I’ve met by chance, by the good fortune of zygotes meeting just so, has changed my life in a thousand ways. I’ll say it again; the day she was born, my life was new.
My eldest daughter turns ten years old today. So do I.
