Me and my (little) M

Dear Little M,

It's time that old mom let you in on a little, tiny, itty-bitty secret.  Every word on these pages--every last one--is about you.  Every word on these pages- every last one- is for you.

You'll see in life, if you haven't already, that some people are remarkably articulate.  That some people are remarkably insightful.  That some people are remarkably funny.  That some people will stop traffic and that some people will light up an entire room with their smile and their charm.

Lucky you, little girl.  You are all of these things.

Unlucky you, little girl.  Your mom is none of these things.  If Bridget Jones were a real person, she'd look and sound eerily like old mom with an American accent---right down to the public humiliation on the local news.

(Side note:  if, in 20 years, you are ever convinced by your friend to attend an event called "Dateless and Desperate" at an Irish pub on Valentine's Day, scan the room for camera crews before being a drunk participant in the drunk version of "The Dating Game."  Trust me on this one.  You'd be stunned how many people watch the 11:00 news on Valentine's Day.  I'm just saying.)

The fact of the matter, little girl, is that your mom is probably best served on paper.  It's on paper that I'll come up with semi-profound thoughts, zippy comebacks and some well-timed one-liners.  In real life....well, in real life, I come up with zippy comebacks about 10 seconds too late and usually share my semi-profound thoughts with complete strangers and dogs.   Don't ask.  I will, however, have you know that if real life came with pause and rewind buttons, your mom could kick some serious ass.

I do know that you deserve the best of me, and if the best of me is on paper, so be it.  It's better than nothing.  Maybe someday, you will stumble across this blog, and realize that your mom was periodically struck with articulate thought.

Little M---If every child in the world was assembled in one line, and I was allowed to select the children I wanted,  I'd pick you...every single time.  I wish I could pass along my wisdom to you, but (a) I'm not sure I have any to share and (b) you have the right to find your own wisdom, at your own pace.  I know you'll be wise, little girl.  You're mine, after all.

Cheers to my three-and-a-half foot hero,

Little Miss Sunshine