Cora Jeanne....
I've thought long and hard about having my first girl for my last child. You are unique and special to all of us.
I promise to provide you with your very own bin for your dolls and Barbies right next to your big brothers' bin of Bad Guys. When you come to me to tattle and whine that another Barbie got kidnapped by the neighborhood Bad Guy and thrown in a pit with Dinosaurs..... I won't solve your problem. I will teach you to march yourself right back around, rescue your doll with a vengeance, and dress up the Bad Guy in Malibu Barbie's attire. That'll teach him.
And that will teach you to always stand up for yourself.
It will be important to possess proper manners. What better way to practice those skills than to invite your Daddy for a good old fashioned tea party? He can sit down at your little table, in your little chair so that his knees rub his ears. You must insist that he wear a tiara and perhaps a feather boa to make him fit in with all your gussied up stuffed animals. Please don't hesitate to remind him that he must raise his pinkey when he sips the tea from the dainty teacup. Even though his hands might seem too large, it is important that he places the cup quietly back on its miniscule saucer. Forcing him to speak in a high-brow British accent is optional. (You MUST tell me when all this is going on so I can get my camera.)
Won't it be fun?
I hope that you will smile when you see your three big brothers dressed in their finest Sunday attire, each one clutching a flower for you, at your dance recitals. You should forgive them if they don't answer right away when you ask them excitedly, "What was your favorite part?" If you press them on the issue I'm sure they will come up with something.
I can't wait to hear what they say.
If you go the sports route, I hope you will forgive me if I call your three-pointer a "goal" or if I miss a play or two because I'm playing solitaire on my PDA. I'm still your biggest fan, just not the biggest fan of basketball.
Would you consider soccer instead?
I hope that I can instill in you that beauty doesn't come from how good you look in your jeans or the size of your dress in your closet. It comes from how you treat people, how you show others respect and kindness, and how you always respect yourself.
Perhaps you could gently remind me of that when we are out shopping and I grumble and complain and march myself over to the "mature" section of the store.
When you get your first boyfriend I hope that he is nervous around your family and afraid of your brothers. That means he cares about the right things and knows that you have 3 older brothers that won't hesitate to "take him outside" should he cross the line. I hope you show him that line. And I want you to always be a lady and expect him to be a gentleman. After all, you don't want "to be your own gentleman."
Owen would be very angry with that.
It would be spectacular if you felt comfortable enough to tell me about your first kiss while your Daddy plugs his ears and remembers you as the girl with pigtails and pink tights....not the young woman you've become.
Will you do me a favor and tell him that he is still the most important man in your life? He would like that.
And when I drop you off at your freshman dorm, I'll look around and wonder how we got here. How did we make it through training bras, boyfriends, groundings and a driver's license? You'll give me a quick hug and kiss and hurry off to meet your roommates and set up your room. I'll just stand there (thanking the fashion gods that I remembered to not wear anything remotely resembling "mom jeans") wondering: Did you ever figure out how to use the nunchucks Kai gave you for self-defense? Did you pack the pepper spray from Owen? Did you ever read the book on self-defense from Drew?
Did you remember to tell your Daddy that you love him?
I promise not to cry until the campus is in my rear view mirror if you promise to call me and tell me that you miss me....at least once a week.
And I hope you know that you always have a place to call home. It is with us.
{All photos, again, by my friend Jen Espanet.}
