Hey. Did you know I had a baby a few years ago? She was a big ol' nine-pounder, and she was born smiling. I totally rocked the Lamaze breathing and didn't take any drugs at all.
Breathe in, breathe out.
You're doing fine, Miz S.
The child's head was enormous.
We named the giant blonde girl "Evangeline." Or something very much like that.
She grew up to be dreamy and tall and lanky and rather good at lying around reading books when she was supposed to be walking the dogs or doing the dishes.
And just when I was getting the hang of the whole motherhood thing, just when she had learned to hang up the towel in the bathroom and put her dishes in the dishwasher, she up and left for college.
Oh, I kid. She never learned how to hang up the towel in the bathroom.
Tomorrow, under Russian skies, Evangeline will celebrate her 21st birthday.
Tonight, under Maryland skies (which are not nearly as poetic as Russian skies), I ponder the swift passage of time.
I remember so well the moment that this picture was taken. The day had turned warm unexpectedly and she rolled up her little blue sweatpants. She was wearing the the red sweatshirt with the dog's face on it that was sewed just for her by my friend Robin.She was still such a little girl, and she leaned in for that kiss so unselfconsciously. That night I probably soaped her hair in the bathtub, and maybe read to her from one of the Betsy-Tacy books. I'm making myself sniffle here. Dammit. I promised myself I would stand firm against any maudlin birthday blogging.
Hey! Check out my hiking boots, Jane!
Happy birthday, Evangeline! We miss you.