To Charlotte, On Your 7th Birthday

Oh, my sweet brown-eyed girl. As your much-anticipated seventh birthday has arrived, I confess that I feel I've short-changed you a bit. Can I use a naughty word? Yes? My darling girl, it has been a shit January. You have been vaguely aware of this, as I yelled at you and your sister out of stress, or dragged you to Seattle and struggled to explain to you the concept of death, or muttered things about our disaster of a president.

You turning seven was in the back of my mind, and lord knows you weren't about to let ANYONE forget that your birthday was on January 30th. We've all been getting a daily countdown update since October. But I've been distracted, buying you off here and there out of guilt (sure! it's an early birthday present! you can totally have the Moana coin purse or Wellie Wisher doll or key chain or your nails done. Happy birthday!)

We came home from Seattle on Thursday night, both of us wiped out. Me more than you, but hey, it's not a contest. And American Girl sent me an email reminding me about your birthday reservation on Saturday, and the Ritz-Carlton oh so tastefully reminded me (nudge nudge) about our reservation there for your birthday, because . . . pool. You wanted swimming on your birthday and the only way to pull that off for a January baby is INDOOR pool.

(We got a decent weekend rate. Quit judging, people.)

My heart wasn't in it. I literally unpacked the suitcase, dumping out dirty laundry from Seattle, and packed it up again. I wanted to stay home and get everything on track again, but you had been promised this. And so we boarded the Beagle and off we went. Again. And you totally enjoyed it, I know, and I loved watching you revel in being the birthday girl. (And okay, the Ritz WAS nice.)

Now you're seven. You're smarter. Our crappy parenting shortcuts are becoming more dangerous. Your character, we now realize, is on the line.

Oh, sweet Charlotte. We're so grateful that your loveliness overrides so many of our errors. You see the best in people. We try so hard to teach YOU, and you know what? You teach us. After a dicey evening with friends, I ask how you wanted to proceed with the next event. Should I cancel? "No," you say, calmly. You look at me with those giant brown eyes. "I think we'll do better next time." You love and forgive so deeply and sincerely that . . . that I'm half in awe, half terrified you'll get really, really screwed some day.

Except that

You really seem to know yourself. And you're seven! It's remarkable. YOU are remarkable! I get so proud, so amazed that this child of ours could be so wise. Oh, sure, you're totally affected by your friends, girl culture, schoolyard drama, teacher-pleasing tendencies---but you also have a strong sense of who Charlotte Marie Hofmann is.

And I've realized you're in the golden period of girlhood. Energetic, confident (as your shyness allows), joyful, smart as a whip, funny in the same way Daddy is--which is to say, funny in how funny you think you are.

You fill us with such pride and love and .  . . nope, no word is bigger than LOVE. We love you so, so much that Daddy and I want only the best for you.

So, when we push you to work through the hard parts of your violin piece? It's because not everything comes easily. If you can learn to work hard, you can do damn near anything.

When we suggest you include a friend who is being a crankball in your game on the playground? It's because we don't want you to be a mean girl. And we want you to be a leader.

When we tell you beauty is on the inside? We effing mean it. Even though you don't understand it. Or believe it. Don't worry, most people don't. But, dear child, you are beautiful. INSIDE. And out.

When we get on our high horses and LECTURE you on your good fortune? It's because to whom much is given, much is expected.

My dear Charlotte. You are getting older. You have everything. A healthy body. Oodles of people who adore you. A safe neighborhood in which to roam. Your own room. Parents who loved you before you were even conceived and who burst into tears upon learning you now existed. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, faunties, funcles, friends, and church family who treasure you. Great teachers. A good, safe school. SAFETY in general. Access to everything: the arts, literature, nature, sports. Education. An inquisitive mind and curious nature. A sister.

Charlotte, even at seven you understand what is real. You can manipulate, you can leverage a situation, you can one-up your sister, but you know that you're doing it and . . . you know what? You suck at it. You're just too tuned in to what is real and what matters. Such tactics are so transparent and false. Your embarrassed little grin shows that you know it. Phew.

Listen to that Charlotte voice inside, my dear girl. The one that says, "Hmmmm. This isn't right." Or, the one that says, "Hmmmm, but . .  . surely THIS is right." Hold on to that. Hold on, my strong girl, when the message telegraphed into your brain is, "Charlotte, you're stupid. Charlotte, you're not pretty enough. Charlotte, that girl over there is the WORST--let's not play with her. Charlotte, let's go do this naughty thing. Charlotte, your parents will never know if . . . . Charlotte, you can't."

Don't take it from me.

Shhhhhh. Listen.

Take it from YOU, Charlotte girl. You already know. I'm just asking you to hang on. Revel in your girlhood and squeeze every drop of joy from it. Together, we'll all get through your adolescence. And then you pick up the pieces and go kick some ass.

Happy birthday, my seven-year-old. May your girlhood get ever wackier, sillier, sweeter, smarter, and more powerful. Keep randomly bursting into song or dance or poem. Skip instead of walk. Make silly jokes, talk with Lorelei in your made-up language, experiment with fashion, try new things. Write stories, listen to stories, read stories. Ask questions. Question everything, even when we snap back with the answer, "Because I said so!"

We love you so much. Seven? Wow. Lucky, lucky us. [[Insert over-the-top kissing sounds that make you squirm!!!]]] Happy birthday!