Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon

Dear Mooter,
I don’t typically do this, writing letters to my children-type thing. And you may never see this even though your curiosity of the internet is growing astonishingly (and scarily) fast, and you know Mommy has something she does on the computer where pictures of you and your sister and words you don’t have time to read are involved. And I don’t know why I feel this is so necessary at this point in your life, but since I’m all about getting over my fears (and putting myself out there is a big one), I’m putting on my swim gear and jumping into the deep end. For you. Because you turned eight years old Monday, and I sat still long enough to watch you around the house and I wanted to tear the rooms apart looking for mason jars to bottle you up. It was all too much watching me walk around outside of myself, and this insane reality may have been a little more than I could handle.

I’m not sure if you know this or not, but when I tell you, and your Nana, and anyone who will listen that I gave birth to myself, I think the only people who know just how serious I am are me and your Nana. Maybe because we both watched me grow up. But there are some things I remember about myself – things I try hard to forget, things I don’t want you to learn because I wouldn’t want to wish them on anyone – that you’re beginning to go through and, try as I might, I can’t stop it.



Like the fact that you are a loner. You dance to your own drummer. You do things differently from other kids because you came into this world much older than your years. It didn’t help that you spent so much of your life alone before your sister came, but I was determined not to let you continue as an only child. Because as much as you like your alone time, you don’t want to feel like you’re by yourself. You have so much potential to turn that entire description around and shut yourself out from the world if I let you. But I won’t let you, and I think you’re alright with that. For now.



You are introspective. I don’t know where you go when you drift off into the other world in your mind, but I follow you when you go even if the door is closed. That place, the escape hatch that, given enough time and scarring, can become so deep, so dark and twisty… I want you to know it’s OK to go. As you get older, I may lose you in there sometimes. I know that place, and no matter how much crap you stuff in there, it will never be full-up. But I want you to know I’ll be waiting on the other end of that door with a flashlight.



You are empathetic and extremely interested in human nature. You want nothing more than to understand people and human connections, and you want there to be peace on Earth and rainbows. You don’t understand the inhumane, and your favorite history story is that of Martin Luther King, Jr. because you cannot, for the life of you, wrap your mind around such violence and intolerance. And the fact that one man committed his life to eradicating such injustices inspires you. You give me hope that future world leaders are still being born everyday. You are idealistic and much too sensitive to be militant. But you are such a flower-child that people your age don’t really understand you, and I know that can be frustrating.



You are overly friendly. You want nothing more than to befriend the world because you are awesome and creative and silly and nice, and you like to laugh and tell jokes (really, really bad jokes), and you can do a split like this, and cartwheels like that, and look at you over here and over there and up and down and spin and flip and dance and jump, and can you do this? and do you know this song? and remember that one time when you were a little baby? and why is it like that? and who’s that over there? and shake and shimmy and twist and turn and run really fast and bounce off the wall and TAH-DAH! I know children walk away from you, murmuring to themselves, “Who’s the weird girl?” I’ve seen them, and you tell me about them. But I don’t want you to let them discourage you from being yourself, the great person I know you are.



You’re entering “the awkward phase”, the phase where the cuteness starts to wane, and the teeth become larger than your mouth, and you grow hair in strange places, and you smell differently, and we have to buy you new shoes for what seems like every month because THAT’S HOW LARGE YOUR FEET ARE, holy cow. I know it all feels foreign to you, and mean kids are starting to call you names, and no one will sit with you at lunch, and it’s really starting to bother you. I wish I could tell you that it’s because kids are still trying to figure you out because you’re new. And I wish I could tell you the teasing and isolation will stop soon. But I can’t because it’s not true. And it breaks my heart when you cry and you’re stressed, and you have all these emotions you don’t know what to do with, so you come and push your little sister off the couch because she wanted to hug you. And I want to walk up to that school and punch all those kids in their faces because I, all of a sudden, have a flashback of my own childhood and my own demons and teasings, and I’m knee-deep in rice patties and agent orange and camouflage, and I’m strapped with my firearms and ready to take out the whole city. But mostly because you’re mine. And your father and I try hard to make you stronger and equip you with the tougher skin these times will call upon when I know our efforts are futile. You will have to learn these lessons on your own. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.



Mooter. Mootana from St. Olaf. I love you. This is the beginning of the most awkward stage of your growth, and you will have no bigger cheering section in life than me and your father. It will get harder, but know that you have the greatest advantage having a mother who is your twin. Although I can’t protect you and keep these things from happening (you don’t know how badly I wish I could) I want you to know that I’m never far. And you may not understand the hard, robotic shell I surround myself within, but I’m smooshy and gooey on the inside. And that’s the part that holds you.

Mommy