When my fourth son was born, my grandmother came to visit. Bleary from lack of sleep, I hardly noticed the pink blur of my tiny daughter zipping by, but  I couldn’t ignore the sound of something crashing into a gazillion pieces in the kitchen a moment later. Then door slams shook the house as “the blur” left on foot followed in hot pursuit by my mother. My grandmother smiled down at the sweet and still compliant newborn in her arms, and said, “Wow, that’s some rose you’ve got among the thorns.” Truth, Grammy. Truth.

At that point, I had been at the mercy of my daughter for a solid four and a half years.  Every ounce of parenting wisdom and confidence I had shored up from the 19 months parenting my first son was rendered immediately irrelevant from the moment she was born. This darling girl thrust herself upon us with the fury of a mini-maelstrom. Everything about her broadcast the undeniable truth:  Hello, family, there’s a new queen in town.

There was never the innocent hopeful debate about parenting style with this one. My tiny, feisty child pretty much demanded to be attached 24/7 via sling, baby carrier, or industrial strength duct tape . . . until she demanded that she had had enough of that nonsense.  I thought I was tired from parenting ’round the clock, that is, until she leaped out of my arms at the tender age of 8 months and sprinted across the room. I pretty much didn’t sit down again for the next 5 years.

My girl’s speed was matched only by her ingenuity and gift for escape. Harried parents everywhere know this is the perfect trifecta for troublemakers, and she wore that title like royalty. I remember one conversation with the pediatrician when she was 9 months old. I was worried that she was already climbing out of her crib. “No problem,” he said. “Just put her to sleep in the pack-n-play. She won’t be able to climb out, and she’ll still be safe.” Such simple genius advice!  If he had told me to shave my head and move halfway around the world right then, I would have bought a ticket and packed a bag. But I swear on my Sour Patch Kids, that baby heard every word he said and laughed herself silly. When I went to lay her down for her nap in the old Graco, she looked me right in the eye, shimmied up the corner of the playpen like Spiderbaby, and vaulted over the edge. My baby girl ended up sleeping on a mattress. ON THE FLOOR. next to her brother in a room we double-baby-gated every night. Our house was like Fort Knox without all the home-cooked meals and time off for good behavior.

But even with this indoctrination, I was unprepared for her toddler and preschool years. Frontlines, trenches, and warzones bring me a certain nostalgia after surviving this time with my girl. It’s easier to list the places we weren’t kicked out of: Zero. Nada. None. Library storytime–see ya later, suckers. Music and Motion class—beat it, bums.  Local pizza place—fuggedaboutit. Even church, the last haven for the poor and downtrodden like myself, gave me the old “God will understand if you don’t come to church every week.” To say my girl was a difficult toddler is a disservice and a misnomer. Make no mistake: my darling daughter was adorable and dear, but she was also a terrorist with a tiara and a ‘tude. If you are currently parenting such a child, my thoughts, prayers, and fervent wishes for a quiet moment/night off/white flag are with you. Honestly. But I also offer you this: hope.

Today, my beautiful, feisty, funny girl turns fifteen. It’s hard to see, even now, exactly when she started to mellow, but she certainly did.  The wide path she cut early on gave her room to move and grow and tussle with possibility. She treads more lightly now and those steps are more sure, less wild, more purposeful. Her frenetic energy has transformed into a casual confidence that is charming and magnetic. With her great smile, hair, and personality, she could totally sell you down the river, but you would be grateful for the lovely trip.

She loves her friends, her books, her writing, One Direction, tacos, Starbucks, strawberries, Doctor Who, Downton Abbey, and yes, even her crazy brothers, with a passion reminiscent of her early fire.  She does have the Irish roots to back up that beautiful red hair after all, and God help the boy that falls for either.

She still runs circles around us, but now she wins ribbons for that. She still makes a beautiful noise but she is in good company and we call that music most of the time. She still can shake this house from front to back and around again but usually with our laughter from some clever thing she said. We all still know who the queen is around here,  but her edges are softening as she moves gracefully into that best self we all see just around the corner.

She is Blossoming. Blooming. Becoming.

She is, as she always was, our rose among the thorns.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl! Love, Mom

-Erin

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