Lucky Thirteen

My daughter is thirteen today. She had her ears pierced last weekend. I opened a ‘young person’s’ bank account for her and my mum gave her a cheque, her first, for her birthday money. Her best friend gave her make-up, and an auntie sent her a skinny T shirt with the word ‘Babe’ across the chest. I choked but my son, six years her elder, averted the inevitable conflict by repeatedly saying, ‘That’ll do, Pig’ until she took it off and stuffed it in a drawer.

Today thirteen years ago she was lying in an incubator in Special Care, while I was several floors below being stitched and her Dad was rushing between both of us while wondering how to tell our son that yes, he had a sister, but possibly not for long. Best to bring him in and let him see her, or not to tell him until it was all over?

Today she’s taller than I am, fit and healthy, and as utterly beautiful as everyone’s thirteen year old daughter is. This 200 words isn’t funny, and it isn’t clever, but indulge me: a proud, relieved and very soppy Mum. Who still has a cake to decorate.