I wrote this poem for my daughter so she would grow up knowing that A) I support her, B) I love her, obviously, C) she is more than her looks, D) I am proud of everything else she is, and E) I wouldn't change anything that happened.

To My Daughter Penelope, Age One

The things I want to tell you and

hope for you and fear for you could

probably cover approximately three

thousand two hundred and sixty-two

pages. But what I will tell you is

that I love you, though that hasn’t

always been the case. When I found out

I was pregnant, I was so scared that

my life was over, that my dad—your

grandpa—would shun me, that you

would be a slimy, mewling creature

thrust from my body. And though you were,

in fact, thrust from my body, slimy,

and mewling—I didn’t and don’t

and never will give a damn. Because

you’re my babe. Anyhow, I want to tell you:

every time you open and close a drawer,

every time you head for the stairs when

I ask if you want to go outside, every time

you flip your book so that it’s not upside

down, I see how smart you are;

every time you babble to yourself,

every time you point imperiously

at the bag of Gold Fish, every time you hold

out your hand to share them and then

snatch it back to pop it in your own mouth,

I laugh at how unintentionally funny

you are; and of course you are beautiful,

gorgeous, etc., and that’s not just your mother

talking, but that doesn’t matter nearly as much

as people will make you believe it does; I’m so

excited to see the person that you

grow into, for you to join your aunt and I

in ‘carpool karaoke’, to read Harry Potter

to you and see the magic take hold

for the first time; I’m so scared that

I’ll let a comment about your

height/weight/fashion choices

slip past my lips, that I won’t be present

enough, that you’ll say what we all say

(“I don’t want to turn out like my mom”)

either in pretense or with candor. That

being said, I will try and try and try

anyways to sit patiently and watch you

struggle to put the lid back on

the Peanut Butter jar despite how badly

I want to do it for you. And if that isn’t

love, I don’t know what is. And

whether you read this or not,

my feelings haven’t and won’t

ever change.