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She’s My Best Friend

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She's My Best Friend
No one told me that the moment I would find out the tiny person person inside my womb was a girl, that my best friend was soon to be born. No one told me that she would light up my world, every day, for the rest of our lives. Looking back, I should have known. I should have known my mother and grandmother would send me a precious, pale skinned, blue eyed, blonde little girl. A spitting image of myself. The attitude, the sass, the loudness, the bashfulness. She’s me.

She knows everything. She’s the best friend I could ever want, and yet, she’s not even three. We giggle just like teenage girls. We dance around the kitchen in our pajamas. She grabs my leg and I pray she never lets go.

There are days where this motherhood thing is tough. Where I sit down, exhausted and on the verge of tears and pretend that no one is around. I ignore the piles of toys, the crumbs scattered on the floor, the socks and discarded clothing, and the noise. I sit there and watch them. How can I be so exhausted? How can THEY have so much energy? Do they ever just stop? There are brief moments, where maybe I hide in the bathroom and hope the closed door is a sign that I’m on the edge of losing it. The fighting, the messes… it all just builds up and crushes my soul.

And then I think about her. I think about how some day she will have babies of her own. Maybe they will have our same blue eyes and blonde hair, or maybe they’ll be dark and handsome like her husband. I think about how everyday she’s watching me. She’s watching me react. She’ll take everything that she learns from me, as her mother, and use it in a few years with her own children.

She’ll remember how I didn’t mean to pull her hair, but it really needed brushed.
She’ll remember how I snapped because she wouldn’t be quiet for just one minute.
She’ll remember how I threw that toy, out of desperation, just wanting them to be picked up.
She’ll remember how I slammed the bathroom door.
But she won’t see my tears behind that door.
She won’t see how angry I am – with myself. That’s not who I want to be. I want to be her friend and her mother all at the same time.

I hope that she remembers how we sat on the kitchen floor, eating marshmallows from the bag.
I hope that she remembers how I held her close, her head against my chest, and just breathed together.
I hope that she remembers that her smile makes my knees weak.
I hope that she remembers how Taylor Swift-induced dance parties.
I hope she knows that even if I seem angry, I’m just tired.
I hope she knows that I will never hurt her.

She is my best friend. She has my heart, my soul, my everything.

I hope that when she’s older, she doesn’t shut me out. I just want to listen and be there.
I hope that when she’s older, she can sit down, with the messes all around, and realize how blessed she is.
I hope that when we are older, we will still eat those marshmallows and dance to those songs.
I hope that when we are older, we’ll watch her babies play and laugh.

She is my daughter. My heart. My soul. My dreams. My passion. Every breath I take, I love her more. She is my best friend.