Happy 16th

She's 16 today.

Sixteen years ago, she, my first daughter, was born. Her.

This one. The one above, in the photo. That one.

Her daddy came home just in time for her to be born. He left later, and came home six months later. We met him at the airport, late at night. She laughed.

We moved to England, and tried to figure out the whole parenting thing.

She doesn't remember, but there were walks in British parks. Trips to the market in Bury St. Edmunds. Strolls through Cambridge's cobbled streets. I went mad with British child fashion for a while. She can't remember.

We moved and spent a winter in North Dakota. I took her for a walk on a sunny cold day where the snow glittered - we slipped and slided on the ice. I wrote a lovely story in a loft there, and she went to preschool for the first time. She didn't like it.

 We moved to Virginia and she played with our friends'  ferrets and hung out at work while we made games and hung out with other kids who's parents made games.

We moved to Washington, where she was a big sister, and, as a sort of consolation for being forced to be the big sister of two babies, got her a kitten, Ariel, who is still around: her cat and no one else's.

Somewhere, through it all, she kept growing. Now, here we are, five years in Colorado, and she's 16.

Six. Teen.

We took her to Outback Steakhouse - our family tradition is to go out to eat to the kids' favorite restaurant on their birthdays (we're crap at parties). She had a nice steak, because she's 16.

I had two glasses of wine. Because she's 16.

Seriously.

How did 16 happen? All those years, 16 years. Oh dear, dear.

So, happy 16th to my 16 year old. Happy 16th to me.

I may just have another glass of wine.