NaBloPoMo

To Emma.

To Emma,

You are me. Ok, you’re not me me.

You’re the daughter I always pictured when I was a kid. I could see you in my mind. I could see you every time I looked in the mirror at 10-years-old, 15-years-old, and 20-years-old. You had dark hair and dark eyes. You had my face. You didn’t exist, of course.

Then you were born. I’ve watched you grow from a baby to a toddler to a preschooler to a 10-year-old. You’re a miniature version of myself.

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And here I am, at 34 years old, sitting with my 10-year-old self at Thanksgiving. You’re not a clone obviously, that’s genetically impossible.

You’re better than a clone.

You got the best of your dad. You are your dad. You hunt and fish. You have more deer mounts than any 10-year-old I know. A Thanksgiving turkey can be had with a drop of your bow and arrow. When you’re hurt, you rub dirt on it. You are the happiest when you’re outdoors. You are never scared.

On this Thanksgiving – I am thankful for you, Emma. In some ways, I feel like you grew up with me. You are the little girl I pictured myself with one day. I just didn’t know you would turn out to be a badass too.

And don’t say badass at the dinner table. Only your dad and I can call you a badass.

I love you, Emma Grace.

Love, Mom

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