You were the vessel that carried me for nine, long months until I graced the world with my presence that stormy Friday morning.
I know you were probably busy with all that childbirth business, but I’m pretty positive the storm outside was a foreshadow for what you were going to deal with once I became a teenager. Either that, or it’s the reason why I love thunderstorms so much, but I’m going to go with the latter.
Thanks for being there for me.
For telling me to shut up when I was being dramatic.
For listening to me vent and not taking my side because I was wrong and you knew it.
For allowing me to wear boys clothing when I was going through “that phase.”
For never telling me how to dress, and allowing me to eventually find my style.
For loving me even though I refuse to eat squash.
For trying to sneak squash into all our meals by covering it with sauce and thinking we wouldn’t notice.
For showing me how chocolate can really fix your mood.
And for teaching me that wine can do that, too.
For packing my lunches even when I was twenty-two and in grad school.
For eating at the restaurant I worked at, and leaving me a huge tip even though I was a terrible waitress.
For always having the fridge stocked when I come home for the weekend.
For Wednesday Wine nights and summers by the pool.
For making me love running.
For encouraging me to put down my second helping of dessert.
For talking to me on the phone four times a day, just because I’m bored.
And then for telling me I call you too much and I need to learn how to be alone.
For helping me move out, and move in, and then move out again. Twice.
For not getting mad at me for constantly stealing all of your clothes.
For being forgiving of all the strange, stupid, selfish, and somewhat questionable things I did when I was younger.
For the forgiveness I will need when I continue to do all those things as I get older.
For being the shit.
Words cannot express what you mean to me. So I guess I will just say, “I love you.”