Sunday, March 27, 2011


I love my daughter.

Last night we went to Cheesecake Factory in Palo Alto and sat at usual table by the window. We ordered our usual stuff and did our usual thing: which is to make each other laugh.

Katie downloaded the "Fatbooth" App to my iPhone and took a picture of herself that she then "fatified." Then she texted it to my fiance, Kevin, who was down in Anaheim with his son. "Look who's excited to be at Cheesecake Factory!" she wrote underneath her morbidly obese photo.

I laughed until I cried.

I have always loved Katie. I loved her when she was little: From the second she opened her newborn blue eyes and excitedly took in the world around her, to watching her drive her Smurf car--naked--in a continual loop around the kitchen and family room, to pedaling her in a Burley at Sun River Oregon, to holding her in a backpack at Costco while she whacked my head, to watching her wrap her "abba" or blanket around her neck at Tahoe to stay warm.

And I love her now that she's a teenager. I love her wicked sense of humor, the way she sucks in her bottom lip when she's tired, the way she reinvented herself from middle school to high school, the fact that she has a whole range of emotions--shy/outgoing, unsure/brave, doubting/self-confident, moody/stable, indifferent/completely engaged.

And I love that she sometimes likes to drive around in the car, listening to music, looking in at the warm lights of other people's houses, talking about life, and laughing.

At the end of my life, which I hope is many years from now, I will count as one of my greatest joys having a daughter that I not only loved fiercely, but liked as a friend.

I love you Bird.