"My Best Girl"

My mother, the secret poet

A few days ago, I received a text from my mother seemingly out of nowhere: “Check your e-mail. I wrote something for you.” I opened my inbox to discover the following: a poem my mom has secretly been working on for weeks. To be loved by this woman is to have hit the lottery. To know her as her daughter is a stroke of luck even beyond that.

My Best Girl ✿ by Cathy Donohoe

How can someone so young have such deep thoughts? Am I just that shallow, that one dimensional, that ordinary that I am twice her age and her thoughts are older and wiser than mine? No, I tell myself, she’s just that extraordinary.

She came out of the womb talking. Of course not literally, but she wasted no time babbling. Before she could walk, she was using full sentences. My tiny blonde little doll, sitting on the floor asking me to give her the toy she wants because she hadn’t yet learned to walk to get it. Gross motor? Back burner. Language? Yes please and I’ll take a second and third helping, thank you.

So, do you do therapy with her at home? It’s so wild how she just talks to us but won’t try to walk anywhere. I tell her daycare providers no, not really, but I am a Speech Language Pathologist, so maybe? Who knew I was collecting a paycheck off the clock?

She is a lot. I am a quieter, smaller version of her radiance and sometimes she’s too much for me. But yet, I will never have enough time with her as long as I live.

I prayed for her, for motherhood. I was terrified of the thought of her. This baby, she will forever change my life, my marriage, my body. Thank God. I tease her that I needed to have her first so that she can help me raise her three brothers and truer words were never spoken.

Like me, she loves the simple things in life. Driving her car, a bagel with cream cheese, a cute top she thrifted for $4. She has more rings, necklaces and earrings than I have years on this earth and she wears as many as she physically can at one time. She needs more fingers, more earlobes, more graceful necks. Little does she know, underneath all of the shiny silver she adorns she is most beautiful as the plain version of herself.

She’s old school, writing her words by hand in one of her many journals. I love reading everything she types into the computer to share, but I love her handwriting the most.

Like her tattoos, she wears her heart on her sleeve. She gets that from me. She talks to herself, anywhere and everywhere, so she’s never truly alone. Her mind has no off switch. She can read a room like a trained detective, taking in the temperature and subtle nuances of others, all the while masking her own fears and worries with award worthy skill. A smile for everyone who needs it, even when it drains her to give it.

People tell me how creative and unique she is, a one of a kind girl. I wholeheartedly agree, but these words aren’t enough for me. The word that is on my heart is irreplaceable. My best girl.

Each day when she sees me, she sings Sweet Queen in what I call her opera voice. It’s her mission to make me smile, and it always works. I hope she’s still saying, no, singing that to me when I’m 80.

I love how much she adores her Dad. He knows just what to say to her in times of need, knows just what to provide for her. When her world starts to darken, he’s there to keep the lights on. Her well being is one of his top priorities in life and she knows it. What a gift to feel that much love and sense of security. I should know, he gives it to me too. She teases her younger brothers, sometimes taking it too far and I tell her to take it easy, you can only rib someone about being messy (pot, meet kettle), clueless or annoying so much until that’s all they believe from you. I also know she’d take a bullet for all three of them. Long after I’m gone, they will still have a sense of security thanks to her. The eldest child, the only daughter. Someone has to do it, I’m lucky it’s her.

I think of her future all the time, who she will continue to evolve into, where she will go, what she will do. I have my own goals and aspirations for her. My worries and fears. She will achieve and measure her own success and I will judge her with a single barometer: is she happy? If so, my work is done. Who am I kidding, my work being her Mom will never be done. And she can count on that.

She signs off each written piece with a lower case c.d. Was she always leaving the upper case version for me and my words? I’d like to think so.

C.D.