Sixteen years ago today -- at 10:32 a.m. -- I gave birth to 7 pounds, 4 ounces of Barbie pink and unconditional love, with a little high-maintenance drama thrown in for good measure.
We named her after my grandmothers -- both of them deceased, as is Jewish custom. Through their names, she carries a legacy of the strong women of my family. Matriarchs with the ability to make things happen.
And don't you dare cross me, young lady.
Sixteen years ago, I had no idea what was ahead of me. Up till then, I had raised boys.
As a former tomboy, I was mentally equipped to handle snips and snails and puppy dog tails. I was clueless when it came to sugar and spice and everything nice.
But I learned.
I learned how to make tea parties. I learned how to french braid hair. And I learned to love the color pink.
As a joke, my girlfriend used to whisper in her ear, "Can you say 'Nordstrom'? Can you say 'Nieman-Marcus'?"
But we quickly realized the joke was on me.
Because I had somehow -- in my my infinite wisdom -- given birth to the girliest of girly-girls.
Lace? You bet.
Jewelry? Even at the age of 2.
Her birthday present at the age of 4 was trip to the mall with Mom to buy clothes -- topped off her choice of a lacy dress from the cart in the middle of the mall.
She wore that dress until the lace frayed and tore.
The years flew by.
She was in kindergarten. Fifth grade. Middle school. High school.
She learned to read. She learned to write. She learned to put together "outfits." She learned to wear makeup.
She learned to cheer.
Now she learns to drive -- and prepares to apply to college.
Where did my baby go?
She has been replaced by a lovely young woman.
Still Barbie pink, filled with unconditional love and high-maintenance drama.
And today she is 16.
Happy birthday, my beautiful Roo-girl.
Fly with the eagles ...