Welcome to Nine!

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Once upon a time a baby girl was born.

Boy, were we relieved when we found out you were a girl! Here’s truth #1: I didn’t enjoy it that much when you were inside me, but once you were out and the doc said those three words “it’s a girl!” your Papa and I whooped with joy.

Visions of pink, swirly skirts, glitter, nail polish, braids, Barbies and princesses filled my future and I couldn’t wait. But no, that was not your plan.

Here’s truth #2: I’m more than okay with you not being a girly-girl. In fact, I’m proud that you’re not, in spite of all the branding and stereotyping in society. It’s way cooler that you get to decide who you want to be, what you want to play with, how you want to dress than society and conventions limiting you.

Being you means focusing on your karate because you enjoy the challenge and the structure and you get to work with weapons and to spar against both boys and girls. And you get strong and fierce in the process.

Being you means you can wear leopard print from top to bottom and own it.

Being you means mastering multiplication and reading mystery books and knowing a ridiculous amount of detail about different dog breeds.

Being you means playdates where you play “Rey” and he plays “Finn.”

Being you means loving music. And hating sauce. And adoring your stuffed animals and your “guys”.

Being you means wanting to learn to play the piano, but only after you get your black belt.

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Here’s truth #3: I do hope you continue to take care of your long hair so I can continue braiding it. Because it’s the only “girly” thing I get to do with you.

Dear T, please keep on being you.

Because you is the best.

Make 9 your greatest year yet!!

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He Is Not The One

You are standing in the airport lobby, fists balled at your sides alongside your luggage, smarting with fury and disappointment. The hubbub around you is a blur as you grind your teeth and hold back hot tears, wrenched from your own stupidity and the damning futility of having dared to believe.

You just got dumped.

He had invited you to stay the weekend, a few months after you had met one hazy, late summer weekend in Nantucket. You bought a plane ticket, some new clothes and you fell hook line and sinker into that dangerous playground of hope and anticipation.

And why not? There were sparks. You had connected, could talk for hours on the phone.

So off you flew, into the lair.

The first 24 hours were divine. But it slowly nosedived from there. Then he dumped you.

It’s me not you and all that.

And here you are, among the faceless travelers rushing from A to B, seething with disappointment. At first, rage at him for being so spineless, for not being brave enough to take you on.

There, in front of the Delta check-in desk, you fought the self-loathing, targeted squarely at your pathetic foolishness, such an infantile romantic. The sheer stupidity of daring to think that he might be the one. Dumbass.

You loved someone before and he didn’t love you back. Didn’t you learn from that experience? At least he didn’t give you pause to hope. His was love cloaked in friendship. But it hurt.

This time around, it felt like you had due cause to let hope in. But you were wrong, and you were wronged. Stupid, stupid you.

He is not the one.

(You don’t know it now – as you take a deep gulp, pick up your bags and your self-esteem, and board the flight home – but The Real One, well he’s actually waiting in the wings. Give it a few weeks, and you’ll see.)

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