A Belated Post

Because I can't seem to follow the rules . . . my overly-long and mushy post for Daughters' Day, a wee bit late. (Sons' Day is going to be even later. Sheesh). Here's to Amanda Arrigotti - White.

Oh my lovely, accomplished daughter . . . You were an easy infant, soft and sleepy and forgiving of our new-parent blunders. That was the last time you were easy. I should have known what I was in for when you emerged, three weeks early, after the doctors turned you in utero, to get you out of breech presentation. You apparently didn’t like being upside down, and seemed to say: I make up my own mind, people. I’m not hanging around here, upside down – Watch out world, I’m coming out.

Then there was a little reprieve. Like I said, an easy infant. But as soon as you learned to crawl, we were all in trouble.

Once you set your mind on something, nothing, but nothing, could deter you from it.

You know the story by heart, how you scooted on your belly toward the woodstove, determined to explore it in spite of, maybe even because of, the barrier of chairs I’d erected to keep you safe. Thankfully, just when I was exhausted from the battle, it was naptime.

We lived in a tiny rental house way out in the country in Issaquah, tucked in the woods on a couple of acres occupied by: our landlords, who lived in an ugly mansion-ish house and seemed to have a perfect life but somehow always had a reason to be elsewhere; our little home (“modest” would have been too kind); and another, ever-so-slightly-less-tiny rental house occupied by a family of six. (The mom told me, in between yelling at or chasing one of her children, that her birth control had failed, four times in four years. She also told me when she asked the doctor to tie her tubes, he refused saying, “You’re still young. You might want more children.” I have always imagined her staring first at the noisy, squabbling, always-moving mass of small bodies and then at the doctor with a look of astounded incredulity . . . . But I digress.)

Anyway, the house had one miniscule bedroom almost entirely taken up with our bed, and another miniscule bedroom for your crib and changing table. I seem to recall a third, closet-sized room that had been carved out so as to support the rent for a “three bedroom” home, but my memory on that is fuzzy. I think your Uncle Mike slept on a twin bed in that room, when he came to visit. Or maybe on a sleeping bag on the floor? Fuzzy, that whole period in our lives is a bit fuzzy.

As you now know, lack of sleep will do that to a person . . . .

The rest of the house was basically all one room – kitchen, dining area, living room. We were poor (your dad had just graduated from UW and started a new job, which he hated and which paid very little, and when you were born I was in the middle of what was going to be a PhD program in Classics, which was great for getting free tuition but not so much for building up a nest egg for maternity leave). Heat was expensive, especially in the poorly insulated (uninsulated?) house tucked under towering firs, where the sunlight never even made it to our roof to share its warmth. Wood was cheap and accessible, and as a result, we typically heated the house with the woodstove that sat in the approximate middle of the main living area. The layout of the house and its small size meant that once you took an interest in the woodstove, there was no escaping it, no place else for me to put you that would allow me to follow the parenting wisdom of distracting you with something else.

As if you could ever be distracted from a goal.

When you woke up from your nap that day, there was no messing about with cuddling. I lifted the warm sleepy ball of you out of your crib and into the living room. Then you caught sight of the woodstove. You stretched out your arms, and wriggled to be set down. As soon as you were on the floor, you set to work on the fortress of chair legs, even managing to move one chair partly out of your way, in your attempt to get to that treasure.

But here’s the thing: as I understood at some level even then, your persistence was always going to be a positive character trait, in the long run; “still she persisted” is a meme for good reason. As you matured, the things you “persisted” about matured with you. No longer chasing after something that looked intriguing but was in fact terrifyingly dangerous, you persisted in getting an education, learning about your chosen field, improving at your chosen hobbies and career, fighting for others' rights. And relationships – that is where you persist the most. Once someone is a friend, that person is a friend for life. Barring some actual cruelty, you never give up on anyone. Your fiercely loyal love holds fast, no matter what.

Your persistence has made you successful in all the ways the world counts, and in all the ways that count to me, as your mom: you are surrounded by people (not just where you live, but all across the country!) who love and admire you and enjoy your company.

Did I say you were never easy after learning to crawl? That's not quite right. Or maybe, it's accurate but not the whole truth. Because then and now you have always been one of my favorite people to spend time with. In addition to what some people would uncharitably call "a stubborn streak a mile wide" you were and are also: curious, adventuresome, affectionate, intelligent, and kind.

You are my treasure, and my life is so much richer with you in it.

I don’t need no stinkin’ Daughters Day to remind me how proud I am of you, how lucky I am that you are my daughter.

Every day is Daughters Day, for me.