“It’s birthday eve, wake up.”

I caress Laddu’s forehead as I cajole her into waking. Her sleepy eyes look at mine before fluttering shut.

“In a minute…” she mumbles as I leave.

All week long, I have been celebrating this child of mine. She is a gawky tween. A child on the cusp of teenhood. A child who has grown up faster than I wanted her to. With two older siblings, she is exposed to far more things than her peers are. We are in the car and Doja Cat’s Paint The Town Red comes on. I barely blink as it registers that the song is explicit. I don’t hit next song either.

A decade ago, when she was shown to me for the first time after she was born, all that registered was the slick black hair that was plentiful. She is a mini me in more ways than I can grasp. She walks in the door after school recounting her day without prompting. Her lunch boxes come back empty. She wakes up without being asked twice. She fills water bottles, unloads dishes, sits in silence weekend mornings as I sleep. She is undemanding, exceedingly understanding and empathetic in a way that makes me feel seen and understood.

She is a girl’s girl. A bestie at heart. She is the one who will cheer you on as you hit life’s milestones. She is my ride or die child. She loves loud celebrations. She loves being serenaded. She loves life. She is life.

Happiest of birthdays to my baby!