Tomorrow the better half of Molly B and Me turns 15-years old.
We’re celebrating with a 1920’s swing dancing party because the better half of Molly B and Me has an old soul and marches to the beat of her own victrola.
She enjoys dresses that twirl and books that provoke; she disdains common slang and political rhetoric. She’s a proud and somewhat exclusive member of the Modern Whig Party. She loves her piano lessons because she gets to spend 45 minutes with one of the most interesting people she knows, a septuagenarian Chinese immigrant named Helen Chang. She loves to play, though not necessarily to practice, the piano.
She recently painted her room cool lemonade yellow after biking to the hardware store with a coupon she found for a free pint of paint. She taught herself to crochet, plant potatoes and bake bread. In the unlikely event of Armageddon, I’m hanging with Molly.
We share a love of language, food, genuine kindness, and blue mist metallic convertible bugs. She is far more patient than I.
Molly ran cross country in junior high and by ran I mean casually jogged while enjoying the glorious scenery. I cheered her on and, in one memorable exchanged, yelled, “Come on Molly! Go get that girl ahead of you! You can take her, Molly!”
Channeling her inner Ghandi, she looked at me quizzically as she meandered past. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said telepathically. “Why rush?”
A tail-ender, Molly has enjoyed a lifetime of cheerful support from her three older siblings. In some ways, she has five parents. In other ways, she’s raising us all.
The years flew swiftly as they always do, and I can blink and see the wide-eyed toddler whose lullaby was “Baby Mine.”
I’ll leave the nostalgia behind tomorrow, though, and celebrate a young woman I’m proud to call my partner.
Happy birthday Molly B from Me.