There’s something about the number 13, isn’t there? It comes with a warning. It announces itself. It’s a prime number. There were 13 colonies in the US. Friday the 13th, that’s a thing. And a movie series. It’s also my second favorite number. I’ve always loved the look of the word and the way the numerals nestle together. I love the number 13 so much at this moment that I want someone to draw it for me so I can take it to the tattoo parlor next to my favorite coffee shop and have it tattooed on my… I’m not sure where I would put it. But I’m ready to figure it out. 13 tattoo here I come. NO. Wait. The word thirteen. That’s what I want. I want to have the word thirteen lovingly written in beautiful script and tattooed onto my arm where I can see it every day for the rest of my life. Because it’s beautiful.
But not because I love the number. Or the curve of the letters. Or tattoos. Though all of those are true.
I want to have “thirteen” tattooed into my flesh because of today. Today marks the thirteenth start of Spring in my daughter’s life. The thirteenth year she has lived in this world and in my heart. In her friends’ and family’s hearts.
She is a whirlwind of life and love. Dance and geekery. Drama and calm. She is smart and sassy and funny and beautiful and strange. Strange in the very best way. She is bright. She shines. She is whiny and loud and sulky and quiet. She has the very best and the very worst taste in both television and music. She strives to be the very best friend she can be to those who are lucky enough to know her. She gives. And she loves. Fiercely and with her whole heart.
The world is fortunate to have her. And I am endlessly blessed to call her my child. Even if she never cleans her room.