Dear Elli,
In a few hours, it will be 2016. In 2016, you will turn seven years old. Holy shit. Time flies.
I started writing these crazy letters to you three years ago. I've published about 150 of them, and there are even more that I've scrapped or are in progress. They have been viewed 7,500 times. In many states, and in three countries. Not bad for an Akron grad.
I'm so glad that I came up with this idea back in December of 2012. I did it for you, but I've been the one to benefit the most so far.
These letters have made me better. They've forced me to figure out what I believe, who I am, and also who I want to be. They've made me take a hard look in the mirror on many occasions, and I haven't always liked the reflection. I am not always who I want to be. Facing that reality is the best thing I've ever done. I'm a fundamentally better human being than I was three years ago. (But I'm still a total bad ass, just in case you were wondering.)
Writing is easy for me, but talking can be hard. When I write, my inhibitions are gone. This is my truest form of communication. Sometimes I wish I could talk the same way I write. Without impatience, frustration, insecurity, or fear. But the world doesn't work that way. So I write.
I write to you about things that are difficult for me to speak clearly about. I talk about racism and entitlement and assholes and being your mom. I try to be honest. And I try to find humor in just about everything. Because it's there. Just under the surface of the ridiculousness of everyday life. It's there under the horror of injustice. Beneath rage and disgust. It's everywhere. We just have to look. And, thank sweet baby Jesus, I can see it. But mostly not until I write it. That's when it starts to be funny.
You're going to remember some of the things I write about. And your recollection won't always be what you read. The way I react to your endless shenanigans is not always the way I write it. I'm not always laughing. Sometimes I'm barking at you like a drill sergeant or stomping around the house like a two-year-old. Just know that, at the end of the day, I know I can be an asshole. And I'm sorry. But I love you even when I'm an asshole. And you are truly very funny.
So as we get ready for the next obstacle course of life that is 2016, I want you to know that I love you. Even if you punch someone in the face, or ask random women if they're on birth control, or eat dirt, or put worms in your sock. I love you anyway. And I will continue to write about it.
And I'm also going to write about the world we live in, and how I view it. Because you should know. It will help you to understand someday why I run around the house ranting and raving about Donald Trump and immigration and suicide bombers and gas prices and public education and the US Postal Service and the stock market. Someday, you'll understand me.
And maybe. Just maybe. I'll understand myself a little more, too.
Happy New Year, little lady! I'm ready for another year of trials, tribulations, joy, fun, and exploration.
Thank you for making me a little better every year. I love you more than you can imagine.
Mom
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