Most Definitely Not a Dreadful Bitch

So today is Molly's birthday. She's twenty-eight today, which makes me an old maid. Here's a picture of her that I totally stole from her facebook profile just now:

Now, apparently, is the time on Sprockets when we dance.

In years past, I have waxed poetic about my sister and all that she means to me, but this year I am pressed for time - I have a bunch of work to crank out before I skate outta here early to get some last minute stuff for tonight's partay - so I'll keep it short.

The last year has been amazing with my sister. She was already a mom at this time last year, but now she is no longer adjusting to life with an infant and has moved into the profoundly more difficult chapter of nurturing the development of a toddler, managing the daily business of enriching his mind and guiding him as he grows into what one can only hope will be a good, kind man someday.

I have to tell you, it's the most amazing thing I have ever seen. The transformation from carefree Phish-head to devoted mother has been nothing less than mind-blowing. Don't get me wrong - the girl is still dangerous on the dance floor and can (usually) hold her own against a bottle of wine or three, and she still tries to squirrel away money to go on four-day camping/concert vacations that may or may not require that she pee outdoors. But that's not where her focus lies anymore.

Her heart is in the moments when the world falls away and it's just her and the Toots. It's in the mornings spent cuddled up under the covers with the Wonder Pets and a sippy cup of milk that's worked its way down next to her knees. It's in the afternoons spent at the playground, wrestling her twin urges to protect her boy while still letting him develop independence and courage. It's in the days spent in the backyard, with her trusty shadow following behind her with his red wagon in tow, ready to help Mommy with whatever landscaping project she wants to tackle today. It's in the evening games of hide-and-seek, followed by tickles and dancing. It's in the constant stream of verbal mumbo-jumbo that she somehow understands, and in the way that she can then guide that babble into a blossoming vocabulary. It's in the care that she takes when folding his laundry or preparing his meals, or in choosing the toys or activities that he would most enjoy. It's in the smile that he reserves only for her, the one that reveals that she is the true object of his returned affection, the sun and the moon and all that is safe and home.

I counted myself lucky to have known her all the years before, and I felt immeasurably fortunate to be able to call her my sister. But now, after witnessing the metamorphosis from sister-of-one to mother-of-one, I realise that I never knew what luck was. This, the opportunity to know her now, too, is what makes me the luck-sweepstakes-winner.

So Happy Birthday, Molly! You're my favorite gal, and I can't wait to spend the next twenty-eight years with you for a best friend!