Happy birthday, Punkin

Today is my daughter's birthday. It's not one of those "special" dates like "a quarter century" or whatever the "Big 0s" mean, but it's close enough to the Christmas season—and the end of grading mountains of papers—that I always seem to grow a little mellow thinking of her on "her" day.

I understand that she and Prince Charming are in San Diego for the weekend to see the sights, and her one big wish, as I understand is, was to do at least most of the weekend without electronic umbilicals to the rest of the world. Since I don't make a lot of phone calls and I don't use my phone for internet browsing, that wouldn't be very meaningful to me, but I've watched her enough to know that being out of touch could either be the roots of an honest vacation or make her stir crazy.

I got that information from reading her blog before they left, and I found myself rethinking where she is in life.

When she decided almost 10 years ago now to uproot herself from Texas and move to Los Angeles to go to USC and try her luck in theater arts, I got plenty of flack about how I was "pushing" her there and how I wanted this for her because she would be responsible for living the dreams I never realized.

How wrong that was.

I am a mole; she thrives in the sun.

I don't make friends easily; she practically fights people away.

I am a wallflower; she loves center stage.

I have to work hard to understand the world around me; she takes it in at a glance and usually gets it right.

I like being at home, in my small space with my little world wrapped around me like a cocoon; she chases every passing rainbow.

I like a sunny day that lifts some of what I generally see in shades of gray; she brightens LA's smog.

She said in her blog that she expects to move back to Texas in the next couple of years, and I find myself facing that with divided emotions.

I'll be absolutely appalled if she makes that kind of move without first being sure she'll be able to take care of her financial obligations, although I shouldn't worry; she has put together a better life for herself than a lot of theater arts students do, and she's still heart and soul into the theater, even if she's not acting. She's got a good head on her shoulders, so she'll be okay.

Having her here would mean that going to see her would be a matter of traveling a few miles down the road, one way or another, without the frustrations of air travel or being stuck on the other end with only my feet for transportation. On the other hand, since I'm pretty much a mole, it doesn't really mean that I'd see her much more often; both our lives are pretty overscheduled, and setting some specific times when we can actually visit may actually have advantages over a rather looser "oh, whenever" kind of deal.

And I think I'd miss California. I've "hitchhiked" more than once on her successes: when she has done well in life, I have been thrilled to be able to say, "That's my daughter," and knowing that she has been able to take herself to the left coast and thrive there has made me feel as if a little bit of me has that kind of tenacity, too.  Getting to set myself free of Texas, to go to west, and to see and hear and smell a place that is so foreign and yet so fascinating to me gives me a chance to feel as if my wings aren't quite so short and my world not quite so gray. I could miss that.

But wherever she goes from here, my heart goes with her. I know her dreams of Texas include finding a way to settle down and start a family (beyond her current little knot of PC and the Junkyard Dog), and I'd love to have grandbabies, too. I'm just not good at counting chickens before they hatch.

Today she's in sunny San Diego, about the last place I can imagine thinking of when I think of Christmas. But just the right kind of place, I suspect, for a December birthday.

Happy birthday, baby.