Twelve is an overwhelmingly delightful person who has been twelve for about three months. She's tall for her age, smart, unexpectedly funny, habitually snarky, thoroughly independent, selectively capable, and inconveniently logical. She's beautiful, and I really, really wish it was ethical to share pictures.
I'm her mom. I sew. I read. I go to graduate school. I work part-time at a job unrelated to any of the above, for the money but also because when I am there I do not have to worry about the fact that I am not accomplishing any of the things I am supposed to be accomplishing.
My partner is R. His relationship to Twelve has no name. Not father, not stepfather, not uncle, not big brother, not friend, not teacher, not anything for which a term exists. This does not seem to bother any of us. R and Twelve are quite fond of each other, but you didn't hear it from me.
Various friends and relations. In Twelve's life, all of the adults are specialists and all but a couple have college degrees: Ornithology, herpetology, rocket science, electrical engineering, mechanical engineering, business, immunology, counseling, construction, Cuban dance, athletic training, Women Studies, public policy, geology. When Twelve has a question, I take a stab at the answer and suggest that she call the appropriate expert. When Twelve has a school science project, it's discussed with gravity by experts. When Twelve is ready for college, she'll have options across the country with faculty who have known her most of her life. Twelve takes none of this very seriously.
About a month ago (in the shower, the source of all inspiration), I realized that I have Things to Say about her, about the charmed and ridiculous life she leads, about raising her thus far, and about how I hope to carry on raising her. Things that I will want to remember later; Things that might even be interesting to someone else.
So, it's begun: A chronicle of my daughter's twelfth year, so that I don't forget how amazing it was.
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