It seems my first daughter has had a raw deal from the beginning. It all began on the morning she was born—December 25. Getting other people’s unwanted Christmas loot as birthday gifts is not the only reason it’s unfair. It’s so much more than that.

We were trying to deliver Abigail before the end of the year for tax purposes and all, and plus, Y2K was looming and I didn’t want to give birth as the world was ending. But Christmas morning wasn’t what we had in mind.

It’s not like we expected her to be like Jesus just because she shares a birthday with Him—at least, we did not expect it from the start. Good thing. I suppose she was trying to make us appreciate our Savior’s birth all the more, as she was the exact opposite of the “no crying he made” Jesus.

She had colic. She was not a “fussy baby.” I’ve had those. She did not have “crying spells.” Been there. It was so much more than that. She wasn’t just a little difficult. If her eyes were open for the first three months of her life, she was wailing. The doctor pronounced her “fine.” Say what. No one believed me until they saw it for themselves, and by then, people were making excuses not to visit us.

That wasn’t the worst of it, however. That would be only small change in the economy that was about to commence. The really bad part surfaced when her personality emerged: she’s just like me, the poor soul. Yes, she’s my girl. Whenever she displays a little fire and feist, my husband will glance at me and declare the obvious, “Gee, I wonder where she gets that.” Pity her.

What he’s implying, of course, is that she acts like me before I “came into my own.” I’m sure this is what he means. In other words, the years have taught me lessons of temperament that don’t come natural to a spirited sinner—lessons my daughter has yet to learn. It would be un-humble to say that I’ve learned all that’s needed for godliness and contentment, but at the very least, I don’t stomp my foot very often. (Anymore.)

Yes, my daughter has a long road ahead of her: one of peril and trial as she learns to die in order that she might live. I speak from experience. Even as I type now, she is in her room contemplating her waywardness. The good thing, I note, is that she is maximizing her time by organizing her dolls and crafts into impeccable order. I wonder where she got that from. She is a neat one.

She’s m’ girl.

Shoot first ask questions next