Your life was a gift from me, and what you do with it is up to you. It won't stop me from giving you too much advice that you will probably ignore and break my heart.

But that's ok. We can work through this or anything else, as long as you know that I love you. More than anything. More than everyone I've ever loved put together, times ten. A lot.

If you ever don't believe this, I pray to every power that exists that you tell me so I can fix it, because girl, I couldn't stand it otherwise. For a good fifteen years I did not believe my mother loved me. I'm still not sure what was going on all those years. I mean, in her. How she felt, what she thought. All I know is: I could not stand it if you believed that about me.

OK? That's the deal.

I can handle the broken curfews and the messed up hair and the milk on the kitchen floor and the mess you made of your nice clothes and that you never, EVER clean up your room. I know I will probably yell and turn red and wave my arms around when I'm talking about these things, leading you to believe that I am truly Not OK and can't handle it, but ignore that. I am going to yell and turn red and wave my arms around sometimes. None of that means I don't love you more than my own life. I do. As long as you know this we're doing ok.

This is why I tell you so often. I love you! Ten times an hour, three times per diaper change, on my way home to play with you after work when you're not even there, when you're asleep, when you're crying and you refuse to sleep, when you're gouging out my eyes, morning noon and night and every minute--I love you! Are you getting sick of it yet? I hope not. Because I'm going to keep saying it, over and over and over again, until you begin to contemplate killing me just to get me to stop. I love you! I love you! I love you!

Because you see, it seems like there is some point in a child's life when the mother goes insane. I would put it more clearly if I could, but I don't understand it myself, since I'm not there yet. We all have mothers--our mothers hurt us--we haven't forgiven them--there clearly was no rational reason for them to behave the way they did--ergo they went insane--ergo I will go insane someday and wound you deeply, and that's bad enough, but if it ever made you think I didn't love you, then I would die.

Not to be hyperbolic or anything.

This really scares me. I would like to think I will be spared the insanity, and you and I will pass happily and gently into all our joint tomorrows, smiling and giggling and holding hands like we do today. This is my ardent wish. Something tells me it is slightly delusional. I won't let go of it until it is ripped from my hands, of course, and maybe if I understand the general going-craziness of mothers I can somehow avoid it. I am trying. But just in case it doesn't work:

I LOVE YOU.

You are beautiful, smart, strong, perfect and lovely in every way.

I love you.