I am going to be honest with you, I thought about skipping this year’s Ode To Tola-Pop. I haven’t really written anything in months, and some of your classmates follow me now on Instagram, and the last thing I want to do is embarrass you. I understand you’re a cool sophomore in high-school now. But skipping this year’s ode didn’t really sit well with me.
- One, because I skipped last year and I still feel very guilty about it. (even though it was because our brother was trying to send me to an early grave.)
- Two, because you are the first thing in months that has inspired me to open up a word document. You’re magic, boo.
- Three, because those classmates of yours that follow me? I want them (and the world) to know exactly what I mean when I state you are magic.
Because at fifteen-years-old Tots, let the record show you are most definitely magic.
Fifteen was the age I was approaching when you came into the world, tiny as ever with your dislocated hips. You had to be in a brace that kept your legs in an awkward position most of the day for a few months, with only an hour or so free to stretch. Then it was reduced to 12 hours. And then soon after that you we’re healed and ready to go. But throughout the process you remained your smiley (and adorable) self. I’m sure people will argue it’s because you were a baby, and that’s what baby do. But I know that isn’t the case, it’s because you are you. This characteristic of smiling through the temporary discomfort, and pushing forward to the finish line? That is you. And at the age of fifteen, you’ve pretty much mastered it, and me, who is turning 30 in less than 50 days, has only just started to get the hang of it.
When this school year started, you’re anxiety actually gave me anxiety. As you texted me questioning your ability to make it throughout this school year, I sat in my office contemplating if I should make that 50 minutes drive to your school. Not to save you, because let’s be real, you don’t ever need saving, but to combat whatever it was you were telling yourself in your head. But per usual, you quickly got it under control and bodied AP History that first week back.
You probably don’t even realize it yet, but you’re very self-aware. Which leads to a bunch of productive lessons learned for you, which eventually leads to a bunch of productive lessons learned for me too. Every year, I anticipate what I am going to learn from you. In 2015, you taught me it was okay to dream big when you set your eyes on the high-schools you wanted to go to. In 2016, you taught me to give my middle finger to what other people think of me while we were shopping in London. In 2017, you taught me to stay curious and step out of my comfort zone with you joining every damn extra curricular activity that school of yours has to offer. And this year, you’ve taught me that whatever it is I am planning to tackle, it doesn’t necessarily have to be taken down the traditional way. New creative ways, that utilize my current talents and gifts, can be an option too.
By simply being you, using your effortless magic, I am quite positive you are going to change the world one day. But in order for that happen, you must not stray away from the beautiful being you are. Continue to own your uniqueness. Continue to fight for the underdog. Continue to strive to be awesome. And continue to call on me and Bubs when striving for awesome is a bit too much. I promise to always show up when you need me. To be your biggest fan. Your personal cheerleader. Your “can you reason with daddy” negotiator. Your “mummy doesn’t get it” filter. Just promise me that you’ll never shy away from what you already are. Promise me, you’ll always believe in your magic.
I love you baby-girl, fifteen will be a piece of cake.