To everyone who follows my blog: You may notice that you’ve seen this particular post already, in March of this year, in fact. I’m reposting it because I inadvertently deleted it from WordPress and I wanted to put it back as part of my writing adventure and history. In reposting, though, it is automatically sent to you again. I apologize for the repetition if you’ve read it before. If you haven’t, I invite you to enjoy it now. Thanks for your indulgence – and for following!

It’s hard to believe that my 67th birthday will be here this week, given that it seems that 40 – okay, 45 – would be more appropriate (as long as I don’t look at myself in the mirror while wearing my reading glasses).

But time marches on, and 67 trips around the sun is certainly noteworthy (that’s a lot of rotation and revolution). Even though things tend to move farther into the rear view mirror as I spin along, I can still remember what it felt like to be 6 or 7 years old – my life stretched out ahead of me, cute smile, pinchable cheeks, bashfulness personified, neuroses already firmly in place (who knew?). If I could offer advice and comfort to that sweet little girl, what would I say? Here then, a letter to myself, dreams included, sealed with a kiss:

Dear 6- or 7-year-old me:

No, it’s not possible to flush yourself down the toilet.

No, you won’t always be painfully shy.

No, boys won’t always be gross (although men will, from time to time, act like gross little boys).

Yes, you will always be really smart (it will just take you about 20 more years to stop apologizing for it).

No, you won’t acquire the gracefulness of an athlete, but yes, you’ll develop the kind of grace and graciousness that will make you stand out.

Yes, you’ll always worry everything to death and drive everyone to distraction doing it (but in an appealing, adorable way).

Yes, the most important word you’ll ever learn is “kind.” And yes, the most satisfying word you’ll ever learn is a well-placed “f**k.” Use the first one generously; use the second one with great discretion.

Yes, people will always tell you that you resemble Barbra Streisand (but no, you will never learn to sing on key).

Yes, the boy you’ll meet when you’re 17 will break your heart (but he’ll become your heart – and your husband – 20+ years later).

No, boo-boos do not become bubonic plague, nor will you develop every disorder you’ll read about in your Abnormal Psych text (although you will diagnose yourself with a new one each week).

No, life is not necessarily fair. Nor is it always pretty or easy or malleable to your will. But yes, it is always yours. And the possibilities to change it, to learn from it, and to follow your heart have no age limit.

No, you won’t be a mermaid, a ballerina, a princess, a movie star, or a Rockette (but yes, you will write about all of them).

Yes, hold on to your belief in fairy tales. You never know when one might come true.

Yes, you’ll develop a sophisticated, wry sense of humor, but slapstick – and trying to make someone laugh hard enough so that milk comes out their nose – will always be dear to your heart.

Say yes whenever you can, say no whenever you have to, and say you’ll try whenever you’re challenged.

Yes, every birthday is a special one. And yes, you’re entitled to the piece of cake with the pink-frosting rose. (But no, don’t let anyone take that glittery, birthday-girl crown away from you.)

Yes, a lot will happen in the next 60 years, but it goes by quickly. Make sure the tires of your pink Schwinn (with the basket) are always inflated.

And yes, lose the training wheels.

© 2025 Claudia Grossman