I wrote this poem for my daughter, on the only birthday she will ever have when she is the same age as I was when I gave birth to her, 28 years old.

Andrea Jane 28 x 28


Andrea Jane, anything but plain
locks a’ curling, falling down
framing face beautiful,
round and round;
like dreams and visions of Mom’s
baby to toddler, adolescent to teen
innocent child to learned lady,
one of my completed dreams.

Andrea Jane, twenty-eight today,
reminds me of the bonds we share.
When I was her age, the same years ago
she lay newborn in my arms
for me, proud to show;
I reminisce now of her life’s show
although the magic she doesn’t yet know.

Andrea Jane, her twenty-eight by my twenty-eight
years alike, names alike, sometimes brains alike;
yet her temperament and moods are hers unique,
sometimes stubborn, angry, and yes, oh so sweet.
She has dreams yet to achieve
in her, many do still believe.
She can be whatever she likes;
her finesse can turn day to night.

Andrea Jane, name is the same
but years bring so much difference.
She’s yet to know, what a spectacular show
can treat her eyes, ears, and heart, so splendiferous.
When she matures enough to make her own start,
and has her own flesh and blood to take her heart,
they’ll make their own impression with their mark.
Upon this world one day will come
her own Andrea Jane, whether it be a daughter or a son.

Andrea Jane, then you will know
As they lay there innocent yet oh so powerful in your arms,
the magic a life can bring to another,
only your own child can provide,
unlike mother, father, sister, or brother.