15 June, 2013

In the Making


myGirl at about 6 months
She's seven. Seven. and I can't imagine that she is already seven and that she is only seven because she is both my little baby, in a pink onsie covered in a Sock Monkey print, and she is this spunky, punky, vivacious, perfectly wonderful being, who is wholly a person apart from me.

Her sense of humor is sharp, but not mean-spirited, and so often perfectly timed that I wonder if I might hear the roar of a live, studio-audience behind me. Sometimes I can't even laugh because I am so surprised by her wit, and so proud that she is carrying on the family desire to make others smile. And, honestly, I love that I can tease her, because that is my natural state, and it makes parenting her easier.

She has learned to find humor when she could be very sad, or irritated, or exasperated. When her older brother walks fully-clothed, and shoed through her freshly filled blow-up pool, tracking mud and dribbling rocks, she admonishes her brother for getting his good shoes wet, not for ruining her swim party. When it was discovered that 19 of 20 fish in her tank had died overnight (another post entirely), she looked like she was going to cry, then pointed to the last fish, and said in a low voice, "Mur-dur-er. Murderer!" She stomps her feet when she doesn't get what she wants, and begins to whine with a tone that tears at my eardrums, then stops, centers herself, and drawing her hand from face to chest calls, "Aaaand SCENE!" and thanks her audience.

She loves dolls, well, as of right now she loves dolls, and while I do not understand it, because it is so unlike how I played as a child, I am trying to appreciate it because I know it will go away, just as her round baby face has already begun to turn oval. Her taste in entertainment has her singing songs beyond her years with lyrics that her precious head automatically makes into child-like phrases, and she devours new trends, encouraging our car filled with little girls on the way to wherever, crying out, "Tonight is the night, we’ll fight 'til it’s over..." and lifting up her arms they all sing, "So we put our hands up like the ceiling can’t hold us. Like the ceiling can’t hold us!"

She is grateful most of the time, polite when she is away from us. She cares enough to be dressed appropriately for the event, but can let it go and run out the door without wondering what people will think. She has a sense of fashion that exudes confidence, she wears camo and pink like she invented them both, and was undaunted by a cast she wore for six weeks this year.

She's sensitive, and is deeply moved by precious babies, perceived oppression, and the idea of loss; her pain in having her best friend move to the other side of the planet was palpable to anyone who witnessed her talking about it.

She meows sometimes, a little bit like how a friend of mine says "woof," which worries me some, but only because I am not fond of cats. She loves to cuddle up each morning, and still finds it amusing to hide in our bed, and surprise her dad waiting under the covers if she can sneak in while he leaves the room. She loves the drama of "the big reveal" of almost anything, and applauds others' efforts even when she wanted something else to happen.

She understands that where we put our time and our money shapes who we are, knows the names of the states in alphabetical order, and, as much as I can't stand it, still requests to watch America's Funniest Home Videos. Her thirst for media is rarely quenched, and her brain has trouble shutting off at night. Somehow she can still be soothed by my voice, singing softly in the dark; it humbles me.

She likes to know what information is fact, and which is opinion before deciding anything, which sometimes wears her out. and she carries too much sometimes, chasing issues that are not problems for her to solve. But she is made of the best parts of us, and in her unbroken, seamless state, she remains filled with a persevering light.

 ***

Happy birthday babyGirl. You are my best favorite.
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