I watched her hop out of the car this morning – her ponytail swaying back and forth as she walked into the preschool as independent as possible for her young age – and thought ‘this is my child…’
This is the little girl who, just moments before, was laughing in the car with me as we listened to spoken word poetry and discussed who is the landlord in her imaginary dog tenement. This is the little girl who cares for sick and injured stuffed animals as if they suffer from real ailments.
She looks up at me with her big, bright eyes – made even more glorious by her sassy purple frames, and tells me ‘It’s time I learned to read.’
Okay, baby, mama will teach you. Mama will teach you anything you want to know.
She sings when she plays. And she gallops and glides and flutters when she walks. This is my child who begs “just one more minute” when I hug her as I tuck her into bed at night – swallowed up in the bed by all the “people” she feels the need to take care of as if they had genuine heartbeats.
This is my child – who blows me away with the stories and feelings that exist within her at such a young age – newly five and already worrying how to correctly swaddle a newborn and make baby food from scratch and living near enough to me to come over and visit as often as she wants. Someday she’ll be a mother and I’ll watch with the same wonder…the same awe as I did when she walked into that preschool anxious to fly and stay grounded at the same time.
This is my child – practically created out of thin air – in a moment filled with nothing more than passion and the desire to write the first line of a new love story. And, oh man, what a story she’s telling…