My Girl

I brush her fine, straight hair and gently move the strands that hang in front of her eyes out of her face, as I gather them and place the pink hair clip just so.  Her blue eyes look up at me as I say, “All done.” She insists she cannot put the clip in herself.  She refuses to wear her hair any other way. In the last week or so she decided that she could dress herself in the morning and comes out in her own 5-year old girl uniform, of leggings and a long-sleeved shirt.  I am pretty sure she would wear one of her Frozen shirts, with both Elsa and Anna on them, every day of the week if I would let her.

 

I walk into the classroom with little red chairs that really only fit one of my butt cheeks, as her two sweet teachers greet me with broad smiles.  The first things they say about my girl are how sweet she is and what a great little student she is.  I am taken by surprise when I cannot stop the tears from forming in the corners of my eyes and I get that familiar feeling in my throat.  I am here to talk with them about Kindergarten readiness for my “baby”, my little girl.  I get a little weak in the knees thinking about how this happened so fast as I attempt to sit, wondering where the adult-sized chairs are and doing my best to hold back the tears.

I make it through the conference without crying but as I drive away I picture her as a little baby again.  I think about how there was a time when I never thought she would be.  When her existence alone was a question in my mind.  In our minds.

 

I go to pick her up from pre-school and as I enter the room she is laying with her head on the table, I know she is still sleepy.  I move the hair out of her face again, her hair clip nowhere to be found.  “Hey baby, Momma’s here, it’s time to go.”  She looks up with her eyes half opened and motions for me to pick her up.  So I do, and I hold her, although with much more difficultly than I used to, when she was a baby.  These days she is all legs and arms and I can barely make it back to the van, carrying her and her belongings.

 

I find her in the pantry, reaching for her own snack and getting her own cup from the cabinet and filling it with water from the fridge.  She puts on her own socks and her own shoes.  She rides her bicycle without training wheels.

 

 

“Can I walk him, please, Momma?”

I hand her the leash and she skips away with the puppy at her side.  I see them go ahead of me and I think about all the times she has already walked away from me and how many more times she will.  And how as the years go by, how each time she will walk farther away, until she’s gone.

 

“Don’t go” she says.  “Lay with me.”  “Read me a book.”

I give in and try to make room for myself on her twin bed, covered in blankets and “stuffies.”  We read a short book and say some prayers and then I cover her to the chin with her softest, big pink blanket.  The light in her closet is on and the door is ajar.  She has to go to sleep with the light on.  She’s scared of something but she cannot tell me what.  I get up as she begins to get sleepy and as I turn back to look at her we both say, “Blow kiss.”  We both put our hands to our lips, do the kiss and blow it to each other.  After, I quietly walk out and close the door, missing her just a little.  Some nights she makes me pinky promise that I will come and check on her.  Some nights I do.

 

It’s hard to measure the love we have for our children.  It is even harder to quantify it when it is your littlest and last one, your “baby”.  I want to keep holding her close, but I know I need to let her go too.

Right now, she is my shopping buddy, my worst eater, my sweet girl who lets me still brush her hair.  She is my smarty pants who loves to sing, who plays on her own when her brothers are gone, but loves to play with them (especially G) when they are here.  She loves her friends and always asks for them to come over and play.  I cannot take her to the Target toy section or she will convince me to buy her something.  I do buy her too many clothes.  We are working on learning the entire alphabet.  Some days I wish she would let me braid her hair. She would eat pasta with butter and cheese every day if I would let her.  Her laugh is the most glorious sound.  I dare anyone not to smile when they hear it.

 

She is my girl.  And she has my heart forever.

 

 This is the first of four posts this week about the people I love.  Come back tomorrow for the next one…