She wishes more than anything that she could have a sister, but that business closed down a few years ago. Instead, she'll learn to be content with the stinky, loud, obnoxious brothers she has. The ones who peek at her private diary and mess up her American Girl doll homes, and sneak into her closet fort when she's not looking, and leave plastic spiders under her pillow. The same ones who will soon beat their friends up for making sexual innuendos about her, and who will dance with her in her beautiful white gown after she's said "I do" to the love of her life.
She's going to middle school this year. Barely ten, but bursting at the seams to join the ranks of the angst-ridden middle school crowd. Undoubtedly, she'll want to wear make-up before I'll let her, we'll argue about her choice of clothing, she'll slam a lot of doors, and I'll slam a lot of alcohol.
Later this month, she's going to get braces. She's choosing green and orange bands to decorate her pearly whites as they morph into an even more beautiful smile. She gets to change the colors every time she goes in, though, so I'm sure she'll cover the entire spectrum before her time is done. I mean, what little girl can live without the royal combo of purple and red?
We attended Amber's baby shower together this weekend. A storm was looming and she leaned over to me and whispered, "Can I please go get the umbrella out of the car before it rains? I don't want Nana to get wet when we take her back to the car. She's not so fast these days, you know."
I was blessed to sit with a friend during chemo today, and Mary Claire peppered the afternoon and evening with questions about where I'd been and what I'd done. "Is Mara okay? What happened to her? How does chemo work? Does it hurt her? Is there anything I can do to help her?"
She's a lover, that girl of mine.
It seems impossible that I held that sweet, quiet baby in my arms just ten short years ago. Ten more, and she'll be an adult.
Time is funny that way.
There's a nursery rhyme my Mom used to sing to me when I was little... "There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good. And when she was bad, she was horrid." When the horrid part rears its ugly head, Stacy likes to say that my girl's "Bitch Meter" is turned up full blast. And she has the perfect sound effects to drive her point home.
But I'll take the snotty back-talk, the exasperating and highly dramatic sighs, the "OMG, you're SO stupid" attitude, and the slammed doors followed by a full-blast rendition of "The Rose" if it means I can continue to receive the precious gifts of her giving heart -- her exuberant hugs, her infectious laugh, the little pieces of her soul she so willingly gives.
And the love notes? Oh, the love notes!
(And just as a side note, I might "take" her bad behavior in anticipation of the good, but I most definitely won't "take" it lying down. She's still not too old to be spanked. Or grounded. Or a combination of both. George might be destined for reform school, but there's still hope for this one.)
Happy birthday, sweet Mary Claire, my bright and shining star! I am so grateful you looked down from the heavens and chose me to share this journey with you.
Onward!
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