Looking up from under her too long bangs I see a little girl that wasn’t there two weeks ago. A girl who has grown from a toddler with cubby legs and rolls on her arms in to a little girl who runs everywhere, does everything quickly so she can get to the next thing, and asks, “why?” after every sentence because she needs to know.
She’s not a baby, she’s a big girl.
And in less than three weeks she’s going to school.
How did that happen?
I remember holding her tightly while we rocked in the big brown chair that my father bought me just after she was born, praying for relief from a demon I didn’t have a name for, but grateful for the peace her sleeping face gave me. I was certain I would never get through the pain or the loneliness.
But I did.
If I could hug her everyday, all day, I would.
She’s the reason I fought.
I remember her first steps, unsteady and wobbly, hands in front of her for balance, and the look on her face of determination and joy. She had it.
Now she marches around our living room with her backpack on, singing O’Canada, and tapping everything with a wand.
She asks every night when school starts, what her teachers name will be, who her friends will be.
She’s a bright, outgoing, spark and she loves everyone she meets. She’s ready for new friends and experiences.
There’s a readiness there and I see it. I know she’s going to do great, but I’m still worried for her.
So many of those.
But out of the corner of my eye I see she’s holding her lunch pail.
And I’m holding my breath.