This morning, I got up early to exercise. I heard Dave moving around earlier than yesterday, as I’d snuck in the shower before him, causing him a delay. He was ready to go by 630 am, and came into the room where I was to say goodbye. I wasn’t expecting it, and I screeched. He told me to shush, and it sounded like no one else was up. So, I continued. I was going to go for another 10 minutes on the stepper, but then 5 minutes later, the door opened again. Again, I yelped! This time, it was Peyton. She told me she got up, and she went to my bed and didn’t find me. So, she went in search. I stopped exercising; it’d been almost 40 minutes already, and we went upstairs. I got her clothes out, since I hadn’t last night, then got her toothbrush ready. Brandon was already up, and he was on his way to get dressed. The cereal for him was already in a bowl, awaiting milk, since he’d made a mess earlier in the week. Before I headed to the shower, I told Brandon to go eat breakfast, while I told Peyton to brush her teeth and go to her room to do something quietly. I wanted them to be separated, especially if I was in the shower and couldn’t hear or facilitate. Peyton came in half-way through my shower to brush. I asked her if Brandon was eating already, but she didn’t hear me over the noise of the electronic toothbrush. When I stopped the water, I heard the clank of the spoon on the glass bowl. I knew Brandon was eating. Peyton left the bathroom, while I finished getting ready. I went to her room when I was done, and I found her reading “Interrupting Chicken” to herself. She was just done, which was nice, because it was less of a struggle, and we headed downstairs for the daily lubing of sunblock. Brandon had just finished, too. We got off to school with all of our stuff – bowling for Brandon, so extra socks, and today, Peyton declared, “I didn’t forget my shoes today!” Yesterday, just as I got to CDC and was going to get her out of the car, she told me she didn’t have shoes. That was a first! Glad we are back into our routine after being gone for a week!
Here is an article that Michelle shared with me:
most of it applies, except we don’t have a dog…or multiple older siblings…or the bike
It is almost here. Soon I will put you on the bus and ship you off to school. You have waited for this day like no other. Just over five years ago, on a freezing March night, you raced (sans doctor) into the world. You were tinier than the others with blazing black hair and fierce green eyes. I brought you home from the hospital to a house full of siblings. The dogs barked frantically to sniff you. The kids pulled and tugged and begged to hold you. Grandparents stood by thrilled to formally welcome you home. I stared across the noise to your Daddy. Silently, we wondered if we were able to care for this life, handle the millions of ways we’d been blessed. You were not rattled by the chaos, but swallowed into it. Immersed as a vital member of the pack in a blink.
You squawked from your carrier and playpen, living in total newborn fear that you were missing the action. At six months, I pushed you lovingly on a baby swing at the playground. Before my eyes, you flipped out flat onto your back. Panicked, I dove to you. You responded with a smile. I gingerly picked you up. You lunged backwards for the swing. I now know this was not an accident, but a daring attempt for a girl that prefers to fly.
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But your personality far surpassed the intensity of your physical abilities. You made me work. You tested every inch of my patience. As a veteran mother of young children, sweat would drip down my back as I tried to direct and balance all of your beautiful and unbelievable energy. Some days I hid from your irrational passion behind closed doors and wept. Other times, I screamed out loud, my will an ineffective match for your stubborn stamina. You barked orders to big boys in our backyard. And they listened. You howled at the smallest sign of unfairness. You clung to me when you were shy and with all of my strength I could not peel you away. You made up your mind. And it would not be changed. Ever. However unnecessary, you fought for your life — to keep up, to be seen, to be heard and to be adored. And it worked. Little girl, you stole my heart.
And still there is this side of you that doesn’t race. It is sweet and kind and soft. It is when you lay across the floor petting the dog. When you get lost in play with your dolls. When I read to you on the couch in the afternoon. Your breathing slows, your body surrenders. In these moments, you forget the pace you keep. You let go just enough to be held.
And now I must watch you go, officially a big kid. We will both be proud and brave. Our uncertainty will soon slip into confidence. You, my child, were not born to face the world, but to hold it in your hands. You will delight in the challenges and celebrations of it all. And you will shine.
But a quiet corner of my heart hesitates. And it aches at the passing of time. The space where I hold your wild ways hangs on. And carries you always. You made me grow. You made me honest. You made me tougher. You made me better.
Go on little girl, fly. This is just the beginning