I know I’m her mother, so I’m completely biased, but you’ve got to admit these three-dimensional cards Neko made are all kinds of fantastic.
Although she should probably line up a proofreader, because I don’t think there’s a very big market for a “Don’t be scarred” card.
On this last day of horse camp they had a small show. Each group had a chance to show off what they learned and give their parents ample photo ops.
I watched the wobbly first-timers, nervously clutching the reins and attempting the tricky rhythm of posting. I smiled at the familiarity.
But then there was my girl. Sitting tall, heels down, weaving through barrels and then breaking into a smooth trot. I realized, as I watched her up there, that she’s been riding just about a year now.
This horse thing? I’m beginning to suspect it’s not just a phase.
Did you know we have a nine-year-old? And nine-year-olds? They have lots of stuff. They also like to do stuff. There was a purge that took place here, but there was also a bit of furniture juggling to accommodate a new desk. When this kid winds down at night, it’s not about snuggling in bed with a book. She draws, sculpts, and other activities that require a surface.
The desk is a hit. Right next to a window, it overlooks some trees, and her iPod has a home so she can exert her newfound independence in music.
There’s another child in this house, anxiously waiting for his room to be finished.
But now he would like a desk, too.
Someday (but probably not during spring break) I’m going to spend some time on MY bedroom.
Nine years ago, as I celebrated my birthday, I was miserably pregnant. This baby was already a doozy, and it wasn’t even here.
We didn’t know whether we were expecting a boy or girl. All I knew was that this baby wouldn’t stop moving, except when it lodged one foot squarely underneath the right side of my rib cage. With almost two weeks until my due date, I sobbed, not knowing how I could possibly survive until then.
“Seven, maybe eight pounds,” the obstetrician said. “You’re just a little person—there’s just not much room for that baby.” This was not much consolation as I tugged on the only pair of pants that still fit.
Thank goodness you arrived a week and a half early. When you emerged, the OB said, “Hey, that’s a good size baby!” In my mind, you were a small, blonde boy. The baby they handed me was a nine and a half pound bruiser of a girl with thick brown hair.
When you have a baby, you have a picture of who you think they will be. I expected a sort of shy child who would be quick to read and studious at school, but prudently cautious in most other areas.
This is the part where experienced parents start laughing.
And, yes, I’m laughing, too. Because, girlfriend, you came out kicking and screaming and ready to experience life in a way I never imagined. I wrote about this on your last birthday.
I admit, I was befuddled by this baby, so unlike myself. But once I made the paradigm shift, I learned to parent the child I had, not the image I had in my head.
Shortly after you learned to walk, we would go to the zoo, just so I could let you run in a secure place for hours on end. I blew off concerned looks from other parents as my three-year-old dangled perilously from the monkey bars. (You never fell—not even once.) We eschewed story hour and Mommy and Me in lieu of parks and tumbling classes.
We’ve covered a lot of distance between then and now. You have had an outstanding year, coming into your own and tackling some massive obstacles. There are things that will always be challenging, but kudos to you for facing them head-on. And those things at which you excel? They continue to blow me away.
I’m writing this a few days after your birthday, and I’m thinking that was meant to be.
Our annual birthday photo shoot was crap. I declared a redo the following day, next to the apple trees which were suddenly in bloom.
And this evening you wrote your first poem. It’s possible you’ve written one in class, but this is the first poem you composed of your own volition. Pretty wise words from someone fresh out of the gate.
Think of all the things you could be.
You could be a train rider on a train.
You could be a great gardener.
You could be anything you want.
Reach up there and pull out
an idea for what you will be.
And live in peace.
Half of your years under this roof have passed. While this is bittersweet, I’m so excited to see what the next nine will hold.
Reach up and pull out an idea, my love. I’ll be here to watch it bloom.
When I remember the two of them in this stretch of life, this is what I’ll remember.
Older sister as the horse, galloping full-on. Younger sister on piggyback or tucked into a cart. The two of them do this for hours each day. It’s no wonder the older one is solid muscle, and the younger one knows the difference in rhythm of trotting and cantering, despite the fact she’s never done either on a horse.
The symbolism of these roles is not lost on me. The older one, running as fast as she can, her body moving as quickly as her brain, which is teeming with huge ideas. The younger one is the quieter half of the duo, happy to ride, but knows she is instrumental to this game.
As with all sisters, they fall in and out sync with one another. They are joyously engaged one moment, and then it all falls to pieces. But then when I turn back around, there they are, galloping down the driveway.
(Taken in the wee hours of the day, before I’ve even had a chance to brew my coffee.)
Today was room cleaning day. Somewhere in the middle of cleaning, Neko veered off track and suddenly she had turned her entire bedroom into a library.
Each book had a green strip of tape on the spine. There were sitting areas, advertisements encouraging you to read, and a book return. A kind librarian checked your books out on an iPad, and her friendly assistant, wearing a Rapunzel dress, offered tea to all visitors.
As it turns out, I had a book on hold at Book Island!
Later on there was a bit of a disagreement between all parties under the age of nine, and Book Island’s owner stormed off and declared Book Island would be closed forever.
I’m happy to report all conflicts were later resolved, and Book Island reopened with a technology upgrade—the addition of a Lego Mindstorms contraption that beeps each time you place a book under the sensor.
(And, no, she never did finish cleaning her bedroom.)
