I look at her face, and I think “how is she mine?” I prayed, and I hoped, and I pleaded with God, but still… how is she mine?
She is quirky and funny and silly and so much more like her daddy every day. She is almost always the last one ready to leave the house in the morning and it takes her so long to gather up her things to get out of the car at school drop off that we hold up the line every single morning.
She is also sassy and spunky and has way more anxiety than an eight year old should ever feel. Those are the things she gets from me. She’s convinced she’ll be a pop star, but at the same time worries she won’t pass second grade. I don’t know how to fix that or make it better, and it kills me. I want her to always feel like she’s enough, more than enough. Because for me she is.
She has the biggest heart, and sometimes I just want to imbue in her a strength and a hardness I’ve carried my whole life, that I’m scared she doesn’t have. I worry every day that the world will take her and beat her with its cruelness, while at the same time I hope she will take the world and fill it with her compassion.
She is eight. And she is mine.