I want to tell you about my daughter.
She is six years old. Her hair is the most gorgeous shade of strawberry blonde I've ever seen. She loves to wear pink, draw flowers, and sing Frozen. She's very interested in getting some jean shorts because "jean shorts are nice and tight."
I keep forgetting to buy jean shorts.
My daughter eats anything you might give her with the exception of tomatoes, and every year, when the first ones turn red, she'll try a tiny bite to see if her taste buds have changed. "Eww. Not this year, Mama!"
My daughter apologizes a lot. I used to do this, too. I'm trying to help her understand that she need not take on what is not hers.
My daughter is a glistening fairy mermaid girl who floated into my life like an inspired daydream.
She's holy, this child, like all children - she's a teacher, a mentor, a soul guide. She is helping to take me home to myself with her even patience, forgiving eyes, and fierce love.
She's wiser than me, this is undeniable.
"Are you okay, sweetie?"
"Well, mama, it's just...we haven't all four of us been eating dinner together lately. It doesn't feel good to me when we don't all eat together."
"I don't like it when you use that voice, Mama."
"I need some time with just you, Mama."
"Mama, I love you!" shouted from twenty feet away on a crowded, foggy beach.
My girl - like my boy, like your girls and your boys - is proof that God exists.
Because how else can I possibly explain the grace they always give me, the love they never deny me, or the tries they keep doling out?
I just started to write a bit about how things will probably be someday, how there will be things she'll need to say to me that'll make my heart race. "How did you not know not to do that to me, Mom?"
Yes, that will likely be a part of our reality, because I am a mother and she is a daughter.
But I don't want to do that part now. Because we're not there, my girl and I.
I will do that part when we get to that part, and I will do it with all the love I've been given.
Now, I'm gonna keep doing the hell out of this part. The part where I get to kiss her forehead while holding her face in my two cupped hands, where I get to tuck her hair behind her ears. Where I get to say, "Psst," and have her come to me and pull her deep into my curves for an early-morning moment.
The part where I get to look at her and pretend the world won't happen to her.
I wanted to tell you about my daughter.
She is fierce. She is stunning.
She is ours.