When She’s Halfway to 20

We are sitting side by side at our beat up kitchen table. Yes, the table where I fed her her first bits of solid food, food she sucked back so quickly because this first time Mom didn’t realize she shouldn’t wait until her baby was very hungry for those first introductions.  Yes, the same kitchen table where she learned to spit her water back at us, tip her head back and laugh those infectious baby giggles that cracked our hearts wide open, her father and me.  The kitchen table I would plunk her down on, in a laundry basket wafting of Ivory Snow, and tickle her fat baby toes rather than fold her tiny baby clothes. The kitchen table she literally climbed on to swing from the chandelier while I tended her baby sister.

I can’t help but be a bit in awe of her.  She turns her head and smiles quickly at me before returning to her task at hand.  Her eyes are still so big and blue, they still twinkle from time to time, like at this moment. I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee. How has my baby grown so quickly from her tip-toe-dancing self to this beautiful little woman?  She’s organized a party, thrown the party, lead elements of the party. Oh sure I’ve helped her a bit, but it was undeniably hers and now she’s placing her own order. It’s been interesting stepping back, seeing how she longs to do it her way, herself, allowing her the space to do it. I watch as she places each item in her online cart, she’s made a paper copy list of her interests but now she tailors each item to her preferences. Of course I have preferences too, maybe I’ll call them strong suggestions, but as I make them she turns to me “I get your point, but I think I prefer this.” I’m stunned for a minute and then I smile. Yes, this is exactly who I want her to become.

We’re at a craft and bake sale, participating because it seemed like the right thing to cram into our wild schedule before Christmas, and she tells me matter of fact, “Mom, I know how much you like to shop, why don’t you walk around for a bit, I’ve got this.” Actually she tells me again and again as I saunter back to our table, lost for something to do myself. Finally she asks if I’d mind watching “her table”, she lets me know what “works best for the customers”, makes her suggestions and picks up her leather owl purse stuffed to the gills with her tiny piggy bank and wallet, bursting with her birthday money. I watch as she walks from table to table carefully examining all of their wares. She returns to our table parcel by parcel, grin as wide open as the sky as she purchases the most thoughtful little Christmas gifts for all her loves, with her birthday money.  Who is this little lady?

Out with her Dad, she falls in love with an item he doesn’t quite agree on.  He tells her why but tells her it’s her decision to make in the end and she’ll be purchasing it with her own money.  That night she writes him a letter “Dear Daddy, I love you but I don’t see this the same way you do and I’d like to still make the purchase.” She describes what the item means to her and why and her father and I can’t help but beam with pride, even for her respectful disagreement, maybe all the more because of it.

I crawl into bed with her to tuck her in this night. She’s pushed the clock again scouring the pages of her newest novel, she knows I love this and am not likely to bemoan it too much so she winks with a mischievous grin as I ask her to pack it up for the night. Her pink and turquoise glitter unicorn onesie reminds me that she is still my little girl even while she pours out her big girl worries about middle school, bullies and friendships. Her brother and sisters have fallen asleep quickly this night so I can linger and listen a little longer. Wasn’t it just yesterday when I knelt by her toddler bed, arm draped across her head, much like this, petting those blonde locks? I kiss her on her forehead, unwind my legs and arms from hers and struggle to get out of her single bed.
“Goodnight sweet girl, I love you.” I whisper as I pull the door behind me.
“Mom,” she calls back, “can we do more of this? Talking and listening. I love you Mom.”

So now I’m sitting back at our beat up kitchen table. The one crowded with tonight’s leftovers, a little bit of everything everywhere. Shepherds pie, lasagna, Cherrio’s and milk, ketchup smeared up and down one side making me wonder if the youngest had mistaken it for finger paint. Mini Wonder Woman performed for her siblings here tonight, our little man prayed with his heart on his chest for our supper, our family and our friends, our second eldest daughter slipped our horribly behaved puppy, the one she absolutely adores, her supper under the table.  Oh how they fought and they played, they laughed, and were so very loud and this Mama is just plain exhausted. Meanwhile, a young woman, halfway to 20, ate her supper, first seat to Mom’s right, all the while negotiating her childhood and her womanhood. Though it’s not always pretty, it certainly is beautiful.