"Good morning, Eve." I smile at my youngest child. The one with the wild corn-silk colored hair.
"Your face doesn't have any boogers on it," she tells me. It's her version of a compliment.
"It doesn't, huh? Well yours doesn't either." I wanted to return the favor.
This morning was church. Dan exalted that he was able to get her into a church dress.
She hates them so. I don't even know why we bother.
"I got her in that black velvet dress," he smirks.
"It's dark green," I correct him.
"No, it's black," he retorts.
"Dark green." I can play this game all day.
"Anyway, she's in it," he exclaims.
And she is. She is in a dark green velvet dress with puffy sleeves and a scallop-edged trim. The dress is exquisite with all its trim and underskirts; I'm sure it's from Nordstrom or Neiman Marcus. I don't know because I got it at a thrift store for $2.00. It was a score and I snatched it up.
My child stands looking at me with a brilliantly tailored dress, white floppy socks and silky hair which keeps flopping in her eyes. She keeps doing somersaults, revealing her Ariel underpants. I have no shoes for her except her blue lady jane sneakers and I honestly don't care.
I have always heard about people who grew up saying, "My Mom wanted me..." and then they'd finish the sentence with a heaving sigh...
... to be a piano player
... to be a figure skater
... to be a doctor
... to be a boy
And I swore to myself that that was ridiculous silliness. Why would we want to change someone?
But then I had my Evey and I caught a glimpse of the envy.
When one wrestles to have a child, I suppose that *one* might think they can pick a child who is angelic, free from sharp edges and incredibly demure.
More realistically: I suppose that the only child to make it through such a barren place would have to be a very strong child. A child whose will to live needed, well, a strong will. And that's what I got.
When I was filling out Eve's preschool application form, one of the lines asked me to say something about Eve. Exhausted from the 40 pages of paperwork prior to that one I wrote snarkily, "Eve will never be a ballerina." And she won't. Her build is not suited for ballet. *For the record: I don't care.*
But I can tell you this: A month ago I took her roller skating for the very first time. She fell approximately 172 times and I can tell you that nearly each time she fell, she laughed hysterically. "Whoa, this is fun," she said as she scampered to her roller feet before she fell again.
She's not afraid. This child is fearless.
When she first learned to walk, one of her first "steps for mankind" was a bouncy plummet down our stairs from the second floor. She cried a bit, but not as much as you'd expect.
Eve will walk in the middle of a circle of older kids and say, "Hi, guys!" They'll say, "You're just a baby," and she'll say, "Wanna play?" Fearless.
Last year she saw her sister coming home from school via the back yard and before I could catch her, Eve ran stark naked into the school field, screaming her sister's name.
At the Christmas Eve service at our church, she didn't know the words to "Silent Night" so she put on her most solemn face and sang "Lollipop. Lollipop..." to the tune of Silent Night. Quick on her feet, that one.
She is unbridled joy, limitless energy, eternal discoverer and courage unlimited. She is the reason my head falls hard on the pillow every night and why I laugh so hard all day.
My job, as her mother, is to show her that I love her just the way she is. And since she'll probably be close to six feet tall, my other job is to show her to hold her head high, smile wide and love deeply. The nay-sayers of the world might try to snuff out her courage, but with a strong backbone I'm hoping she'll retort, "Hey guys... wanna play?"
