Evey Wonder, Part 2

If you haven't guessed already, I am working through learning to love the way Eve learns by writing about her. So forgive the frequent theme. Sometimes therapy comes in the form of creativity. :)

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I am in the store looking for shoes for my 4 year old. I see the shoes I want her to wear. They're bright fuchsia. They have ruffles. They're ballet flats.

But I know her stipulations:
- Nothing too tight
- No slides; it must have a strap
- It's a good idea to have a rubber sole, or something that won't slide on hardwood floors; don't ask

And while I'm at it: I'm pretty sure she won't wear something too frilly, too girly, too pretty.

She won't wear tights. She writhes in them like a snake on a rock when I put them on her. Since she was two years old she hates things that are too tight. I've never seen a child wail on the floor for 20 minutes because she hates such clothing.

She won't wear jeans; they're too stiff.

As I am shopping for her, I can feel the anxiety mounting in my stomach.

"Excuse me," I imagine myself talking to a salesperson, "Do you have any shoes which a little girl can wear to both a wedding and while hiking through mud?"

"I was a perfect parent before I had children," the saying goes. I was no exception. I heard of mothers fighting with their daughters to, say, not wear sweatpants everyday. In my mind I thought, "Well, MY child will do what I say."

I've had the meeting of our wills. They clash like the sound of bucks rutting, head-hitting-head, entwining points and racks into a no-win situation. I don't want that.

So I put the sensible shoes on the conveyor belt at the store... the ones which she'll wear for certain.

I have friends whose children wear those cute coordinating outfits that you find in stores. The kind where the shoes match the socks match the skirt match the shirt. And while I know that I don't even particularly like matchy-matchy, I do fantasize about having a dressing session with my child which doesn't end in me thinking, "Good enough."

But I can't give up on my daughter. I can't say, "Fine. If you won't be feminine-- at all-- then I will just leave you to your hobo ways."

I can't give up on her. She didn't give up on me. I can't say, "If you won't do what I want you do, be who I want you to be, then I won't even try to mother you."

This child was the answer to my prayer when my heart could only whisper, "Spoil me, God" on the way to the fertility doctor. We have pictures of the THREE implanted eggs, just EIGHT CELLS formed, which they placed inside me. They look like underformed raspberries, nothing close to human beings.

Still, I prayed over that picture. I prayed for health over those creatures.
My husband prayed that there would be just one.

We watched as the doctor said, "Now there are two eggs, not three."
And then, "Now there is just one."
We gulped. Hope, hope, hope.

When she was born, heaven cracked open and the Hallelujah Chorus broke the curse of my womb. She was beautiful, perfect. She was healing for my soul.

I can't give up on her. So I try again. I look at the knotting hair of my daughter. She screams when I brush her hair.

So I remember her favorite movie, the one about Rapunzel-- the one called "Tangled"... and I say to my daughter, "Let's sing the song that Rapunzel's mother sang to her when she brushed her hair."

I clear my throat and being to brush her hair while singing,
"Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine..."
My daughter is very still. She likes this.
"... make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine..."
It's a very high song; the octaves are not really in my range, but I sing anyway.
"...what once was mine."

In a scant 30 seconds she has brushed hair with a small ponytail perched on top. My daughter looks beautiful. Not because of her hair. But because of her hair AND her smile AND my smile.

"You look so pretty," I tell her. She hops off the chair and bounds into the play room.

I feel brilliant. Like I unlocked a piece of her world, learned a new language, earned a Nobel Peace Prize.

If I can learn to bring out the best in this child, maybe she will bring out the best in me. Maybe there are other dreams I thought I couldn't do. Maybe there are other things I told myself, "Don't even bother. It's not worth it. Just quit."

I can do this. It will be work. But I can do this. I won't give up.