Eight

Oh my sweet girl, my precocious, temperamental, wonderful, emotional, everything girl. You are eight today.

If I can take a swim in nostalgia for a moment, eight years ago today I was resting in a hospital room, which unlike my birthing room, did not have bridge to bridge views of San Francisco, but it did, however, have you, swaddled in a hospital blanket, wearing a precious pink, white, and blue striped cap, sleeping next to me in a hospital crib. Or maybe you were laying with me. Hard to remember 8 years ago what happened at 8:05PM.

Over the past eight years I have fragments of memories, delicious moments in time some for their delight, some for their weight. My memory thrives on the photographs I've taken, many in your first couple years, fewer as the years go on. Then there is the tangible evidence, like the two holes above the door way to the bedrooms, where Daddy once drilled support for your bouncer. You loved that thing! I remember some of your words for their uniqueness, like Bodelee for blueberry, badeedalee for strawberry. I think your first word was Mama, but I don't remember the first time you said it. Now you have so much to say, sometimes thoughts and ideas so poignant I wish I'd wrote them down, but it's usually while I'm driving.

I remember your monkey scoot, when I worried briefly you'd have a speech impediment if you didn't crawl - but then you did, briefly, before walking, those steps I remember well because I captured them on video. So often I'll see kids at that barely walking stage with this wild look on their face, as if to say "Look what these can do!" Now, you ride a razor scooter as if you were born to it; but not a bike without training wheels, there's a price we pay for hills in the city!

I don't remember when I stopped being the one you always ran to who could solve all problems, to the one you get mad at so easily (along with Daddy), when you run from us into your room, and yell with wet eyes, "Go Away!" The transition from ally to intermittent enemy is heart breaking.

The rate you're learning is astounding, leaping into cursive writing, multiplication, and with just a bit of studying getting 20/20 correct on weekly spelling tests. I'm a bit sad that reading got demoted from pleasure to chore, perhaps with the requisite weekly reading log (aka 1 page book report). Sometimes though, on the nights you lay down with me first, you'll ask me to read my book to you, which is often a YA fantasy. I read until my mouth is parched and I'm tired, or you're asleep.

You still like school, but you don't love school, the way you loved your last school. I hope it's just your age, as there's more work to do and focus and concentration required. It's so hard sometimes as a parent to trust I've made the right choices for you, but to Daddy and I, it's not safe at your old school yet.

For these few days though, you're at Disneyland with our friends and their daughter; not your first trip away from us, but your first that didn't include family. We measured you on your growth chart behind the door: 44 1/2 inches, tall enough for nearly all the rides. I remember going to the amusement park in Vallejo with you, where you met the requirement only for the kids rides. Or even on our last trip to Disneyland, on your 4th birthday, we were limited to Dumbo, Teacups, and Mr. Toad. Now I can only imagine what you're riding.

Along with your birthday, Daddy and I are pondering what new responsibilities you may be ready for to balance your growth and sometimes sullen attitude. It's such a fragile line to walk between giving in to your requests and forcing our decisions on you, but Daddy and I both believe we're not doing you any favors if we do everything you want.

Mostly though, the house is quiet tonight with you and Daddy gone. Almost lonely quiet.

I love you, big girl, you are my favorite second grader in this universe, and all of the others that exist.

Mommy
p.s. within a month of your birthday, you abandoned your bike's training wheels!