|My crazy little girl|
The other night, I sat in the car watching B's soccer practice. It was buggy and humid, so I stayed in the car reading and glancing occasionally at the field where the girls practiced. The sun was setting, and the whole field was bathed in a kind of golden glow that you only get on autumn evenings. I looked up just as B dashed across the field, long skinny arms and legs pumping furiously as she charged to stop the ball. She kicked hard, the ball flew back over the heads of her opponents, and she stopped. Then she suddenly jutted her hip out and threw a hand in the air in a pose of pure glee and sass and fabulousness to illustrate just exactly how pleased she herself was with her performance.
And just like that, tears sprang to my eyes and I realized--I made that. She's mine. Her long, gangly limbs and her goofy mocking self-praise, her crazy snaggle teeth and her gorgeous brown eyes, her dreams of becoming an actress and her insatiable appetite for books. She came from me and I have been given the awful privilege of bringing her up and then letting her go.
How lucky I am, and how grateful for the reminder.