Eight

When I was your age, I spent most of my free time pretending to be one of three things: a teacher, an entertainer, and a mommy.  The garage was my classroom and I taught everything under the sun, with the exception of math as it was my least favorite subject.  The laundry room was my stage, with concrete floors echoing the staccato of my mother's high heels and old water pipes serving as dance partners.  During the warm days of summer, I was a farmer's wife, a dozen oversized water balloons my bouncing babes. 

 

I watch you escape to your room after a particularly inspiring day of school.  At your door I overhear the beginnings of an animated art lesson as you instruct your pupils, art books covering your floor.  You queue up music around the house and dance, movements strong, rhythmic and intentional.  You position yourself in front of the large blank television screen, one of the few places in our home where you can see your reflection while you bend and sway to the music. While your options are limited, you arrive downstairs wearing a favorite pair of black high heels from my closet.  As you gracefully walk around our hard wood floors two inches higher I know something special is brewing; you are officially in character.  You are seldom found with a doll on your hip, but you can often be found toting Everett around like a rag doll, tending to the needs of June, or mothering Joseph. 

 

In the days leading up to your eighth birthday as we collaborated and gathered supplies to pull off your "Under the Sea" themed birthday party I was struck not by the idea of you turning eight, for in all honesty many (including myself) think of you as much older, but with the idea that I've been a mother now for eight years.  Your arrival eight years ago was the realization of a dream that began in my own heart as a young girl.     

 

 

 

When I look at you I see how similar we are.  I didn't see it at first, but over the past eight years as I've observed and taken careful note, I've realized we share many of the same strengths and weaknesses.  In many ways you have become a reflective surface upon which I am able to see the many beautiful and flawed aspects of my personality as I move about my days.  I underestimated how much I feel things, am moved by experiences, and value the sentimental.  When you freely open up your heart to another, respond in generosity, or stash another handwritten note from a friend in one of your many secret places, I see it.  When you quickly enter into another's joy or sadness, empathize or attempt to problem solve, I see it.  When you make your brother's bed because he is in tears, take the time to listen to another one of June's requests, or linger by Everett's highchair just to make him giggle one more time, I see it. When you struggle to understand and the inner turmoil of not getting "it" right the very first time brings you to silence and tears, I see it.  When you hide away in your room, face buried in your pillow, finally releasing all of the emotions, I see it. When you speak in haste and immediately regret it, I see it.   

 

When I look at you I also see the many ways we are different.  You rise each day, ready to embrace every possible social interaction with enthusiasm and delight.  Your spirit of hospitality has taught me to balance my need for quiet with that of genuine interest in others, and be open to the possibility of last minute dinner guests.  Your mind is sharp, you prefer math to every other subject, and you write freely, quickly putting your thoughts into words.  I avoid numbers to this day and overthink my words more often than not.  It is a privilege to watch you use your gifts in these areas as both co-teacher and mother.  You by nature are loud, your laughter, chatter, and singing easily heard throughout our home.  I am soft-spoken, and find that repetition is the key to communicating within our active home.  Dancing is clearly your thing; playing sports was mine.   

Over eight years ago, we created this little space on the Internet to announce your arrival and document our family's journey.  Each year of your life has marked significant growth in my very own.  What a privilege it has been to watch you grow, to learn along side you, and observe our many similarities and differences.  It is my prayer that we will continue to refine and inspire one another.  I know that one day soon, I will see your many childhood dreams becoming realities. 

 

 

It is with joy that we celebrate you, Charlotte Marie. You continue to be one of the most colorful people I know.  My life is more beautiful because of you.