I'm a mom. I have this blog. But I don't think I talk about my kids as much as a Mommy Blogger should. Or does. They're here. I'm here. We all love each other. The end.
But my kids are actually pretty incredible. Individually incredible. As a group, they just fight and leave granola wrappers all over my dang den. But as stand alone people...wow. I just need to not mess them up.
My oldest is 10. She's the most eldest of any eldest child you have ever met. A neurotic list maker. A terrible worrier. Brilliant. Honest. She started reading The Boxcar Children when she was four years old. Now she writes her own books. Short stories. Poems. Scripts.
I could never write fiction, what with my complete lack of imagination, but she can and she does. Everywhere I look I find stray sheets of paper. Stuffed under the couch. Jammed in her closet. On the shelf, almost hidden between the covers of two books. Snippets of stories in process. Characters I know she knows. She doesn't create them. She meets them and she and writes down what they say.
"...and maybe if she hadn't left her curtains open, she wouldn't have gone through any of that! But I cannot tell a lie, dear reader, and though you (and, admittedly, I) might be scared out of your wits, you must read on and face your fear."
"I love sunshine, rain, and snow. I love forces, tornadoes, heat, tsunamis, hurricanes, thunder, and lightening. Don't get me wrong- I hate it when it hurts and kills people. But doesn't it look beautiful sweeping across the sky? I want to be a weather reporter. Or an actress, but I already am. I was in a ten-minute movie about weather."
It's a strange thing to read what your child has written in those alone moments outside when other kids are riding bikes or collecting rocks. Underneath her everyday awkwardness, her silly jokes, her wrist full of silly bandz is a whole mysterious world. One that I can't ever fully know. There she is, my little girl. But she's not so little. And really, was she ever truly mine?