My little girl’s name begins with an A. She is a five-year-old bundle of energy, a smart, inquisitive child, with a strong temper and a will of her own, but also with a tender, surprisingly vulnerable side.
She has become a little lady, tall and slim, with dark, glossy hair that is never long enough. Her features have changed in the past year, her face is thinner and more refined, and she’s grown so heavy I can no longer carry her in my arms. Part of me misses the toddler she used to be, and there’s a hint of sadness mingled with joy and satisfaction as every day my daughter is becoming more independent, and I am not as necessary as I once was. Most of the time, though, I am just happy to see her healthy and content, and enjoying the days of her childhood, safe in the knowledge that she is loved.
I have been challenged by her willful nature, her fearless determination colliding head on with the boundaries I have set, and our struggles with discipline have, more than once, left me feeling bruised and knocked about, but things are quiet now, we seem to have gained some maturity on her side, and calmness and perspective on mine.
I feel good about where we are, and watching her learn new things about people, and about the world in general is a pleasure and an exciting adventure.