I was driving home tonight when I noticed a figure on the sidewalk -- a boy, about 9 years old, his arms and legs flailing. It took me a minute to realize this was intentional, as he was literally, dancing in the rain. I smiled to myself and thought, "Oh, to be a child again!" Oh, to dance like that, happily, and in the rain, without a care in the world.
Immediately, I thought of Sophia, as I often do when I see another child and think of how something they're doing reminds me of her. I was reminded of my witty, spirited girl, her melodic laugh, her burst of personality, her interpretive dancing. And I thought about how not having cares... well, that simply wasn't true for our Sophia. She has many.
At 3 years old, I see how she minds our very old cat like a mother, greeting her as soon as we're home, speaking to her like a best friend would, pulling out her dish to feed her despite my efforts of telling her shoes go off first. I've noticed how meticulous she can be with her chores, when scooping the fish food out and getting herself dressed. She remembers everything, and will remind us of anything we've said, at any given time. Her incredible attention to detail astounds even me -- "My Hello Kitty is downstairs on the dresser, sitting on Darth Vader's lap." And sure enough, it is. I think of how she will patiently fold a blanket just like her Daddy taught her, or go into the closet to grab the broom and dustpan when she's spilled something, apologizing because it was her "fault."
Anthony and I have discussed how, even at this young age, we can already tell she has worries and potential stressors. She's concerned when one of us is late coming home, tied up at work or school. She tells everyone at school about how Bianca, her kitty, is sick and not feeling well. She asks about her cousins and grandparents constantly, and why they're not around every day. She listens, and absorbs, and surprises us with the depth of her understanding. It's impossible to claim that our child doesn't have cares, because sometimes I fear she cares too much. Sometimes I want her to be able to be a child, without the pensiveness and the threenager drama.
So that is why, when I arrived at her daycare and she spotted my umbrella, I eagerly handed it over, when usually I'd tell her that we couldn't open it until we were outdoors. And when we walked outside under the awning during a torrential downpour, we stood there for a long time. I didn't rush her into the car like I normally would, and we just watched parents and teachers and kids running all around us. When it was finally time to make a break for it, I scooped her into my arms and we laughed all the way to the car as she carefully balanced the umbrella over both of us, alittle soaked and chilled. When she told me ruefully that her arms had gotten wet, I told her it was okay. She looked at me, dubiously, probably questioning my sanity. But it was okay.
And on our way home, I made sure to hit every puddle, to her delight.
