We were rushing out the front door, like we do every morning when she turned around and ran towards the kitchen table.
“What are you doing? We’re going to be late!” She didn’t respond.
I picked up her backpack and sweater and stood patiently by the door.
“Gabby! Come here, now!” I demanded.
She listened that time. She put her sweater on and took the backpack from my hands. We hurried to the van. As I backed out of the driveway, she sang to herself in the back seat while I took a deep breath, hoping we wouldn’t be late.
We arrived at the school drop off. I pushed the button to open the van door.
“Have a good day, sweetie. Be kind, be good.”
“You too Mommy. Oh! When you get home, please go look on the kitchen table, okay?”
I walked through the front door and walked over to the kitchen table, just as my daughter had requested.
I love you have a good day.
She can be sassy, she can be difficult. There are moments where she makes me fear her teenage years. But at her core, she is full of goodness and light. She is thoughtful, so very expressive of her love for me and for her family. Each time she leaves a note, or draws a photo, or leaves a flower she picked for me on my nightstand, it warms my heart and touches my soul.
How blessed we all are to know her and to call her our own.
For the last three days I had been looking for my most favorite lip gloss that disappeared from the kitchen counter. This morning, as I was gathering my daughter’s things for school, I saw the lip gloss laying on top of the mud bench.
“MY LIP GLOSS!” I shouted. “I found it! Oh, THANK GOD!”
Gabby walked into the room, put her hands and her hips and said “Thank GOD? How about thank your daughter? I’m the one who found it and put it there. Not God.”
My daughter was outside, riding her scooter while her brother watched her. I was in my bedroom working when I heard the familiar cry.
I jumped up out of my chair and ran to the front door.
My daughter was crying, holding her hand close to her chest. She had fallen off of her scooter and scraped her hand and knee. Nothing serious, just a couple little scratches.
I asked her if she was okay and knelt down to kiss her hand.
“It burns!” She cried.
“I know it burns. But it’s just a little scratch. We’ll clean it up, put a bandage on it and you’ll be fine.”
We washed the cut, applied some ointment and put bandages on the scratches. I hugged her and told her to lay down for a few minutes.
A minute later, I heard her crying again.
My felt annoyed. It’s just a scratch. There’s not even any blood! I wanted to tell her to stop crying. I wanted to tell her to stop being dramatic. I wanted to tell her it was okay, to take a deep breath and chill.
But then I thought of my son. My little baby boy who is now driving my car without me in it and waiting to ship off to Marine boot camp. I thought of holding him in my arms when he would get hurt. I thought of how he was once little just like her and now he’s a grown man. And it all happened in the blink of an eye. Every bit of annoyance that I felt with her dramatics melted away. I just wanted to hold my little girl. Because she’s still little enough that I can, but she won’t be for very long.
I sat down on the sofa next to her, scooped her up into my lap and held her tightly. I kissed the top of her head.
“I know, sweetie. I know. Boo boo’s hurt. I’m so sorry you got hurt.”
I lifted her hand up to my mouth and started to blow gently near the bandage.
“Does that help? Does that make it feel better?”
She nodded and buried her face into my chest.
“I’ll hold you for as long as you want me to, baby girl.”
I may not be able to hold her in my arms for much longer, but I will hold her in my heart until my very last breath.
“Mommy, today a boy called me dumb.”
“Why did he call you dumb?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I was just standing in line at lunch time, talking to my friend and he told me that I was dumb.”
“But don’t worry, I looked right at his face and said ‘OH NO YOU DI’INT!!!’”
I held back my laughter because she was dead serious.
“What did he say?”
“He just looked at me and turned his head and didn’t talk to me again. I stood up for myself, Mommy, just like you told me to! Aren’t you so proud of me?”
Oh, yes little girl of mine. Always so proud of you.
Do you know who James Maslow is? If you do not, I envy you.
I know who James Maslow is because I have a seven year old daughter who is in love with him and his stupid boy band. Every day, I have to listen to his songs pumping out of her pink princess boom box. And every day I’m all “turn that down and shut your door!”
The other night while I was cooking dinner she asked if she could go on Nick.com I was all “sure you can! Just make sure to keep the volume down!” Because I know that Nick.com= Big Time Rush music blasting through the computer speakers.
A few minutes later, my oldest son shouted out “Mom! You need to come see what G is watching on YouTube!” Now, keep in mind, the computer is in an open area, right next to the kitchen. If I look to the right while I’m cooking, I can see the monitor. (I have it there for that reason.) However, in my haste to make The Perfect Rarebit Smash Burgers and Pub Potatoes, I hadn’t noticed that she had wandered away from Nick.com and onto YouTube.
I ran over to the computer. At the same time, G ran into her bedroom, screaming and slamming the door behind her. I bent over and looked at the monitor. There was a video titled “James Maslow, Shirtless, Hot and Sexy.”
BLINK BLINK BLINK BLINK went my eyes.
How did my sweet, precious, innocent, little seven year old daughter end up finding such a video? Oh, by typing this into the YouTube search box, obviously.
After I stopped laughing while hiding in my closet, we had a Very Serious conversation about the internet. She apologized for searching YouTube without supervision and promised to never do it again. But she remained unapologetic for wanting to see James Maslow’s Sexy Musuls.
I’m more convinced than ever that the Teenage Years With G are going to be the most stressful, amazing years of my life.
This morning I had to make an emergency trip to Target. (Starting my period at the exact same time I ran out of toilet paper= emergency.)
I brought Gabby along, which is always fun. (Will you buy me this, please? BUT I NEED MY OWN DEODORANT! I’M ALMOST SEVEN!)
As we were walking down the aisle to buy mommy “Diapers for her blood” (FUN!) my daughter began to profess her love for me in a very loud voice, because she is a very loud talker.
“Mommy, I love you so much! Do you know how much I love you?”
“You love me as big as they entire world?”
But she wasn’t finished.
“Mommy, I love you more than…”
All of the pretty flowers?
The warm sunshine?
Your favorite stuffed animal?
a beautiful rainbow?
“Mommy, I love you more than I love going to the bathroom.”
My daughter has the most beautiful hair.
It is thick, with shiny, golden highlights that sparkle in the sun. And it is long. So very long. (It almost touches her little booty.)
Last night, she asked if I would braid it so that her hair would be curly in the morning. I was THRILLED to do it because she rarely lets me braid her hair. (She hates braids for some weird reason.) I did two French braids as tightly as I could just before she went to bed.
This morning, she ran into my room and shouted “Mommy! Can I take out my braids now to see how curly it is?” She was so excited to see her pretty curls.
I carefully took out each braid and ran my fingers through her thick, wavy locks of hair. As soon as I was finished, she ran to her room to look at herself in the mirror.
“Oh my Gosh! My hair looks exactly like Taylor Swift’s hair!” She exclaimed, proudly.
I have a feeling I’m going to be braiding her hair every night for a while.