The Apple from my Tree

You don’t have to be around my daughter very long to realize that she is more than a little like her mother. Most of the time that is something of a marvel. I feel like a fortune teller who, unlike most, can actually look into her future, understanding perfectly what the road of her life will look like. I see how it turns suddenly, sometimes sharply, in places, the size of the pebbles she will kick with her shiny red shoes, or the ones that catch her by surprise as she dares to take those safe shoes off, just to see what it feels like. I can envision the vast expanse of the boulders she will have to climb over, then the way she smiles at her accomplishment from the other side, a contented giggle in her throat.  I see her happy times. The nights she goes to bed singing until she falls asleep, sometimes aloud, sometimes only in her head, pleased with the softness of her pillow and the hint of flowers in the air she breathes. I see her a little older, searching for a stage, happy at the sound her shoes make on the marble floors of an empty theatre, clicking her heels a bit more than necessary on the old wooden stage, simply because the noise soothes her soul. I see her as she searches out the not-so-normal, befriending those that just don’t fit in, loving the idea of offending some unseen man wearing a stiff suit in a stuffy office, as he decides to cave in just one more day, then another and another.... Just because she is my daughter does not mean, however, that I only see the shiny, happy days. I catch a look every now and then, that reminds me that all the steps to be taken on this excursion will not be smooth ones. The days she cuts her eyes at the individual who has dared question the will and intelligence of a 3-year-old, the times she decides that those rules are for “all the others”, and simply do not apply to her. I see the temper as she bucks my attempt to reel her in to the land of acceptable behavior. This is the same temper that will one day cause angst for many a boy, as she slams doors in unabashed disgust, burns holes through his soul with a fiery glare, and tries to remember to breathe as her heart attempts to escape by ripping through her chest.

I hope, as the mother who broke the branches blocking her way before her, to guide her through those rough spots, knowing now what pain there is in taking the rocky roads. I am excited for all the life she will soak in along this journey, knowing how it feels to want to live it open and loud.

I caught a glimpse of her creative side last night as she sauntered into the living room after having disappeared for a few moments. Her father and brother noticed nothing different in her behavior, as they normally do not until her horns are starting to show. But I, I saw the gleam in both eyes, the tilt of her head, that gloating glance in my direction telling me that I should immediately check for smoke and/or fire in the bathroom, ensure the welfare of the cat, and make sure that all knobs on the oven were turned to “off.” All clear. She continued to stare at me, challenging my ability to figure her out. It was like a duel from the Wild, Wild West. She finally gave it away with a little side-to-side swing of her head.

Me: “What did you do, little girl?”

Dora: “ I trimmed my bangs, mommy! Don’t you just LUUHHVE it?”

The showdown ended immediately as I dashed into the bathroom. She followed. A satisfied smile rested on her face as she saw my dismay as I pulled a handful of beautiful curls out of the trashcan. She didn’t trim the ends. She didn’t go for the back. She had methodically removed any  hair that was longer than 2 inches from every area around her face. Given that she has only had her ENDS TRIMMED once in her life, let’s all assume that I was appalled. Appalled, but not surprised. What should I expect when this little person regularly sees her mother perched in the bathroom sink, clipping away at any bits of hair that don’t suit her fancy or her face? Yes sir, that’s my baby... You may all begin praying for me now.