My youngest child turned eight today. Eight. Not that it’s that big of deal. She is still a child; some might even call her a baby.
However, when I look at her I see a person, a sprouting individual who has her own personality and her own idiosyncracies. She is independent, and she angers if she thinks I am babying her.
“Mom, I can walk myself into Girl Scouts,” she says when I pull up to the school. She is familiar with the building and comfortable enough to walk herself to the classroom.
“Mom, I can go to the bathroom by myself,” she says when we are out to eat in a restaurant. She doesn’t need her mother spying on her to make sure she washes her hands.
“Mom, I can empty the dishwasher myself,” she says when I start putting away dishes on higher shelves. She wants to drag the chair over; she likes the sense of accomplishment.
Today, on her eighth birthday, she wanted her ears pierced. After the piercing, the woman explained to me how to clean her ears and how often to do it. On our way home she said, “Mom, I know the lady was talking to you, but I am perfectly capable of cleaning my own ears. I watched you do it, and I can do that, too.”
“Okay, Lizzie. I will help you for a few times, and then if you really think you can do it.”
“Yes, I can. I will do it at 6:30 when I wake up, after school, and before bed,” she continued.
“That sounds perfect.” I was not surprised that she was making an agenda. She is a child that likes precision, who likes routine, who likes a regiment.
She is her own person. She sees life in a unique and exciting way. She loves each and every moment that she lives, and I feel that I have a heightened sense of clarity because of her inner peace and her inner beauty.