Each night in your prayers, you thank God for yourself and you mean it. You are absolutely tickled with who you are.
You see yourself as a fashionista. To school yesterday you wore a brown, teal and cream plaid dress with a white and red patterned t-shirt overtop, hot pink flowered tights and white tennis shoes. You found yourself unable to walk for the prancing.
I fixed your hair extra special that day to offset your extra special outfit and so your teacher would know you were not being neglected at home.
At dinner tonight you balked at the pizza I’d ordered and asked me to not make you finish your slice of pizza if you ate your entire huge portion of broccoli. You said you’d really rather eat my lentil soup.
Ever since I told you that getting down from the table during dinner meant that you would fall in hot lava, you always ask politely for a lava pass before getting up for extra napkins, forks or condiments.
Your favorite things to draw are robots. They are all nearly identical. They are happy and seem like nice robots, not the kind to develop artificial intelligence, turn on their human masters and lay waste to our planet. I like that.
Tonight at dinner I tried to pray in a more casual way like I was talking to Heavenly Father right there in the room. I rambled on about our day the way I would talk to any friend. I told him that we missed him and wished we could see him for dinner tonight. I wanted you to get a sense that he was really listening, that he was real. When I said amen, you wiped away a tear and said, “I think I’m just crying from happiness. That was a really good prayer!”
Yesterday you told me that you’d rather receive gifts from Santa than from regular people because they’re fresher. While a gift from your mom has probably been sitting around the store for who knows how long, a gift from Santa is just freshly made by the elves. You said, “You can just tell the difference in the freshness, you know?”
When I got home from my PTA meeting tonight, I came upstairs to turn off your reading light. I thought you were asleep so I leaned in and kissed you softly on your forehead. You smelled like baby shampoo. As I turned to walk away you whispered, “Sleep with me a minute please.”
I did. I ran my fingers through your damp hair until you drifted to sleep, the cadence of your breath resetting the rhythm of my body to a place of perfect contentment. Oh baby girl. You can’t possibly love yourself as much as I love you.