Perspective... It's all in how you look at it.

She's not so different than she was then. I mean, apart from the bangs. And Fluffo (the dog). Really, the only discernable size difference is in how the backpack fits her a bit better. Her hair is a bit darker. She's taken to wearing belts, too. But she's still her.

Independent, wild, sassy, excited, not a tear in her eye. This is the best day, she says. Graduation day. Nothing to be sad about. She's all wide-eyed and fancy-free. It's not the end for her, but the start of the next big adventure, whatever that is.

But for me, I'm weepy. A bit scared. Have not a clue what is next. We've made an executive decision not to enroll her in kindergarten yet. We have hopes, dreams, prayers that she and the boy will enroll on in Irish schools. But really, who's to know? Anxiety eeks up my chest and I'm all ready to seep out worry and doubt, when she says it again.

"This is the best day. Graduation Day. I'm so happy!"

It's all in how you look at it.

Where are you looking?

***

Linking up with Gypsy Mama and her Five Minute Fridays.

A Tail of an Irish Wolfhound

Our girl is obsessed with many things: arm bands, zebras, lego guys, and super heroes, just to name a few. As part of her ever increasing desire to be part animal, she's taken to wearing white tights, white shirt, zebra hat and a sock for a tail. And as her love for the Irish wolfhound has grown, my next Repurposing Discarded Treasures project literally dropped in my lap:

Ok, so it's a zebra tail. Whatever.

So we've had this bar laying around from an old infant/toddler seat/rocking chair. I think we gave away the actual seat ages ago, but the bar hung on and was used for things like makeshift light sabers, or swords, or eating utensils. One too many poke-in-the-eyes later, I was just one step away from dropping it in the garbage when the husband had a brilliant idea: "For your next project," he says, "A tail for E!"



Now, make sure you copy and paste what we did here. The directions are pretty hard to follow:
1) cut the bar in half, 2) take the foam insides out, 3) cut off the velcro tabs, and 4) tuck one of the tails into child's tights (or if your child prefers actual clothing - shorts, trousers or skirt).

And there you have it: a Human Irish Wolfhound with a nice zebra tail (and an extra to spare)!



Can you see the resemblance?



Fierce! (I think she thinks it's more wolf than dog...)



Your very own Irish Wolfhound-slash-Zebra-hybrid will be so happy, if slightly confused about her identity.

There's a match struck

My initial inclination with every post is to start that first sentence with "Hiding in the..." It's true: I'm hiding when I'm writing. There's a match struck and I'm off to the bedroom/office/toolshed before the fire burns out.

She's outside playing with older neighbour girls, and the sad truth is I don't even know their names. I don't think I've ever even seen their parents and all I know is they run up and down the sidewalk, from one apartment to the next, carrying reese's pieces and fingernail polish remover. The three huddle together on top of a picnic table and they all jump, hands hidden behind backs, when I call out to her for dinner. This bugs me a bit, and as she walks in the door, I ask what every mother wants to know at any given moment, every time her child walks through the door.

"What were you talking about?"

And as soon as my tongue hits the t, her big brown eyes form puddles of tears, and my heart sinks into the place she grew for nine months.

A half-hour's worth of crying and pleading hits its peek when she cries, "I'm afraid to tell you because you won't want me in your family anymore." This is when you know you've crossed a parenting threshold, the one you know will come soon enough, but you're always surprised when it does. You think to yourself, she's only five!, and it's too soon for her to know shame.

So the truth comes out and it's not super great, but it's not worst case scenario, either. You explain to her about value and violence, about privacy and respect, about her body and theirs. You hate to even bring up strange words bearing heavy weight, but it's too late now and if you don't define them, they will. And you tell her that secrets lie. You explain what it means when a friend, or a stranger, or an adult tells her not to tell. And you know it could be so much worse... but really, it feels like the door has been opened and you can't keep her from walking beyond its shallow frame.

These children, I've never seen their parents, but I wonder if I have to love thy neighbour as my child. Loving thy neighbour as myself seems like nothing in comparison.

Forgotten girl, the sequel

In browsing our flickr account today, I ran across a video of the girl. I watched it through silly tears streaming into my eyes and down my cheeks. I miss her so, even though she lives in my house. This sweet child, who always was a mystery, who writes on walls and on her tongue without any fear, who wants to be a cowgirl - no a knight -- no a mom, who's teeth used to not touch due to too much pacifier, who was born into our craziness and makes it so much crazier.

Oh I miss her so, though we've never ever been apart.

then

now

Quick, before you miss it!

Life has distracted me, been out of it for awhile, need to reconnect to the keyboard and the brain for a few minutes. Well, five actually. With the GypsyMama. While the nearly-2-year-old plays angry birds.

Beauty...

She has shiny black dots on her arm, remants of a temporary tattoo. To be fair, remnants of several temporary tattoos. She demands fingernail polish, in shades of blue and green, and her daddy gives it to her. She returns the favor (on his toes). Her hair is wild, she won't let you touch it, and she always needs a hand free to keep it from her face.

When they see her, it's the eyes they notice first: wide and brown and lashes the length of I-70 across Kansas. Then her dimples, not in her cheeks, but under those big brown eyes. Then her laugh, her smile, then her speed.

Because she won't let you look at her long. She's too busy, too fast, too mature for such trivial things as the outstanding beauty of a 4-year-old girl on fire for life. But when she does let me see her, I see me. And I get a glimpse - for just a second - through the eyes of my own mother. And I hope when she saw my beauty, she saw hers, as well.

Can you see it? Your beauty through the eyes of others? 

Forgotten Girl

In all the hubbub of Jackson's life changing drastically, I realized Ella-centric posts on this blog are lacking. So let me tell you a little bit about our girl:

Our somber little non-smiler appears to have changed overnight.  She is simply boisterous. She laughs and sings and dances and speed walks (her favourite olympic event).  She loves to tell jokes, and loves even more to laugh at them.  When Skype opens up on our computer, she runs into the dining room, yelling: "Gramma! Jessica! Papa! Grampa Huber!" We can't leave the door open for a mere minute without her escaping down the street. 

Her best friend (besides Jackson) is our baby neighbour, Rachel. They exchange greetings every morning, love to say eachother's names over and over again, sharing pacifiers and little buggies and laughs and tickles. 

She has numerous "babies", all named Emma or LarryBoy. She eats sand by the scoopful, licks rocks, and loves to fall bum-first into the surf of the Irish sea.

She's also a great little sidekick for Jackson. A gift we thought we'd never have.