This was my daughter when she was eight, six years ago. How wonderful every single age is with its struggles and charms.
I sometimes wallow in the dread of the baby birds growing up. That Abba song, "Slipping Through My Fingers," has too often made me sad. How much time school takes away, plus the every-other-weekend-every-other-holiday with her real dad. I realize how precious time is, and how wonderful a thing is a daughter! How impossible it is to do everything, teach everything, give all the laughter and love and experiences I want to.
She'll graduate in a few years. Will she go far away to college? Will she move to a far-away place, and I'll only get to keep up with her, and her family, remotely? The thought is terrible.
I remind myself to enjoy every day as much as I can, and to view growth as great: one step closer to buckets full of grandkids.
But I pray, I actually pray, that she'll end up nearby-- that all of the children will. I really, really love and enjoy them. I like them! Every single one; his, mine, and ours: the one I have 24 hours a day (Baby H), the ones I have whenever they are not at school or at their real dad's for the every-other-weekend thing, (C.E. and A.J), and the ones who are my stepchildren, (A.R. and S.E.), who come at holidays or summer or whenever we get lucky enough.
It's a great compliment to like your family; sometimes to like is harder than to love.
Here she is, snowshoeing with a cousin and an uncle, just a few weeks ago:
Here she is at Christmas, at my sister's.
Last fall:
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