thirteen

My daughter turns every activity into an adventure.

Yesterday, we made meatloaf together.  Can you think of anything more mundane than meatloaf?  Well, not with Carina in the kitchen.  Instead of simple loaves, she was molding and creating cows, anteaters, and hippos.  Play-doh for adults.

 In the mornings as she crosses the yard to feed the horses, I catch an occasional view of her skipping.  Or picking dandelions.  In January.  She notices things like that.  The way the crows take wing as she passes, and I see beautiful sketches of her views later in the day.

A simple trip to the bookstore can turn into a side-splitting unabashed frolic in a “hamster ball” with Carina.  And you never know when you’re going to have to answer the “How weird does this face look?” question.  Or like the question of the day today:  “How many pretzels do you think I can hold in my mouth like this and still talk?”

Carina and I have special moments together, too.  Her “slow-motion, real-time” greetings take my breath away.  We favor the same songs, playing them loud and singing them even louder.  Sometimes we just do the same random, strange thing at the same time—and have no doubts that we are indeed related.

My baby turns into a teenager in exactly one week.  She has salivated over this day for so very long.  I rejoice for her; it is, after all, the natural progression of life and I am so glad that my daughter has apparently thrived even through all my craziness.

I love to see her tender heart, while mine wears a suit of armor.  I see in her what I love the most about me, and it makes me want to strip the protection off, show my real self without shame, and glory in the body and life that my Creator has chosen to gift to me.  But for now, I bask in the precious, precious gift of my daughter.