At a Clemson
football tailgate last fall the gal who parked next to us drew a hopscotch on
the asphalt for her three-year-old daughter and HB to play on. The other little
girl, Ellie, went first: “one, two, four, five, six,” she said.
Then HB, “one,
two, three, four, five.”
Ellie again,
“one, two, four, five, six.”
Then HB, now
a little concerned she was not getting all the way to six, “one, two, three,
four, five,” took an extra hop, “six!”
Ellie again,
seeing the extra hop, “one, two, four, five, six, seven!”
HB, hands on
hips, looked at Ellie and looked at me and said, “hey, what’s going on here?”
How does a
mom explain that the other little girl keeps missing “three” and that my own
precious daughter is doing just fine?
And I'm her mom
Though I
have a good friend who likes to respond to things I say with, “you’re such a
mom,” I don’t ever feel that way. I feel like things are different, maybe a
little harder sometimes, maybe a little easier sometimes.
I don’t
spend much time thinking of myself as a mom. But four years ago today I became
one. There’s a little person in my house who was three-and-four-on-her-birthday
and today’s her birthday.
“Goodnight,
HB,” I said to her last night, “my three-year-old-sweet-girl.”
She grinned
and snuggled deeper into Guh-Gus, her elephant pillow. (He’s prone to
unprovoked attacks which elicit peals of laughter from HB, more on that some
other time.)
I’m partial
to birthdays and to birthday posts. I think they are an excellent reason to
think about one’s own life, what has been accomplished thus far and where one
might want to be this time next year. They’re sort of a New Year’s do-over.
