For the last few days Maddie has been toting a journal around with her. I assumed that she was making observations about life or jotting down details that she did not want to forget. As a journal-er myself, I admit that there was a flutter of pride in my heart. Give me 5 minutes and I can tell you where Wendy and I ate lunch on April 20, 1997. If the answer is Corona, then I can also tell you, without a doubt, that we both had a chicken soft taco with beans. (And if Joel was there, he ordered a Mexican hamburger without tomatoes.) Seeing Maddie scribbling away in her journal was especially thrilling for me because, quite honestly, we have little in common.
Maddie has always been "girly." There is the obvious princess obsession and it was only love that allowed me to paint her old room purple - granted, it was the value of purple where you had to look twice and compare it to the white ceiling to really be sure - but purple, none the less. And I did hand-paint a castle on the wall for her highness. I am fairly certain that no one has ever referred to me as "girly" so this is a new area for me.
There are more differences that some people may not even know. For instance, we could have bonded over soccer when Maddie played on a team at the YMCA. But by play, I mean stood on the field and cried until Ben came and took her hand and ran with her. In an effort to bribe her into finishing the season, I laced her cleats with pink shoelaces. Then, there is the whole reading issue. I started trying to teach her to read at 3, then 4, and somewhere between 5 and 6 we turned a corner. It was a long 3 years. When I see her reading a book now, I am truly proud of her. Yet, it is hard for me to understand wanting to paint toenails instead of reading a book.
I see her studiously working away and I think about how we can do this together. Maybe we can both keep a journal together, or share our pages in hushed whispers and secret smiles.
I see her studiously working away and I think about how we can do this together. Maybe we can both keep a journal together, or share our pages in hushed whispers and secret smiles.
She left her journal open on her bed when she fell asleep the other night so I picked it up and turned the first page. The journal was halfway full of her big handwriting. Not letters, though. Numbers. She had half a book full of math equations. 1+1=2, 2+2=4, 3+3=6, and so on.
I swear, had I not birthed her, I would have no idea where she came from.
