First day of 9
Eight years is a long time in the eyes of an 8 year old, because it’s basically your entire life. Eight years in the parental universe is always a fraction of how long we’ve been alive. It seems short. Depending on how many years we’ve been on this green earth, it might seem too short. I do have to say that tonight at dinner I was actually wise enough to stop time or at least slow it down significantly, and it wasn’t really that hard to do.
I looked at my littlest daughter’s face while she was telling some ridiculously intricate story about homework, Taylor Swift and girls at school. I looked at her and she was the most amazing little creature I had ever seen. So amazing that I smiled and focused only on her little cheeks, chin, hands waving in the air, wisps of hair and brown eyes and was awed at how her little features were somehow much less baby-like than I remembered them. Right before my eyes her baby features had melted away and been replaced by those of a little girl. For a moment while I looked at her and wondered where 8 years had gone, time actually slowed for a few moments. I looked at her and only her and suddenly was overwhelmed in the wonder and gift that is parenting. I must be the luckiest daddy alive to deserve this.
In only 8 years this little creature had managed to carve out her little place in the world. Just thinking about it and wondering how significantly opposite two children can be is all by itself another marvel. Some kids are adorable and warm and friendly and sweet and project an aura of peace, warmth and calm. Our little girl was never really the cute little sweet child that people would fawn over, tilt their heads and grin while a warm and fuzzy feeling overtook them. Instead, public appearances by the Macaroni parents trying desperately to reel in their wild-child would hail a reaction two elderly women might have if they just saw an elephant take a giant poop from 3 feet away...if the words horror and disgust come to mind you are somewhere in the ballpark.
No warm and fuzzy feelings here, our little hellcat was born thrashing and squalling exactly like a rabid wolverine and then she didn’t let up for at least a year. By that time she had carved out her little personality as the banshee of the family and that she was not going to go anywhere quietly. Each day is a contradiction, each conversation is a battle. Putting on socks in the morning can be a mountain or a molehill. Combing hair can be a cage fight. Bedtime is usually an exercise in patience and a lesson in parental character building. It might be easier in the morning to put an angry grizzly bear into a refrigerator box than to get our youngest out the door and onto the school bus. I love this one for what she is.
When I think about what we’ve been through already, I also think about how our other little Macaronis were products of our younger broken families. Not that our first two (Hers and Mine) didn’t throw some curveballs and challenges into the mix, but knowing now what I know about our latest little ampule of habanero sauce, if Macaroni Mama and I weren’t shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand to raise the wildest of them all, we might have already given up and checked into a Siberian psych ward for distressed parents.
Most lately the stage has been set for chaos ahead. I already see little eyes rolling, snarling and cynical facial expressions and mannerisms that usually present later in life when the teenage years begin to creep in. Macaroni mama and I both know that the true test of parental character still lies ahead. We will be ready for those days when they arrive, but for now, I just want to enjoy my youngest daughter before she turns 9.
Today was the last day that she will be only 8 years old and for that I am a little sad. I know birthdays are supposed to be fun and exciting with fireworks and fanfare, but when you realize the baby you thought you were burping only a few days ago spins around and you see the frame and a glimmer of a young lady where the baby once was, it is a startling wake-up call. Suddenly my little girl is thinking more about nail polish, hairstyles and how her clothes fit instead of Barbie dolls, Toy Story movies and Legos.
How and where did the time go?
I don’t know, but I know I wasn’t watching closely enough when it happened. At least tonight I had the sense to stop worrying about what I always worry about and look lovingly on my youngest and last child and for that moment time at least slowed down...maybe even stopped. If that is all it takes to slow our years down on this earth then I promise to do it more often.
Happy 9th Birthday young daughter, I hope you love me even half as much as I love you.
Eight years is a long time in the eyes of an 8 year old, because it’s basically your entire life. Eight years in the parental universe is always a fraction of how long we’ve been alive. It seems short. Depending on how many years we’ve been on this green earth, it might seem too short. I do have to say that tonight at dinner I was actually wise enough to stop time or at least slow it down significantly, and it wasn’t really that hard to do.
I looked at my littlest daughter’s face while she was telling some ridiculously intricate story about homework, Taylor Swift and girls at school. I looked at her and she was the most amazing little creature I had ever seen. So amazing that I smiled and focused only on her little cheeks, chin, hands waving in the air, wisps of hair and brown eyes and was awed at how her little features were somehow much less baby-like than I remembered them. Right before my eyes her baby features had melted away and been replaced by those of a little girl. For a moment while I looked at her and wondered where 8 years had gone, time actually slowed for a few moments. I looked at her and only her and suddenly was overwhelmed in the wonder and gift that is parenting. I must be the luckiest daddy alive to deserve this.
In only 8 years this little creature had managed to carve out her little place in the world. Just thinking about it and wondering how significantly opposite two children can be is all by itself another marvel. Some kids are adorable and warm and friendly and sweet and project an aura of peace, warmth and calm. Our little girl was never really the cute little sweet child that people would fawn over, tilt their heads and grin while a warm and fuzzy feeling overtook them. Instead, public appearances by the Macaroni parents trying desperately to reel in their wild-child would hail a reaction two elderly women might have if they just saw an elephant take a giant poop from 3 feet away...if the words horror and disgust come to mind you are somewhere in the ballpark.
No warm and fuzzy feelings here, our little hellcat was born thrashing and squalling exactly like a rabid wolverine and then she didn’t let up for at least a year. By that time she had carved out her little personality as the banshee of the family and that she was not going to go anywhere quietly. Each day is a contradiction, each conversation is a battle. Putting on socks in the morning can be a mountain or a molehill. Combing hair can be a cage fight. Bedtime is usually an exercise in patience and a lesson in parental character building. It might be easier in the morning to put an angry grizzly bear into a refrigerator box than to get our youngest out the door and onto the school bus. I love this one for what she is.
When I think about what we’ve been through already, I also think about how our other little Macaronis were products of our younger broken families. Not that our first two (Hers and Mine) didn’t throw some curveballs and challenges into the mix, but knowing now what I know about our latest little ampule of habanero sauce, if Macaroni Mama and I weren’t shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand to raise the wildest of them all, we might have already given up and checked into a Siberian psych ward for distressed parents.
Most lately the stage has been set for chaos ahead. I already see little eyes rolling, snarling and cynical facial expressions and mannerisms that usually present later in life when the teenage years begin to creep in. Macaroni mama and I both know that the true test of parental character still lies ahead. We will be ready for those days when they arrive, but for now, I just want to enjoy my youngest daughter before she turns 9.
Today was the last day that she will be only 8 years old and for that I am a little sad. I know birthdays are supposed to be fun and exciting with fireworks and fanfare, but when you realize the baby you thought you were burping only a few days ago spins around and you see the frame and a glimmer of a young lady where the baby once was, it is a startling wake-up call. Suddenly my little girl is thinking more about nail polish, hairstyles and how her clothes fit instead of Barbie dolls, Toy Story movies and Legos.
How and where did the time go?
I don’t know, but I know I wasn’t watching closely enough when it happened. At least tonight I had the sense to stop worrying about what I always worry about and look lovingly on my youngest and last child and for that moment time at least slowed down...maybe even stopped. If that is all it takes to slow our years down on this earth then I promise to do it more often.
Happy 9th Birthday young daughter, I hope you love me even half as much as I love you.
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