The best part about a yucky situation is she is letting me help her get dressed, and brush her hair, and just be with her a lot. I kind of feel like it's a fleeting, precious reset button before life picks up speed again and she hits five feet tall and gets a whole lot older before I know it.
She had grown two inches in two weeks we found out at the surgeon's office. (She's now 4'10.) I am savouring my girl-time with my girl. She's been so patient and strong and really thoughtful adjusting to it all. She still wants to do a 5K this morning, so I am walking it with her.
I like her. I thought about that helping her get into a wheelchair this week: I really like this soon-to-be-lady and I would really want to be her friend even if she weren't my child.
It's the sweetness at the bottom of this pie.
Don't think I'm not having this notarized. Line four from the bottom is GOLD.
(This is one of the poems she was reading here.)
Equally valuable and endorsing from my son.
(And I don't eat buns for breakfast.
Cheeks, yes. But not buns.)
He doesn't like punctuation rules, for the record's.
He cried when it all happened after he realized she was okay. One of his worst fears has been breaking a bone (not to mention two for the price of one.) I think this is making them both feel stronger and he has been so gentlemanly to her. I'm really proud of him.
(And I'm VERY BRGHT.)
This is my manifesto.
It's on my friend's wall - but it sums it all up for me, too.
I told some friends a few weeks ago that if I can figure out how to raise my kids in freedom and grace, I could die having felt I did it all.
That's certainly what they give me every day.
The freedom to fail and be messy and be me - and still be loved and wanted.
That kind of makes every day Mother's Day for me.