Last week my oldest daughter curled her baby sister’s hair and took her to a nearby reception center for some pictures.
Some of them capture this little (or not-so-little) personality so well…
They also give me a glimpse at the artistic eye of the beautiful girl behind the camera, and it’s fun to see her experiment. I look at these photos and think, “She’s growing up.” Both of them. It’s wonderful and painful all at once.
This last picture is SO. HER.
As I type this, I sit in a quiet room with her on the couch nearby. She seems to be sound asleep, but if I move to leave she wakes to insist that I stay. I think of the things on my list for today and sigh inwardly, but it’s nice to be needed. It’s nice to have someone who still wants me here. I know the common feeling is that the youngest in every family ends up spoiled, and I suppose in some ways they are. But I watch her sometimes and ache for her, setting aside things she should love because everyone else has grown out of them, trying so hard to live the schedule of the older children in a body that needs much more sleep, trying to understand their worlds so she won’t be seen as ignorant, trying to be older than she is, and on these mornings I see what the keeping up costs her. She is adorable, clever, funny, sweet, mischievous, and exhausted. In the quiet of just the two of us, she can be who she really is, a tiny, growing four year old.
So I guess the housework will wait while we sit, my precious little girl and I.