"And though she be, but little, she is fierce,"
----William Shakespeare
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Her eyes are that of marbles. The perfect mixture of green and blue. They gaze in wonder at the smallest things. A bug. A piece of lint. A black and white butterfly drinking nectar from a hot pink flower. She talks as if she has been a part of this world longer than her three years, and asks questions that make me laugh. She is both tender and tough. A combination of a princess who loves pink, and a jean loving, hair down and flowing type of girl. (Yup, that proves she is mine.)
She is a creator of new words and a spinner of stories long after her eyes should have shut. Do you know what 'Pinkaly' means? For future reference it is her word for something both pink and sparkly. Don't you just love it?
When I look at her, and listen to her small voice I often think how did I ever deserve such a gem? And secondly, how can I protect this beautiful treasure from every being hurt? How can I hold her small body in the crook of my chest and just keep her mine?
The answer is I can't. I cannot hold her hostage to my fear of 'what if's'. For they are suffocating and stunting. I must let her explore and experience life. It is my duty to let her go. But how do we let go and let fly something that we want to protect with all the essence of our being?
I look at my girl and I see already at 3 what she is capable of being. She is one of those people who already knows what she wants. She tells her brothers as much. She isn't one who is easily walked over. She is capable of standing up for herself already. Lord help us. She is never bored and can have lengthy conversations between stuffed animals both seen and unseen.
Already I see in her the seeds of success. Not the success that accompanies a large bank account. But those of which great things are done. And although I know that I did not plant those seeds, I know that I must help to cultivate the garden of her soul.
There will be days when I must help her to pull the weeds that will creep in and try to overtake her. They will try to strangle her beauty and the essence of what makes her special. Some will be thorny and difficult to pull, while others will be just plain annoying. I will be there with my trowel in hand to help her see clearly what is most important.
On other days, I will help to quench her thirst for knowledge and not allow myself to push away those things that I feel uncomfortable 'getting dirty' over. I must be watchful for when like the earth, she is cracked and needing nourishment that mere mortal food will not give. I will seek to find experiences in her life that will help her to nurture those talents best suited for her even if they are not to my taste. For her garden is not my own. I am here to tend to her, but she is not me. I am here to help her grow, but eventually she will outgrow the small plot of land I have helped her to sow. She will blossom and want to stretch out to new untilled ground. That ground may be near or it may be far. It may be familiar or foreign.
And when that time comes, I am sure that I will shed tears of sorrow and tears of joy. A bittersweet combination of feeling both proud and powerless. Looking at her I will remember that small seed that I once carried so carefully, and simultaneously I will revel in her inner beauty, knowing that it must be shared.
Until that day, I will embrace being able to hold this precious love in my arms. I will pour on the butterfly kisses and cover her with the warmth of her mother's love. I will tell her everyday that she is both beautiful and smart, funny and helpful. She will know that she is strong and capable, yet tender and lovable.
I will make sure that a day does not pass when she wonders how I feel about her. She is the garden of my heart. I will love her and tend to her well, now and always. Hopefully she will be rooted well.
--k
----William Shakespeare
Her eyes are that of marbles. The perfect mixture of green and blue. They gaze in wonder at the smallest things. A bug. A piece of lint. A black and white butterfly drinking nectar from a hot pink flower. She talks as if she has been a part of this world longer than her three years, and asks questions that make me laugh. She is both tender and tough. A combination of a princess who loves pink, and a jean loving, hair down and flowing type of girl. (Yup, that proves she is mine.)
She is a creator of new words and a spinner of stories long after her eyes should have shut. Do you know what 'Pinkaly' means? For future reference it is her word for something both pink and sparkly. Don't you just love it?
When I look at her, and listen to her small voice I often think how did I ever deserve such a gem? And secondly, how can I protect this beautiful treasure from every being hurt? How can I hold her small body in the crook of my chest and just keep her mine?
The answer is I can't. I cannot hold her hostage to my fear of 'what if's'. For they are suffocating and stunting. I must let her explore and experience life. It is my duty to let her go. But how do we let go and let fly something that we want to protect with all the essence of our being?
I look at my girl and I see already at 3 what she is capable of being. She is one of those people who already knows what she wants. She tells her brothers as much. She isn't one who is easily walked over. She is capable of standing up for herself already. Lord help us. She is never bored and can have lengthy conversations between stuffed animals both seen and unseen.
Already I see in her the seeds of success. Not the success that accompanies a large bank account. But those of which great things are done. And although I know that I did not plant those seeds, I know that I must help to cultivate the garden of her soul.
There will be days when I must help her to pull the weeds that will creep in and try to overtake her. They will try to strangle her beauty and the essence of what makes her special. Some will be thorny and difficult to pull, while others will be just plain annoying. I will be there with my trowel in hand to help her see clearly what is most important.
On other days, I will help to quench her thirst for knowledge and not allow myself to push away those things that I feel uncomfortable 'getting dirty' over. I must be watchful for when like the earth, she is cracked and needing nourishment that mere mortal food will not give. I will seek to find experiences in her life that will help her to nurture those talents best suited for her even if they are not to my taste. For her garden is not my own. I am here to tend to her, but she is not me. I am here to help her grow, but eventually she will outgrow the small plot of land I have helped her to sow. She will blossom and want to stretch out to new untilled ground. That ground may be near or it may be far. It may be familiar or foreign.
And when that time comes, I am sure that I will shed tears of sorrow and tears of joy. A bittersweet combination of feeling both proud and powerless. Looking at her I will remember that small seed that I once carried so carefully, and simultaneously I will revel in her inner beauty, knowing that it must be shared.
Until that day, I will embrace being able to hold this precious love in my arms. I will pour on the butterfly kisses and cover her with the warmth of her mother's love. I will tell her everyday that she is both beautiful and smart, funny and helpful. She will know that she is strong and capable, yet tender and lovable.
I will make sure that a day does not pass when she wonders how I feel about her. She is the garden of my heart. I will love her and tend to her well, now and always. Hopefully she will be rooted well.
--k
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