In my usual writing style, I would follow last year's birthday post with a melancholy meandering blog dedication to the heartbreak of watching my Smallest Baby Eva, become a miniature lady. Possibly, I would open with "I wish I could have told myself, one year ago, to halt time. Consume every moment, study her face her expressions." Except...
This year, I actually did just that.
It may have been the lessons learned during my brother's suffering last Fall. Or the wisdom acquired over eleven years of mothering. Maybe it was celebrating milestone birthdays, or the constant blinking light reading "Kindergarten".
Whatever the inspiration, this past year: I watched my Tinkerbell grow. I actively reminded myself to breathe her in. I would walk past her, as she lost herself in movies and forced myself to STOP. Pause and kiss the top of her tiny head. (she dismissed my affection with an eye roll.) I absorbed her joy completely, as she ran towards her first ocean.
I painted her picture, across my very best memories.
I watched each freckle spread across her pink summer cheeks. I snuggled at every opportunity. I became uber aware of how Truly blessed I am, to have been granted the gift of her.
Today, is my 700th blog post on Tru Stories.
How very fitting.
This blog was created, with Tink as my inspiration.
Certainly Coco is the Large Scale Musical Production in our home. Center stage, with each waking breath (LiTeRallY as I typed this very sentence, Coco clipped a barrette to her nostril and I was forced to interrupt my thought, to save her.)
The Kid is our History Channel. Each scheduled program, amazing us with new details and factual mysteries. Always constant, always brilliant.
She is our heartwarming, Rom-Com Indie winner. A little summer-sleeper surprise hit, which quietly enraptures you from opening scene and leaves you softly smiling through tears of amused enjoyment.
This past year, Tink grew. (figuratively not necessarily physically.) She traveled. She vacationed away from her home, her couch and her parents. She kinda gave swim lessons a maybe try. She performed a large jump rope show, she swam-ished in an ocean. She joined Tball, had sleepovers, began CCD, cheered on the football field... oh, and she became a Kindergartner. Just like that.
The soft curve of her face has thinned. Her tiny bottom showcased in skinny jeans, adorned with sparkles. Her curly locks now slightly more tamed and adorably long. Still, she is exactly whom she has always been.
She continues to be completely bored with mundane polite conversation. She has hardly bothered to learn the names of classmates. Rarely mentions her school time activities, after quickly squeezing her tushie into her couch corner.
Except... she is surprisingly well liked. You would have thought I was picking up Coach from school, as the other children excitedly wave Tink goodbye. She almost (dare I say?) appears to be very sweet. Similar to her mother: While we may not seem friendly, we are actually very kind. Honestly, Tru Story!
But she is Tinkerbell. Feisty. Opinionated. Hand on hip, boot wearing, kick her sista for fun, 'not your pretty' kind of gal. Our most obviously, proud recipient of two extremely sarcastic families' inherited gift.
As if her morning birthday picture was a premonition, with the police cruiser over her shoulder. Trouble?? Yes. Capital T. While she has only been placed on Yellow once, in her classroom (a punishment which barely warranted an unashamed shoulder shrug) she is routinely placed in Yellow, in her mother's head. Her foot stomp and icy glare are only improving with age. Practice makes perfect.
You are the dream, I unknowingly dreamed of, once in a lullaby. A fairy, created by a baby's honey sweet giggle, equal to the sound of an angel's song. You are my imagination. Sparkle fairy dust sprinkled on a fresh winter's snow. My slow dance, in the warm afternoon sun spot. You have inspired my child-like wonder. Thank-you, for bringing magic to my life.
I do believe in Fairies. I do! I do!
I believe in you. Always and forever.
Happy 6th Birthday, my girl.