Someday she’ll stop me from writing about her. But right now, as she stands next to me doing her homework, she is none the wiser. My six-year-old daughter, Gigi, has a descriptive vocabulary and a flair for drama. I’m used to it and didn’t start realizing how unique it was until my friend pointed it out on vacation this summer. Gigs had picked a hermit crab as her souvenir and wasn’t sure if it was alive or not. She came up to my friend and me as we sat in the hot tub and said she was going to plan her hermit crab’s funeral and find a burial site and wanted to know if I wanted to speak at the funeral. She couldn’t just ask if was still alive.
Yesterday she woke up, got dressed and announced that she looked like a “hideous dead flower.” She had brown tights, a black ruffle skirt and a brown t-shirt on that she had picked out on her own. When she came home she told me that her “heart had almost cracked open during school because she missed me too much.” This evening she declared us all “exsgusting” (not all of her words can be found in the dictionary) and vowed to move into our friend’s home for the next year. When I tried to make amends for my wrongs, she told me she was never going to smile again until she was 110 years old. She promptly asked me if I knew how many years away that was. Fortunately, I did.
She’s smiling again and is claiming me as her mother…for the moment. This little girl with the mole on her forehead and the colorful language is one of the reasons I smile each day. Even in her anger, she is a source of my happy.