She still wants things like Barbie dream houses (which she got), but she also wants to dance and listen to music. There are still glimpses of the sweetness of her toddler years, but so much of the sass that comes with being a girl in conflict with her parents about who she is and what she wants.
Every year, obviously, she becomes a little taller and more grown up looking physically. But every year, so, too, changes can be seen in her expressions, her choices, her tone of voice.
So, today, she had her birthday pancakes and tonight we'll get her birthday BBQ (another sign she's growing up: we've gone from mac and cheese to ribs, well, and mac and cheese, too).
Parenting is always about choosing your battles. Usually those battles are with the child herself and involve which shirt or socks to wear or how often to brush her hair or whether it's actually a viable choice to only brush your teeth once a day for less than 30 seconds (it's not, by the way). I don't care if her socks match, nor if they match the ensemble she's chosen for the day. I just want her to understand when it's time to get dressed and, for the love of all that is holy, to change into clean underwear every day. Every day, kid. Every. Day. *
Now, as she moves into this new stage, the battle feels like it's on such a larger scale. I'm battling against high heels and make up, even in 2nd grade. I'm battling against kids who put her down at school and the friends who don't stand up for her. I'm battling against her inclination to talk back, her proclaimed boredom while doing homework, her preference to watch TV for 12 hours a day rather than to play or read. I'm battling her inability to understand why we can't have oatmeal or macaroni and cheese for every meal, and her preference not to eat green beans or spinach.
My parents had the same battles, all of them did. Thank God so many chose to fight them on our behalf. Some are straightforward wars of attrition, some of them feel Quixotic in their nature. Limiting exposure to the hypersexualized body image destroying crap that's spewed out of televisions, magazines and computer screens for girls and boys alike often feels overwhelming and unwinnable. But they're all battles worth fighting. More importantly, they're worth her knowing that we're fighting them. Because one day, she'll be the one fighting. My best hope is that she'll remember us on our horses, charging those windmills, and she'll be willing to do the same for her own children. Or for someone else's. Or, even better, on her own behalf.
So, happy birthday, kid. Thanks for bringing us on this wonderful, terrifying, beautiful journey. Thanks for making us grow up and protect you, but also for bringing back the wonder of childhood and joy and allowing us to do it all over again through your eyes. Thanks for being independent and sassy enough to remind us that it's YOUR childhood, not ours. Most of all, thanks for being you, and in so doing, being ours.
And now that you're 8, I need to see videos of you when you were 2. It's the way moms work.
**PS: she does change her underwear daily at this point. But there was a time when I had to explain why it was important. I'm sure she still has her doubts, but she gets it that we're not budging on this particular rule.
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