an embarrassment of riches

Things I am thankful for (#s 1-13 of 17,846,319 and counting)

Darby’s laugh – not her polite little chuckle, the real one. The one that comes from somewhere deep and full of joy. The can’t breathe, smile wrapped around her head laugh. The laugh that summons the angels and leaves them lingering in the room long after it subsides.

Kendall’s belly laugh – so different from her sister’s, so very much her own. The laugh that starts with her shoulders and takes her whole body along for the ride. The laugh that sets her eyes on fire and whose sheer energy could launch a rocketship and send it into orbit. The contagious laugh that leaves an electric happiness in its wake.

My husband - (<- ooh! lookie! it’s blue! wonder what’ll happen if you click on it?) who loves me even when I am hardest to love. My partner. My best friend.

Our home – the home that happens to be in our house, but could be anywhere that we are together.

The fact that the things in life that I value the most don’t cost money.

All of the people who love and support and teach my children.

The parents, teachers and friends who take up the mantle of advocacy, who kick and scream and scratch and claw and pave the way for all of our children. Those who have come before, and those who will follow us.

Parents who teach their children compassion.

My beautiful Grandma – who has taught me that strength and femininity need not be mutually exclusive and that tenderness endures. Whose sense of humor and easy laugh I am so proud to share.

Our troops, who risk their lives each and every day in the name of duty. And their families, no less brave, a world away.

Language - Kendall’s ability to express herself, to ask for what she needs. And mine.

Our ipod shuffle – which has given my baby access to places she never could have gone without it. And when she sings along, heaven.

Autism. Yes, even that son of a b!tch autism – for touching my little girl more gently than it might have. For the gifts that it left behind, or at the least revealed. For forcing us to become so much more than we might have been. For teaching us compassion, tolerance, respect. For bringing together a community of people who can and have and will make the world more understanding. 

You – who read the words I write. Who share this journey with me and who remind me that I am not alone. You make the good times so much sweeter for the sharing and the tough times more bearable just for knowing that you’re there, waiting and willing to cheer the next victory or to send love when all else fails.

Yes, today and everyday, I am blessed beyond belief. And I am so thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

an early thanksgiving

So this year, we were determined not to travel for Thanksgiving. And, selfish as it might sound, we also decided that we had no interest in inviting anyone. Is that awful? No, don’t answer. It’s not awful. It’s smart. Haven’t we all learned from holidays past that sometimes it’s really kind of nice to enjoy our own little families? To be thankful in peace (and relative quiet)? Not to torture our sensory challenged kids with a crowded house? So, alone was the plan.

But here’s what you have to understand about my dad. Dad’s gonna celebrate holidays with his little girl (yup, that’s me), his son (that’s Matt – Dad dropped the ‘in-law’ part years ago) and his babies (the girls) one way or the other. And it works. I have yet to say no. I have yet to feel the need to say no.  Ever. Because he couldn’t care less when the celebration takes place. Christmas in October? Done it. My August birthday in June? Yup. New Years on Jan 3rd? Why the hell not?

So, when my dad called to say that he’d like to come up the weekend before Thanksgiving, we all knew that Squanto and his Pilgrim friends would be feasting a little early this year.

My dad let me know in no uncertain terms that he was bringing the meal. I mentioned that I had seen a great recipe for a cranberry casserole, but I backed down after hearing the sigh on the other end of the phone. Dad knows that money is tight. He knows that Christmas is coming and our lives are incredibly busy. And he is Dad. You don’t say no to Dad. So we agreed to sit back, open the wine and allow him to take care of us. Yeah Dad!

I invited my cousins to join us for dinner. There was concern that we might not have enough food. Hullo? My dad has never served a meal without enough for three times the number of guests. Food, you see, is love. True to form, he brought dinner for ten adults.  Yes, ten adults, despite the fact that we planned to have only five adults and two children (who would be lucky to fill a plate between them). Yes, I knew we’d have plenty.

Our table groaned under the weight of the food, despite two huge leaves. The flavors and colors and smells were dizzying. Turkey (15 lbs of it!), stuffing, gravy, cranberry relish, the best sweet potatoes I’ve ever had in my life (seriously), kasha and varnishkes, pickles of every shape, size, color and creed, potato knishes, potato pancakes. Hell, he even brought pigs in a blanket. OK, I can’t explain the pigs in a blanket, but they were a hit. Dad knows his audience.

I took my seat in between my girls at the table. Kendall was eyeing her turkey suspiciously. She took a small bite, but it didn’t look promising. She asked for a slice of buttered toast. Toast? Really? I thought about offering something else, but instead, as I often do when the house is full and Kendall is on edge, I took the path of least resistance. As I was toasting her bread, I ran through a comparative study in my head. – ‘foods on the table vs. foods I have a prayer of getting her to eat.’

I honed in on mashed potatoes. Ah, the otherworldly mashed potato – the marriage of my culinary loves, starch, butter and salt – my entire motivation for sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner. She’ll eat mashed .. Wait a minute! Where are the mashed potatoes? As I buttered her bread, I peeked out at the table. Potato pancakes, potato knishes, even kasha and friggin varnishkes .. but not a smashed potato in sight.

Now, you must understand, I know that I must sound desperately ungrateful as I hone in on the one – the only - thing that was not on the table. It would appear, I’m sure, that I am a completely spoiled brat who doesn’t appreciate her dear old dad’s generosity. I assure you, this is NOT the case. Quite the contrary. And all of this would have stayed safely inside my little foam stuffed head were it not for what came next.

I sat back down next to Kenz and started to pile carb after delicious, delightful carb on my plate. And then I heard it. A small voice to my right, muttering quietly.  She continued to mumble to herself for a while and it seemed to be keeping her calm. She often runs through entire scripts or books in her head, especially when there’s too much going on around her. Blissfully, she sat for a good chunk of time without asking for a break. But then something changed.

Her voice became much louder and quite clear as she said, “WHAT KIND OF THANKSGIVING FEAST IS THIS?”

Huh? Oh dear! Oh my.

This can’t be a good start. I looked around the table. Thankfully, this was not a subdued crowd. They were chattering away and laughing loudly enough that her opening salvo seemed to have flown under the radar.

“WHERE ARE THE MASHED POTATOES?” she all but screamed.

Oh My God. In can’t even believe she noticed! OK, so we all love mashed potatoes and yeah, it’s really kind of a travesty to have Thanksgiving without them, but um, Are you kidding me?

“WHERE’S THE CRANBERRY SAUCE??”

“WHERE’S THE PUMPKIN PIE?”

How on earth? What on earth? Thank God Dad’s at the other end of the table!

“WHERE’S THE JELL-O?”

Jell-o?

Oy.

Later in the evening, once the older generation had retired to bed, we got the kids into their jammies and settled in for a viewing of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

We laughed at the Peanuts’ antics. We watched as Snoopy served up a meal of buttered toast, popcorn and jelly beans. Wait, buttered toast? Hmm. And then we watched with particular interest as Peppermint patty accosted Chuck with a barrage of ingratitude. It went something like this:

“What kind of Thanksgiving feast is this? Where are the mashed potatoes? Where’s the cranberry sauce? Where’s the pumpkin pie? Where’s the Jell-o?”

Oh.

Thank.

God.

getting there is love

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Kendall must have been three years old. She wanted her ballet slippers. I don’t know why, perhaps she was playing dress up, perhaps the moon was in the seventh house. Whatever the reason, she had it in her little head that she needed her ballet slippers.

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I looked around the house but I couldn’t find them. I didn’t think it was a big deal. I flippantly told her that the slippers were a no go. I knew so little. She began to perseverate on one sentence. “I want my ballet slippers!” Over and over and over and over again. “I want my ballet slippers!” It would almost have been funny. But it wasn’t. It got louder. She got more anxious. “I want my ballet slippers!”          

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I explained that I couldn’t find the slippers. I’m sure I offered an alternative. She fell apart. Sobbing, shaking, yelling – you know the rest. All the while, stuck in automatic rewind. “I want my ballet slippers! I want my ballet slippers!”

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I wasn’t going to stand for a tantrum. Oh hell no, not this mom. I don’t ‘do’ tantrums. Not in this house, child. I sent her to her room. I just didn’t know. I had to walk her up there because she didn’t understand what I was saying. Or she couldn’t hear me. Or both.

 .

All the way up the stairs, “I want my ballet slippers!” Jagged sob after jagged sob. “I want my ballet slippers!” Her little body shook like a leaf in a hurricane. 

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My dad’s words rattled around in the back of my head “You’re really quite lenient with those kids.” Oh yeah? Watch this, Pop. She will NOT get away with this kind of behavior.

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“I want my ballet slippers!” She could barely catch her breath, but there was no stopping the broken record. “I want my ballet slippers!” 

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For heaven’s sake, enough with the %$&*!@ ballet slippers! I put her in her room. I didn’t know. God, I just didn’t know. “I want my ballet slippers!” Gasp. Sob. “I want my ballet slippers!”  Over the screams, above the hoarse cry, I explained that she would stay in that room until she could calm herself down.

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Calm herself down. I didn’t know. I walked away. She looked so small standing in the middle of her room. I choked back my own tears. I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth. I left her there screaming, overwhelmed, confused, lost. 

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“I want my ballet slippers!” Gasp. Sob. ”I want my ballet slippers!” 

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I crouched against the wall at the bottom of the steps struggling to find the right thing to do. I can still feel that wall, cool, immovable against my back. I could barely breathe. Something wasn’t right. I didn’t know what.

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I thought of Ferber’s sleep method - let your child know they are safe and loved but leave them to soothe themselves. I went up again. I stood in her doorway and I told her she would be free to come out of her room when she got it together. I raised my voice in an attempt to be heard over her screams. “I want my ballet slippers! I want my ballet slippers!” I told her I loved her. Then I told her that her behavior was unacceptable. I walked away again and left her screaming, her face streaked with mucus and tears.

 .

“I want my ballet slippers!” Her voice was breaking, but she didn’t stop. ”I want my ballet slippers!”  I was so frustrated. I was so angry. Why wouldn’t she just let it go? “I want my ballet slippers! I want my ballet slippers!” 

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I went up again. I grabbed her by the shoulders, too hard. I squared her body to mine and chased her eyes. “Enough with the God damned ballet slippers!” God, I didn’t know. I am so sorry. I thought she wouldn’t stop. I didn’t know she couldn’t stop. I didn’t know there was a difference. I just didn’t know. She didn’t see me. She didn’t hear me. I am so sorry.

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I told this story for the first time a couple of days ago. My dear cyber friend,  M  had posted this torturously illustrative post and I felt compelled to respond. M ’s writing does that. It starts you thinking. It forces self examination.

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When I wrote the story I told M that I hate myself for that day – for not getting it. How could I not have known?  Understanding, I told M, is not automatic. Sometimes, I said, it can be particularly hard won.

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And then M  wrote this. Read it, please. I implore you. Yes, you. The parents out there who are like me, who try so hard to understand the way that your child experiences the world, and then who beat yourselves up over stories like this one. Old, dusty, heartbreaking stories that you write through tears. You do have them, don’t you? Maybe from the time before you knew?

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Please read it. I printed it out. I may frame it. Because I need to hear words like the ones that follow. I’m guessing you do too.

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“And good people get frustrated. That’s a part of getting there (making guilt completely unnecessary. Stop that.)”

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And this:

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“Being there is empathy. Getting there is love.”

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You’ll see my comments on the post, but for me it boils down to this: We’re so much harder on ourselves than we are on others. We mete out forgiveness and support, validation and love so freely to each other, but somehow it’s so much harder to find the same compassion, the same gentleness for ourselves. And according to my dear friend and sage, as long as we’re trying, we deserve a little slack. An ‘A’ for effort, as it were. Because we’re getting there, aren’t we? And getting there is love. So says M.

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Thank you, M. You rock.

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ed note: Please note that any text in blue is what’s called a hot link to another website. So, when it says ‘M’ in blue, you can click on it and it will take you to M’s blog, Incipient Turvy. Where it says, ‘this’ in blue, one click will take you to the particular post that I am asking you to read. Matt says many of you might have missed this concept in the past. Now you have no excuses. And, of course, I fully expect that you will now go back and reread every post I’ve ever written so that you can click on the hot links. Or not.

autumn in new england

 

Autumn in New England .. A day in pictures 

Peek A Boo

Kendall (and Jojo) in scratchy, crunchy, dry sensory heaven

Up, Up …

And away!

pat green

I went to see Pat Green last night. Have you met Pat? His music crawled into my soul sometime around 1998 and he hasn’t let up since.  He’s real, he’s funny, he’s immensely talented and well, when he pulls out a guitar you might just follow him to the ends of the earth.

With lyrics like these, who could blame you?

Life will make sure that you got your troubles
Life will make sure that you work too hard
Ain’t nobody that don’t get tired
Watching troubles pile up big in your own backyard
Sometimes you’ve got to grab your world with your own two hands
Set it spinning off on a course all your own
Take yourself a big bag for your shoulder
Find yourself some good times, bring them on back home

~ Carry On

*

It’s a lesson of survival
To ride out every trial
It’s the secret of forgiveness
Way down deep inside

~ Who’s To Say

*

Close my eyes
And ask myself a question
Why is I do what I do
Am I looking for some happy definition
Of life, and love in the corners of the truth
Or am I just some curious bystander
Looking at the world through a child’s eyes
Sunlight, always shining on my shoulder
While the storm rages on deep inside

And it seems so hard
To keep it all together
When the walls are fallin’ down
On every side
I’ll be damned
If I give up on it easy
I’ve worked too hard
To lay the barricades aside

~ Barricades

*

Took a walk on down the seashore
Saw a beggar picking up some cans
Saw a little boy who had some salt in his eyes
Reaching out for his mama’s hands
Then I watched a stranger give that man a dollar
Watched the mama wipe the tears from her little boy’s eyes
Then I stared up into the heavens
Said oh my God I’m glad to be alive
I’m so glad that I’m alive

Wake up in the morning
We turn all the lights on
Turn em’ out at night so that we can hide
Sometimes I sleep with all the lights on
It helps me to appreciate the night
I hear people talk about life all the time
All they remember are times so sad
Don’t you thing that life would be awfully boring
If the good time were all that we had

~ Crazy

*

I can’t explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, nor a feathered wing
How a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there’s always more than what appears to be
And when the light’s just right
I swear I see

Man it’s poetry

.

~ Poetry

*

There’s a spot on earth a man can go
To find himself and free his soul
A place somewhere between hell and heaven
Where no one hurts and all’s forgiven
A door that leads to light and grace
But the keys are in the darkest place
It feels like I’ve been there before
Though I dont know what I’m looking for

I’m trying to find it

~ I’m Trying To Find It

and so, we dance

I walked in the door after work, starved for my girls. Darby was waiting for me at the top of the steps, her nose buried in her latest book.  I planted a kiss on her soft little cheek and lingered there, breathing her in. 

Behind her, I caught a quick glimpse of Kendall peeking her little head around the corner like a sprite. I stepped into the entryway just in time to see her running in the opposite direction. She careened into the kitchen and laid herself down, flat on her belly as if she had slid into home. She yelled back to where I was standing, no doubt looking confused. “Hug me, Mama!”  

I shook my head with a smile and clucked, thinking she was being silly, playing for a laugh. Besides, it would be awkward at best to hug her in that position. How does one ‘hug’ a child who is lying flat on her stomach? I waited, thinking she’d get up, but she wasn’t moving.

“Hug me, Mama!” she yelled again, this time into the floor.

I figured I’d meet her halfway, so I crouched down to a squat next to her.

“C’mon, little love,” I said as I opened my arms. “Come on up to Mama for a hug.”

She didn’t move.

“You hug me,” she said.

Screw it, I thought as I did my best to lie down next to her and snuggle into a hug of sorts.

“You are hugging me, Mama!”

Well, kind of, I thought. I had one arm draped around her and my head was half hovering  and half resting on her back.

I felt silly and awkward lying down in the middle of my kitchen. It’s different. It’s odd. It’s unconventional. It’s strange. It’s just not something people do. Who the heck lies down on their floor to spoon with their kid?

Well, apparently I do.

Kendall wanted a hug and she wanted it on her terms. And when it came down to it, why the hell not?

All day Kendall works so hard. She sits still in school, fighting every impulse to squirm and wiggle and bounce. She replaces her natural greetings (tickles and deebahs and snipwaters) with ‘appropriate’ words fed to her by her aide. She stands in line. She asks for breaks. She stifles screams. She tolerates noise and light and every type of sensory assault imaginable. She waits her turn and she follows directions. In short, she conforms. In ways both big and small, she meets the world on its terms all day long.

At home, I think it’s kind of nice to meet her on her terms. At least some of the time.

Lying on the hard wood floor I thought, So this is what it feels like to dance.

don’t think. dance.

 

On Saturday afternoon, Kendall went to a classmate’s birthday party. I decided to take Darby to a movie while Matt took Kendall to the party.

Wait – you like how I made that sound all casual? Like, “Oh, sure here’s what I’ll do.” Like i didn’t agonize over it and twist myself into a knot trying to decide if it was better to have quality time with Darby or to get to know some of Kendall’s classmates’ parents at the party? Anyway, back to casual.

Darby and I stuffed ourselves silly with popcorn and blue raspberry slush as we made a mid-day date of Madagascar 2. The movie was predictably cute. We cuddled and slurped and laughed and (I) shushed (her) throughout.

There were a couple of different plot lines in the movie, but one that really got me. Like GOT ME as in hit me in the chest and said, “Hey, you. Yeah, you, with that ridiculously huge mouthful of popcorn. Are you paying attention? An animated lion is telling you something that you need to hear!” Yes, I have those moments. Often.

The Readers Digest version of the story is that the young lion, Alex, has to prove himself to his father upon returning to his pride. 

Those of you who saw the first movie might recall that Alex was separated from his family as a cub. He was subsequently raised in the Central Park Zoo in Manhattan. He was dubbed ‘The King of New York” by the adoring crowds that gathered at the zoo to see him dance. In New York, he was beloved and revered for his incredible dancing.

Back in Africa, his talents mean nothing to his father. He can find no value in what he sees only as his son’s odd, impractical and unlionine behavior.

I’ll do my best not to ruin the story for you (as though you’d go see Madagascar 2 for the suspense), but at one point, father and son find themselves in front of an angry and frightened mob of tourists who are lost on safari in their animal preserve. To fend off the crowd, the father growls and roars. The crowd gets angrier and more menacing. His offense as defense method is failing miserably. The people raise their weapons and take aim.

Alex slowly begins to do what he does best – he dances. As he does, the crowd quiets. They watch, mesmerized as he builds momentum.

The dad joins him, awkwardly trying to follow his son’s lead. He looks (and obviously feels) absurd.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Alex asks.

“Dancing, I think.”

“Don’t think, Dad. Dance!”

The father lets loose and, grinning like fools, they dance. Together.

A New Yorker recognizes Alex’s moves. “Hey that’s Alex! I’d know that lion anywhere!” The cheers are deafening.

“That’s my boy!” beams the dad, dancing away. “The king of New York!”

Our children’s talents may not always be what the pride (or our pride) expects or demands. The value of their particular skills may not seem obvious at first.

But if we let ourselves stop thinking and we join them in the dance, we may just see what we’re all meant to do. The crowd may see it too. And even better, we may all just have some fun.

sometimes it’s hard

On Sunday morning, the girls and I were hanging out in the den, letting Daddy sleep in. Kendall sat in the middle of the steaming primary-colored wreckage of the recently ravaged game closet, happily hanging plastic monkeys on a tree as she sang a favorite song from gym class.

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“Five little monkeys swinging from the tree

Teasin Mr Alligator ‘Can’t catch me’

Along came Mr Alligator, mean as can be

And snapped that monkey out of that tree”

Darby, ever the crafty kid, was making homemade paper slinkies for each member of the family. The slinkies themselves would better be described as accordions, but since Darby wanted them to be slinkies, well, slinkies they were. The slinkies were individually decorated and came in different sizes and shapes. One could choose from a wide and short style or a skinny and tall version.

After making them for Matt and me, Darby decided that Kendall could obviously not live without one. Excitedly, she asked Kendall which style she’d like. Doing her best impression of a Home Shopping Network hostess, she displayed one of each type in either hand. “Kendall,” she asked eagerly, “which one would you like?”

“Teasin Mr Alligator, ‘Can’t catch me’”

Darby tried to get Kendall’s attention, enthusiastically explaining that she was going to make one of these origami wonders for her.

“Along came Mr Alligator, mean as can be”

I convinced her to wait until Kendall had gotten to the end of the verse. I reminded her that her sister needs to finish what she starts. She can get anxious and frustrated when she gets cut off midstream. Darby waited impatiently as she got through the last line.

“And snapped that monkey out of that tree.”

She seized the opening and started again. “Kendall, do you want this kind or this kind? I’m going to MAKE this for you, Kendall! Which one do you like?”

With some prodding from Mama, Kendall finally looked up and pointed ambiguously, somewhere in between the two folded pieces of paper. It was enough for Darby, who went right to work customizing Kendall’s ‘choice.’

Kendall knocked the tree down and started the process again.

Darby immediately set to work on Kendall’s slinky. She concentrated all her energies on her masterpiece. When she finished, she held it up proudly for my inspection. She had written M-O-N-K-E-Y in the folds of the paper and had traced each letter in red, her sister’s favorite color. I gushed over her thoughtfulness and told her I was sure her sister would love it. She turned to Kendall and displayed her precious offering in an outstretched hand.

“Five little monkeys swinging from the tree.”

 “Kendall. Look what I made for you!”

“Teasin Mr Alligator, ‘Can’t catch me’”

 “Kendall, look. Do you want me to read it to you? Do you see the letters? They’re your favorite color, Kenz!”

“Along came Mr Alligator, mean as can be”

“Kendall, please look at what I made for you. It’s a present, Kendall. It’s just for you. Do you like it?” Her voice was pleading.

“And snapped that monkey out of that tree.”

“Kendall, can you please look at what I made you? It’s a slinky. I can show you how it works. Do you want to try it?”

“No.”

I guided Kendall over to check it out. She gave it a cursory glance and returned to her pile of game pieces. I made a fuss over what a wonderful big sister Darby is. I prompted Kendall to say, ‘thank you’. I reminded Darby AGAIN how hard it can be to introduce something to Kendall when she’s in the middle of something. We talked about why. I told her that she’d likely love it later.

Darby began to cry. She rested her head against my chest and said, “Mama, sometimes it’s just hard. Sometimes it’s just hard to have a sister like her.”

And sometimes it is.

I held her tight and told her it was O.K. I told her I understood. And I do.

Sometimes it’s hard.

your turn, mama

 

The scene:

Two nights ago. It’s just after dinner and the girls and I linger at the table as Matt makes his way around the kitchen. Kendall is sitting on my lap. She is facing me, her legs straddling mine.  Darby is sitting one seat over, in her usual chair. We are laughing.

Kendall inadvertantly lets out a -  well, um, hmm –  a ‘bottom burp’ if you will. She looks surprised.

We all burst into fits of giggles.

Darby laughs so hard that she ultimately follows her little sister’s example.

We laugh even harder.

Kendall looks at me. She is laughing so hard that she can barely catch her breath as she says, “Your turn, Mama!”

I nearly fall off my chair laughing.

And no, I didn’t. Sheesh, people.

 

 

*

i know for a fact

 

At 7 1/2, Darby is in the charming habit of regularly trying on new expressions. She takes little morsels of conversation that she read or heard at school and plays with them for a while. She finds various ways to incorporate them into her speech and to ultimately make them her own. The particular phrase she’s toying with this week is, “I know for a fact.”

I love watching her experiment with each new expression. Sometimes she uses them appropriately, sometimes they’re a little awkward, and once in a while they simply get jammed forcibly into some poor unsuspecting sentence. This morning she said, “Yeah, I know for a fact that I really liked my old reading partner better than my new one, Mama.” Oooooookay.

A couple of days ago a Mom friend of mine sent me an e-mail describing a conversation that she had with her daughter, who is Darby’s schoolmate and friend. The conversation started when her daughter, who I’ll call Lila, told her that she had decided that she didn’t want a big birthday party this year. Instead, she told her mom, she really just wants to have a slumber party with her ‘real friends.’

The following is the conversation as described by my friend, who you will quickly see is a great mom. (So ‘me’ is really her, not me. Get it?) 

Me: What do you mean by real friends?
 
Lila: You know!
 
Me: No. I really don’t know. What is a real friend?
 
Lila: Well, Mommy. Real friends are the girls who don’t always try to be so powerful.
 
Me: What do mean by powerful honey?
 
Lila: You know.
 
Me: No. I really don’t.
 
(eye rolling)
 
Lila: The girls who try to have all the power because they’re not sure how to just be nice.
 
(OMG! She’s so damn smart!!)
 
Me: What do mean babe?
 
Lila: You know what I mean.
 
Me: No. I really don’t.
 
Lila: Well there are girls who never act nice except when they want all the power. And there are girls who share power,  which is really nice!
 
Me: Wow, Lila. That is so interesting. Can you tell me more about that?
 
(More eye rolling)
 
Lila: Well I just want girls like Darby at my party because she’s really nice even when she wants power. We can talk and decide to share it. That why Darby is so special.

I am so proud of my big girl. She’s navigating her world with a grace beyond her years. She is a good friend and a great little person.

Darby is one really neat kid. And I know that for a fact.

(and thank you so much to my friend for taking the time to share this with me. i will treasure it.)