Sunday, March 27, 2011
Cami likes riding in the back of Stinky (our 1994 Altima), going 50 miles per hour with the window rolled down.
Our other vehicle is a minivan, with windows that don't roll down; they only prop open a few inches. You get the breeze maybe, but not the experience.
I admire my girl. She's my hero, my "I want to be like her" person. She lives life at full throttle, no boundaries, no filters, no fear. She is a kinesthetic learner, which means she learns best by experiencing: touching it, squishing it, tasting it, crawling in it. We've had many conversations lately about how maple keys (seeds) are to be planted not tasted, and how wild bamboo leaves taste better to pandas than to Camis. All of her clothes have grass and mud stains on the knees. There's a dishwasher-safe placemat at her seat at the table. Our house is most always strewed with trails of Cami creations, Magnetix that fell off her newest invention, and candy wrappers she's saving for another collage. There isn't one spot in my house that doesn't have a stack of books in it, books about dragons and Pokemon, cookbooks and almanacs.
Sometimes the clutter feels overwhelming.
Then I remember to notice how much life we're living in this house. There is room for all of us.
Yes, most of my parenting job involves teaching my daughter boundaries and developing her filters, trying to impart wisdom and appropriate caution to her. It is exhausting. Yet there's this unexpected blessing that I'm discovering: As I get to know Cami and try to help her embrace and celebrate who God has made her to be, I'm discovering myself and reclaiming my God-created self that was all but abandoned in the name of "growing up."
I don't know what it's going to look like when she "grows up." I just know that right now, most of the time, we ride in the car with the windows rolled down.