There's too much to say. I'm so behind in chronicling your growth. It's all way too fast paced. You say hilarious things every day. My picture files are filled with images of your expressive little face. And today, today, was your first Primary Program.
Let it go down on the record that you sang so sincerely and spoke ("I help feed oatmeal to my little brother Spencer") so clearly. You were excited. You were confidant (which is relatively new for you). And your father and I, looking back and forth from you to Spencer (who was "leading" the music in the back benches beside us), were so grateful. (I know we weren't the only ones. All your little friends did so well! And for sure my favorite part of the meeting was the tender post-program scene of mothers and fathers with arms open wide, ready to give hugs and pour out praise).You told us at dinner tonight, "Giving a talk is hard. But I can do it." And you can. "Yes!" I said, "You did so well! Daddy and I are so proud of you! And do you know who else is proud of you today?" You looked at me with expectant, knowing eyes as I said, "Heavenly Father." "Uh-huh!" you agreed. "I bet he's clapp-in'!"
I'm sure He was, Lucy. And I'm sure he smiles down at you daily (with your smoothie mustache, green boots, and all).
I sure smile at those things. And I smile at the way you're such a negotiator lately. You can negotiate circles around me. But sometimes you don't have to negotiate. Sometimes (like when Dad is away for the evening), I'm glad for your curled up body next to mine on the big bed, glad for the huge stack of Halloween books on the nightstand, glad for time with my girl.
And speaking of keeping me company, you're truly an expert at helping people stave off loneliness. Just before bed tonight you told me in reference to Grandma and Grandpa: "We need to have more sleep-overs. 'Cause we don't want Grandma and Grandpa to be sad!!"I know that Grandma and Grandpa probably don't miss the loads of laundry we always bring, or the messes we always make, or the meals we always require. But I'm sure, Lucy, that they probably do miss you. =)
I would too. I'd miss the way you occasionally add a serious vibrato to you voice as you sing primary or preschool songs to yourself. I'd miss the laughter you evoke ('specially from Spencer. He loves to watch you run. Makes him die with excitement.) I'd miss the ways you help ... "Lucy, Spencer's awake, will you go talk to him while Mom finishes a little work?" "Lucy, will you close the bathroom door so Spencer doesn't climb in the toilet?" "Lucy, will you feed Spencer some bites of oatmeal (hence your comment in the program today) while Mom gets dressed?"
I'd miss your constant creativity. A few weeks ago I came home from Tuesday meetings to find your typing on my computer (you have a Word document open every day - they're all little gems):
a tree is for climbing, I can climb a pine tree. Autumn, autumn and the leaves fall down but evergreen needles never fall down. Trees are green and brown and yellow and red. The leaves fall down at autumn time. But pine needles stick to trees.
I would especially miss the things you teach me.
For instance:
Sometime last week I picked you up from preschool and you were exuberant. Ecstatic. You had so much to tell me. I listened about rug time...drawing time...you had watched a movie...little yellow ducks...and one white...and the rabbits ran away from the white duck...and a swan...Oh! You had watched The Ugly Duckling! I was glad to have understood your description, and I started asking more questions. "Was the little white guy so sad when the others ran away?... Did he want someone to play with him?...Should we be nice to everyone, even if they're different from us?" (Seize the teaching moment, right?) But then suddenly you were having a break down in the back seat. Your fists were clenched and frustration was all over your face. I was surprised. Where had that come from? It took several minutes in a parking lot to calm you down and dig to the bottom of the suddenly outrageous behavior. The bottom line was this: You had wanted to tell me more. My words had interrupted your train of thought. By the end of the conversation, we both had tears in our eyes. Mine, apologetic. Yours, forgiving.
I'm so grateful for that lesson to listen.
I'm so grateful for you, Lucy girl.
