Lessons from Abbey

Cringing, I grit my teeth, biting back my annoyance as she digs in her heels, adamantly arguing that she shouldn't have to go inside.  The concept of time is still beyond her grasp, at least when it comes down to the choice between making dinner and playing with sidewalk chalk just a little while longer.  My impatience bubbles to the surface, and I'm hoping that our neighbors aren't listening to her tantrum.

I pause for a moment, remembering that she is just three years old.

Often, I forget how very young she is, and I have to stop and take in the softness of her cheeks and baby fineness of her feathery eyelashes.

Her voice is still childish and small, but her expression is serious when she tells me: "I would prefer to wear the pink shirt."

There's no hesitation as she grabs one of her toys from Dylan's chubby fist, but she is sincere when she reminds me: "Dylan's just a baby; he doesn't know any better."

She shyly answers back when a new acquaintance says hello, but her small hand seeks out mine, holding tightly until she is comfortable again.

At bedtime, she chooses a story we've read hundreds of times, but now she carefully cradles her doll so Baby can see the pictures.

Pushing limits whenever she can, she insists on making a detour through Dylan's side of the car, climbing into her carseat and buckling the chest strap herself.  Yet, when she's sad or tired or scrapes her knee while running in flip flops, she clings to me like a baby monkey, legs and arms wrapped tightly around my body.

Navigating her way from the life of a toddler to one of a child, she wavers back and forth between the two worlds, gracefully and seamlessly mastering some changes while stumbling with frustration on others.  Yet, she remains undaunted, pressing forward, reaching higher and higher.

Chastened, I think of the times I have doubted myself, afraid of moving beyond my sphere of comfort and familiarity.  I think of the times I have given up.

She does not give up.

She has so much to learn.

She has so much to teach me.

She is just three years old.

the prompt was to write about a child that inspires me

is it cliche to be inspired by my own daughter?

because I am, every single day