I never wanted to be one of those lame moms who incessantly talks about their children, who writes a blog devoted to them.
Well, here I am.
And all I want to talk about is her.
Eat it, old me. I'm a lame mom!
For those of you who didn’t get to meet her, I’d like to paint you a picture of my daughter, for a mother knows her child from the day her life begins. Some of these things I knew inherently, but some have been revealed to me as a gift. This is my girl, my Quinn.
She is delicate. Though her daddy’s large hands and feet may betray her, her features are fine and soft and gentle. She is pretty. She is such a GIRL. She would have grown tall and lithe, with much more finesse in her athletic abilities than her mother. Her eyes are round and wide, but her lips dance with a smile and a dimple that flickers on her right cheek. Her curly brown locks can not be tamed, much to her mother’s chagrin.
She is stubborn. She gets that from both her parents. Quinn, please uncurl from that little ball and let the ultrasound tech check you out. Nope. Quinn, please move for your aunties so they can feel you kick. Nope. What Quinn didn’t want to do, Quinn wouldn’t do. She would stamp her foot, pout her little lips, and dig her heels in so deep, there would be no convincing her otherwise. Mommy would recognize herself in her little girl, and foster that stubbornness into a strong, independent woman with something to say.
She is my morning girl. From the moment I woke up, there she was, happily kicking away. Good morning Mommy! What a beautiful day! So unlike me. So like her father. That would have been their time. Morning time. Daddy would have spoiled her with hot chocolate…every day…he told me.
She grows still when the faint strains of a beautiful piece of music grace her ears. Though she would have driven her piano teachers crazy with her incessant questions during lessons, she would have a deep appreciation for the beauty of music.
She is content. Not on the move a lot, happy to just sit and talk. She would have her moments of wriggling, of dancing and twirling. But then, she would plop herself down and just talk. Like one of the ladies. A chat-ter.
She likes to sleep. Like me, like Daniel. A house full of sleepers. So boring. So nice!
She is pensive. But, by no means serious! She lives up to her name. She thinks. Deeply. There is always a pause before she speaks. She looks at you with her big round eyes, blinks her long eyelashes like her daddy and says. Hmmmm. Hmmmm, Mommy. I’m thinking. And we wait for an answer. And it is simple and profound. My wise little one.
She has a soft heart. She sees the hurting and tries to cheer them with her joy. Just laugh! She says. It’s ok! Just laugh! That laugh would get her into trouble. Stop giggling Quinn, it’s time to pay attention now.
Most of all….
She is joy. Her laugh echoes in the recesses of my mind at all times. It is bubbly and overflows from deep within. It…she… is pure bliss.
Don't be sad, Mommy. She says to me again. Don't be sad, I'm not sad!
And so I say, I will take joy from yours, my little one. I will grab on to that small flicker and hold on for dear life. Because without it, life is so very, very bleak.
I pray that Quinn - her life, her being - brings you flickers of joy as well.