Scared how she’ll react if she gets the Cinderella cup instead of the Tangled cup. Scared what she’ll do if we can’t find her puppy or her pony or her brown eyed baby doll, come bed time or nap time or car ride time or any old time when she decides she needs it.
She can storm harder and longer than my temper can usually take. My day often consists of a delicate dance around her, not knowing what mood she is in or at what moment that mood might change.
The name 'London' is derived from the Celtic word 'lond' which means 'wild' and 'dun' which means 'fortification' (also translated "a strengthening or improvement"). While her middle name 'Kate' is derived from a Greek word translated 'pure'.
London Kate ... a wild, pure child who strengthens and improves.
Our passionate, compassionate child with a temper so fierce and a soul so spiritual.
I am sad that I find myself functioning "around" her, rather than with her or for her. I was recently reminded that brown eyes aren’t the only things children inherit by blood. And I prayed that God would start to show me how to see. Not with a magnifying glass, but a mirror. After all, she is the one most like me.
She tries so hard. I see it. I understand it. It is familiar. It is frightening.
I see my own temper. I see my own need for affirmation and reassurance. I see my fear of "what if" in every situation.
I see how long it’s been since I’ve enjoyed her.
I try to stretch and bend and pray. I start to pay attention and listen.
I remind myself of how I want to see this daughter of mine. The only one of my three who bears a striking resemblance to her mama.
I begin to see the story God has for my sweet girl.
She dreams of being a "girl zoo keeper".
She snuggles deep beneath her covers every night and rests only after asking me if she looks "warm and cozy".
She worries about the seemingly insignificant. I know the motivation is genuine. She cares about others. Deeply. Sometimes she just has a hard time expressing it in a way that others understand.
She sleeps in the same position and thrives on the same routine every night. She likes to feel secure.
She thinks with expressions that are demonstrative. What you see is what you get. She wears her emotions like a mask on her face.
She is the one who will stop whatever she is doing at the most random times and simply say "Mommy, I love you". It's as if she knows that I need to hear it. From her.
She is the one who quietly follows me up the stairs after I've had a mama-meltdown. Without words she buries herself into me and takes my arm and wraps it around her. Her eyes speak so much love and joy into my soul. I am being comforted by my four year old.
Sometimes, in the beginning, when I am still finding the words, I wait until she’s asleep. And I sit beside her bed and pray. I pray that God will shield her sensitivity but lace it with wisdom and faith in Him. I pray that she will trust her Daddy and me to protect her. I pray that God will show us how to do that.
I watch her sleep and count the seven, eight, nine, twelve, thirteen stuffed animals surrounding her. I wonder how she even fits into that bed with all the puppy dogs, baby dolls, and various other animals clamoring for space alongside, so perfectly illustrating her love and compassion for all living things. I pray that God keeps her heart soft and huge, as it is now.
I begin to speak over her. Words of affirmation.
Words like brave, strong, and beautiful.
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I want to bottle up this peaceful feeling with enough reserve to last me through tomorrow, when I awaken in the morning unsure of when the next battle will begin. I want to just sit in that room wedged between a My Little Pony and a teddy bear in a tutu and stroke the hair of my sweet four-year-old and soak up the overflowing love that is so evident in those moments. My prayers pour out for this sweet girl of mine. She's tender and delicate and requires a relationship founded on details. She is one who I fight for … and that fighting draws her to me in a way I can’t describe.
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