She's TEN Today

I can hardly believe it's been a decade since I first set eyes on my Sally.

• The little girl I wanted so badly because--as a girl myself and as sister to four girls--I thought I understood girls.
• The little girl who showed me I don't understand girls at all. At least not every girl. Not this one. But that I don't need to understand her to love my precious Sally.

My first impressions of Sally were simply that she wasn't her brother.

First of all, her birth was a breeze, not at all like her brother's traumatic entry into the world. With Sally, I went into labor two hours after Grandma flew in to stay with little Huckle. I calmly monitored contractions in the dark, didn't wake Husband until sure. We drove to the hospital, checked in, and found ourselves alone in the delivery room, watching the monitors and joking together, almost like a date. No fainting, frightening, pain-like-I-didn't-know-a-human-could-endure. No fear in the doctor's eyes, as she ordered everyone from the room--even the newly born Huckle--and yelled down the hall for help.

And when they put Sally into my arms, my first thought was that this was someone new. Before that moment, I thought all babies looked identical -- the same red, wrinkly, scrunched-up faces. But Sally's red, wrinkly, scrunched-up face was so very different from Huckle's. So very precious. So very mine.

Sally was a quiet baby. The easy one. No daily Colic Fest in those first few months. Quick to smile, slow to fuss. Oh, she learned to scream and could throw a mean tantrum by the time she hit the toddler years. But she also had an irresistible giggle. Once when she was two and we had been out for a long walk in Philadelphia, we finally stopped for lunch and she was tired and cranky. The waiter set a big plate of french fries on the table, and Sally's instant giggle of delight is still seared into my brain ten years later.

TEN!  I can't believe she's ten.

• She still wears footie pajamas. But when I gush, "Aww, you're in your cupcake jammies!", she rolls her eyes like teenager, because I'm treating her like a baby. She hates being treated like a baby.
• She hates getting hugged. Unless she needs a hug. And nine nights out of ten, she hides under the covers from my goodnight kiss. But that tenth night, she hugs me tight and kisses my cheek and says, "I love you, Mom" so tenderly that I'm fueled to go another ten nights.
• She still plays, but now she closes her bedroom door when she plays. But every now and then I'm invited into her private world to admire the floor plan of a castle she drew or to read the beginning of her latest dragon story. She still drops treasures into my purse for safekeeping -- a rock, a shell, an eraser hamster.
• She loves dragons: big, fierce, strong, independent. She also loves Jenny-the-Cat: sweet, delicate, purring, soft. Every night, Jenny climbs onto Sally's bed to get petted and snuggled.
• She's fiercely independent, and she can run a mile in 7 minutes -- second fastest kid in the fourth grade. But when her afternoon is going really bad and she's hungry, suddenly she can't do ANYTHING. Not even stand up. She can barely craaaaaawl into the kitchen when it's time to set the table.
• She's trying out identities. First, she wanted a boy haircut and smirked when salesclerks asked me how old my younger son is. Now she's growing her hair long and contemplating pierced ears. She spurns dresses on Sundays, but it's "because my school uniform is a dress and I'm sick of wearing dresses every day." I get it. But I love the plaid jumper of her school uniform.
• She just bought an artificial dagger with her allowance and starts fencing lessons next week. And yet our family hardly watches any movies, because she can't bear scenes when someone feels threatened or gets hurt. She hides behind the sofa or leaves the room. Unless it's a dragon movie.
• She still laughs at fart jokes but also reads aloud to me from books I didn't read until much older. A mix of the sophomoric and the sophisticated. When she makes up new words to songs, they make me laugh. They're actually funny. So is she.

 Sally's contradictions leave me confused. But then I think back and remember my own mixed-up emotions at that age, wanting my mom to leave me alone AND take care of me; wanting to be included by friends AND left to my own thoughts.

So I guess I do understand Sally--I understand that she's uniquely complicated. Just like me.

Happy birthday, Sally! I love you.