Ready?
Susannah, the “ready or not” part is for me. Because it has never, ever been a question for you, my dear one.
Today you are 8. Eight years old! In Suzy years that’s roughly 59 because, as everyone knows, you leaped- fully formed- from my brain like Athena.
(Yep, that’s how c-sections work. Next question!)
You’ve taught me so many things, my middlest child.
Like, that you’re not really all that little anymore. Maybe you never really were?
You remind me…
…That your first phrase was “I my do by myself!” (And it wasn’t a gentle suggestion.) And that’s when I remember that you were never an actual baby, not really, that even though I carried you from room to room out of necessity and fed you things you may not have chosen for yourself, you had very little interest in being small.
You were just…a person waiting. And watching. And taking copious notes.
Knowing it was going to be her turn- her time- so soon. (Too soon.)
You didn’t drift off to sleep as babies do, not you. You were awake, then you were asleep. And when you had rested and restored enough, you popped back up to learn and explore and do.
You were so ready for the first day of gymnastics, the first day of school, your first lost tooth, the first sleepover, and other milestones for which I barely had time to ready the camera before you were out of frame, a buzzing and eager explorer off in the not-so-big, not-so-bad world.
Eight years ago, really?
In some ways it seems as if I just had you. Just received you into my arms, this ridiculously angelic blonde baby who smiled within moments of meeting us. (No, it wasn’t gas. It wasn’t. And it wasn’t plotting, either. …Not yet.)
It seems like seconds since you were pulling up on bookshelves and tables and surprised cats, taking notice of every single thing your adored big sister was doing, taking two bedraggled monkeys along for the ride.
But it also doesn’t.
Because with every milestone comes the awareness of “of course.” Of course Suzy is now riding a bike, of course she’s ordering sushi and reading books under the covers with a flashlight and drawing cartoons so funny and weird and Suzy. You’ve been waiting so we’ve been waiting. So even though you race by in a flash, I haven’t missed any of it. You told us what was coming, and it surely did.
I have eight years’ worth of Susannah-specific snapshots in my brain, kiddo. They’re good ones, too. So yeah, I absolutely can believe that you’re eight years-old; I have the receipts in the form of clutch marks where I’ve gasped and gripped my chest and also deep (deeeep) smile wrinkles from laughing way too hard with you.
For your birthday…
…Your little brother gave you a long-requested pack of rainbow Sharpie markers of your very own.
Kiddo, that’s a dang metaphor if ever I heard one.
You, Susannah Mae, are a whole pack of rainbow Sharpies.
Go out and make your mark. Make it bright, and never apologize for how permanent it is. You have your whole life ahead of you, this gorgeously blank canvas on which you’ll scrawl your story just as soon as you’re ready. But then again, you were born ready, remember?
“Eight” seems like a pretty wonderful new page.
Go get it, kid.
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