Eliana called me over to the sofa tonight. She was stretched out, arms overhead, ballet leotard and tights still on, listening to A Diary of a Wimpy Kid on audiobooks.
Come here mom, look.
The expression on her face was a hard read. She looked exhausted, confused, sort of out of it.
Mom, it's scratchy.
I came closer.
Mom, it's hair.
I was sure she was wrong. I was sure her underarm was just chapped from the cold or a scratch from rock climbing yesterday or a weird rash. But, alas. There it was. A little splay of fine, blonde fur with one long guy stretching his awkward limbs as if to say, "Surprise, sistah! Here we go!"
Eliana has been growing a ton lately. She's hungry all the time, looks strong and sturdy, her belly warm and soft. Her hair seems to shine a bit more, it's longer than ever before. Her reading is soaring, she recently had her first legit sleepover and on Sunday, she and her buddy walked from our house down the hill to said buddy's casa, crossing through the snowy field, traversing the tricky curves, holding hands while buddy's dad and I texted back and forth, making sure they were safe. This is not the baby bucket that I once blogged about, her every move a marvel, her every sigh a celebration.
This is a young girl. Dare I say, a young lady. A developing lady.
I just want to put my hand straight out Diana Ross style and stop it all. After I'd taken a few deep, holy shit style breaths and pretended to refill my water glass, I returned to the living room and took a seat next to her, asked her how she was feeling. She said she it felt funny. It felt weird. She wasn't exactly excited. I think we kinda met in that same place of disbelief, of change, of time passing way too quickly.
My girl is changing. She will never again be a bald, hairless, helpless little squirmy worm sleeping next to me in a bucket. Now she's confident and quirky, crafty and considerate and loyal. She has little hips and a gorgeous collarbone that streaks across her regal chest.
And from that calm of water gently swaying in the bath, I hear her start at her brother.
MOM! He's saying I'm in love with Bob.
I wonder who Bob is. And then the sliding glass door to the shower hurls open and she steps out of the tub, all legs and soft angles, golden curls piled on top of her head in a fuzzy halo just like mine.
She comes to me and gives me the lowdown, the latest thing that her beloved brother has done that shows just how much younger than her he really is. And by the time her story is over, he's out of the shower too and they are laughing together and retelling the story. Soli tries on my old red slippers and slides across the hard