"This one!" She pulls it out, holds it up to herself and smiles with satisfaction. I keep from cringing, just barely, at the garish pattern.
"Are you sure?" My voice is carefully neutral.
"Yes. This is the one."
With an internal sigh and the very real fear she owns nothing that will match it, I walk with her and pull out my credit card. She skips beside me, her treasure held tight to her chest. "Can I pay for it?"
"Of course." I know she wants to sign my name, her version of my signature filled with swirls and dips.
She gets home with her prize and sets about putting together an outfit. She lays it on the floor, the skirt, the top, the shoes, the jacket, the jewelry, the headband. And somehow, someway, it looks, well, right.
More than right.
Perfect.
I've given up on buying her clothes, on picking out preppy outfits. She's got her own tastes, her own sense of style that far exceeds my "buy it off a mannequin" approach and it extends beyond her own clothing choices.
I walk by the bedroom to see Joseph standing, long suffering on his face, as his sister buttons and then unbuttons his shirt. He's a life-sized doll for her to dress up, a perfect project with his inside out shirts.
"Not those shoes, Mommy." She runs into my bedroom and comes out with a pair of shoes that defy my own fashion rules. I put them on to humor her. She's right.
Paper fills her shelves. Big piles of pictures and drawings resisting any sense of organization. In desperation, I buy her art journals, hoping to keep the mess contained. Instead, they join the piles, page after page covered with flowers and butterflies, chickens and fairies, and painstakingly perfect letters. All signed with her name in block print in the corner. Boxes of pastels and pencils, pens and watercolors jumble and fall from their place while clay sculptures stand next to Lego figures.
She makes her world beautiful in a chaotic, crazy mess.
"Point her in the right direction," I'm counseled. "She will fly."
I want to laugh. She points herself in a direction. Too easy and she loses interest. She seeks out the difficult. Once her fear leaves her, her focus is both awe inspiring and scary for a mother who is utterly fascinated by the creature she birthed.
She hangs upside down, her calloused hands gripping the rings while her legs split. Lifting them, she points her toes into a beautiful line and then, slowly, shifts her entire body to the side, suspended by the strength of her arms. She spins down in a heart dropping flip and turns to grin.
She crawls into my lap, not content unless she's tucked tight against the people she loves. Her legs twine with her brother's while she draws, her head rests on my chest while we watch a movie. And we indulge her love of touch. How can we not?
I see bits and pieces of myself in her: the quick comment, the justifications of actions, the nervous chatter. But where I'm earth, she is pure fire and how lucky am I that I get to be in the glow of her light.
She's independent, feisty, mischievous, funny - so funny, and sweet with a gentleness that draws others to her.
"I wish I could have thirty of her," her teacher tells me. "The other girls are drawn to her. They want to be her friend."
She's sassy and ridiculous. She can't keep a secret, instantly spilling the beans and then telling me she wasn't supposed to say anything.
She's amazing, my Elizabeth. So utterly amazing.
And she's six.
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