Independence

The Middle Child made a proud declaration this morning, as she plated up her Sunday waffle. "We got blackberries and strawberries and whipped cream, Mama," she said. "For Independence Day."

July 4th has always been among her favorite days. I remember holding a baby, five weeks old, who stared in rapt attention to the bursts of colored stars. When she got older, she'd rest her head on my shoulder as we stretched out on a blanket and watched the sky. "Those ones are my favorite," she'd whisper, her hands on my cheeks. "No. Those are my favorite."

It's interesting that she enjoys the festivities so much. Any other day, crowds and noise and explosions  incite irascibility from this child. But not on Independence Day. Perhaps she understands that to find the meaning of freedom, one must embrace that which is unpredictable.

Waffle Guy assumed the role of executive chef this morning, with The Middle Child acting as prep cook, leaving me free to observe. Under his direction, she mixed a batter that yielded the most delicious waffles we've created in the year since this journey began.

Sweetest of all was watching her, nine years old and thriving, at the dawn of her own independence.

She's developed a fascinating new habit, as of late. "I'm going to save up $200," she'll tell me. And then she'll do it.

Last month, she informed me that she'd be participating in her first triathlon  on July 17th. This wasn't the same child who confidently stated she was going to be an Astronaut Cowgirl when she grew up. There was no childish ignorance, no irrational logic. This time, she knew what it took and intended to succeed. Day after day she swims and runs and bikes, completely driven to accomplish her mission. The force that drives her confounds me, rising from the mystery that is her soul, entirely independent of my influence. Suddenly, she is her own woman. It is both victory and defeat, that she needs less and less of me, and it speeds my pulse to think of it.

She didn't macerate the strawberries this morning, although macerating strawberries is one of her very favorite things to do. Today she decided to leave them whole; to pile them atop whipping cream along with tangy, firm blackberries; to add her very own, sweet spin to a tradition that we've come to love.

I scraped the last crumbs onto my fork, lost in all of the things I wanted to tell her. It's your life, too, Little One. 

But there was no need to say it. She already knows.