I haven’t written a Lila post in a while. She’s almost 7 and is, as my grandfather would
say, “a pistol.” I’m not sure how that
term got started and it might be more accurate if it referenced a piston in
the engine, but the driving, exploding power would be the same, I guess. She’s a force.
I’ve often marveled at other mothers’ stories
of taking their kids to the emergency room, explaining away bumps and bruises,
getting stitches, etc. It seemed a
little crazy to me because Jack wasn’t like that, but now I know. Because Lila is.
This is not a girl who avoids getting dirty. She is constantly on the move. She runs everywhere. (That’s another thing mothers were always
saying…) But she really does. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to get the
mail. Everything at a run. She falls down 4, maybe 5 times a day. She hits her head. She gets splinters. She’s scratched up. The other day I noticed she had abrasions all
over her face: on her nose, lip and cheek.
She didn’t even know where they had come from, even though she had
clearly face-planted somewhere, pretty hard.
And that’s ok. She
usually gets up laughing. Because she
laughs a lot. And she makes everyone
around her laugh, too. She has a truly
great giggle that easily turns into a fantastic belly laugh.
We got to see all of this in action this weekend at her
first soccer game.
ASIDE
I say this is her first soccer game. It’s not.
We tried soccer when she was 4 or so because, well… because of all the
reasons above. She was crazy
active. It was a huge fail. She was so excited to get to the field for
every practice and game, then totally freaked out. She cried and screamed and neither my tow-the-line
parenting nor Josh’s complimentary cajoling could get her to play. Every practice. Every game.
All season. Anyway…
ASIDE OVER
So, in her “first” soccer game, Lila was a badass. First off, she was adorable. I love soccer girls, with their braids and
curls and cute faces, contrasting with their accouterments of war (shin guards.) They mean business, those little girls. Or, at least, mine did.
She was chewing gum furiously. I’m not sure where she got it, but she was
working it. She had an intense look
on her face. Sometimes she was
practicing her whistling, so she had this little lips- pursed look, face all
scrunched. She never lost focus. And that’s where this game was so different
from all the other games for us, I think.
Jack was always spacing out, playing with grass, playing with his hair,
whatever. There was none of that. None. Every
moment that ball was in play, her eyes were on it. She was ON IT.
She ran.
Everywhere. It was like all those
trips up the hill to the mailbox were just training for this moment. I never realized she was fast. Apparently, she is. She never gave up. She never stopped.
Let me be clear, she has no soccer skills. Footwork is not her thing. And her left foot is never even
considered as a kicking option. But what she does have is…
no fear. She was up in there on every
play. She’s a defensive maniac. You come up against her and she is going to
do her best to get that ball away from you and going in the right
direction. If you knock her to the
ground, she will be kicking at the ball from the ground and using her body to
get in front of you.
She’s a scrapper. I’d
forgotten that word until now, but it’s perfect. She’ll go to the ground fighting, get up
fighting, and fight until the whistle is blown.
In a group of 6-yr-old girls, it’s a little terrifying.
And there’s my moment.
Watching was awesome. I was so
proud, but I was also a little scared for my girl. Not that she’s get kicked in the face,
because she’d shake that off or we’d get stitches. We could get past that trauma. I was scared that somehow, someway, she’ll
lose that fearlessness, that joy. That’s
what it is, at its heart – joy. She
pursued with all her soul that little round ball and, in doing so, had a
tremendous amount of fun.
And I was sitting there afraid for the moment when she’d
lose that feeling, when she’ll “grow up” or get coached out of it, or have
someone tell her it isn’t lady-like. That trauma is harder to heal.
But that’s on me.
That’s my issue. My work is to
keep myself from being the person who sets up artificial boundaries for my
girl. I have to believe that a piece of
that fierce, competitive girl is alive in me, and that I will protect it in my
child and not worry about what else is out there. My work is to continue to encourage her to be
proud of being strong and fast and fearless.
Maybe sometimes I can be a little bit afraid for her, because that’s a
mom’s job, too. Maybe I shouldn’t let
her chew gum while she’s running like that.
And I did tell her you can’t play from the ground, you’ve got to be on
your feet to play.
Here’s hoping she always stays on her feet.
******
This makes me think of a poem I wrote for Lila a while back…
A Wish for My Girl
I hope the wind is kind when this one flies, or
starts to fly, falls, and flies again. The nest is
too quiet.
She will see the sky, gilded
clouds moving farther away and leap
to touch, never considering the ground. She is the one
who sees the wide beach, pitted and soft, reflecting light,
and stops.
Filled with joy.
Will stand, arms out, and breathe open
her love with big gusts of happiness.
My fear: that the sun will claim her scorching
faith in speed and flying laughter, that she will not see
she is the source of golden light.
And, I hope the wind is kind.
