Thereby The Grace

I blog a lot about Gracie.
I sat and asked myself why the other day.
The other day, after she heard me say fuckin' in the car.
And in her sweet, toddler, song of a voice say FUCKIN'!!
We all burst into laughter (totally inappropriate, I know).
The look of joy (and new found respect) for his sister, lit Connor's face up like a million stars.
Rav, trying to be the rock, stifled laughter while telling Gracie That's a bad word. Please don't say it.
And me. Me laughing so hard, I'm trying desperately to hold my bladder. And having to pull the Land Rover over because I'm laughing so hard I can't see the road.
And in that sweet, song of a voice again: FUCKIN'!! That's not a bad word. Fuckin'!! That's not a bad word. Fuckin'!!!! (repeat chorus 5 more times).

I finally pulled myself together enough to say Truckin'!
Rav chimes in with Pluckin'!
Connor adds in Duckin'!
See, isn't this fun!? We're rhyming!
Fuck is a word so overused by moi that I didn't even realize that I had said it. It has become a part of my vocabulary like the word the has. Deb, I know you would be so proud.

Anyway, back to Gracie. I've been thinking a lot about her as she approaches three. And, Connor will be turning five and heading off to kindergarten. And I'm sure I'll be panic-stricken over that. But right now, my mind is weighted down with thoughts of
Gracie.

Gracie, who has a fire inside of her.
She also has a heart full of love, of passion (yes, I can see it already), of care and concern, of good, of songs. Oh, god. That girl is full of music.

I get her.
I look at her free spirit, her independence, her wild abandon.
And I see what I must have once been.
Before the seas of my life weathered me and made me soft and rounded. Yet hard like a sea stone or piece of driftwood.
I get her.

I see a girl. Untouched by age, hurt, faded dreams, time. She is free. She has a wide, open road. She is all that I once was.
And so much more.

I see the joy at the discovery of a new song that hits her in just the right spot. I see her dancing in her car seat - head bobbing from side to side - as she has learned to feel the music. I smile and well with pride, when she hears Forever Loving Jah and looks at me and says Who is this? And I reply Bob Marley and the Wailers, honey.

I know what that feels like.

I see how fragile I once was. In the little body that stands before me, I have a mirror. A mirror that looks at me everyday with wide, expectant eyes and an open heart, a thirsty mind. A mirror that reminds me to tread with care, to love like there will be no tomorrow, to play music, to be silly, to laugh, to lead her down roads that weren't as bumpy as mine. But roads that will, indeed, leave her wanting more and hungry for what is around the next bend. Roads that are open only for her. Roads that might be lined and littered with people telling her she can't, she shouldn't, she's female.
And on those roads my voice will rise even louder to say She can, she should, she IS female.
Roads that will give her voice. Her voice to stand strong, to say exactly what she should and exactly what needs to be said, a voice to soothe, to heal.

I know that my dreams might not ever be made a reality.
She may never turn out to be the person that I see budding before me.
It could be trick of the light in the mirror.
And I do hope, on one hand it is.
Because in her I can see all that I could have been.
In her I see what I am. What I was.
And see what I have left undone, but that she may pick up and run away with.

As long as she is given a chance.
To be.
That's the most that I, her mom, could ask for.