Well, I don't feel that way. At least not yet. And realizing I'm lucky, and realizing it could change any day, and realizing I'm probably jinxing myself by even saying this, I'll still say right here in front of God and everybody that I like my girls almost as much as I love them. And I'm not playing favorites, but today I'm only writing about one of them.
That said, my younger daughter, Camille, gave me a lovely start to my day. She didn't know it, but that doesn't matter, because it's Monday and that usually means headless chickens tripping over each other in the kitchen from 6:00 - 8:30am. But not today.
I should back up a bit and explain that Camille is a musician. She plays piano and bassoon, and is quite accomplished at both. I was what you would call musical as a young person - I played in the band, sang in the church choir, dabbled at piano - but in spite of the fact that I had a little talent, I didn't work at it or value it like I should have. I don't refer to Camille as "musical," I call her a musician because she takes her instruments seriously. Whether in a group or as a soloist, she owns her effort, her talent, and her accolades. When she isn't pleased with her results, she doesn't blame anyone else. I think that's impressive for a girl of thirteen.
Most mornings, Camille only has a few minutes to spare (she is a slow mover upon waking, but that's fun dirt for another blog when I'm annoyed at her). If she has a few minutes to spare, she usually turns on the TV to watch one of her archived episodes of "Dancing with the Stars." I despise television in the morning, but I can usually ignore ten or fifteen minutes of Tom Bergeron and the most dramatic panel of dance judges in world history if the volume is turned low enough. But today, she decided instead to practice her new piano piece:
and it was so lovely. I'm amazed that a child raised by me could attempt something so delicate and emotive. I don't know how she broke the genetic bonds of uncoordination to play so well.
I began my Monday to the soothing sounds of my daughter tinkling the ivories with her usual care and seriousness. Add a cup of coffee and a furball warming my feet, and I was in heaven. So here I sit, writing about my lovely morning, and there goes Camille:
waiting for the bus in the rain, with a fifteen pound backpack strapped on, and a bassoon to wrestle onto the bus and under the seat for the half-hour ride to school.
So the next time I start to wallow in the attitude of the unappreciated mother who does everything so my kids can have it easy, someone please remind me to look back at this entry. My kids have it good, there's no denying that, but they don't have it easy. And Camille demands more of herself than we demand of her. So I should just thank God that I have her in my life, and that she'll be living with us for at least a few more years.
Thank you, Camille, for a lovely start to Thanksgiving week.