My Little Dadoo

The indignation you feel when you are the only one not allowed to ride your bike to the park is passionate and all-consuming and deeply rooted in your need to be acknowledged.  Vehemently refusing to be baby, tag-along, or little, your cries of "dadoo" (me too) or "ta-da-da" (ta-da) speak volumes of your need to be seen, to be valued, to be loved.

And see you we do.  You look back at me as you climb the play structure steps, once-fluorescent sweater now caked with mud and once-gummy grin now lined with chiclet-teeth.  I see you wearing the skills and independence of two years proudly, venturing out with fragile confidence.

And value you we do.  You drag baskets of clean and sorted laundry to bedrooms in which they belong, grunting as you go.  As I pick up the trail of socks you leave behind, I marvel at what I am learning of you, even as you are learning it of yourself.  I value your independence and willingness to help, your sense of order and rightness, your quick-thinking and sense of humour, your love of books and of the outdoors.   

And love you we do.  You nearly doze off in the warm sun on a lunchtime drive home and my heart swells as I catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror.  My warm fuzzies bubble to the surface in the form of giggles - both mine and yours - as I try to rouse you, only to watch you now let your head lean farther to the side and pretend to sleep.  You can't quite pull it off as you sneak a peek to see how I will react, both of us trying hopelessly to maintain a straight face.  

Lachie, the One who made You delights in You, and we are so thrilled that we get to too.