Yesterday afternoon Meera got ready for me to take her to gymnastics. She dressed herself, chose her accessories, and was super proud of her final, polished, just-exactly-as-she-wanted it look. “I look just like you Mommy!” I had noticed (of course) that in a rare instance she had chosen to wear pants and sneakers instead of a dress and dressy shoes. But it took her pointed comment for me to look more closely and see what she had done. The scarf, the hair in a ponytail, the sweater over the leotard buttoned only once, the “bag” in hand packed up with all of her necessities. She was all pulled together and ready to go. “Oh my gosh!” I thought to myself, “She is a Mini Me.” I was amazed and overcome with thoughts and feelings.
That same night, when she was done with dinner but the rest of us four were still eating, she got herself ready for bed. She put on her favorite silky/shiny Tangled/Rupunzel pajamas, pulled her box of Barbies from out of her room to the kitchen floor, and played quietly while the rest of us chattered loudly about anything-and-everything-about-our-day. I looked down at her, all pink and frill, all Barbies and Ken, all quiet and to herself, all lost and enthralled in her own imaginary world, concentrating so hard on getting some glitzy outfit strapped on some crazy-bodied-Barbie, and I could not get over it: “Where did this kid come from?” I thought to myself, “She is so not me.” I was amazed and overcome with thoughts and feelings.