This is true about all three girls, of course, but nobody has put me through the wringer like the child you see here. Her antics have been so unbelievable as to bring me to jaw-dropping astonishment, tears, and hidden laughter (the sort where you force your face into a frown to mete out punishment and then laugh silently through your hands just out of sight before you can compose your face again).
In a way, Elspeth reflects all that is craziest in me that I've had to tamp down to be a proper adult. I'll say, "Don't you ever, ever, ever draw on the walls again," before whipping out my paintbrush and painting something crazy on a wall. I get to because I'm an adult, but she is not allowed.
And she's surprisingly different too; did you know, for instance, that my Elspeth is an introvert who will slip away from a crowded room to draw for twenty minutes? She is a prolific, unstoppable, incorrigible (a word my mother taught her two years ago that fits her like a sock).
Elspeth brings me to my knees where I beg mercy from God to help me keep a modicum of composure, to save her from self-destruction. Hone the craziness, I pray, to fine points with which she'll be able to write good stories where she is brave, wild, and creates beautiful things. You can never know for certain about your children, but you can hope and do your best.
Elspeth, too, is incredibly quick to forgive, forget, and move on with life. I'll lose my last modicum, shout, and ban her to her room where she'll cry, heartbroken. Then twenty minutes later she'll throw her arms around my neck, squeeze me like a lemon, and say, "You're my dear love, Mommy. I'm never going to leave you." That child. Freezes and melts me. Reminds me that life should be exciting, that composure and humdrum is for the birds.
