It’s the final day of my thirties; a day to reflect on a decade that had its fair share of good times, mingled with a few bad and ugly times. But that is life, isn’t it? Life is hard sometimes. It hurts like a sonofabitch but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. That has definitely been my motto these past ten years.
Yesterday my husband surprised me with a date at high tea with my daughter. It was absolutely lovely. She got all dressed up in a tartan dress and clutched her matching purse so tight her hands almost turned white.
After we were seated she presented me with a birthday card.
And then she have me a little white box that had this inside:
I joked with my husband that my Pandora bracelet needed a new charm to commemorate my birthday. He obviously took the hint.
It was an absolutely lovely afternoon, one I won’t soon forget. My daughter felt so special and so grown up. She asked that we do this every year. I can’t think of a better tradition to start.
Summertime. Even-numbered year. Must be time for the Olympic Games.
I am a huge fan of the Olympic Games. I vividly remember watching my first Games. It was 1984. Los Angeles, California. Mary-Lou Retton. Need I say more? I was so enamoured with gymnastics after watching those Games that I begged my parents to put me into gymnastics. I had Olympic dreams. It didn’t matter to me that I was already 10 years old. Little did I know that those girls I watched on television had been training since they were my daughter’s age now! All I knew is that I had to give it a try.
I stayed in gymnastics for about a year and a half. By the time I was done, I was able to do a cart-wheel on the balance beam. Or maybe it was a somersault? I can’t remember.
Needless to say, since then I have been watching the Olympic Games religiously every single year, um, every 4 years, I mean.
This year, daughter was visiting her grandparents the night the opening ceremonies were on. My father-in-law is British. I knew he’d be watching. I called my daughter and she was raving about “Big Ben” and “Oyyympics” (she can’t say her “L’s” yet). “Mommy, I want to go to Yondon! I want to see Big Ben!”. It was awesome. I could hear that Olympic spirit in her voice. Over the course of the weekend, she watched the swimming and soccer events with her papa. When she came home, I was watching the Games and she sat with me while the girls tumbled on the floor exercise. She started doing somersaults. I asked her if she wanted to try gymnastics. Her answer? A resounding “Yes!”, preceded by several somersaults in a row.
Is 3.5 too young to pass the torch?
I think not.
- a high or inordinate opinion of one’s own dignity,importance, merit, or superiority, whether as cherished in the mind or as displayed in bearing, conduct, etc.
- the state or feeling of being proud.
- a becoming or dignified sense of what is due to oneself or one’s position or character; self-respect; self-esteem.
- pleasure or satisfaction taken in something done by or belonging to oneself or believed to reflect credit upon oneself: civic pride
- something that causes a person or persons to be proud: His art collection was the pride of the family
Every parent is proud of their kid. I certainly am. My daughter will be 4 years old in November and I’m already proud of everything she does. I am proud that she can write her name. I am proud that she can put on her shoes, take her clothes on and off without help, and do her business in the potty without supervision.
I am also proud to bring her to our city’s gay pride parade and see nothing but pure joy on her face at all the people dancing in the city and having fun. She doesn’t know yet that there are people in this world who are prejudiced, who do not tolerate those that are different.
She is growing up learning that not only can a boy and girl get married, but so can two boys and so can two girls.
I take pride in the fact that I am raising my children to love everyone equally; to not be afraid of those who are different, and to embrace the rainbow they carry within them.