Temporary? Insanity

Emma: [walks up to me as I'm wiping down the dining room table, because yes, I do that sometimes] Has you seen me before?
Me: Um…yes, you’re my daughter.
Emma: [solemnly shakes her head]
Me: Hmm…well, you do look different. What’s that on your head?
Emma: [Fingers the edges of the blue flowered beanbag on her head] My hair!
Me: I see. Blue hair with flowers in it. Very pretty. What’s your name?
Emma: Umm…Dala!
Me: What a pretty name! Where are you from Dala?
Emma: Mexico.
Me: [trying not to grin too big] Mexico, eh?  What’s it like there?
Emma: It’s got the sharp things. These liiiiittle sharp things. Cactus.
Me: Is that why you came here? To get away from the cactus?
Emma: Umm…yeah. And Mexico, it’s just…gone!
Me: Gone! What happened?
Emma: It got vacuumed up. [stretches her arms out wide] By a great big vacuum!
Me: Wow! How did that happen?
Emma: It got stolen! By ninjas! And I was sucked up in a great big vacuum and then I was all gone!
Me: Then how did you get here?
Emma: From far, far, far, far, far away! [gesticulating wildly]
Me: Well, welcome to Canada, Dala.
Emma: I have to go. I have to go find Mexico.

I have the best job ever.

It’s a struggle though, not to suggest elaborations on her stories, to just let her imagination roam free.  Neil and I have started making up stories with her before she goes to bed each night.  We read books during the day, being a household of bibliophiles like we are, but just before bed we tickle her imagination.  We pause at times in our story and let her supply the dialogue or a new plot twist.  She giggles and guffaws over our concocted tales and I love how every night she goes to bed smiling.

And today as I listened to her create a wild story out of thin air, I could hardly contain my joy.  How blessed parents are, to be able to see the effects of their hard work and nurturing come so quickly to fruition.  Whether my influence on my children is bad or good in a given moment, it isn’t long before I see a change in them.  Harsh words often lead to attention seeking.  Gentle words and effusive praise yield sweetness and an eagerness to please.  Not without exception, of course, but so often our children teach us the worth of ourselves. 

When Neil returns home in the evenings, the girls leap up at the first sound of the door opening.  They drop their toys and run like mad till they are in his arms, hugging, kissing, babbling away about whatever is on their mind.  The long hours, the worrying, the messes, are such small things in the face of that kind of love.

Recently I’ve had cause to examine myself afresh, attempting to confront my need for approval.  What my darling girls are teaching me is that theirs is ever so much more than enough.  I see the glow of it in their eyes.  In the way they run and leap into my arms.  The way they follow me about, wanting to be near me, interacting with and learning from me.

What is the approval of the world at large when compared with that?