I find myself looking at the back of Abigail’s head a lot as she runs ahead of me to see the world. I like giving her that taste of freedom. Because she should be free. Free to become who she is without her parents or anybody else pigenholing her into being something she’s not. I want her to be happy and kind and to feel loved. So I try when I can to just let her be.
When she builds a precarious tower of nesting blocks turning the bigger ones so they stack on top of the smaller ones, I’m trying to resist the urge to tell her that she’s going to be an engineer like her daddy. Or when she hugs Hank and oohs and aahs at every dog she sees I’m trying to stop myself from thinking she’s destined for veterinary school. Today she loves building towers and playing with dogs, but tomorrow she may not and that’s okay. I want her to like lots of things, jump into many puddles and splash around. Try what she wants to try and see what she wants to see.
I want to be a mom that’s okay with her taking off one of her blue shoes and putting on a sandal instead because she was crying desperately to wear them mismatched on our walk. It didn’t matter which shoes crunched along the gravel road. She was happy. She was free. She was Abigail.