When I think back to my fondest memories of being a kid, I think eight was up amongst the most epic of times . . . eight, is old enough to be your own person. I ran the mountains with my best friend and little brother, without having to have someone bigger to chaperon or tell me what to do.
I was big enough to know to look out for rattlers and not to go to the river by myself, yet I was young enough to be a kid. My imagination had not been weighted down by reality and my responsibility had not required me to make amends.
Somehow, my sweet little seven-year-old who turned eight today, brought all this back like a rush of fresh wind, with the smell of past summers. The giddiness of being eight is part mine and I feel I won a special trip back to my past treasures, for a moment's time. As I said, a fresh breath of wind, it only comes in gusts, but I still feel the oxygen it brings.
As is a yearly ritual, for this special eight-year-old's birthday, I prepared (late last night) a birthday dress for her to wear. I love that it matters to her to have a birthday dress, and that it makes her even gladder if I make it.
And each gift I prepared I felt that personal thrill of knowing how it would feel to receive it . . .
I also made her a soft fuzzy purse. At first when I bought the fabric I had planned on making a teddy bear, but last night a teddy bear seemed like too much work, and a purse had been rolling around in my thoughts for a while . . .