Last night I took my daughter out trick or treating. I held the flashlight while she raced from house to house. Occasionally she’d hold my hand if she saw something scary – blinking eyes in the bushes, creepy mannequin propped up on the porch. We meet more friends and go as a group – kids going door to door, moms and I hanging back chatting. They do most of the talking, I mostly just listen and nod.
Warm winds shift as we head home. I can feel fall near.
Over the weekend, I text the mother of one of the girls from hip-hop class. “Would Haley like to join us at the town pool for open swim?” She agrees. The two play in the pool for a while. At some point the friend shifts her attention to other kids. For the last fifteen minutes my daughter is left paddling around the deep end by herself. Afterwards I buy she and her friend donuts and we go to the park to play some more. By any measure a successful playdate.
“Daddy, can I go over someone’s house and play?” Only if you’re invited.
No sense waiting for a call that probably won’t happen. “Want to climb rocks or search for bugs?” She does. We trek up a blue hill and into the woods in search of good places to scramble. She tells me her friends don’t like climbing rocks or searching for bugs, but she does. She likes everything and everyone.
One day I work from home. At lunch, the doors of the school open and the children spill into the soccer fields for recess. They quickly coalesce into groups and cliques running, walking, or just milling around. Even at a distance I can spot my daughter by her gait – walking on the balls of her feet. She lopes over to a group of boys for a few minutes, then drifts away when their play turns rough. Over and over she makes a wide circuit seemingly looking for someone to hang with.
In the evening I make her mac-n-cheese while she draws pictures and tells me she wants to be an artist like her sister. The pair fight frequently. The older one, when she’s not texting friends or furiously scrolling Instagram, shows no patience for her little sister – especially if she hasn’t had her “focus medicine.” The younger remains defiant. “You’re not the BOSS!” Back and forth. She cries, I comfort. “I wish I didn’t have a sister.” She sticks her thumb in her mouth. “Can I watch TV?” No.
At night I read her a chapter from “Coraline”, if she has the patience to listen. “I need another drink of water. I have to go to the bathroom (again). I have to go downstairs for a minute to check on something.” It’s 30 minutes past your bed time. “I know … but … wait, I can’t find my fuzzy bear!” If she has too much energy in her battery, I bet her she can’t do a hundred jumping jacks. Sixty-six. Sixty-seven. Sixty-eight.
“Hush little baby don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.” No matter how tired I get, she’ll never be too old to sing a lullaby too. My mother taught me that.
At the parent-teacher meeting, her teachers give me an update. It’s mostly good news. My nightly efforts to get her to focus on homework and skills like reading are paying off. She is effectively at grade level. They tell me, this sweet child of mine is generous, sociable, friendly to a fault, conscientious, and struggles mightly to maintain focus and emotional stability. The ADHD will be her cross to bear in life … and mine as well.