My rare bird

My boys are always front and center.  They without fail want something.  They want attention.  They want to talk.  They want to show me something.  They want me to drive them somewhere.  They want a snack.  They want permission to do something.  They want to be logged onto the computer.  (They time that one strategically because when they have plied with me requests all day I am more than happy to log them on to the computer.

Just for a little peace.

Emma is more like a rare bird, one that you just see glimpses of.  She breezes in the door after school and may or may not have an anecdote to share from her day.  She eats a snack with a novel in her hand.  She'll answer my questions, briefly, and then go back to her reading.  She sits quietly on the floor and churns out her homework, oblivious to noise around her.  She plays the piano.  (The boys practice, she plays, fully immersed.) She slips away to her room and shuts the door and if I ever need my scissors, tape, glue, Sharpies, or anything else like that, they are in her room too because she is constantly creating something in there.  She emerges at times to read me a poem or show me something, then she is gone again.

Every once in awhile when I think she's not paying attention, she stuns me by saying something wise or witty or brilliant.  (Every once in awhile, when I think she's paying attention, she so isn't.)

A few nights ago she let me braid her hair.  I am abysmal at hair so it was nice of her.  We chatted and strategized about the waterfall braid I was attempting.  (I am not skilled enough to do my own hair plus her straight hair is easier to work with than my crazy curly mess.) With my fingers deep in her smooth hair, with her intelligent brown eyes looking back at me in the mirror, I found myself profoundly grateful to be her mother.

I love the constancy of my boys, the way they insist on always being in my orbit.

I love the rarity of my girl, the way she insists on being in her own orbit.  The times she allows our paths to cross.