My Eight Year Old

I remember the day she was born. 6 lbs, 6 oz, 21 inches and the pinkest skin I ever saw. Her hair was curly brown, her skin just hung on her like an old lady's extra tricep flab. Her size 0 clothes were all too big... her dad had to go buy Preemie clothes. She was precious. I remember holding her while sitting on the couch and wishing I could freeze that moment. I wanted to remember her that little. I wanted to remember her skin that soft. I wanted to remember the gassy smile she would give me. Now she is 8. 8 years old. 8 years old. 8 years old.

She is still precious. She is SO smart. She is SO beautiful. I can't believe the stuff she knows. She knows beginning fractions. BEGINNING FRACTIONS.... She knows how to take a joke. She knows how to write in cursive. She knows how to tease me. She knows how to push my buttons. She knows when to say "I love you mom". I still try to hold her on my lap. All 85 pounds of her. We squirm and fight for space... but she will ALWAYS fit. The crook of my arm and the round of my waist is built to fit her perfectly. I look at her and see me... then I see her dad...then I see MY dad... But when I really look closely, I see something different. When I really inspect her and study her... I see Megan. She is such a perfect combination of personalities. She is so well rounded. Today, I told her about one of my favorite memories. There she was at age 3. She was ready to go down to the pond or go minnow trapping. SHe was dressed in blue jeans, tiny little work boots, a gray and white camo jacket and there, hanging from her right shoulder... a pink, silk purse. That is Megan...