i have been under the impression that my daughter is predisposed to certain childhood traits i believed firmly to be mine. to watch them played out before me, her interpretation of them shining bright on pink bathroom tiles, i realize that perhaps maybe these traits are not mine in the first place. perhaps my great-grandmother refused to get her face wet when she bathed. perhaps she was afraid of water falling from above her and splashing onto her delicate skin. perhaps the irrational idea that lukewarm water was as dangerous as a rolling boil merely came from fairy tales and catholocism. whatever the origin, i found myself in awe of my daughter and her adamant refusal to stand under shower water or get her hair washed without a fight.
she started preschool yesterday. i wore every cliche on my sleeve yesterday and even found myself in the middle of a tunnel, echoes of time standing still and rushing past orbed around me. i wondered who she sat with at lunch and if anyone hurt her feelings. i thought about her laying down for naptime and worried she felt abandoned that i did not get to sing her 'i am your sunshine' before realizing i hold onto these moments more than she. she takes change a lot better than i do.
in her bath last night, she talked and talked and talked and then asked me for a shower. she pointed at the showerhead.
'water? shower? for me?'
i turned it on and she scooted all the way to the edge of the tub, her toes barely getting wet.
minutes later, with only a tiny suggestion from me, she stood, head up and backed into the downpour of water. drops landed on her cheeks, her eyes, the top of her head. i called bryan in and he looked at her and then at me.
'how did you do that?'
'i didn't," i said. 'she did.'