Dear Sophie,
You and I will remember different things of this day, of this May 12, 2010.
I want to write something of it down for safekeeping—something I can give to you, something to help you remember your courage when it’s slipped your mind in the future. Courage has a way of slipping after a few setbacks, a few hard knocks. No one’s fault. It’s just a difficult life, sometimes. I would tell you I wish I could protect you from life’s difficulties, you and your sister both, but in truth, I would be doing you no favors. You’ve already experienced more than your share of life’s bumps and losses so far, and in spite of this (and, I think, because of it), you are becoming yourself in beautiful fashion.
Sophie, my love, may you forever remember that what you did today was your idea. Your quiet courage and your belief in yourself compelled you to enter today’s school talent show, and my baby, did you ever shine.
You stood before the entire school (“knees knocking,” you told me later in the school parking lot, but I didn’t catch even one knee jiggle). And accompanied by dear Mrs. P on her ever-ready guitar, you sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Alone.
I told you that if you had gotten up there and forgotten every word and every note I still would have been the proudest mama around, just because you dared to try. I stand by that. I will be there cheering you on, on forgotten-word, forgotten-courage days, as long as you need me to be.
But today was not one of those days. Today was one of those sweet days, when the words and the notes come, and the courage shows up to steady those knocking knees, just when you need it.
Your daddy and I started the day in a law office, and then laughed to find ourselves the first ones waiting outside the upper-school building at your school. Life is not what it used to be, but it is something different, and we will all find our way.
Your daddy and your Babci and your sister and your teachers and your friends and your schoolmates and your schoolmates’ parents and I were there. Did you see us all? The whole school community was there. Could you feel us smiling?
You moved us, honey.
It is one thing to hit all the notes. And it is still another thing to remember to take deep breaths and keep your shoulders down and stand still. (Those busy hands of yours played only slightly with the lovely white skirt Daddy found and washed for you, and I have never loved those hands of yours more.)
Yes. It is one thing to sing a song well, by the rules. It is a gift.
But it is another thing entirely to move people with your song. It is a gift on top of a gift.
I, your beaming mama, well—you know my happy tears were bound to leak out. But it wasn’t just me, honey.
You touched the hearts of a lot of people today. My goodness. If only you knew. I’ll let them tell you.
I will tell you something else:
Today, after you sang the last sweet, high note, you smiled. I now thank God that Babci brought her funny video camera, because I want you to see the smiles for yourself, in stop-frame slow motion.
There was the shy “thank you” smile for the applause so loud it surprised and delighted you. There was the “I’m bowing now” smile. And amid your classmates, who welcomed you back to your seat with high-fives, there was an elated smile, and a laughing smile of relief. But in between the bow and the high-fives, Babci caught on film another smile: a smile that belongs to you alone. I hope it stays with you always. It is the “hey, I really DID that” smile.
I don’t remember seeing anything so very beautiful for a very, very long time. I hope it felt as beautiful as it looked, honey.
Baby girl, you DID did it.
I have never done what you did today. Holy cow.
You are my hero, sweet, wise, brave one.
Later at a celebratory dinner, sitting in the big upholstered chair at our table at the ’6 Pub, you told me today was the proudest moment of your whole entire life. And later still, when Babci face-planted in a chocolate mousse tart and we were all laughing hysterically, you said it was the happiest day of your life, too.
I think you will have many proud moments, and many happiest days. I wish this for you more than I will ever be able to put into words.
But I wanted to write it down for you, just in case. I don’t remember the exact date of your first smile, and I’m sorry for that. (I know it was when I was crooning to you while nursing: Mommy has BIIIIIIG BOOOOOOBS.) But I remember this date, May 12, 2010, when you smiled a gorgeous “hey, I DID it” smile.
You told me you can’t wait to do it again next year. You told Hannah you would love to sing with her next year. (She’s thinking it over, I can tell.) You didn’t want too much fuss over yourself, because you knew your little sister was feeling out-of-sorts, a little jealous. She wants to try things, but at six, she is so afraid to make mistakes.
When the time is right, she will stand up, despite knocking knees, and I know you will be beside me and Daddy, cheering her on. She’ll find her own way, her own talents (we already see how she shines — she just needs to find her footing, find her core). With a big sister like you, so empathetic to her needs, yet pursuing your own dreams, I think she’s going to learn a lot from you. We’ll help her find her way.
And my offer to make Orphan Annie rag costumes and choreograph a scrubbing-the-floor song and dance (we can practice LOTS on OUR kitchen floor) still stands.
I love you with all my heart. Thank you for sharing your talent with all of us there today. I can honestly tell you that it was an honor to be there and hear your sweet voice create a rainbow in that wide-open room.
It sure is an honor to be your mama, baby girl.
Love always,
Mommy
Comments on this entry are closed.