Dear Eva,

Ten years ago today, I packed you up and brought you home to stay.  From tiny and dressed in a pink and white dress, to my own 77 pound wrecking ball who wouldn't wear pink (or a dress for that matter) if it killed her.  You have shown me what quiet strength is.

No, you aren't a typical kid.  Because typical is boring and predictable and average.

You are a pinball, a whirling dervish, a gift of life.

This year, you have changed so much.  From the quiet kid in the back of the class to the flourishing girl who can stand her own.  From the timid soccer player who didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings by stealing the ball to the first girl (and behind only 6 boys) to finish the cross country race that included much older kids.  From the whateveryouwantisfine kid to the nothanksilikethisbetter girl.  

This year, my love you found your voice.

And, you are less afraid to use it.

I couldn't be more proud of that.

You have handled every change and every struggle with a grace and a strength that I can only watch from the sidelines.  You have faced confusion and hurt and mistreatment with the kind of dignity that they name saints after.  You have continually shown me the way, and there's not a better shadow for any of us to stand in.

Eva, you are one of a kind.  Others may doubt you or misunderstand you or tell you different, but there is no one more valuable than you.

As I sang to you ten years ago, you remain my sunshine, my only sunshine,

Mama

Thank her.

You're lucky she is who she is.  Seriously, you should be thankful she is as genuinely good as she is.  In all seriousness, if she weren't the kind hearted person she is, your parents and I would be having an old school sit down right now.  

But Eva is a gentle soul.  And she asked me to stay on the sideline (for now), so all I can do is anonymously call you out on this blog.  So...

To the hateful, spiteful, jealous, unfit to smell her dirty soccer socks, 4th grade bully brats who made my girl cry into my sweater today:  you will never hold a candle to the kid you pick on so relentlessly.

You will never know the warmth of an open heart or the pride of academic accomplishment.

You will never understand the appreciation of the teachers or the humility of a quiet smile.

You will never have your mama's bursting pride or your little sister's complete devotion.

You, who call my girl names on the basis that the teacher praises her and leave her out of activities because she follows the rules; you, who look down at kids because of their clothes or their complete sense of self confidence.  You, who can only dream of the day you can hold your head as high as my girl can.

You.  Should.  Be.  Ashamed.  

Your parents should be ashamed.  

At least as ashamed as I am proud of my girl.

Because, even through her tears, my Eva showed you compassion - an empathy you don't deserve and could never understand.  And, it's the only thing that stops me from walking into that classroom tomorrow and making a scene.  Trust me, every ounce of self control I have ever needed can't begin to make a dent in what it will take me to not pull you aside when I am at the class Valentine party on Friday.  But she knows I will swoop in and save her, so she's asked me to let her try to handle it.

I've promised her that I will wait for her ok before I step in.  I've assured her that she is exactly who every kid should strive to be, and she has my complete support.  We agreed that you're just jealous little girls who should be more like her.  And, we hugged it out until the tears stopped.

But, know this:  if I have to hold a quivering kid in my arms again this week, it will be from your knocking knees - not her shaking shoulders.

Sunday mornings

We sat across the table drinking coffee.

Calm and quiet as a Sunday morning.  Calm and quiet on a Sunday morning.

Me - pinteresting words that find my soul.  You - learning to snowboard via you tube.

And, as the girls awoke, the table filled still more.  One by one, your side of the table filled.  Rather, the side newly claimed as yours.  One chair pulled close to your left side to watch the lessons.  One pulled to your right to shyly join the crew.  The final girl, always the one in her own world, quietly staking her claim to your presence in the background.

Me, watching the world get a little tighter at my little table.

Is this what we should have always been doing?  My girls and I?  Should we always have had someone to slip so easily into our Sundays?  Was there always supposed to be someone to smooth my edges and warm the big chair in the room?  Is it supposed to be this easy?

Warm coffee in my hand, more snowflakes to add to the pile of reasons to stay inside, three subtly happy girls, and you.

One look across the table and every question was answered.

Sunday mornings have come home to my table, and I will forget the time we didn't know their name.