Tears and Pants that Don't Fit

My little India is growing up, learning where she starts and ends, where other people begin, and how to navigate her person. She is a talker, has never filtered her thoughts, and so her vulnerability is often just lying there for me to see--like a blanket left crumpled on the floor. It's a scary and beautiful thing to see, and, really, an honor to capture it on camera.

And, so, I thought I'd blog the images that went along with this image, which originally appeared over at The Chorus (the theme was "Thank You"). I highly recommend you check out both The Chorus and Amy Grace, who is it's passionate curator. You can also read the short piece I wrote to accompany these images below. 

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Yesterday, in Target, like a beggar pulling a gem out of his pocket, you surprised me with, “Mama, will I get married someday?” “If you want to get married, you will,” I say. “Who will I marry?” you say. “Someone you like,” I say, and raise my eyebrows. I smile. You smile. You giggle your four-year old giggle, the kind that can’t be faked or contained. “I want to marry a funny guy who tells funny jokes,” you say, and I’m proud. Through the animated haze of childhood, you’ve managed to locate the core of a good relationship–friendship, laughter. And then, as quick as you laughed, your eyes well up and your mouth turns down. “I want to marry daddy,” you muster. One tear drops over onto your cheek. You know it can’t happen. I say, “That would be awesome,” and smile. When we get home, your wheels have turned, and you’re now triumphant. “I don’t have to marry daddy. I can be daddy!” You insist on trying on his jeans. At first, you’re thrilled. Big smiles, you’re just like daddy. You shrug your shoulders and seem refreshed; you stick out your chin and giggle. Later, you’ll cry about it. Daddy’s jeans don’t fit, and you trip over the deflated elephant-trunk legs and bang your elbow pretty good. I console you, pat your back, change you back into your own clothes. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you say, once you’re back to feeling alright. “Well,” I say. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re you, and I’m glad daddy’s daddy.” “Ok,” you say, “I think I’m glad, too.”