She does this thing where she alters photos–superimposes faces onto bodies they don’t belong to. She always gets the good ones, most recently Regina George. I got an email on my birthday, my face on a raccoon. I made you something in the subject line.
Bright and early she’s up, in her polka dotted robe. Throughout the course of the morning she has several wardrobe changes, until she finds just the right one. Sometimes she tiptoes into Torri’s room to borrow a belt. Earrings. A whole outfit, maybe.
Last weekend she must have played ten games of checkers with her little brother. And also she cheats for him on Club Penguin, collecting more puffins.
“Have you figured out a centerpiece for Thanksgiving yet?” she casually asks. She takes pride in her tablescapes. An entertainer in the making, she pins recipes and dreams up parties for every occasion.
Her Spanish teacher emailed yesterday not with bad news, but good. I brought it up over dinner and I saw her eyes sparkle, though she tried to hide it. It struck me right then that she might not know. She might not know just how treasured she is. Not for her brains or her fiery red hair or her quirky Photoshop talents. So treasured she is just for who she is. Right there at her core.
Treasured beyond measure. I hope she knows.