And I use the term Her Beanness, advisedly, because she’s quite a diva now. She likes the spotlight, she loves attention and she plays to the gallery. I worry at times that this might just hamper her becoming the person she could. That she’ll be too busy entertaining, to take off the makeup and get back to reality. But I guess that is just a mother worrying about something for lack of something truly worrisome.
This year she goes to big school, to class one. And I can’t help but feel bereft. My last little baby will spend longer hours in school, freeing up a chunk of my day. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what this will mean to me, but as of now, I have no plans to join the rat race and run with the other rodents. I still want to be home when they both get back from school and I don’t know anyone who will give me those working hours.
I worry yes, more so, because she’s a little girl in a violent world. I worry because she’s trusting – having a full time mother who never leaves her with strangers has given her no reason to suspect others. And that just makes it harder for her as well as for me. She’s full of beans (I know, I chose the nick well!) and has developed a grace it’s hard to capture in words. Slim, muscled limbs that only look skinny and fragile until she throws herself backwards over a couch or nimbly springs up atop a wall and floats across it. The little child who kept tripping over her feet, running into walls and tripping over her own feet, did a 180 in the last year as she gained muscle control. She’s skipping like a pro, learned to cycle on two wheels in a day and can hoola with the best. I watch the supreme control she has over each muscle, the determination to get it right and the willingness to keep at it, and I admire it in one so young.
Her hair is a mess. It’s like mine. Flyaway, brown, fine, unimpressive. She has beautiful, expressive huge eyes though and they take up a third of her face and dominate every conversation. She doesn’t need them really. She could close her eyes and still have people hanging on her every word. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, definitely, obsessive, realisation, determination, she rattles off the biggest words with ease, spends hours painting and crafting, but still refuses to pick up a book and read.
Earlier this evening we were wrapping up the return gifts for her birthday party and a friend dropped by to help me with the task. I mentioned to her that the Bean’s not reading yet.
The Bean smiled, flashing a missing tooth and said,’Yes Aunty, I don’t know the difference between B and D, or W and M.’
She then proceeded to pick up the gifts I’d packed and read the names on the gift tags out aloud.
That’s the Bean for you. Brings me to the edge of despair and then carelessly throws me a crumb.
Time’s a-flying and the tiny little burnt baby is a human with a personality to rival any adult’s. I watch her slip through my fingers, light as sand, delicate as foam, strong as silken thread.
Welcome to year 6, Bean. Your father says this is just the first 6. The other 66 will appear in time and you will come into your true form.
As for me… When I grow up, I want to be like you.
I leave you with some Beanisms – haven’t had the time to put them all down here yet.
Me: Bean! Did you take my lip balm?
Bean: NO! I NEVER take your balm.
Bean: Okay, sometimes I do.
Me: Uh huh?
Bean: Okay I do it all the time, but not today.
Bean to her: Well, why don’t we spend the morning painting on tee shirts? That is what I’m currently obsessing over.
Don’t believe me. Go over to her blog and ask her. After all she only flew down to spend the weekend with the Bean and all they did was talk about elephants.