From the day she was born, I knew we had a firecracker on our hands.

I tell people that the first 18 months were by far the hardest, and I stick by that claim. 

She’s now 11, and she is astounding. 

There are days she goes inside herself and doesn’t want to talk much. There are days she talks and questions and paints and creates nonstop. 

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There are evenings she asks for a back scratch and others that she asks for a prayer.

But there is not ever an evening that she misses being close to me, even if just for a moment before she sneaks away to her den of wonders. 

She is the keeper of her brothers, sisters, and pets in the best of ways. 

I don’t think Peter Pan would object to my calling her my Wendy—nurturing her brave, rag-tag pack with softness and tenderness.

Today, I lie in my bed extremely ill. I believe my littles have given me the gift of the flu. After only a few short hours of mom work, my bones and muscles have grown achy and weary. 

Without being asked, she has bathed her sister. She has done the dishes. She has gathered her pack around her so that I can rest.  

She is first and foremost a gift of God, but also a testimony to consistency and honesty in parenting. 

She knows: Grown-ups are not perfect. Grown-ups make mistakes and bad choices. Grown-ups fall sick. Grown-ups get big, overwhelming emotions too.

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However, she also knows there are grown-ups in her life who will get up every morning, ready for a new day to cheer her on, to take her load, and to pour into that nurturing heart of hers.

And I know—because she’s told me—that she prays and wants that for every child . . . more than just about anything.

Originally published on the author’s Facebook page