1m2aSandbox

Maddie’s spending the week at her riding stables in a five-day horseback riding camp. It’s all-day, every day, and it’s exhausting. 8 to 5 would wear out any third grader; add to that the fact that she’s in Texas heat, un-airconditioned, working and sweating outdoors the whole time, and you’ve got one worn out child by the end of the day.

She’s never been happier.

She gets a couple full lessons each day, of course, but she doesn’t spend every minute horseback: she grooms the animals, feeds and waters them, cleans their stalls, and so forth.

And then there’s the rest of the time, which is where I think the real lessons are.

Yes, there’s no surprise endings with a title like that, eh?

Friday morning Maddie was apprehensive about heading to Invention Camp – still nervous about her group’s duck launcher not working – but was trying hard to be strong in her decision not to forfeit. When I dropped her off, I pulled the counselor aside and said, “Listen, if the duck-launching thing doesn’t go well and Maddie asks to go to the bathroom, can you please let her go? Quickly?” and filled her in on the rest. The girl was sympathetic and promised to not give Maddie any grief should tears overtake her.

Throughout the day I sent up a quick prayer for my daughter – not that she’d win, or even score a point, with her invention – just that she’d have the courage to try it, and the strength to face the results. By the time I went to pick her up for the parental showcase and dismissal, I was a nervous wreck.

Last night I lay snuggling with Maddie as we do every night, talking through the day behind us and looking forward to the one to come. Maddie’s been in Invention Camp all week, and today is the culmination of all their hard work, getting to test inventions they’ve been working on all week, and showing off their projects to enthusiastic parents.

“So are you happy camp is almost over, or sad?” I asked.

“Well, mostly sad, but also a lot stressed about tomorrow,” Maddie said, surprising me.

“Why are you stressed about it?” I asked, and Maddie gave a huge sigh, and spilled it all.

Maddie’s eight now, and we’ve long seen some Serious Talks coming down our pike at this house. It’s commonly touted that girls mature faster than they did when I was growing up, for a variety of reasons.

I’m not trying to discuss the theories behind “why” – growth hormones in dairy products, over-explicit and age-inappropriate media exposure, there’s quite a list of common theories out there. But I am hearing so much of the “fourteen is the new eighteen”, and “nine is the new twelve”, and I can’t deny that I’m now within shouting distance of age nine.

So I do what I always do in situations like this – I start reading.

3:30 a.m. last night, there was a knock on our bedroom door. “Come in,” Brian groggily said.

Cora came tiptoeing through the door. “Mommy, I . . .” but I was already out of bed and stumbling towards the door before she even finished her sentence, knowing from the past four nights what was going on.

We’ve got a new baby in the house, and no one’s sleeping.

Cora adopted a four-month-old kitten the day after school got out; it was her promised sixth birthday gift, and we’d made her wait until school was over so she’d be home to bond with it. And as fun as that kitten is, around 3:30 a.m. we all wish (just a teensy bit) that Kitten was back at the animal shelter.

Dear Maddie:

This weekend we celebrated your eighth birthday for what seemed like days: we spent a fun morning with friends horseback riding and eating ice cream at the stables; we went for a huge long family swim with more friends; we at ice cream and cake and pizza and your favorite meal: smoked ham, baked beans, and steamed broccoli. And of course we took lots of breaks for opening gifts.

The weekend was a revolving door of friends and family stopping by to drop off a birthday present, and I can’t help but rejoice at what a close community you’ve got in your own right here. Friends came by with a book of poetry about animals (how well does she know you???), or with gift cards to a favorite store, or even an original poem written by a sick friend when she had to miss your birthday party. You, my friend, are well loved.