Nearly Nine

I watched her prance in this evening after her piano lesson, and had to take a second look to make sure that my eyes were not deceiving me.

She's nearly nine.

Her head bounces as she walks - and she talks - and she prattles on about this and that and all the wonderful things that fill her head with fanciful visions; mostly of faeries, cute little winged creatures of the woods and streams and glades, sketches of whom she fills the pages of her notebooks (and, indeed, any spare scrap of paper she can find). Her hair is cut short so that it bobs up and down as she whirls around the room, dancing to an unheard tune and carrying on a monologue to an unseen audience, often without taking a breath; she has always had the uncanny ability to speak while inhaling, the origin of which is unknown.

She's nearly nine, and her legs have grown long and her feet have outgrown all her shoes and she's taken notice of fashion and color and beauty and all the things that herald the end of the age of innocence and the beginning of the parents' long slide into worry and despair. She has a most winning smile, and when all the work of the orthodontist is done, she will have a perfect set of teeth.

She's funny and silly and giddy and bubbly and far too excitable to ever finalize her plans for the upcoming celebration, with the consequence that we still have no idea what we are going to do with her tomorrow. There is so much going on anyway. Whatever we do, it will doubtless be rushed. But it is her choice to go out somewhere to celebrate, and celebrate we shall! For it isn't every day that a little girl turns nine years old, and her parents still have sufficient sanity to enjoy the occasion.

She's nearly nine!