Once a Monkey, Always a Monkey

Allison Clare turned 7 a few weeks ago, an occasion marked with a big party at a gymnastics studio near us.  (We've been telling the kids that they get a big party "out" when they are 7 and hoping that we won't have to have a big production every year.)  Stepping up to the balance beam, she looked so tall and slim in her little black leotard and tights---without the manic simian energy of her self from just few years ago, nor the soft squirminess of a few years before that.  In its place was, if not gracefulness exactly, then perhaps a hint of future grace.

In the midst of her "wonder" years (wonderful and terrible as they were), I thought that most kids said and did funny stuff all the time, but I've realized that she truly was unusually funny--with a more antic imagination and a stronger sense of self, comical for coming packaged in her little ragamuffin body.  I wish that I'd been able to capture more of her funny comments and observations; it's hard to balance being present enough to just enjoy her/them and preserving everything (and trying, quixotically, to maintain an inner life).

But even at 7, she still surprises me with how young and strange her vantage point is.  The other day, I geared myself up for the loathesome task of cutting 60 fast-moving finger- and toenails.  When I got to AC and lifted her hand up to the clippers, I saw that they were already cut down almost to the quick.

"Have you been biting your nails?"
"Yes.  I just wanted to trim them."
"Okaaay.  Well, should I cut your toenails or have you been biting those too?"

This last question I asked with exaggerated mock-sarcasm.  But AC didn't laugh or meet my eyes.  I pulled off her sock as she explained, "I only did a few.  The big ones give me a little trouble."

I think growing up may take a while after all.