I’ve never been whimsical.
I don’t think that even as a little girl I would have been considered whimsical.
Perhaps I’ve had fleeting moments of whimsy…but, definitely not whimsical.
However, I’ve always envied people who were whimsical.
If you look whimsical up in the dictionary, you’ll come across an array of words that describe someone who is capricious and unpredictable, has a tendency toward fanciful notions…and sometimes is even erratic. But, my favorite definition say ‘a pixyish fellow.’
I think I’ve done a lot of stupid and careless, but I’ve neglected to add charm and innocence to my erratic behavior.
I have a lot of whimsical in my life.
My oldest daughter, my middle chicken, is turning a whimsical three years old tomorrow.
It seems almost impossible that the little Thanksgiving baby I brought home from the hospital 3 years ago, tinier than tiny is now a three year old.
When people ask me what my little girl is like, I always think Princess and Whimsical.
Princess because she is.
Whimsical because she just can’t not be.
Since before she could even walk, she held high expectations about her clothing and refused to put anything on her little feet that didn’t have Wizard- of- Oz- Dorthy sparkle to them. It has been probably a good year since she last put on a pair of pants to leave the house and will frequently head to the park in a tutu over her princess dress and tights and shoes that only she could pull off. She likes to rock two pink feathers in her hair and likes to “get beautiful” with Gramma in the mornings. She picks out her own clothes in the morning (and has for as long as I can remember) and makes pretty good dress/tights combinations that always include flowers and paisley being matched up with stripes or polka-dots. She is that girl you see strutting through target, looking a hot mess with her hair in a knot, mismatched shoes and clashing clothes, looking prouder than the President on the 4th of July.
And you know what?
As the other suburban moms in their falsely perfect pretenses look at me with horror that I would let my little girl leave the house that way, I realize…I am proud.
My little Princess is confident and strong-willed. She is incredibly sweet and warmly generous. She loves lavishly. She laughs a laugh that will make the world giggle and isn’t shy to say how much she loves you or how beautiful you are. She makes my heart warm and my soul happy.
As I sit and watch my little girl, I’ve come to realize that she is the epitome of life.
She lives big and she lives strong.
She dances as if the world isn’t looking.
She sings like nobody is listening.
She screams so the world can hear her.
She cries so you cry with her.
She is an all or nothing kind of kid.
She lives and breathes with regard to who she is, who she wants to be, and who she needs to be.
When I think of what I hope for my little one, I wish for her to keep her whimsy.
I hope that as she grows older, she still lives big and lives strong.
I hope she doesn’t lose track of herself.
I hope she doesn’t get caught up in pretending to be someone else to please them.
I hope she doesn’t stop trusting herself.
I hope she keeps singing and dancing, giggling and crying.
My little Whimsical Princess is a handful.
She is probably more like 46 handfuls stuffed into a tiny size 7 shoes and a 3T dress.
But she is perfect.
She is mine.
Happy Birthday, Lovely.
May your whimsy continue to bless you with the happiness it has brought to us.