A Little Bird Told Me

little birdI call my older daughter my little bird, because she is small, and brown, and her mind flits around up in the clouds. At all of 7 she tells me her raison d’etre is to make people happy, and I believe she will. She is a gift-giver, always slipping people cards and bringing wild flowers. When our cousin died, he had among the bank cards in his wallet very few personal items, but one he did have was a love card she had made him once when he had been feeling low.

She’s also my middle child, and a hyperactive monkey, so I wear a lot of parental guilt over the amount of (positive) attention she is apportioned.

And she is prone to silent anxiety. Like me, she thinks too much, but I’m ahead of that little game, and I’m fearsome in preventing anxiety getting long-term accommodation in her head.

One of the most influential choices we make for sensitive kids is the school they go to, and we’re relatively new to the school we’re in now – my daughter only started there at the beginning of this year, after two years at another local school. But it is fantastic. I still have my ups and downs, but mostly this seems to be me worrying too much, and perhaps being prematurely fearsome.

And the proof is in the pudding, or the eating, or the eating of the pudding, and just the other day my little brown bird skipped out of school and commented what a shame it was that school had to end so soon! Well, dress me up and call me Sally. I myself never had such a thought in my life, but I think I dropped a thousand lead weights of worry right then. She’s happy at school! It doesn’t get much better than that.

 

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