tummy juice

Too long since I've awoken and claimed a morning to write.
Perhaps it is the stillness that only comes from new snow.
It's grace floats into my kitchen and reminds me.
It reminds me of the voice I can only hear when it's quiet.
Now it finally feels like Christmas.  The twinkling tree in my living room does not feel so out of place.
We've been listening to Christmas radio in the car, but that doesn't cut it.
Pepper has been memorizing all the lyrics.  She sang them for her Dad last night.
And I sat tall and proud as she bee-bopped along to Santa Clause is Coming to Town.
I kept looking from him to her to make sure he was smiling.  He did.  Good.
How could I not see her as a reflection of me?
It is so hard not to take her accomplishments personally, to take credit for them.
Even one so trite as a 4 year old singing.  
I know better.  I know the danger of this, but I fall into it anyway.
Pep is so like me already, with her love of books and words and metaphor and irony.
For the last month she's been enlightening me with homophones.

"Mom, a bat is an animal and a toy.
Mom, a rock is like a rock and you Rock OuT!
Mom, a brush is like you brush your hair and a paint brush!
Mom, a cat is like an animal AND a Name!
Mom, squash is like you eat it and I squash you!
Mom, Beach is like Sophie's friend AND it's the ocean in California!"

I can see in the slim rectangle of my rear view mirror, her mind is blown, every time.
This just keeps happening!  One word.  Two meanings.  Crazy!

See the green tummy juice?

She has also taken to writing the names of:  Mom, Pepper and "Dod."
Then she draws us.
Yesterday when her Dod's mouth ended up a straight line, she started laughing.
"Dad's mad...cuz he just got home from work."
She saw it.  That subtle change in his mouth communicated emotion.  I love her for seeing that, and for finding the humor in it.
She also draws each persons' tummy, with the tummy juice inside.
This is clearly important, because she rarely leaves it out.
I am not certain what the "U" after each persons' name is for.
I'll have to ask her when she wakes up.

In some way this feels like my accomplishment.
Even though all I've done is facilitate.
I read her books, and I answer her questions.
I tell her she is smart, and I am proud of her.

See how long and capable her fingers are!

However, I wonder if there is a better word than proud.
I've always wondered this.
Am I setting her up to please me, rather than pursue her own identity?
Some would say I am thinking too hard, but I disagree.
I am leaving space for Grace to claim her magic.
In reality, I am no more responsible for Pepper's artistry then I am the snow lying smooth on my back yard.
I cannot conjur the spell she casts on the world at Christmas time.
I cannot claim Pepper as a thing I have made.
I didn't teach her to draw fingers on her figures.
I am not the narrator on our walks to school.
She hears her own voice.
A voice very similar to this one I find on quiet mornings.
So maybe I can approach her as I do the snow, with gratitude for her presence and her magic.
Maybe instead of saying,
"I am proud of you."
I can say,
"Thank you for sharing your drawings with me.  It makes me feel so happy to see your art work.
You are very good at using your imagination, and I love how you draw the tummy with tummy juice in it."