Her dresser is an antique, a gift from a friend, refinished by my husband in the high heat of an Ohio River valley July. Above it hangs a cross stitch from a friend I’ve known as long as I’ve been blogging, which reaches rather more deeply into my high school career than I’d like. On the opposite wall several art prints, an inked sketch from her one of her adoring aunties. A hand-painted elephant on her bookshelf from another. Crocheted blankets and quilts. Above her bed a card for her first Halloween, her name drawn with corresponding characters from Star Wars.
And these are just the things that I can see, the objects that lead me to consider all of the hugs, the kind words, the help we’ve received in her first few months in this world. The thing that’s best about it is, she’s got a family bigger than us. And it’s not just who’s in her blood. The people we’ve filled our life with love of love her, too.
I recently saw a post on Facebook that said, “I’ve seen the village, and I don’t want it raising my child.” To that I say, make your own village. Talk to your child’s teacher. A lot. Talk to your neighbors. The friend you haven’t made yet checking out an interesting book at the library. Will you regret it? I know I haven’t.