Last night, I stood in the driveway with Gabriella, my seven year-old.  I tickled her and she laughed my mother’s mother’s laugh.  Something about the moment spurred a flashback.  In my mind’s eye I saw her swaddled and lying stone still on my lap.  She was gripping my finger so tightly her knuckles turned white.  I was singing to her.  I did that a lot in those days.  She was my first born and nothing on TV or anywhere else was as entertaining or calming as she could be.

When the tickling and laughing stopped, i just stood there for a minute and took her in.  She suddenly seemed much taller and more beautiful and effortlessly enjoyable than I’d noticed before.  I should notice her more, I thought.

She stilled, stood with her back against me, my hands on her chest, and she told me about something funny a friend of hers had done at school.  Have you ever felt so compelled to speak that you couldn’t hold the thoughts in even if you wanted to?  “I remember when you were so small you could fit on my lap, and I would sing and sing to you.  You’ve become such a kind, smart beautiful girl you know it?”

I felt relieved, the way I did when I told my grandmother I loved her just before she died, the way I did when I told my friend Becky I loved her for the first time.  I got it out.  I knew that Gabriella now knew I didn’t just love her, but I noticed her and liked what I saw.  I hoped in those seconds after those words were spoken that she’d remember them, that they’d play in her mind when boys at school pick on her – and they will – when girls look at her as if smelling something disgusting – and they will – when she fails – and she will.  I hoped those words would keep her heart safe and remind her always that she is lovable and good.

And then she said, “My teacher says I have the best handwriting and today I made the highest grade on my paragraph.  And I helped Penelope unbuckle when Gresham just ran inside.”

In seconds my pride became hers.

Maybe it’s genetic.