I admit to being a difficult person to try to wake up, so when my daughter and husband interrupt my afternoon nap, I am maybe not the nicest. It has already been a full day – brunch with my girl at Portage Bay Cafe, splitting a plateful of pancakes and berries and whipped cream. Then a walk to the Locks to find fish that weren’t there. An escape to the visitor’s center to watch a movie in the dark, her head on my lap, my fingers playing with her hair.
I have earned this nap. But man, are they cute.
Come on, Mom. My daughter sits on my husband’s shoulders. Come on, Mom. We’re going on an adventure.
I grumble. I make faces. I get up.
And we drive to the Museum of Flight, my eyes closed against the sun as I sway, sleepy, in shotgun.
My daughter has talked about airplanes for months, now. Every time I travel, or my husband does. Sometimes she is going to Los Angeles. Sometimes it’s San Diego. When she gets there she is going to play with all the toys.
So when we tour Air Force I and the Concord and the sawed-off commercial plane, she wants to sit in all the seats. Her eyes are big. Her smile is big. It is a big day.
After, we eat dinner at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant. Burritos and tacos and quesadillas and rice. Our daughter dances on the restaurant floor while we eat hot, fried churros. The cinnamon sugar is sweet on our lips. We smile. Think how lucky we are.
Sunday is another big day, this time at the aquarium. We buckle down and get a membership because this is all she talks about.
She’s been waiting all week to ask the scuba diver a question and she finally gets her chance, standing in front of a crowd.
How do fish poop?
She’s so quiet the presenter has to lean forward. But she does it, our girl. My heart soars for her. It’s an exercise in being brave and she passes with flying colors. Always, always showing us just how strong she can be.