eleven

Eleven years ago today my Clara was born (on her great-grandmother, Lydia's birthday). She spent the first four years of her life nursing and glued to the back of my leg and then exploded out into the world.


When the kids were switching to their new schools, Clara had to go in for a reading assessment. The reading specialist took me aside afterwards and told me that she was a little concerned before they began because Clara told her that she didn't like reading. In her experience, that usually meant the child was having a hard time with reading. Then she laughed and told me that Clara had sailed through every level assessment she was given and was way above grade level. Yup. Like the rest of my kids, she is a great reader. But, in Clara fashion, she would much rather be doing something than reading about it.

A few weeks ago Clara's school was getting ready to have their spring concert. Clara announced that she was going to have a solo and, since she had just started playing trumpet this year, I took it with a grain of salt. After all, Clara is my spinner of yarns...my teller of tall tales. If it's worth telling, it's worth a wee bit of embellishing. She was progressing nicely on the trumpet, but c'mon. It's her first year. It can sound...painful. Well, wouldn't you know that the night of the concert the teacher announces that Clara will be performing a solo. Bill and I looked at each other, not sure whether we should be scared or proud. Don't you know that girl belted out "When the Saints Go Marching In," and did a damn fine job of it. That's Clara. When she decides to do something, she really does it.

So, happy eleventh birthday to my crazy, freckle-faced, sarcastic, born-to-be-an-actress, softball playing, trumpet blowing, story telling, always whistling, sings like angel, wild child. We wouldn't have you any other way.

(photos of Clara at four, nine and now, eleven)