Genoa has taken to trying on my shoes. Every pair. Every night. I finally had to tell her she could only take one pair out of my closet at a time because tripping over my own shoes in the middle of the night was becoming a problem. I'm sure the basement dwellers are thrilled with this development, too, because I pretty much only own heels.
She's been kind of amazing lately. Weird, yes, but amazing.
She uses sidewalk chalk to make rainbow-colored dust, which she then shapes into people. Chalk people. She keeps them in plastic bags.
She's an athlete who recently kept up with me on her bike while I did a four-mile run. She runs like a gazelle herself. A thirteen-minute mile pace on those tiny little legs.
The other morning she refused to let me brush her hair. She wouldn't brush it herself. I reminded her that she looked adorable with short hair and that we could always just get it cut again if brushing it was such a problem. An hour later I was walking her to her classroom when she started bawling her eyes out in the middle of the hall.
"When you say I look cute with short hair, it makes me think you don't think I'm pretty with long hair!"
Wait. WHUT?! Color me dumbfounded. I got down on my knees, smothered her with loves and reminded her that she is a goddess. Even though I may never understand her.
I do understand her current predicament, though.
She's been talking.
And people, this is ME saying this. I gold medal in the talking olympics. But she's doing more than talking lately. She's narrating. Her whole life. Every step.
"Mom!" she'll scream at me from her bedroom so I can hear her in the kitchen. "I just opened my curtains, but it was too bright so I closed them!"
"I'm reading Junie B!"
"Now I'm reading Go Dog Go!"
"I needed to go pee but then it went away!"
It's almost as if she thinks I'm Sting and I need to know every move she makes.
But I get it - she's telling me everything except the one thing she wants me to know.
A month ago she told me she had a secret she needed to tell me. A confession about something she did with the neighbor girl across the street. Something bad. Something she needs to get off her conscience. Aside from asking her twelve bazilion times if there were any grown-ups or boys involved (no) (thank god), she won't tell me what it is.
She'll talk about TELLING ME about it. Constantly. Relentlessly.
But she won't tell me her secret.
I've tried everything. Begging. Pleading. Paying. She keeps promising to tell me "tonight." "When we get home." "Tomorrow morning, I SWEAR!"
I've even tried reverse psychology. I told her I didn't even care about her secret and that she never had to tell me what it was because I don't even want to know anymore. Of course that only made her cry because "It's like [I] don't even care about [her]!"
Until the dam breaks, I'll try to just listen. To all of it. It's hard. Painful, even. She never stops talking.
But I get it. Secrets are terrible. And there are worse things than the constant chatter of the seven-year old love of my life.