this girl

She gives me flowers, and her smile is toothy and wide.
She runs everywhere, runs into things. Runs into ideas at a million miles, and then runs away from them again.
She exclaims, loudly "It's not fair!"
And then, with only a little persuasion, she tries again.
Eight will be a year of learning new things, and a year when tricky things become easy. An eight year old brain  will more easily be persuaded to run in straight lines, when she wants it to.
Her present was a bike, a bigger one, a bike suitable for a girl who knows how to ride it, a girl who has places to go to, a world to see.
And the present she chose for herself was a new sponsored child, "a new sister" she said.
Some days she wishes she came in an easy package. Some days she cries tears of frustration that things don't work out the way she expects them too. Some days it's all too hard. The violin, the maths, the holding the pencil with her thumb wriggled back.
But most days she lives in a whirlwind and sings about it. Lives right on the intersection where the ideas whizz back and forth, and dances.
Happy birthday Isobella, we are a year older!