More than enough

I walk at the park a lot. Sometimes I just sit there and read and pray.

While I was there, a mom and her daughter, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Hannah lookalike, parked and wondered down to the lake's edge. The mom was lovely, even in her "grubbies," and I have to admit a twinge of envy at how slender she was, how perfect her ponytail was, how so "put together" she seemed.

I half-read my book, half-watched the duo, amused to hear the young girl talking a mile-a-minute like Hannah does with me.

Eventually they threw some food out to the ducks. Now, these ducks and goose (I call her Mama Goose) obviously have taken and complete their "Be Assertive Today" course--they are *not* shy about getting real close and cozy. Too close for Hannah's comfort, that's for sure.

Anyway, the girl eventually gave a mild shriek and ran back to their vehicle. With my windows down, I heard her clearly begging her mom to unlock the car. She may be a drama queen, but I detected a true note of fear in her voice. But the mom, this woman who I thought was oh-so-pretty, replied harshly, "Oh come on! You're stressing me out; this is supposed to be a nice walk, and you're making it stressful for me. Now just STOP!"

I know, I know; I've had moments like that, too many to name, when I speak sharply to Hannah. But I have always tried to listen for the times when she really is scared. And maybe this little girl was just vying for attention and being melodramatic, but maybe not. All of a sudden, I didn't care to be like that lady. I didn't care to turn a deaf ear to my child's pleas. I realized I just want to be me, the me who listens to my girlie; the me who cares if Hannah's frightened. All of a sudden: just being ME was enough. Plus-size, curvy, giving, loving, don't-you-dare-hurt-my daughter me.