"Mom!" My youngest daughter shouted. "Mom!"
I knew the next call would be a two syllable version of my name. With this child, I never know if it's a bug, a broken bone, or a simple check to see if I'm still alive.
This time, it wasn't about me, or her.
It was about a rainbow. The glass from our front door sent a prism of color on the foyer's wall. My daughter was dancing in excited circles - she'd discovered the sliver of a rainbow. For fifteen minutes she spoke of her new friend.
The rainbow had a family. It was lost, so my daughter patiently waited until the rainbow left. It needed a friend until her family could come get her. It wasn't until the very last light left the wall did my daughter scamper off and wrestle her yellow lab.
It wasn't until I tucked her into bed that night did I realize the impact of the day. This is her last year at home. With me.
For almost nine years, I've had a child at home. When my oldest was four, I delivered my third girl. The nights were long and the days chaotic. I had longed for the day to be free.
But as my four-year-old wrapped her little arms around my neck, I realized my freedom wouldn't include rainbows. Or dancing in my entryway.
Freedom is overrated, I thought as I hugged my youngest, squeezing her tightly.
She whispered, "I just pee in da bed. A lot."
Rainbows are overrated.