The irony in life never fails to entertain, inspire, and scare me. Today, as the DOW's points dropped lower than ever, my child learned the word, "more."
The setting was lunch. The object of desire was pineapples.
Ava finished off the first serving I gave her, and when I asked her if she wanted more, she looked at me and said, "more?"
"Yes, more. More pineapple?"
I set down more in front of her. She repeated it.
And then, something made my ears perk up. It's the greeting she gives to every new word, and for the most part, they've been objects, not abstract concepts.
Yes, I thought and grimaced. Hi, more. I suppose I should officially greet you in her life, now, since you've set up house the moment she took a breath. Her tiny mouth opened and the screams came out then could only indicate that more was needed. More food. More swaddling. More mommy. More daddy. More sleeping. More awaking. More. Toddler tantrums indicated that you were becoming a favorite friend. More of that. More of this. Gimme more.
Now, today, you've been proclaimed as an actual part of her vocabulary. The welcome mat has been laid out for you, only I do it begrudgingly. Because I'm scared of what more means in this world. Extreme sweet sixteen parties, additions to technology, skinnier bodies, more money, better education, prettier faces, and, well...more. Please don't occupy her in that way. Let her believe that more is found in giving to the needy, swallowing her pride, loving without conditions, believing in good, and standing up for those with no voice.
More is what I signed up for when I decided to become a mother. But more than that, I wanted to make less of me, and more of Him. For her. And for all the mores in her life.