I gave my daughter my hips and legs, why not give her my introversion too.

I can see myself in her little body when she walks away from me on her way to the side of the pool for her swim lessons. And I can see myself when she closes the door to her room, turns on the light near her bed and sets out all her horses in a row. She says that she needs to be alone.

Being alone recharges her. I am recognizing that.

She’s all emotion and passion and testing the limits right now. I can hardly remember being seven…

What I liked.
What I felt.
What made me feel normal.
How I needed to be by myself.

I know that I need to do what I can to clear the trail for her, cut through the brush so that she can walk as unencumbered as possible through the growing-up of her. Part of that, I am realizing, is very much what I need in order to feel normal: being alone.

I don’t get charged by being in groups (like my life-of-the-party husband). It exhausts me. I love people but I love them more in smaller doses. Coffee with one friend. Three of us at the movies or spa. Running in the morning with another girlfriend. This is where I do best.

And then I need to be alone to remember who I am.

I can see this in my own daughter. She plays hard, she wants so much to be liked in groups but it tires her out just trying to keep it together all day at school. So today, when she didn’t want to sit with me but go and dream with her dolls, I let her. I protected her privacy by taking her sometimes-meddling little sister and read to her in another room so she wouldn’t bother her. I waited until she was ready to emerge, charged and ready to be a part of our afternoon.

And she did, this time reminding me who I am.

Sometimes I wish I could be seven and be her best friend.

I’d be the friend who always saves a seat for her at lunch, always shares a knowing look across the classroom. I’d be the friend who still loved her even after she couldn’t stop her anger or her tears. I’d be the friend who always invited her to spend the night, sharing my toys, my pillows and my dog.

I wish I was seven so we could share first grade laughter on the playground and plan elaborate spy missions during recess. We would run to the far corner of the field to look at the sky in spring. We’d dream up names for our imaginary horses we would own when we grew up and live next door to each other.

I wish I could be her best friend and begin to walk the journey with her as a peer and an equal. I’d be the friend she would always search for in the crowd at birthdays, graduations, weddings. I would hold her hand through breakups and laugh at her quirkiness (endearing her to me) when everyone else thought her strange. I would be the friend who would call and say, “It’s me” with no more explanation.

If I was her best friend, I’d be one of the first to hold her newborn baby at the same time remembering that we used to tell secrets with dandelions in our braids. I would never let her feel alone.

I wish I could save her from loneliness by loving her fiercely as only a friend can do.

Instead I am a mother. And a mother cannot fill in those holes left by friendlessness. And I cannot be seven again.

I can only love her now, the way a mother does. And love her then, the way a mother still does, but filtered through the adult eyes of her child and coupled with the maturity of adult friendship.

And maybe, somehow, she’ll find that “It’s me” friend along the way, the one who will stand beside her at her wedding and will love her fiercely… almost as much as I do.

I woke up this morning to find my seven-year-old in the spot that my husband usually takes in our bed.

He’d left early to go get coffee and read like he does most Sunday mornings and Hope had come in in the middle of the night. Lately nightmares or alone feelings — I’m not saying “No.”

I turned over, and she was there, head turned away, the room already bright at 7.

She turned over to me fresh with sleep with an idea already in her head. Not “Good Morning” or “How did you sleep,” but:

“Mama, I can pour the milk for your cereal this morning! I know how!”

Of course she knows how. She’s seven and she’s capable of picking up the milk gallon. But more than that, she’s willing. And she was excited to serve me in some way that she was able. She didn’t want to help in a way that was beyond her (she didn’t offer to clean out the refrigerator or fry up some bacon). And she didn’t offer with an frowning attitude (like she does when asked to clean her room or begin her homework).

She knew what she could do well and she offered to serve with excitement and purpose. She smiled.

It was simple. A single act of helpfulness in a way that she knew would make me happy. Yet she wasn’t afraid to offer it.

Sometimes I can’t even pour my own milk with a happy heart. I can’t help others with willingness and excitement. I rarely let “How can I help?” be the first thing from my lips in the morning. I can seem to serve with joy or muster satisfaction from loving others with my actions.

I have trouble acting within charity – a selfless, sacrificial love that gives to others.

The simple charity of a seven-year-old has changed me today.

I want to serve.

Sometimes I feel like I’m missing her seven-ness. As if her seven-ness is somehow walking right by without noticing me like an acquaintance: someone I desperately want to get to know but have trouble knowing what to say.