The Observer

My granddaughter is such a funny little sprite. At seventeen months her unique personality is already peeking out.

She's a drama queen with the mute button pressed.

Slow to warm up, she has a way of crawling into your heart and nestling into a corner.

She's apparently tried out her various faces in the mirror, and the one that intrigues her right now is the pouty look. She wore it most of the weekend. "People react to it back at home," her Auntie Brandy says, "so she thinks it's cute." Almost as cute as her apricot face.

I find it fascinating to watch her little hands. She is attentive to the small things. She picks up a piece of lint on the floor and examines it. Or a little rock from the millions in the gravel of the driveway. Or a piece of a sunflower seed shell that some relative has dropped. Little things get observed, rolled around, felt, and then offered to someone nearby.

She looks, and looks and looks. She watches the pond, the fish, the frog, the people around her, a bug on the floor, and inanimate objects. They all get visually examined. It's all going into that pretty little head and getting processed.

She's a girl on a journey.

I sit and watch her, in turn, and wonder what she'll be like as she gets older and her personality is shaped by her observations, her thoughts, the reactions of people around her, and her experiences. And I wish I could watch the strengthening of spirit from day to day, rather than these snapshots several times a year.