Happy Birthday Baby

Lucy! You are Four! Years! Old! today (well, yesterday). We are so proud of you, and love you more than ever. This week you learned all of the countries in North and Latin America. Wow. Today you showed dad where all of them are on the map -- we are amazed. On Monday you started studying and by Thursday, you knew them all. (Confession -- until you reminded me where Belize is, I couldn't have shown you.)

After a long and cold Spring, Summer has arrived early and with a vengeance. It seems appropriate -- you have been asking for short sleeves and sun dresses for months. You dream of sunny days. So perhaps the greatest gift today was the sun.

There are parties to come and pictures will surely follow. I can't believe it's been four years since you arrived, my sweet girl. I know you're set to show us who you are this year, more than ever. I'll try to be ready for it, whining, laughter and all.

You can't always get what you want.

Lately I've been feeling itchy for you to grow more independent. There was a part of me that knew I shouldn't wish for it, but there are times in the day where it would be so much...easier. And now I feel lazy for writing it down. But you know the times -- in the morning getting ready and at night. Our struggles are rooted in the fact that you know how you need or want things to go, but you aren't quite there developmentally. And I want to help.

Simultaneously, I've felt this need to hold you close, draw you in. Last night, we went out without you and it felt...strange. The author reading and signing wouldn't have been appropriate content for you, but we were at one of your favorite places -- Powell's -- and found ourselves browsing the selection of "Clifford the Big Red Dog" books you are so wild for. As I write this, I'm thinking that I set out to write about your sudden shifts -- your development -- and, of course, this is really about mine.

As the sun has appeared more and more, you are expending more energy outside. You are coming alive! With the increased activity comes a deeper need for rest, for moments to yourself where you can chill the eff out when you find yourself too wound up. So maybe it's the literal increase in movement that's caused me to feel the metaphoric movement away from me. And that's just so damn typical, isn't it?

Yesterday when you and Dad picked me up, I opened your door to give you a quick kiss. You looked at me, sighed, and said, "You are so beautiful Mommy." This moment was a balm on my otherwise frustrating day with teenagers and so what I need. You seemed to sense what I need, and it is so awesome to see this development.

But I still long for you to need me, to make me go through the entire bedtime routine with the kisses, the hugs, the calling back in, the holding for four minutes on the floor and, finally, the silence.

Tonight we were drying your hair and your eyes were closing. You said, "I feel cold." You were unusually tired and when we laid you in bed, you rolled over and fell asleep. You didn't even make it through our little stories. We kissed you on the cheek, turned out your little pink and green flower lamp, and left the room. I waited by the door and found myself regretting each second I wished for this moment.

"But if you try sometimes you might find you get what you need."

Life Questions Episode #253: Frank Sinatra

Saturday morning conversation about Frank Sinatra.

"I want to listen to that song, "oh my gosh my golly," who sang that song?

"Frank Sinatra."

"Yeah, yeah! Frank Sinatra -- that one!"

pause

"But he died. I missed him. Where did he go, did he go to the sky?"

"No, no. He's just gone. It's okay, though. We can still listen to his music."

"Oh! Oh! I have an idea!"

"What!"

"I can see Frank Sinatra in California! I can go there someday!"

Retrieval

Last night we were at a friend's house for dinner. When we were at the table, you ordered me to laugh. I made a laugh-like sound, but you knew it wasn't real; everyone laughed, though, because we are all silly that way.
Dad leaned over and stage-whispered in your ear, "tell Mom to laugh authentically." You smiled and bowed your head, but did not repeat the words. We waited in anticipation, holding our breath to make sure we didn't miss hearing the big word escape your lips.
Conversation moved on, but a minute or two later you quietly said, "laugh authentically." Then, in a louder, happy exclamation you said, "I found it! I found the page!" as if the word -- the moment of the whispered request was in an ever expanding memory book of words and experiences.
Later, in the car, we tried to learn the secret of what the pages of your book look like, but you couldn't exactly say--maybe you saw words or pictures, perhaps it was just the moment of the whisper. No matter what it was, these moments of metacognition took my breath away.

Prism

A couple of days ago, a beautifully bright and sharply in focus rainbow appeared in front of our house. It was one that was so close, you could see the end resting on the top of trees two streets over.

Later, in your room, you told Dad, "I'm going to think about the rainbow before I go to sleep."

Blue Ribbon

I don't want to lose the memory of many things, but today I want to acknowledge my pride for your most recent accomplishment.
When we started swim lessons a few weeks ago, I wasn't sure you'd pass the first "test" by the end of your intro class. I'm sorry I didn't have the faith in you...
The first two lessons, you cried and shook. Then, you gave up the crying and expressed excitement about swimming (even though you gripped us with your vice-like fingers). Finally, you started floating on your own -- beautifully and with a brilliant confidence.
Last night, you got your blue ribbon and I am so proud of you. The blue ribbon means you floated on your back, by yourself, for 20 seconds. It means you can jump into the water face first and turn yourself over into a floating position.
When I was a girl, I was deathly afraid to hop in to water, even into the shallow end. I didn't trust myself. But I know you won't be that girl -- you will not feel that fear.
Today you told me you want to go skiing. Let's not get carried away now, okay? Mama needs to take this slow.
But whatever mountains you choose to scale (literally and figuratively), I'll be there to cheer you on.

Passion and difficulty

Today is my birthday and you woke me up by saying, "go away mom." You and Dad have this thing on weekend mornings; you wake up together while I sleep in. I am forever grateful of the extra sleep, but you are very territorial of whatever early morning magic you create -- painting, writing songs on the computer and reading books.
I am already afraid of our future relationship. We both have a passive-aggressive tendency and we've had disagreements where neither one of us wants to admit defeat. Then I realize I'm trying to one-up a preschooler and I recognize the ridiculousness of my own behavior.
You are so passionate and loving most of the time -- and oh-so-sure of how everything fits together. I wouldn't trade what we have for a world without you, but I worry when you act like a jerk. I'd prefer to think your nature is the "I love you mommy, I made this for you, thank you so much" and not the "you are not my friend, go away, I don't love you."
We'll find our way together; I'll never go away.