Untitled

Your legs buckle as I try to brush your teeth. You are crying and laughing and screaming as I scrub each little tooth. You don't understand, fully, how truly frustrating this is: I have visions of rotting teeth -- you have visions of not entering your bedroom one second before you are ready.

Finally, I give in; I rinse the toothbrush and put it away in the cabinet. I step over you and sprint down the steps -- Dad dried your hair and told you stories. You wanted to tell me, instantly, that you were sorry, but I couldn't accept it just them. There's a part of me that doesn't want you to learn you can continue the cycle by apologizing right away. But I'm not sure, exactly, how to make it all come out right for everyone.

I made it up after stories to cuddle on the bed with you. You wanted everything just so -- and to hear my story "with the silly voice," and so it came together in the end. Sometimes I wish I knew how to always keep a sunny disposition -- how to instantly forgive you when you misbehave. Sometimes I wonder if it's simply my outlook that is flawed...

Bedtime conversation

Setting: Your room. You are in bed waiting for a story from Dad -- Don't Let The Pigeon Stay Up Late by Mo Willems. I walk in the door.

"Want to listen to the story with me?"
"Yes."
"Will you cuddle in bed with me?
"Of course -- can I share your pillow?"
"Yes!"

[I lay down next to you.]

[During the story...]

"I'm rubbing your back. Does it feel nice?"
"I love it, yes."
"Let me take your glasses. And your hair clip."
"Okay."
"Can I scratch your head? It feels so soft!"
"Umm, hmmm..."
"Look at your funny hair; it's covering your eyes!"

[I think, for a moment, about falling asleep there...]
...

[The story has ended.]

"I want a hug. I'm rubbing your back again!"
"I love you so much, sweet dreams."
"I love you too."

Accidental tree lighting

Today we took the visiting family to Ikea. It was a mixed success; Ikea is fun in some ways, however, if the family ends up bothered by their lack of ability to purchase shiny new things, a trip there can feel...frustrating.

We decided (okay, DAD decided) that it was be fun! to take the train Downtown. Granted, all parties were into a ride on MAX, but in general I'm not into going there unless our destination is 1. Powell's Books, 2. To see a show of some kind, or 3. Eat really good food. It was really cold, and we were only moderately prepared. Luckily, you had on your new winter coat. Dad thought it would be neat to see the gigantic tree erected in Pioneer Courthouse Square.

We got on the nearly empty train and headed into town. As we sped closer to our destination, the train began filling up, but it wasn't too busy. As the doors opened on the square and we tried to get off, we realized that we'd stepped into the Tree Lighting Ceremony, a huge event every year. There are thousands of people and we could barely make it onto the sidewalk. It was literally freezing (well, it was 33 degrees) and we didn't have the best view. You held tight to your stuffed bear and didn't seem to mind too much. We saw: a drunk, homeless, man wearing a metal mixing bowl as a helmet, while smoking a cigarette and nearly taking out a group of young Republicans with his gigantic plastic sack of clothes and bedding; a pair of men carrying signs that read, "9-11 was an inside job" and advertising a website explaining their theories; more than a few angry, stroller-bearing parents who seemingly believed it was their right to run over the feet of 10 year olds who dared get in their way (I saw one woman make an elderly man with a walker yield to her inherent need to get to Nordstrom).

I have to stop a minute. It wasn't this bad, really; I'm not that bitter. When we found a less busy spot, listening to the jazz and all the happy, excited people, I was glad we made it. At the countdown to the lights, I felt my heart speed up in anticipation. There may have been tears in my eyes as the Holiday Tree -- and all of the trees on the street -- lit up in unison. As we were riding the MAX back to our car, you fell asleep in Dad's arms. The train was busy at first, but it cleared out as we got closer to the airport. I overheard a man talking to his mom on a cell phone about his nice Thanksgiving visiting friends in Portland; he was on his way back to San Francisco. I thought about how, someday, you would be calling me from some distant place and not here with me.

Sometimes it takes a chilly night and an evergreen to help me see things clearly.

Thanksgiving shiner

The story of your shiner is a long and winding story...
This morning, you awoke to the appearance of some young family members sleeping on the sofa bed; you were thrilled and proceeded to play with them all day. They were excellent companions as we busied ourselves in the kitchen.
I had my head down, chopping vegetables and fruits, mixing and mixing most of the morning and into the early afternoon. I was cook and hostess and organizer, but I couldn't have done that satisfying work without a lot of help. Nana and Papa helped with the potatoes and stuffing, table setting, snack trays, carving -- Margaret helped construct and execute the gravy (yeah for sage!) -- and, of course, Dad was there plugging along too.
We finally got to our meal and I sat with you at your little table. There were so many people in our house (14 for dinner!) that we had to bring up an additional table from the basement. The extra table (and our dining table extended) meant extra chairs.
After dinner, while people were winding down, you were winding up. Your circles around the table, complete with drive-by tickling, grew more frenetic. On one of your trips around, your foot caught on the leg of a metal folding chair and you tumbled, face first, into the back of your little, wooden desk chair. A spot next to your eye took the blow; we think that your glasses saved your eye itself. Consequently, you have a pretty nasty black eye, with a bright red scrape to boot.
You cried, of course, and I held you while applying ice. Soon, you fell asleep on our bed for a late nap. After you woke up and said that your eye felt "a LOT better," (though it looked worse), you were back to playing -- happy as can be. You didn't want to see the evidence until Dad popped open his computer and took these shots:

Okay, well, the picture thing didn't work out right now, but I'll get them up.
Here's to another great day tomorrow, hopefully one without injuries. xo

Update -- here they are!

On the eve of giving thanks...

Three pots of cranberry sauce are bubbling --
You sleep soundly in your bed above me (I wish I was horizontal too) --

Family coming into town at 3 a.m.; Tom Turkey must begin his slow descent at 6 a.m. --
I love this holiday -- my favorite, I think --

This year, we are home, in our home which means: no bags to haul to the car, no traffic to fight, no extra late bedtime at the Grandparents' house --
And: a clean home, ready for guests, a new warmth in our house, new beginnings and traditions, you, sitting tall, and finding what you are thankful for.

Lucy, I am thankful that you will give the blessing this year -- may you always feel blessed in return.

Guest Post from Dad

Dear Lucy,

Tonight you had Mom kiss you just like the image in the Spike Lee book, Please, Baby, Please. Since your new Ikea bed arrived, bedtime has been bliss.

I sneak you in to poems, usually referring casually to "light". That's you.

Love,
Dad

Grocery man!

Tonight the Thanksgiving groceries came via New Seasons Market. (The delivery fee is a bargain when one considers the hours of time saved -- that, and the free gifts they include!) Our delivery person, Sean, was especially delightful and you were quite fond of him. As he was climbing the porch stairs, you yelled, "Grocery Man!" at the top of your lungs. As if you 'saw' something in his nature, you started stretching and bending into little yoga and dance poses. During my conversation with him, I discovered that he is a trained dancer and we had a talk about his future plans, which include dance therapy. It's refreshing to have lovely, unexpected conversations. As you hopped about, your flexibility impressed him. Perhaps, at some point, we should think of a dance class for you, however, I don't want you to become an overly scheduled child involved in too many activities. 'Grocery Man' agreed. Maybe dancing for the sake of dancing is enough. For now, I love the way you greet new people in our home -- strangers or friends -- by showing a true piece of you.

P.S. Bed update -- you woke in the night (around 3 a.m.) crying. When Dad came into your room, you asked for a tissue and said, "I love my new bed" and went back to sleep. Then, when you woke up this morning, you professed your love again, and then again after school and at bedtime. You are so very pleased (and honored) by this turn of events.

Pump it up; new bed

Looking at the title, one may think that you have have a new bed of the air mattress variety; this is not true!

This morning, we went to a birthday party for two of your school companions. The celebration was held at a local spot that features giant, inflatable 'bounce houses." After a moment of hesitation, you jumped and played to your heart's content. I went down the slide, even though you chose not to join me. We watched you interacting with friends -- so sweet and inviting. Our hearts brimmed with pride as you posed for the group photo, holding still with a bright smile. A year ago, you would not have been so outgoing, so it was exciting on more than one level.

After the party, we made a trek to Ikea. I had a few things on the list for Thanksgiving, but I also wanted to look at the little kid beds. You fell asleep on the way there, so I was alone as I pondered the choices. Of course...you woke up and wanted to look at the beds. I had already been in the store for over an hour. You said, "my bed at home is not comfy," something you've been mentioning for awhile. It's true: your crib mattress was feeling thin and narrow. When you got to the display, you were in heaven. We had to lure you away with french fries from the cafe. So...we got the bed, the 'big girl' pillow (it's a queen size!) and the pink sheet set. Although I swore a bit while putting it together, it is perfect. It will eventually stretch out into a twin size, so we know it'll last for many years.

With the new bed and a renewed sense of independence -- your lamp and tissues are now on a little bedside table -- bedtime was perfect. This change meant so much to you. The bed is much more comfortable for all of us; I was able to curl up next to you during stories. Although I felt a bit wistful when Dad took your crib to the basement, the possible sadness turned to contentment when I saw your smile and blond curls splayed out on the pillowcase.

Uneventful (under the wire)

Today was so luscious in that it seemed to flow by easily. There were things to be done, of course, but mostly we were just together. You woke Dad at 6:30; you two let me sleep in until a time I won't mention here. Once we were all up, you painted, we read and ate and drank coffee. We spent a bit of time discussing Thanksgiving dinner (to be held here, with over 10 people) and we did some chores. I know more must have happened, but I suppose there is no shame in a slow day.

After dinner, we went to a private opening of a holiday gift shop. We wouldn't normally do this sort of thing, but your former nanny Julie invited us. We went around looking at the beautiful ornaments and buying a few gifts. Dad and I decided that it's probably time to think about how we discuss the upcoming holiday season. We want to have a tree, but we'll not call it a Christmas tree. You fell in love with a big, plastic, horse ornament so now we must get a tree; this plastic horse will not fit on a neat wreath. It was good to see Julie. 18 months ago she was given 3 months to live, after receiving the devastating melanoma diagnosis. She looked thin, but well. You didn't respond to the difference in appearance -- you sat on her lap and kissed her goodbye. You love her so much, and time with her is bittersweet. Of course I want to lunch with her, to see holiday bazaars and laugh together about your quirks. But another part of me doesn't want to set you up for more sadness: the older you get, the more loss you will feel when she is gone. But isn't that a part of life? How long can I shelter you? (Or is it really myself I am protecting?)

A conference

This morning we met with your Montessori teacher E. It was such a delight to sit in the little chairs and talk about your progress. A lot of people criticize Montessori for being too 'rigid,' but we've found just the opposite. Although your school provides a report card of sorts, E. was more interesting in talking about the whole you -- the you who is interested in forming relationships -- the you who is growing more independent and who is more outgoing than just two months ago. I am so proud of you -- proud to hear about the work you do with language (you know so many letters now!), math and other life skills -- but I love, love to hear your songs and see your paintings. You are learning about watercolor and came home today with a beautiful piece of art. At our home table, before we eat, you recite a little blessing learned at school. You sing songs about how school is a place for work and play, and you now know all the words to "Do-Re-Mi." You love to pretend and tell stories from your imaginative worlds.
Whatever you choose to do, and whoever you end up becoming, I know your very first preschool teacher E. will remain clear in our memories -- for her love and support -- for truly wanting to understand our Lucy.

Hold you like a baby-o.*

Tonight you were so tired. With the time change and the dark, rainy night, you fell fast asleep on our way home. Sweet girl. You finally had dinner and then asked me to "hold you like a baby-o" in the purple chair. You did hit a second wind, though, but bedtime was almost blissful in comparison to other, recent nights.

You and Dad picked me up at school tonight; you actually came inside. Seeing you in the door to my classroom made my heart perk up. The curls under your hat looked so...innocent...compared to some of the fashions I see coming through the door. You sat in one of the desks happily coloring. Finally, you tired of that work. I looked over at you and found you slumped down, with this perfectly bored expression. It took my breath away, for it matched an attitude sitting there just two hours earlier -- a window? I (naively) hope not.

I'm tired too -- why is it always so late with these? I think this pattern is why I don't write when I'm not motivated by this group effort (and fabulous! prizes!). Like every New Year, I'm going to make a resolution to stop phoning it in here. If for no one else, I need to do it for the future you (and me?).

xo

*The 'baby-0' comes from a favorite Woody Guthrie song.

Overlap

The last few weeks, we've been taking a writing class on Wednesdays, so one of your teachers has been taking care of you. When we return, I love to hear the tales of your evening. A. tells us of the conversations you have and your discussions of the work you do at preschool. I realize she hears things we never will; you have a special relationship. I like to know that you are developing a life outside of us -- that you can trust others who are trustworthy, but I do feel a special kind of ache about this -- a sign that you are slowing moving 'away.'

Baffled at bedtime

My sweet girl,
Tonight, Dad nearly called Harvey Karp at his home in Washington, D.C. (P.S. Does anyone have his number?). Maybe we should call Alfie Kohn.
Here's how it goes:
"Do you want to have a happy bedtime?"
"Yes! Yeah! I'm a big girl! Let's take vitamins!"
We make it upstairs, etc. etc. We start to see a struggle when putting your pajamas on.
"What's this, Lucy? We thought you wanted a happy bedtime!"
"Yes, okay. I can be gentle. I love you so much! Let's read this book!"
By this time, about 40 minutes has passed. Pajamas are on, book has been read, but now you don't want to brush your teeth.
"Alright...come in the bathroom, or we will kiss you goodnight now. 1,2,3... Okay, we love you, goodnight."
Commence screaming -- you don't come downstairs, or turn on your light -- you cry, spit and sing angry songs(!) while we torture ourselves in the living room.
"WTF should we do?" we ask ourselves. We don't want to deny you love and affection, but bedtimes that last 90 minutes (and not 90 'sweet' minutes, which would be something entirely different!) are not working for us.
We come back up and comfort, brush teeth and cover you up with 10 blankets. 15 minutes later, we are finally downstairs...until you cry because Dad doesn't exchange 25 "I love yous" through your (now closed) bedroom door. Dad goes back up to your room. Then I go up. Finally, I am covering you up and closing your door. I am at the top of the steps when I hear your sweet voice --
"I love you SO much."
Suddenly, I realize these past 90 minutes have passed quickly, but oh my, they wear us out. How can we work this out? Should we call your Union Representative?

In brief...

Though bedtime took over two hours, you've been so sweet --
Lately, your love has not be verbal, so to speak, but almost ever hour today you said, "I love you so much."
You know how much this means to me, and I hold these words close.

Meeting Roscoe Orman

Although it isn't even dinner time, we've had a busy day!

First, we went to a birthday party for our friend Simon. The party was at a cool, play structure company that rents out the indoor showroom for parties.

Next, we went to the Wordstock Festival at the Convention Center. I heard our friend Matthew Dickman read some of his poetry while you went with dad to hear Roscoe Orman (Gordon) of Sesame Street fame. You were so excited to meet him; he signed your book and talked to you for a bit. As we left the parking garage, you said, in a voice laden with regret, "Oh! I forgot to hug Gordon!" We tried to tell you that your conversation -- and the books he writes -- is the hug. You paused, thinking about our logic, sighed and said, "I forgot to hug Gordon." We'll send him a note and tell him to come to Portland again next year.

When we got home, Nana and Papa were waiting in the driveway! Papa's sleeping on the couch; you are playing with Nana upstairs. Soon, Beth will come to take care of you and we'll depart to see a sold-out show at Portland Center Stage. Thankfully, we have tomorrow together -- we will not have the rush of our usual Monday routine.

Thank you for being a girl who likes to meet authors, who loves books and rub-on tattoos -- thank you for loving the swing and quietly watching your friends open your gifts. You enjoy seeing others be happy -- this is such an important quality, and one I hope to nourish through the years.

Raking, Thai food

Lots of raking today -- I heard you gleefully rushing through leaves, helping dad. There was a short, successful trip to the local farm store where you picked up your very own little rake.

After a long, late nap, you woke in the dark, slightly confused. I assured you that it was still, technically, day time. We discussed a jaunt for dinner. I was craving Thai food; I'd heard about a new restaurant down the road I wanted to try. You were fine with going there, as long as you could have "plain rice, plain chicken, and plain peas." We loving eating at Thai places because there is (almost) a zero percent chance of dairy cross-contamination. Maybe we should move to Thailand! The restaurant is beautiful -- lots of Buddha statues -- and the menu was just different enough. The house specialties were refreshing. They had all of the plain items you requested; we didn't have to Frankenstein your food, as we usually need to do. After a leisurely meal (you were eating rice long after we were finished), we came home without incident. You were saying goodbye to people we met -- your pink glasses and shiny personality were a hit!

Should I mention bedtime? Do I have to? Jesus. It's rough sometimes, and it's been especially challenging lately. You want to have more independence, so we give it to you. And then you start pushing my buttons. I know you are doing certain things to bug me and I really don't want to be bothered. I'm the mature one, right? But when you are pushing off your blankets and saying (in the dark), "my legs aren't under the covers," and "my head isn't on the pillow," and "I'm going to take my pants off," steam begins escaping from my ears. To save my sanity and show you your behavior doesn't bother me, I say, "fine, I hope you don't get cold -- goodnight," but inside I desperately want to locate a king-sized comforter so I can tuck you in good and tight; I want you to remain covered and comfortable for the night without the drama.

My eyes want to close with all of this talk of sleep. Tomorrow is a big day -- there's a birthday party and, after that, we hope to see Sesame Street's "Gordon" at Wordstock. Maybe he has some advice for us -- after all, he played a major role in potty training you via the Elmo's Potty Time DVD.

Dance "Class"

Tonight you 'allowed' Dad to play the guitar while I pondered a new tune. It was sweet -- a nice, slow evening; we were all lingering. I was sitting on the couch, surfing websites, the cat was resting her head next to me. You and I had a nice afternoon tea, and then a filling dinner -- your belly was full.

While Dad was playing, I noticed your clothes coming off. Often, you will tell us that you are "too hot" for your shirt or pants, but we usually require you to keep them on in some form. Tonight, however, you were having Dance Class which required complete nudity. You were laughing -- running in circles and, at one point, playing your harmonica. You'd tossed everything else to the side. I thought of video taping the hilarity, but decided against it. You were so happy, so free, I wondered why, on previous nights, I'd felt it was so important to keep your clothes on.

Eventually, we got your upstairs -- you put on your pajamas after we helped you brush your teeth. You tuck yourself in now (and you don't want us to help), and then we sit at your bedside for stories. It's such a cliche, really, that time is speeding by and I can hardly believe you are you, but there is so much truth in this trite statement. I love seeing who you are becoming, even when I get so pissed I have to leave the room to breathe, alone. I love to see how you are changing me.

Soundbites

"/l/ is for Lucy!" (As she is writing the letter on her paper -- cursive, no less.)

"I am soooo tired." In the car, on the way home.

Singing, "Love, love, love...I love you Mommy." While I am making dinner for you.

"Miss E. says I shouldn't wear diapers to bed anymore. I'm all done with diapers." Stated while discussing your nap time accidents at school. Sometimes, others in your life do know best; we'll see how it goes. We know you have the right amount of determination!

...

It's so good to finally have an evening with you. I feel like I missed a lot -- you are clearer, more composed, more agreeable. (But! You still have your moments where I remember why we do like to have our date nights; I don't regret the time away. I wish we could have it both ways.)

Missing you...

The last two nights, we've been out. We went to a concert the night before last and then, tonight, we went to our writing class. I saw you today for a total of 20 minutes. I miss you -- the hugs, kisses, sweetness. Luckily, we'll have 4 days together because of the holiday on Monday. I can't wait!

Not available

Yesterday, I was kissing your head while you arranged your things. It was after school and before dinner; I was craving attention. You told me, "I'm not available right now," without even looking at me. I smiled and walked away, understanding exactly what you meant. You love me dearly, but needed some space.

Why aren't you getting fries with that?

"Now, you ask your parents to give you a baby brother!"

We were in the mall (our first mistake) shopping for your jeans when this phrase was directed to you. The woman was strolling her 6-month-old baby; you stopped to admire him. It's true, you love babies.

Here's the thing --- you are too young to understand how and why we make decisions about our family size, but you are not too immature to learn what types of questions are appropriate for strangers (and even friends).

This woman's statement--nay, her commandment--was bothersome. First, why is it that people feel it's o.k. to begin such a private conversation in public? I wouldn't approach a child and say, "Now, you tell your mom to make sure she has that pelvic exam!" I don't ask non-friends "when they are due" or beg to stroke their burgeoning bellies. Why is family size an open topic, acceptable for discussion while shopping at The Children's Place?

Second, I make a point not to suggest how many children a family should produce. Although I don't want to have four children, I'm not going to tell someone she shouldn't have four children. And I want to raise you to be open-minded in regards to this issue. We may choose to keep our family at one child for many reasons. This isn't up for public debate...or is it? It seems that many people think they should tell us what is or isn't correct about our reasoning. One of our reasons is related to quality of life. Not for every family, but for ours. We are teachers on teacher's salaries. We want to travel internationally; to be able to comfortably afford the small house and lifestyle we strive for. We've been told (and I've read) that this reason is, somehow, selfish. What?

Finally, what if this woman's statement was very untimely due to something out of our control? What if we'd been struggling with infertility? What if we'd just lost a baby? What if I'd almost died during my first labor and didn't want to risk my life a second time? What if we were struggling with the question and simply didn't feel like discussing it?

I know that the question of "are you going to have more than one?" is automatic once you have a child. More often than not, I'm not bothered. Friends will say, 'hey, your kid is so cool, and you are such fabulous parents, you should have another!' This isn't what gets me. It's the implication that our sweet girl isn't 'enough' (or that we don't provide enough love); that we haven't broken the mold already.

You are a great daughter, the best. Even when you drive me crazy, I'd never, ever change my decision to become a parent. Maybe we will have two, or maybe we'll just have you (sorry for the rhyme, there). But whatever happens, let's learn together what is o.k. to share and ask, and what isn't. I have the feeling we'll be working on this a lot--you'll be my teacher someday, I'm sure!

Too much Elmo's Potty Training DVD?

While entering Target with Dad to find me:
Lucy -- "Where's mommy?"
Dad -- "In the Health & Beauty section"
Lucy -- "Health & DOODY!!!"
(Laughing, giggling, smirking)

While saying goodbye to Dad as he left to get dinner:
Dad -- "Goodbye Lu, see you in a few minutes. I love you!"
Lucy -- "Goodbye...DOODY!!!"

Sigh.

Dancing with leaves & picking one's nose

The weather here has been so perfect lately. This is the first year we've lived in a house with big trees overhead, and the leaves are pouring into our side yard and concrete porch. You were delighted today to go outside and run around in the piles of leaves and sticks. Together, we watched a little gray and white cat dive and frolic in our leaf-covered, graveled parking area. It was simple and delightful.

Today, your developmental milestone was discovering the wonder and joy of nose picking. I think you are a bit late on this; certainly you've done it before, but at bedtime you couldn't.keep.your.finger.out.of.your.nose. (And that's exactly how it felt -- with all of those periods -- I kept stopping you and the finger, it went right back in!) It was kind of amusing, but I was trying not to laugh. Dad told you that you'd get sores in your nose which I suppose is somewhat true, but I'm wondering if he has actual experience with the type of vigorous nose-picking that would cause nasal injury. Or maybe it's just a theory. We'll go with that.

We began the day with cuddling and ended, again, with Goodnight Moon. It was a perfect day.

Today -- list format

Late wake up this morning -- barely moving in bed, your hands by your face, peaceful.
Easy dressing (you chose the outfit last night, as you like to do); you have a good sense of style.
Lunch packed -- cereal bar for the road.
Now at school, a sweet goodbye. Hugs and I love yous all around.
Picking you up, I spy through the window in the arms of your favorite teacher; you are so happy!
You choose a flower for my hair, it is yellow.
We drive, drive, drive for hair trims and a visit to "your section" at the bookstore.
You laugh uncontrollably, almost falling off of your stool, while reading a book about a cat.
Other people are tickled by your delight (we buy the book).
While walking around the bookstore with the basket you insist carrying, you say, "I am strong. Look at my muscles. I am getting bigger every day!" I hope you always feel this confident.
Dinner at the fish house. Your boots keep slipping off and you want to lay down for a nap.
While driving home (late), you fall asleep so easily.
Finally home, I look at your profile--softly lit by the car's interior glow--and notice how perfect your nose, lips are.
You run in circles in your room making up stories about guy and cat and dolls.
We wind down with "Goodnight Moon" and kisses. We tell our other stories and you are sad when we miss one.
Finally in bed, you call down, "goodnight dad!" as you do every night.
Your door is ajar -- open far enough to assure you of our presence, but not so far the cat will sneak in -- her eyes are too loud for the night.

Back in the Saddle: NaBloPoMo

My hope is that, by joining NaBloPoMo, I will get back into the good habit of posting here.

Lucy, you are so wonderful and full of fire. You rocked as pink kitty at Halloween.

More soon,

xo -- Mom

Unexpected

It's been a long time since I've written you here.

Here's what's going on:

Grandma Nancy and Great Uncle Glenn have both died in the past few months. We are working on this discussion every day. Sometimes you talk to her and we believe she's really there -- sometimes you ask to visit Glenn and then remind yourself, "Oh, he died. It's o.k."
Loss is a central theme for us, as we have moved to a new house in a new town. We have had so much going on, and you are such an easy-going child, that we didn't think about how much you would grieve over your old baby-space.

You have an amazing memory -- just yesterday, you pointed to a spot in the front lawn of Dad's school and said, "We had a picnic there last year!" You are referring to September of 2006; you've been to the school dozens of times since then and never mentioned it. Because of this memory, you hold on to details from our old house. Even with more space and freedom, it's not the same. It's not the same yard and bedroom and poorly installed flooring. It's so much more -- it's older and lovely, with character and no central air conditioning. We actually didn't mind the lack of cool air, excepting those 100 degree days in July.

Your vocabulary and ability to do things on your own have blossomed. We have been working so diligently on potty training, but you still seem quite comfortable pooping your pants. We keep asking why you do, and you just don't know. You do find it quite funny though, so I'm not sure that's helping. You will get a new bicycle and I've added pretty underwear into the bribe too. By the time you actually use the toilet all the time, you'll have a digital camera and an iPhone.

We've had visitors and trips to the zoo, but we've also had a fair amount of time at home. You've gone to school a few times too. You love us, but you miss your friends and teachers. You do so much on your own, and with confidence. You understand what we are saying and it's getting a little dicey. We have to be careful. You are so funny with your funny voices and quips about your imaginary friends. Also, you are obsessed with talking about peni*es; no man or boy is safe (and you have a loud voice). We don't want to freak you out -- "Half of the world has them!" "It's no big deal!"-- But we want you to know that their existence, the shear number of them, still doesn't make "Do you have a peni*?" a great conversation starter.

So here's what's unexpected today.
You are no longer my baby, but growing into such an amazing girl. You put your face on my belly and talk about how where you used to grow. Today, you lifted up my shirt and sat right on top of me. When I asked you what you were doing, you said, "I'm getting back inside." And oh, the ache. Not the ache to have another baby, but that cosmic ache that all parents feel -- the push-pull of our children growing and moving away from us. Maybe you'll know the one someday. But this is not unexpected. This is: we were at the top of the stairs ready to go down. I said, "Can I hold your hand?" and you put it in mine, like a gift. Warm and soft. And it felt so...light. Just sitting there willingly. And I realized how much of you still needs me -- how much is still small. I love to smell your hair while you cuddle next to me on the couch. When you've been running around and I can feel the warmth of your scalp on my lips, it is the perfect moment and we are a good team, our little family (growing smaller).

(Next up: These are the doctors in our neighborhood and Mom's not in school anymore.)

Update!

My sweet girl --
Today is your third birthday party and I have yet to write up your happy birthday entry. You are still in pajamas, attempting to feed the cat plastic food from your shopping cart.
It's been an interesting month -- we are in our new house, in a new city. The transition has been fairly smooth -- the best part is that our commute is now only 5 miles. The week after we moved, I walked (or, as you say, "you marched mama!") in my graduate school graduation ceremony. The week after, we visited your dying grandmother. We are still working out how to talk with you about that transition. Your great uncle died two days ago.
Yet there is a lot of light and happiness. We have beautiful lilac trees in the front yard and it is Spring. Summer is coming, when we'll have long days together. We'll discover the parks close by and take the bus downtown. Hopefully, we'll fly on a plane to see Grandpa.
So much to do, so more soon my frisky girl!
xoxo

Movement.

The other night as I sat on your bed, I placed my hand on the back of your warm head. Your hair has grown so long and wavy; its texture changing from baby-soft before my eyes. I gently closed my eyes and thought, "I am holding the world in my hand." Shortly, you told us to "go right now" and we retreated.
You've been telling us all sorts of stories lately, and using adverbs in your language. We are delighted and horrified by your Passion around activities and the timing thereof. If we take a sock off, for instance, when the sock Shouldn't Come Off, then bedtime can be delayed by 30 minutes. You express your pleasure and displeasure in life with vigor and excitement.
You are interested in sports with more interest every week. As soon as we can, we'll get you on some sort of team. When you take off your clothes at night, you use the hamper as a hoop of sorts; we all cheer when you make a free throw.

This Spring is bringing big changes for us. We are moving from our little house on the busy corner to a bigger house in a nearby town. The new house, for us, is a welcome and happy change. We'll be closer to work, which will mean less time in the car. We are packing boxes and the cat is vomiting on the rug in protest. Luckily, you know that you shouldn't touch the "throw up." There is a sadness in moving and I wonder how you'll feel once you realize we aren't coming back.

Overall, you are a happy child. You have your moments, but at your best, you are loving and kind. You are my Best Girl. May you always sleep tight with sweet dreams. May you play any sport or instrument with vigor!

In bloom.

Spring is here and you have a new raincoat.
The weather is clearing up and the rain doesn't seem to be inconvenient; as long as your slide can be wiped of water, you are happy to run around on our back deck.
Your sentences are so developed and you frequently use the words "please" and "thank you."
We've decided that Montessori is great for us too; you like to clean up A LOT which involves the obsessive disposal of each Joe's O that falls on the floor during snack time.
You are loving and lovely and also so very almost 3. We have the feeling this year will be more...challenging. You are stronger and more insistent. But still reasonable (so far).
Someday soon, you will wipe your own derriere and that will be fantastic. In your own time, you'll figure out how it all works.

I lay in bed at night before my mind wanders to cats dancing on chairs on rainbow islands with ukulele playing monkeys and think of stories I want to tell about you. And then I prompt forget.

We are so proud of you and your counting! And you want to read -- you ask what words "say" and can identify letters on signs and in books.
You talk about what's "yours" and we discuss how we share and ask you to please stop yelling. We bought you a new football, and two sports-themed shirts and you feel so frisky in them! You chase the cat and throw your ball(s) and scream, "YEAHHHH FOOTBALL!!" as I try to defrost the chicken.
You are ready to sign up for a girl's lacrosse team just as soon as they'll let you.
But you also want to play the violin. "That'd be nice," you told me last week.

Your very favorite game (post-dinner) is Candyland. You have this little dance you do with your piece and you chant, "Lucy's going to get the princess" before you pick up the next card.
And tonight you told us, "I feel like a boy now." Dad told you, of course, that that's okay. Then you said, "No, I feel like a girl." And you are our girl, our best girl.

Alpha mom*

One of the phrases you've been using lately is, "she said yes!" You'll ask Dad if you can, for instance, have one more cookie or a cup of tea. He'll waver, and I'll overrule (or sustain) his decision. When I say, "sure, she can have the ---," you'll call out happily, "she said yes!" because, apparently, I am the alpha mom*.
There was a time, near the end of breastfeeding, when you were somewhat disconnected. I was going to class two nights a week and you weren't so sweet and cuddly when we were together. Dad reassured me that once we didn't have the breastfeeding connection, you'd find another way. And you have; you are sweet and gentle and loving. You hold my cheeks and tell me they're soft. You run into my arms when I pick you up from school. You still want me to rock you before bed, but for "only fifteen times;" you now do the counting.
You are, at 33 months, so verbal and able to express yourself, I'm really enjoying this time. Our evenings and mornings are, for the most part, too short. But in the evenings, you find a way to make us laugh with your funny voices and discussions of football, basketball, and "baby Lucy" pictures. You race around until the very last minute; most bedtimes are spent wiggly and happy until your head hits the pillow.
Most of the time, I say yes -- yes, this is just what I want.

*Thanks for the free t-shirt, Alpha Mom.

That's so surreal!

Your vocabulary is coming fast and furious these days.

Last week, Dad taught you the word surreal.
Context: You wanted your giant stuffed horse (that an adult can sit on -- don't ask) to do "work" with the abacus while we were all away during the day. The monkey was also doing work -- he was writing poems.
If we mention the horse or monkey's work, you say, "that's so surreal!" Sometimes the word pops up in conjunction with Myra, and we all have a good laugh.

This weekend, you've had a fever and a cold that, I'm sure, will drag on a couple of days. You are extra sweet when you are sick. This morning you placed your (very warm) hands on my cheeks and said, "you are a sweet mommy." And then my heart exploded.

Later in the afternoon, I had to run errands. Usually we go together, but today you stayed home with Dad. You haven't been big on actually speaking into the phone until recently. And today was my day. Dad told you I was on the phone and when he put it up to your face, I heard a small voice: "I love you." There, in the toilet paper aisle of Target, I wished I could zap myself home; that moment, all I wanted was to hold you and stroke your wild hair. To hear that voice, the voice of my girl, hot and weary -- that was something else. It wasn't a bit surreal, not at all.

A long week.

At home, where you love to be.

This week you started your longer days at school. I think it was harder on me than you, but your feelings about being away from us -- from home -- were evident in your behavior.

In the evenings, you were cranky to the point of complete meltdown. One night, you were inconsolable because dad wouldn't play Candyland with you during dinner preparations. After school on the first long day, you lost it in the grocery store because you couldn't call everything in the store "yours" with a shriek. We could barely carry you back to the car, and then you wouldn't sit in your carseat.

I picked you up late on Thursday and found you finishing snack. You looked comfortable, but tired in your little chair. I could tell by your demeanor that you'd rather be home; maybe I was imagining it. You looked small and big at the same time, as if in my absence, I'd missed a growth spurt during those extra 5 hours.

There's a lump in my throat and I've already cried about it.

Last night we looked at your newborn pictures. This made me long for another baby, perhaps, but I think it's more a yearning for that newness, the unknown. Also, you rarely pose for the camera anymore (you'd rather be on the other side) so I am only capturing you in each moment. This isn't bad, I suppose.

Today, we had a nice, slow day. No agenda, really. We went to a coffee shop in the evening -- a place we haven't been with you, but a shop that we went to a lot when we were without a child. You sat between us on the sofa: dad was reading, you were eating cookies and I was knitting. When you were ready to go, you said, "I'm ready to go" and put your hat on.

And another long week is on the way.

Busy.

You're busy; I'm busy. It's nice this way -- enjoying the last weeks we'll have hanging out together. Most of the day, you don't seem to need me. Right now you're scooping plastic letters up off of the tiled kitchen floor. It seems you have a plan of some sort, having emptied the bucket and retrieving a spoon from the drawer. You run around the house cradling your beloved football and basketball, speaking to them -- and about them -- as if they were...entities. They are Alive, much like a human or animal, but you also talk to them about the Big Decisions you need to make. "Football, shall I eat these cookies?" "I shouldn't pull the cat's tail, Football." I'll write more on your love of sports later.

So the real busy lingers, hovers like the clouds holding the yet-unseen snow that is threatening our city today. In a few weeks, you'll be in school and aftercare full time. I'll be in the classroom reeling from the new experience. I know you'll do wonderfully at school, and I'm looking forward to this last step in my education (at least for this degree), but there is a sadness for me. All along I've tagged myself as someone who couldn't stay at home full time. But as you've grown into our daily rituals, I've found such joy in the simplicity. Perhaps I am motivated by a desire to hang on to the "right now;" there is a palatable fear in stepping into teaching. It could also be that I actually enjoy being your iTunes d.j. and even negotiating difficult situations (although definitely less than our quiet times).

Our holiday time was wonderful -- you've really grown into a social being. After a family Christmas Eve party, you stated, in a voice heavy with sleep, "I want to go to another party." Although our celebrations during the Christmas holiday are not, for us, religious, we know you understand the deeper spiritual meanings in our family gatherings. Right now, your worldview includes the phrases "Everything changes" and "I want to be happy" and that is a nice place to start.

On and off.

We try hard not to laugh when you are turning your little light on and off at bedtime, but it's difficult. We don't want to encourge your delay tactics, but it really is funny.

I didn't mean to give myself a two week break from writing; I hope to feel on again soon.

I am finally finished with my classes! I'm so happy to know I'll spend evenings with you again. I won't have to hurry to press my coffee and put my bag together and then see your face pressed up against the window glass, waving goodbye. There will be goodbyes, but not like these endless graduate school leavings. I can't believe I'm finished already!

I passed my last test, a big test, but there will be more.

And I ran over a cat, I think. It must have continued it's tire-flung journey across the street; when I looked back (there were two cars behind) I saw nothing. The sound of the sickening thumps reverberated all day long. There wasn't a thing I could do -- I couldn't stop, I didn't see it coming, I couldn't stop. Someone's pet, maybe. Oh, no more of this, please.

Great Uncle G. is sick and we'll visit him tomorrow -- you'll have time with Nana and Papa too, which you've been asking for.

Two boxes have arrived from California, just for your material happiness this holiday season (Buddhamas?) and we are all lucky beyond measure, beyond the material.

As I watched you in class today, I was impressed. You are the same in class as at home or in public -- helpful, loving, smart. You don't scream and run. You tuck in your friends who stay for a nap and blow them kisses when you leave.

More soon...

Like the sky.

Last week when we were at Nana and Papa's house, I was no longer on your to do list. I barely got a sideways glance. The break was nice, I suppose, but I began to miss your cuddling and demanding I chase you. Dad explained that I am like the sky to you -- always there -- so you don't worry about not giving me attention for a bit; I'll return your love when you're ready again.

And this week, you've been especially loving. Tonight, you played with my necklace and said, "this is my mommy, you are my mommy" in this soft voice. I melted. You are so dear to me, in your fleece pig pajamas and hair smelling of California Baby bath soap.

I might not be writing to you every day (at least not for a bit) but, like the sky...

Deep thoughts: Groovy Girls

Today you were playing with your Groovy Girl. You've had her since your first birthday, but have only recently been interested in involving her in your doll escapades. I've seen many Groovy Girl dolls in shops (even at the grocery store) and admired all of the clothes and accessories one can obtain.

A few months ago, you really got into changing your dolls and by "changing" I mean "getting the clothes part way off and then screaming for me to finish the job and put the new clothes on." So my perspective on doll clothes has shifted a bit; when I see the little pants and shirts and dresses at Target, my eye starts to twitch in anticipation of the work entailed in keeping all of that stuff accounted for.

This afternoon, you finally realized that your G.G.'s clothes could come off! You went about undoing the Velcro until...the shirt and skirt wouldn't completely detach. I looked closely at the doll and (with a sense of relief) saw that they are actually stitched on. And not just one little thread, either. I considered digging out my seam ripper and freeing the vinyl skirt, but then changed my mind. I guess I wonder why the manufacturer would put that much effort into keeping on the original clothes yet so aggressively market the additional wardrobe.

Man, it'll be great to have a job again soon. I love it with you -- I wouldn't trade it, but the fact that I even had this dialog with myself (and dad) is somewhat disturbing.

NaBloPoMo

If anyone else is following along here (besides you, my dear and my other dears), I'm thinking they must tire of reading my patient rants for you. It's not that I want you to have more freak outs, but sometimes the sweetness is overwhelming. What am I saying? It's great -- give me more! I just wonder if the repetition sheds any new light.

As I come to the end of my month of writing every day, I've learned a few things. First, I enjoy writing every day. And feeling the pressure to do it adds to the interest, at least for me. Second, I've realized how much I haven't written down in the past. Some of it may seem redundant, but I know I won't regret it in the future. I have felt some sadness for my lack of paper journal writing; in the basement lies boxes of my unfinished books. Third, I think I do appreciate you more. I take a breath and sort out our moments.

Today I found out that the father of our good friend passed away. And there is a shadow of more bad medical news coming down the pike. You are too young to fully understand this now, what it all means -- this life and death stuff. There's a part of me that wants to shelter you from it, but I know it's not possible, or even advisable.

Today your biggest sadness was when I didn't understand how you wanted to eat Gorilla Munch cereal. I finally figured out that you wanted to sit on my lap and eat a bowl with me, which you've never asked for. As we sat at the table together, enjoying something so simple, I realized I'd never eaten cold cereal this mindfully before. Thank you for this practice.

Setback.

Two years ago, we made a mistake while on Thanksgiving vacation. You were 6 months old and had been sleeping out of our bed for a few months, but we thought it would be "better" if you slept in bed with us at Nana and Papas. It didn't work out so well. First of all, it was very uncomfortable in the double bed, especially with you kicking and squirming and nursing all night long. There weren't enough pillows and the mattress is so squishy, one almost tumbles right over the side. The second part of our error was revealed when we returned home. You no longer wanted to fall asleep in your crib. We were back at square one.

Full disclosure -- at 6 months, you weren't sleeping all night in your crib, but you started out there which makes a huge difference. You were doing so well -- slowly spending more and more time in your own bed.

So you spent the month of November starting your nightly sleep cycle in our bed and moving, at some point, to your crib. By December, we'd learned our lesson and you slept in the portable crib when we visited family. I can't distinctly remember what happened last year, but there was some issue with the transition.

Now, we are at year three. It is almost 10:15 and we've spent over 2 hours getting you ready for bed. I just rocked you and tucked you in again; you told me you were sad because you miss Nana and Papa. Earlier, you told dad you missed football -- you want to watch the guys kicking the ball. Even though the last two nights have been rocky, I'm thankful for language. I'm able to calm you with words, and you understand! We can talk about why you are sad, and we can work it out together.

Each night I rock you, your legs fall lower down my lap; your body feels heavier on my chest; the fingers that play with my hair grow longer and more agile. There will be many more transitions, and I can't begin to imagine them all.

Home again.

We are so happy to be home again, with our cat and rituals. Tonight, at bedtime you said to Myra, "I love her, she is my sister." I guess that lets us off of the hook for a human sister then? Currently, you are fighting bedtime with dad, something you never do. I wonder what the rest of the evening holds.

You certainly enjoyed almost 5 days with Papa and Nana and cried when we drove away.

[Interjection -- I have just returned from your room, where I rocked and then tucked you in again. Now you are playing with your lips and humming. The neighbors are revving their engine outside of our house.)

Where was I? Oh, yes. Thanksgiving. You ate turkey hot off of the new barbecue and hid in the living room while the rest of us ate. The attention was great, but football was more appealing. You Love football which baffles me. You don't really watch t.v. and we aren't big sports people, but somehow you have an interest. The only thing that trips you up is the amount that the players crash into each other and fall down. You are so concerned with their well-being and so this is what I hear: "Uh, oh! He fell down! Owie! Okay, he's okay. He doesn't need a doctor."

Going home is always interesting for me. Luckily, I have a great relationship with Nana and Papa and so there is a limited amount of drama. I hope our relationship is similarly close and healthy, but I'm realistic that you'll feel that same odd sense of push and pull I experience. I also hope that, by the time you are 31, I have new drapes and have gotten rid of your long-forgotten stuffed animals. When I talk to Nana about how difficult my entrance into the world was for them, I have a renewed sense of appreciation for my family, for you, for the ease of your existence thus far; maybe there is a reason for that drawer still filled with old cloth diapers and baby bonnets.

When we went to lunch this afternoon, you ordered sausage and peaches. When the waitress, set down the plate in front of you and bustled away, you said, "I want to say thank you." I assured you she would be back and as she returned, you leaned away from the table, looked into her eyes and said, "thank you so much." There is so much to be thankful for.

Out on a date without you -- before leaving, a cracker-mouthed kiss. "You'll be back," you confidently exclaimed.

--

Mobile Email from a Cingular Wireless Customer http://www.cingular.com

Real quick!

Visiting friends! Long nap during football -- more of Nana's pigtails. You are playing, I hear you with people you see in pictures.
More soon, of course.

Turkey eaten. Finally napping. You looked lovely in new pink slippers, pigtails. More to come...

--

Mobile Email from a Cingular Wireless Customer http://www.cingular.com

Off to give thanks.

Okay, I admit it. I've been writing here every day because the lure of free stuff is just too much to silence my muse. That's a little dramatic, I suppose. And it's only the possibility of free stuff, not the promise. I hope your future self is not offended by this.

I read other websites where people pour themselves out onto the screen about so many things -- parenting, cancer, television, education and celebrities, to name a few. There's a lot out there, both serious and fun. I've been moved to tears over things I've read. Something I don't understand, though, is the people who seem to hate what others have to say...and they share that anger. And then it's like a snowball growing bigger and bigger as it tumbles down the page. Sometimes, it's over something that's important -- you'll understand someday -- there are so many social and political issues; you will investigate and make your own decisions, create your own ideology. But the point is, sometimes the things people get riled up about are so small. There are good intentions involved, most of the time, sure. But then there are the times where those intentions go awry. I know you will encounter this at some point in your life and I hope we can prepare you adequately. Please just remember the value in everyone's opinion -- and play nice.

We are off to spend Thanksgiving with Nana and Papa and maybe Grandma N. and the crew down south. I'll be writing here for sure -- I mean, there is the free stuff to consider -- but it won't be extensive. I love you so much, Lucy. I am thankful for so many things, but I am thankful to be your parent -- to be a parent with your Dad -- for health and happiness. It is simple, and beautiful.

Tunes.

Your dad and I have commented about how much hipper you are when it comes to music. When I was a kid, I liked some really dorky stuff. You like "rock and roll" as you say, and this includes Led Zeppelin, The Police and The Presidents of the United States. We have inspired a love of jazz as well; you even have preferences when it comes to jazz -- you like the experimental stuff and Coltrane, to start with.
Because you don't really watch t.v., we've been able to stay away from the really annoying stuff (The Wiggles and Barney), but you do like Raffi, a children's standard since the 80s. It's actually pretty tolerable. One of your favorites is Dan Zane, and he definitely rocks. You love The Beatles -- especially (predictably) "Lucy in the sky with diamonds." I've downloaded and checked out as much cool music for you and you've been receptive; once in awhile you surprise me by asking for something I'd choose if I was hanging out alone.
In my iTunes library, I have 3 or 4 renditions of a few favorites like, If you're happy and you know it, The itsy, bitsy spider, Wheels on the bus, This old man and Old MacDonald. I've got two "jazz for kids" albums which are well-executed and not cheesy.
I think your music tastes reflect your tendency toward sweetness and I'm happy to play Woody Guthrie singing Bling Blang 10 or 20 times, if that's what keeps you dancing.

Burping the baby.

I can't remember if I've mentioned this before and, frankly, I'm too lazy to look at this moment.

A moment ago, I was sitting at my computer eating a leftover Halloween Tootsie Roll. You were playing with your baby Jo, wrapping her in a receiving blanket and tucking her into bed. As I was scrolling through e-mails, you appeared by my side saying, "look at the baby, burp the baby!" I smiled and looked lovingly at the baby in your arms, swaddled tight. As you bounced her, saying "shh shh shh," I heard you swallow to make "Jo" burp. I had to laugh at your little belch and so you demonstrated again and again. This is something you learned from Papa and I'd hoped you'd forgotten. Thanks, Papa. Hopefully you can teach her other things too -- like how to find a wall stud and why one should appreciate college wrestling.

Fubonn Market.

Today we had a nice family time that included a trip to an Asian marketplace nearby. Within the mall, there is a bubble tea shop, a Chinese bakery, a tea supply store and Fubonn Market. Although we had no quarters, you enjoyed sitting on the mechanical horses. You were so good as we strolled around; agreeable as you rode in the shopping cart. We found special rice cake crackers and a new melamine soup bowl for you. The excursion reminded us of Taiwan; we found steamed pork buns that we'll eat for dinner tonight. As we finished up our trip, you and dad discovered an altar complete with a Buddha statue, candles and food offerings. You stood before it and bowed, because that's what you know to do. I don't know if you really understand what it means, but witnessing your reverence is beautiful.

Message in a bottle.

Listening to songs on your dad's computer is on your Top Ten List. He's happily downloaded a few songs into his iTunes especially for you; one of the songs is a live rendering of Police's "Message in a bottle." You are especially into the drums, which are more prominent than in the album version (we have that one too -- you like to compare). One of your favorite parts is looking at the album cover. You always ask us to "see it bigger" because the band is jumping in the air with these wild looks on their faces.
Like many girls and women, I find Sting to be very...attractive (by the time you read this letter, this comment will either be funny or very uncomfortable -- maybe both!). It doesn't matter that he's twice my age. Yesterday, when we were listening to the song for the eighth time, along with the cute cymbal noises you make, I heard another sound. At first, I thought I was mistaken, but when I saw you put your lips up to the screen, making telltale "smack" and "mwah" kissing sounds, I had to laugh. You heard me and said, "I'm giving kisses!"

Pluckiness.

So here it is, you are stronger than us: definitely in will, maybe in physical ability. We are trying to work out how to get things done, and despite our best intentions, sometimes our behavior goes...awry.

In graduate school I've been learning that, as a teacher, I should have a procedure for everything. Undoubtedly, having a plan for handing in papers, dealing bathroom passes and arranging group work will save a lot of stress in the classroom. So we've got some "procedures" at home. A few work, and a few do not.

For some reason I find it difficult to write about this -- I have higher expectations for myself as a parent. At the end of the day, when you are standing on the bed resisting pajamas -- or when you are running away while I'm trying to dry your hair -- or when you are kicking me while I am brushing your teeth -- I lose my cool, so to speak. There's not an outward expression of my anger in voice or physical action, but I feel myself growing cold and silent.

You are such a good girl, overall -- you capture everything we say, and don't say; you take it to heart. I think you perceive your antics as a fun time -- you are not malicious. But your pluckiness is bigger than mine. To some degree, I am jealous of your energy -- of your lightheartedness. I'm trying to work it out, to understand how to do this.

As with teaching, there are a thousand theories and ideas about parenting. There are models that attempt to understand and control children. I agree with much of what I've seen, but I don't want to read books to "get" you. I certainly don't need them to love you. Where do we go from here? Thank you for the lightness and the questioning -- may questions never bring darkness.

God?

A dinner conversation, recounted --

Dad: Lucy, do you know what God is?

Lucy: (Thinking, head cocked) Ummm....

Lucy: I God a sausage!

(via Dad)

Month 30.

Right now I am sitting in the rocking chair in your room, listening to Dan Zanes for the 808th time and watching you eat corn chips. You are sitting in your very own rocking chair and I am your d.j.. I tried to put on Feist, the Andrew Bird, but you weren't having it. So here we are together on another wet, Fall evening.

You are officially 2 & 1/2-years-old today. Because I haven't been saving up moments to document, this entry doesn't feel as momentous; but your development is still amazing. Today, you put on your coat by yourself for the first time. Last night, you identified the letter F and made the sound; you'll be decoding, then reading in no time. You can count, realiably, into the teens. You love to identify colors; you see colors and numbers everywhere. You are really clued into the fact that things cost money. For some reason, you'll point to a sign or an item and say, "that's 20 dollars!" This makes us laugh, but your interest in your play "debit card" is slightly disturbing.

You've been so demanding lately, but 90% of the time your requests are related to a grasping for independence. You'll say, "my turn!" when you want to put on your pants, empty the dishwasher, brush your teeth and put away your toys. Sometimes, this push-pull we have turns a perfectly happy afternoon into a meltdown complete with kicking and screaming. I think we have similar tempers, actually, which only adds to the fire. Who wins we both want our turn?

In the next 6 months I hope you'll try more vegetables. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a diaper-free third birthday. I hope we find a good way to talk about loss with you, because right now I'm out of ideas. As we near the end of 2006, I will be finishing my night classes and I am so happy to know I'll home with you in the evenings. Next Fall, I'll be working full time again, for the first time in almost 3 years. Most days, I feel okay about that. Right now, sitting in your room, listening to music and fetching you snacks, I'm not sure I could find more contentment.

I love you, my little sack of sugar.

Your big sister.

You have a unique and loving relationship with our ten-year-old cat, Myra. There have been times in the past year where we considered sending her to live with Nana and Papa, but as your friendship has grown, we've realized how much we'd all miss her.

When you are crying or upset, Myra always comes to make sure you are okay. She'll lay down in your room and let you pull her tail. I am amazed at how passive she is with you, most of the time. Myra did lightly bite you a couple of times (not nearly enough to break the skin), but you've seemed to come to an understanding; you both use more caution now. Of course, we monitor you closely and gently re-route you if things look sketchy. Sometimes, even when Myra is annoyed, she still wants to hang out with you -- we think she likes this tension.

You sit on the couch, petting her, touching her tail and telling her, "I love you, Myra. So cute." You like to feed her treats and peek at her through her basement cat door. When she's taking a nap, you say, "Shh! Myra's sleeping."

I hope we have many more years with our black and white, beautiful companion Myra -- lovingly referred to as our first baby and your big sister.

Eardrum.

Today our naturopath made a housecall. She called to check up on us because we'd cancelled an appointment a few weeks ago and when I told her we were car-less, she came right over. You aren't sick, but I've been and how great is a housecall on a rainy afternoon? I love our doctor.

We discussed your colds and asthma attacks and she changed your supplements a bit. I enjoy having options for you: you have your inhalers, and you have your vitamins. It all fits together well -- thank goodness for health insurance.

Dr. R. wanted to listen to your lungs and look in your ears for good measure. At first you were nervous -- your bottom lip poked out and fat tears rolled down your face, dampening the collar of your sweater. But then she told you she was looking for a butterfly in your ear and you allowed her to peek in. When she was finished, Dr. R. said, "no butterfly in there...but I saw a drum." You looked interested, yet confused.

About an hour after she left, you came to me and said excitedly, "I have a drum!" I wonder what you picture in your ear now; hopefully you don't hit yourself with the toy mallet in an effort to make music.

You are a person!

Yesterday, we were driving in the car and discussing our future plans. Dad and I were talking away in the front seat when, all of the sudden, you made a comment directly related to what we were musing about. I stopped cold and said, "J, I think Lucy understands 90% of what we are saying, even when were are not speaking for her benefit." Dad replied, "make that 95%." Then you chimed in, "I'm a person!" Of course you are; you are not our cat and thus you understand our language. Yes, you are a person...and our very smart girl.

Into my arms.

This afternoon, Nana and Papa came to the house for a visit. They joined dad and me for some afternoon theater while you stayed home with Beth. Upon coming home from our afternoon adventure, you ran from your room, to the front door. Out of all of the people waiting for you, you ran into my arms. As I swung you up, your head on my shoulder, I took a deep breath, happy to be home with you. Sometimes, it feels good to be your favorite.

Big girl panties?

Overheard this morning:

Lucy -- What are you doing?
Dad -- Getting out my clothes.
Lucy -- Those are your big girl panties!
Dad -- Um, well...sure. Actually, no.
Lucy -- Yes, daddy's big girl panties.

Sadness.

Although I usually write about the wonderfully quaint things you do, sometimes, there is sadness. It's not a grief wrapped up in you, but I periodically feel bent under the pressures of responsibility and knowledge of loss in the world.

Over the last year, our family has learned of so much illness -- and known it ourselves, to some degree. After our car accident last year, we spent many weeks in doctor's offices. Then, we've been working on controlling your asthma which has been a challenge. Both your grandmother and your nanny-caregiver are dying of cancer. I secretly imagined that we'd be able to gloss over it for you, but you are the type of child who is so aware of peoples "owies" and the need for doctors. When you ask to see Julie and talk about grandma being sick, I sometimes feel overwhelmed? How am I going to explain death to you? Is it appropriate at your age?

Honestly, I just don't want to cry about it anymore. The gift that Julie gave us, as a family, was a great one: she took you under her wing when you were 3 months old and gave you all the love she had. She is clear about the outcome of her cancer and for this I am grateful. I am glad I can sit across from her at lunch and talk about the end of her life. But it is surreal. You asked her to hold you and...she couldn't really. I had to turn my face toward the door to avoid crying in public. You wanted to ride in her car, too. I sure you think there's just a break in the schedule; amazingly, you remember the schedule you used to have with her.

But here I am, sad again and the tears are more for the questions you will ask than for my own, if that makes sense. I want to be honest with you about life and what is real. And I want to give you what you need, and what I need and what dad needs. I want you to be content and fulfilled and the happiest you can be.

When friends come for a visit.

One of the coolest things about you is your friendliness. Today, our friend E. came over to chat and talk business. You've only met her once before, but took an immediate liking. She used to be a kindergarten teacher, and you seemed to pick up on that vibe right away.

Within one hour, you'd given her a nickname and then, in the second hour, you peeked up over the couch and said, "I love you!" Your voice had this tone, like you'd just discovered a new person to say this phrase too. It's hard to describe, but so sweet. E. was really honored by your affection. You seem to understand who is interested in you and generous with their affection; who you should trust. Of course, when you asked her to change your diaper, we determined she wasn't that close; that was the only offer she turned down.

When E. was packed to leave, you were ready for a nap; you showed her how you collect your dolls and climb under the covers. Thanks for making me look good, kid.

Hoody.

Right now, you are eating corn chips in a little dish. It was hard-won battle: the Choosing of the Snack. Sometimes there are so many choices, it's difficult to make one. I totally understand your angst, and I hope your problems remain that simple!

Today is election day -- a day where everyone realizes politics isn't simple. There are so many factors to look at, and decisions are not necessarily black and white, even when we want them to be. I want to raise you to look at all sides of each issue. For today, it's snack decision 2006: crunchy or soft; sweet or salty? And how lovely we can provide you with those choices.

May you always have a choice.

Blustery.

(So I had a picture all ready for today, but you'll just have to imagine it: Lucy in her salmon-colored, hooded sweatshit, eating a late lunch at her little table.)
You love the blustery weather, but only enough to image getting soggy going down the slide. Before your nap, you spied the mailman's car outside. You said, "I'll get the mail after I'm all done sleeping." Although you had protested, you were happy to lay down under the covers and close your eyes. The very first thing you asked to do was to check the mail. I slipped on my shoes and we stepped into the surprisingly warm and windy weather, rain blowing into our hair. I love the balance there on the porch -- you collecting the mail as I fish it out, turning your rested and ruddy cheeked face to smile at me; I feel you growing heavier on my hip as the changed leaves blow onto the porch. The best part is coming back inside with you, even though it is not always easy.

I like this house!

Today we were out looking at houses in some new neighborhoods nearby. You were so patient, going from door to door; we saw 6 houses total. In all of them you were happy to run around, laughing at questionable decorating. One that we all liked had a room that you declared "just my size!" You stretched out on the new berber carpet, sighed and said, "this is my room." Perhaps, perhaps.

No hippies.

Dad: Let's get your pants and socks on.

Lucy: Go for a walk!

Dad: Yeah, we're going to walk on Hawthorne. And see the hippies.

Lucy: No see hippies!!

What's that?

"What's that?" you ask about sound outside. "It's just a car driving by," dad says. "What's that?" you say again. "It's the sound of the cat, asking for her dinner," I answer.
You ask a lot of questions using this "what's that?" format. I wondered where you got it from and then I found myself, the other day saying, "what's that?" directed toward a mysterious sound below the window. (It was just a bush, brushing up against the siding.)
I love your "what's that" and know you will soon add "why" to your repertoire. These questions make things more interesting -- they help our conversation flow. It's nice to give you words for things; I enjoy the clarification.

Tonight at sleep time, after you gave your love, you shuffled to your bed and climbed in. I watched you arrange yourself, finding it difficult not to help you in some way. I'm glad you still need me to tuck the blankets around you. Every day, a new part of your independent life is revealed -- what's that?

The end of an era.

At the beginning of October, I read a fellow mom writing about her last days nursing her daughter. Wood described herself as "a closet extended breastfeeder." I remember reading the post and really relating; at nearly 29 months, you were still breastfeeding before bed, and sometimes for a nap in the afternoon. The sessions rarely lasted longer than 2 minutes, and of course you were able to forgo any substitute when I wasn't there. You didn't even want a small cup of rice milk. Not many people knew I still breastfed, but I wasn't totally closed about it either. I had decided that, as long as we were both happy, our nighttime ritual was okay with me -- I did hope that, by 3, you'd be finished. We had our little dialog about nursing, though. You'd sit in your chair and we'd "talk about nursing." We discussed how tiny babies needed milk from their mothers, but that you are a big girl and were therefore ready to be finished. For many weeks we'd end the conversation and you'd still ask me to nurse.

Then, last Wednesday night, it just felt right to hold you on the floor and to really mean it -- to really be finished nursing. I held you while you cried, "momma nurse you" until you fell asleep. I didn't cry then, but after you were limp and gentle in my arms, we put you into your bed. I immediately went to the couch and fell asleep; it wasn't yet 9 p.m. Then next day, you did announce you were all done nursing when I picked you up from Montessori. My heart broke there, in the car, as I asked you, "are you sure?" In that moment, I realized the extent to which...I was breastfeeding for myself. I mean, I didn't want to be the mother that breastfed because of my own inability to recognize that my daughter is growing up and needing me less. You did nurse before your nap on Thursday, but I could tell you just weren't into it. At bedtime, you were really done; you kissed and hugged and giggled your way into bed.

I don't know why, but I thought it would be more difficult for you. Did I want it to be? This transition is like many others have been -- when you've been ready to do something, whether it be walking or starting your first day of school -- you've done it with confidence, with a sureness of yourself and those around you.

So, on Thursday night I wept at the table as you happily drifted off to sleep, comforted by your cadre of dolls. I cried because this growing up is bittersweet -- inevitable -- beautiful. You are becoming the person I want you to be: independent and loving. I hope you never misunderstand my sadness at these moments. May there always be enough between us that you'll confidently walk away, yet know I am here for you when you look over your shoulder.

Shall I...?

Prelude --
Shall I try to write here every day? For awhile I've thought it would better if I just wrote instead of saving everything up (everything being a relative word; I never get everything down). So..I'm going to attempt, since it is NaBloPoMo.

Since beginning graduate school over a year ago, I've written about 100 "reflection papers." I am thankful for that writing, but ready to focus my attention on writing something that is meaningful to me on other levels. I mean, education theory and Best Practice are important to me; you will surely grow up hearing our ongoing and endless discussion about our profession. But, again, it will be nice to sit down knowing that I can beginning writing longer pieces that have nothing to do with a grade. Because I'll have so much time to write when I am a teacher...right?

One --
For the last month or so, you've been preceding questions with "shall I?" in this endearing little voice. So you'll say, "Shall I pet the cat?" or "Shall I wear a sweater?" or even "Shall we change my diaper?". It is so proper and wonderful; we think you learned this manner of speaking at Montessori preschool. You also shake our hands at bedtime and say, "Nice to see you!". Although one may think these manners would help you become more polite, these manners are not fully extended to the cat: right now you are putting clothes on Myra's and "leading her" by the tail. I should rescue both you, right now, before Myra permanently moves into the basement.

It's about time!

Short notes for today --

A couple of days ago, you realized that the words vegetable, pretzel and bubble sound very similar. We hope this is a sign of amazing language development to come!

Your memory is amazing; you remember events and people from months and months ago. Sometimes, this memory makes things more difficult.

As your desire for independence grows, our scuffles are more frequent; I want to give you room, but this is difficult for a number of reasons. As you tell me, "I'm not a tiny baby!" I can imagine you walking away from me in the future -- into schools, into cars, into your own house. "Stop!" I tell myself, be here right now! I still rock you when you wake with bad dreams; I know this won't be the case much longer.

You sing songs to us -- songs for school. You ask the cat, "Shall I put you in the bedroom?" You shake our hands and say, "Nice to see you!" This is a Lucy I fall more in love with. As you sing "wheels on the bus" on my lap, I smell your hair and soak it all in.

One thing -- let's work on the kicking and hitting. You are delightful and it's not becoming to bruise my shins and injure your father's...well, we'll discuss that later. But still, it's not the best way to negotiate, especially when we are brushing your teeth.

Where did the moon go?

In the last couple of weeks, we've started to have dialogs with you about the moon. You asked us, "where did the moon go?" On the porch, you say to dad -- "I can't reach the moon!" as you try to jump up to touch it. You've also determined that the moon "has a poopy diaper" that must be changed; this is a personification I'd never imagined. I love to talk with you about things you imagine -- things you see. Yesterday, you said the clouds in the sunrise "looked kind of like mountains."

You are becoming so sharp, it's hard to say anything that we don't want you to repeat later. This is good and bad. If I tell you we'll get your favorite cookies at the store, you'll remember I made that promise. Last night you screamed for cookies while we drove home, kicking the back seat simultaneously shoving your fingers in your mouth and hitting your face in a bizarre self abuse tactic. Next time, we'll get the (expletive deleted) cookies as I promised.

This attention to detail also brings us great joy as you tell people "thank you so much!" as we leave a restaurant and help us in the kitchen at home. You say, "I love you!" and can tell us (most of the time) what you are thinking. I mean, you are still Two in the classic sense; you struggle for independence while still needing us intensely. There are flailings and screaming. You'll turn your body into a wet noodle, your bones disappearing as you slip between my hands. These tantrums can be overwhelmingly frustrating, but I try my hardest to learn from them.

You are now going to school -- a Montessori program for children your age -- and you love it. I love to hear you talk about your friends, and your work. You sing songs and show us how you pretend at school. You've told us you want to go everyday and long to take a nap on the cots with your other friends. It's wonderfully obvious that you are nourished there. The transition wasn't too rough -- you've never cried when we leave you at class -- but you still remember that "girl pushed you" on the first day. You always follow up this statement with, "it's okay" so it's obvious that you are working through new situations and the emotions that arise.

There's something I haven't really written about here because I was, quite simply, afraid. Your Grandma Nancy has been fighting a battle with cancer and we were sure she wouldn't be with us by now. Dad and I wondered how we would explain death to you, our hearts exploding with grief. But it seems Grandma is getting better, in a sense. You've seen her and know she is sick. The doctors believe the intense chemotherapy is helping to kill the cancer, and we hope she will live at least a few more years. She has been in bed for many months; perhaps she will be able to sit up and take rides in a wheelchair. Maybe you will go for a walk with her! I want you to know her, but there's a large part of me that wants to protect you from the inevitable loss. If you were older, and could understand, I feel that it may be easier. The connection you make with her on the phone, through pictures and during our infrequent and short visits pain me because I know you cherish your human relationships. Your love for people -- from family to grocery clerk -- is vast. This capacity for love will, I hope, bring you more joy than pain in your life.

You are so beautiful.

Asthma

The short version of the beginning of our weekend is the photo you see above.

Oh, my sweet Lucy -- you are afflicted with asthma, which we've known, but it has really hit you hard this Fall. Hopefully, we'll learn how to control it, so you aren't attacked by a breathlessness that makes me shiver. I can't say enough how sad it makes me when you are limp -- when you have lost your Lucyness.

But your words have come back, along with your strength...and the lovely willfulness too.

More soon...

A little reminder.

Today, you and I were hanging out in your room while I looked through drawers, cleaned off shelves. I like just being with you -- both of us busy together. I found some finger puppets you'd forgotten and you proceeded to collect all of your puppets in a little purse. In and out, the puppets went. I think you tried to get the cat to put them on; she escaped to the basement with a little knit lion clinging to her tail.
There's a drawer in your purple chest of drawers (in the 60's, it was orange; the 70's, it was turquoise) that I've been avoiding. It contains papers and other curiosities from your first year or so. I basically remembered what was in there, but, of course, my memory had faded as to it's exact contents. You were sitting by me as I pulled out two deflated Mylar balloons, your first jars of baby food (empty and clean) a hand-knit baby hat with your name in violet, many cards, our unexpected hospital bracelets and finally...a couple of tiny, unused newborn diapers. While I looked at them wistfully, you laughed and pointed -- "I'll put on diaper!" -- I was getting teary. I explained that you wore them when you were so little and they were even too big then! Sitting there, I couldn't believe how the memory had faded.
So much of parenting is living in the moment, it's hard to hold on to even the most beloved things; I am thankful of this when you are screaming and trying to take a bite out of your booster seat, licking your sandals and throwing all of the bowls out of your kitchen drawer. Even after spending 12 hours straight with you, I wouldn't want it to pass without something memorable -- interesting -- unique. Even if that uniqueness makes me long for an hour to myself, somewhere far away.
When I saw that little diaper, for a moment I thought, again, about having a sibling for you. Even though right now I am almost certain you will be an only child, I sometimes feel that longing creeping in. But then I remember all day sickness or the liquid contained in those cute little diapers, and my hormones re-balance themselves (well, at least temporarily!). Even though you (will someday) no longer wear diapers and need me at your current rate of intensity, I know each moment brings -- hopefully -- a lightness....

Vacation, all I ever wanted....

So where was I? Vacation.

We went to Eagle Crest to Nana and Papa's one-week-a year condo. It was nice there -- I've always loved the breezy heat and the smell of juniper in Central Oregon. I'm missing it right now in our dim, dusty living room. There's something nice about going to a temporary house where one knows that the ultimate cleanliness isn't up to them. But that's something we can talk about later.
You enjoyed every moment, I think, even the moments you were afraid of the splashing boys in the pool. There was a swing you enjoyed:
And the bridge on the play set and even the steep slide. I believe that Papa actually tricked you into going down the slide yourself...which you caught onto and refused to go down again. Sigh. Anyway, you enjoyed the grass like never before (most likely because it is lush, green and soft and not dead and scratchy like our lawn) and even sat by the river while Dad fished.
You interacted with children and adults and sat through a long Italian meal. You sang your version of the ABC song, even adding the "sing with me" part at the end. This was a first! And we were amazed to watch you holding up fingers for numbers.

Lately, you've been really into your "baby signs" books. This summer we realized that you are reading them to learn another language; when you met a new friend, you were "teaching" him the signs. You often show us words just for the sake of doing it, not for the purpose of communicating. You are such a cool kid.

As I write this I'm thinking, as I always do, that I can never write as much of you as there is, if this makes sense. Hopefully, you will forgive me for missing some of your milestones or measurements. Looking at it in print, this thought is so redundant? Tired? I need to remind myself that I'm doing Just Fine (and that I'm good enough and people like me) -- just as I tell you as you learn to navigate physical and emotional obstacles for the first or eightieth time.

Sometimes I know I will be able to let you grow up -- I know that that's part of the deal. Other times, I wish I could just capture you right now, sitting in my lap reading golden books and learning a thousand new things a day. I hope you are always able to tap into how unique and wonderful you are. It sounds trite, really, and looks it too. There are so many people writing about how "great" their kids are, and I'm not that different I suppose. My greatest wish is that all of these moments together -- the vacations with us listening to frogs and you...you with your new words and understandings...you with your backseat dreams of swimming pools and rivers...you will be come everything you hope to be.

P.S. Would you please remind me to stand up straight? I'll need all the help I can get!

Home again.

You had such a great time in Central Oregon this past week and I want to write it all down carefully.
There was a lot of step climbing and swinging. Bonding with Papa on the deck. Fishing in the Deschutes with Dad. Enjoying the scent of juniper and splashing in the pool.
Photos to come...