Homestretch & Promises

Another year of NaBloPoMo is coming to a close. I am thankful to the amazing woman who came up with the idea, and the thousands of others who participate. There is something to be said for a seed that gets a practice going.

All of my life I have struggled with practices: writing, painting, meditation. I need to be in a group of some kind to really do the hard work. In past years, I have tried to put out a promise that I would write more, or better, or at least more earnestly, for you. Every year I have failed.

It seems that parenting is a collection of daily failures; in voice and in action. My attempts, although often sloppy, are genuine. I am so proud of who you are quickly becoming.

When you were a tiny baby, I told you that being a sensitive person is okay. Crying or exhibiting fear--even when it seems exaggerated or unnecessary--is just fine. I want you to feel good about your emotions, even when they don't match the world's expectations.

You are reading real words now, and working with numbers. Everywhere we go you are sounding out and decoding the written word. You like to count everything and can add up how many errands we have to run, or things we need to pick up at the store.

So my promise to you is not how many times I'll write in a week or a month, but how I will compose and record my thoughts. In the past, I've been hesitant to write down 'real' goings-on. That is, if I'm frustrated with an interaction, I tend to pull away from writing here. I'm going to turn that around and see where it takes me. I want this to be a true record, no matter how sappy or negative I may be feeling at the time.

That being said -- I love you and will always love you no matter what path you choose. Tonight at dinner, you said, "When I grow up, I'm going to have a baby in my belly." I felt a surge of nerves and anxiety fill up my chest because I just can't imagine it. I can't imagine your spot at the table empty. But I can't let the worry of what may be--what will be--overtake me.

Please dear, let me hold your hand a few more years.

Bugle -- a guest post from Dad

Your grandpa has a yen for old instruments picked up from thrift stores and church basements. On this trip, you have taken up the bugle. It's true! Your sense of voice, tone, and craftsmanship seems to move up by the minute.

Tonight you were doing an almost spot-on version of Jingle Bells, one of the first songs that you learned to sing. Yesterday, you recorded a song. You simply love Papa's bugle.

Since your baby days, you have resisted any attempts that I have made to play guitar. It has been a source of grief and frustration over the years. Now, with bugle in hand, you are asking me to grab the guitar and "be the clown" in your marching band. As clown, I get to play guitar. I am not only playing, we are finding audiences of pretend friends and citizens all over the house. You cue me and that is fine. In fact, it is as it should be.

I have played guitar on and off for almost twenty years. During that time, I have never been invited into a real band; until now. I can't think of any bugler I would rather follow, anybody's clown who I would rather be. Send me the cues, I will pluck and strum the funk and love of each moment as it unfolds. Let the band play on!

Star of the show

Taken tonight...
My little sweetie, stealing the light.
But I'll gladly give it to you.
xo

Happy Thanksgiving

I am thankful for many things. You--well, you are thankful for a lot of stuff too. But today, you were totally excited about blueberry muffins. Thank you for making them with me, my lovely.

Family time

We are at Nana and Papa's house for the next few days. This morning when you realized that we were spending the night, you got really exited. "We're staying? Overnight? For how long?! I'm so excited!!"

When we finally pulled up in front of the house, it was almost past your bedtime and you wiggled and giggled your way out of the car seat. As the years have passed, you have become more and more elated to reconnect with your grandparents. This time, you leaped into Papa's arms and I know he's been anticipaing the love you save just for him. Nana stood waiting on the porch, beaming.

You are asleep now, in my childhood room. Rest well, my sweet.

The Village

Today Miss A. talked with you about your Bedtime Behavior. You respect her as a teacher and as your main babysitter, so we knew a conversation would make an impression. After school, we asked you what you two had talked about; you replied, "ahh, it's a long story. I don't want to talk about it." So we didn't push you, and, consequently, bedtime was short and sweet.

You brought home your first packet of "homework" tonight and worked on it diligently. You are so interested in learning and growing. Looking at your written numbers, letters and words--seeing the pride in your eyes--well, I am just so proud of you. It's no wonder you sometimes sob and cry and writhe around.

I promise--at least I promise to try--not to push you too aggressively, if you promise to respect your own boundaries. Those boundaries will shift and change, of course. My wish for you is that you learn all you want to know (and more).

Committed.

So I promised myself that I would see this 'month of posting' to your blog through to the end. Hell, sometimes these months of posting are the most I write all year. It's important, and I'm thankful for the challenge. Mostly.

Earlier, while you were screaming in your bed, refusing to sleep, my finger hoovered over the "create new post" button. I didn't want to push that button. I wanted to walk away.

But here I am.
There were moments this evening I understood why, perhaps, women end up rocking away, in dark corners of their bedrooms or with tangled-up brains, hiding in the basement.

A part of me has been there, but not as a parent. What's frightening, though, are the gray corners of that image that creep in--start surrounding me.

There is no regret, but sometimes the vastness of this responsibility is heavy.

Letter to a robber

Tonight when we got home from our night and day away from home, you noticed that a few lights were on inside. You asked if someone was already home, and dad explained that we left some lights on so it looked like the house was occupied. Of course you wanted to understand why we would leave lights on, and dad told you that the lights keep potential robbers away.

I wasn't exactly sure if I wanted to enter into a discussion about burglars, but here we were. Since it was not my idea, I allowed dad to attempt an explanation without scaring the, uh, crap out of you. The idea that someone could come into our house and be here, uninvited, much less take any of our stuff creeps me out plenty; I chose not to be the explainer this time.

Anyway, after the discussion and going round and around -- yes, people could break in, but no, it probably wouldn't happen and, yes, that's what the security system is for but, no, you shouldn't be afraid -- you set to work on a project.

After 10 minutes or so, you came into the kitchen with a note for any potential robbers. It is written on adding machine tape and you insisted that we post it on the door. According to you, it says, "robber, don't come into our house. I don't want you to take my work. And Myra. She'll run away, so don't come in." Additionally, you want to create a special piece of artwork for any potential robber to take instead of something else he or she may want. Your reasoning is thus: if you make something nice for them (a painting, or even some nice needlework!), then they won't want the other stuff...right? Right?!

You seem to understand that sometimes people don't have what they need, and so they may do bad things to change that circumstance. I think it's lovely you believe that the power of the written word--and your own creativity--could help turn that negativity away (literally) at the door.

November sleepover #2

We are at our friends' house for our family dinner and sleepover. In the morning we will have a quick breakfast and then head to Buddhist Sunday school, which we all enjoy.

Lots of hangout days ahead.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

BOB Books

You are on the first box of BOB Books and I so enjoy watching you work your way through them. When we got them in August, you were interested, but became frustrated so easily. We encouraged--but did not pressure--you to go at your own pace.
You read a new book in the series tonight and it was so wonderful to see you really, truly reading and encountering a new character (Jig the pig) working with good old Mag the dog. Your joy in the content of the story was authentic. You held your hands up to your face and leaned over, gripping your stomach at the sheer hilarity of Jig and Mag's digging contest. It's a beautiful thing to be on the other side of the book. We hope you always encounter reading and learning with this much amazement. After all of these years reading myself, I certainly do!

Laughter

Sometimes, after a long day, all it takes is a couple of prat falls--or silly dances--to send you over the edge.

Your giggles and all-consuming belly laughs are so rejuvenating after spending hours with
teenagers who: outnumber or lack compassion for me (or learning)
who: turn away when I ask them meaningful questions.

In the long afternoons, I dream of the running hug and burying my face in your blond curls, feeling your smile on my neck.

And then
there you are again.

Flashback

Early Fall birthday party, for our sweet friend J. Your first time rollerskating. We look goofy, but it was a great time.

Blue streak.

From the time you entered the house tonight until the moment you went to sleep, you were talking.

At dinner -- you brought your purse to the table just in case you had to answer your phone. There was great conversation with all of your friends. We heard all about the little soap opera you have cooked up for them.

While in the bathroom -- you read books aloud to yourself for 10 minutes.

Before bed -- ongoing dialog about school, Dad's school, how he should change his classroom, "You need more colors in your room! A green rug, yellow bookshelves. This is how you will do it..."

Lying in bed for your nightly back rub-- "no, no, over there...now over, and around my neck...good, no, now on my shoulders!"

Truly, there was not a moment where we had silence, and this is not the usual way. Most nights, you have at least two minutes to yourself, but there seemed to be a lot of things you needed to communicate. I love it.

Snapshot: With Baby Jo

One evening, after you were dressed for bed, you wanted to cuddle on our bed. You took off your glasses and tucked in. Suddenly, you realized you were missing Baby Jo, hopped off the bed and brought her into bed with us. After about 5 minutes or so, it was time for you to head to your own bed. We needed a photo to commemorate the occasion.

Baking together: Raspberry muffins

Because of your allergies, baking and cooking can sometimes be delightfully simple or uncomplicated in a boring way. Over the past few years, more and more gluten free and dairy free items have come into the market. You are not interested in any form of chocolate, so that limits our choices even further! Today, while at Whole Foods, I discovered that they've introduced their own line of gluten free baking mixes. Although Whole Foods carries expensive items, their 365 Organics lines are often less expensive than other brands. So we picked up some muffin mix and a bag of frozen raspberries to stir in.

Instead of the pre-bedtime game or book, tonight we made muffins. We even sat in front of the oven and watched them rise (16 minutes! You sat on my lap the whole time). These muffins were...so good. So, so good. We used Earth Balance and Hemp Bliss instead of butter and milk. Luckily, you are not allergic to eggs, so we didn't have to use a substitute. These muffins did not have a gritty, flat taste as gluten free products often have. The raspberries were perfect, although you did not like the "squishy" texture of the whole berries.

I can't wait to bake more with you! I know you probably won't eat them, but we will make the fudge brownies together sometime soon. You enjoy the process of working and helping so much, you don't seem to mind if we make something that's not exclusively for you. Perhaps I can convince you to try one bite!

Sweet nothings

"I love you Mom. You are so pretty. You are the most pretty, that's why I love you.

I love you Dad. You are...the weirdest. You are weird.

Mom, you are the prettiest, and Dad, you are the weirdest.

I love you, good night!"

Music: Elizabeth Mitchell

You have always loved listening to music and so we've introduced you to as much variety as possible. In the last two years, you've grown very fond of Dan Zanes, Lisa Loeb and Led Zeppelin. You are into anything, really, as long as it has a good beat and it matches your mood. One of your favorites is the singer Elizabeth Mitchell. She has, with her husband and daughter, created some wonderful albums. About two months ago, she graced Portland with her presence. Although the show was short, and the venue uncomfortable, we were beyond excited to see her. Here's to enjoying more live music in the future!

Slightly sick

Today you and Dad came home with sniffly noses; you came barging through the door with coughs and pitiful looks.

Dinner was just coming out of the oven. Then, a puzzle and bath. When we tucked you in--Dad rubbing your back and me, next to you, squeezed in tight--when we tucked you in, you were asleep as your head hit the pillow.

I love to lie next to you when you have just fallen asleep.

So many of my words about you these days seem to reflect my night writing habit. I am trying to find the light.

passing thoughts

On my way to bed tonight, I was thinking of you as I climbed the stairs. The temptation to check in on you was great. Why do I still miss you when you are sleeping?

Dad told me that you cried for me in the car tonight. You must have known I would not be there, but perhaps your desired closeness overwhemed your memory.

P.S. I love our new nightly ritual: robot stories. More on that soon.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Muchest

Sometimes you play favorites.

Today, it was my turn. As you cuddled into my lap for your snack, you said, "I love you the muchest!" And I didn't want to correct your grammar because, for just awhile, I want to savor the sweetness of your misspoken affection.

It was a good day.

Multiple Directions

Today, we came to pick you up at school and your caregivers couldn't tell us where you were. In one instance, I was angry, worried, sad -- livid. Running down the hallway toward your dark classroom, I could hear your wails as I opened the door. You were in the doorway of the bathroom in wet pants. Paralyzed and ashamed. You said, "I've been here a long time! No one came to help me!" I stroked your hair and held you in my arms. Who knows long it had been, but you tell the truth. What if we'd been another 15 minutes? There were three adults in the common room, watching 8 other children listen to prerecorded music, but apparently not one of them remembered or noticed your absence.

The sick feeling in my gut pulls me to places I don't necessarily want to go emotionally, but certainly helps me examine what I want in my relationship with you. When we come home after a long day, do we really need to clean and do other chores? Tonight I gladly painted with you, and then created stories before a long bath.

There are moments when I wonder if we'd be better here together, holed up with our books and paints and pretend games. You are, in many ways, a homebody like myself. This weekend you told me, "I like to be home. Will we be home next weekend?" We will, but I know full-time, at home life not what's in the cards right now.

Tonight during our goodnights tonight, I was holding your hand -- stroking your fingers and kissing the soft skin. You said, "you'll always take care of me, Mom."

Wordstock

This afternoon, we went to Wordstock at the Portland Convention Center. Both Dad and I were volunteering for BookMooch. The expectation was that you would not be able to handle 4+ hours there, but you were more than happy to stay.

You helped at the table -- explaining BookMooch and handing out flyers, you sat at a poetry reading -- our dear friend Matthew Dickman read from his new book, "All-American Poem" (at the end, you even raised your hand to ask a question!), then insisted you return to see another friend, Michael McGriff, read from his new book, "Dismantling the Hills," and, of course, ran in circles around the children's area.

At one point, you dragged Dad to see another author (Kevin Cook) discussing his book about teen golf education. We aren't sure why you were drawn to this, but any (appropriate) opportunity to learn about new books and ideas is fine with us.

You even created your own comic book!

Whew. It came as no surprise that you were exhausted and cranky, but you still managed to listen to a story, and then create your own story, before bed tonight. It's tough for you to understand, sometimes, that there are many more stories for you to write...but that you must sleep and rest in order to live them.

Saturday

We had a big day with friends: eating, laughing, playing and, hopefully, sleeping. You three friends will grow and learn together, and for this I am eternally greatful. We are all so lucky to have each other in our extended families!
More on all of this tomorrow.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

By the numbers

45 minutes -- time it takes to get you ready and out the door (this amount of time includes the Dressing of Dolls).

5 minutes -- time it took to convince you that yes--yes you CAN take care of yourself after you use the bathroom.

3 minutes -- length of time between the first and last bite of your mixed berry cereal bar (eaten in the car).

9 hours -- length of time you are away from us on weekdays -- too long.

1 hour -- bedtime ritual: puzzle, bedtime toast, dressing (you and the babies), brushing of teeth etc., book at bedside, song (Wouldn't It Be Loverly, sung by Yours Truly) and tucking in (with extra kisses).

11 hours -- about how long you'll sleep tonight.

Until we meet again, my love.

Energy

This morning, you got in the car with your Dad and said, "Daddy, we have energy in our body." And he said, "who taught you that?" You responded with, "I thought it myself." Dad asked you if energy is everywhere or just in you. You determined that energy is in everything, but that it comes "from inside your body." He asked another question, "are we energy or do we have energy; is it part of our body?"

After a few moments of silence, you said, "Daddy, stop asking me about energy." "Okay," he said. "Okay," you said.

Bargaining Skills, Or Why You Could Work As A U.N. Negotiator

Tonight you met your match. We like to pretend we rule the roost 100% of the time, but it's really not true. Sure, we have rules and regulations, but when there are low-stakes requests, we will often let you have your way. Sometimes this comes back to bite us in the a**.

We have long said you could work for the U.N. in conflict-resolution. Or, really, we could, depending on the issue. Tonight the scene in our house reached critical mass: there was biting, hair pulling and, after dinner, a drawn out bedtime snack negotiation. In the middle, of course, there was sweetness and light. Our meal conversation was happy and interesting. But you are really attached to your bedtime toast. Tonight, however, you didn't mention the need for said toast until we were upstairs and ready to begin the other bedtime procedures. You did not need the toast--for you had actually been noshing on snacks before dinner as well--and so tonight we stood firm. You were, for lack of a better word, pissed.

"Okay, then -- I'll take 3 pieces or ZERO pieces!"
"I'm going to sleep in YOUR bed tonight!"
"The FIREMEN are going to come to our house and shoot FIRE at you!"
"Give me my DINNER BACK! You didn't let me FINISH!"

Eventually, of course, it ended because we refused to battle with this attitude. This behavior always surprises me because, well, you are my baby. I see, most of the time, a girl who is growing so quickly--who is strong and smart and reasonable.

During the turning moment, we had a talk in the dark hallway about letting go of wanting things, or, even, letting go of wanting a different feelings. Dad spoke of your Yoga practice and breathing. Finally, you held out your little fist, palm up, and opened it slowly, saying, "I'm letting go of want. The grumpy feelings are going away." In that moment, we all got what we wanted and needed.

Hope.

Right now, we are sitting on the couch together. Dad is helping you put on your pajamas. Our little family of three is watching Barack Obama accept his new role as President of the United States. And we are--all of us--so happy. As you tuck yourself in beside me, I have hope for you--for us--for all of us. I have hope that those who did not stand behind him will work to unite our country--will honor and stand behind our new leader.

This is an amazing and important moment in history, one that I am overjoyed to share with you. "We are not enemies, but friends," President-elect Obama says. These are words to hold out to all you meet, dear Lucy. I will do all I can to live this example for you.

Yes we can!

Picture Day

Today we found your Fall portraits tucked inside your little cubby at school. I am always excited to see what parts of your personality are revealed in the variety of poses. This year, your opinion on the chosen outfit included a debate about whether or not you'd wear your cardigan over your dress.

As we were preparing for picture day a few weeks ago, I was somewhat insistent you take off your sweater and, although you agreed, you were reticent. You had other ideas. As Dad and I were driving away from school, he reminded me of a debate I once had with my own mother. I was in the 2nd grade, and when she pulled the school pictures out of the envelope, she was disappointed because I hadn't removed my pale, purple cardigan. I remember thinking it looked nice, and had only buttoned the top button to show off the cute shirt underneath. When I look at the pictures, even now, I remember the sadness I felt. Why didn't my mom honor the ideas I had about my self-image? I did not want to pass on a similar memory.

When we picked you up after school that day, the first thing you said was, "I forgot to take off my sweater!" I said, "that's okay, sweetie. I'm sure the pictures look great!" You replied, looking down, "actually, I left it on...on purpose. It looks pretty with my dress." And I told you that I was so happy you made your own decision and reiterated how much I want to value your ideas.

While looking at the pictures after dinner tonight, you were so proud of how cute you looked. Each pose featured a different version of your smile--the tilt of your head shifted a bit in the shot with the Fall leaves in the background. Your golden hair looked lovely and your skin was peachy and clear.

As we put the photos back in the envelope for safe keeping, you said, "see Mom, I was right! The sweater did look great with that dress!" Yes, yes it does.

Reminders

In no particular order -- events and moments to cover this month:
Bob Books and reading
Working with numbers
Art
Personality
Family
Friends
Hair
Shoes
Telephone etiquette
Baby Guy and your imaginary friends
Hunger

Once again...

I am going to post here every day here for the month of November. Someday, when you see all of the sentences and paragraphs I've written for you, you'll notice that it's more of a yearly update. Although I always intend to write more and more often, intentions have rarely turned to action.

More soon....

Bedtime conversation

Lucy,"Mommy? Tell me where I came from again."

Me,"You came from an egg."

Lucy, laughing, "No! No I didn't! Where did I come from?!"

Me,"An egg, well, kind of."

"But, but...I'm not a chicken!"

[Uproarious laughter from both parties.]

Snapshots of Bend No. 1

Lucy outside of the Birds of Prey exhibit at the High Desert Museum in Bend, Oregon. This is a great spot for folks of all ages. My favorite part of the museum was the owl exhibit. In the glass enclosure, there was a giant sheet dividing it into two 'apartments.' Apparently the two, baby owls were keeping their parents up all day and wearing them out. The sign providing this information stated that most human parents could surely understand the need for this division. Yes, yes we do.

A new friend

Earlier this month, we went to see Lisa Loeb promoting her new kid's album, Camp Lisa. We were all excited to meet her and the album has been on continuous rotation ever since. Good thing it's a great album!

Summer glimpse

As usual -- high hopes for writing to you here, but I've been too busy with you to note it all.

After the last note, you went in for your eye surgery, which went swimmingly. Despite all of the worry and concern, you were an excellent patient. When you woke up, you were not afraid or even teary-eyed, which surprised everyone. Your eyes have healed and revealed a new you. This you runs up and down hills, undaunted. We realized that your depth perception must have been nonexistent before. Your knees now bear the scrapes of childhood, all due to your fearless romping.

This summer has been somewhat challenging. You are really coming into your own (to put it nicely). Almost everyday, there is some sort of battle. We threaten and cajole and finally we come to an agreement that we actually do know best after all. There are please, pleases and no, nos and WTFs all over the place, but more than anything, we love who you are becoming. But there are moments when we wonder if our responses will send you to therapy. We have a fund started.

You are reading short books and counting! You are proud of what you can do and so are we. It does somewhat limit our ability to S-P-E-L-L out words we don't want you to hear, because you can often decode what we are trying to communicate to each other in secret. Pretty soon, we'll have to start passing little notes folded up in triangles and read them in locker room after recess. Er, you know what I mean.

A few more notes for later explanation:
You love babies, especially the one who "lives in your belly".
You have imaginary friends, "Baby Guy" and "Innis".
You are asking more and more about Life and Death.
When you are upset, you do "the volcano" to let the bad energy out and then take deep breaths to bring the good in.

More soon...

June 21

It is finally summer and we are all looking forward to the time we'll spend together in the next couple of months. This year, I know you won't allow me to delve into the part of my personality that likes to stay home. I almost feel ashamed to admit that this part exists, but it does.

One of my favorite aspects of your nature is your ability to see what others need. You are at a point where you seem to understand and respect the different 'parts' of people. While you will sit on the couch with me and relax when I need that, you push me to learn new things -- you hold yoga class, play "golf" outside, plant cosmos in our yard, introduce me to all of your friends and sing silly songs. You want to hear new music -- you enjoy jazz, hip-hop and many things in between.

You are one of the best negotiators I have ever met. Even when I have steeled myself to say 'no' to more playing before bed, more cookies, or a popsicle, somehow you manage to have those things. Often, this is not a problem, however, we are learning that we cannot match your strong will.

Four is my favorite age so far, although they have all been (mostly) good. Last year was hard because we lost two family members and our lives were clouded with this--even more than I realized. But this year, you are asking questions about what this means. Last week, you inquired what death and life mean. And having to give you clear answers has made me grateful that you ask them. The week before, you asked questions about race and skin color.

Right this very moment, you are whining for a popsicle and yelling at the cat and I hear the freezer door open, so it's off we go!

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.

Quips

"Did you buy my bott*m at the Container Store?"
"Dude, is this where I put the bowl?"
"Is this for me? That's awesome!"

A little sick

Although you have suffered through many colds before, and even expressed your dislike for them, this is the first time you've seemed so...mature in the way you complain about illness. You talk about how you feel, "My nose is so runny, and now it hurts!" and "My stomach hurts from coughing." This morning you said, "I don't feel better."

This morning, I was holding you in my arms, leaning against your bed. It was still kind of dark outside, though the rain had stopped overnight. You tilted your face up to mine and said, "Someday I'll be too big for you to hold me." I felt a lump in my throat as I told you that, yes, it's true -- but that time is awhile off. I'll always hold you -- in some way -- when you need me too.

We were sitting on the couch eating cereal and you said, "I love you too," even though I hadn't said it first. This is something you've been saying randomly, sweetly, to me. I like that, to you, I must express my love for you constantly, and without words; the too acknowledges that.

Now you are trying to nap, your raspy coughs interrupting the low hum of the furnace. The cat is twitching by my legs and, for just this moment, everything is just right.

Wake up & See you later

This morning you woke me up by stroking my arm and gently suggesting we play Cherry O! on the bed. Dad reminded you that I like to wake up slow and easy like you. You respected that and we had a nice time hanging out. I love to see your awareness and sensitivity blooming. This year, one of my resolutions is to be more patient. With you, this means staying a bit more even -- wating for you to come around before becoming firm or angry. It's important for all of us -- short and long term.

Our friend Peter stopped by the house this afternoon. He is on a quick trip from his overseas home and it's always great to see him! He is the father of three kids and you love to sit on his lap, tell him stories and laugh together. You're keen to notice people's expressions and you especially enjoy his many dimensions. When he was leaving, you stood on the porch yelling your goodbyes. This is something you do with friends as they leave -- you don't want anyone you love to feel unappreciated. Peter, in particular, responded to you calls; you said a goodbye to each of his kids as he made it to his car and he called back. You are delighted by those who "get" you.

I feel that there was more I wanted to say here -- something more substantial -- and I struggle with that. Is our journey different than other parents? Is sharing it here with a future you valuable? As I write this, I must feel there is some benefit; at the very least, there is reflection. You are in the process of giving up naps and I'm sure I'll have sometime to write about that. I hope I can find some cleverness, or at least a more specific emotion, soon. This is the time of year that feels so far from a brightness, so it's good I have you to remind me of what's right here!

She wants her fairy.

You received so many wonderful gifts this year. On the big morning, you awoke to find the green oven you requested. (I love it too -- it can be found at Moolka and other online shops. It is simple, made of wood and blends in with our living space.) You also acquired a cute, finger puppet, fairy. Although you have staunchly refused to sleep with toys, this one has been a near constant companion for 5 days now.

What else? We were at Nana and Papa's house for a few days. I am happy to be home with you, and happy for the break from school. I feel as if there is not enough time to play and just hang out. I wonder if you have too many books. Overall, you have been quite jolly. Your favorite holiday album is a Frank Sinatra compilation. Your sentences make us smile; the tone of voice is often serious. We've tried, in the holiday season, to explain what Christmas is. I mean, we aren't theists, so what does this holiday mean besides a tree with lights and piles of gifts? We made Santa into a Buddhist character (Dad is still working on the story). Truly, this is a season of looking, hoping for light. And you are light; after all, your very name means "bearer of light." We should view this time, then, not as a time of passively waiting for the light from another source, but finding it within. As cheesy as it may sound, it is very simple. However one goes about this task, it is important to remember how we face the blessings and difficulties in life.

You are only 3, it's true, but everything we say -- how we carry ourselves and respond to situations -- is 'recorded' by you. I want you to be a reflection of our most thoughtful and loving qualities. Parenting sometimes seems to be a job with boundless opportunities to wallow in difficulties. Right now, however, I'm using this season of light-seeking to unburden myself. My resolution is to play more -- and I know you'll relish more of this time with me.

Schedules

When we picked you up last Friday, you had a tantrum so massive, people at school are still talking about it. While we wrestled you into your car seat, there were at least three aids frantically sending text messages as they watched from the window.

It all started when we walked into the playroom and you wouldn't get up from your toy. You started yelling, and then slapping at whatever was around (a couple of friends were accidental targets). Finally, you plastered yourself to the floor. Dad attempted to peel you up, but it was me who finally hefted you up and carried you -- horizontally -- to the car. You were so angry. I had to hold you down to buckle you in as you screamed. We are not proud of our behavior as we drove home. There were raised voices and many, many tears as you wet your pants and cried yourself to the edge of sleep.

The past couple of weeks, there have been issues getting you out of school. You wanted to show us (or just Dad) all the work you were doing, and you would use the excuse of using the bathroom (not a bad idea) to get us in there for 30-45 minutes of teetering-on-the-edge-of-a-meltdown-so-let's-just-wait-it-out adventures. Your accidents at school had also taken a dramatic rise; some days we would pick up two or three soggy bags of pants, and even shoes.

So when you had the big meltdown, we realized that something had to change, quickly. We decided that we needed to alter our schedules to pick you up earlier. Although staying at school until nearly 5:30 was O.K. in the early Fall, in this dark, Winter time, it wasn't working. When we come that late, you spend almost two hours of unstructured time stewing in your own juices, so to speak. Yesterday was the first day Dad picked you up right at the end of the contract day, 4:15, and he transported an entirely different Lucy home. There were no arguments, no accidents, no freak outs. Around the usual 'grumpy time' -- 5:30 -- you were safely at home. Today was the same, happy Lucy when Dad ferried you to me; we made it home without incident.

In this long and rambling entry, I realize there could be no end. Or I could wax poetic about the wonderful simplicities of small changes. What about the reflection and connection to parenting as a whole? All I will say is this: I enjoy my life with you. In the moments of difficulty, I sometimes wonder 1- what I was thinking becoming a parent, or 2- how do I do this differently? But then you apologize and we all change our ways. You say a mealtime blessing and sing, "Keep on the sunny side of life" from memory. And that's it -- you are you, and we are the extremely lucky witnesses of the whole, beautiful mess.

Early signs...

This cannot be good.

You were on your way out of the door with Dad today, when I commented on his travel mug.
Me: "You filled up your cup -- is there any coffee left in the carafe?"
Him: "Uh, yeah, and if there's not, you--"
You, breaking in: "You can just go to Starbucks!"

Uh, oh.

Big finish

Just as I was wondering what I should post for tonight, I looked over at you as you were standing by the coffee table. You had this look of concentration -- of effort -- as Weird Al's "White and Nerdy" blasted on the laptop. I said, "you're pooping!" and you just laughed as Dad quickly carried you off to the bathroom. Lately, you've been saying that you want to poop your pants; I think you say this to bug us, as you aren't really interested in going that direction. But why, why do you begin the process while in our living room? Anyway, you made it on time and that's what counts.

Today I picked you up at school right after your nap -- about 3 hours earlier than we normally see you on work days. You were so happy to see me; so warm, rested and non-emo. I loved to see your friends hugging you goodbye; one friend even got your hat out of the cubby and handed it to you to put on. You did have some silent angry time alone when Nana and Papa arrived -- your behavior reminded me so much of my own brand of sulking.

And now it is time for bed -- you'll chew up your cod liver oil gel caps and your gummy vitamins -- we'll tuck you in, and you'll turn off the last light. Things will go on as they do in the early late-night quiet time. Soon enough, the sun will open on another day.

Simple

Tonight at dinner, you wanted to know what I did today. You wanted all of the details. Surprisingly, this didn't feel like a burden; it helped me see that we are busy as a family, but we all come together at our table in the evening.

When we picked you up at school, you ran into my arms, yelling, "Mommy!" This makes me warm, even when it is dark and cold outside. You did cry when we almost left your special drawing behind. You had plans for that piece -- you and Dad made a paper bag hand puppet when we finally settled in.

Your cold seems to be subsiding -- your coughing is dwindling. I cuddled with you in your bed during story time. You always want to take off my glasses and set them carefully on your little, green table. I let you find comfort in this ritual -- in many rituals. May you always like the simple things.

Noted, finally

On my computer, I have these electronic sticky notes. Some of them haunt me: to do lists, credit card balances. Others remind me of gifts to give. And then there are a few that hold phrases you've uttered that I want to remember.

Here's what I found today --

February 2007:

"I see Buddha in the trees."

"The sunset has his hat on." (There were a lot of clouds, I think.)

"If I'm happy, we'll get to Nana's faster!"

--I believe all of these quotes are from one, long drive in the car.

May 11, 2007

"I want to go something like a park"

-- We had just moved from our old house and not yet discovered the closest park to us. Also, I graduated, was student teaching, preparing for house guests, and Grandma Nancy was nearing the end of her life. So, yes, the park was something we all wanted to find.

May 12, 2007:

"I want to sleep on a mountain"

Lucyisms

"I'm going to spread your haircut!" ("Also, I'm spreading your haircut," or "I want to spread your haircut.")

We aren't sure where this came from. You say this most often when putting Earth Balance or almond butter on toast. You do seem a bit confused about the permanence of haircuts, i.e. after a cut, you'll say, "Don't take away my haircut," but I have no idea how you combined food with this fixation.

.........

"I'm making a sandcastle!"

This is said when you are making anything, or even doing some things. You could be coloring, or putting your hat in the basket. There are a few other times that escape me now -- I'll have to add them when they come up. Sometimes you could be forming a castle of a kind, but other times...you are putting your baby to bed, so it's a bit mysterious. Don't worry, though, we love your brand of mystery.

Bits and Pieces

We found a vegan "cheese" we all like. This is a major breakthrough, seriously. I can eat something vaguely cheesy without washing my hands 18 times afterwards. Totally worth it. (For future reference: monterey jack flavor great on lightly grilled polenta with a bit of spaghetti sauce drizzled on top. And veggie sausage, but you can't have it because it is wheat based, darn it.)

You and Dad spent some time online looking at a yule log video compendium. Dad is really excited about the prospect of have a hot, uh, log in his...pocket. You made him play the 30 second sample over and over again. Finally, you sighed and said, "someday I will have an iPod." Save us all.

You are now dancing in the kitchen wearing a sweatshirt and your underwear. It's time for gummy vitamins and bedtime. I can't wait.

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.