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...

Quick Update

There's so much going on with you, it's hard to get it all down.
In the past couple of weeks, we've all been a bit under the weather, and because of this you (briefly) lost your position as "number one consumer of good food." I shouldn't complain; you love to snack on cereal and juice and rice milk. But still, when one gets used to a vegetable eating baby, it's hard to let that go. You've also asserted your distaste for the booster seat and I'll admit to helping your dad strap you in. Once there, you seem to be okay with it. Perhaps your long legs hit the edge of the seat uncomfortably, so we'll work on that.
Your language is amazing. We are having a hard time keeping up with you, honestly. You can identify the letter "h" and "i", and even identified the "h" in an HBO ad on the wall of the Cingular store a couple of days ago. We were at the fly fishing store and the salesman said, "when in doubt, use these flies." You turned to me and said, "when in doubt." We have to be very careful about what we say. I listen to you talking in bed, listing of body parts and favorite things to eat. You chat about our friends and about hugging and love. You put your head on my knee, stroke my arm and say, "sweet." And you are, indeed, sweet.
Whew.
I have not uploaded recent pictures onto my computer, but I will soon. I've promised myself I'll make a little movie and organize your digital memorabilia. Oh, you love dad's new camera phone. In the past week, you've started asking him to take pictures of your favorite things, and so now, on his phone, are pictures of rice chex and Mexican rice. You are so wonderfully quaint, my dear girl.
More soon, including some documentation about: weaning (or our half-hearted attempt of), potty training?, and cancer updates.