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.