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."