Peepee in the potty

I have been so nervous for so long about potty training you.

I was so scared you'd feel pressured or something and end up with a weird complex about pooping.

Right around your 2nd birthday I got you a potty and a potty seat.  You loved your potty, but you would correct me when I referred to it that way.  "Chair," you would clarify, as you sat down on it fully clothed to play or watch cartoons.  I didn't stress about it, though, figuring that as long as you were interacting with it and getting accustomed to it that it was a good thing.

Sometimes you would agree to sit on it without a diaper for me, but you were visibly uncomfortable.  "Off," you would demand at first, and then in later months, "Sophia get up?"

You loved the little underpants I got you, but preferred to adorn your head and arms with them.  When I persuaded you to try them on without your diaper, you paused thoughtfully, frowned, and demanded, "Off."

Your interest in the whole affair ebbed and flowed.  Two evenings ago (11/19/14, to be exact!) I was helping you put on moisturizer and pajamas after you bath.  We sat on my bed and suddenly you looked at me and said, "Poop in the bed."  I asked you if you wanted to poop in the potty and--to my surprise--you said you did.  So we promptly got out the potty seat and you sat for about 30 seconds and all of a sudden you were peeing.

I was so excited, I almost lost my balance where I was perching on the edge of the bathtub.  I tried to keep my glee in check so that I didn't scare you midstream and ruin everything forever. I explained how to use the toilet paper and let you flush the toilet.  (You loved that part.)  Then I allowed myself to hug you and cry joyfully, "Sophie!  You peed in the potty!"  You grinned.  I called down the stairs to your father:  "Sophie peed in the potty!"

After you were dressed I made a big deal of giving you the My Little Pony charm necklace I had been saving for this very occasion since July. We called your mamaw and shared the news with her.  Your exact words to her over the phone were:  "Sophia necklace peed in da potty!"

This morning your teacher emailed to tell me you peed in the potty at school, too.

I didn't expect you to be 2 years and 8 months old before we made so much progress, but I will take it and I will not complain.  I'm not in a hurry for you to get any bigger.  Once you're potty-trained, you can just stay this age for quite awhile.

Baby Not Nice

You have a little infant doll that goes with your Loving Family dollhouse that you have designated "Baby Not Nice." While all the other dolls are contentedly eating around the dinner table or preparing for a camping trip with a herd of My Little Ponies, Baby Not Nice jumps on top of their heads, kicks food off their plates, and pushes them out of the camper. I'll ask, "Sophie, what are you doing?" and you explain, "Baby not nice!" I think the baby is your id.

My Room 101 fear

A friend once told me a story about how her father would prepare she and her younger sister for someone with a weapon to attack them unexpectedly.  While sitting in a restaurant waiting for their order to arrive, he might say to them, "A man with a gun busts in through the front door of this restaurant.  What do you do?  Go!" She had an odd childhood, but she became adept at quickly spotting the closest exits and locating objects in her vicinity that could be used as makeshift weapons.

There's a great deal of evidence that mentally rehearsing the details of the way you want something to happen greatly increases the likelihood of the desired outcome.  And I find myself doing this.

Every parent I've ever talked to knows the fear.  THAT fear.  You can take away anything and everyone else, lord, but don't take my baby.  I can't be in a world in which she is not.  I thought I was the only one whose thoughts and worries about it bordered on psychotic at times, but another friend recently admitted she was terrified to drive her daughter anywhere in the car because ..."what if I crash the car and hurt her?  I worry so much that it makes me physically ill sometimes."

One of the things I fear the most is kidnapping.  I am terrified of it in every single nook and cranny of the world--even in my own house.  Someone could take you right out of your bedroom!  We can be at the playground and you run off and play on the other side of a mammoth wooden play structure with 100 differ places to climb and hide.  We can be at the library and you walk around to the other side of the bookshelf that I am on. 

My first thought:  I can't see her.

My second thought:  It's okay.  She's just over there.  Safe.

My third thought:  Some pervert could be just on the other side of a bookshelf waiting for a chance.  He might have been hanging around for hours.  But if he succeeds just once it's worth it to him.

My fourth thought:  This is the children's section of the Morgantown Public Library fer chrissakes.  She's probably okay to wander around it for at least a couple of minutes.

I might position myself strategically between the two exits of the fenced-in playground and feel assured for a moment while you're playing out of sight.  But just a heartbeat too long and I have to find you.  I physically have to.  I am incapable of letting down my guard.  The moment I do, the worst will happen.  I just know it.

Maybe I am overly protective; I honestly can't tell.  What I do know is this:  An old man tried to lure me into the trunk of his car once at Teter Lake while my stepdad was fishing.  I hid inside a pine tree and watched him until he finally gave up and left.  Even then I knew what men did to little girls; this was not my first rodeo.

That was around 1984.  Things in 2014 are exponentially more fucked up.  So I cope with my anxiety by mentally rehearsing.  Kidnapping is what I practice for the most.

I remind myself of what my priorities should be across any potential setting:  get license plate number; note physical description of suspect(s)--god forbid there's more than one; have current picture of Sophie immediately ready to show to anyone who will look at it; remember exactly what she's wearing--what kind of Band-Aids is she wearing today?  Was that scrape on her left knee or right? Sometimes I mentally freeze the scenario in my mind and study all the people in my mental image's vicinity.  What did they witness? 

Once police action is under way, Who should I call first?  Her father, of course.  I remember that I can never remember his cell phone number.  I can recall the phone numbers of my 1st and 2nd grade boyfriends, but I cannot remember my partner's (the father of my child) phone number.  Then call my mom and dad.  Does my mom have my dad's phone number?  I have to be sure she does.  That way I only have to make one call.  Then they will let everyone else know.  I have to practice it all in my head to increase my confidence of actually being able to react quickly and rationally if the real situation were to come true.  There aren't very many days when I don't think about it at least a little.

Yesterday evening in my hometown--40 miles away and in a town with less crime than my current one--two young men were spotted in multiple places trying to lure little girls to their car.  I practice how I will teach you to protect yourself.  Maybe it would be a good idea to test you--get a friend who is unknown to you try to pick you up.  Maybe around age 6 or 7?  I can't tell if that's totally messed up or not. I don't want you to be fearful and timid in the world; just savvy and alert.  If the ability to spot a sticker of any kind from a mile away is any indication, you don't miss much. 

Worrying about protecting you has become an outlet for my previously free-floating hypervigilance.  I always think that when you are a little older I will worry less.  But I know that's not true.  I may worry about a different variety of things, but the worries themselves will only wear ruts deeper into my psyche.  It is a constant effort to keep them in check.

The first of many

Your teacher Amanda informed me recently that you have a boyfriend, and I was startled.

The conversation came about when I asked her, "Who is Emmett?" because every day when I pick you up and strap you in your car seat, you chatter through a list of goodbyes to your favorite people.  Recently added was, "Bye bye, Emmett!"

She told me the two of you like to stand in the middle of the room and hug each other and to play dress up together and both wear dresses.  He is also apparently an enthusiastic hokey-pokier like you are, and caused you a minor injury when he fell on you during a particularly interactive version the two of you came up with.  I had to admit, he sounded like your kind of man.

Soon after my conversation with Miss Amanda, I dropped you off at daycare and found the reception you got to be so sweet.  Your best friend, Madison, immediately joined your side.  She had on pink cowgirl boots and was carrying an oversized Minnie Mouse shopping bag.  Emmett spotted you and ran up to hug you.  Then the three of you trotted over to the corner of the room with all the dress up costume trunks.  I guess Madison and Emmett are, like, your homies.  You're the three little class theater geeks together.  I'm pretty sure I didn't have a posse at that age.

Things seemed nice for a few days--I even got to meet Emmett's dad and hear how much Emmett talked about YOU--but of late there has been trouble in paradise.  You and Emmett may have broken up.

Two mornings ago you ran up to hug him when you arrived at daycare, and his reception was lukewarm.  By the end of the day when I picked you up, he had his arm around another girl.  He gazed at us solemnly as we prepared to leave.  I found myself surprisingly defensive of you.  Of you in your first relationship with another toddler.  I want to tell him to stay home with his mama, cause you're too good for him and you'll find another hokey pokey partner.



  Sophie and her boyfriend Emmett may have broken up. Yesterday she ran to hug him good morning like normal, and his reception was lukewarm. By yesterday evening when I picked her up, he had his arm around another girl and gazed at us solemnly as we prepared to leave. This morning when I saw him I felt grumpy: She's too good for you anyway, punk!

My expressive girl

Yesterday evening you were mad at me because I wouldn't let you play in "turtle box."  (Your name for your green turtle sandbox.)  Dinner was almost ready and you were in a ballet outfit with a tutu.

As it turns out, two year-olds don't like detailed explanations for why they can't have something they really want.

Seduction is mostly in the head.

This past weekend we went to the newly opened beach at Tygart Lake for the afternoon.  Playing in the sand and swimming have recently become two of your most beloved activities, so you were in heaven.  There were several other kids around us, and we all ended up sharing our sand toys.

At one point you were contentedly filling up your little bucket with water and sand, and a little boy about your age walked up, dumped out all of your work, and then kept moving.  You really didn't protest or complain; you just set about filling it up again.  But a short time later while you were filling your watering can along the water's edge, the same little boy returned.  This time his lips were puckered, and he was heading straight for your face.  

You bolted.  You ran straight for the beach chair where I was sitting and weren't even fazed when you face-planted in the sand.  You jumped up and kept running toward me, crying, "NO!"  The boy stood watching your rapid departure, and his mom called to him, "Honey, she doesn't want your kisses!  Give them to mommy!"

I didn't blame you one bit.  That kid has a lot to learn about girls.

Mommy/Sophie games

You and I have at least two games that only we know and understand.

One of them goes by the name of "Don't Fall Off."  Despite what it sounds like, it's a singing game.  I don't even know how or why it started, but I do recall that it started in the car.  From your carseat in the back, you would call in a sing-song voice, "Don't fall off!"  and then I would sing it back to you.  Soon you began saying it in a myriad of voices:  high-pitched and squealy, low and gravelly like a monster, whispered quietly, shouted out like some punk song.  Each time I echo it back to you in the voice that you used.  It is silly and nonsensical, but it makes us both laugh and we go through a good 12-15 rounds of "Don't fall off" until we are over it.  If I mention "Don't fall off!" at any other time, you get a big, knowing grin on your face.

"Diaper Monster" has been around for us for a long time.  I hold up one of your diapers and pretend it's a crocodile--"cocodrilo" to you because you have enjoyed a lot of Dora the Explorer.  I make it snap it's jaws open and closed while roaring, "DIAPER MONSTER!" and making it eat your head, face, and any flailing limb that I can manage to grab.  You love the game, and run around screaming and squealing and giggling.  Only recently have you begun to initiate "Diaper Monster" on your own.  You were so sweet and restrained about it that it took me a minute to figure out what you were doing.  Standing in front of me, you wave the diaper in my direction with a quiet little, "Rawr!"

Three things you love at this very moment

Things you love:

1.  Clean nightgowns!  Nightgowns are relatively new to you--our long winter is finally over and gone are the fleecy or footed pajamas to keep you toasty.  You have several pretty little nightgowns that you love, and you generally want to put one of them on as soon as you get home from school and wear them all weekend, too.  One evening when you were cranky and I was trying to soothe you, I said, "Let's go upstairs and take a bath and put a clean nightgown on and you'll feel better."  From then on, you always refer to them as 'clean nightgowns' instead of just nightgowns.  I hope you never stop.

2.  Saying 'good-bye' to absolutely everything.  It started with stinkbugs.  We had tons of them in our house in April and May.  They didn't do much--just hung around mostly.  But you always noticed them and began looking toward the walls and ceilings for them whenever you entered a room.  You'd cry, "Bug!" and point.  I'd say, "Yes, there's a stinkbug up there."  You would respond with, "Stinky bug!"  Soon whenever we left a room, you'd notify them of your departure by waving (sometimes blowing kisses) and saying, "Bye bye, stinky bugs!"  Since then you've started saying good-bye to your school, good-bye to your diapers when we take them off, good-bye to your nightgowns when you are getting dressed ("Bye bye, clean nightgown!"), good-bye to your used Band-aids when they are put in the trash can ("Bye bye, new kitties!"), good-bye to your shoes and socks when you take them off, good-bye to your green turtle sandbox on the front porch when we leave for school in the morning....and on and on.  It is very endearing.  It also seems quite neurotic, but you ARE my daughter and that is to be expected.

3.  Band-Aids (a.k.a.) "new kitties."  On one of the first very warm days in late May, I took you to the Tugboat Depot playground in Star City.  It doesn't have the swings you love best, but it does have an awful lot of interesting things to climb on that you enjoy.  You got brave and attempted to go down one of the bigger sliding boards by yourself, but unfortunately the sun had made the plastic slide a bit too got.  You got a small slide burn under one of your knees and you cried.  We washed in and put a Hello, Kitty Band-Aid on it and you were enchanted.  You wanted one on your other leg, too.  And when it was time to take the Band-Aid off you were so sad and protested, "Kitties!" I reassured you that we would take a bath and then put on "new kitties."  Soon I started adding other boxes of Band-Aids to our collection--Dora the Explorer, Mickey Mouse, the Smurfs (whom you eye with suspicion and immediately request removal by saying, "Off.  Off.  Off?"  But no matter what kind of Band-Aids you are wearing, you still refer to them as "new kitties."  They are part of our daily wardrobe now.  Even at school, if they see that one has fallen off of you during play they give you a new one.  One morning when I dropped you off I heard a teacher ask you, "Sophie, what kind of Band-Aids do you have one today?"  You proudly showed them.

A new life: Your twenty-sixth month

Dear Sophia,

I have not written to you here for a long time.  It was too painful for me to reflect on much of this.

Our life looks very different now than it did nearly 14 months ago when I last posted and almost all of it is for the better.  I tried so very hard for so very long to find a job so that we could remain in the San Francisco Bay Area, but it did not work out.  I made the choice to move us to WV (where I grew up) where the job prospects were better and where we had family who could help us get on our feet.

It was unclear for a period of time whether your father would choose to join us because your older brother is still in CA.  In the end he did.

On May 24, 2013 he drove us to the airport. We said our goodbyes and you and I flew across the country to begin our new life.  I took this picture as we drove across the Bay Bridge for the last time, on our way to SFO.  About 15 seconds after I took it, you had your first of many bouts of carsickness that made the remainder of our drive really, really smelly:

I was terrified to fly with you.  I was scared of being stuck on a long flight and being THAT MOM with the kid that everyone complained about and shot dirty looks.  But you couldn't have been better-behaved.  You were curious and easy going, and thrilled with the snacks I packed and the odds and ends I regularly plied you with from the dollar store to keep you occupied.

In the beginning of our time in WV, I was in complete shock for at least a week.  I cried constantly and at the drop of a hat.  I couldn't stop asking myself, "What has happened to my life?"  But seeing you explore your new surroundings and meet family and friends you'd never met helped to comfort me.

One evening I sat in the swing in my father's backyard.  He and Kelly were working in the yard, and you were happily exploring.  I knew I'd made the right decision.  You might not have the childhood I'd originally envisioned for you, but I could give you one closer to mine--the good parts.

Within six weeks of our arrival I got a job in research at WVU that I was thrilled with.  Soon after that your father arrived.  You were thrilled.

We stayed with family in the beginning, but my job allowed us to get on our feet quickly.  We bought a car and rented a house in Morgantown.  We moved into our yellow house at the end of a dead-end street on September 22, 2013.  Nearly everything we had was second-hand--couch, dining room table, bed--but we didn't care.  Our cat Freddy flew from Nana's house in San Jose to join us.  Finally we were all together and starting a new life after such a difficult and painful struggle.

Things were still not so easy, but we made some wonderful memories.  And watching you grow and learn and discover was the best part of all.  You are my best girl.  My Sophie Bug.  My world.

At Christmas you met Santa for the first time right after a hearty poop at a Christmas party.  You weren't quite sure what to think while sitting on his lap and were much more interested in the present for you that he was holding.  But after your turn was over and it was time for other kids to have a turn, you decided you loved him.  You ran back to the stage and photobombed others' photos multiple times.

You knocked over his white wicker reindeer and made off with his basket of candy canes.  I was mortified and chasing you and laughing and trying to take pictures all at once.  We looked like the heathens of the party.

Eventually when Santa saw you return to the stage again, he sighed and said, "Hi, Sophia."

You are smart and funny and joyful and active.

You are sweet and stubborn and silly and curious.

You are loved immensely.

Somehow you are now two years old.  You love your two blankies more than anything in the world.  And now you have two stuffed rabbits that also join us everywhere.  More often than not your first and last word of the day is "rabbit" as you try and account for your critters just before and just after sleeping.

I let your mamaw plan your birthday party.  I brought the birthday girl and the cake.  You had a fabulous time running around with your cousins.  You had exactly zero interest in cake and ice cream, but you did enjoy the cheese.

You don't care for using the potty much, although you do enjoy using it as a chair and as storage for your jewelry.  I've bought you many pairs of sweet little "big girl panties."  You love them!  Mostly because you are partial to wearing them on your wrists like bracelets--with your arms shoved through the leg holes.  You love stickers passionately.  There was a time when I was bringing home extra stickers from work that promoted STI testing and they allowed the wearer to boast, "I got myself tested!"  You stuck them to all of our canned goods.

You have an excellent appetite and eat most foods most of the time.  You especially love "sketti with me-balls," avocado, beans, cheese, hot dogs, pot roast, yogurt, pancakes, bananas, and dried apricots.  Your mamaw and I had a bit of a tense discussion recently over your food intake.  She feels you eat too much.  You are perfectly happy and healthy, and I maintained that you know when you are hungry.  You eat healthy food.  It is a pleasure to watch you enjoy your meal.

After months on waiting lists, you started full-time daycare on April 7, 2014.  It has mostly gone well.  You definitely get sick more often, but you get to be with other kids and learn all kinds of new things.  You come home with new words and phrases all the time.  The other night you strutted through the kitchen chanting, "Hup, two, three, four! Hup, two, three, four!"  Apparently they are teaching you how to march.

It is a joy to be your mama.  Although it is admittedly very tiring.  You regularly cry, "Boogies!" and hand me a booger freshly picked.

You love to take sips of my coffee and aren't pleased when you polite, "Pwease? Pwease?" is denied.

You love your mamaw and regularly ask for her.  When I pick you up from daycare you plead for Freddy, Dada, french fries, and/or Cheerios.  You are lovely and expressive and make me laugh every day.  Even the bad ones.

It was very special to me when we planted herbs together on our front porch this spring.  I planted them with the encouragement of my friend Charra last year in California, and cried when I had to abandon my first tender young plants because we were moving away.  I comforted myself with the thought that I would plant more--this time with you--the following spring.  And we did.

We are several weeks into the beginning of your third year in this life.  I can't wait to see what it brings.

Love,

Mama