Sophia in the morning

Dear Sophia Bug,

Sunday was Father's Day, your father's 41st birthday, and the first day of summer.  You were over the moon about your dad's birthday.  At 6 am, you came running into our bedroom--you only seem to operate at a full-speed run first thing on weekend mornings--and announced:

It's daddy's birthday!  It's not MY birthday.  It's daddy's birthday.  We are picking up a cake at Dairy Queen.  I blow out daddy's candles!

Yesterday morning was a Monday, and I'd had a terrible night of sleep.  I'm anxiously awaiting word on whether our grant is getting funded--news that determines whether I have a job for the next five years.  I was finally dead asleep when you bounded in at 6 am this morning. This time you silently climbed into bed next to me, clutching your pink stuffed owl and favorite blue blanket.  I whispered, "Mama's going to sleep a little longer."  You nodded and snuggled in next to me to wait patiently.  For the next 20 minutes, I dozed in and out.  I would awake to find you staring intently at me with the tip of your nose an inch from mine.

When I finally relented and shuffled off to the bathroom, you hastily bounded out of bed and our cats Freddy and Daisy were hot on your heels.  All four of us ended up in our tiny bathroom while I was still bleary-eyed and trying step around all of you to get to the toilet.  "Mama.  Say good morning to my owl?"  you asked hopefully.  It took a moment to register in my fuzzy brain, but I smiled and put on the best cheerful morning greeting to your owl that I could muster.  You hugged it to your chest and smiled sweetly.

It's hard to be so tired all the time.  But I have to keep reminding myself that I will miss this one day--your eagerness to get the day started, to know exactly what we're doing and when we're doing it, to be next to me no matter what I'm doing.  For now I will keep stealing naps in my car during my lunch break.

Love,
Mama

A bigger girl

Dear Sophie,

You have been helping me with food preparation and cooking more and more in recent months, and it's something you absolutely adore.  (I do, too, although admittedly a glass of wine really helps me worry less about messes and spills.)  I most often let you help with adding ingredients, stirring mixes, and decorating baked goods.  You've asked on a few occasions to be able to use the knife, and I always tell you that I will let you use it to cut when you are a bigger girl.

Over the weekend, we went to the 4th birthday party of my friend Kelly's son, Ryan.  You dearly love that family and were thrilled to be able to visit them.  Everyone exclaimed repeatedly about how big you'd gotten since you last visited--and it's true.  Your father freaks out on a regular basis now:  "She's a different girl all together," he marveled just last night.  "She's taller.  She talks so much more.  She's funny and smart."

This is not news to me, but I love watching the process.

On Sunday morning, you and I sat at the dining room table.  I prepared a pot roast for the crock pot while you peeled and sniffed cloves of garlic and stole bits of onion from my cutting board to snack on.  Then we turned our attention to prepping chunks of fresh fruit for the freezer ahead of the mock "ice cream" we were going to make in the food processor later in the evening.  When I handed you your kid-sized butter knife and told you that you could help me slice the bananas, you were over the moon.

"Sophia getting so much bigger!"  You reminded me.  Yes, baby.  So much bigger.  It is both amazing and heartbreaking all at once.

I helped you practice holding the banana still with your left hand while slicing with your right.  You were so earnest in your efforts, and you beamed with pride when I praised the job you had done after we cut up four ripe bananas.  The rest of the evening your periodically reminded me:  "Sophia did good job cutting bananas with knife."

 

My whole life story on the back of his big brown eyes

This evening you dried my tears.

It has been a hard week, and I collapsed on the couch with fatigue and frustration. I couldn't help it. At first the tears welled up in my eyes in big hot pools, and then once they started to fall I couldn't control them and began to cry in earnest. 

You have been constipated and had asked for a diaper so you could squat under the end table and PUSH while you played with your toys. When you realized I was crying you popped up and came running over.

Patting my arm you said soothingly, "It's okay, mama. You don't need to cry, mama." You searched my face with concern written all over yours. "Sophia dry up the tears of mama," you suggested. I smiled.

"You want to dry my tears? Want me to get you a tissue?" I reached for the box on the table.

You clutched the tissue in your little hand and clumsily but earnestly blotted my cheeks and eyes.  It was the most simple, loving gesture. I hugged and kissed you.  "Thank you, baby," I whispered into the hair at your temple. "You're my best."