One day last week I arrive at your school to pick you up and found you fighting against Emmett who was forcefully trying to kiss you. You held him at arm's length for as long as you could, and when he broke through you roughly pushed him away.
I'm always surprised by these every-day situations that have clear ramifications for the future.
As we headed to the car, I thought about what to say to you. I ended up telling you that no one should kiss you if you don't want them to. I told you it was okay to tell Emmett 'no' and that you did didn't want him to kiss you.
It was very important for me to be clear about that.
But then I went on to suggest that Emmett has been your friend for a long time, and maybe you could use your words more to say, "No, I don't want you to do that" instead of shoving him away. You didn't say much about it but agreed, "Okay."
Since them I have replayed how I saw him physically MAKE you let him kiss you, and I have replayed my words to you over and over. He was being so forceful at that point that he might not have paid attention to your words. Maybe he deserved that rude shove, long-time friend or not. Maybe he needs to get the message loud and clear now while he is still young and malleable.
Am I overreacting to this? I can't tell.
Monday, August 1, 2016
Saturday, July 2, 2016
Heaven or Ohio?
Today we had our first actual conversation about death. I had the bright idea to flip through my favorite photo album--the one collecting pictures of me when I was a kid, accumulated across multiple family members. My intent was to show you, again, how much you look like me. But as we flipped past pages of my grandparents my eyes welled up with tears and I told you about them with love. You asked where they were now. I had to explain that they had died.
I recognized the quiver in your lip when I said that. It's the same as mine. Suddenly I knew we were in dangerous conversational territory but I didn't know how to get out of it without lying to you.
Why they die? You asked.
Well, honey. I tried to explain as gently as I could. They got old and they died. But they had a good long life and they were wonderful people. That's how it's supposed to be.
You were not distracted for an instant by this.
Everybody dies? you pressed.
And here we are.
Yes, honey. Everybody dies someday.
Your tears were freely flowing down your cheeks now. Oh, God. She is realizing her mortality. I remember this. How horrifying it was. I was about her age. In fact, I was exactly her age. I wanted to be buried alive with my mom so she would never leave me. (Dear God. Don't think like me!) But I don't believe in anything. And I don't know how to help her through it except by being honest and gentle and reassuring.
I die, too? you asked.
Not until you're a little old lady! You don't have to worry, honey. You will live a long and wonderful life. You will live for a long, long time. Mommy will make sure of it.
You said that you would miss your family when you died. That you would miss your friends. Oh, my dear heart. I have never loved you more. You're a sensitive little soul and I want so desperately to protect you.
Where Ohio? You asked after thinking a moment. I thought I hadn't heard you right. I asked you to repeat. You asked again, Where Ohio?
Ohio. I repeated. Ohio. What do you mean? It's a state like West Virginia is a state.
Mamaw said her mommy and daddy died and went to Ohio.
Heaven, baby. I corrected trying desperately to stifle a giggle. I love you! I cried. And then I explained how some people believe in heaven.
Most of the time I don't blame them. I'd like to be able to believe in heaven, too. It sounds much more comfortable than not believing in it.
Where is heaven? Is heaven a building? Is heaven like a town? Can we go there? Is it far away? Can we see it in the sky? Can I fly an airplane to heaven? Is it farther than California? These are questions you would ask in the next couple of days. And of course you should ask them. I asked them, too. But I still don't have the answers and conveying uncertainty to a four-year-old is nearly impossible.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
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
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
Monday, March 2, 2015
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."
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."
Thursday, February 19, 2015
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."
Friday, November 21, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, October 17, 2014
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.
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