Can I smell you?

This morning I showered and dressed for work in the dark.  As I sat on the edge of the bed putting on earrings and preparing to come and wake you, you wandered sleepily in.

"Good morning, baby," I whispered, and held my arms out to you.  You lay Blue Blankey and Flamingo beside me on the bed and snuggled against my chest.

"Can I smell you?" you whispered, and buried your little nose into my collar bone, inhaling deeply. I had just put on my favorite peony lotion and we both love it. "You smell good," you breathed.

I hugged you again and stroked your hair, and in that early morning moment my heart was unexpectedly full.  How well I remember loving the smell of my own mother.  I can close my eyes now and remember how she smelled when I was a child, and the comfort and familiarity that I associated with that smell.

When I dropped you off at school, I bent down to hug you and kiss your cheek.  I heard your little nose sniffing me again as your head was against my shoulder.

To know that my smell is comforting to you...somehow it makes me feel like a real mom.

References to J.C.

We had a long-awaited playdate with your friend Elyssa this weekend, and it gave her mom Molly and I a chance to catch up. We are similar in our regular cursing and in our appreciation of creative cursing, and as a result we both struggle to raise daughters who don't curse like sailors at all times.

I went into the kitchen to get together some snacks for all of us, and it wasn't long before Molly came in giggling at what you'd just said.

When showing Elyssa a plastic horse that you particularly like, it feel over and made a loud clattering sound and you muttered, "Jesus Christ."

Elyssa's eyes widened, and she asked, "Are you allowed to say 'Jesus Christ'?"

"Not really," you admitted.

I can't believe this hasn't happened sooner and while at school.  I feel certain the day is coming.

A craft store explosion

I just returned late last night from a work trip, and you are still at mamaw's house.  I have a fresh pot of coffee and a desire to organize. Today's the day to smuggle out broken, nearly empty, or unused toys and art supplies.  It looks like a craft store blew up in the dining room and I can't take it anymore.

Of monsters and ghosts

You have take a recent interest in the book series Goosebumps and pretty much anything else scary and involving monsters or ghosts of some kind. I wasn't sure you were quite ready for chapter books, but you adore having me read them to you. We have watched the 2015 Goosebumps movie as well as the 1995 television episodes.  Even when your father and I watched Stranger Things, you impatiently waited for glimpses of the monster.Your imagination has been ignited!

You "write" the names of all the monsters from the books and movies you can think of.

In one scene, a teen boy with silver fillings jumps on a werewolf's back and bites his shoulder to send him running away, and your are positive you can use this strategy to win any fight with any monster.  You tell me in detail how you will fight them and scare them off.

You write and illustrate your own monster books.

Your carry your books--both the R.L. Stine versions and your own handmade ones--to school to show your friends and teachers.

You act out monster scenes with your friends at school.  One day when I dropped you off, I heard your friend ask, "Sophie P., do you want to be the wicked witch?"

You ask me regularly if I believe in monsters; I tell you I believe in ghosts but not monsters. You don't care for this, and spent at least a week trying to convince me that I DO believe in monsters because you are actually a vampire and I know and love you already.  Here is a link to a clip of us discussing the blood sucking bit:

https://youtu.be/trz5YKZtDPA

Some people think it's odd or undesirable for a 4 year-old girl to be so enraptured by such things, but I love seeing your excitement and I feed it every chance I get. How can it be bad for you to bring a book to me multiple times a day, begging me to read another chapter or two?  I don't care what the topic is.

On consent

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.

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.

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