We all love your boo-tay!

Just sung by Sophia in the living room in a call and response style (aka What the hell is happening here!?!?):

Do you love my boo-tay?
(Yes, we love your boo-tay!)
Do you love my boo-tay?
(We all love your boo-tay!)

The view from here

You were gazing out the window the other morning and said, "Mom, I want to see the world." I told you it was a good thing to want and that I will do as much as I can to help you see the world.

I meant it.

Frankly (and other memories from 8/6/17)

Sophia: Mom, I try to be quiet when you need peace and quiet but sometimes I just can't do it.

This is what you look like today:

This evening

"Mom, let's go upstairs and hang out with each other."

(Oh, please always ask me that!)

It all started with a conversation about Shark Week.

"Mom, I want to tell you something. You're very important to me and I love you and I don't want you to get stinged by a jellyfish or bited by a shark."

Sweeter words have never been uttered.

Now that you are 5

Dear Sophie,

A couple weeks ago you turned 5 years old and I can't believe where the time has gone. Each day feels like a marathon and I can barely keep up with my life (let alone keeping my letters to you reasonably up to date).  There are some things about you now at age 5 that I really want to remember.

You recently saw the remake of the Ghostbusters movie with an all-female cast and you have been hooked. You especially love Jillian Holtzman!  You got a Ghostbuster uniform from Emmett's family for your birthday and you regularly wear it around the house in addition to a squirt gun with a backpack attachment that serves as your "proton pack." You bust ghosts every chance you get.  The other night when I was making dinner you asked me how long it would be before it was time to eat. When I responded "5 minutes" you said you'd be busting ghosts until then.

You regularly change your mind about what foods you like and what foods you don't.  The type of cheese you'll agree to eat varies daily.  With the exception of cornbread, you've lost interest in most breads all together.

Alesiah and Elyssa are your best friends. You love to play outside and investigate every plant, bug, acorn, pinecone and rock you can find. Frequently you can hear thuds and rattling from the backseat of our car, and it's from the nature finds you have stashed in the nooks of your car seat and in the storage compartment in the door next to your seat.

You also love ghosts, taking your Trolls' heads off, wearing dresses EVERY SINGLE DAY, going on "nature walks" with your brother, holiday gel clings for the windows, anatomy books, making elaborate creations with paper and scotch tape, swimming, and being thrown on the couch by your father.

You love to sing and are very good at remembering song lyrics. You are also quite creative at ad libbing your own.

You think it's hilarious to randomly cry out, "I want a margarita!" in public places. And you have so much energy that you will jump in place for 30 minutes straight. 

Somewhere along the way in the last few months we have started a tradition of you sleeping in our bed on Friday nights. You love it dearly and remind me about it every week. Even though it makes sleeping more difficult, I confess that I love it, too. I gaze at you while you sleep, sniff your hair, gently rub your back, and nuzzle into you.

Even now, after 5 years of being your mama, I am still astounded that you are actually here. The little girl I desperately wanted. And you are my mini me in more ways than I can possibly describe.

I am very conscious of my own clear memories from ages 4 and 5, and I often wonder which memories of our day to day lives you will carry with you. Sometimes at particularly happy or tender moments, I telepathically will you: Remember this. Remember this moment right now and know how much your mother loved you.

I love you Sophia bug. You are my favorite--my favorite who is, was, and ever will be. I don't know where I'd be without you. I work hard to make each for you better than your last, and this new year of your life will be no different.

Love,
Mama

Spilled milk

On Friday evening, I was ecstatic.

Your father and I have both been feeling burned out at work and exhausted.  I looked forward to hanging out at home with the two of you, having barbecue chicken sandwiches for dinner, and sipping a glass of wine.  As the 3 of us sat down to watch a move together, you spilled your glass of milk.

I had warned you repeatedly about bumping against the table it was sitting on, and about waving your arms around in the vicinity of it.  When you realized what you'd done, you looked down with shame and my annoyance softened when I saw your face.  I put on my calmest voice and directed you in cleaning it up from the table and floor.

We soon discovered that the milk had also spread under the Lego house you'd built on the table. Your father was getting frustrated, and I could see your unhappiness at knowing that your spilled milk was the cause.  I used every bit of patience I had to overcome my fatigue and continue to talk you through cleaning it up.  You did a good job.

Afterward, I opened my arms to you and said, "Come here, baby."  You sagged against me and said in a small voice, "I'm sorry I ruined the evening, mama."

(Oh, my dearest heart!  Any bad evening with you is better than my best evening alone.)

I hugged you and kissed you and told you that you hadn't ruined anything--that it was an accident and you did a good job cleaning it up, and we were all here together.

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

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."

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!