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.

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.

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 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.

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!"

Today (1/16/13)

Today your daddy and I are under ridiculous amounts of financial stress and it's feeling incredibly difficult for me to stay calm.  I have endless phone calls to make as well as jobs to search and apply for, and I have to make a very concentrated effort to remain in the here and now with you as much as possible.

Your morning nap today was in my arms, against my chest.  It has been in the upper 20s and lower 30s here in Concord a lot lately, and it's been a long time since I've been this cold.  You were wearing thick, soft, fleecy, red, footed pajamas bought for you by your Nana.  They are 9 month size and won't fit you much longer.  You felt so warm and snuggly, and your silky hair still smelled like baby shampoo from last night's bath.  You only slept a half hour but I hugged you the entire time.  For that half hour, I felt a little less anxious and afraid.

Yams are one of your very favorite foots.  This morning before he got ready for work, your daddy rode his bike to the store to buy you yams, bananas, and avocados, and when he returned I baked a yam for your lunch.  In the last few days, you have learned how to imitate me saying, "Mmmmm!" and after every single bite you happily said, "Mmm!" and opened your little mouth for another bite.

My friend B. told me that she had given her first daughter a box of tissues to demolish for a first Christmas or birthday--I can't recall which.  This afternoon I gave you a small, page-a-day desktop calendar that I got for Christmas.  At one point I thought I might read some of the quotations on the pages, but instead I elected to allow you to demolish it.  I had hopes it might buy me 10 (how did I ever dare think 15?) minutes in which to eat something instead of the usual one bite of food I manage to get on occasion.  [On a positive note, I've lost 76 lbs in the last 10 months since your birth.]  You were thrilled to receive the calendar and it commanded your intention immediately.  You spent 2-3 minutes turning it over and examining it and testing it with your mouth.  Then you put it down, tore off the paper cover, and began eating it bite by bite while happily watching "Olive the Ostrich" on the Sprout Channel.  Thus, said desktop calendar gift was revoked.  You didn't even get past January 1.  Maybe I'll read a few of those quotes after all.

Later this afternoon we will take a walk on the paved trail next to our house.  You are normally peaceful and quiet while we take walks and I hope that you will be today.  Yesterday you kicked off your socks and blanket repeatedly and ripped off your hat only 1/4 of the way into our route.  You spent the entire time wiggling and fidgeting and twisting, but you didn't cry.

For dinner I will feed you vegetable soup that you love.  I have been making very small pots of soup regularly--full of beans and lentils and veggies--and you really devour it.  I put small pieces of broccoli, carrot, peas, beans, and sweet potatoes on the tray of your high chair for you to feed yourself, and then I feed you spoonfuls of broth, onions, and bits of garlic.  It is a pleasure to watch you dig in with gusto.

Today, "Yo Gabba Gabba," one of your very favorite shows that I have really come to appreciate, played my favorite music video:  "Lovely, Love My Family" by the Roots.  I stopped what I was doing to watch and listen, and immediately my eyes welled up as they every time it comes on.  I just can't believe there is such a sensitive and bittersweet song on a kids' show, and the second verse makes me long to curl up in my grandpa's arms in a way that is nearly unbearable.

All we need, all we need. All we need.
Spread the love around, yeah

Sometimes when I am sitting by myself
Those quiet moments when not with no one else
I’m mesmerized by all the many good things in my life
I think about the time when I was younger
And the older that I get the more that I feel wiser
With the love of friends and family
Get stronger and it carries me on through

So I say lovely lovely lovely lovely lovely
lovely lovely lovely love, love my family
So I say lovely lovely lovely lovely lovely
lovely lovely lovely love, love my family
So I say lovely lovely lovely lovely lovely
lovely lovely lovely love, love my family

Sometimes when I am waiting for the bus
The sun shines bright and I feel peace like nowhere else
I know I'm in good health and life keeps going, I keep moving, I’m alright
I go to school and educate my mind, and the way the world is spinning
makes me want to turn around and start all over, hit the reset and go back in time.

Oh baby love me
Oh spread the love around, yeah

So I say lovely lovely lovely lovely lovely
lovely lovely lovely love, love my family
So I say lovely lovely lovely lovely lovely
lovely lovely lovely love, love my family
So I say lovely lovely lovely lovely lovely
lovely lovely lovely love, love my family

First word

On Sept. 25, 2012, you said "mama"!

I knew it was coming, as you'd recently started working the "ma....." sound into your babbling.  But, oh, to hear the word!

You were playing in your little papasan-type chair next to your daddy and I as we were finishing dinner.  You chattered away, and all of a sudden there it was.

Mama.

I was so excited and sent a flurry of text messages to our friends and family.  Sophie said mama!  You smiled, not knowing what the fuss was about, and continued to play and chatter away.  And since then you've been saying it more purposefully.

Yesterday when I was unpacking in the dining room, you were playing with the packing materials on the floor beside me when I walked into the kitchen to put something away.  Immediately you were crawling after me, your hands frantically slapping at the tile in your haste, as you called after me, "mamamamama!"

The most precious words I've ever heard.  I'm such a sap for you!

Oh, who am I kidding?  I was already.