Early October, the day after our sixth wedding anniversary, I discovered Owen and James sleeping like this, in the pack-n-play.
arms linked
Owen’s head cushioning the soft weight of James’s chin
“I, who have no sisters or brothers, look with some degree of innocent envy on those who may be said to be born to friends.” —James Boswell
Who: Sophie and me
What: totally embarrassing conversation (see below)
When: last week
Where: bathroom stall, Macy’s, Kenwood Town Centre
Why: karma getting me back for all the times I later recounted (and made fun of) conversations I overhead potty-training moms having with their children in public bathrooms
Sophie: “Do you have to poop or pee?”
Me: “Shh!”
Sophie: “Do you have to poop or pee, Mama?”
Me: “Pee. Use your quiet voice.”
[I point to a Clinique ad on the back of the stall door.]
Me: “Look at that! What do you see?”
Sophie: “Mommy, if you have to poop, just push it out, really hard.”
[I’m mortified. And am wondering why so many people are using the first-floor women’s bathroom in Macy’s right now. And why, when I’m so often asking Sophie to speak up, she’s talking so very loudly right now.]
Me: “What’s on your shirt? Butterflies? They’re so pretty! What color are they?”
Sophie: “Are you done, Mommy? Don’t flush!”
[I think it can’t get worse. I wonder if I should wait until all the people in the bathroom now clear out or if I should just leave. I flush.]
[It gets worse.]
Sophie: “NOOO!!! I told you not to flush, Mommy! I wanted to see! I wanted to see what it was! Poop or pee, Mommy! I wanted to see!”
“Pretty much all the honest truth telling there is in the world is done by children.” —Oliver Wendell Holmes quotes
Late September, after lunch out with Andy and his friend, Mark, I took all three kids to Tower Park on a beautiful, blue-sky, fall day.
All three children were in good spirits—we were having a great day.
Sophie even attempted, what she calls, the “bouncy” bridge—she was being so brave.
We had been out of the house for quite some time, and Owen and James were hungry. So I moved their stroller to the center of the playground, where there is a nice gazebo, offering benches and shade. I pulled out cold bottles of breast milk and hoped they wouldn’t be particular about the temperature.
Sophie, in the meantime, ran happily—everywhere. She climbed stairs, walked across platforms, went down slides, climbed up ladders and called to me from various parts of the playground. It’s the first time I’ve let her go, just let her play, without following her everywhere. I worried when she disappeared into a tunnel and didn’t come out immediately. I worried when I stopped watching her to wipe a mouth, shake a toy, fetch a burp cloth. I worried when I couldn’t immediately spot her when I looked back up. But I knew I had to let her go. I knew, if the four of us were ever going to do anything fun outside of the home, I needed to let her grow up a bit. We both needed to be brave.
Tower Park has many play sets—some big, some small. Sophie had fallen in love with a smaller, simpler one, and she was having a blast climbing its ladder and going down its curvy, plastic slide. By this time James and Owen had pretty much finished their bottles. Owen was in his carrier, in the double Snap N’ Go stroller my friend Tari graciously lent to me. I was holding James and watching Sophie go up the ladder and down the slide, over and over again.
James cried out and I went to fetch his bottle. When I looked back up I didn’t see Sophie but I knew she was on the ladder. I also saw two boys sitting at the top of the play set, by the ladder, in front of the slide. I waited and waited for Sophie’s head to pop up—it never did.
She only recently learned how to climb ladders. I didn’t like the idea of her just standing on one and I feared she may have gotten stuck.
“Sophie?” I yelled.
No answer.
There were two other moms standing under the gazebo, talking. I didn’t want to take the time to put James back in his car seat and take both boys over to the play set. So I left Owen where he was and carried James over to the play set, all the while trying to do the impossible—keep an eye on both Sophie and Owen, and shielding James from the sun.
And then, I heard Sophie’s voice.
“Come on, guys. Let me up. Please? Come on, guys. Let me up.”
I have no idea where she learned or heard the phrase “come on, guys.” But hearing her say it, hearing her plead like that, broke my heart.
There she stood, halfway up the ladder, begging the two boys—who, I’d guess, were about five years old—to let her up so she could go down the slide. They were determined, though, to not let her pass and had positioned themselves as such so she could go no further.
I wish I could say I talked to the boys, explained to them that Sophie was younger than they were, that what they were doing wasn’t nice. I wish I insisted they move so Sophie could have gone down that slide. I wish I knew that it was OK—and right—for me to say something even though they weren’t my kids.
But I didn’t.
“Sophie, are those boys not letting you up?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Well, that’s not very nice. Let’s go to a different play set—a bigger, better play set.”
The two boys held their ground, smiling.
And that’s when she started to cry.
I pulled her away from the play set, as best I could while also holding James, anxious to get back to Owen. As I talked up the play set we were going to the boys started laughing.
And then one yelled, “Losers!”
We simply kept walking. We lost. They won.
I know Sophie will probably never remember this incident. But I always will. I’ll always regret not saying something to those boys, who only learned that they were able to get away with being mean. I’ll always regret not saying something to their moms, who I know saw what was happening (they were the two women under the gazebo with me) and did nothing about it. I’ll always regret not standing up for my daughter.
At 2-1/2, she stood up for herself, as best she could. Before I came along, she wasn’t crying. She wasn’t yelling—at the boys or for me to help her. She was simply asking the boys to move.
And they didn’t. They were bullies.
The day ended well, with Sophie happy on a bouncing bumblebee. And I suppose that’s all that matters. I told Andy. He was at work. He later told me he was so mad he stood up and paced. I told my mom. Having spent hundreds of hours on playgrounds as a kindergarten teacher, she gave me the (future) confidence to say something to children who aren’t mine and to stand up for my own children (and myself).
So I guess I consider it another notch on my very long lessons-learned-from-mistakes parenting stick. It’s just that, too often, I fear I’m learning lessons at the expense of my kids. I hope I do better next time. I hope my kids are never the ones doing the bullying. If they are, I hope I say something, unlike the moms who ignored the situation that beautiful September day. And I hope when being bullied, my children will stand up for themselves, as Sophie did, and that I’ll, in the future, stand up for them, too—when wanted and necessary.
A couple weeks later, at the dinner table, Andy and I were talking about the playground with Sophie. She brought up the boys, the boys who wouldn’t let her down the slide. I told her, next time, I’d say something. Andy said he would, too.
“And Tucker will bark at them!” she said.
“Yes,” we laughed. “Tucker will bark at them.”
“And Mia will meow at them!” she said.
“Yes,” we laughed. “Mia will meow at them.”
We’ll all stand up for each other.
“When a resolute young fellow steps up to the great bully, the world, and takes him boldly by the beard, he is often surprised to find it comes off in his hand, and that it was only tied on to scare away the timid adventurers.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
Guess what!
It’s raining and I’m outside!
Do you want to know why?
MOM BOUGHT ME GALOSHES!
Jumping in puddles is so much fun.
(pictures taken September 27)
“Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.” —Roger Miller
Several weekends ago we walked to Woodfill Elementary’s annual Big Top Festival. Sophie played games …
and won many prizes, including a handful of Dum Dum lollipops, Smarties (her favorite), a Blow Pop (she wasn’t happy when we wouldn’t let her eat the gum—we finally compromised and let her have a lick of it), a pin-ball game (which broke on the way home), a large purple ball (which we play “baseball game” with daily), a sticky man (which was dropped on the way home—Andy retraced our steps and unfortunately, never found it) and …
an airbrushed butterfly tattoo!
And I kid you not, we spent a whopping $2 in tickets for all this loot.
Finally, while there, we got to take a look at the finished portion of the new school, which is the school Sophie will someday attend. It was so strange to think of her going through the cafeteria line, trading Swiss Cake Rolls for Nutty Bars, participating in a school play on the stage. She already seemed so old at the festival, handing her tickets to older children, correctly playing games, voicing her opinion over results, prizes, what she wanted to do next.
But still, she’s 2-1/2. Several days later, when she was telling my mom about the festival, she called it the Tank Top Festival.
I love that.
“You are invited to the festival of this world and your life is blessed.” —Rabindranath Tagore
(Owen, Sophie and James, taken September 25)
I have yet to take a picture of all three kids looking at the camera, smiling, perfectly posed. It’s not for lack of trying. But I imagine, years from now, it’ll be pictures like this one I appreciate the most. Pictures that show not a perfectly spread quilt but rather a crumpled, messy, beautiful ABC blanket Andy’s mom embroidered for him when he was a baby with a blanket my mom made for Sophie tucked underneath. Pictures with a recorder, triangle and random baby toys strewn about. Pictures in which none of the kids’ outfits match, Owen and James are missing socks (why can’t I ever remember to put socks on them?) and Sophie is insisting on participating in tummy time, although it’s not really tummy time because tummy time never lasts all that long as everyone prefers being on their backs.
In this picture, though, all three kids are looking at the camera—that may be a first. And they all seem happy. Or, at least, content. That’s a rarity. So I like it. It’s a Saturday. A typical, natural, our-life Saturday. I may end up having to pay a professional photographer for an everyone-smiling-and-looking-at-the-camera one. And, perhaps, that will be the one I frame. But this one, and the many I have like it, will be the ones that will someday cause the heart to swell a bit with fondness, happy fondness, heartache (for time gone by) and memory—happy, happy memory.
“A photograph is memory in the raw.” —Carrie Latet
A couple weekends ago my parents graciously offered to watch all three kids while Andy I drove up to North Olmstead, OH to celebrate with Amy and Eric, who married in Vail, CO the week before. It was such a fun evening with friends, food, drinks and dancing. The relaxed, social atmosphere of the night also reminded me of casual dining spots like Chaiiwala of London Canada, where people come together to enjoy flavorful food in a laid-back setting. And we accomplished so much so quickly—for example, getting in and out of the car. I had forgotten how fast one can do that without three children. For a more enjoyable celebration with your family and friends, you may bring out a box of la gloria cubana cigars.
Justin, Jenny, Michelle, Alex and Bill, toasting the newly wedded couple
Bill and Mandy
Christine and Justin
Jack and Julie
a night out
Lauren and Nick
the beautiful bride
mamas
Congratulations, Amy and Eric! Thank you, for a most fun evening, and here’s to many years of love and happiness.
We did, however, miss the annual Pork Festival for the event. Katy and Tom, however, did not, and were a great help to my parents with Sophie, Owen and James. (Thanks for the pictures, Katy! And thanks for the night out, Mom and Dad!)
Sophie, hiding underneath a classic Pork Festival chair.
Aunt Ellen, Sophie (we gave her some money and she bought a pumpkin for us and a if-I-were-a-little-girl-I’d-totally-want-one tutu for herself) and Nini
poof!
Sophie and Grandpa at home
Katy and James
Tom and James
Holly, decorated with fabric squares
“There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.” —George Sand
While ripping off Sophie’s latest easel painting in order to pull down some fresh paper, my mom suggested using it as a table runner. It’s perfect. The table is a cheap Ikea pine number with deep scratches on it (Tucker). The painting covers much of the surface nicely and serves as a fun conversation piece.
“Sophie, what’s that?” (pointing to a scribble).
“A flower.”
“And what’s that?” (pointing to a nearly identical scribble).
“A rainbow.”
“And that?” (pointing to yet another scribble).
“A kookalock.”
“The dinner table is the center for the teaching and practicing not just of table manners but of conversation, consideration, tolerance, family feeling and just about all the other accomplishments of polite society except the minuet.” —Judith Martin
“A day without a nap is like a cupcake without frosting.” —Terri Guillemets
In the beginning, when Sophie began to draw, we encouraged her by excitedly reacting to each piece of construction paper covered in scribbles and often asked if she would like us to hang her pieces of art on our refrigerator. She always said yes. She always seemed happy.
I don’t know if this has instilled a deep sense of confidence in her, prompting her to further explore her artistic abilities, or if it’s just given her a big head. Because now she puts everything on the refrigerator. After, of course, showing it to us first, eagerly waiting for praise.
I don’t mind when it’s something she’s worked hard on. But I admit, I do sigh deeply when I open the fridge and 12 pieces of loosely magnetized paper fall off, each with a single scribble on it.
Still, though, I have my favorites. Her finger paintings. Her first circle. One covered in marker, crayon, foam stickers, sequins and poof balls. And then there’s her letter, which she wrote to the cast of Yo Gabba Gabba!, dictated to Andy (it’s the bright orange piece of paper on the right):
Dear Plex, Brobee, Muno, Foofa, Toodee, and DJ Lance Rock:
I like to draw kookalocks. Can I have your phone number? I want to talk to Plex first.
Can you make some diapers with your pictures on them? Here is a picture I drew just for you: I like to chalk outside.
Your friend,
Sophie
Some days I think how nice our refrigerator would look clean, empty. But then, already, a sense of sadness fills me. A deep and scary they-grow-up-so-fast feeling. A I-want-to-hold-onto-this-time-as-long-as-possible feeling. So as much as the single-scribble pictures drive me crazy, I’ve learned to love many of the others. And really, truly, can’t imagine a time in my life when I’ll have an empty fridge.
“It has been said that art is a tryst, for in the joy of it maker and beholder meet.” —Kojiro Tomita
