All

When the cold sets in in only a few months’ time, and I long for the sun, I will remember this walk—this perfect, perfect walk.

“To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—
True Poems flee.” —Emily Dickinson

These days, bedtime takes about two hours. This includes baths, pjs, cups and bottles of milk, stories read, sound machine on, night lights on, fans on, overhead lights off, poem recited, kisses goodnight. All of this takes about 30 minutes. The rest of the time we’re convincing Sophie that “stories” aren’t going to come out of her floor and eat her.

We have no idea how or why she imagined these “stories” up. But that’s what she calls them—”stories.” There are two. One is a giraffe story. The other, a pig story. And while she’s in bed they come up out of her floor and cause her to scream. Loudly. When she screams we run to her room and find her, wide-eyed, red-faced, cheeks and nose wet with tears and snot, absolutely and completely terrified, so panicked she can hardly control herself. (And, of course, this is about when the boys wake up crying, because of the screaming.)

At first we sat Sophie down and talked a lot about make-believe and reality. We talked about the nature of stories (I find it so interesting she calls them that). We had long discussions about what’s real and what’s not. This only made her angrier. She accused us of not believing her (which was a fair accusation because we of course, do not). We thought, by convincing her these stories weren’t real, her fear would lesson. But her terror, to our deep dismay, only grew. Not because the stories were coming more frequently, but because, I believe, she felt like she could no longer count on those she loved and leaned on for support most—her parents.

So we did some research. And contacted our pediatrician. And discovered that she’s too young to fully grasp reality versus make-believe (which is still troublesome to me as I truly believe she grasps it when reading books and watching TV—maybe I’m wrong). But after sleeping with her in our bed night after night (feeling her roll and toss and fling her limbs into our faces and finally giving up, letting her sleep horizontally to the headboard, arms across Andy’s face and feet ever-so-randomly kicking me in the stomach) we were willing to try anything—even if it meant telling a lie, which is, that we believed her.

So the next night all three of us got on our hands and knees and had a talk with those stories. We banged our fists on the floor and yelled, “Stories! You listen here. You are not allowed to come out when Sophie is in her room. Do you understand?” Three ears to the carpet, we waited for a response. I jumped up. “They said yes, Sophie! They promised!”

Things got a little better after that. We’d put her to bed, bang on the floor and yell at the stories, wait for a response, and then we’d promise to check on her until she fell asleep. First one minute, then three, then five, then 10 and 10 and 10 until she drifted off. Every night, we’d have the same conversation:

Sophie: “How many minutes?”

Us: “10 minutes.”

Sophie: “Is that long? Or short?”

Us: “Not long.”

Sophie: “Not 10 minutes. One minute.”

Us: “Let’s try 10 minutes to start with this time. Just see how it goes. It’s not long, promise.”

Sophie: “No! One minute!” (The panic look begins to blanket her face.)

Us: “OK, OK, one minute.”

Sophie: “One minute.”

Us: “One minute.”

Sophie: “Promise you’ll be back?”

Us: “We promise.”

Sophie: “Promise you’ll be back?” (Her voice is higher pitched this time, concerned.”

Us: “We promise!”

We never got rid of the minutes completely, but we did manage to stop her from waking up in the middle of the night and convincing us (bleary-eyed and willing to say yes to anything just so we could go back to sleep) that she should sleep with us. And we did this by pure bribery.

After sleeping through the night in her own bed for a week, she earned her first Build-A-Bear.

(We let her pick out everything and oh, what a bear it was—neon hearts, glittery ballerina outfit, sparkly pink plastic shoes, multiple hair bows and a voice saying “I love you I love you I love you” every time you squeeze its hand.)

Success.

Or so we thought.

After a long vacation, the stories are back. The pig one and the giraffe one, both hell-bent on eating her and taking up our evenings, night after night.

If we were having bedtime issues because she simply didn’t want to go to bed, I’d let her cry. I’d let her scream. She’s 3. And I don’t have much patience for that. But our daughter is absolutely terrified of these stories. In her mind, they’re real. And the look of terror that crosses her face when they “come out of the floor” scares me so much that sometimes I wonder if I’m trapped in some horror movie and they really are there and I just can’t see them—that’s how panicked she gets.

We decided we can’t let her sleep in our bed anymore—when she’s in our bed, none of us get a good night’s sleep.

So now Andy curls up under a blanket on the floor, right where the stories come out. And he stays there, while I put the boys to bed. And he stays there until she falls asleep, while I do the downstairs clean-up alone—a chore that used to go much faster when both of us were doing it. Sophie is slow to fall asleep—she plays with her doll, sings to herself, flips through books and usually only nods off a good hour after being put to bed.

I would be so ever-grateful for help with this. Advice. Solutions that worked for you. Yes, it’s frustrating because our nights—the one time we have to read, watch a show, game, clean, be together—are being eaten up with this whole going-to-sleep process. But what’s even more frustrating to me is that my daughter truly believes a giraffe or pig “story” is going to eat her up, literally. I would do most anything to never again see that look of sheer terror on her face. She’s 3. Her life should be void of such panic and worry and concern. As someone who is always battling stress I don’t wish that type of intense stress on her—not now and honestly, not ever.

So thanks in advance. And hopefully, soon, bedtime at the Uhl household will be filled with silly, thoughtful, funny, serious and beautiful stories only—stories children look forward to, not fear.

“There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.” —Andre Gide

I love that you’re playing again. And I love all that you are and all that you do. Happy birthday. (And thank you!)

“Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” —Berthold Auerbach

Sophie’s Great Aunt Susan and Great Uncle Dale visited us for a night, along with their son, Charlie. We introduced them to Cincinnati-style chili at Skyline (and they treated us to dinner—thank you!). And Sophie had a blast playing with her ever-patient and ever-fun cousin. It’s not easy being asked over and over and over again to play hide-and-go-seek, run back and forth across the porch, color, pretend to be the tickle monster or sit for long periods of time in a very pink room. But Charlie did these things, again and again, despite my attempts to rescue him. (Thank you, Charlie! She still talks about you, all the time.)

“You are worried about seeing him spend his early years in doing nothing. What! Is it nothing to be happy? Nothing to skip, play, and run around all day long? Never in his life will he be so busy again.” —Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Many months ago Sophie’s Grandma and Paw Paw made her a small treasure box. They painted it to match her room and lined the inside with lovely fabric.

She loves her treasure chest, more so than many of her beloved toys, and is very specific about what’s allowed in it.

The contents change, sometimes daily. But here is an inventory of what it held on Thursday: hair ties and bows; precious change; a Silly Bandz; a beaded tassle; paper hearts sent to me with a holiday Etsy purchase; a wooden jumping jack toy my parents bought her Italy; a glitter snowman necklace from Great Grandma; a pretty rock Daddy purchased at a gaming convention; two handkerchiefs; a fairy, which she found in her stocking; a Barbie shoe; two seashells from baby Hannah; a little wooden lion and change purse—both gifts from Mel and Great Auntie Bear (who are the best treasure box gift givers); a Judy Ditmer handmade top; and a small, handcarved wooden heart.

Sometimes I find a picture of her Aunt Lizzie in it. For a long time she had an empty bag of M&Ms in it. Sometimes she stores her bracelets in it, handmade by Grandma.

For Mother’s Day Sophie gave me a ceramic butterfly bowl, and it came in a very nice box. On a rainy day, I decided to give the box to Sophie, and let her decorate it—another treasure box. She colored the sides, top and bottom, and put glitter butterfly stickers all over it.

Inside we put a postcard map of the United States, two flower petals, seashells, more paper hearts and chocolate. She put this treasure chest in her room as well, but on the floor (Grandma and Paw Paw’s treasure chest, of course, is the only one allowed on her dresser). I thought for sure the chocolate would be gone that night—a late, can’t sleep, secret bedtime treat. But she left it in there (until James, unfortunately, discovered it while I was showering; “Mommy! James has chocolate all over him!”).

I hope she keeps her treasure box, always. I hope she someday finds it, in her attic, on a rainy Sunday, when she’s in her 40s. Upon opening it I hope she’s transported back to now, and that now is a happy time, a time of sorting through her treasures when she should be napping, creating on a rainy day, grateful for all that she’s been given.

“The home should be the treasure chest of living.” —Le Corbusier

“There’s nothing half so pleasant as coming home again.” —Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

Dear James and Owen,

Your first birthday was most perfect.

Sophie helped us wrap your presents.

We had make-your-own-tacos for dinner, along with corn salsa. You loved the avocado, beans, corn and cheese, among other things (and I was worried you’d still be eating baby food on your first birthday!).

So many people who love you filled our house—Grandma, Paw Paw, Nini, Pop Pop, Aunt Katy, Colleen, Uncle Kyle, and, of course Daddy, Sophie and me.

The first present you opened was a brand-new Radio Flyer wagon, from Nini and Pop Pop.

You loved sitting in it. We’ve already taken both of you, along with Sophie, in a ride in it. (Your mother was a bit of a jerky driver, though, and my sudden stops and starts caused you, James, to fall numerous times—I’m sorry about that).

a fantastic gift from Aunt Katy, Uncle Tom and baby Colleen

Sophie spent a long time during one of your naps wrapping her present to you.

a new toy from Grandma and Paw Paw

Colorful, wonderful chaos—you received so many nice things, from so many people, including a Zoo pass, new toys, new clothes, a tambourine and drum, Cincinnati Reds onesies and growth charts.

We had birthday hats made for you (as we did Sophie) and while cute, you both preferred we use them as table decoration rather than party headwear.

Daddy, with Sophie’s help, made you each a cake. Owen, you had a spice cake with homemade vanilla icing. And James, you had a chocolate cake with homemade chocolate icing. (You both ate chocolate, though, and you both loved it.)

We, of course, sang “Happy Birthday.” (I wanted to sing it twice. Daddy thought once, with both of your names, was enough. :))

James

Owen

Two days later we had a party, at my parents’ house. I put out pictures of both of you from the NICU, as well as your teeny tiny preemie clothes, diapers and hospital wrist bands—how far you both have come!

We made six dozen cupcakes.

For family events and occasions, Aunt Katy (who has a most wonderful collection and knowledge of quotes) always picks a perfect one for the chalkboard, otherwise used for grocery reminders. I loved the one she chose for your special day.

Party favors and activities included bubbles, pinwheels and balls.

Grandma, Paw Paw and their grandchildren

Nini, Pop Pop and their grandchildren

our family

After pictures, you were ready to party!

All the kids (including you!) had fun playing in the yard.

After lunch, everyone sang “Happy Birthday” to you (again) and you had cupcakes! You liked them.

James

Owen

family and friends

We received so many books for the library in Belize (thank you, everyone).

James and Daddy

Owen and Daddy

Happy, happy birthdays, my loves. I think back to when I held both of you, for the first time, and remember how terrified I was of breaking you—you were both so small. But you did not break. You grew and you grew and you grew and after weeks, months, of no sleep and hazy memories and lots of milk and love, you smiled. And rolled. And crawled. And now you climb (everywhere, up the stairs when no one is looking, up Tucker to get on the couch, up us to pull our hair, up Sophie, as if asking her to play) and laugh and wave and clap.

Your personalities, different from the beginning, continue to change and grow. James, you are so mild mannered. You will sit on a lap, on the floor, in your highchair, content and quiet, yet always so observant. You have the strangest melt-your-heart-laugh and you still have this amazing, open-mouth grinned that makes me smile every time I see it. You are small, yes, but you eat and eat and eat, often, more than Owen. You are beautiful.

Owen, you are so strong, always on the move and you always know exactly what you want. You are so eager to explore this world and so crushed when not allowed to do it. Your laugh is a hearty giggle and when Sophie gets you going it would be rare to find someone who wouldn’t laugh with you. You have made such strides in your therapy. You, too, are beautiful.

I can’t wait to spend this next year with both of you, teaching you, watching you, learning from you. I can’t believe it’s been a year already.

You are my sunshines, always.

Love,
Mama

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.” —Dr. Seuss

“A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.” —Walt Whitman

Even at 3, Sophie still loves to snuggle up with Grandma and, invariably, fall asleep.

“Perfect love sometimes does not come until the first grandchild.” —Welsh proverb