Lost Keys

March 12, 2012

I was cutting bananas, half-awake, bleary-eyed, while Owen and James, in their footed pajamas, clung to my legs pleading for “bana.” Sippy cups of whole milk. Glass of milk for Sophie. Yogurt for Sophie. Cut bread, made toast. Just butter for Sophie. A (little) cinnamon and sugar for the boys. Made coffee. Fed Tucker. Let Tucker out. Let Tucker in. Found outfit for Sophie. Dressed Sophie. Listened to Sophie insist on some modifications (aka red sparkle shoes instead of tennis shoes, bright orange ribbon tied to her wrist, barrettes halfway down her hair). Modified. Brushed Sophie’s hair. Listened to Sophie complain about the necessity of daily hair brushing. Another banana for James. Another piece of toast for Owen. Pleaded with Sophie to let me pin her bangs back, which are growing out so s l o w l y.

Throughout all this, Andy was getting ready for work. He noticed his keys (the only set we have) on the living room floor (why they were there, I don’t know). He only had to grab his coffee—he thought, he’d get them when he walked back through the living room.

Except, one of the boys got them first.

Gone. Completely gone.

We don’t have a garage. Both our station wagon and van were parked in the driveway, the station wagon (which Andy drives) blocking in the van. There’s no way we can get the van out, because of trees, without moving the station wagon.

Stuck. Totally, completely stuck.

Andy and I looked for an hour. Everywhere. We pulled cushions off of furniture. Crawled around on our hands and knees. Emptied every toy basket and bin. Looked inside the play kitchen’s cabinets, the fireplace, the china cabinet, under the piano, under the buffet, behind the couch, through the cat door which leads down the basement steps. I frisked the boys, thinking one of them may have dropped them down their footed pjs. We gave them the van’s keys and watched to see what they did with them. We asked them, over and over and over, “Keys? Where are the keys?” To which they responded, “Keys, Mama! Keys, Dada! Look! Keys!” They would then drop on all fours, look under furniture, pop up and say, “Keys!” Not helpful.

Andy called into work, saying he had to work from home. We had to tell Sophie we couldn’t take her to preschool (that went over well). Andy and I argued. I claimed he was mistaken, that he didn’t see them on the floor, that they were in a coat pocket or pants pocket or in our bedroom or in the fridge, next to the coffee creamer (I looked there). He went down to the basement (we have a finished room down there) to work. I continued looking. Off and on, while taking care of the boys.

For five hours.

I thought for sure I had found them when I discovered a half-full container of cinnamon in the kitchen trash can. That meant the boys had been throwing things away that morning. That meant the keys had to be in there. I pulled out the container of cinnamon and washed it. And then went through every piece of garbage, piece by piece, with plastic grocery bags wrapped around my hands.

Nothing.

I pulled everything out of the pantry and the pantry’s bottoms shelves.

Nothing.

I rechecked everything.

By this time, my mom had come over. She must have sensed my frustration. (Moms are good at sensing frustration.) She helped take care of the kids while I looked. She looked. Andy spent his at-home lunch break, looking.

It was parents’ night at Sophie’s preschool that night. We promised her we would go. “We’ll walk,” I said. My mom called my dad and he said he’d come after work, so we’d have another car. We promised Sophie, promised her, we’d be able to go.

“Should we call a tow truck?” I asked Andy. “To move the Subaru?”

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In our living room we have a set of French doors that open all the way, against our living room walls. I checked behind those doors several times. Andy did, too. They weren’t there. They weren’t on the floor behind the doors.

My mom was looking, in the crack between the French door and the living room wall.

She noticed something.

This.

Either Owen or James had tossed/shoved/put the keys between the door and the wall and they landed, looped around a hinge.

I squealed and hugged my mom. Andy gave me a I-told-you-they-were-on-the-floor-and-not-in-a-pocket look. Sophie, still upset about missing preschool, asked me if we could have a treat (aka candy) now that the keys had been found (in her mind, any celebration deserves a treat). The boys continued napping.

We have a key bowl. It’s in a cabinet, in our entry. We’re just so bad about using it.

Changing that. Changing that now.

“If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let ’em go, because man, they’re gone.” —Jack Handy

What have your children hidden from you?

The Huffington Post Guest Post: Apologies to the Parents I Judged Four Years Ago

March 6, 2012

An essay I wrote, about parenting and judging, is featured on The Huffington Post. (I’m thrilled!) You can read it here. And while I’m always grateful for comments on this site, please feel free to comment and share this essay through The Huffington Post site (they encourage that sort of thing).

And the apology is sincere. To the parents I knew four years ago, I’m sorry. I had no idea.

“When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.” —Wayne Dyer

Mother, Protector

March 6, 2012

I’ve been reading a lot about the tornadoes that swept through our part of the country Friday afternoon. We spent some time in the basement, as the sky grew dark, but the storm spared us. Houses, and people, as close as a county over, weren’t as lucky.

An article I read today talks about a woman, a brave woman, from Henryville, Ind., who lost both her legs while physically shielding her two children from two tornadoes that destroyed her house. Her story reminded me of another mother, from a very different time and and a very different place.

Before I was a mother Andy and I spent a weekend visiting my brother and friends in New York City in December. Our friend Alan, a paleontologist, was at the time working at the American Museum of Natural History. He took us to places in the museum not covered under the normal ticket. One such place was a very large room filled with rows and rows of tall, thick metal shelving. On the shelves were dinosaurs bones. Hundreds of dinosaur bones. Rows and rows of dinosaurs bones. It was incredible.

Near an exit door in this warehouse of dinosaur bones I stopped and spent a long time looking at a perfectly preserved female Citipati—an oviraptor. Her wings were stretched wide and it was obvious that she was doing all that she could to protect the perfectly preserved eggs that were underneath her. According to Alan, she and her to-be-born children were buried in a massive dune collapse. Oviraptors lived, or at least laid their eggs, between big dunes. When dunes collapsed, they buried oviraptors and nests very quickly, hence the preservation.

I think about that Citipati all the time. As I know I will the Henryville woman. So much has changed, since the Late Cretaceous period. And yet, so much hasn’t.

One of the first places I took Sophie to after she was born was one of Andy’s softball games. I will never forget the shame I felt that day. Someone yelled “Heads up!” This typically means “fly ball” and the “heads up” command means exactly what you think it means—look up to ensure you’re not about to get hit with an errant softball. I never do this, though. Instead of looking up I always look down, an arm sheltering my head, hoping for the best. I know it’s not smart but it’s instinctive, automatic. I’m lucky in that I’ve never been hit.

On this particular evening, though, I was holding my firstborn, a newborn. My instinct should have been to shelter my baby while also looking up. Instead, I ducked, arm sheltering my own head, Sophie blissfully, thankfully, unaware that her mother wasn’t actually a mother yet. We weren’t hit. But I was (rightfully) made fun of, without mercy. The entire situation scarred me. I worried that I didn’t have the natural mothering instinct so many other woman seemed to get instantaneously, upon giving birth. I worried that when it really mattered, I wouldn’t be able to protect my children like a mother should. I assumed the universe had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Many months later I remember complaining about a constant backache. Andy pointed out the fact that I spent my days walking around the house bent at the waist, arms outstretched, following Sophie so that I would be able to catch her, immediately, should she fall while toddling about. When you are searching for a chiropractor Vancouver WA to help with your back pain, it is important to find a company with a strong reputation. Yoder Chiropractic Clinic provides a free estimate and a detailed breakdown of chiropractor recommended treatment. You can also ask for references and check online reviews.

“Stop it,” he said. “You’re protecting her too much. She needs to learn to fall as much as she needs to learn to walk.”

It wasn’t immediate, but sometime between that softball game and Sophie learning to walk, the primal protectiveness all mothers have for their children finally kicked in.

I was thankful.

These days, I strive for middle ground. I swear my heart stops for a moment when Owen or James takes a tumble. A little yelp almost always exits my mouth. I’m fast. I’m good at getting from the living room to the dining room—no matter how many toys are in my way—quickly so that an inspection and hugs and kisses can be given out in a timely manner. But I also know that sometimes, falls have to happen. I can’t be there, arms outstretched, always.

And yet. Should the unthinkable happen, I know—I know—I would give up my legs, my life, for my kids. And although knowing that, really knowing that, doesn’t make that softball game years ago any less cringe-worthy, it’s comforting, to me. It makes me feel strong. And it makes me feel connected to a brave and beautiful woman one state over whose children survived two tornadoes without a scratch, thanks to their mother’s arms and legs, outstretched. And it makes me feel connected to a brave and beautiful Citipati, tucked away in a museum basement, who did all that she could to save her children, wings outstretched.

I suppose all of this simply has to do with the survival of species.

Or maybe, all of this simply has to do with love.

Either way, I’m comforted thinking about this connection, this sameness we mothers have with each other throughout time—since the beginnings of time. And I’m comforted believing that this deep desire to protect, no matter the cost, will remain, tomorrow, through many tomorrows. Tornadoes hit. Softballs fly. Dunes collapse. And yet we’ll be there. Stretched wide. Saving. Protecting. Braving. Loving.

Perhaps this, this right here, is the definition of mother.

“Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not.” —James Joyce

In the Time it Took the Water to Boil

February 22, 2012

Andy came home. Both front doors were locked and I had no idea he was standing on the porch, on this blustery February day, peering through the window, trying to convince the children which way to turn the dead bolt. All three kids finally came running and screaming into the kitchen, where I was making simple spaghetti.

“Daddy’s home!”

I unlocked the door. Sophie insisted on doing the rest. What followed was the every-night pushing forward, jumping up, stepping in, arms reaching, tail viciously wagging chaos as James, Sophie, Owen and Tucker all competed to be hugged first.

Andy complimented my hair, even though it was a simple mess of curls piled on top of my head.

I checked the water.

Sophie begged Andy to play monster.

More chaos. Andy on all fours, roaring, roaming about the living room, taking children one by one and tossing them onto the window seat cushions (which had long been pushed onto the dining room floor) and tickling them until they begged him to stop. And then begged him to start again. Screams, laughter, roaring, barking for a good five minutes.

The water began to boil. The monster was tired. I listened to the house slowly quiet as I watched steam rise and disappear—much like the moment.

I held out my hand in front of me, watching as the steam floated upward through my fingers, wishing I could grasp the moment, catch it and put it in the handmade wooden puzzle box Andy gave to me years ago. The box that holds simple memories I’m able to keep outside of me—a dried wildflower picked from a patch of grass along a sidewalk we used to walk on often; a small origami bird made from a bright orange Post-it note; a tiny diamond earring, its match long gone.

I love big. I do. Often, while folding laundry, especially, I wish for more big. But would more big mean less small? If so, I take back my wish. I do.

“The moments of happiness we enjoy take us by surprise. It is not that we seize them, but that they seize us.” —Ashley Montagu

Hair, Adorned

February 10, 2012

Since Sophie had enough fine hair for me to slip through a barrette, I have tried to adorn her hair. She won’t stand for it. No barrettes. Ponytails. Pigtails. Headbands. Bows. Most days I love her now-long, now-thick, unadorned hair. It’s beautiful and natural and messy and soft. And hers. All hers. But sometimes, when we’re playing with each other’s hair, I adorn. And I love. But it never, ever lasts.

Until her last haircut.

Some history: Nicholena has been cutting my hair for years. Sophie loves Nicholena. She talks about Nicholena often. Some days, she begs me to take her to get her hair cut, even when it doesn’t need cut. End history.

At our last visit, Nicholena and I decided we should try to grow out Sophie’s bangs (we, of course, asked Sophie her thoughts on the matter and, after consideration—and explanation—she agreed). But then I thought about the adornment—or lack of. I expressed my concern to Nicholena. How would I keep her bangs clipped back during the sometimes-awkward, growing-out stage?

So Nicholena spoke with Sophie. She told Sophie how much she loved barrettes and headbands and how pretty she thought they would look in her hair. Sophie listened, intently.

And then. After almost four years of my not being able to keep a single barrette in her hair for any length of time, Sophie insisted on this the next day—the entire day:

At our next visit to the salon I plan to ask Nicholena to share her passion for green beans and broccoli.

“The hair is the richest ornament of women.” —Martin Luther

What’s To Come

February 8, 2012

The other night, after dinner, I escaped to the Y (which is, thankfully, right down the street) for a quick 30-minute workout while Andy had his own 30-minute workout playing tickle monster with the kids. This arrangement has worked out perfectly for us. I’m able to exercise regularly and I’m also able to get out of the house, alone. Andy enjoys being able to spend time with the kids. The kids get a break from me. I’m happier. Andy’s happier (mostly, because I’m happier). The kids are happier. It’s win-win-win.

After this particular workout, however, I just wasn’t ready to go back home. I needed just a little more time—I craved just a little more time. So I called Andy claiming we absolutely needed some things from Target. And we did. But we didn’t absolutely.

He understood.

I chose a cart instead of a basket. In it, I put paper towels. Dye for my hair. Shaving cream. Shin guards and elbow pads for Sophie. Face wash. A new collar for Tucker. Etc.

I wandered. And lingered. Ran into friends and talked to them. Put things in my cart and then took them back out. Debated over thank-you card designs. Checked the children’s clearance racks. Walked slowly.

Eventually, I went back to our car, having spent more than I intended—both in money and time. It was 8:30pm. The kids go to bed at 8pm.

I drove home with that mish-mash feeling of guilt and calmness, which I imagine most moms feel at some time, when they choose to do something unnecessary or unproductive away from home, just to be away from home, while also feeling and wanting to be at home. It’s a difficult thing to describe.

And then, I drove past Woodfill Elementary, where Sophie will eventually go. I passed its new electronic sign and read, in bright, bright blue, “Father-Daughter Dance Feb 11.”

I pulled into the driveway not remembering the road I had just traveled. Instead, my thoughts were with future Sophie and future Andy. She in pink, I suspected, with lots of tulle making her skirt puffy. He in a tie she, no doubt, insisted on picking out. Her small Mary Janes on top of his dress shoes. Twirling. Lots of twirling. Balloons, perhaps? Streamers? She would like that. And hopefully, lots of pictures (I would insist). I thought about how we were just dancing with her infant self to “Build Me Up Buttercup” in our old living room and now here we are, me able to vividly imagine this dance that will be hers—and his—in only a few short years.

I felt a bit foolish for my Target wandering, even if it did calm me. At the same time I know there will be many more bedtime routines to come—some days it will feel like too many, other days, not enough. But more than anything, that brightly lit sign just made me so excited for what’s to come. It was yet another thing from my childhood that I had forgotten about, yet loved. And it’s coming. For her. For him. For all of us.

Grateful.

“And in today already walks tomorrow.” —Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I Was Only Gone 3 Minutes

February 6, 2012

In that time a substantial amount of dry rice was spilled all over the kitchen floor. Sophie then decided to “skate” on the rice, using the boys’ diapers as ice skates. The boys thought this was hilarious.

“Figure skating is a mixture of art and sport.” —Katarina Witt

A Perfect Dream

February 5, 2012

I had a dream the other night. In it, I slept the entire night without being woken up, once. In addition to this indulgence, the sheets I slept on, and the duvet I slept underneath, had just been freshly laundered. AND I was wearing the most comfortable, new pajamas.

It was the best dream. I woke up so happy.

And then, I thought about how happy I felt—after such a tremendously boring dream.

And that made me feel a little sad.

“We see but in dreams the ideal.” —Henri Cazalis

Simple

January 24, 2012

It had been a trying day. It was one of those days in which the tiniest bump or the smallest “no” or the wrong song prompted tears. Every diaper was a “seriously? again?” diaper. No one ate well. No one napped well. A toy no one was playing with became the toy everyone wanted to play with the minute someone picked it up. There was whining. Barking. Screaming. It was too cold to go outside. I was frustrated. And exhausted. I think we all were.

I messaged Andy asking him what time he was going to be home so I could have dinner ready. The kids start melting down around 5:30pm. Andy is usually home by 6pm. If dinner is much later than 6pm, I truly believe the kids believe the world is ending. It’s as if the slightest hunger pains turn them into little crazy people but if I give them a snack, they won’t eat dinner and then they won’t sleep well at night. So we shoot for six o’clock dinners. And Andy responded and said he’d be home at 6pm.

So I made dinner. I held (a crying) Owen the entire time–except when opening and shutting the oven door. James either clung to my leg or rolled around the floor, screaming. Sophie continually begged for “more TV” and “gummies,” both of which I kept saying “no” to.

At 6pm, dinner was done, dished out and on the table. Everything for the boys was cut. They had whole milk in their sippy cups. Sophie had the items she liked cut cut and the items she didn’t like cut not cut on her favorite plate. One percent milk was in her favorite glass. I had made up plates for Andy and me, and poured drinks for each of us. We were ready to eat.

No Andy.

Now, before I go on, I know that he works very hard at his job. I know you can’t expect someone to be home right at 6pm when they say 6pm—sometimes you’re late getting out of the office, sometimes there’s traffic, sometimes you have to stop at the gas station, sometimes your favorite song is playing on the radio when you pull into the driveway and you have to sit there and listen to the entire thing—I get that.

But at this point Owen had thrown his entire plate on the floor and was standing up in his highchair, even though I had strapped him in. James was dripping his milk (seriously, why make a sippy cup if it’s going to drip when turned over?) all over Tucker and laughing. Sophie was upset because at preschool she learned that she shouldn’t eat her snack until everyone had their snack and therefore us eating before Daddy got home was simply not polite. Tucker was barking, either because milk was being dribbled all over him or because I hadn’t had time to feed him dinner yet. And then, I looked at the microwave. 6:00pm changed to 6:01pm.

I was furious. He said he’d be home 6pm and it was now past 6pm. Where was he? (By the way, you are now entering my brain.)

6:02: OK, things happen. Probably just a little bit of traffic. I’m sure he’ll walk in the door any moment.

6:03: If he even stopped for gas I’m going to be so mad. Does he not know how difficult things get around here at this time of night? For once could he just wake up early and get gas before going to work? If I want to shower that’s what I have to do—wake up before anyone else wakes up so I can clean myself, something he gets to do oh so luxuriously every morning while I’m dealing with three hungry kids and a hungry dog and the coffee, which he gets to enjoy so leisurely on his way to work. Does he have any idea how I drink my coffee? Half the time I don’t even know where the mug is because I continually put it down to pick someone up or stop a fight or read a book or change a diaper. My coffee is always cold. I mean, seriously, when is the last time he’s had cold coffee? I’ve recently come across this Toffee Nut Latte recipe and all I can say is ‘I’m obsessed!’.

6:04: Speaking of cold, I’m sure his dinner is cold by now. I probably should put foil over it or put it in the oven or something. That’s what a good housewife would do. Dear God there I go again with “housewife.” I don’t want to be a “good housewife” or a “desperate housewife” or a “real housewife”. I studied journalism in college, not housewifery. Those who like to undergo security training may visit their site here. I should be worried about deadlines not CRAP!!! I have an article due TOMORROW! After today, after all of this I’m going to be up until the middle of the night working because I can’t start my work until he gets home and seriously, where the hell is he???

6:05: Maybe he’s not coming home. Maybe it’s all just too much for him, too. This is bad. Very, very bad.

6:06: Of course he’s coming home. It’s bath night. He knows I can’t handle bath night on my own even though he loves to point out that he has no problem bathing all three on his own. He was probably just talking to someone he works with about something he read on Reddit and lost track of time and isn’t that nice, that he gets to talk to grown people about things he gets to read during his spare time. This is not fair! This is simply not fair.

At 6:07 I heard the front door open. Tucker immediately bounded toward the door and all three kids started gleefully yelling “Daddy! Daddy’s home! Daddy!” Normally this almost makes me melt with joy but on this day, I was furious. Now that the kids were so joyful he would have no idea of the kind of day I had, thinking I was just exaggerating. So I was mad. And ready for a fight. My entire body was tense with anger.

He had the nerve to show up with a dozen white roses.

Not only that, he also picked up some more children’s Tylenol, without my asking. He remembered we were out, knew the boys weren’t feeling well and teething, and so he stopped by the store on the way home so the boys—and we—could have a better night’s sleep.

It was the line. In the grocery. It was long. That was why he was late.

I was so flustered. I was still mad but, looking at the roses, I realized it wasn’t him I was mad at. Not for being seven minutes late. I was mad at the day. Mad that no one was happy and mad that I felt like I had failed my kids that day, because they weren’t happy. I needed to release my frustration not at him, I realized, or even on him, but by him. I could certainly tell him about my day. Vent about it. But he didn’t deserve to be punished for it. He did nothing. Except show up a few minutes late, because he was buying medicine for our kids and roses for me.

I don’t know how he knew but he did. I smelled the roses and although still frustrated, still exhausted, I calmed. They instantly calmed me.

“Where did you get the flowers, Mommy?” Sophie asked.

“Daddy gave them to me,” I said. “Aren’t they pretty?”

“They’re beeeaaauuutiful,” she said.

And they were.

They’re in a vase, slightly wilted now, next to the antique clock my parents gave to us on our wedding day. The statistics aren’t so great for couples with multiples. And things aren’t necessarily carefree for us right now. We have three children under 4. We both work during the day—and it’s work I love, caring for my children. I’m grateful I’m able to do it—even if it does make me a housewife. But we also both freelance at night. And pick up toys at night and do laundry at night and scrub toilets at night and take out the garbage at night because there’s no other time to do it. Just like every other parent of toddlers I know. And it’s exhausting. But short-lived.

The skin on Sophie’s wrists and ankles are peeping out of her shirts and pants. James matched colors correctly the other day. Owen has started to talk in sentences. My husband, who in our early dating years rarely surprised me, showed up with a dozen roses. And instead of taking out my bad day on him, as I was ready—and am prone—to do, I kissed him which was great, as we know dating is a really important part of living for young people, if you want to improve your dating skills then you can practice with a virtual girlfriend like rubymain online.

We all grow.

And as long as we keep picking up that little brass key and winding our wedding clock, the hands will continue to go around and around, with a tick tick tick I find so comforting now—in fact, without it, I think our house is too quiet. Just as I imagine my dinner table will seem, 20 years from now. But with a little work, and a lot of love, I believe there will still be someone sitting across from me, in part, thanks to the simplicity of roses and in part, thanks to the simplicity of some things being left unsaid.

“I worship this tenacity
And the beautiful struggle we’re in
Love will not elude us
Love is simple.” —K.D. Lang/David Piltch

An Afternoon In Sophie’s Bedroom

January 18, 2012

Dear Sophie,

I dreamt of days like these, before you were born. Days when gummy candy was served on fine china underneath a homemade fort with your favorite stuffed baby lamb as a guest.

Days when my childhood bear (made by my mom, your nini), was dressed in a dress you had outgrown and crowned while sitting in a perfectly royal, floral chair.

Days when a glance to your bookcase revealed so much love—a toy hand-painted by Grandpa, a glass jar filled with beach treasures made by Aunt Katy, a small snow globe to remind you of the city where Uncle Kyle once lived (and still visits, often), a book in French with your name as the title from Nini, and a starfish.

Days in which I noticed the chocolate kiss you must have given to your mama lamb after you had eaten a chocolate treat. The lamb, which Grandma gave to you when you were still so small your entire body fit upon my chest. The lamb, which you insist must always wear the wonderful, handmade bird Nini and Pop Pop bought for you in Italy.

Your blanket forts remind me of the one I used to make over and over at my old house, when I was just a little girl. We had concrete steps that led down to the lower level of our house. I would place an old towel over those steps, held in place by old bricks and rocks. And there I would hide my treasures—wild onion, dandelions, forsythia branches, pretty rocks, grass. Forts are good for hiding treasure. Of course, I think the forts I make today hold the best treasures I’ve ever owned.

This is my favorite picture of you and Zoey. Every time I look at it I first smile, remembering that afternoon, filled with bee’s wings, crowns, tall hats and wands. And then I remember that I’ve never taken the time to correctly put the photo in the frame, a task which simply requires a small screwdriver. Tasks like these never get done these days. Too much fort building, I suppose. The dried rose, by the way, was from a birthday bouquet.

The floral and crystal chandelier, fitting for our house—and you—was all thanks to a good deal I found on Zulily. It makes me smile every time I look at it.

Days when the rain falls hard and the wind rattles your bedroom windows are perfect for blanket forts held secure with a stack of well-loved picture books.

I hope I knew these days were coming on the nights when you wouldn’t sleep, when I couldn’t calm you. And I hope I remember these days fondly, when our relationship changes and a tea party with your mom is no longer your idea of fun.

I try to follow your stories, spoken aloud, when you play with your dollhouse. But often I become lost in their labyrinthine ways—your imagination is too much for my adult mind, I suppose.

Your grandma cross-stitched this quilt by hand for your dad, when he was a baby. I wonder if it will seem odd to have baby quilts and blankets draped around our house when you and your brothers are older—if so, I will surely miss them.

I loved my ballerina music box when I was a little girl—it was much like this one, with a small, plastic ballerina that twirled in front of a small, oval mirror. I wish I still had it. Even though I, perhaps, should discipline you when I hear it play long after you should be asleep, I don’t. Because I, too, remember slipping out of bed to turn the little key on my box. And some memories in the making don’t deserve to be scolded.

Although I’ve been tempted, many times, to paint your toenails (as I know you would love it, the way you always notice and compliment mine), I’m glad I haven’t yet. I’m glad these feet have only known soft rugs, grass, our cold hardwood floor, heater vents, sand, quilts, Nini and Pop Pop’s gravel driveway, warm knitted blankets, cool sheets. I like that the only glitter that has been slipped on them is from your red, glittered-cover shoes, the ones you insisted on wearing to preschool today. Your toes have many years of glitter ahead of them. For now, I think they’re beautiful, plain.

I bought this small, wooden doll for you in Spain. I was away from you for 10 days, which was both wonderful and awful. I know you don’t remember me giving you the doll but I love that she’s earned a place in your treasure chest—and sometimes, as shown here, in your bed.

This is my favorite picture of you and your cousin, Colleen, taken on our family vacation to the beach last summer. I have it tucked into the large, framed family tree that’s hanging above your dresser.

You love to take pictures of your small, plastic princess dolls with your Fisher-Price camera. I watch you, from your doorway, when you don’t notice me. I watch you, as you carefully arrange them on your small, floral chair, step back, take a picture, review the picture, scrunch your brow, rearrange the dolls, retake the picture, over and over and over. Are you going to be a photographer someday? You insisted I take a picture of you with one of your dolls, when I was pretending to be a photographer, this day.

May you find yourself this happy more days than not.

This is your Build-a-Bear, which you, obviously, picked out all on your own. It hurts my eyes to look at but you love it so in a weird sort of way, I have come to love it, too.

You keep your lavender (which you smell daily) from Nini on top of your treasure chest, which Grandma made for you. Although I don’t want you to know this yet, someday I hope you realize how lucky you are to experience such love from circles that extend into circles that extend into circles, all around you. Because so many children don’t get that. I hope you are someday grateful and, more importantly, provide that same sort of love for someone else someday, too.

This little rabbit has been in your bed since you received it, several holidays ago. Here it sits perched on the beautiful quilt Nini made for you. Sometimes, during hard nights when our family rearranges itself and everyone is in someone else’s bed, I wrap myself up in your quilt and sleep better, I swear.

May you find yourself pleasantly surprised, more days than not.

The giraffe is from Pop Pop (he loves giraffes, which you know). Piglet is from Aunt Lizzie. And the book is mine, from my parents, as it contains one of my favorite Little Bear stories—”Too Much Kissing.” My mom wrote in the inside cover that there’s no such thing as too much kissing. She’s right. (This is, in part, why I kiss you and your brothers so much.)

The Amish doll, whose apron and bonnet are misplaced, is from Nini. She sits perched in the bed I spent too long choosing for you, with a background of stripes painted for you by Paw Paw.

Even when those we love aren’t with us, or live far away, our lives are filled with their presence—and love. People say you shouldn’t put such emphasis on things, and I agree with that. But when so many things in your life are handmade or purchased by those you love, it’s hard not to. Everything in your room has a story, has thought behind it, has a purpose. Even the mundane, like the slip of cardboard still tucked into your not-yet-worn tights—its story is that my life is so busy I have not had time to remove it. Or the little ball of foil underneath your chair—its story is that you snuck some candy into your room and ate it when I wasn’t looking.

So maybe I don’t agree with not putting such emphasis on things, at least not entirely. Things tell stories, trigger memories, moments and, perhaps, most importantly, thoughts of people.

You are surrounded by love, Sophie, always. Maybe, years from now, when things are really tough (I hope they never will be but one cannot be human without having a things-are-really-tough life stage), you will read this. And, maybe, open an old box and turn a little key and watch a plastic ballerina twirl around. And you’ll remember that you are loved, then, now and always. And perhaps, that night, you will dream of a rainy afternoon spent indoors, under a homemade fort drinking pretend tea and eating gummy candy—just like I did, before you were born.

Speaking of love, all my love,
Mommy

“Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.” —Peter Ustinov