Your Fourth Birthday

May 1, 2012

Dear Sophie,

This year, your birthday was a big deal. You spent the year prior throwing daily birthday parties. These parties involved emptying toy baskets and decorating the house with their contents. Making cakes out of boxes and insisting we sing and make a wish (over and over and over). Wrapping presents (often books from the bookshelves or your little, plastic princess figurines) in baby quilts, and presenting them. You loved making birthday cards. Tracking every celebration along the way was even more fun with an age calculator in months, it made each milestone feel extra special. You refused to wear your underwear with little cupcakes on them unless we were celebrating someone’s birthday for real. Birthday parties required party dresses, no matter how informal the occasion. You loved birthdays, everything about them—so you can only imagine how excited you were for your own. As such, this year we let you invite a few friends for a birthday party, the weekend before your actual birthday. If you are also planning a birthday party, you may consider booking an event space Winston Salem.

We borrowed child-size tables and chairs and covered them with vintage tablecloths from Nini. In teapots (also from Nini) we put snapdragons, which you picked out during a trip to Ft. Thomas Florist. You chose the paper plates and napkins. We used antique tea cups from my collection (and a few extra we picked out together, during a trip to an antique store). You had a tea party.

Parents (friends and cousins) were so helpful.

We decorated little wooden teacups with stickers, and homemade teacup and teapot-shaped sugar cookies with icing and sprinkles.

Your cousin Gregory was not only a trooper given the theme of the party, but also a big help to his little sister, Kaitlyn.

We picked out your dress a couple months before, stumbling upon a tea party-worthy frock with one of your favorite things (flowers) and your favorite colors.

During the party each child visited Nini to decorate a bonnet with flowers.

We drank pink lemonade, and ate peanut butter and jelly, and cucumber and cream cheese tea sandwiches.

Everyone was so careful with their teacups.

Our house wasn’t big enough to invite everyone you loved, and you were so gracious when we said in addition to your cousins, you could only invite a few friends. I’m just so thankful you were able to have some of your most-loved friends with you on your special day.

For your “cake,” Daddy made homemade Oreo truffles.

Your brothers surprised us! I thought for sure we’d have to take them upstairs but instead they sat at the table, drank “tea” from their tea cups, decorated (and ate) way too many cookies and didn’t throw a thing.

Whitney and Lauren loved wearing their bonnets.

Mommy and Daddy were very grateful to have Pop Pop and Nini there for help.

Daddy brought you your truffle “cake,” and everyone sang “Happy Birthday.”

Then, you finally got to open your presents.

After presents, we cleared out the table and had a dance party to smash hits such as “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom” and “Freeze Song.” You loved this.

A few days later you celebrated your birthday at preschool. All week long we worked on a book all about you, which you shared with the class—and class treats!

I love your school’s birthday tradition. After sharing your book, an older student lifted you up so you could turn off the light. Mrs. Richter lit a candle, which represented the sun. Everyone sat in a circle around the sun. You then walked around the sun, carrying a small world, four times—representing your four times around the sun. As you walked, the children sang: The earth goes round the sun, the earth goes round the sun, the earth goes round the sun tra la, the earth goes round the sun. I got a little teary eyed watching you do this—and probably would have gotten more teary eyed if I hadn’t also been chasing the boys around your classroom, keeping them from pulling tiny little beads off of shelves and yelling too loudly.

On your birthday, as per your every-year-wish, you helped make your cake—strawberry cake with pink icing.

You insisted on sprinkles.

For dinner, you chose salad (specifically lettuce, tomatos and carrots only) with Daddy’s homemade dressing (a recipe from his grandpa), apple slices, bread with butter and water—for everyone.

You wanted to put the salad on everyone’s plate …

yours, of course, was red.

After we sat on the couch and waited for Daddy to bring in the cake. There was singing, a wish and then …

presents!

Nini made you a Red Riding Hood-esque cape …

which you wear when you need magical powers. I was so thankful you were able to celebrate your birthday with all four grandparents and all of us.

You turning 4 really struck me. Some birthdays seem so much more than others, and for me, 4 felt … well, you’re a girl now. No longer a baby. Or a toddler. But a girl who dresses herself and has opinions (about everything); a girl who is wise and yet still naive; a girl who keeps a delightfully/maddeningly messy room filled with tiny princess figurines and silk flowers and stuffed animals and dress-up clothes and doll clothes and magnet dolls and rocks and dried flowers and masks and treasures; a girl who rides her scooter fast and with ease; a girl who can write her own name and draw a picture of our family and tell us what letters words start with; a girl who can get upset about how the tops of her strawberries look and a girl who can be filled with joy upon spotting a robin in our yard.

A girl who sleeps in her own bed, under her own quilt, in her own room (without a gate) with her own dreams—and yet a girl who, even though I complain about it, I secretly love when she climbs into my bed in the middle of the night, simply to snuggle.

I love you for how much you love others, for how much you love life. May that love only grow as you grow, and not diminish as love, sometimes with more worldly knowledge, does. Now that you’re getting older, I so worry about the things you’re going to find out, the things you’re going to learn—that people aren’t always kind, that life on earth ends, that bad things (bigger than colds and lost pink markers) happen. But already I see in you someone who will be able to handle these truths with grace, acceptance, humor and the determination and fight to change what can be changed for the better.

I love you.

More.

Mama

“So mayst thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears, …” —Thomas Hood

Grandparents’ Day

April 17, 2012

Sophie is lucky. Several weeks ago was Grandparents’ Day at her preschool and she had four grandparents present, including two from Baltimore. I was lucky, too. Most of my childhood was spent with four grandparents present in my life. At the time, I didn’t realize how lucky I was. They were simply a part of my life, as normal as oatmeal with brown sugar, Saturday morning cartoons, wild onions stuffed in a Mason jar. One of my earliest memories is of a birthday. It was my fourth (or fifth? I can’t remember). I got a bike, with training wheels, light blue, I think, with a white basket with plastic flowers attached to it. The details are fuzzy but I distinctly remember riding down the sidewalk, listening to my Grandpa Mangan encourage me, cheer me, push me on. “Go, Kara, go!” “Go, Kara, go!”

Sophie is now 4. I hope she remembers her grandparents—all of them—taking time out of their busy lives to be with her, for a couple hours. To watch her paint, do work, wash her hands, eat a snack, sing a song. Of course she won’t remember the details, but hopefully, she’ll simply remember their presence, their love.

Whenever Sophie and I used to have a good day—a really good day—I would become so sad at the thought that she’ll never remember. She’ll never remember me curing her newborn tears by dancing—crazily, swinging—wildly, singing—loudly to “Build Me Up Buttercup” (which she loved) in our old house. She’ll never remember nursing (which, I suppose, at 15 she’ll be glad she doesn’t but still …). She’ll never remember sleeping on my chest, or the first time she saw a giraffe or the time she and Andy rolled down a snowy hill after a terrible attempt at sledding. But I believe, and maybe I’m wrong but I truly believe, all the actions and inactions, words and quietness, dancing and stillness of her early years somehow became embedded deep inside her brain. She will never remember the details, I know. But I have to believe, deep in her consciousness, she will know, feel, that she was loved. And that will help shape who she is, who she becomes, how she will, someday, love.

So thank you, Mom, Dad, Marty and Jill, for being there. And Sophie, I hope you remember. If not, I hope you someday read this and know. You were loved. You are loved. And not just by us. Or your brothers. But the circle reaches farther. And farther still (as it should, for every child). Love like that. Live like that. Be there. Remember.

“Everyone needs to have access both to grandparents and grandchildren in order to be a full human being.”—Margaret Mead

Parents’ Night aka Sophie’s Night

March 21, 2012

Several weeks ago was Parents’ Night at Sophie’s preschool. We took the boys with us. This was not smart. Sophie goes to a Montessori preschool, although I imagine any preschool has low-lying shelves with lots of little things on them. They boys’ eyes were big, their hands, everywhere. And Sophie was less than thrilled with their presence. Honestly, she’s pretty good about sharing. She has her toys that are hers only (as she should) and she keeps them in her bedroom, often playing with them by herself, while the boys nap. But she has her moments. We all do.

Still, her reaction at her preschool surprised me. It shouldn’t have. After the fact, it made sense. Her preschool time is her time. That night was for her to show us what she does—not what the boys can do with a tray full of beads. She was irritated and frustrated with the boys grabbing things, touching things, exploring things. Andy and I each took a boy, making sure things that were played with were put back exactly as they were found. And while doing this all-consuming task, we also tried to listen, watch and learn from Sophie.

We couldn’t.

She made that clear, in her own way. But I feel bad. We should have seen it, five minutes in, instead of 30.

So Andy took both boys outside, to walk around. And I sat on a rug with Sophie and finally got a taste of what she does every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, from 9am to 11:30am. I know she loves preschool. But watching her solidified my belief. And I’m sure that much of this has to do with the fact that it’s something for her, and only her. She spent so much of the boys’ first year stuck inside with me, listening to me say “wait,” “hold on,” “in a minute,” “just after I finish pumping,” “just after I change this diaper,” “shhh, the boys are sleeping.”

And then, preschool started. And she was free. Free to leave our house. Free to make friends her own age. Free to do “work” without the boys messing with it, free to do craft projects without the boys crinkling it, free to do her own things on her own time without having me say “wait,” constantly.

And she blossomed.

So I get her frustration Parents’ Night. This was not our night. And definitely not the boys’ night. But her night.

After some time Andy and I switched, and I took the boys outside and Andy sat with Sophie on a rug, watching, listening.

It’s funny. We went to Sophie’s school that night to learn about the things she’s learning about when in fact, we were the ones who were taught.

That said, having had children, I now believe children are the best teachers, no matter how much we try to reverse that sentiment.

“Children are human beings to whom respect is due, superior to us by reason of their innocent and of the greater possibilities of their future.” —Maria Montessori

Upside Down Winter Coats

January 8, 2012

At preschool Sophie learned a new way of putting on her winter coat—it involves placing the coat open, on the floor, and then climbing into it. Of course, if she places the coat upside down on the floor, it ends up upside down on her—something she finds hilarious.

“When the bold branches
Bid farewell to rainbow leaves—
Welcome wool sweaters.” —B. Cybrill

Sophie’s Preschool Pictures

December 20, 2011

Sophie attends Country Hills Montessori three days a week in Fort Thomas. Robert White of White Photography, a CHM parent and professional photographer, took the class pictures this year. I love this one.

This one makes me laugh. This is the face she makes when you say, “smile.” Her Great Aunt Susie, by the way, made her dress. When she and her family visited this summer, Susie asked Sophie what kind of dress she wanted. Sophie immediately said “a dress with pink polka dots that swirls.” And oh did Susie deliver. This dress is the most twirliest dress I have ever seen. Sophie loves it. (Thank you.)

Here’s her class!

“Children are human beings to whom respect is due, superior to us by reason of their innocence and of the greater possibilities of their future.” —Maria Montessori

Sneaky

November 29, 2011

This morning Sophie told us that she and a friend are “sneaky” at preschool. “What do you mean, sneaky?” I asked. She said that some of the work they choose from the classroom bookshelves is meant to be done alone but she doesn’t like doing work alone—she likes doing it with her friend. So they find a place “that’s blocked so the teacher can’t see us.”

“Where did you learn the word ‘sneaky’?” I asked.

“From my teacher,” Sophie said.

I have a feeling my next parent-teacher conference is going to differ from the last one.

Sophie can be sneaky, though. I know this. Several weeks ago I left all three kids playing in the living room for just a few minutes. When I came back in the room, Sophie and Owen were snuggled on the couch together, under the blanket Linda knitted for us, watching Clifford on TV. The TV was off when I left the room. So somehow they managed to find the remote (which is always missing), turn the TV on and then find a child-appropriate show to watch. (It took me a good month to learn how to use that remote.)

But I loved how they were snuggled into one another. And I loved the look on Owen’s face—it’s a smirk he makes often, when he’s proud of himself. So I let them be, despite the fact they were over their TV limit for the day. Sometimes, I think, sneaky can be harmless. And can bring joy. And camaraderie.

I’m sure being sneaky will take on an entirely different meaning, however, when my children are 16.

“I was so naive as a kid I used to sneak behind the barn and do nothing.” —Johnny Carson

Sophie, on Beethoven

September 27, 2011

Each month the children at Sophie’s preschool are introduced to a different musician and artist. Yesterday, after telling me that she (again) rode the carousel (the horse, by the way, was red, pink, purple and yellow and had a pretend cake on its head that you could not eat) she listened to “Mr. Beethoven.” I asked if she liked Mr. Beethoven. Her response? “Yes. (Pause.) Mommy, he’s really, really good.”

I laughed.

“Yes, Sophie. Mr. Beethoven is pretty good.”

“Music is the wine which inspires one to new generative processes, and I am Bacchus who presses out this glorious wine for mankind and makes them spiritually drunken.” —Ludwig van Beethoven

Tall Tales from Preschool

September 12, 2011

Today Sophie was much more eager to tell me what she did at preschool. Here are some snippets of our conversation:

Me: “Did you have snacks today? I bet you had brussels sprouts, didn’t you?”

Sophie: “No! There was a big bag of candy and we each took turns jumping in it.”

Me: “Really?”

Sophie: “Yes. And then we had 55 cookies. And brussels sprouts.”

And later …

Me: “So what was your favorite activity at school today?

Sophie: “We played hide-and-go seek and tag. We chased each other.”

Me: “You’re allowed to run in preschool?’

Sophie: “You’re not allowed to run in preschool.

Me: “So how did you play hide-and-go seek and tag in preschool if you’re not allowed to run in preschool?”

Sophie: “Well as you play tag someone runs and then someone runs with them and then you try to tag their belly, like this. And to play hide-and-go-seek you count and the other person hides and then you find them!”

Me: “But how did you play those games without running?”

Sophie: “We just walked.”

Me: “Did you really play those games?”

Sophie: “We really did.”

And later…

Me: “Were there more kids there today?”

Sophie: “Yes. Five boys and 100 girls.”

Me: “Wow, that’s a lot of girls. Did you play with any of them?”

Sophie: “Yes. Arabella. Arabella, Arabella (singing, now) Araaaaa…belllll…a!”

Me: “What did the two of you do?”

Sophie: “Me and Owen and James and Arabella walked down the street without you. We went to Zoey’s house. We went up to her room and took all the pillows off her bed. Then we had a pillow fight.”

Me: “Really?”

Sophie: “Yes. It was really fun.”

And later …

Me: “So what did you really do in preschool today?”

Sophie: “Right now I’m just tired and tired and tired. And it’s a secret. That I can NOT tell.”

“Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale of all.” —Hans Christian Andersen

Sophie’s 1st Day of Preschool

September 7, 2011

She was so excited. When I woke her up yesterday morning, she claimed she was still tired (we had just returned from a wonderful visit—but long drive—to see Grandma and Paw Paw Uhl in Baltimore). Then I reminded her about preschool. Never before have I seen someone perk up so quickly in the morning.

Her backpack.

I was worried about Baby Doll. And Baby Doll’s diaper bag. But Sophie said Baby Doll could stay in the car, as long as I took care of her. I promised I would.

After I got her out of bed (and by bed, I mean our bed—that’s another story) she ran to my closet and pulled out my purple shoes, insisting I wear them for this special day. I did. (Her first-day-of-school outfit, by the way, was a gift from Grandma. She was so excited to wear it.)

Nini helped with first day of school preparations, too, with a book, The Kissing Hand, and the above card. We read it to her over and over again. Still, I was worried. We had been talking about preschool for months—and I knew she was excited to go. But I was worried about the actual day. And the fact that we weren’t going to walk in with her—rather the teacher was going to come out and get her.

I shouldn’t have been worried. Look how happy she was on the short drive there.

Once we pulled up to the school I got out, fanned out the fingers of her left hand and kissed her palm. She smiled (and refused to put her palm to her cheek). I unbuckled her and she (slowly) left the van. And turned around. Assured. Happy. Waving goodbye. It was as it should have been. (Note I wasn’t crying at this point.)

(This is where I cried.)

And the pick-up.

This week she only went Tuesday and Wednesday for an hour each day. Next week she goes for an hour and a half, and the week after she’ll begin her full 2-1/2 hour days, Monday through Wednesday.

Yesterday, before we could even get her buckled in, she said, “Are you ready to hear what happened?”

“Yes!” we said.

She told us about sitting on the line and singing “Open and Shut Them” and her “work” and the small potty.

Today, after I buckled her in, I asked her about her day. “We did the same thing as yesterday,” she said.

I tried asking again, a more detailed question this time.

“Enough, Mama! I don’t want to talk about it! I’ve had a long day and I’m tired.”

Seriously? I assumed such a response from my someday-junior-high child—not from my 3 year old.

So far she’s been quiet about today’s activities although she has asked when she gets to go back. I take that as a good sign. And maybe, someday, she’ll share with me the books she reads, the songs she sings, the friends she makes, the pictures she paints.

Everyone said the 2-1/2 hours would go so fast. She isn’t even going 2-1/2 hours yet, only an hour, and these past two days, it has gone by so slow. I know that will change. And I know that, perhaps in even a week, I’ll wonder why I didn’t sign her up for five days a week. It’s just different at home, with Owen and James and no Sophie. Not better. Not worse. Different. The dynamic has changed. As it will when she shifts to her 2-1/2-hour days. And then, next year, five days a week. The year after that, kindergarten. And then school. And then, someday, college, perhaps—away from home.

That’s the nature of life, shifting, changing, adjusting, readjusting, renewing. I understand that. But life—our life—didn’t just shift yesterday. Rather, I feel like it jolted forward. I knew this was coming, yes, but in a “so far away” manner. Not, as in, this week. I look at her as changed. She’s older to me now. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. She surprises me with her thoughts. The thickness of her hair. Her tallness.

I swear, she’s smarter.

Take today’s lunch, for example. She was fingering a slice of green pepper on her plate, not wanting to eat it. “It’s just like a pickle!” I said, as she loves pickles. I felt a little bad about this, as green peppers are nothing like pickles, but consoled myself with the fact that both are green so it wasn’t an all-out lie.

She looked at the green pepper for a moment. And then at me. And then her eyes narrowed and she smiled, slightly. “Are you tricking me?” she asked.

My daughter, she’s growing up. I can no longer trick her into eating something she doesn’t want. She’s experiencing things I can’t bear witness to. It’s up to her whether she shares her day’s activities with me or not.

I love that she finds comfort in her nest, our home. But I’m also so very happy she was eager to leave it—and, perhaps selfishly, for now, eager to come back home, too. Eager with her hug and “I love you” and tickling of the boys. Eager to go back. Eager to stay. Eager for life, in general.

“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots. The other is wings.” —Hodding Carter, Jr.

The New York Times Motherlode Guest Post: The Perfect Backpack

August 24, 2011

The New York Times Motherlode blog is one of my favorites. Monday I read three essays on Motherlode (Daughter, Rising by Pam Allyn; Pay It Forward by Melissa T. Shultz and Silence is Golden by Karin Kasdin) about sending your child off to college. These essays made me think about Sophie, who will be starting preschool in September. And so I wrote an essay that night, and was thrilled when the editor of Motherlode asked to post it as a bookend to the essays listed above. You can read my essay here.

“Learning is a treasure that will follow its owner everywhere.” —Chinese proverb