Sophie

Green vs. Pink

Sophie still loves the jolly old man with the long white beard and red velvet coat (what 4-year-old doesn’t?) but she has some questions for him—well, as of late, one question in particular. I thought we were long over this. Turns out, we’re not. A few weeks ago Sophie and my mom were talking about Sophie’s scooter, the one big gift she wanted for Christmas. She told my mom how much she liked riding it but added, “I don’t know why he got me a green one, though, when I asked for pink.”

And she did ask for pink. We were well aware she wanted pink. Pink, pink, pink. Andy spent a lot of time researching scooters and, honestly, we blew her Christmas budget getting her a nice one, a safe one, one that could be passed down to her brothers when she was through with it. And yes, of course, her brothers could ride a pink scooter. I have no problem with that. But would they want to? And what’s more, almost everything Sophie owns is pink. Everything else she was getting for Christmas was pink. So Santa put a green scooter under the Christmas tree.

Sophie hasn’t always been obsessed with pink. The first time we let her pick out her own shoes we ended up in the boy section because she wanted dark navy light-up Buzz Lightyear shoes. And she loved them.

She had baby dolls and a pink stroller when she was younger, yes, but she also had a wooden train set and a play kitchen painted primary white, red and blue. I dressed her in jeans all the time. She refused to wear accessories in her hair. Up until about six months ago, we didn’t own a single Disney princess movie. Instead, she preferred “Finding Nemo” and “Cars.”

And then pink happened. And by happened, I mean happened. She wanted everything to be pink—her clothes, her toys, her room, her cup, her plate. She took notice of when the Sundance Catalog arrived in the mail and she’d spend 20 minutes pointing out jewelry, saying big words like “beautiful” and “gorgeous.” She played “princess” and “wedding” and threw lavish parties for queens. The worst? She started qualifying things. “Those are girl toys,” she’d say, walking past an aisle exploding with all things glitter and pink in Target. Or, even worse, “That’s a boy book,” she’d say, pointing to a book about insects.

Cue me totally freaking out.

This, of course, led to to me spending several hours online one night, with a glass of wine in hand, researching the matter and stumbling across books like Peggy Orenstein’s Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture, Jennifer L. Hartstein’s Princess Recovery: A How-to Guide to Raising Strong, Empowered Girls Who Can Create Their Own Happily Ever Afters and Cordelia Fine’s Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference.

Now, to be fair, I should note that I didn’t actually read any of these books (which is honestly how I usually treat parenting books—I freak out, I spend hours researching them, I buy them, and they collect dust on my bedside table while I lament that I never have any time to read anything, usually while doing something like watching “Downton Abbey”). I did, however, read the descriptions and reviews on Amazon, which was enough to convince me that Cinderella is, indeed, eating my daughter and somehow, somewhere along the way we totally screwed up (if I had to pinpoint an exact moment, it was probably the evening I ordered her a chandelier for her bedroom—although, I admit, I love that chandelier).

And now our child has issues with the Big Man who lives in the North Pole because green “isn’t a pretty color.”

But here’s what I struggle with: Sophie loves pink. She loves flowers and rainbows and glitter and sparkle and jewelry and dresses. Right or wrong, it’s part of who she is. And by denying her some of that, by guiding her away from that, by implying that what she likes is somehow wrong, isn’t that just as stifling to her individuality than if I told her she couldn’t wear boy Buzz Lightyear shoes because they’re dark blue?

I think, like most things, there has to be balance. For Christmas she received a princess dress. And a princess castle. Her brothers got her a Fancy Nancy board game. She got lots of pink. But she also got a green scooter. A nice, well-made scooter that will last her several years and when she’s through with it, will be (hopefully) in fine enough condition for the boys to use, too. The choice was economical. But not purely. Even at 4, I think it’s good and appropriate that she not always receives everything she asks for, exactly as she wants it—even when it’s the thing she wants most for Christmas. And honestly, Andy and I were simply becoming overwhelmed with all the pink. We worried about the culture of pink. We worried that more pink would create more division of “boy things” and “girl things,” when, in reality, things are just things.

Come Christmas morning Sophie was quiet about the scooter. She was happy to receive it, yes, but there was no jumping up and down. It was a reserved happiness. We worried. She insisted on keeping the long, red satin ribbon tied on it so that “it would be pretty.” I couldn’t decide if we had made a good parenting decision or a a terrible one. I was torn.

Fast forward to warmer weather, to spring:

She loves her scooter. The satin ribbon has long been taken off. Every day I put the boys in the wagon and we follow her, a blur of pink and green, as she navigates the sidewalk on our street. (I should note Owen loves these wagon rides but in this picture I had just put on his TOT collar—for his torticollis—which usually he doesn’t mind, but for whatever reason on this particular day he was crazy upset about it.) She laughs and every day tries to go faster and faster and faster—and it’s been weeks since she’s lamented about her now-favorite toy’s color.

I believe we made the right decision. I believe it’s OK to let her choose her own clothes and I believe it’s OK that almost everything is pink—it’s what she wants, it’s what she likes. I believe it’s OK if she watches Disney princess movies and wears tiaras around the house and has pretend weddings. But I also believe that it’s my job as a parent to correct her when she claims some things are for boys while others are for girls. That I need to expose her to books and television shoes and movies and board games and toys that are all colors of the rainbow, that cover many different subjects … activities that require fine china, tiaras and pretty dresses, and activities that require dirty knees, dump trucks and bug boxes. I believe that somehow we have to acknowledge who she is and what she likes while also exposing her to the world at large—because with exposure comes new interests, new likes and, most importantly, new ways of thinking.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter. One of which, I’m sure will be, “read those books.” In the meantime I plan to let her dig in the dirt while wearing tutus, play superhero while wearing a (pink) cape and have as many pretend weddings as she wants (even if she’s marrying my husband over and over). And although I can pretty much guarantee she’ll be wearing pink, I expect her to ride her scooter daily—even if it is, green.

“We’ve begun to raise daughters more like sons … but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.” —Gloria Steinem

The Things We Sleep With

I remember the stuffed animals and dolls I slept with, when I was little. I remember making caves for them with my blanket and legs. I remember feeling guilty about who slept next to me, who did not, and who fell to the floor in the middle of the night. My grandma once told me a story about my aunt taking her new shoes to bed with her. One of my favorite scenes in the movie “A Christmas Story” is when both brothers go to bed with their Christmas treasures. Since Sophie was a baby she has gone to bed not only with stuffed animals, but with the bedtime stories she chooses for the night. The boys have begun insisting on sleeping with their favorite car of the day. And James must have the quilt Nini made for him when he was in the NICU. And Owen must have his favorite book, “Goodnight Moon.” There is a comfort in sleeping with something, someone, you love.

The day after Sophie turned 4 she saw a play—”Rapunzel”—at the Taft Theater in Cincinnati with her Grandma and Paw Paw (a birthday gift from her parents). She loved it. She still talks about the actors who ran off the stage, with the same enthusiasm and awe as I retold the story of the children running out from underneath Mother Gigogne’s skirt in “The Nutcracker,”—a play I saw with my mom and grandma when I was about Sophie’s age. I still have the souvenir playbook from the ballet—I put it out every Christmas. At the end of “Rapunzel,” Grandma bought Sophie a tiara.

She loves it.

Obviously.

‘There is a latent fairy in all women, but look how carefully we have to secrete her in order to be taken seriously. And fairies come in all shapes, colors, sizes and types, they don’t have to be fluffy. They can be demanding and furious if hey like. They do, however, have to wear a tiara. That much is compulsory.” —Dawn French

Your Fourth Birthday

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

Becoming a 4-Year-Old

IMG_1617

March 30, 2008

IMG_4321

March 30, 2009

IMG_2669

March 30, 2010

P3303966

March 30, 2011

P3307864

March 30, 2012

“If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up! Not me!” —J.M. Barrie

Crème Brûlée for Dinner

For this I am either a terrible parent or a fantastic parent—I suppose the answer lies in who you ask.

Sophie ran errands with me all afternoon. We dropped off clothes I’ve been meaning to have dry cleaned for more than a year (I don’t have occasion to wear dry-clean-only clothes often) at Atlas Cleaners. We went to a gorgeous old Victorian way up in Hamilton so I could pick up a lot of milk glass I won on an estate sale auction site (I blame you, Danielle, for this). We had a nice, long visit with my parents. Next up, the mall. I had a birthday present to buy and an item to return, and Sophie and I were hungry. I had every intention of going to the food court. Instead we ended up at Maggiano’s. We sat on high, leather chairs at a high-top table next to a glossy black grand piano. I ordered us both crème brûlées (not knowing how big they were), white milk for Sophie and coffee for me—dinner.

Sophie was thrilled. She cracked into the crème brûlée and said how much she liked it. She carefully wiped her lips with a white cloth napkin. When she was stuffed from the richness of the dessert, she started scraping off the caramelized sugar and eating it alone. And then, the prom goers showed up. Sophie was beside herself, with the tall cup of white milk, the huge dessert (for dinner!) and the dozens of young women surrounding her in beautiful dresses (at one point I had to tell her to stop pointing and saying “gorgeous!” every time another prom goer walked through the front doors).

“This is like a princess world,” she said.

And, for a 4-year-old, it was.

We finished our dessert dinner, left the restaurant and purchased the birthday gift. We tried on sparkly, deeply discounted jewelry and laughed at ourselves in a floor-length mirror. We went to the Disney store and Sophie held every single princess gown in front of her, swirling in front of the triple mirror in the princess castle, waving wands and trying on tiaras. We left the Disney store and walked to the indoor fountain. She was so giddy. On sugar. On trying on sparkly jewelry. On pretending to be a princess.

She asked for a coin so that she could make a wish. As usual, I had none (they always go straight to my Paris Fund jar). I told her to simply close her eyes and make a wish—that it would still count.

And then, my stomach hurt. Maybe it was all that crème brûlée on an otherwise empty stomach. Maybe it was the number of shoppers swarming around us, arms filled with luxury goods from high-end stores. Maybe it was all the glitter in the Disney store. But I feared about what she was going to wish for. I feared about the decadence of the evening. That it was simply too much—allowing a 4-year-old to have dessert for dinner (and crème brûlée at that!). Trying on sparkly jewelry with her. Letting her spend 20 minutes in the Disney store pretending to be a princess. I feared she was going to wish for crème brûlée for dinner every night, or sparkly jewelry, or a princess gown, or anything from the Disney store for that matter.

But she didn’t.

She closed her eyes tightly, breathed in and opened her eyes.

“What did you wish for?” I asked.

“That a rainbow would appear,” she said.

And then she was off, skipping, taking care to follow the lines made by the fancy mall’s tile floor.

I immediately calmed.

We returned the item we needed to return and then walked through Nordstrom. I tried on some Coco Chanel parfum. She wanted to, too. I debated, and then remembered her wish for the rainbow. I spritzed some on her wrist. She inhaled, deeply, and smiled. “Now what?” she asked. I showed her how to rub her wrists together. She did. She inhaled again. She was deliriously happy.

We took a wrong turn when leaving the mall. It was chilly so I had her put on the Red Riding Hood-esque cape my mom made for her for her birthday. I had no idea where the van was. Sophie took charge of the situation, claiming her cape was magic and that it would find the car. We ran around the outside of Nordstrom, past entrance after entrance (seriously, how many entrances does a store need?), hoping to outrun the goblins that were after us, and the darkness that was upon us.

We eventually found the van (for which I was secretly extremely thankful for, as I have a terrible sense of direction and we could have very well wandered around the parking lot a good 20 more minutes before we found it) and she climbed in, exhausted, happy. Despite the decadence of the evening, I hadn’t bought her a thing, except the crème brûlée and milk that filled her belly. No princess dress. No tiara. No Coco Chanel parfum (which she did ask for, and which I immediately said no to, for many, many reasons).

I know some (most) of the evening was ridiculous in its extravagance. But I hope, when she thinks back to this evening (if she ever does) that it’s not the sparkly jewelry or the princess dresses or the expensive parfum she remembers. Rather it’s that we had crème brûlée for dinner, an unheard of treat. That she wished for a rainbow. That we outran goblins while trying to find our van (and that we did so, smelling awfully good).

“You live but once; you might as well be amusing.” —Coco Chanel

The Middle-of-the-Night Cold

Sophie is:

wide awake at 10:53pm

watching the all-hours Sprouts channel (so this is why they play children’s shows so late at night)

in our bed

sweaty but cold

rubbing her always-watering eyes endlessly

making awful sounds when she breathes.

She calms, for a few moments, then sits up, a sobbing mess.

She says:

“My eyes! They just keep watering every time I try to settle down!”

“This medicine [children’s Claritin, we thought it was allergies due to the fact that we were outside all day and her eyes were so watery] isn’t doing anything!”

“I can’t stop crying!”

“My nose! I need a tissue! My nose!”

“Mommy, I just don’t want to be sick!”

I scratch her back. Revisit her favorite lullaby. Listen to her snore softly, during the few minutes she’s asleep, before the next coughing fit starts. Wonder what it would be like to have all three kids like this, in the middle of the night, at once. Knock on wood (literally) after thinking such thoughts. Wonder where Andy is going to sleep tonight. Wonder how parents do this with children who are sick often or sick always. Wonder what tomorrow will bring. Wonder what the next hour will bring. Wonder if I will get sick. Wonder why we, as a species, get sick period. Wonder who wrote “The Nightly Clean-up Song,” which is on Sprout right now. Wonder why I’m watching Sprout and not something else given that Sophie is, thankfully, sleeping, clutching her tissue as she would a doll.

If the last hour has taught me anything, though, she’ll be up again soon. With a raspy cough. Or tear-soaked cheeks. Or the basic discomfort that comes with every common cold and the realization, now that she’s older, that there’s little to be done. It happens to everyone. That it’s not fun.

I try to remember everything my mom did, and my dad did, when I was little and sick. There was Sprite. And Saltines. Rare one-on-one time with the parent who stayed home from work. Board games. A thermometer that beeped. Medicine in a plastic alligator spoon. All-day PJs. All-day TV. A fitted sheet on the couch. A brass bell. Back scratches. Lots of back scratches.

I won’t tell her it changes. That childhood sickness, while much dramatized (she’s 4), is way better than adult sickness—if only because you’re the child, not the adult. I imagine I’m not alone when I admit to wishing I was 7, when it’s the middle of the night and I’m in the throes of a terrible—yet minor—cold. Because no matter how helpful a spouse is during sickness, it’s not the same as a parent. It’s just not.

I may no longer receive, in the same way I did as a child, but I can give, in the same way I was given as a child.

And so I will.

I didn’t know it would be like this, before children—the up all night listening to the soft, little moans that make my chest hurt. My dad often said, whenever I was sick, that he wished he could take it for me.

At the time, I thought he was crazy.

I understand that now.

“From the bitterness of disease man learns the sweetness of health.” —Catalan Proverb

 

Grandparents’ Day

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

 

A Hurting Heart

Sophie was whining this morning. I handle crying, screaming, tantrums, arguments, flung food, coloring on things other than paper and about a bazillion other things better than I do whining. I can’t stand whining. I ignored her (but not for long—I can never ignore whining for long, a fault, I know). I told her to stop. And then, I pulled out the big guns. I told her that if she didn’t stop, we weren’t going to go on the play date we were actively getting ready for—something I knew she’d hate to lose. She then gave me the most pitiful look and said, “Mommy, you’re making my heart hurt.”

Ugh.

How does she know such words are the exact thing I need to hear to crumble into someone who totally takes back everything she said, someone who doesn’t follow through, someone who Supernanny would spend an hour chiding on national TV, someone who pulls her whining, not-listening child into her arms and says, equally pitifully, “I’m so sorry! The last thing I want to do is make your heart hurt!”

I’m in so much trouble come her teenage years.

For what’s it worth, we went to our friends’ house (and had a wonderful time). She stopped whining (after hugging her and apologizing to her I did remind her that she was too old to whine but I said it in a much nicer tone). We’ve had a good day.

Still.

“Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did—that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that—a parent’s heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.” —Debra Ginsberg

 

Eric Carle placemats

These are the placemats my children use every day, for every meal. My mom made them. They were Valentine’s Day gifts. Each is a laminated Eric Carle print. James gets the very hungry caterpillar (with the big sun) because he out-eats everyone, daily. Owen gets the moon. He loves the moon. And Sophie gets the butterfly, the same butterfly which is embroidered on her backpack.

They’re large, perfect for big messes. The back has rows and rows of the food Eric Carle painted for The Very Hungry Caterpillar. The boys love to point the items out, yelling “ice cream!” “cake!” “cheese!” over and over. Owen likes the colorful border, constantly asking “What’s that? What’s that?” After tiring of naming colors throughout dinner, we, for awhile, convinced Sophie to answer for us. She would patiently say “That’s blue, Owen.” Or “That’s pink, Owen.” But now, even Sophie, is tired of the constant questions. She’ll answer once or twice and then say, in a very mother-like tone, “That’s enough, Owen. Eat your dinner.” To which Owen replies, “Moon! Look, Sophie! Moon!”

It is a beautiful moon.

Thanks, Mom.

“We have eyes, and we’re looking at stuff all the time, all day long. And I just think that whatever our eyes touch should be beautiful, tasteful, appealing, and important.” —Eric Carle

Days Like This

Maybe it was the four shots at her 4-year well-child checkup.

Maybe it was the understanding that we couldn’t go to the big park today.

Maybe it was the fact that James, with his ladybug ride-on toy, accidentally ran over her pink stick-to-the-wall-when-you-fling-it starfish that she picked out from the pediatrician’s treasure box after her four shots. And now the starfish, tragically, is missing an arm (and won’t be growing it back anytime soon, I’m afraid).

But everything is upsetting Sophie today.

Like, the sudden realization that she still can’t whistle. There was pitiful blowing and then sobbing as she said, “Mommy! I still can’t whistle! Why? Why can’t I whistle?”

And now the arrangement of the leaves on the tops of her strawberries just set her off. (I’m not making this up.)

“Sophie, why are you having such a bad day?” I ask.

“Because my toy broke and I got shots and it hurts when I walk,” she says. “Can we go to the park after dinner?”

And so it continues.

“Mama said there’ll be days like this,
There’ll be days like this Mama said.” —Willie Denson