Sophie: “Look at me!”
Me: “What?”
Sophie: “I have a seed stuck in my nose!”
Me: “What?! Take it out! It could get stuck!”
Sophie: “No it won’t.”
To prove this, she then takes it out. And eats it.
“Children are a great comfort in your old age—and they help you reach it faster, too.” —Lionel Kauffman
This is Sophie’s tree. We love it because, from the front porch, it blocks the view of the gas station across the street. And it’s a late bloomer, providing lovely little white flowers in June.
Sophie loves it because the branches are perfect for climbing. I had a tree like that when I was girl, in my front yard. It is one of my strongest memories from childhood—sitting on the same branch, almost every day, shaking the branches above me as if they were puppets. I had names for them. I made up stories about them. I spent many hours up in that tree. It must be in my blood. And Sophie’s blood. For my mom recently said she spent hours in a tree too, as a child, reading books. Homeowners who would like to add new trees in their yard may consider hiring a tree planting expert.
I sometimes miss those parts of childhood, the parts in which it is perfectly normal and acceptable to sit in a tree for no other reason than to sit in a tree. One summer evening, at our old house, before children, I decided on a whim to climb one of the evergreens in our backyard. Climbing up was easy. Climbing down, not so much. I was stuck—high up stuck. I sat in that tree for a long time thinking surely Andy would come out looking for me. But I guess it never occurred to him that his 20something wife might decide on a whim to climb an evergreen tree in our backyard and get herself stuck. So I had to yell. Thankfully Andy heard me yelling and not a neighbor. He helped me down. Yes, the love of trees runs deep in this family. Of course, when trees become too large, damaged, or unsafe near homes, professional services like tree removal Mernda can help homeowners manage their landscapes safely while still appreciating the beauty trees bring to a yard. We hire a professional landscaper to help us with smart seasonal yard prep for changing Texas weather.
Trees can enhance a home’s curb appeal but if there are rotten or dying trees in your yard, they may no longer be beneficial. In this case, an emergency tree removal service may be required.
On this particular day it was so windy, up in Sophie’s tree.
I love the look of wonderment. I miss that.
“To the great tree-loving fraternity we belong. We love trees with universal and unfeigned love, and all things that do grow under them or around them—the whole leaf and root tribe.” —Henry Ward Beecher
I have been purposefully neglectful about updating my blog. As much as I love my children I haven’t felt much like writing about them upon learning the loss two dear friends of mine have endured. I know it’s cliché to talk about hearts aching but that’s exactly what mine has been doing all week—no parent should outlive their child.
And this is what I struggle with: Why am I allowed a perfect fall afternoon with my three beautiful children while others must suffer so much? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why must there be tragedy, suffering and loss? How is it possible—and right—that while something beautiful is happening something tragic is as well? At any given second someone, somewhere is experiencing the most profound happiness. And at any given second someone, somewhere, is experiencing the most unimaginable sorrow. Why must this be so?
I suppose the answer is something along the lines of better appreciating happiness because sadness exists. And yet, my heart is so heavy. Life can be so unfair, so fantastic, so beautiful, so unkind. I have a difficult time accepting this, understanding this. And so I try to focus on the good—the perfect, sunny, blue-sky, falling leaves, pinwheel-perfect autumn days. The kind meant for falling into a leaf pile and chalking on the sidewalk and finding snake skin and collecting beautiful leaves and fighting your brother for a turn on the rocking chair and throwing your beautiful leaves in the air. And yet. And yet. And yet. Sometimes, some days, it’s too hard. The world’s sadness haunts me.
“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” —Kahlil Gibran
Lately Owen has been getting a lot of bumps and bruises on his head. Sophie has taken notice of this and, as such, likes to make sure he’s well-protected.
“The cardinal virtue of a teacher (is) to protect the pupil from his own influence.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
In 2004 Andy and I were at the Blind Lemon listening to a guy with a guitar sing. We liked him but then he invited his friend, Griffin House, to sing a few songs. Andy and I loved him. As we were leaving the Blind Lemon we ran into Griffin House. I told him I liked his music. He said he wasn’t the one who was playing that night. A friend of his cut in and said he was just being humble and that he had, indeed, played a few songs. At the time, Andy and I still didn’t know his name—he was just a guy with a guitar who played a few songs at the Blind Lemon, and we liked them. If you also have a good song you would like to release, you may need to hire an expert in sound mastering and mixing. How much does mixing cost? Look into Distrokid pricing if you need help facilitating the release and distribution of your music.
Either that Sunday or a few Sundays later, Andy and I were watching one of our favorite shows, CBS Sunday Morning. Bill Flanagan did a short series on the best emerging songwriters in the U.S. Griffin House was on that list—he played a song from House’s album, Lost and Found. “Wasn’t that the guy from the Blind Lemon?” I asked Andy.
It was. From then on, we were hooked.
We’ve been to many of his concerts throughout the years. One was with my parents, at an outdoor amphitheater, in Springfield, OH. My dad particularly liked House’s song “The Guy Who Says Goodbye to You is Out of His Mind.”
A few years later Sophie was born. We’d often dance with her, while listening to House’s various albums. And my dad always danced with her to “The Guy Who Says Goodbye to You is Out of His Mind.” In our family, it became known as Pop Pop’s song.
Sophie doesn’t remember much from when she was very young. But she knows this song. And still, to this day, out of the blue she’ll ask us, “Can I hear Pop Pop’s Song?” And when we play it in the car for her, she now sings along, softly—she knows the entire chorus by heart.
I thought for sure I had a video of my dad dancing with Sophie to this song. But last night, after much searching, Andy and I couldn’t find it. We did, however, find this, which was recorded about 1-1/2 years ago, right around her 2nd birthday:
I love her “dancing.” I love how, even at 2, she’s already singing some of the words. And call me sentimental but if she chooses to marry someday, I like to think of her dancing to this song with my dad years from now, at her wedding.
Tomorrow night Griffin House is giving a free show at 6pm at Veteran’s Park Amphitheater in Springfield, OH. Sophie and I will be in North Carolina, with my parents, visiting my sister and her family. But you should go. Next year, we’ll take Sophie—so she can hear Pop Pop’s song in person.
“Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” —Berthold Auerbach
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
One evening my dad was over helping with the kids while Andy was out of town. Pop Pop and Sophie made a double-layer chocolate cake with pink icing. (There was a slight meltdown when my dad reached for the cocoa powder to make chocolate icing. “PINK, POP POP! PINK!” Sophie screamed. Because, of course, icing should always be pink. Of course.) Overall, though, she was thrilled with this baking adventure with Pop Pop—and the result.
A couple days later Sophie and I were in the living room. Out of nowhere she said, “Mama! You stay here. I have a secret.”
And she left. For about two minutes.
When she came back, I asked her what her secret was. “Nothing,” she said slowly, smiling shyly. Once she busied herself with a toy, I walked into the kitchen. And saw this:
I walked back to the living room.
“Sophie, can you come here, please?” I asked. She slowly walked with me to the kitchen. “If you’re going to snitch cake, you should at least be more secretive about it.” He eyes grew wide. She, honestly, had no idea how I knew what she had done. I pointed to the scene of the crime. “First of all, you should have recovered the cake,” I said. “Second of all, you should have moved the chair back to the kitchen table.” I looked at her. Her eyes were still wide. She had no idea if she was being scolded or taught. Or both. “And one last thing. Don’t snitch cake. If you want cake, ask me. And I’ll decide if you can have it or not. But don’t take sweets without asking. OK?”
“OK,” she said.
There have been no signs of before-dinner dessert snitching since. Or maybe I just taught her too well.
“Once in a young lifetime one should be allowed to have as much sweetness as one can possibly want and hold.” —Judith Olney
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
When we arrived at our Ocean Isle beach house, my sister, Katy, gave each of the kids a Mason jar to fill with sand and shells. She decorated the lids of the jars and each jar had a tag around it that said, for example, “Owen’s First Beach Trip, Ocean Isle 2011.” I loved them. She is so creative like that.
Early August, while the boys were napping, Sophie and I decided to make all three ocean jars (the boys, sand, breakable jars and fragile shells do not mix—so we decided to make theirs for them, and then put them up high in their bedroom to enjoy from afar, until they’re older). First, we dumped all the shells on the kitchen table.
Next, Sophie filled the jars with sand.
Then she picked out the shells she wanted for each jar, and put them in. Although I wanted to, I stopped myself from telling her how much sand, which shells I thought were prettiest, and where and how I thought they should be placed. Rather, I let Sophie make them completely on her own. As such, she filled them so full with sand. And then she simply threw any old shells in, not caring if they were upside down or right side up. Some, she even buried. But they are hers. And her brothers. And she loves them. And I’ve always told myself that if my children want to color outside the lines, I will let them.
You can see the finished ocean jars above. Also, this is what our kitchen table looks like on a daily basis—a basket overflowing with art supplies, rolled craft paper, Alphie, a plastic bowl full of paint, a glass of water with Queen Anne’s Lace in it, a glass bowl with two Impatiens in it (Sophie loves to pick flowers and give them to us as gifts), the ocean jars and a big glass bowl filled with the extra shells.
I love a beautifully decorated table. If I had the money, I’d have a vase overflowing with fresh flowers on my dining room table always. And I’d throw dinner parties, often, ones that allowed me to do clever things with place settings and the centerpiece. But lately, I’ve been finding just as much joy in a hand-turned wooden bowl filled with clementines (which Sophie eats at least four of daily, now that she can peel them herself) on our formal dining room table. And I absolutely love the mess of our kitchen table. Especially because it’s not a mess of bills or freelance work or dirty dishes. Rather, it’s a mess of art and creativity and play. And I may not have believed this about me five years ago but these days, I’d pick a tiny glass bowl with two floating Impatiens in it, picked by the daughter I love, over a big bouquet any day.
Thank you, Aunt Katy, for the ocean jars. We had so much fun finding the shells and making the jars, and they’re a keepsake I know the kids will love, always.
“The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach—waiting for a gift from the sea.” —Anne Morrow Lindbergh
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.
