Sophie

Sophie’s Skirt

Did I ever post about Sophie’s skirt? I don’t think I did.

About a year and a half ago (maybe two years?) Sophie drew a picture of a princess. My mom saw it, asked to borrow it, sent it to Spoonflower and presto, Sophie became a fabric designer.

Then, summer of last year, she and my mom got to work.

Sophie admired her work …

and then posed for a picture. (Gosh she looks so young! I can’t believe this was only a year ago.)

My mom made a matching skirt for Colleen, which they wore together during a weekend visit to North Carolina.

“Take your needle, my child, and work at your pattern; it will come out a rose by and by. Life is like that – one stitch at a time taken patiently and the pattern will come out all right like the embroidery.” —Oliver Wendell Holmes

Today Was a Good Day

As a writer mom I’m much more likely to tell you about the time I had to carry both screaming boys out of Joseph-Beth, one under each arm, while fellow book shoppers shook their heads than I am about the time everyone sat quietly at a restaurant. I believe stories of my parenting mistakes and mishaps are better reads whereas stories reminiscent of those “my kid is on the honor roll” bumper stickers are simply tedious.

But I’m a writer mom who also is a worrier mom and as such, I worry posting this and this and this and this and this paints, well, a bit of a one-sided picture.

So quickly, today has been a good day. We met friends for a picnic lunch at Ault Park (which is where I took the above picture) and it was a fun and gorgeous afternoon. Later in the day I had to take all three to my eye doctor’s appointment. And they were so.well.behaved. While I was staring at little red lights and reading teeny tiny letters the nurse commented on how well behaved they were and I looked and all three were sitting, silent, just sitting, not moving, not hitting, not whining, not fighting, just sitting. And they stayed that way. The doctor gave them each two Tootsie Roll Pops (one for now one for later he said) and then said to me, “You’re doing this parenting thing right.”

I’m sure he’s forgotten those words by now. But given that I think at least 63 times a day how badly I’m doing this parenting thing, I don’t think I ever will.

I pushed things and took all three to Target and except for one incident over a need (which I tried to explain was a want) for Thomas the Train toothpaste, it was great. They did their daily chore (cleaning the stairs, which is where I put everything that’s downstairs that belongs upstairs) without hassle.

Bedtime was a bit of a disaster (a board game that ended in tears, sneaking—and eating—the newly bought gummy bears, an upturned sprayer resulting in a partially flooded bathroom, one child’s computer privileges gone for tomorrow) but, hey—no one’s perfect.

It’s getting easier. It really is. And the things I’ve been saying over and over and over (and over) are slowly starting to stick. And the real concerns I’ve had about behavioral issues with Owen and James are ever-so-slightly lessening. And so with slight worry that this may sound like bragging (again, I promise to never write on and on about report cards and milestones and homeruns) I will say this: Today was a good day.

“There are good days and there are bad days, and this is one of them.” —Lawrence Welk

Sorry, My Future Teenage Sons

This gem was from May. Blame Sophie.

But gosh that was a fun afternoon. A really, really, really fun afternoon.

And it’s sometimes nice to remember those fun afternoons after evenings like tonight. Evenings in which my dear, hardworking husband didn’t come home until 6:40pm and instead of finding dinner on the table found me, in bed, hiding under the duvet.

I’m sorry.

“Fashion is instant language.” —Miuccia Prada

Krohn Conservatory Butterfly Show, 2013

I was without a working laptop this past week, but a trip to the Genius Bar at the Apple store this evening and I’m back, with my first throwback post—this one to spring of last year.

Sophie knows her butterflies. She insisted on wearing a floral dress and bringing her own silk flowers, both of which the butterflies loved.

“Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.” —Nathaniel Hawthorne

Your Sixth Birthday

Dear Sophie,

This year your birthday started with a visit from Grandma and Grandpa in Baltimore. And, on the way to the airport, Owen threw up all over himself and the van. As I was trying to get him cleaned up with the few wipes and plastic bags I had, changing him into one of Daddy’s shirts slated for Goodwill I found in the back of the van, you ever-so-helpful said from the back, “Mommy, you are not prepared for this.”

And I loved that, the humor you gave to an otherwise awful situation. And I loved that, because it showed you are still young enough to always speak your mind. And I loved that because, when it counts, you really are generous and kind. You care, about everything, so much.

Which is why, in part, I felt so badly that your birthday was a bit of a bust.

It started out wonderfully, with a present from Great Aunt Susie—a handmade Elsa dress.

Still, on the day of your birthday party at the YMCA, Owen and James had been sick less than 48 hours prior, so both boys had to stay home with Grandpa. (But don’t worry about the boys—Grandpa came through with a small birthday celebration they threw for you, on their own, in the backyard.)

And you, I believe, had fun.

Nini and Pop Pop came to your party at the YMCA, and then followed us home where you opened your presents from them on our front porch. They were on their way to see your Aunt Katy, Uncle Tom and cousin Colleen, who, as you know, has a birthday the day after yours. They stayed on the porch in what we hoped was a germ-free zone, so as not to get pregnant Aunt Katy sick.

After Nini and Pop Pop left, you said your stomach hurt. I tried to convince myself it was the sweets, but then you, too, got sick. After emailing my sincerest apologies to all the other parents of your friends who were at your party, I sat next to you on the couch, holding your hair and scratching your back—not a great way to spend your birthday, any birthday, but especially a birthday when you’re 6.

Still, you said you wanted to open presents. It was clear you loved them, but you were quiet and reserved, and you hardly played with your gifts after, which included some much-anticipated Frozen merchandise.

Several days later you were ready for your meal-of-choice: scrambled eggs, fruit salad, bacon and cinnamon rolls “from the can.”

Still after, you had a stomachache.

So it wasn’t until you were 6 years and 1 week old that you finally had your Frozen ice cream birthday cake, which your dad, who has many varied talents, made for you.

We even threw in a couple extra presents, for good measure. And then, we had cake!

And now is when I normally write a personal letter to you. And I will, but privately. For you’re 6 now, my sweet child. You’re in kindergarten. You’re learning to read. Your friends are learning to read. My thoughts and reminiscences about the year past are no longer primarily focused on physical milestones and parenting mishaps, but more personal milestones—your emotional and intellectual milestones—your growth as a human being, into an adult. And they are yours. And for the ones we share, also mine. And they belong to everyone you choose to share them with, both in the present, and in the future, if that’s what you wish.

This was the first year I didn’t know what you wished for—you have secrets, experiences, thoughts and frustrations tucked away in your brain that I’m not privy to—as it should be. Still, I love when you share. And I hope you continue to share. And in return, I promise to respect your privacy, as well as a mother (who also is a writer) can.

Happy, happy birthday my generous, passionate, funny Sophie.

I love you, always.

“We turn not older with years, but newer every day.” —Emily Dickinson

Becoming a 6-Year-Old

March 30, 2008

March 30, 2009

March 30, 2010

March 30, 2011

March 30, 2012

March 30, 2013

March 30, 2014

“I think, at a child’s birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift should be curiosity.” —Eleanor Roosevelt

Body Love

Children change your body. Time changes your body. Illness can change your body, too. Recently I’ve been struggling with these changes. Some I’ve been battling for a couple years. (When stressed, I eat. I have twin 3 year olds.) Some are more subtle. (I find myself buying boxes of hair dye more frequently.) And others come as a surprise. (Did you know that strep can lead to guttate psoriasis, requiring two to three UV light treatments a week for two to three months to resolve? Yeah …)

Last night I was sitting in bed, trying hard not to scratch my itchy arms and legs, silently criticizing the puffiness of my face in a picture posted on Facebook when Sophie wandered in, notebook and pencil in hand.

She climbed up into a big leather chair, draping her back and legs over the two arm rests while letting the rest of her body sink in the middle. She tapped her pencil on her notebook.

“I’m going to interview you,” she said.

She had already interviewed James and Andy—it was my turn.

Her questions were typical: favorite color, favorite shape, best friend, favorite number.

But it was her second question that gave me pause.

“What part of your body do you like the best?” she asked.

Having now spent years trying to even (my skin tone), straighten (my back), sculpt (my arms), grow (a baby), make (milk), shrink (after babies), forever tame (my hair), I realized I’ve given very little thought to the part (or parts) of my body I like best. And I had no idea how to answer my daughter, who (I joyfully realized) viewed one’s body as something to be loved, rather than something to be improved.

I itched my soft stomach.

Although I questioned it in my head, I said, “my hair,” out loud, with confidence. (For as much as I talk about taming it, I’ve actually learned to love its curliness and bigness—it’s one thing people stop me to comment on, regularly.)

She smiled, wrote and moved on.

And silently I hoped that her body love—of her own and of others—remains sound and strong always, despite time, despite someday-maybe children, despite others, despite illness, despite societal standards.

“… this very body that we have, that’s sitting right here right now … with its aches and its pleasures … is exactly what we need to be fully human, fully awake, fully alive.” —Pema Chodron

Sophie, The Labeler

Found this gem in the bathroom tonight.

DrDE tlow = DIRTY TOWEL

“Parenthood: That state of being better chaperoned than you were before marriage.” —Marcelene Cox

Sometimes, My Ideas Are The Worst

I could have renewed my driver’s license this morning, while the kids were at school. But I had editing to do and I love my quiet/coffee/home-alone time. Plus, I thought, the kids would get a kick out of helping me on the errand. I could teach them about licenses and the responsibility that comes with driving a car and … lines.

I’m an idiot.

I picked the kids up from school and the first thing we did was eat out—this allowed everyone to use the bathroom and everyone to fill their stomachs, and as a bonus, they felt as if it was a treat. So, they were happy.

Next up, the DMV.

“Just drive down 27—it’s the new building on the left,” Andy said.

I did exactly what he said and somehow ended up at the police department. The woman in front of us was, shall we say, in distress. After I noted the bars over the windows and the fact that everyone was carrying a gun, I said to another woman behind me, “This isn’t where you renew your driver’s license, is it?”

She said no.

We left. I answered lots of questions. I loaded everyone back in the car. I called Andy.

“Why would you go to the police department? You need to go to the other new building,” he said.

“What’s the building called?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. He looked up the address. “1098 Monmouth Street.”

Turns out it was the County Clerk’s Office and wasn’t far. I drove, parked, unloaded the kids, found “DMV” on the directory and we waited in line, for about 20 minutes.

“Are you here for a renewal?” a woman asked, when it was our turn.

“Yes,” I said. “My driver’s license.”

“You’re in the wrong building.”

At this point I had already threatened the loss of and given back the promise of fruit snacks once home to the kids about 12 times.

“What?” I asked.

I needed to be at the Circuit Court Clerk’s Office, on York street. Not the County Clerk’s Office on Monmouth street.

Of course.

I loaded everyone back in the car. And drove to the courthouse.

This time, I had to parallel park the minivan. And once inside the courthouse, the kids had to walk through a metal detector, which James tried to go back and forth through three times. Thankfully, the officers were kind and awarded the kids for being somewhat reasonable with gold Junior Sheriff Deputy stickers.

We walked down a hallway and down a staircase to another hallway where there was a really.long.line.

And so we waited. The kids begged for candy from one of the four snack machines next to us. I didn’t have enough change. We waited. The boys couldn’t leave the flexible line divider thing alone. I scolded. We waited. We played Simon Says. We waited. The kids spotted a water fountain and I tried to bribe them with water, saying if they were good in line we’d visit the fountain when we were done. We waited. A bench freed up and the kids sat. Well, Sophie sat and the boys started a wrestling match with each other. I scolded and gave them my phone to look at pictures. We waited.

We waited and waited and waited until we were called and the woman behind the desk asked me if the address on my license was current and I said “yes” and then looked at my license and realized it was not (we moved years ago) and I told her so and then she asked for proof of address, such as a piece of mail.

I considered crying.

Thankfully, my checks have my current address and that sufficed.

Next I spent an entire minute explaining to Owen why he couldn’t be in the picture with me. I smiled against the blue backdrop, while all three of my kids were on the floor around my feet, done with the day.

I got my new license.

“Do you want to see it?” I asked Sophie.

“No.”

I’m an idiot.

“Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.” —E.B. White