A Letter From Your Mother on the Occasion of Your Fourth Birthday

Dear Clio,

Today you are four years old. At the playground this evening, you saw your shadow when you were waiting for me to get you up on the big kid swing, and you gasped and said "look, mom, I'm bigger because I'm four!" It made me think of the girl in a book we used to have called Big or Little. She asked her mom, am I big or little? and the answer depended on the comparison: bigger than kitty, smaller than daddy. Little enough to want dessert all day long, big enough to wait for it. I think that little girl must be four, too. You are big enough now for so many things, but sometimes I'm not exactly sure what you're ready for, and when I'm forgetting that four is, also, still little. There are two trees next to the playground perfect for tying up a line to practice the tight rope, and we've seen people practicing, getting up on the stretchy rope on one foot and striving for balance in order to walk to the other end, or to walk just one step, or to move at all. Today, watching a beginner struggle for his footing, I thought about the need for balance in our lives. It's summer, and I wish you could have the long, lazy days that your dad and I had growing up, that we could give you time that stretches, each night, into forever, to fireflies and kick the can and dusk well past dinner. I wish we could pick you up at the end of the school day, not the end of extended day. That you weren't so often the last one signed out of the room. On the few occasions that I have been the one to pick you up, I have been amazed by your concentration when I come into the classroom, the way you sit so poised, so contained at your desk, working. I am amazed, but also a little sad, because I'm not so sure a four year old should work 9 to 5 just because her parents do. But what choice is there? At home, I am torn between expecting the kind of good behavior we know you're capable of from all your wonderful reports home from school, and thinking you just need some room to misbehave. And misbehave you do. Bedtime has become a disaster. Dinner can be a minefield. There are too many threats, and deals, and counting, and still, sometimes, time outs. Your favorite word right now is "stupid" and the more we dislike it the greater pleasure you take from saying it. You also say "poopie" and "fart" and do a fart dance and a booty dance. Where is the line between silly and inappropriate? Do we ask too much of you, or too little? Are you little, or are you big? This is the thing with lines: everything is on one side or the other. While I know that the answers to all my questions are fuzzy, not precise, I can't help wondering: where is the line between independence and defiance? Between tired and tantrum?

Today you are four years old. For months you have been asking me to count down the days- literally asking me "how many days until my birthday" and then making me count that many days. Yesterday you counted to 100 by yourself, and you went on your first camping trip, with your dad and your friends Alex and Tamsin and their parents, who invited us all along on their fourth of July. When it started thundering, I wondered if you would stay. Then the rain rolled in, and I heard a car outside, and I thought it was you and Daddy, coming home for the night, to sleep in your own beds. But you had a brand new purple sleeping bag that you were very proud of, and you are braver than I sometimes give you credit for--I suppose I forget because you cry so easily, and we often have to say, Clio, this is not a reason to cry--but beneath the tears, I should always remember that you are so strong, and help you remember, too. I think of all the new experiences you have had this year: new state, new house, new school, new friends. And while I know that children are quite resilient and adaptable, I'm so impressed with the way you adjusted to all of this. I forgot, at least a million, zillion times this year, that you were only three. There are more changes ahead of you. After a year in Boulder, we are moving to Minneapolis, to be closer to many people who love you, and while I am sad to ask you to leave behind another school, another neighborhood, another set of friends who could be life-long if only we stayed, I think it will be good for all of us to have more of a network. We've done pretty good on our own, just the four of us, but if I can't give you summers off, I can at least give you cousins, and aunts and uncles and grandparents and the children of the friends I have had since we were children, and the roots, finally, to begin making those life-long friends.

Your dad makes fun of me when I say things will be better when.... (when this job is done or the move is over or the decision is made, or, or, or), but there has been so much change in our lives in the past five years, starting with the surprise of you, my dear, that I think all the learning and growing and changing and discovering that your dad and I have had to do as people has probably rubbed off on you a little. And while I know that there will always be something, some hiccup or obstacle just around the corner, I'm looking forward to a time when there isn't a major change looming, when there isn't the question of where we will be in September, when we can, maybe, hopefully, just be for a while. I know you feed off my energy--remind me to tell you the story of your very first dance pictures sometime--and I hope in that place, I will be calmer, and you will follow suit, and I will feel like four was the year that you got to be both big and little, in something close to the right measure.

Clio, I may not always like your behavior, but I admire your spirit, and I love your whole person, and I love watching who you continue to become, very much.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Love,
Mom