Oh, Eleri.
We seem to say this a lot: Oh, Eleri.
I'll tell you why: we don't know what to do with you. It's true! What are we going to do with you? I think we've been saying this since birth. I think maybe I don't see you as clearly as I see Clio, because we are not alike. You are a puzzle to me, like your dad.
These past few weeks, you have been transitioning at school, from the toddler room to Children's House. Transitions aren't really your thing. I think it took you seven months to fully embrace your teacher, Miss Bekka, and you still won't shake Ann's hand when she greets us in the morning. There were small conferences leading up to this transition. We've been talking about it since January: the timing that would be best, methods of change that might make you feel okay. Everyone agrees that you are ready, that you need new challenges, but everyone worried about how you would take it. Watching you actually make the transition, I'm realizing something I should have known all along: it doesn't matter what anyone else does. When you're ready, you're ready. Not one moment before, but also no looking back. You've been fairly well potty trained for months now, but we still had you in diapers overnight until one night you said, quite simply, no diapers. And you woke up dry, that morning and every morning since. See? I suppose this can be unfortunate if your timing doesn't line up with the world's, but I also wonder if we leave you to it without extra fuss, if you will go your own way sooner. I wonder.
Did you know that you fall asleep many nights at the top of the stairs? We don't know why, but after being put to bed you come lie there, and frankly, after putting you back in bed a million times we get exhausted and we leave you be. When I hear your breathing change, I know it's time to go scoop you up and put you under the covers. While I don't love you sleeping there--the stairs are big, and hard wood, and I get scared thinking what a tumble might look like--I do love scooping you up, love your head on my shoulder (always have), love that when I finally put you down, you can't fight me on it. You fight sleep bitterly to the end.
You're a fighter. You scratch. It's true. Sometimes you smack me right in the face. We got you a book from the library called "When I Feel Angry," and you read it with great interest, though I think you are too young to understand or employ most of its tactics. Clio and daddy are better at distracting you--maybe this is why I'm the main target for your fingernails. Just tonight, you didn't want to take a second bike tour of the block, but Clio did. I found myself counting to 5 (again) to get you moving, but Clio just told you about a feather she found, and you wanted to see it, too, and that brought you right down the steps like the force of gravity. Do you want to know the flip side of the scratching? The teeny tiny kisses you give me, on my cheek, my hand, my knee. They are perfect kisses. And then there are the secrets you tell, so quiet they are impossible to hear. I suppose a secret is safe with you.
What else can I tell you? You have caught the princess doll fever, and will happily play castle on your own for hours. You like to scoot down and look at worms and bugs. You have been eating all the purple basil from the garden. The other night you said you wanted to go outside and throw something, and I thought that sounded like a good idea. You throw things you shouldn't, especially your (plastic) fork at dinner. I still think this is a hold over from before, when your language wasn't so strong and you had to get your point across one way or another. Your language has improved so much, and you love to tell stories now, love to have stories read to you. You still tell jokes. You love your bike helmet, and rain boots. Sometimes you ask me to braid a teeny tiny braid in your hair, but mostly it is all in your face. You are a night owl--I think this is just your natural circadian rhythm. Noodles with pesto is your favorite food. You eat ice cream faster than anyone I know. You help yourself to nuts from the pantry and yogurt and cheese from the fridge. We went strawberry picking the other day, and while Clio asked permission to eat each berry, and waited until Daddy found her perfect ones all in a row, you just helped yourself at random, your face smeared red. There seems to be no truer assessment of your different personalities.
Sometimes you are so engrossed, I have to say your name many times to bring you back. Eleri. Eleri. Eleri Ruth! Also, noodle. Noodle puss, noodle head, silly noodle. Eleri bellery pudding and pie. Someone asked me the other day why I called you noodle, and I told her it's because you're my silly noodle, and we all had a good laugh at that, like this was the family joke.
I think you are settling in pretty well. Sometimes this shyness comes over you and you are gripped, and twice recently you have hid your face completely in the presence of someone new, just put your head down to the counter or table or whatever you could find. But I see glimmers. On the 4th, there were latecomers to the party, and you were in the pool with me, and you looked up and said, "where's Molly and Mike?" You knew that my aunt and uncle were missing, and wanted them there. In a funny way, I think being close to family has been best for you, of all of us. I think after moving cross country twice in your first two years, maybe you feel that you are home now. I hope that with each passing year things will stabilize for all of us, and the chaos that you were born into (or maybe wrought) will ebb. When that happens, I hope to watch your defense mechanisms melt away; the hitting, the throwing of forks, the hiding of faces, and that you will both keep your independent spirit and let the rest of us in jut a little more.
When you're ready, of course. Not one moment sooner. And no looking back.
I love you baby,
Happy Birthday.
Mom
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