Dear Clio,
I find myself telling people that we are in a "golden age" right now. You and your sister are big enough to meet your own basic needs--you dress yourselves, feed yourselves, entertain yourselves, and you ni particular love to get up on your own and start the day independently. At the same time, we have not waded into the waters of adolescence, and the emotional pitfalls that come with it. We have not encountered mean girls. No hearts have been broken.
I think you are in a particularly stable place. You just completed your leadership year in Fox Den. You have basically had the same friends for 5 years (as I was reminded today at your birthday party by a card from Lizzie.) You are doing all the same camps this summer as last, and you are going into your third year with the same piano teacher. You got your three year medal at dance (oh, how you have been counting down to that! And I'll tell you, you LOVE proof of accomplishment. You recently told me that you want a shelf in your room to display your "medals and certificates.") I can count on you to do what I ask, and to understand when sometimes our rules are different. You are (mostly) gracious when I ask you to stay at the table where people are still eating, even if others are already off to play. You are (mostly) kind and generous with your younger cousins. You have a (fairly) even-keeled temperament, but I think so much of your calm these days also comes from the lack of change. Change is not your thing. It's taken me a while to realize this--I always focus on Eleri when it comes to transitions--but as it turns out, YOU would prefer to have things be just how they are. You are the child who will make someone move if they have unwittingly taken your seat at the table. You are the one that will re-read book 72 in a series before giving a new author a try. You are the child who cried when we painted the house, and still refuses to acknowledge the new facade as "your house." (Though at a point I think this is not about change, it's just your stubborness kicking in. You are saving face by sticking to it, and oh, my darling, this is another one that you got from me.)
We finally agreed that you could have your own rooms. You have been asking for years but Eleri didn't want to be alone, so--yup--I asked you to stay at the table, metaphorically speaking. And you have. Even when she is the one singing loudly at night and keeping you up. Now she is ready and we have all agreed, and I had this funny moment where I realized I sort of had things backwards. I thought you would move into the guest room, but you guys have decided, and it is so clear: Eleri will move in to the guest room because her favorite thing is whatever is NEW. Her favorite toy is whatever she got most recently. And you will stay in your room because you want THE SAME. You want your twin bed and you want it right where it is. (You do want to change the color though, which also makes sense. You want to paint it green--your favorite color; actually, dark green, so it will be like a jungle. And you know, you were NEVER happy when I chose the pink paint in there, and you were only 4 or 5 at the time.)
So I guess what I am saying is, all quiet on the western front. (Why do I revert to these cliches and book titles?) But it will be interesting come fall when everything changes. On your last day at Bright Water, you sobbed all the way home. I mean, inconsolable. (I would be remiss if I didn't mention that before that, in the class skits, you recited "Ebeneezer Bleezer" as an example of end rhyme and man, did you do a good job with the longest poem ever written, even with all those people looking at you. And Ms. Meghan did remind us, when she gave you your flower and sent you over the bridge, that when you entered Fox Den 3 years ago you could hardly speak your name in front of a group!)
I am pretty certain that you will love Lake Country. The art classes, the land school, making costumes and sets for the EII play--this is such a good fit for you. I'm sure you will make friends pretty easily. But I also understand that, like when we painted the house, we are taking your history away, and that doesn't sit well with you. I feel guilty that I am making you make this change. I still remember exactly who was the new kid in each grade (partly because I befriended each and every one of them), and I understand there is comfort in being the one who knows the ways of a place; the one who can have the comforting wing, rather than being taken in under it. When we first brought up the possibility of a school change in February, to prepare you for your school visits, you told us that you would stay at Bright Water FOREVER. But your position on this has softened, and I think you, like me, have a passion for Bright Water and love that place and want to see it work, for all the incredible kids and families that are there, and for all that you have put into it. But I think you, like me, understand that this is a change we need to make for OUR family.
Or maybe I am projecting.
Miss Clio.
Cousin Jamie told me yesterday, at the big 4th of July party at Nonny and Papa's, that you are "so astute." His 12 year old son Joey was in the pool and all the smaller kids were jumping all over him, and apparently he couldn't catch his breath. Jamie says you put your arms out--the international symbol for stand back!--and told the group that Joey was having trouble breathing. You noticed someone in trouble, and you immediately stepped in to help, even if it meant getting a group to stop having their fun. This is (one of the things) that makes you so special. You're such a good kid.
I was thinking earlier that in a way, I have less to say this year in this letter. But I think that's good. No drama. No pretense. You are who you are: we just know you better now.
So much love,
Mom
Showing posts with label Letters to Clio. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Letters to Clio. Show all posts
Monday, July 6, 2015
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
A Letter From Your Mother on the Occasion of Your 8th Birhtday
Dear Clio,
What an amazing girl you are. At our fourth of July celebration tonight, I heard this from all sides. You sat down with my cousin Julie and had a conversation about, among other things, whether you would choose hands or feet, if you had to choose just one. Julie said your answer was thoughtful and reasoned, like you had been mulling this for a while. (You would choose hands, for the record.) Later, as you were going to bed and I said good night on your last night of being seven, you said, I'm so glad that my last night of being any age is a night of fireworks. See how wise you sound already? Fireworks are just the way to end each journey around the sun.
This is the year you fell in love with bike riding, "nature" walks, and exploring. You aren't allowed to cross streets on your own yet (soon!), but you just ride around and around the block and make it an adventure. You have a secret picnic spot, way on the other side of the block. You have made friends with all the dogs. Once, you didn't come back for a while and I went looking for you. You were sitting with some adult neighbor in her yard, just getting to know her and patting her dog. She seemed unfazed by the fact that you are about the size of some 6 year olds but out making friends on your own. The other day we were at Molly and Mike's house, and afterwards you told me I already explored the whole upstairs. It's just bathrooms and closets! When we suggested that perhaps it was time to widen your exploration zone and let you cross streets, you lit up like a Christmas tree. Like a firecracker.
You are full of quirks, most of them quite charming. You open presents my fully removing each piece of tape, as if wrapping paper was a precious commodity. You prefer to wear monochrome outfits: pink and pink, blue and blue. You will only wear short sleeves with shorts or long sleeves with long pants. To solve the problem of in-between weather, I bought you some 3/4 length leggings. You said, but Mom, I don't have any 3/4 sleeve shirts! Your clothes must be very fitted to be comfortable to you, no drooping necklines, no boat necks. You are specific. You are also going through a literal phase. If I say wait a minute, you start counting to 60. You love to catch me in my generalities and correct me. You also say "literally" all. the. time. At least you use it correctly!
Reading is your superpower. You are currently obsessed with the Warriors series, books about warring cat clans. You love all magical notions, and tore through The Familiars, Tuesdays at the Castle, and the first 4 Harry Potter books. But you are also reading Black Beauty (Nonny's old copy) and you took Oliver Twist with you to Grandma and Grandpa's this week. Not a children's version, either: the real Dickens. You know something funny, though? You had a reading test at the end of the school year, and when the paper came home with scores, the blank where the score number should go was filled in with words, instead. They said: "refused test." That was a surprise. I took you to see Ms Angela, the head of school, to arrange to take the test again. You know what? You refused the second time, too. We finally agreed that you would take the test and we would celebrate by going to the book store for a new book (Warriors series 2 book 2, if I recall.) But your teacher had already had you do some reading out loud, and though she told you it wasn't the test, it was. And of course you did great. You tried to get me to buy you the book anyway. When I said no, you went and bought it with your own money. (You often preface questions like this with, "I think the answer will be no, but..." You are delighted when I do say yes.)
You have refused other things, too. This is interesting, and perhaps the first time that I am a little stumped about what to do with you. On the night of your dress rehearsal for your dance recital, we discovered there were sections of your tap dance that you just chose to skip. The song was Girls Just Want to Have Fun and you were meant to improvise "being girly" and you wouldn't. It's stupid, you said. (For the record, I agree, but that is not the point. We have been trying to express to you that there are some things you just need to do, you can't always pick and choose.) Then, in piano, when your teacher introduced the pedal, you refused to try it. For two weeks in a row. You know why? Because it is stupid, or so you said. All of a sudden, we saw this pattern emerge. It's like how you have always been with having your picture taken: you might possibly participate under the right circumstances (read: bribery), but you are not going to like it. With dance, we missed the school carnival for practicing the morning of the recital, but you ultimately went on stage and just stood there for those sections of tap that didn't agree with you. With piano, I gave you a choice to learn all the tools or quit lessons. You gave in and gave it a try, and man did you look relieved when you came out of that lesson. Pleased, even. I hope you will feel the same way when you make good on our deal to give tap a real try next year. It takes a lot of energy creating barriers for yourself. I know: this is another one of those things I wish we didn't have in common.
What strikes us the most about this new pattern, and why I am dwelling on it here, is that it seems so out of character. Generally you are jovial, compliant. You ask permission for nearly everything. You can be counted on to do what needs doing, and to do it quite happily. So when you dig your heels in and dig deep, it is a little baffling. I try to find the thread that connects these refusals, and I think they are all about expressing yourself. I was thinking the other day about why I write these letters, and when I will give them to you to read. When you were little, it was really to capture you in a fleeting moment, one that you would have no memory of (and frankly, my memories fade too quickly now, so putting it down meant giving you those baby days for when they are lost to me, too.) But as you get older, and we get into times you will remember yourself, I think it is more about offering a perspective on who you are--on who you have always been. I know, of course, that this is my perspective, and that ultimately you will be the one who needs to know yourself. As I approach 40, I realize that this--know thyself--is a lifelong quest, and one with occasionally sticky terrain. So I may give you these birthday letters--these snapshots of you-- at 16, or 13, or 21, or some age that doesn't sound like a milestone but where you are getting lost (we all do), in hopes that these loving words can help bring you back. Not to me, but to yourself. Last year, it would have been hard to imagine that that place exists for you, but now I know it will.
You did an assignment at school sometime this year called The Geography of Me. I think you were asked to respond to a series of questions, and the one that grabbed me by the heart was "I am ashamed of being shy." We don't think of you that way. We think of you as social and happy and gregarious and charming. There is, of course, nothing wrong with being shy, but I am so saddened to think that this is how you are identifying--that element of shame.
So, Clio. My birthday wish for you this year is to embrace this learning process. It's hard, I know. And trying new things can be scary and uncomfortable. But I hope you will find a way to bring your natural joy to most things, and give the rest a fair shake. All of this is part of determining who you are.
We love you so much,
Mommy
What an amazing girl you are. At our fourth of July celebration tonight, I heard this from all sides. You sat down with my cousin Julie and had a conversation about, among other things, whether you would choose hands or feet, if you had to choose just one. Julie said your answer was thoughtful and reasoned, like you had been mulling this for a while. (You would choose hands, for the record.) Later, as you were going to bed and I said good night on your last night of being seven, you said, I'm so glad that my last night of being any age is a night of fireworks. See how wise you sound already? Fireworks are just the way to end each journey around the sun.
This is the year you fell in love with bike riding, "nature" walks, and exploring. You aren't allowed to cross streets on your own yet (soon!), but you just ride around and around the block and make it an adventure. You have a secret picnic spot, way on the other side of the block. You have made friends with all the dogs. Once, you didn't come back for a while and I went looking for you. You were sitting with some adult neighbor in her yard, just getting to know her and patting her dog. She seemed unfazed by the fact that you are about the size of some 6 year olds but out making friends on your own. The other day we were at Molly and Mike's house, and afterwards you told me I already explored the whole upstairs. It's just bathrooms and closets! When we suggested that perhaps it was time to widen your exploration zone and let you cross streets, you lit up like a Christmas tree. Like a firecracker.
You are full of quirks, most of them quite charming. You open presents my fully removing each piece of tape, as if wrapping paper was a precious commodity. You prefer to wear monochrome outfits: pink and pink, blue and blue. You will only wear short sleeves with shorts or long sleeves with long pants. To solve the problem of in-between weather, I bought you some 3/4 length leggings. You said, but Mom, I don't have any 3/4 sleeve shirts! Your clothes must be very fitted to be comfortable to you, no drooping necklines, no boat necks. You are specific. You are also going through a literal phase. If I say wait a minute, you start counting to 60. You love to catch me in my generalities and correct me. You also say "literally" all. the. time. At least you use it correctly!
Reading is your superpower. You are currently obsessed with the Warriors series, books about warring cat clans. You love all magical notions, and tore through The Familiars, Tuesdays at the Castle, and the first 4 Harry Potter books. But you are also reading Black Beauty (Nonny's old copy) and you took Oliver Twist with you to Grandma and Grandpa's this week. Not a children's version, either: the real Dickens. You know something funny, though? You had a reading test at the end of the school year, and when the paper came home with scores, the blank where the score number should go was filled in with words, instead. They said: "refused test." That was a surprise. I took you to see Ms Angela, the head of school, to arrange to take the test again. You know what? You refused the second time, too. We finally agreed that you would take the test and we would celebrate by going to the book store for a new book (Warriors series 2 book 2, if I recall.) But your teacher had already had you do some reading out loud, and though she told you it wasn't the test, it was. And of course you did great. You tried to get me to buy you the book anyway. When I said no, you went and bought it with your own money. (You often preface questions like this with, "I think the answer will be no, but..." You are delighted when I do say yes.)
You have refused other things, too. This is interesting, and perhaps the first time that I am a little stumped about what to do with you. On the night of your dress rehearsal for your dance recital, we discovered there were sections of your tap dance that you just chose to skip. The song was Girls Just Want to Have Fun and you were meant to improvise "being girly" and you wouldn't. It's stupid, you said. (For the record, I agree, but that is not the point. We have been trying to express to you that there are some things you just need to do, you can't always pick and choose.) Then, in piano, when your teacher introduced the pedal, you refused to try it. For two weeks in a row. You know why? Because it is stupid, or so you said. All of a sudden, we saw this pattern emerge. It's like how you have always been with having your picture taken: you might possibly participate under the right circumstances (read: bribery), but you are not going to like it. With dance, we missed the school carnival for practicing the morning of the recital, but you ultimately went on stage and just stood there for those sections of tap that didn't agree with you. With piano, I gave you a choice to learn all the tools or quit lessons. You gave in and gave it a try, and man did you look relieved when you came out of that lesson. Pleased, even. I hope you will feel the same way when you make good on our deal to give tap a real try next year. It takes a lot of energy creating barriers for yourself. I know: this is another one of those things I wish we didn't have in common.
What strikes us the most about this new pattern, and why I am dwelling on it here, is that it seems so out of character. Generally you are jovial, compliant. You ask permission for nearly everything. You can be counted on to do what needs doing, and to do it quite happily. So when you dig your heels in and dig deep, it is a little baffling. I try to find the thread that connects these refusals, and I think they are all about expressing yourself. I was thinking the other day about why I write these letters, and when I will give them to you to read. When you were little, it was really to capture you in a fleeting moment, one that you would have no memory of (and frankly, my memories fade too quickly now, so putting it down meant giving you those baby days for when they are lost to me, too.) But as you get older, and we get into times you will remember yourself, I think it is more about offering a perspective on who you are--on who you have always been. I know, of course, that this is my perspective, and that ultimately you will be the one who needs to know yourself. As I approach 40, I realize that this--know thyself--is a lifelong quest, and one with occasionally sticky terrain. So I may give you these birthday letters--these snapshots of you-- at 16, or 13, or 21, or some age that doesn't sound like a milestone but where you are getting lost (we all do), in hopes that these loving words can help bring you back. Not to me, but to yourself. Last year, it would have been hard to imagine that that place exists for you, but now I know it will.
You did an assignment at school sometime this year called The Geography of Me. I think you were asked to respond to a series of questions, and the one that grabbed me by the heart was "I am ashamed of being shy." We don't think of you that way. We think of you as social and happy and gregarious and charming. There is, of course, nothing wrong with being shy, but I am so saddened to think that this is how you are identifying--that element of shame.
So, Clio. My birthday wish for you this year is to embrace this learning process. It's hard, I know. And trying new things can be scary and uncomfortable. But I hope you will find a way to bring your natural joy to most things, and give the rest a fair shake. All of this is part of determining who you are.
We love you so much,
Mommy
Friday, July 5, 2013
A Letter From Your Mother on the Occasion of Your Seventh Birthday
Dear Clio,
You have reached the Age of Reason. Uncle Jim (or, as you used to call him, "Him," as in, "Him do it") has been telling me about this since you were born. Seven is the magical age when children can finally follow logic. Where they become, literally, reasonable. In many ways, I have seen this coming for a long while now. If something is not palatable to you, we can generally just explain it and you will come around. You love being "in on it," especially when we plan an offensive to get your sister to do something--your sister who is the Child Who Can Not Be Made To Do Anything She Does Not Wish To Do. Recently your dad decided to stagger bedtime, putting Eleri to bed first. He called this "The Experiment," and every night you would whisper to us, or sometimes wonder aloud, if we were going to "do the experiment." You love to be the big kid. We often find you in the basement playing School. You, of course, are the teacher, with Eleri and any number of stuffed animals as your pupils. Yesterday at the 4th of July celebration my cousin Jenny referred to you as a "mother." You do like to take care of your sister and of other, smaller children. But then you remind us that you are small, too. Today at your party you pointed out that you were "the youngest 7 year old there."
Sometimes, of course, you remain unreasonable. The times when you are beyond reason, I don't always know what to do. At Eleri's end-of-year celebration in her classroom, you wanted a snack. It was crowded and I was carrying a big bag and the snack table was right there and at home you can make your own breakfast without even waking us up, you insist on learning to make pancakes and egg salad sandwiches, but you just stood there in that classroom looking at the table and insisting you could not do it. There was a 2 year old helping himself to pretzels--it was that simple--but you would not budge. You are capable--while this is obvious, I also can't overstate it, because you are so capable--and yet, for some reason you couldn't do it.
You like to be prepared. I have learned this, sometimes, the hard way. Lately you are very happy to try new things, but you need to know what's coming. the more we can tell you about where we're going or what we're doing, the more comfortable you are. Just this week alone you went rollerskating and tried your hand at archery. You're finally biking on your own, and you would like to have free reign of the neighborhood. One night we went opposite ways around the block, though (I was on foot, you and Eleri on bikes), and when I wasn't where you thought I would be, you got awfully worried. See? You were not prepared for that.
You were not prepared for moving up to Level 3 in swimming. You passed up to it last summer, but we did not enroll you until this spring, and you barely swam in between. While you had once been excited by Level 3, time passing meant you forgot. You forgot the expectation but also the excitement, I think. And I didn't think about what might have happened in the meantime...So you were surprised when we showed up and you had to get in the big pool. That it was cold. That learning strokes was harder work. And you know what? You just never recovered. When I got your report card at the end of the session you got all "O"s. I had to ask what it meant--I was used to check marks (mastered) and slashes (progress). You know what it meant? That you didn't even try it. The weird thing is, there were lots of skills on that list that I know you can do--that I had seen you do. You love to swim. But you weren't prepared and you decided to sit it out for 45 minutes each session, for six whole weeks. Something similar happened with your science fair project. We forgot to remind you that you were going home with your partner one day after school to work on it and I found you in the office, sobbing, inconsolable. and that was it: no science fair.
I wish I didn't get worried about this, but I do. Like at your dance recital. Not your first--you had one in Boulder when you were three--but I think it was the first that you thought about, that you anticipated, rather than just did. When the costumes arrived earlier in the year, you wouldn't try it on like the other girls. I finally talked you into trying it on in the bathroom, but I was afraid when the time came to wear it--to perform in it--you would balk. I told people when the recital was, I bought tickets, but I also told them you may or may not perform. This is what's weird about being a parent: is that me protecting you? Or is that me not trusting in you? I do want you to be safe, happy, comfortable. But of course I also want you to push yourself, learn, and take some little risks. (When you finally read these you will likely be a teenager and I may get that tossed back at me. But what I mean is: as people, we need to continually expand your horizons. But I would hope--no, I expect--that you will be reasonably safe about it.) I don't think I really believed you would not participate in the recital, but it's true that I just wasn't sure. And I don't know if I would have made you. I didn't volunteer to be backstage and this is partly why: while I don't think I am smothering by nature, you do tend to try new things more easily if I am not there. I think it might just be easier to swallow your fear when you don't see an out. And I understand that I am an out.
But you know what? We walked in to dress rehearsal and you took it all in and you asked a lot of questions and then you went up there and you were wonderful. The night of the recital, you approached the make-up wearing, something you had been adamantly against, as some kind of anthropological experiment. I took you backstage and you dashed off with your friends. And from the audience, I was so nervous when your class came on and then so very proud of you. Because you participated, yes. But really it was more than that. It was because you led. There were a number of parts where someone had to start off a sequence, or literally lead the other dancers across the stage, and your teacher gave you many of these parts. Because she knew you were a leader. A teacher. A "mother." She knew you could do it.
Of course, I did to. I do too. But sometimes, as your mom, I get really scared that one of us--you or me, kid--will hold you back because we are afraid to push you forward.
Let's not let that happen, okay?
Now, this would be a good place to end this letter from a structural perspective. But I'm not going to, because too many wonderful things have been left out, and since I have not been logging here, there's a lot I want you to be able to look back and know. Like this:
It's nothing new that you love to read, but recently you've taken it to another level. You have been watching My Little Ponies: Friendship is Magic, and all the ponies get a "cutiemark" when they figure out their talent. (For the record, this is very silly because of course we have multiple talents.) But I bring this up because you say your "talent" is reading. Your cutiemark would be a book. I would accept this, because you are also an author. You make books like trees make air. I can't seem to ring myself to get rid of anything in complete book form, so expect to inherit a tremendous collection of your own work someday. One of your "summer goals" that you wrote before the end of the school year was to read 7 books a week. And I mean real books, like the Little House on the Prairie Series, or E.B. White's Stuart Little. (though you also make premature judgments on books, like Charlotte's Web which you insist you will not like.) You are also in a book club with some friends from school. It's pretty darn cute.
You want to be funny. I can't say you're a natural comedian, but you love to learn and make jokes. Sometimes we don't get them, but that's okay. It's fun to watch you build this skill.
You are a fast runner. You are incredibly graceful when you run, like a gazelle.
You are strong-willed. You will work so hard at something--like rollerskating--in a way that seems more determined than joyful. But when you are done, you declare it AWESOME.
You are so creative, and a great maker of things. Today you tied a cup to the balloons from your birthday to make a hot air balloon for your new "zinkies." You used tape to tether it to the counter, and experimented with how much weight would hold the contraptions at floating height.
You go through a LOT of tape.
You leave the scissors on the floors all the time. It makes me crazy.
You are also constantly scavenging cardboard boxes from Nonny to make things. You created some kind of flying machine the other day with a complicated fuel system made up of fake gems, tiny buttons, and platic beads. You hauled the whole thing back to Nonny's to do a "demonstration." When we came home, you said "mom, let's video the demonstration, then we can get rid of this thing!"
Yet the whole taking-your-picture-thing is still mixed, at best.
We planned your birthday party together. It's fun to see your tastes and ideas develop, and you do get more specific all the time. You wanted a fruit platter for your party today, but not just any fruit platter: blueberries, strawberries (picked by you, Daddy, and Eleri), red grapes, cherries, and granny smith apples. No bananas, which is funny because lately you insist bananas are your favorite food and tell me you would like to eat 10 a day.
You change your mind a lot. I mean, a lot. And you insist that you have not. For example, tonight I was trying to hurry you along at bed time and put toothpaste on your toothrush. But you insisted that you HATE electric toothbrushes, despite being on round 2 or 3 of electric toothbrushes that you absolutely had to have. The fact that you change your mind a lot doesn't bother me--I mean, you are figuring out what you like. ut the fact that you pretend that you always hated electric toothbrushes? Pretty infuriating.
I just lost the thread of this going upstairs to intervene in sleep shenanigans. It's late and it has been a big week and Eleri should have been passed out cold but instead she is keeping you up. When I came up to get you settled again, you insisted on one thing: you want your own room.
This is one place where you are NOT changing your mind. So we'll see how that plays out.
So. It seems that, structurally, I had the big finish in the middle of this little essay to you. And I suppose I could go back and edit it to put this list at the top and the end at the end. But I like that these letters to you are unedited. That they come out the way they come out. I learn a little something with each one.
Maybe you and I are not in some grand finish place, anyway. I love our companionable relationship these days. I'll take it, sweetie pie.
So happy birthday to you. I love you beyond reason. And I'm glad that turning seven, entering the age of reason, makes that concept that much more meaningful.
Happy birthday Clio.
Love,
Mom
You have reached the Age of Reason. Uncle Jim (or, as you used to call him, "Him," as in, "Him do it") has been telling me about this since you were born. Seven is the magical age when children can finally follow logic. Where they become, literally, reasonable. In many ways, I have seen this coming for a long while now. If something is not palatable to you, we can generally just explain it and you will come around. You love being "in on it," especially when we plan an offensive to get your sister to do something--your sister who is the Child Who Can Not Be Made To Do Anything She Does Not Wish To Do. Recently your dad decided to stagger bedtime, putting Eleri to bed first. He called this "The Experiment," and every night you would whisper to us, or sometimes wonder aloud, if we were going to "do the experiment." You love to be the big kid. We often find you in the basement playing School. You, of course, are the teacher, with Eleri and any number of stuffed animals as your pupils. Yesterday at the 4th of July celebration my cousin Jenny referred to you as a "mother." You do like to take care of your sister and of other, smaller children. But then you remind us that you are small, too. Today at your party you pointed out that you were "the youngest 7 year old there."
Sometimes, of course, you remain unreasonable. The times when you are beyond reason, I don't always know what to do. At Eleri's end-of-year celebration in her classroom, you wanted a snack. It was crowded and I was carrying a big bag and the snack table was right there and at home you can make your own breakfast without even waking us up, you insist on learning to make pancakes and egg salad sandwiches, but you just stood there in that classroom looking at the table and insisting you could not do it. There was a 2 year old helping himself to pretzels--it was that simple--but you would not budge. You are capable--while this is obvious, I also can't overstate it, because you are so capable--and yet, for some reason you couldn't do it.
You like to be prepared. I have learned this, sometimes, the hard way. Lately you are very happy to try new things, but you need to know what's coming. the more we can tell you about where we're going or what we're doing, the more comfortable you are. Just this week alone you went rollerskating and tried your hand at archery. You're finally biking on your own, and you would like to have free reign of the neighborhood. One night we went opposite ways around the block, though (I was on foot, you and Eleri on bikes), and when I wasn't where you thought I would be, you got awfully worried. See? You were not prepared for that.
You were not prepared for moving up to Level 3 in swimming. You passed up to it last summer, but we did not enroll you until this spring, and you barely swam in between. While you had once been excited by Level 3, time passing meant you forgot. You forgot the expectation but also the excitement, I think. And I didn't think about what might have happened in the meantime...So you were surprised when we showed up and you had to get in the big pool. That it was cold. That learning strokes was harder work. And you know what? You just never recovered. When I got your report card at the end of the session you got all "O"s. I had to ask what it meant--I was used to check marks (mastered) and slashes (progress). You know what it meant? That you didn't even try it. The weird thing is, there were lots of skills on that list that I know you can do--that I had seen you do. You love to swim. But you weren't prepared and you decided to sit it out for 45 minutes each session, for six whole weeks. Something similar happened with your science fair project. We forgot to remind you that you were going home with your partner one day after school to work on it and I found you in the office, sobbing, inconsolable. and that was it: no science fair.
I wish I didn't get worried about this, but I do. Like at your dance recital. Not your first--you had one in Boulder when you were three--but I think it was the first that you thought about, that you anticipated, rather than just did. When the costumes arrived earlier in the year, you wouldn't try it on like the other girls. I finally talked you into trying it on in the bathroom, but I was afraid when the time came to wear it--to perform in it--you would balk. I told people when the recital was, I bought tickets, but I also told them you may or may not perform. This is what's weird about being a parent: is that me protecting you? Or is that me not trusting in you? I do want you to be safe, happy, comfortable. But of course I also want you to push yourself, learn, and take some little risks. (When you finally read these you will likely be a teenager and I may get that tossed back at me. But what I mean is: as people, we need to continually expand your horizons. But I would hope--no, I expect--that you will be reasonably safe about it.) I don't think I really believed you would not participate in the recital, but it's true that I just wasn't sure. And I don't know if I would have made you. I didn't volunteer to be backstage and this is partly why: while I don't think I am smothering by nature, you do tend to try new things more easily if I am not there. I think it might just be easier to swallow your fear when you don't see an out. And I understand that I am an out.
But you know what? We walked in to dress rehearsal and you took it all in and you asked a lot of questions and then you went up there and you were wonderful. The night of the recital, you approached the make-up wearing, something you had been adamantly against, as some kind of anthropological experiment. I took you backstage and you dashed off with your friends. And from the audience, I was so nervous when your class came on and then so very proud of you. Because you participated, yes. But really it was more than that. It was because you led. There were a number of parts where someone had to start off a sequence, or literally lead the other dancers across the stage, and your teacher gave you many of these parts. Because she knew you were a leader. A teacher. A "mother." She knew you could do it.
Of course, I did to. I do too. But sometimes, as your mom, I get really scared that one of us--you or me, kid--will hold you back because we are afraid to push you forward.
Let's not let that happen, okay?
Now, this would be a good place to end this letter from a structural perspective. But I'm not going to, because too many wonderful things have been left out, and since I have not been logging here, there's a lot I want you to be able to look back and know. Like this:
It's nothing new that you love to read, but recently you've taken it to another level. You have been watching My Little Ponies: Friendship is Magic, and all the ponies get a "cutiemark" when they figure out their talent. (For the record, this is very silly because of course we have multiple talents.) But I bring this up because you say your "talent" is reading. Your cutiemark would be a book. I would accept this, because you are also an author. You make books like trees make air. I can't seem to ring myself to get rid of anything in complete book form, so expect to inherit a tremendous collection of your own work someday. One of your "summer goals" that you wrote before the end of the school year was to read 7 books a week. And I mean real books, like the Little House on the Prairie Series, or E.B. White's Stuart Little. (though you also make premature judgments on books, like Charlotte's Web which you insist you will not like.) You are also in a book club with some friends from school. It's pretty darn cute.
You want to be funny. I can't say you're a natural comedian, but you love to learn and make jokes. Sometimes we don't get them, but that's okay. It's fun to watch you build this skill.
You are a fast runner. You are incredibly graceful when you run, like a gazelle.
You are strong-willed. You will work so hard at something--like rollerskating--in a way that seems more determined than joyful. But when you are done, you declare it AWESOME.
You are so creative, and a great maker of things. Today you tied a cup to the balloons from your birthday to make a hot air balloon for your new "zinkies." You used tape to tether it to the counter, and experimented with how much weight would hold the contraptions at floating height.
You go through a LOT of tape.
You leave the scissors on the floors all the time. It makes me crazy.
You are also constantly scavenging cardboard boxes from Nonny to make things. You created some kind of flying machine the other day with a complicated fuel system made up of fake gems, tiny buttons, and platic beads. You hauled the whole thing back to Nonny's to do a "demonstration." When we came home, you said "mom, let's video the demonstration, then we can get rid of this thing!"
Yet the whole taking-your-picture-thing is still mixed, at best.
We planned your birthday party together. It's fun to see your tastes and ideas develop, and you do get more specific all the time. You wanted a fruit platter for your party today, but not just any fruit platter: blueberries, strawberries (picked by you, Daddy, and Eleri), red grapes, cherries, and granny smith apples. No bananas, which is funny because lately you insist bananas are your favorite food and tell me you would like to eat 10 a day.
You change your mind a lot. I mean, a lot. And you insist that you have not. For example, tonight I was trying to hurry you along at bed time and put toothpaste on your toothrush. But you insisted that you HATE electric toothbrushes, despite being on round 2 or 3 of electric toothbrushes that you absolutely had to have. The fact that you change your mind a lot doesn't bother me--I mean, you are figuring out what you like. ut the fact that you pretend that you always hated electric toothbrushes? Pretty infuriating.
I just lost the thread of this going upstairs to intervene in sleep shenanigans. It's late and it has been a big week and Eleri should have been passed out cold but instead she is keeping you up. When I came up to get you settled again, you insisted on one thing: you want your own room.
This is one place where you are NOT changing your mind. So we'll see how that plays out.
So. It seems that, structurally, I had the big finish in the middle of this little essay to you. And I suppose I could go back and edit it to put this list at the top and the end at the end. But I like that these letters to you are unedited. That they come out the way they come out. I learn a little something with each one.
Maybe you and I are not in some grand finish place, anyway. I love our companionable relationship these days. I'll take it, sweetie pie.
So happy birthday to you. I love you beyond reason. And I'm glad that turning seven, entering the age of reason, makes that concept that much more meaningful.
Happy birthday Clio.
Love,
Mom
Monday, July 9, 2012
A Letter from your Mother on the Occasion of your Sixth Birthday
Dear Clio,
We have been playing this little game lately, you and I. You tell me you have a birthday coming up, I ask how old you will be, and when you say "six" it is my job to fall of my chair in shock. Six! Impossible! Aren't you turning five? No? Then you must be just about four. Right? No?
You love this. Love it disproportionately, actually, and the funny thing is, despite all those tropes about time flying and how it all goes so fast, you are, indisputably, ready for six, and I think we are too.
Six!
I think, the bigger you get, the harder these letters get. When you were little, writing them was a way of creating or preserving memories when you would not have so many of your own. As you grow, you will remember more, and I think my job is more and more about sharing just this one unique perspective, the mom's-eye view of Clio. Sorting out what I want you to know about how I see you at just-six is not an easy task, like choosing which of your drawings to put in the box that you will inherit when you are grown. But all I can do is share what seems important today. In no particular order, some things I want you to know:
Your creativity knows no bounds. In your mind, a bunch of toilet paper tubes are far too valuable to be recycled or tossed out. In your hands, they are kittens, mountains, self-portraits. An old spool of green ribbon had about 100 uses and counting. I have started taking books of crafts out of the library and you want to do them all, will do them all, without supervision if that is what it takes.
You are a generous teacher, showing Eleri how to do your projects, reading books to a group of younger children. Sharing is rarely a problem.
You are a collector. You love boxes and containers of all kinds, and filling them up. Cardboard boxes covered in stickers and glitter pom poms, filled with Littlest Pet Shop. Small bowls filled with shells. Stacking containers with plastic fruit. You taped together two cups to collect seeds and pits and things that grow. The cup contraption is called "Mr. Seeds" and you are intent on feeding him regularly.
You are a gardener. This is your thing, yours and Daddy's. Nothing excites you quite like the micro lettuces you have grown in the raised bed, the blossoms that herald the arrival of squash, the tiny yellow tomatoes you eat off the vine. When anyone comes over, you want to bring them out to harvest raspberries and check for the tiny alpine strawberries that taste so sweet.
You are a voracious reader and a lover of stories. After your discovery of a certain wizard, each morning began with one demand: "Read Harry Potter." On your actual birthday, when you got to decide how to spend your day, half of it was devoted to reading, as your dad read you many chapters over the course of 2 or 3 hours. If the house is quiet and we haven't seen you in a while, your nose is in a book somewhere, breathing in the adventures of Ivy and Bean or Junie B Jones, or plowing through the recent haul from the library. You keep your children's dictionary in my car for the not infrequent occasion that you would like to look up a big word (yesterday it was "awkward"). You love movies, too, and demand stories told in the car.
You are a natural athlete. You are tall and swift and lean. You run fast enough that it is common to hear people say we should put you in track, fast enough that I might sometimes call you my little Olympian. You can swim to the bottom of the pool and from one side to the other, and I think you might be happiest in the water. Slippery fish.
You question everything. It is exhausting. But I applaud you and will encourage you to continue. Seriously: ask as many questions as you need answered. Fight for what you want. Think about why you want it. Also--this is key-- know when to let it go.
You love me to the ends of the earth. I don't always feel like I deserve it. Truly, I am bringing out all the cliches now, but you make me want to be a better mom. It is difficult, motherhood. If you choose this path someday, you'll see. If I read back through these annual letters, I know I will see themes, these things that make you who you are, that have been in you since birth. That is what it is: it won't change. (If I have learned anything, it is that people don't change.) So I hope I can encourage pride in the good things and acceptance of the things you don't love about yourself. It's no use to pretend: we all have them. By the time you read these letter, you will probably have a list forming somewhere in your mind. The things you wish were different. At six, I see a tiny bit of it already, the way you try on other traits, talk baby talk with certain friends, try to repeat the funny things that your sister does even when you don't totally get the joke. So I tell you today, I don't love you in spite of those things and celebrate you for the most wonderful things you are and do. I love you for all of it. All of you. Even if some day you make me crazy. And if you ever feel like you are forgetting that other list, the list of all the terrific things you are, I hope you will come back to these letters and see what I see.
I love you to the ends of the earth, and back again.
Love,
Mom
We have been playing this little game lately, you and I. You tell me you have a birthday coming up, I ask how old you will be, and when you say "six" it is my job to fall of my chair in shock. Six! Impossible! Aren't you turning five? No? Then you must be just about four. Right? No?
You love this. Love it disproportionately, actually, and the funny thing is, despite all those tropes about time flying and how it all goes so fast, you are, indisputably, ready for six, and I think we are too.
Six!
I think, the bigger you get, the harder these letters get. When you were little, writing them was a way of creating or preserving memories when you would not have so many of your own. As you grow, you will remember more, and I think my job is more and more about sharing just this one unique perspective, the mom's-eye view of Clio. Sorting out what I want you to know about how I see you at just-six is not an easy task, like choosing which of your drawings to put in the box that you will inherit when you are grown. But all I can do is share what seems important today. In no particular order, some things I want you to know:
Your creativity knows no bounds. In your mind, a bunch of toilet paper tubes are far too valuable to be recycled or tossed out. In your hands, they are kittens, mountains, self-portraits. An old spool of green ribbon had about 100 uses and counting. I have started taking books of crafts out of the library and you want to do them all, will do them all, without supervision if that is what it takes.
You are a generous teacher, showing Eleri how to do your projects, reading books to a group of younger children. Sharing is rarely a problem.
You are a collector. You love boxes and containers of all kinds, and filling them up. Cardboard boxes covered in stickers and glitter pom poms, filled with Littlest Pet Shop. Small bowls filled with shells. Stacking containers with plastic fruit. You taped together two cups to collect seeds and pits and things that grow. The cup contraption is called "Mr. Seeds" and you are intent on feeding him regularly.
You are a gardener. This is your thing, yours and Daddy's. Nothing excites you quite like the micro lettuces you have grown in the raised bed, the blossoms that herald the arrival of squash, the tiny yellow tomatoes you eat off the vine. When anyone comes over, you want to bring them out to harvest raspberries and check for the tiny alpine strawberries that taste so sweet.
You are a voracious reader and a lover of stories. After your discovery of a certain wizard, each morning began with one demand: "Read Harry Potter." On your actual birthday, when you got to decide how to spend your day, half of it was devoted to reading, as your dad read you many chapters over the course of 2 or 3 hours. If the house is quiet and we haven't seen you in a while, your nose is in a book somewhere, breathing in the adventures of Ivy and Bean or Junie B Jones, or plowing through the recent haul from the library. You keep your children's dictionary in my car for the not infrequent occasion that you would like to look up a big word (yesterday it was "awkward"). You love movies, too, and demand stories told in the car.
You are a natural athlete. You are tall and swift and lean. You run fast enough that it is common to hear people say we should put you in track, fast enough that I might sometimes call you my little Olympian. You can swim to the bottom of the pool and from one side to the other, and I think you might be happiest in the water. Slippery fish.
You question everything. It is exhausting. But I applaud you and will encourage you to continue. Seriously: ask as many questions as you need answered. Fight for what you want. Think about why you want it. Also--this is key-- know when to let it go.
You love me to the ends of the earth. I don't always feel like I deserve it. Truly, I am bringing out all the cliches now, but you make me want to be a better mom. It is difficult, motherhood. If you choose this path someday, you'll see. If I read back through these annual letters, I know I will see themes, these things that make you who you are, that have been in you since birth. That is what it is: it won't change. (If I have learned anything, it is that people don't change.) So I hope I can encourage pride in the good things and acceptance of the things you don't love about yourself. It's no use to pretend: we all have them. By the time you read these letter, you will probably have a list forming somewhere in your mind. The things you wish were different. At six, I see a tiny bit of it already, the way you try on other traits, talk baby talk with certain friends, try to repeat the funny things that your sister does even when you don't totally get the joke. So I tell you today, I don't love you in spite of those things and celebrate you for the most wonderful things you are and do. I love you for all of it. All of you. Even if some day you make me crazy. And if you ever feel like you are forgetting that other list, the list of all the terrific things you are, I hope you will come back to these letters and see what I see.
I love you to the ends of the earth, and back again.
Love,
Mom
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
A Letter From Your Mother on the occasion of Easter
I have such a hard time putting myself into this space, this voice, these days. I decided I should aim to post at least weekly, that that would feel like I was capturing enough, but something else always has to come first. The laundry, the dishes, the fact that I am trying to build a business from scratch in my spare time. Or I'm tired, I want to get off my feet, lie down, escape to the TV or yet another design magazine. I think about this blog every day. Wonder if my inability to write here is also an inability to see my girls, how they are. I took one day off from posting to the other blog: Easter Sunday. That felt good, but also like a crack in the resolve, like when you are going and going but you sit down and it is sooooo veeeeery haaaard to get up again. That might be where I am right now.
But girls: I see you. I sure saw you on Easter. Clio, you were up first, earlier than I expected, glittery with anticipation. I told you to see if the Easter Bunny had come, to see if you could find a basket for you somewhere in the house, hoping to buy myself a little more sleep, but you were back lickety split with a pink felt basket in hand. You ate chocolate for breakfast. No, wait, that's not true: in a nod to your father, I made you eat a little real breakfast first. Hard boiled eggs, probably. And then you had candy, your very first peeps. The marshmallow is your favorite. Before all this you jumped up and down by my side of the bed and asked me to open the Tangled doll the easter bunny thought to bring you, and that damn packaging required scissors, so roused I was. Eleri was still asleep.
When she got up, you helped her find her basket, though really, they were in an easy hiding spot, the exact place Eleri goes first in the morning: the castle. The castle was on the floor and the baskets were tucked onto its shelf. Each basket had 1 Rapunzel doll, 1 package of bunny shaped sidewalk chalk, 4 peeps, 6 chocolate eggs, and one chocolate peanut butter bunny.
Eleri, somehow I lost track of you (as I seem to, too often), and you came into the dining room with that bunny unwrapped, chocolate on your face, your hands, your dress, and you looked at me with those big, big eyes, wide with the chocolate bunny, and you said, "mommy. I love this," all hushed and reverent. And because this was the cutest thing I may have ever heard, and because you didn't ask, just opened up the biggest treat in the basket first and dove right in, I started to laugh. Boy, did I laugh.
It upset you. You left, and I found you in the office, sobbing. You had thrown the candy bunny on the floor and you were just so upset. It took a while to get it out of you, but of course you were upset because you thought I was laughing at you. I wasn't. Not at you, not like that. We kissed and made up and I offered you the bunny but you wouldn't eat it. Not now. So I wrapped it up and saved it for later.
We spent the morning outside. The sun was finally shining and we went in the front yard. Clio, you and I went out first, and you drew pictures. You drew a dog for the neighbor. You told me that if for some reason they lost one of their dogs, they could be less sad because they would have this picture from you. You drew it in the square of sidewalk closest to their house. You also made a garden full of princess flowers and a row of houses, with ours in the middle (yellow, because you didn't have brown chalk), with an alley that made a big, long, loop, and ultimately led right back to the houses. I like this idea of a circle alley. When Eleri came out, you shared your colors nicely and you didn't get upset when she drew on your work--sometimes this really upsets you, and, honestly, she's not always so very nice about it.
We got dressed up in Easter dresses. Nonny brought them to you a week or two before, and you were dying to wear them. I didn't get your picture, but while I was getting dressed the two of you held hands and spun circles in the dining room, with skirts flying out just the way you like, Clio's soft floral and Eleri's blue and white stripes. We went to Nonny's and had an egg hunt. Eleri, you would find an egg, open it up, examine its contents, and eat the candy, then repeat the whole process. Clio, you found as many eggs as you could and kept them in your basket, unopened. Hours later, after almost everyone had gone home, you had Nonny and my aunt Eileen take turns shaking the eggs, guessing what was inside. Candy, money, or both. When we ate lunch, you sat at the big table with Finn and Lucia. You wanted swedish fish, but you were willing to eat your asparagus to get them.
Eleri, you needed to go home. I don't know if it was just too much for you, all those people, all the excitement, or if you just weren't feeling well (you ended up throwing up the next night--just once.) I kept telling you just a minute, and you finally announced that you wanted to take a nap. You never nap--in fact, when a nap is suggested, you specifically say "nothing, never," so this made us stand up and take notice. Daddy took you home, and you dozed on and off laying on him on the couch while Clio shook her eggs.
You girls are so different. We have known this from day one, but it is more pronounced all the time. Whenever I offer two choices, you inevitably choose the opposite. In the mornings, on the way to school, we tell stories. If Eleri wants Cinderella, Clio wants Rapunzel. If Clio wants Cinderella, Eleri wants Goldilocks. I tell you to work it out. Most days, you do. And there's no pattern. Well, except that Clio always goes right for the negotiation: Eleri, if we do my story today we can do yours tomorrow, okay? But there is no clear pattern in who gives, in who wins. It is a give and take.
I know we always say we can't believe how fast it goes (I've likely said it a zillion times on this blog), but the truth is, I can't believe how big you are. I still manage to take pictures of you now and again, and when I see them on the computer, scrolling by in search of a "before" or an "after," I am struck by them. You are just so tall. So grown. It bears noting that Eleri is potty trained. That Clio is reading. That these milestones came and went some time ago, and deserve their own posts but may not get them. I suppose you might settle for this: you are geniuses. You are difficult. You are beautiful.
We love you so much,
Mom.
But girls: I see you. I sure saw you on Easter. Clio, you were up first, earlier than I expected, glittery with anticipation. I told you to see if the Easter Bunny had come, to see if you could find a basket for you somewhere in the house, hoping to buy myself a little more sleep, but you were back lickety split with a pink felt basket in hand. You ate chocolate for breakfast. No, wait, that's not true: in a nod to your father, I made you eat a little real breakfast first. Hard boiled eggs, probably. And then you had candy, your very first peeps. The marshmallow is your favorite. Before all this you jumped up and down by my side of the bed and asked me to open the Tangled doll the easter bunny thought to bring you, and that damn packaging required scissors, so roused I was. Eleri was still asleep.
When she got up, you helped her find her basket, though really, they were in an easy hiding spot, the exact place Eleri goes first in the morning: the castle. The castle was on the floor and the baskets were tucked onto its shelf. Each basket had 1 Rapunzel doll, 1 package of bunny shaped sidewalk chalk, 4 peeps, 6 chocolate eggs, and one chocolate peanut butter bunny.
Eleri, somehow I lost track of you (as I seem to, too often), and you came into the dining room with that bunny unwrapped, chocolate on your face, your hands, your dress, and you looked at me with those big, big eyes, wide with the chocolate bunny, and you said, "mommy. I love this," all hushed and reverent. And because this was the cutest thing I may have ever heard, and because you didn't ask, just opened up the biggest treat in the basket first and dove right in, I started to laugh. Boy, did I laugh.
It upset you. You left, and I found you in the office, sobbing. You had thrown the candy bunny on the floor and you were just so upset. It took a while to get it out of you, but of course you were upset because you thought I was laughing at you. I wasn't. Not at you, not like that. We kissed and made up and I offered you the bunny but you wouldn't eat it. Not now. So I wrapped it up and saved it for later.
We spent the morning outside. The sun was finally shining and we went in the front yard. Clio, you and I went out first, and you drew pictures. You drew a dog for the neighbor. You told me that if for some reason they lost one of their dogs, they could be less sad because they would have this picture from you. You drew it in the square of sidewalk closest to their house. You also made a garden full of princess flowers and a row of houses, with ours in the middle (yellow, because you didn't have brown chalk), with an alley that made a big, long, loop, and ultimately led right back to the houses. I like this idea of a circle alley. When Eleri came out, you shared your colors nicely and you didn't get upset when she drew on your work--sometimes this really upsets you, and, honestly, she's not always so very nice about it.
We got dressed up in Easter dresses. Nonny brought them to you a week or two before, and you were dying to wear them. I didn't get your picture, but while I was getting dressed the two of you held hands and spun circles in the dining room, with skirts flying out just the way you like, Clio's soft floral and Eleri's blue and white stripes. We went to Nonny's and had an egg hunt. Eleri, you would find an egg, open it up, examine its contents, and eat the candy, then repeat the whole process. Clio, you found as many eggs as you could and kept them in your basket, unopened. Hours later, after almost everyone had gone home, you had Nonny and my aunt Eileen take turns shaking the eggs, guessing what was inside. Candy, money, or both. When we ate lunch, you sat at the big table with Finn and Lucia. You wanted swedish fish, but you were willing to eat your asparagus to get them.
Eleri, you needed to go home. I don't know if it was just too much for you, all those people, all the excitement, or if you just weren't feeling well (you ended up throwing up the next night--just once.) I kept telling you just a minute, and you finally announced that you wanted to take a nap. You never nap--in fact, when a nap is suggested, you specifically say "nothing, never," so this made us stand up and take notice. Daddy took you home, and you dozed on and off laying on him on the couch while Clio shook her eggs.
You girls are so different. We have known this from day one, but it is more pronounced all the time. Whenever I offer two choices, you inevitably choose the opposite. In the mornings, on the way to school, we tell stories. If Eleri wants Cinderella, Clio wants Rapunzel. If Clio wants Cinderella, Eleri wants Goldilocks. I tell you to work it out. Most days, you do. And there's no pattern. Well, except that Clio always goes right for the negotiation: Eleri, if we do my story today we can do yours tomorrow, okay? But there is no clear pattern in who gives, in who wins. It is a give and take.
I know we always say we can't believe how fast it goes (I've likely said it a zillion times on this blog), but the truth is, I can't believe how big you are. I still manage to take pictures of you now and again, and when I see them on the computer, scrolling by in search of a "before" or an "after," I am struck by them. You are just so tall. So grown. It bears noting that Eleri is potty trained. That Clio is reading. That these milestones came and went some time ago, and deserve their own posts but may not get them. I suppose you might settle for this: you are geniuses. You are difficult. You are beautiful.
We love you so much,
Mom.
Monday, July 5, 2010
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
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
Sunday, June 6, 2010
A letter From Your Mother on the Occasion of Your First Dance Recital
Dear Clio,
I want you to know, I am so proud of you today.
For weeks, with your dance performance looming, you have been telling us that you were not planning to participate. You would say to me, "Mommy, I don't think I want to be in the performance, and that's okay," because this is what I kept telling you: that you did not have to get up there if you didn't want to, but that I thought you should give it a try.
And you did! I'm so proud of you for actually giving it a try, even though you were nervous and didn't know what to expect. On Friday, for the dress rehearsal, we got you dressed in your costume at home and negotiated your hair into a tiny little bun and put on red lipstick (you loved that part) so we would arrive at the Centaurus High School auditorium feeling ready. We got there nice and early so we would not feel rushed and panic. You seemed a little melancholy sitting backstage with your friend Tamsin, and then I had to leave you and go out to the auditorium and wait and wonder if you would ever appear on stage. It always amazes me that so much of motherhood is leaving our children--ultimately, whatever it is, we can't do it for you. And even though I leave you at school every day, and at day care before that, I always wonder what happens after I leave you in a new environment, and am struck that, especially at this age, I can't really know.
When it was your turn, you walked right out on stage with miss Tia, and you looked like such a small person, kind of too small to be expected to dance on a vast gulf of a stage, but you smiled a red lipstick smile and you did your best. You know what? You danced most of the steps. I came down to the edge of the stage to take pictures and you saw me and smiled some more. Afterwards, I asked you how you remembered all the steps, and you just shrugged your shoulders and said, "Oh, I just watch Tamsin."
And you repeated it all the next day, for an auditorium full of hundreds of people. Sure enough, you did watch Tamsin for all your cues, but you remembered parts on your own, too. When you finished, the crowd cheered for you, because you were the smallest dancers and you looked so great in your sparkly green costumes and you did an excellent job. I shouted your name and hoped you would hear me, because I had explained before the show that today you would not see me at the edge of the stage, but that you could rest assured that I was in the audience, watching. I wanted you to know I was really there.
I was the first in line to get backstage after the finale, and brought you the balloons that Eleri picked for you, and the peonies I chose because you like the ones in our yard so much. You loved the balloons, even though they were, technically, for a new baby girl. I kept saying how proud I was of you, but you just acted like it was no big deal.
We took you for ice cream and you got a chocolate cone and I think the thing you liked best about the day was all the treats, and who can blame you? On our way home, you said, "and now that the performance is over, I can wear my costume for dress up!" Ultimately, I think that's what you were waiting for all along.
I love you,
Mom
I want you to know, I am so proud of you today.
For weeks, with your dance performance looming, you have been telling us that you were not planning to participate. You would say to me, "Mommy, I don't think I want to be in the performance, and that's okay," because this is what I kept telling you: that you did not have to get up there if you didn't want to, but that I thought you should give it a try.
And you did! I'm so proud of you for actually giving it a try, even though you were nervous and didn't know what to expect. On Friday, for the dress rehearsal, we got you dressed in your costume at home and negotiated your hair into a tiny little bun and put on red lipstick (you loved that part) so we would arrive at the Centaurus High School auditorium feeling ready. We got there nice and early so we would not feel rushed and panic. You seemed a little melancholy sitting backstage with your friend Tamsin, and then I had to leave you and go out to the auditorium and wait and wonder if you would ever appear on stage. It always amazes me that so much of motherhood is leaving our children--ultimately, whatever it is, we can't do it for you. And even though I leave you at school every day, and at day care before that, I always wonder what happens after I leave you in a new environment, and am struck that, especially at this age, I can't really know.
When it was your turn, you walked right out on stage with miss Tia, and you looked like such a small person, kind of too small to be expected to dance on a vast gulf of a stage, but you smiled a red lipstick smile and you did your best. You know what? You danced most of the steps. I came down to the edge of the stage to take pictures and you saw me and smiled some more. Afterwards, I asked you how you remembered all the steps, and you just shrugged your shoulders and said, "Oh, I just watch Tamsin."
And you repeated it all the next day, for an auditorium full of hundreds of people. Sure enough, you did watch Tamsin for all your cues, but you remembered parts on your own, too. When you finished, the crowd cheered for you, because you were the smallest dancers and you looked so great in your sparkly green costumes and you did an excellent job. I shouted your name and hoped you would hear me, because I had explained before the show that today you would not see me at the edge of the stage, but that you could rest assured that I was in the audience, watching. I wanted you to know I was really there.
I was the first in line to get backstage after the finale, and brought you the balloons that Eleri picked for you, and the peonies I chose because you like the ones in our yard so much. You loved the balloons, even though they were, technically, for a new baby girl. I kept saying how proud I was of you, but you just acted like it was no big deal.
We took you for ice cream and you got a chocolate cone and I think the thing you liked best about the day was all the treats, and who can blame you? On our way home, you said, "and now that the performance is over, I can wear my costume for dress up!" Ultimately, I think that's what you were waiting for all along.
I love you,
Mom
Friday, April 30, 2010
A letter from your mother on no occasion at all
Beautiful girls,
I have so much to tell you lately, I find myself writing your birthday letters early, in my head, but if there's one piece of advice I can give you as a writer it is to use up all your words now, and you will discover more.
There is something magic about the two of you right now, something that makes me love you infinitely more together than each apart. I remember when Eleri was born and we realized we had two girls, your dad and I looked at each other and asked, "what are we going to do with sisters?" because neither of us has one. Its turning out not to matter: the two of you seem to know everything you need to about sisters, and I am learning.
Eleri, you copy everything Clio does, and you are constantly looking around and asking, "where did Clio go?" which you say with the absolute cutest pronunciation and an inflection that is simply not possible to capture in print. When your dad took Clio to a baseball game without you, you spent the afternoon crestfallen, not quite sure what to do with yourself without your constant companion.
Clio, you are blossoming into this amazing sister, always trying to help Eleri, to direct her. You are also willing to help us with her, like tonight when she did not want to take a bath and I asked you to go get in the tub, knowing that would make her want to go, too. And even though you usually resist the bath these days, you just said "okay, Mom" and skipped off to the bath, looking over your shoulder to say, "Eleri, come on." And come she did. I'll be honest: three-going-on-four is not the most generous of ages, but you are often generous with your sister. On Easter, she only found a few eggs in the hunt, so you gave her some of yours. The other day we were playing with the watering cans, watering the flowers in the yard, and because I am trying to teach you about resources, teach you not to waste, I would not refill the cans, so you gave Eleri some of your water. Even though you, too, had just asked for more.
Sometimes the sharing and the copying can get a little silly, and ours is a house filled with laughter. You have the exact same laugh, and I wonder if it will be like mine when you grow up, as mine is like my mothers. I love this idea: four women with just the same laugh, like the youtube video Clio used to love with the quadruplets laughing in unison over and over. Like the mom in that video, who says "do it agin," Eleri has recently learned "again" and "more" continues to be the word of the day.
Though your laugh is so alike, you are very different people, and it's fun to see how you continue to compliment each other. Eleri is the adventuress, inventing new games for the two of you to play, and this is when Clio is the copier. Clio I can only describe as my little liberal artist, with the books, the music, the art projects, the play-acting. Eleri, I'm willing to bet that you will get Clio playing sports, and Clio, you will keep your sister reading and developing her imagination. I once posted a litany of future professions for the two of you, one way to capture who you seem to be shaping up to be in the moment. Tonight, Eleri, as you tried to body slam Clio and I on the couch, I joked that you would be a wrestler, that you would grow up to join the WWF. I also see roller derby, summer camp director, little league coach, school crossing guard. Clio my darling, you could be a librarian, a dancer, a screenwriter, a gardener (you keep cutting the flowers in the yard, no matter how many times we tell you that after flowers are cut, they can't live). These are not predictions, they are simply impressions. I love that there are so many facets to both of you.
Sometimes, Eleri will pull your hair, Clio, and being the more sensitive of the two, it is unfortunate that this playful aggression runs in your direction--you are not the one who can take it. But Eleri is also a big hugger, and she will tackle you with her affections, and that seems to right the wrong, most of the time. We are working on it with her, trying to teach her appropriate behavior, though, Eleri, you often seem disinterested in these lessons, as you are disinterested in brushing your teeth. We are working on things with both of you, all the time. Eleri, you still tend to throw things when you're finished with them (though you are also an eager and helpful participant in clean up.) Clio, you have grown defiant at times, and we are wearing out the techniques we know to bring you around. Lately, I wonder if we just need patience, though you have worn that through, too.
It's funny: part of me wants to fast forward out of three; we keep hearing four is so much better. At the same time, I would pause Eleri right here if I could, right in this perfect moment of twenty-some months, which is just so delightful (the second time around, knowing the signposts of certain ages, I feel more of an urgency as my favorite stage passes). But this is the beauty of having the two of you: you will ebb and flow, and as Clio hits the calm waters of four, Eleri may hit the rocky shore of two, and so on and so forth. I will simply hope that you continue to be such good friends, even for the hair pulling and the mutual desire for whichever toy or object the other has. Ultimately, we can just hope that your generosity of spirit and your sense of humor and kindness prevail.
I think it's probably not possible to say enough how very much I love you.
Mom
I have so much to tell you lately, I find myself writing your birthday letters early, in my head, but if there's one piece of advice I can give you as a writer it is to use up all your words now, and you will discover more.
There is something magic about the two of you right now, something that makes me love you infinitely more together than each apart. I remember when Eleri was born and we realized we had two girls, your dad and I looked at each other and asked, "what are we going to do with sisters?" because neither of us has one. Its turning out not to matter: the two of you seem to know everything you need to about sisters, and I am learning.
Eleri, you copy everything Clio does, and you are constantly looking around and asking, "where did Clio go?" which you say with the absolute cutest pronunciation and an inflection that is simply not possible to capture in print. When your dad took Clio to a baseball game without you, you spent the afternoon crestfallen, not quite sure what to do with yourself without your constant companion.
Clio, you are blossoming into this amazing sister, always trying to help Eleri, to direct her. You are also willing to help us with her, like tonight when she did not want to take a bath and I asked you to go get in the tub, knowing that would make her want to go, too. And even though you usually resist the bath these days, you just said "okay, Mom" and skipped off to the bath, looking over your shoulder to say, "Eleri, come on." And come she did. I'll be honest: three-going-on-four is not the most generous of ages, but you are often generous with your sister. On Easter, she only found a few eggs in the hunt, so you gave her some of yours. The other day we were playing with the watering cans, watering the flowers in the yard, and because I am trying to teach you about resources, teach you not to waste, I would not refill the cans, so you gave Eleri some of your water. Even though you, too, had just asked for more.
Sometimes the sharing and the copying can get a little silly, and ours is a house filled with laughter. You have the exact same laugh, and I wonder if it will be like mine when you grow up, as mine is like my mothers. I love this idea: four women with just the same laugh, like the youtube video Clio used to love with the quadruplets laughing in unison over and over. Like the mom in that video, who says "do it agin," Eleri has recently learned "again" and "more" continues to be the word of the day.
Though your laugh is so alike, you are very different people, and it's fun to see how you continue to compliment each other. Eleri is the adventuress, inventing new games for the two of you to play, and this is when Clio is the copier. Clio I can only describe as my little liberal artist, with the books, the music, the art projects, the play-acting. Eleri, I'm willing to bet that you will get Clio playing sports, and Clio, you will keep your sister reading and developing her imagination. I once posted a litany of future professions for the two of you, one way to capture who you seem to be shaping up to be in the moment. Tonight, Eleri, as you tried to body slam Clio and I on the couch, I joked that you would be a wrestler, that you would grow up to join the WWF. I also see roller derby, summer camp director, little league coach, school crossing guard. Clio my darling, you could be a librarian, a dancer, a screenwriter, a gardener (you keep cutting the flowers in the yard, no matter how many times we tell you that after flowers are cut, they can't live). These are not predictions, they are simply impressions. I love that there are so many facets to both of you.
Sometimes, Eleri will pull your hair, Clio, and being the more sensitive of the two, it is unfortunate that this playful aggression runs in your direction--you are not the one who can take it. But Eleri is also a big hugger, and she will tackle you with her affections, and that seems to right the wrong, most of the time. We are working on it with her, trying to teach her appropriate behavior, though, Eleri, you often seem disinterested in these lessons, as you are disinterested in brushing your teeth. We are working on things with both of you, all the time. Eleri, you still tend to throw things when you're finished with them (though you are also an eager and helpful participant in clean up.) Clio, you have grown defiant at times, and we are wearing out the techniques we know to bring you around. Lately, I wonder if we just need patience, though you have worn that through, too.
It's funny: part of me wants to fast forward out of three; we keep hearing four is so much better. At the same time, I would pause Eleri right here if I could, right in this perfect moment of twenty-some months, which is just so delightful (the second time around, knowing the signposts of certain ages, I feel more of an urgency as my favorite stage passes). But this is the beauty of having the two of you: you will ebb and flow, and as Clio hits the calm waters of four, Eleri may hit the rocky shore of two, and so on and so forth. I will simply hope that you continue to be such good friends, even for the hair pulling and the mutual desire for whichever toy or object the other has. Ultimately, we can just hope that your generosity of spirit and your sense of humor and kindness prevail.
I think it's probably not possible to say enough how very much I love you.
Mom
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Letter From Your Teacher
9-11-09
Hi Heather and David -
Clio seems to have adjusted to her new school environment. She makes friends easily and enjoys Alex an older boys company this past week.
She seems to enjoy lessons; polishing, pink tower, solid cylinders, color tablets in the Practical Life and Sensorial areas. She enjoys working in the outdoor environment in the mornings. She doesn't generally fall asleep but will rest and then join the other children.
Clio participates in group listening to the story or learning the words to a new song. Clio, we have found out does not like bees, sometimes at lunch we have had one visit or two.
(Followed by a few lines of more administrative stuff to us)
Thank you
Koral Walters
Hi Heather and David -
Clio seems to have adjusted to her new school environment. She makes friends easily and enjoys Alex an older boys company this past week.
She seems to enjoy lessons; polishing, pink tower, solid cylinders, color tablets in the Practical Life and Sensorial areas. She enjoys working in the outdoor environment in the mornings. She doesn't generally fall asleep but will rest and then join the other children.
Clio participates in group listening to the story or learning the words to a new song. Clio, we have found out does not like bees, sometimes at lunch we have had one visit or two.
(Followed by a few lines of more administrative stuff to us)
Thank you
Koral Walters
Sunday, July 5, 2009
A letter from your mother on the occasion of your third birthday
Dear Clio,
Today you are three years old. I remember, before your sister was born, meeting a couple on a plane who had two girls two years apart, which they said was great because the older daughter couldn't remember a time without the younger. Sometimes I feel this way about you: of course I know that I spent 3 decades without you, before you, yet it's difficult to look back and remember my life without filtering it through you and the experience of having you.
Last year, I think writing this letter was simple. There were plenty of things I wanted you to know, a clear image of who I wanted to remember you being at just-two; but in the past year you've grown complicated, and this writing is hard. Two becoming three is a difficult age; I had heard this as we went in (lots of people said things like "you think two is bad; wait until she's three!"), but it has been an interesting struggle to live through it with you. I have thought a lot about the "terrible twos" and, as much as this phase was labeled by adults because, I suppose, they feel it is terrible for them, I think the truth might be that two is terrible for the two year olds: everything is changing; you are somewhere between being a baby and being a kid. Even the names for this are awkward: you are preschoolers outgrowing your toddlerhood.
You have tested a lot of limits this year. You have shed a lot of tears--real and crocodile--and whined way too many requests, barked a few too many orders, demanded time and again that we do it for you, though you take such great pleasure (ultimately) in doing it yourself. You have been to school, and thrived there. You have developed real friendships, with Lydia in the neighborhood and Haley at school and, especially, Elsie, Isabella, and Deston at day care. You are a loving and caring friend, giving kisses, saying I love you, doing a wonderful job of sharing, taking turns, and following the other kids' lead. You are also extremely sensitive, and while you are quickest to laugh and be in on the joke, you are also quickest to dissolve into something else. A drama queen. Stormy weather.
Last year we sort of missed your birthday as we waited for your sister to arrive. This year, for the first time you are really aware of birthdays (you tell anyone who will listen "My birthday is 5 July") and, I think, you were really looking forward to a celebration. And we wanted to give you one; it was really important to me that it be special, and that it be all for you, and about you. Lately, you seem a little unsure of things where Eleri is concerned, a little threatened, maybe. Sometimes when she does something funny you repeat it many times; or when we play a game you want the same treatment as her, even though she's so much smaller. I hate to watch this struggle, because you are so funny and so charming and so lovely in your own ways; I hope you will remember this, or learn it, and that you will carry that knowledge forward. I wonder how we can help. The other day, we were walking down the street and out of the blue you asked, "Mommy, are you proud of me?" And my heart nearly broke. Of course I am proud of you; you shouldn't have to ask. You make me proud every day, even if you also make me crazy. I think for you and I, these will be the two sides of the same coin: complicated, see? For me, the lesson to carry forward will be making sure you feel my pride in you, right to your very marrow.
We do this thing at night before bed called Big Day, in which I recount for you the events of your day (every day is a Big day for you). It is an opportunity for me to reinforce good behaviors, to praise you for the things you have done well and to give you gentle reminders of the things we'd rather you not do. For some reason, you love this routine; I'm not sure if it's because your days feel so big that you want to remember and savor them before submitting to sleep, or if you are truly just stalling a little more. What sorts of things do we recount for you? Places we go: the aquarium still seems to be the favorite, though you also love the Children's Museum and any playground. Things we do: you can write your name and identify all the letters (you actually signed some of your birthday thank you notes "MOM"), string beads into a necklace, recite many of your books by heart, sing all of your bedtime songs (including big songs like "Maybe" from Annie and "Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music), put your shoes on yourself, help set the table, pour the milk into your cereal, help with your sister. Things we're working on: potty training (you've been diaper free for months now), not sticking out your tongue (this drives your father crazy).
You are learning about independence. Right now this mostly means you resist things we ask you to do; we have to count to 5 a lot to get you going. But it also means you want to choose things. You've been choosing your outfits forever. You often ask me to give you "options," for dinner, for books, for bedtime songs. Often, you choose some secret option number three that I have not listed. That's okay; I guess you just need some ideas to get you going. You say quite often "Mom, it's not a competition," something you must have picked up at day care; you'll often say "I won you" if you finish eating first, or get your socks on quickly. You haven't quite grasped the concept--you were devastated last week when you didn't win a cupcake at Titi's house because you didn't fall asleep first at nap time--and I hate that it is in your vocabulary at all. All of this makes me feel like you are twelve, that other painfully in-between stage. I am looking forward to putting you in a Montessori school full time next year. You can be susceptible to your peers, and I think you will take to the independence required of you in this new environment as you see your fellow students getting their own work, cleaning up after themselves. I am eager to see you continue to discover how much you are capable of. I am thinking about ways that I can help. So often with positive reinforcement you do not resist; you say, so nicely, "okay Mom, I will."
Lately, your dad has taken to calling you Little Bear; your sister, Little Bird. At first I thought this was backwards: you have the delicate sensibility, the love for singing, the tendency to flap your wings or twirl around as if you might like to take flight, while Eleri is grounded, rumbling in her crawl. But you are also ferocious. Protective. You love us fiercly; you continue to mother your dolls, your animals, your sister. You give the gentlest, tiny little kisses on my arm, my knee, my cheek.
I think I struggle with this letter because I, too am sensitive; I, too thrive on positive reinforcement, and I worry that you will read this letter and feel slighted. That you will see only negative here. And maybe because it is not always easy to be honest with myself, I hope someday you will understand that it is my gift to be honest with you. We're struggling a bit right now. But we love you so very much. We love having you in our lives, even if sometimes you make things more complicated, slower, harder. It's our job as your parents, and we take that job seriously. We love the joy you open us up to; we love watching you take pleasure in small things, like your birthday cake with the pink icing (half way through your piece, you told us, "and when I finish this, I will ask for more.") When you laugh, it's infectious. When you twirl around in a skirt, I want to be three, too. Your dad and I often catch each other's eye over your head and smile at something you have said, or done. Let's focus on that.
Happy birthday Clio.
I love you so much,
Mom
Today you are three years old. I remember, before your sister was born, meeting a couple on a plane who had two girls two years apart, which they said was great because the older daughter couldn't remember a time without the younger. Sometimes I feel this way about you: of course I know that I spent 3 decades without you, before you, yet it's difficult to look back and remember my life without filtering it through you and the experience of having you.
Last year, I think writing this letter was simple. There were plenty of things I wanted you to know, a clear image of who I wanted to remember you being at just-two; but in the past year you've grown complicated, and this writing is hard. Two becoming three is a difficult age; I had heard this as we went in (lots of people said things like "you think two is bad; wait until she's three!"), but it has been an interesting struggle to live through it with you. I have thought a lot about the "terrible twos" and, as much as this phase was labeled by adults because, I suppose, they feel it is terrible for them, I think the truth might be that two is terrible for the two year olds: everything is changing; you are somewhere between being a baby and being a kid. Even the names for this are awkward: you are preschoolers outgrowing your toddlerhood.
You have tested a lot of limits this year. You have shed a lot of tears--real and crocodile--and whined way too many requests, barked a few too many orders, demanded time and again that we do it for you, though you take such great pleasure (ultimately) in doing it yourself. You have been to school, and thrived there. You have developed real friendships, with Lydia in the neighborhood and Haley at school and, especially, Elsie, Isabella, and Deston at day care. You are a loving and caring friend, giving kisses, saying I love you, doing a wonderful job of sharing, taking turns, and following the other kids' lead. You are also extremely sensitive, and while you are quickest to laugh and be in on the joke, you are also quickest to dissolve into something else. A drama queen. Stormy weather.
Last year we sort of missed your birthday as we waited for your sister to arrive. This year, for the first time you are really aware of birthdays (you tell anyone who will listen "My birthday is 5 July") and, I think, you were really looking forward to a celebration. And we wanted to give you one; it was really important to me that it be special, and that it be all for you, and about you. Lately, you seem a little unsure of things where Eleri is concerned, a little threatened, maybe. Sometimes when she does something funny you repeat it many times; or when we play a game you want the same treatment as her, even though she's so much smaller. I hate to watch this struggle, because you are so funny and so charming and so lovely in your own ways; I hope you will remember this, or learn it, and that you will carry that knowledge forward. I wonder how we can help. The other day, we were walking down the street and out of the blue you asked, "Mommy, are you proud of me?" And my heart nearly broke. Of course I am proud of you; you shouldn't have to ask. You make me proud every day, even if you also make me crazy. I think for you and I, these will be the two sides of the same coin: complicated, see? For me, the lesson to carry forward will be making sure you feel my pride in you, right to your very marrow.
We do this thing at night before bed called Big Day, in which I recount for you the events of your day (every day is a Big day for you). It is an opportunity for me to reinforce good behaviors, to praise you for the things you have done well and to give you gentle reminders of the things we'd rather you not do. For some reason, you love this routine; I'm not sure if it's because your days feel so big that you want to remember and savor them before submitting to sleep, or if you are truly just stalling a little more. What sorts of things do we recount for you? Places we go: the aquarium still seems to be the favorite, though you also love the Children's Museum and any playground. Things we do: you can write your name and identify all the letters (you actually signed some of your birthday thank you notes "MOM"), string beads into a necklace, recite many of your books by heart, sing all of your bedtime songs (including big songs like "Maybe" from Annie and "Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music), put your shoes on yourself, help set the table, pour the milk into your cereal, help with your sister. Things we're working on: potty training (you've been diaper free for months now), not sticking out your tongue (this drives your father crazy).
You are learning about independence. Right now this mostly means you resist things we ask you to do; we have to count to 5 a lot to get you going. But it also means you want to choose things. You've been choosing your outfits forever. You often ask me to give you "options," for dinner, for books, for bedtime songs. Often, you choose some secret option number three that I have not listed. That's okay; I guess you just need some ideas to get you going. You say quite often "Mom, it's not a competition," something you must have picked up at day care; you'll often say "I won you" if you finish eating first, or get your socks on quickly. You haven't quite grasped the concept--you were devastated last week when you didn't win a cupcake at Titi's house because you didn't fall asleep first at nap time--and I hate that it is in your vocabulary at all. All of this makes me feel like you are twelve, that other painfully in-between stage. I am looking forward to putting you in a Montessori school full time next year. You can be susceptible to your peers, and I think you will take to the independence required of you in this new environment as you see your fellow students getting their own work, cleaning up after themselves. I am eager to see you continue to discover how much you are capable of. I am thinking about ways that I can help. So often with positive reinforcement you do not resist; you say, so nicely, "okay Mom, I will."
Lately, your dad has taken to calling you Little Bear; your sister, Little Bird. At first I thought this was backwards: you have the delicate sensibility, the love for singing, the tendency to flap your wings or twirl around as if you might like to take flight, while Eleri is grounded, rumbling in her crawl. But you are also ferocious. Protective. You love us fiercly; you continue to mother your dolls, your animals, your sister. You give the gentlest, tiny little kisses on my arm, my knee, my cheek.
I think I struggle with this letter because I, too am sensitive; I, too thrive on positive reinforcement, and I worry that you will read this letter and feel slighted. That you will see only negative here. And maybe because it is not always easy to be honest with myself, I hope someday you will understand that it is my gift to be honest with you. We're struggling a bit right now. But we love you so very much. We love having you in our lives, even if sometimes you make things more complicated, slower, harder. It's our job as your parents, and we take that job seriously. We love the joy you open us up to; we love watching you take pleasure in small things, like your birthday cake with the pink icing (half way through your piece, you told us, "and when I finish this, I will ask for more.") When you laugh, it's infectious. When you twirl around in a skirt, I want to be three, too. Your dad and I often catch each other's eye over your head and smile at something you have said, or done. Let's focus on that.
Happy birthday Clio.
I love you so much,
Mom
Saturday, July 5, 2008
A Letter From Your Mother on the Occasion of Your Second Birthday
Dear Clio,
You are two years old today. It amazes me how grown up you can be at just two: how communicative, opinionated, loving, and funny. Today was quite a day. We went to pick up our vegetables at the playground, and Daddy took you on the swings. You sat in his lap on the big-kid swings and shouted "Mommy, look at me!" so the entire neighborhood could hear you. Daddy took you to the Y for Gym and Swim; you loved it, but by the end of the hour you were a "hot mess," and when I came to pick you up I could hear you wailing in the locker room. I hear you're the best swimmer in the class though, even though you're the youngest: with a floatie on your back, you can swim all the way across the pool, "by all yourself." You are determined, that's for sure. You swam across that pool again and again to get to the steps, because you wanted to climb up and down them. You're determined not to wear pants these days, and sometimes you'll pretend to have a poopy diaper, just to get stripped down. When you don't want to go to bed, your new trick is to ask for milk or water after the stories have been read, the songs sung- the first few times, I almost fell for it, concerned as I was that you could get dehydrated in this heat. When you want to hear a book again, you plead "just one more times," and when you want more of a snack but someone has told you no, you'll reduce your request to "just a tiny little bit?" These tactics may be manipulative, but they are charming, and the often work. You are more clever every day.
You are also more and more adventurous. We've been going to the playground every day after day care, and you are popular with the bigger kids. You wave and say hello to everyone, and really, who could resist that? You tip your head way over to the side when you so it, and your voice is very sweet- clear and high. There are two third graders at the playground, Jessica and Rajri, who try to take care of you (they tell me that I should not let you suck your thumb because the playground is dirty; that you are two small for the ladders), but really you just want to do what they do, and so you can be found swinging from the bar above the slide or climbing right up, no matter how slippery its silver surface. You also try to emulate Marco and Isabella from day care. You love to chase Marco around the sidewalk, and you an Isabella have quite a time screaming together (I'm not sure who picked it up from whom.)
There's a downside to this screaming, too. You are two in every sense, and lately that also means stubborn and occasionally tantrum-prone. You can't decide what you want (milk or water, to wash your hands or not, to get in or out of your high chair; you want to call people on the phone but not talk when they pick up); sometimes I think it's not about the thing, you just want to get what you want, even if you yourself can't quite keep track of what that is. It's confusing, navigating this world and all its various boundaries, isn't it?
You can also be impatient, or quick to judge. At the zoo yesterday, you quickly declared "No fishies," but then went on to spend much of your time circling back to the aquarium. Today, we gave you a scooter for your birthday (you always pick them up at the playground); you got on it once and said "I can't do it." You put a second foot on and fell over, and cried. I think you would eventually have loved it, but this time we gave in and got you a bike instead. You're warming up to it, although you'd rather push it than ride it.
This is one of my favorite things about you right now: you want to be the one in charge, the one taking care of things, and because of this you are going to be an excellent big sister. Once the initial shock wears off (I fully expect the same impatience or quick judgment of this new sibling who will change your world), I know that you will be as caring and loving as any big sister could be. I know this because you push your animals around on the mickey plane, and lay out a blanket in the new baby's cradle and tell me this is where your brother-sister will sleep. I know it because you rock your baby doll in her own cradle and sing her Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, just like I sing to you before bed. And I know it, too, because I got you a Dora balloon for your birthday, a balloon as big as you, and as much as you love Dora, when I tried to put her in the infant car seat to get us all home, you screamed "no! that's where my brother-sister sits."
You will be an excellent big sister for many of the same reasons that you are an excellent daughter: your easy, big-hearted laugh, your spontaneous hugs and kisses, the way you frequently sing and dance when you're just walking across the room, how often you say "and me, too" in your quest to participate, to try new things, to help.
It is amazing how much of a personality you have already, how you are so very much yourself; as your mom, it's so much fun to watch you grow into yourself a little more every day, with every task, encounter, or conversation. It may not always be fun that I'm the one you need to test things out on, but I think I can take it. And I know how much your dad and I look forward to watching you become yourself, through whatever you may have in store for us. Know that we will always try to do what's best for you, but give you the freedom, when you're maybe just a little older, to help us figure out what that might be.
Love,
Mom
You are two years old today. It amazes me how grown up you can be at just two: how communicative, opinionated, loving, and funny. Today was quite a day. We went to pick up our vegetables at the playground, and Daddy took you on the swings. You sat in his lap on the big-kid swings and shouted "Mommy, look at me!" so the entire neighborhood could hear you. Daddy took you to the Y for Gym and Swim; you loved it, but by the end of the hour you were a "hot mess," and when I came to pick you up I could hear you wailing in the locker room. I hear you're the best swimmer in the class though, even though you're the youngest: with a floatie on your back, you can swim all the way across the pool, "by all yourself." You are determined, that's for sure. You swam across that pool again and again to get to the steps, because you wanted to climb up and down them. You're determined not to wear pants these days, and sometimes you'll pretend to have a poopy diaper, just to get stripped down. When you don't want to go to bed, your new trick is to ask for milk or water after the stories have been read, the songs sung- the first few times, I almost fell for it, concerned as I was that you could get dehydrated in this heat. When you want to hear a book again, you plead "just one more times," and when you want more of a snack but someone has told you no, you'll reduce your request to "just a tiny little bit?" These tactics may be manipulative, but they are charming, and the often work. You are more clever every day.
You are also more and more adventurous. We've been going to the playground every day after day care, and you are popular with the bigger kids. You wave and say hello to everyone, and really, who could resist that? You tip your head way over to the side when you so it, and your voice is very sweet- clear and high. There are two third graders at the playground, Jessica and Rajri, who try to take care of you (they tell me that I should not let you suck your thumb because the playground is dirty; that you are two small for the ladders), but really you just want to do what they do, and so you can be found swinging from the bar above the slide or climbing right up, no matter how slippery its silver surface. You also try to emulate Marco and Isabella from day care. You love to chase Marco around the sidewalk, and you an Isabella have quite a time screaming together (I'm not sure who picked it up from whom.)
There's a downside to this screaming, too. You are two in every sense, and lately that also means stubborn and occasionally tantrum-prone. You can't decide what you want (milk or water, to wash your hands or not, to get in or out of your high chair; you want to call people on the phone but not talk when they pick up); sometimes I think it's not about the thing, you just want to get what you want, even if you yourself can't quite keep track of what that is. It's confusing, navigating this world and all its various boundaries, isn't it?
You can also be impatient, or quick to judge. At the zoo yesterday, you quickly declared "No fishies," but then went on to spend much of your time circling back to the aquarium. Today, we gave you a scooter for your birthday (you always pick them up at the playground); you got on it once and said "I can't do it." You put a second foot on and fell over, and cried. I think you would eventually have loved it, but this time we gave in and got you a bike instead. You're warming up to it, although you'd rather push it than ride it.
This is one of my favorite things about you right now: you want to be the one in charge, the one taking care of things, and because of this you are going to be an excellent big sister. Once the initial shock wears off (I fully expect the same impatience or quick judgment of this new sibling who will change your world), I know that you will be as caring and loving as any big sister could be. I know this because you push your animals around on the mickey plane, and lay out a blanket in the new baby's cradle and tell me this is where your brother-sister will sleep. I know it because you rock your baby doll in her own cradle and sing her Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, just like I sing to you before bed. And I know it, too, because I got you a Dora balloon for your birthday, a balloon as big as you, and as much as you love Dora, when I tried to put her in the infant car seat to get us all home, you screamed "no! that's where my brother-sister sits."
You will be an excellent big sister for many of the same reasons that you are an excellent daughter: your easy, big-hearted laugh, your spontaneous hugs and kisses, the way you frequently sing and dance when you're just walking across the room, how often you say "and me, too" in your quest to participate, to try new things, to help.
It is amazing how much of a personality you have already, how you are so very much yourself; as your mom, it's so much fun to watch you grow into yourself a little more every day, with every task, encounter, or conversation. It may not always be fun that I'm the one you need to test things out on, but I think I can take it. And I know how much your dad and I look forward to watching you become yourself, through whatever you may have in store for us. Know that we will always try to do what's best for you, but give you the freedom, when you're maybe just a little older, to help us figure out what that might be.
Love,
Mom
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