She's Four

Dear Lucy,

Today you are four. Four whole years old. At the risk of waking you this morning, I went into your

room and kissed your cheek, wishing you a happy birthday. Four. When I say it aloud it seems like such a big number. Four years of watching you, petal by petal, reveal the little girl you’ve become.

Last week, there was a day you and I went to the park. When it was time to go, we agreed to race home and you took off sprinting towards our house down the street. Your arms pumping, hair swishing back and forth across your back. Flying, you never looked back – until the one time you did and a tree obstructed your view of me. When I finally reached the porch, I discovered you’d been crying. Crying because you couldn’t see me and thought you’d lost me.

This is four. So desperately eager to be independent, yet still needing to know I’m there. This is where we find ourselves, daily. The pendulum swinging wildly back and forth between demanding to open the string cheese on your own, and dropping to the floor in tears because you don’t want to go out on the deck by yourself.

You have also really started thinking about some bigger concepts: life and death. You want to know

where babies come from and how they get into the bellies of mamas. You want to know if we get old and die. In all honestly, I’m much more prepared to talk to you about reproduction than I am of death. You caught me off guard the other day when asked if I would get old and die. My response was simple and direct – yes, I will get old, and someday I will die. We’ve made it our policy to be as honest with you as we can, at least meeting you in your level of understanding when possible. Your reaction to my honest answer what a dramatic downfall into crying and a true expression of fear. Through your tears you pleaded with me not to die, asking over and over if I would just please not die.

I did my best to reassure you of what I know: that I am here, now. That I do not want to die and leave you, and neither does anyone who loves you. This appeared to assuage some of those fears, but the idea has popped up every now and again. We do our best to explain death in simple terms, but I know your mind is whirling.

While you wrestle with some ideas about life, you are also growing a big heart of empathy. We were reading the story of Rosa Parks the other night just before bed, and your sweet little face furrowed at the idea that black kids could not be at the same school as white kids. I explained how this was how it used to be and you quickly pointed out that it wasn’t fair, and that there are black kids at your school, and everyone should be friends with everyone no matter what color they are.

It has been heartwarming to watch your developing relationship with Daddy. There was a time when you two had cursory interactions, but that’s the case no longer. You’re excited when he comes home and you love playing with him. You’ve even requested, on occasion, that he read you books at night –unheard of or tolerated previous to now. We have also recently begun to hear about the downside of finicky schoolyard friendships, how sometimes kids can say mean words, and how friends can become exclusive. This is uncharted territory, and we are doing our best to help you through it. We explain that sometimes friends need play breaks, that everyone has bad days, and that you should always stick up for yourself. These newest developments in the landscape of social navigation are somewhat daunting, and surely just the tip of what's to come. It appears that you are handling these new challenges well, because your response to one group of friends not wanting to play (according to what you tell me), is simply to go find other friends who do. And when you're feeling sad because ________ would not be your friend, we hug and talk it through, but mostly I just try to listen. 

Wonder Woman reigns queen of your world, Moana has captured your heart, you love watching movies, you thoroughly enjoy music and singing along, recently getting into the work of Queen (We Will Rock You, We Are the Champions, Bohemian Rhapsody), and dancing. Gymnastics remains a weekly activity, and I’m seeing you become more coordinated and skilled. I know there’s a cartwheel about to emerge.

Kid – daily life is a tangle of overblown meltdowns and deep belly laughs. Your need to assert dominance and control, and my need to teach you boundaries and respect, while still making sure you understand that mama’s love will always be there, are definite friction points. I am your greatest champion, my darling daughter. And even when you are behaving in a manner that bespeaks the most challenging facets of your personality, I still love you. I still love you — we say this often, per your request after having been reprimanded. Mama, do you still love me? Yes, Lucy, I love you so much.

You are the little girl who, spirited by confidence and what I believe to be a touch of wildfire, sprints away from me as we leave the park, running as fast as your strong legs will pump, eyes ahead. You are pushing boundaries and growing and falling. And each time you get up, I rise with you. Because you push me and you knock me down – relentlessly. We are growing together. This is my pride and pain, my sweet burden as your mama. Ever so slowly, with each candle we add to your cake, you move a little closer to the edge of the nest, eyeing up the world and all that’s out there.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.