She's Six

Dear Lucy,

In doing some research on your name, the etymology – Lucille is a diminutive of the Latin, Lucia. Keep digging and Lucia is the feminine of Lucius, which is derived from Latin Lucianus, an offshoot of the Roman Lucius — also known as "light."

From the beginning, I’ve known this: you are light.

What a perfect reflection of the six year-old you have become. Radiance that turns into prisms, the soft Autumnal shine that filters through trees bleeding their colors into winter – the kind of light that flickers and shimmers, light so bright it stings the eyes. Lucy, you are all of this and more.

This past year has been a series of remarkable events and moments, many that that have shaken our understanding of the footing we held. We were so cavalier. Kindergarten, bowled you over, and took me down too. And we are not out of the woods yet. This new place that holds so much promise has intimidated and frightened. It is not the familiar space where you reigned so comfortably for the past five years – where everyone literally knows your name, and you know every smile that has cared for you. Kindergarten is too big right now, and we are slowly chipping away at the scary. Sometimes this looks like happiness stepping off the school bus, and sometimes it's nights in tears begging me not to leave your side because you, “will miss [me] so much tomorrow at school.” So we’ve taken a step back, and I lay next to you, my hand on your back, whispering encouragements, and sometimes nothing at all – just being present with you, and existing in the fear,  in tandem. By your side I remain, as much as I can be, until the sun orchestrates a new day, and you are left to square up, once again.

The weight of this new challenge comes on the heels of an incredible summer. Dare I say a storybook couple of months. You’ve nearly nailed down the skills to swim, moving longer and longer stretches across the skin of the pool and beneath. You love the water, Lucy. We went more times to the pool this year than in any summers past. We traveled, hiked, climbing mountains in Colorado, touched waterfalls. You became my assistant on photography shoots, for which you charge $5. And to be quite honest, you’re immensely helpful, holding the reflector when need be, and getting the attention of easily distracted little ones. There are moments when you even pipe up and suggest a shot! It’s fabulous to see you thinking in terms of light and composing a frame. And the camera – it loves you. You remain my favorite muse.

Gymnastics has fallen by the wayside, and currently you’re not involved in anything. I panicked for half a second, worried the absence of organized sports or activities would lead to your eventual downfall, but then quickly righted my thinking: You. Are. A. Child. You need not do anything but explore, and play, and exist. I suspect you’ll eventually find something, but for now, we’re all okay just living the day to day.

Current favorites include The Amazing World of Gumball, Nailed It, Sugar Rush, and Portlandia. Yes, Portlandia. Taylor Swift is often requested, purple and turquoise are colors of choice, you’re all about expression through makeup and hair (dyed pink just before school started), and you chose to have your ears pierced. Crafting and drawing drive your creativity, and there’s not an empty paper towel cardboard roll that stands a chance against your scissors. Empty toilet paper rolls become bejeweled bracelets worn as high fashion. You love spending time with Daddy outside tossing the ball, and you’ve become friends with neighbors Nick and Charlotte, both three years your senior. Occasionally you lament being younger, only because you wish you were in their same grade at school, otherwise the age difference is irrelevant. Your reading skills continue to progress and you can now sound out short simple words, on your own.

The thing about light is, it will always find the seam through which to shine. In your ability to make it through this phase, I have no doubt. These tough moments are what build backbone, and while painful to experience (and to watch as your Mama), are necessary. Today you are six and tangled among all the changes that have recently occurred. You are slowly navigating your way through, and I watch, as always, in awe at your resilience and simultaneous fragility. My little Libra, searching so hard for balance, wanting to do what’s right, and yet taking risks. Clouded under confusion, with moments of brilliant clarity.

Nothing good is built with hollow stones. Each milestone is a brick placed on the foundation to which you’re constructing – the eventual woman you will become. No matter the burdens you’re tasked to shoulder, remember always, in me, Lucy, you’ll forever have a space in which to rest and renew your spirit. 

You are light.

And because of this, I know you will be okay.

I know you wish / You had a brother who had blue eyes just like you / I know you wish
You had a sister you could tell your secrets to / Maybe we'll miss
Having four sets of china on the table / But I guarantee you this

You mean more to me than branches to a maple

Pink painted walls / Your face in my locket / Your daddy and me
Your tiny back pocket / Mama's first love / Last of my kind
You'll always be my only child

Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.

Sleep

Every year, when I teach AP Literature & Composition, I begin with Shakespeare’s tragedy, Macbeth. In order to gain a deeper level of understanding of the story, students are instructed to follow various motifs throughout the play, one of which is sleep. For the most part, sleep symbolizes innocence, purity, and peace of mind. Sleep, as it pertains to Parenthood, is remarkably similar.

When our babies are wee little newborns, daily life revolves around the clock and sleep, or lack thereof. It comes to no one’s surprise, after having gone through the trenches of this early stage, how potent sleep deprivation is as a form of interrogative torture. Sleep is a keystone in any discussion involving newborns, either by way of ruminations from an exhausted parent, or a well-meaning inquiring mind – How is she sleeping?

News flash – the sleep issues don’t necessarily end with the newborn stage. They evolve into considerations of bed-sharing, then maybe getting littles into their own cribs, then out of baby jail and into their own beds, keeping them in those beds, and so on and so forth. We won’t even get into the challenges of time changes. And just as frustrating and mind numbing as the world of sleep can be during this period in life, so too, can it be the most incredible.

One of the most cherished images I have of me and my daughter is a picture I snapped on my terrible faux blackberry, when she was just a week and a half old. She is nuzzled on my shoulder facing me, peacefully sleeping. If I close my eyes, I can almost conjure up the way the weight of her tiny body felt in my arms, the sweet smell of her head, and the tiny baby breath sounds she made. I am literally awash with contentedness just thinking about it. Her skin against mine conducted a symphony of oxytocin through my veins, a glorious orchestral sonata from which I hoped never to hear the end.

It's quite easy to forget the poetic rhythm of these moments, especially when all I’ve wanted to do was sleep peacefully myself. Fear, too, is an immense force: fear that she’ll not figure out how to self-soothe, fear that she won’t ever sleep in her own bed, and the fear that she won’t learn to stay in that bed, because my goodness, all the stories circulating, the ones you hear about and selectively fixate upon when you’re knee deep into sleep-training, serve only to highlight what you can’t get your own kid to perform successfully.

But one day, the knot untangles, and she figures it out.

Hard to say if it’s because of the fairy you invented and convinced her lives in her room to protect her, or whether it was the rewards chart, or if it was the militant week you spent returning her to her bed a la Super Nanny, hour after hour, night after night. She got it. She understands now that in our home, her bed is for her, and ours is for us. That her five year-old body doesn’t quite fit as comfortably as it once used to, and her sprawling ways generally end up smacking someone in the face. In fact, she’s often more comfortable in own bed because of this. She realizes now we all sleep better this way.

I’d be a fool to tout some cavalier belief that all our sleep challenges are long behind us. That would be laughable, because occasionally, she has a rough day or evening, and requests to sleep in our bed. We oblige when we see fit, but these happen less and less. Nestled there, though, lies the quandary, the double-edged sword I now find myself learning to handle.

I miss her body. Her smell. Her breath. This is not a constant, but rather an interloper hiding in the shadows of our days. When the feeling crests, it is visceral. I can’t always name it, I just know, impulsively, that I miss her. Sometimes the decision is easy – no, you need to sleep in your own bed tonight. Other moments, there is a physical beckoning, something beyond and greater than my own control that wants to say, yes, you can sleep in our bed tonight because I need you near me. These are fleeting, I know – not my need to be near her, but her wanting to be near me. I expect that as we broach and dive headlong into the teenage years, she won’t be asking much at all. Because of this it is my personal goal to try to pay attention to these moments, to remember that now is now. There will come a day, I presume, when we've circled back around the sun of teenagedom, and she will be all grown up and out of the house. Her body will not be near mine - at all. 

The other day I’d spent entirely away from her, in a studio photographing mothers and their children. I was struck, once again, by a fierce compulsion to be with my daughter and wrote the following:

Once upon a time, so many sleeps ago, I did everything I could to get you into your own bed and out of mine. And here we are, on this night, when all I want to hear is the rhythm of your breath, singing me to sleep.

She’d had a long day and was particularly whiny and overly emotional. As we were lying in the dark, drifting off, my hand around hers, I said, “I love being your Mama.” She didn’t say anything back - just squeezed my hand for several seconds.

There she was, lying next to me, purely innocent, and I was peaceful. The recurring motif in our little world. I inhaled all I could of her.

She’d not asked to sleep in our room - I volunteered the offer.

Because I wanted it.

Selfishly, I wanted my daughter next to me.

I needed her there.

With me.

Reading

Last summer you read your very first words: hero and jumbo. You were excited, I was electrified – we were both proud. In that moment we both pulled back the curtain ever so slightly, peering out onto a stage illuminated with infinite possibilities.

Reading has underscored my whole life. I devoured books, often at such a breakneck pace, that they couldn’t be purchased or checked out quickly enough to keep up with my insatiability. As quickly as I could get my hands on one, I was turning the last page and searching for the next. When I became pregnant with you, many daydreams involved reading to you as an infant, and then cuddled next to you at night taking you on adventures of magic where owls deliver messages, into the Big Woods of Wisconsin with Laura Ingalls, and through wardrobes where White Queens reign. I filled your shelves with stories I loved, and hoped you would love, too. And you do. We read nightly, always two stories (one long, one short). 

Letters make more sense now, and the concept of stringing them together to make sounds is becoming more and more familiar. It’s there, Lucy – you’re so close. Words are also something with which you’ve been fascinated; fragments of a kaleidoscope you constantly want to make sense of. So many times you’ll look up from your iPad and the benign garbage you’re watching on Kids YouTube and ask about a new-to-you word – Mom, what’s mercury? What’s similar? What’s quizzical? What’s tender mean? I never tire of these kinds of questions, and I’m always in awe of your ability to remember what the words mean, and how well you put them into use soon thereafter – Mom, Lady Gaga and Gwen Stefani look very similar when they both have the blonde hair. Sometimes, at night, after we’ve read our stories and sang our two songs (currently “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “Blackbird”), you ask me to tell you a story, and I am challenged to come up with something in the moment. It’s fun because you’ll pepper my narrative with plot twists your feel are necessary, or names of characters that seem to fit best according to your five-year-old fancy.

Last night I was upstairs reading, and you were downstairs watching “CHiPs” with Big Red, and I overheard you ask him, a few times, what the words on the TV said. In that moment, as my eyes slowed on the words in front of them, I set down my book and tried to imagine what it’s like to be you in this moment – to see letters and understand them as individual markers, to recognize a handful of words, but not be able to truly read. That the letters strung together are just fancy patterns, something to be admired, but a talisman not yet discovered.  

Photo by Pamela Salai Photography

You are Dorothy, Lucy, inside the ramshackle farmhouse, your hand on the doorknob. What awaits you on the other side is a world of Technicolor and enchantment. A seamless road that begins with words, and in which the in-between is colored by your imagination. There is no end, Lucy - only more.

You are so very close, darling. It’s all right there in front of you – the curtain begging to be drawn back, the stage revealed.

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.

On the Other Side of the Door

Dear Lucy,

In March of last year, Big Red took down your crib and I transformed your nursery into a big girl room, the hallmark of which was a twin bed. You loved it. There were little, if any, bumps in trying to convince you to sleep in the new bed. In fact, I don't recall anything at all.

And then three and a half months later we went to California for two weeks in which the three of us, me, you, and Nana, slept together in one bed. Upon return to your room, you decided sleeping alone wasn't cool anymore, so into our bed you migrated. You stayed there until your third birthday, in October, when I created this elaborate scheme to get you back into your own bed. Luna your personal fairy arrived, replete with a fairy door, and a picture of the two of you together while you were sleeping (thanks, Photoshop). Luna also left you a letter in which she explained that she would watch over you as you slept, and that three year-olds are brave and sleep in their own beds. She also left you a new night light that projected stars on your ceiling.

It was a hit, and back into your bed you went.

Until the novelty wore off, and somehow I found you right back at my side again a few months later. Shadows you said. You needed me, you said.

You needed me.

To feel needed is sublime. To know that my presence has the power to cure all your fears is, frankly, intoxicating. You and I both love Wonder Woman, and it's in these moments that I actually feel as powerful. I was never ashamed of the co-sleeping, and I enjoyed sleeping next your warm body. It was equal parts survival and IDGAF. It was, for the time being, working.

Then it wasn't. For a while we dealt with the tossing and turning, kneeing Big Red, and landing elbows on my nose. We were losing sleep. And then it got dramatically worse: you decided the act of going to sleep, at all, was purgatory, and by doing so, took us with you into the pit of hell.

Every single night was an ongoing battle to go to bed. Gone were the calm evenings of stories and songs. In their place were tears and screaming. We bargained, we pleaded. In our worst moments we stomped away frustrated, we yelled. I became angry that I was losing my nights to your hysterics. My darling, I love you in ways words cannot even touch, and yet in those moments, I wanted to mute your cries, to teleport myself out of our sweet home and into someplace, anyplace else. Some nights I was able to call up the patience that you required, and I saw you for exactly what you were: a little girl who felt safe at her mama's side. I would repeat to myself, a mantra: this is what she needs right now, lay with her, it's just a phase, you'll miss this when it's gone. That would get me through a few evenings, but surely as still waters run deep, that ball of anger and frustration would gurgle and rise like a geyser. Again I'd be all rage and fury.

Earlier this month, Big Red and I spoke after a particularly difficult evening and agreed it was time to help you back into your bed. We would draw a line in the sand upon our return from our annual trip to California. I would be as transparent as possible, and we would hold our ground. And by golly it worked. The day you went back into your bed, I told you what would be happening, and true to form, you responded with angry tears and arms crossed over your chest. Proclamations of I WILL NOT! filled our house. I explained there'd be a prize for which to work, which seemed to help.

As the day progressed, I remind you of what would happen. That night we read books, sang songs, and chatted. You asked if I would be in my bed. I explained that I'd be downstairs with Daddy, but eventually I'd go to bed, just like you were doing, and I'd be on the other side of your door.

You have successfully been in your bed since.

The last night you slept in our bed, I watched you and was drawn to the pulse in your neck. The way the rush of blood, sweeping back and forth, made the skin leap up and down. I tried to remain as present as possible, not projecting what would happen the next night, if it would work or not, but rather just being your mama, next to you. You are a fiery, independent, strong-willed little girl, Lucy. In those moments as my eyes traversed the beautiful contours of your perfect face, I thought about how I could best support you. Not just in that hour, but as you continue to grow into yourself, whatever self evolves. I asked myself how to always remain a reflective mama so as not to stand in your way, to never unintentionally clip those dazzling wings. My girl, light always finds you, and I never want to be the one who casts a shadow.

As I wrote earlier, it's absolutely marvelous to feel needed. There will come a day though, when your need for me will change. But darling - you take the lead. I will follow as you are not mine to hold onto; you are your own. Know though, that I am always here, your soft place to fall, just on the other side of the door.

Love, Mama

Mother's Day #4

Seems as of lately there have been plenty of back-handed jokes along the lines of, “You’re in for it with that one!” The reference to that one is, obviously, my daughter. She is willful, and contrarian, sass-mouthed, and rebellious. We are, without a doubt, neck-deep in the quagmire of preschooler defiance.

And yet, the peanut gallery commentary cautioning us to prepare ourselves for her teenage years really irks me. In fact, while I laugh it off publicly, deep down, I get kind of ragey. This quip of an observation serves no purpose – not a single one. It’s tossed into the universe with a laugh, but falls like rocks on the shoulders of a mama who doesn’t see, like you, a future riotess. Why do the behaviorally appropriate actions of a 3.5 year-old immediately qualify her as someone who will cause so much trouble?

She’s testing the limits. Her identity is stronger now than when she was a baby, and therefor she’s learning to pull away from us in an effort to be independent. It has, for me, been the most difficult stage of her childhood to date (yes, even including the newborn phase). There are opinions to manage, and fears to acknowledge, likes to incorporates, and hard boundaries that rest on our weary backs after long days at work, and house care, and groceries, and cooking, and taking out the garbage, and existing.

It would be INFINITELY easier to concede defeat when she digs in her heals over what X-factor is important right this minute. So much easier. And while there are plenty of times that I weigh the worthiness of the fight (sometimes, many times – it’s not worth it), Mothering isn’t in the dealings of being easy. That became excruciatingly clear on day one. I take my role as her Mother, quite seriously. And like a lot of other mothers out there of strong-willed young ladies, we’ve realized we’re not just raising kids – we’re raising leaders and innovators, scientists and illustrators, chefs and moguls. We’re raising bookworms and senators, teachers and makeup artists, anchors and musicians. We’re raising writers and presidents, Elizabeth Warrens and Angela Davises, Frida Kahlos and Virginia Apgars.

But to get there, we’ve got to get through the riot right now. The arms-crossed, peanut butter sandwich demanding, foot-stomping, screaming tantrum time-outs of the day-to-day. We are traversing the landscape of Joseph Campbell’s well noted Hero’s Journey. The ordinary world is long gone (possibly forever) and we are into the realm of the special world where there are allies and enemies, ordeals and rebirth. Sometimes it’s hard to tell for whom the test is – she or me? My best guess is it’s for us both.

My position in Lucy’s life is not to quell that which fuels her, but rather help her harness that fiery spunk. Encourage her to discover what her legacy will be. Mark Twain is the author of one of my all-time favorite sayings: "The two most important days in your life are the day you were born, and the day you find out why." I can’t tell her what she is meant to do – that’s not my job. It’s her life to live, hers to figure out. I’m her mama, the proverbial wall against which she will bash herself, as well as hopefully, lean against when she’s tired. My singular premium for being her mother, for investing in her well-being, for championing her spirit, is, in simple terms –  to have the privilege of watching her live the life she wants. To see her smile the kind of brightness that radiates from a life fulfilled.

On Sunday I will wake up next to her sweet face (I need to sleep in your bed, mama) as she points to the window and announces that it's morning time, mama, and she will give me a card she made (it's a surprise so she's already told me so). Perhaps there will be a few other acknowledgements, and a sunny day spent together while Big Red grills some steaks. Me and my girl. The girl who made me a mother. 

  

I’m not in for it with this one.

I’m in it, proudly, with her.

Light

This is where you are right now; caught somewhere between the shadows of who and what you're becoming, and the light of what you already know.

And I'm beside you.

In the thick of it all, bobbing and weaving between the pendulum of your emotions.

I'm beside you, and kid, let me tell you, this is punishing. Because in the most demanding way it's not physical, a sore muscle that needs rest; it's unrelenting and arduous, because it's emotional.

Whomever coined the term "terrible twos," clearly had not yet encountered a three year-old. I've become quite familiar with the phrase "threenager," and it seems to fit Lucy perfectly. We've also used, on occasion, Lussolini, as when she gets into a mood, there's no room for democracy, only a vehement dictatorship. I have made many jokes this summer about how I may not survive this year, and while I chuckle, inside, I'm desperate to help us both through this necessary, yet aggravating challenge.

I've reached out to the wiser, more experienced, and they've all returned the same trifecta of sentiments: this is normal, we will survive, and it's only a phase. All three remain close to my heart and nerves, and I repeat them like mantras when the little turd refuses to sit still long enough for me to comb out the rat's nest that has formed in her hair because she refused to let me braid it and keep it out of her face for the day.

Exasperation doesn't even come close.

When researching the psychology and developmental stage of an (almost) three year-old - the stark contrast of emotions, stubbornness, need to feel independent whilst still screaming for mama because the shadows in her room made it scary - I'm not surprised. Watching her deal is one thing, and then experiencing my own reaction is another: one moment rage seethes just beneath my flesh, and the next, I want to wrap her up in my arms and never let her go.

Parenting this little girl strikes me as a parallel to what she's actually undergoing. Maybe that's Nature's way of helping us through this seventh circle of hell? Some twisted sort of empathy?

I reached out to her pediatrician, whom I adore, never judges, and always reassures. I needed some validation from a professional. When I described what was going on, she responded with:

"I wish I could make this all go away, as it is very stressful. Her behavior is normal. 3 year-olds think they can do it all on their own, especially bright articulate children. Remain calm, loving, but firm...often what they need is recognition of their feelings. It's just a phase. The hard part is not knowing the duration. Surely it will go up and down."

It's a carousel, Lucy. We're on your beloved "carouself," going up and down, round and round. Sometimes the view is spectacular, and sometimes it isn't.

While she's navigating the choppy waters of her emotions, the sharp corners of what she's feeling, overwhelmed and unable to cope, I'm sourcing stores of patience at the bottom of what feels like a nearly dry well. Most days I can manage, but there are plenty when I look at her - screaming in my face about needing to watch Wonder Woman right now and wanting to drink chocolate milk from the blue cup - that I turn from her and walk away. Like actually walk away to another room, telling her not to follow me, and give me a minute.

Then she panics. And follows me, screaming louder, no mama, don't be sad, don't go. She knows. She knows and somehow that's reassuring, that in the midst of all this bullshit, she's beginning to understand that actions come with reactions. The other day, after a series of infuriating behaviors, what they were I couldn't even tell you because they were so inconsequential (but there were about thirty billion that happened in rapid fire succession), I started to cry. Full on ugly cry, right there on the couch. Lucy became distraught, and began to cry herself. She hovered over me, wiping my tears, repeating, no mama, please don't cry, don't be sad, I love you so much. And that made me cry harder.

Because I'm her mama and I want to help her understand these big feelings that are inundating her. Because she's growing up, and I'm desperate to sleep well again and not have to go into her room when she cries out for me. Because I'm terrified she won't cry out for me. Because it's all so big and amazing and demanding.

And then I look at these photos taken this morning, dark images of this little person in between worlds, the light catching her profile, and in that moment, I forget all the yuck.

Because I love her so much.

Big Girl Room

My Sweet Lucille,

Today is officially the first day of spring, and tonight, for the first time, you will sleep in your "big white bed." Friday afternoon, we shipped you off to Grandma's so that I could have time to refresh what was once your nursery and transform it into a room befitting of the toddler you have become. Despite the months of scouring Etsy, shopping sales, and snagging pieces for this project, I was, once again, wholly unprepared for the emotional force with which I would be hit.

My mama heart ached Thursday night, the last time I would lay you down in the crib that you've slept in since we brought you home from the hospital. I choked up on the phone with your Dad when I spoke to him Friday evening, letting him know it would only be appropriately ceremonious that he be the one to take down the crib he'd assembled. My friend, Britt, remarked of this milestone that, "one of the greatest gifts of motherhood is the ability to notice the significance of these moments." Rest assured that every single one of these leaves an indelible mark.

The experience of dismantling the nursery I'd spent hours putting together, was cathartic. Necessary, even. Each piece I removed from the walls was purgative. Every hole patched and sanded was a reminder that, "Nothing gold can stay." I teared up. I was present. I allowed myself to feel all the feels. For as much as I want to freeze every stage of your life, to keep you gold for a little while longer, this life of yours, is growing. And with each milestone achieved, my mama heart aches with the realization that you were never really mine. You belong to yourself, and it is simply my incredibly fortunate privilege to be your mother.

This big girl room is a reflection of the marvelous little girl you've become. While you still wear pull-ups at night, for all intents and purposes, you are potty trained. This past fall you visited the dentist for the first time and got an excellent oral bill of health. You continue to love to dance and "twirl." Winter, this time around, was much kinder to you, and it appears as though what everyone told us - that business about immune systems being built in the fires of those first two winters - was right. There were a few ear infections, and a mild case of walking pneumonia, but as a whole, you were generally a healthy kid during these historically trying months. You still LOVE to swing on the swings, play with chalk on the sidewalk, and read. Read, read, read, all day long. Your imagination, Lucille, is incredible. I could listen to the tales you spin, endlessly.

Then there's Wonder Woman. Perhaps this was some of my doing; even so, you've taken on your adoration for the warrior princes of the Amazons. And I'm okay with that - winky smiley face.

Redecorating your room involved using some of the pieces that already existed such as your Wonder Woman tin and clock; I just enhanced what was there. You see, Lucille, you're still the same spirit you were the day you were born, and this refreshed room, reflects that sentiment. Those long feet we all marveled at, are the very same, and now the ones that take you sprinting down hills and leaping off rocks.

When you come home today and see your new room for the first time, I hope you love it. I hope it provides for you the space to play, to explore, to flourish. I hope we stockpile another cache of memories within these walls.

Taking down that crib was a forever goodbye to the final vestige of your babyhood. Because you are my one and only, every first is the last first, and every last is the last. And just when it feels as though my mama heart can't bear the hurt of one more landmark crossed, I'm bolstered by the little voice that is yours, when now, nightly, you must say, I love you, Mommy. Sweet dreams, Mommy.

In a few weeks you will be 2.5 years old.

You are "my best girl," my sugar cookie, my captivating chaos, my queen of all wild things, my beautiful mess. Loving you is a dazzling adventure. Welcome to your big girl room, Lucille.

Santa

My friend, Jen, over at Real Life Parenting, recently wrote about how she buys All The Things for her kids at Christmas. I loved everything she said, and especially her insightful reflection as to how, while this was about her kids and giving them what she felt would be an amazing Christmas morning, it was also about her – about redeeming the early December 25^th mornings that she'd always wished she had.

Lucy is just two this year, but all be damned if she doesn’t already know about “Santa Cwause” and that he brings presents. We were standing outside on our porch the other day when a neighbor walked by with their dog. The neighbor woman asked Lucy if Santa would be coming soon, and my precocious daughter’s reply was simply, “He bring me presents.” The girl has figured it out.

Lately I’ve been hearing chatter surrounding how some folks are choosing not to lie to their children about Santa. And while I firmly believe that everyone has to do what they feel is best for their own family, I’m going to be clear about something: we WILL most definitely be lying to Lucy about Santa.

I have incredibly fond memories of Christmas as a child, the anticipation coursing through my kid body, and the absolute over-the-top excitement on Christmas morning that catapulted me out of bed and shot me like a rocket down the hallway and into the living room, was THE BEST. I loved Christmas so much that around Halloween, I would create one of those chains made out of construction paper and hang it around my room. For hours I’d sit on my bedroom floor, cutting out the strips of colorful paper and stapling the links together. It was always impossibly too long, but I needed a visual, something I could see that would tell me I was getting closer to that hallowed morning. Eventually, when the chain was manageable, sometime in early December, I’d transfer it to the living room where the rest of the family could join me in my jubilation of ripping a link off each night.

I’m fully aware that kids get absorbed by the self-centered craze of presents. More is more, and it’s all me, me, me. I get that. I WAS that. But, I was also excited to find and give presents. I worked hard to make sure I got my parents and brother gifts I thought they would like. I loved picking things out for friends and other family members. So while yes, I could not wait to tear through my own gifts on Christmas morning, I was also excited to give Mom and Dad their gifts, and see their faces as they opened what I’d picked out for them.

There’s also the sentiment that lying to kids about Santa is taking advantage of their naiveté, and possibly even hindering their intellectual development. It’s true, I read it in a Psychology Today article. For reals. I have no evidence other than myself, my husband, family and friends. We were all lied to, and we are all perfectly functioning adults. I promise.

Before I’d had Lucy, I’d come across the idea of the four gift rule: something you want, something you need, something to wear, and something to read. A completely sensible approach to gift giving. A way to keep the expectations in check. For her first and second Christmas, we sort of did follow that guideline, mainly because she was too young to understand. But now, she’s getting it, and folks it’s exciting to be on this end of things. To be the adult creating the magic for your kid. It must have been what my parents felt. Lucy is not getting a billion things this year, but she’s definitely getting more than just something to wear or read. And I CANNOT WAIT. I cannot wait to see her little face when she walks into the living room and she sees what Santa has left her. I cannot wait to see her tear through her presents. The giddiness I feel rivals that of my childhood self.

I get to do this all over again, but through her. Sure, I’ll admit this is self-serving, but dammit, it’s fun.

And because I want her to understand that Christmas is also about the spirit of family and giving, we are going to be starting some new traditions in our household. This year, Lucy and I signed up for Presents for Patients, through which we were matched with an elderly person at a nursing home near where we live, becoming their Secret Santa and surprising them with a couple of gifts. This past weekend, Lucy and I visited Josephine (the Moon’s namesake). It was an incredible experience. This lovely woman, 98 years young, was so happy to have us visit her. She even questioned what she’d done to deserve such gifts. My response to "Miss Josie" was simply that we were in the business of spreading good cheer and perpetuating the holiday spirit. By the end of our stay, Lucy even gave Miss Josie a high-five.

I will teach my daughter the spirit of Christmas and giving.

AND I will lie to her, unabashedly and without guilt or regret.

AND I will hold onto that Santa lie for as long as possible.

Merry Christmas.