Dear Luciya,
You are going to be three years old next month, and I figure that since I have totally slacked on ANY eLLe posts this year, you're due for some shout-outs.
Ha! Shout-outs. Like how I did that? Of course, you do it much better. Ol' Screamy McYelper the Demanding Foot Stomper. Ol' I-Can-Do-It-All-By-Myself. Ol' I-Need-A-Hug-I-Need-A-Kiss-I-Need-One-Sip-Of-Water-Before-I-Sing-Myself-To-Sleep.
Ol' I-Want-To-Give-My-Baby-Sisser-Hugs-And-Tisses. Because that is the big stuff, the huge love that's filling this home to the rafters lately (do we have rafters? No, I guess not). You are a REMARKABLE big sister, just let me get that out of the way right off the bat. You're delightful with "Little Mirabel" as you call her. You're helpful and sweet and gentle and soft. You're not quiet, necessarily, but I think that just comes with the territory: your voice is decibly on par with the neighbor's rototiller that we're using to turn up the garden we hope to nourish this summer.
But I digress. Sisters. You literally inform just about every stranger we meet: "I have a baby sisser. My baby sisser name Little Mirabel. Ina big sisser." You are so proud. And I am so proud of you. You are a big, shining, warm, wonderful little person, and after the worst month your father and I have ever had with you (ahem, February, ugh), you finally seem to be settling more comfortably into your big sisser body (all 36 pounds of it!), and my nerves aren't constantly threatening to go on strike 'cause this baloney ain't even worth it any more.
Hoo, February was tough, child. I'll lay it out there: you were a monster. A terror, threat level code orange, an embarrassment, a ticking time bomb. Screaming, flailing, disobeying, being naughty, pushing at school. The pusher at school! My child. My lovely, confident, plucky little Maui-born nature babe -- the pusher. I can't tell you how hard that was on me.
And then, your dada and I started going to therapy. And then, warm sun came out. And then, you were better. And Miss Lynn started giving consistent "good day" reports. And there you were, my sensitive little soul: you were back.
Thank God.
Because when things are not well with you my heart is sodden. Because I love you fiercely. Your happiness is truly my penultimate goal, and if your sensitivity to the qualms around you means that I have to rediscover my own peace, then consider it found. I send you all my thoughts of calm, and strength, and that unbridled giggling happiness that makes the world a better place. May you be the embodiment of Joy for as long as I can help it.
I realized I totally miss posting any January haikus a couple months ago. You'll have to forgive me; I was kind of in the NICU when your 33rd month came along. But that's not to say the haikus weren't writing themselves in my brain. Ahem:
You laugh in your sleep
Late-night guttural chuckles
What is so funny?
Mirabel is here
Wond'ring why you can't see her
You're a big sister!
Sweet sick little girl
"My voice went bye-bye" you say
"But then it came back."
Say "All by myself,"
And, by Jove, that's how it's done
Miss Independent
Did I say Independent? I'm beginning to think that's an understatement. In the past week you have washed your own hair with shampoo, clipped your own toenails, and applied a Band-aid to your scraped knee. And you did these things very well - like, better than I would imagine a not-quite-three-year-old would do. You smoothly got the gauzy pad of the Band-aid on the owie. You maneuvered the nail clippers and trimmed your big toenails just right. Sounds awesome, but I'm not really bragging. I sometimes wish I could still pick out and put on your clothes for you. I sometimes wish you still needed help getting in and out of the bathtub.
Ol' I-Want-To-Give-My-Baby-Sisser-Hugs-And-Tisses. Because that is the big stuff, the huge love that's filling this home to the rafters lately (do we have rafters? No, I guess not). You are a REMARKABLE big sister, just let me get that out of the way right off the bat. You're delightful with "Little Mirabel" as you call her. You're helpful and sweet and gentle and soft. You're not quiet, necessarily, but I think that just comes with the territory: your voice is decibly on par with the neighbor's rototiller that we're using to turn up the garden we hope to nourish this summer.
But I digress. Sisters. You literally inform just about every stranger we meet: "I have a baby sisser. My baby sisser name Little Mirabel. Ina big sisser." You are so proud. And I am so proud of you. You are a big, shining, warm, wonderful little person, and after the worst month your father and I have ever had with you (ahem, February, ugh), you finally seem to be settling more comfortably into your big sisser body (all 36 pounds of it!), and my nerves aren't constantly threatening to go on strike 'cause this baloney ain't even worth it any more.
Hoo, February was tough, child. I'll lay it out there: you were a monster. A terror, threat level code orange, an embarrassment, a ticking time bomb. Screaming, flailing, disobeying, being naughty, pushing at school. The pusher at school! My child. My lovely, confident, plucky little Maui-born nature babe -- the pusher. I can't tell you how hard that was on me.
And then, your dada and I started going to therapy. And then, warm sun came out. And then, you were better. And Miss Lynn started giving consistent "good day" reports. And there you were, my sensitive little soul: you were back.
Thank God.
Because when things are not well with you my heart is sodden. Because I love you fiercely. Your happiness is truly my penultimate goal, and if your sensitivity to the qualms around you means that I have to rediscover my own peace, then consider it found. I send you all my thoughts of calm, and strength, and that unbridled giggling happiness that makes the world a better place. May you be the embodiment of Joy for as long as I can help it.
I realized I totally miss posting any January haikus a couple months ago. You'll have to forgive me; I was kind of in the NICU when your 33rd month came along. But that's not to say the haikus weren't writing themselves in my brain. Ahem:
You laugh in your sleep
Late-night guttural chuckles
What is so funny?
Mirabel is here
Wond'ring why you can't see her
You're a big sister!
Sweet sick little girl
"My voice went bye-bye" you say
"But then it came back."
Say "All by myself,"
And, by Jove, that's how it's done
Miss Independent
My darling Luciya, it is such a pleasure to watch you grow and love to live. It is so fun to have full-on conversations with you and to try and remember all the touching and hilarious things you say (Lately, we've noticed you can't say the "sp-" sound at the beginning of words, so "spoon" is "foon" and you announce that you're "phecial an' important" - thanks to a statement in one of your favorite books, It's Okay to be Different.)
You are such a special and important little person, such a wonderful way to start a little girl, and on such a delightful path of promise.
I love you, Luciya!
Love,
Mama
1 comments:
You were a month shy of three years old when I wrote in my journal, Feb. 23, 1981: "Emily is independent, often frustrated, extremely bright and can drive me crazy with her constant demands." Sounds like our fabulous Luciya is a lot like her mother. I love you both!
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