"As the moon may adore you
and remain high moon,
The wind may crown your head with leaves
and keep blowing
So I'll stop and I'll watch you
For I love, I love...
And then, be on my way."
- Dar Williams
My tiny and sweet little first-born is five years old.
And as I watch the drops of rain weave their weary paths and die I know that I am like the rain; There before the grace of you go I.
- Simon and Garfunkel
On the eve of her fifth birthday,
A poem to my first-born...
be strong and love to live, know that you are god and god is you
find a tree that your can climb, follow what's to follow through
be happy for all that there is
to be and see and know and feel
you are here because you should be
make your life full fun and real
know that you are safe and lovely
know that you are wise and sure
love is living, so keep loving
laugh and give and laugh some more
when you want to hug or listen
hug and listen, hold and share
say all that your heart is saying
dream in safety, leap in dare
give thanks for all that comes your way
blessed be your joyful heart
know that Life is just beginning
and you're here to help it start
in the shine of your eyes and the prance of your feet
in the brightness of life that you meet
in the wideness and weirdness and
tumblesome steps
take advantage of breathing,
have no regrets
you are amazing
alive, you're a miracle
dance it, believe it
be you and that's all the world can hope for
as long as you stay good
and be the best your heart can be
you are living, so don't worry.
let it go and know
that as your grow the world grows, too
and so it is, and it is so
i watch you and encourage you as you grow.
I love you, Luciya!
Love,
Mama
It finally snowed in Boise. It was thick and soft and crusty. Perfect snow for snowmen and snow angels and knocking drifts off every surface. Luciya, Mila, and I spent a glorious hour outdoors.
For vivacious Luciya (who is an AWESOME four-year-old; suck it 2.5 - 3.5), 2011 can best be summed up in her own words. And I quote (from notes I've taken on my phone throughout the year):
"My foot always asks me, 'Luciya, do you want to go on a sailboat?' and I always say, No."
"Mama, sometimes moons blink."
"I know the truth about everything. I know about planets. Planets are good for eagles to sit on."
"Uzana [her doll] doesn't care for California because she might poop on someone's head. Uzana has lots of chicken songs."
{On her birthday}: "You know what I wished for. I wished for all the people to come over to our house and make it bigger and take all the earth home and the rainbows."
"I'm gonna tell Mirabel a joke. Mirabel, why did all of your tooths shrink and you swallowed them?"
Mirabel: "aaaahhhhgge."
"Wouldn't that be funny if Mirabel swallowed a zebra and her tummy got all big and fat and she diarrhead the zebra out and then the toilet sneezed!"
"Mirabel, once upon a time there was a little girl named Lucy May and she laughed so hard, she made the whole world shake, the end."
"I wish there was a fish that turned into a flower what I could take to a fancy dinner party."
"I wasn't asking for it. I was just wondering if I could get it."
"I want to be a pony acrobat girl when I grow up."
"Next year for Halloween I want to be Toot Barbie."
"Good thing you weren't outside, and sitting on that cat, and eating its fur."
"Do gooses have boogers?"
{A poet and she doesn't even know it!} "My name is Create, and we dance around. When we laugh, we fall to the ground."
{After singing one of her endless made-up songs}: "Mama, do you know what that song is called? It's called The Hopefulness of Joy."
"Do you know I have 100 million talents?"
"I like being a person who is able to talk. If I couldn't talk, then I wouldn't be able to say that I love you. And if I was a cow, then I couldn't say Moo!"
"I'm just gonna say one thing. I love you, Mommy. I love you, Daddy. I love you, Sister. I love myself."
Wistfully... "I like being four."
I like it, too.
I love you, Luciya!
Love,
Mama
I just sent Luciya off on her first playdate with a little neighbor girl. This little girl is as sweet as can be and the two of them play really well together, but we have always hosted her at our house.
She started visiting about a month ago, and will ride her two-wheeler bike (she's SIX) up to our house and ring the doorbell and ask, "Can Luciya play?"
Today the doorbell rang and I said the usual: "Sure, why don't you two go out back and make some mud pies?"
But today the neighbor girl asked if Luciya could come to her house.
Brave gulp.
And I did, I sent her off, on her tricycle, pedaling madly to keep up with her little friend as she careened down the road. I stood at the end of the driveway and watched every pedal, watched Luciya stop at the corner to look for cars, cross, pause, see me down the street, and wave. "Bye, Mommy!"
Why do I feel like crying right now?
Last year, on our annual Labor Day camping trip, I told a joke. It's a joke I've somehow become famous for over the years, one that requires it be told in an English accent and that revolves around its punchline, which is "horsecock."
When I told it last year to the gathered group, the uproarious laughter that pealed through the camp was enough to wake up the early sleepers, and it went over so well that the next morning I was carted to the neighboring rancher's house, just so I could tell it to him.
This year, I was walking Luciya up to our sleeping quarters through the dark woods one night when I heard the group shouting after us from the main cabin. I turned my flashlight around and shouted back down at them: "What?"
John's voice boomed up: "They want you to do horsecock!"
"Later!" I answered. "I'm taking Luciya to bed." And with that, she and I resumed picking our way through the pine needles and dusty knolls to our quarters. After a few steps I heard "Mommy?"
"Yes, sweetie?"
"Can I do horsecock?"
Sigh. It's late, it's dark, let's not get into it. "Yes, honey."
"I get to do horsecock with you?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Mommy, I can do horsecock with you in the morning?"
"Of course, sweetie."
Quiet walking. Her hand in mine. Her breathing becomes ragged and excited. In a quavering voice she says, "Ine so excited to do horsecock!"
Groooooan.
More walking up through the woods. I can practically hear the little wheels turning in her brain. After a few more quiet steps,
"Mommy?"
"Yes, honey?"
"If we see a horsecock, can we get on it?"
Oy. Vey.
"Yes, hon."
More walking, more silent ponderation. Then,
"Mommy?"
"Yes, sweetie."
"What's horsecock?"
"Ask your father."
Mirabel is my snuggler. Well, she's everyone's snuggler. She falls asleep on shoulders and wiggles into elbow crooks. But Luciya has never really been like that. From infancy, she's been joyfully shrieking her independence wishes.
Tonight, though, after I finished reading her the customary three books before bed and turned off the light, Luciya rolled toward me and snuggled. She wordlessly planted her cheek on my shoulder and let her long lashed graze my neck while her soft warm breath ticked my collarbone.
They say the Eskimos have, like, 65 words for love, and I want to know which word they would use to describe the utter okayness that filled the space within her lilac walls, that made a periwinkle butterfly with fat, full wings burst from my chest. If I had a chance to name a Love, I'd call this one Fullbeam. Because I was filled to full with the shine that is the sweetest, lovliest, dearest love. And for those five minutes, with my arm tucked safely around her and my palm against her little ribcage, the world was safe and good.
Then, of course, she rolled away from me, and I got to watch the nightlight glow just barely illuminate the curve of her olive cheek. And I brushed my lips across her forehead and whispered "I love you."
My Fullbeam bringer
Ugh. It’s my child.
No parent wants to admit that his or her child is the rabble-rouser, the attention-demander, the sometimes-shouter, the crazy face.
But here goes.
Hi, my name is Emily and my child is intense.
I’m giving in, and admitting to the universe that Luciya Leona, light of my life, who turned four years old this month, is, often enough, a nutjob. She is deliberate and demanding and vivacious and loud. She stands up in the stroller and pushes to the front of the line and can fall unexpectedly into a wailing mess in under a second. She is sensitive and observant and way too quick on the uptake. She is touchy and just a bit too loving.
Wait, too loving? Is there something wrong with that? Yeah. It’s the whole “boundaries” thing.
A couple months ago, Luciya casually mentioned that a little girl in her preschool didn’t want to sit next to her in circle. My mommy hackles immediately went up. Come again? A child doesn’t want to sit next to my daughter? My bright, funny, sweet, engaging, daughter? Well. Let me just call the teacher about this one.
Turns out, the other child isn’t a snooty snob. She just doesn’t like to be hugged all day long. And my Luciya, as it happens, is the squeezer. You know the one. The one who is always trying to pick up the other kids, or lead them – a bit too strongly – down the lane. The one who scoots a little closer to the other child so their knees touch. The bubble-less child.
In a way, I’m happy about that fact that Luciya is comfortable enough in assuming the world loves her to want to be physically close to everyone. The child is certainly not shy, and she really has yet to meet anyone by whom she feels threatened. So that’s cool. But it also means we’ve been having to have the “keep your hands to yourself” talk. And it’s getting better.
Luciya responds excellently, and often immediately, to positive reinforcement (which – Hi, my name is Emily and my kid makes me want to pull my hair out – I need to get better at). She has a shining beacon in this ever-intriguing, ever-expanding world in her gorgeous preschool teacher, Miss Jen.
Miss Jen takes Luciya and eight other 3 and 4 year olds two mornings a week to a colorful room attached to her house that is called Happy Days. And I literally count my lucky twirling stars that my child gets this experience each week. Luciya emerges from the Happy Days gate each day at 11:30 with a spring in her step and pride on her face. Every day, she produces incredibly adorable, outright impressive works of art that my walls are becoming too scarce to display. Miss Jen is an artist, and her heart and time pour into providing these lucky children impeccable beauty in the materials she provides them, the projects they colorfully create, the quality of supplies they use, and the creative freedom they are encouraged to explore. Luciya is learning jubilantly, feeling proud, and letting her imagination fly.
When Luciya is overly … well, Luciya, Miss Jen positively redirects her, and always makes her feel safe. I feel 100% confident that my child is in a blessed and remarkable setting.
And I wish I could be a three-year-old again, too.
I wish I could be welcomed to a lovely and serene setting each morning with a hug and an “I love you,” only to be guided through some beautiful, happy songs and encouraged to touch and glitter and paint and glue and imagine to my heart’s content. I want to envision leprechauns that I’ll trap in my very own creation and learn my letters through physical movements.
I am so grateful for Happy Days because I know that my ambitious, confident, often reckless child is cradled in beautiful, loving security.
What else would any mother want for her child?
I’m Emily, and one thing I’ve done right as a parent is send my delightful first-born to a great preschool.
Thanks, Miss Jen. My little caterpillar has grown so well with you. Thank you so much for loving her, and for preparing her to soar.
She’ll be the butterfly with the glittery rainbow wings.
Dear Luciya,
You are four years old today.
You are a miracle.
That is all for now.
I love you, Luciya!
Love,
Mama
"Mama, can Mila eat boogers?"
"Mama, do oatmeal and Cinderella rhyme?"
"Mama, do butterflies poo?"
"Yes, they poo."
"Where do they poo? Do they poo in the toilet?"
"Mama, I don't care for geese."
"Why not?"
"Because I only care for ducks."
"Mama, what do "fell in love" mean?"
"It means when two people see each other, and it made their hearts happy, and they fall in love with each other. Like when Daddy fell in love with Mama."
"Mama... when Mirabel was born, I fell in love with her."
Luciya: "Dada, can I have a mint?"
Dada: "No."
Luciya: "Dada, can I pleease have a mint?"
Dada: "No."
Luciya: "Pleeease, Dada?"
Dada: "Luciya, you can ask me a thousand more times, and the answer will still be no."
{Luciya asks two more times.}
Dada: "Luciya, what did I say?"
Luciya: "You said I could ask a founsin times!"
This year, they were a Rainbow Fairy and a pink kitty
Probably the best part of hanging out with a three-and-a-half-year-old all day is the nuggets of unintentional delight that come out of her ridiculously sweet mouth.
Some recent observations/comments from Luciya:
"Mama, why are elbows called elbows?"
"Look at all the big clouds in he sky! That means my next birthday is coming up!"
{In the car, Mirabel asleep in her carseat}:
"Oh, look, Mirabel hears the music while she's sleeping - her little mouth is dancing!"
Mama: "Is your new preschool called Happy Days because you're happy there?"
Luciya: "Yes, and sometimes it's called Sad Days."
M: "Why is it called Sad Days?"
L: "Like when you eat too much food in your tummy and you're sad. So it's called Sad Days sometimes."
"Mama, I have a little beard but I'm not a daddy. It's a girl beard."
Mama: "How was school today?"
Luciyas: "I was sweaty."
M: "Why were you sweaty?"
L: "Because it was hard work."
"You want to hear the song about Mary? Okay. Mary had a wife and she fall down and bonked her head and it was blooding and she needs a hair Band-aid, the end."
Dear Luciya,
Today you are three years and three months old.
In honor of the magic that this trinity of years is brining upon us, let's look at all the ways you're celebrating in triplicate.
Three is the number of parties we had to celebrate your big day. The first was at your preschool, which we're taking a break from for the summer. You brought chocolcate cupcakes (which were RAD, I must say -- the gluten free cake mix was the way to go), wore a purple paper crown, and got to walk around the sun three times. The second party was the quadruple-threat toddler birthday bash, which turned our backyard into a squriming, bouncing, tractor-riding swarm of little bodies, and which was a blast. The thrid party, on the day before your real birthday, was a family dinner in which you received art supplies, clothes, and a purple sleeping bag that's just your size. Needless to say, when you awoke on your actual birthday and I announced the fact you said, "No, it not my birfday, It already happened."
Three is the number of hair lengths you've had since your birthday: Down past your shoulder blades; chopped - for the first time ever - to shoulder-length; and, most recently, bobbed to... a bob. It's a perfectly adorable summertime cut on you. I love it, and so do you.
Three is the number of states of being you have about you:
1) The loving, warm, sweet and helpful, intelligent, huggy day-maker who says and does the cutest things;
2) The incorrigible, irascible, fiery stinkpot pill monster who makes me want to pull my teeth out; and
3) Asleep.
You've grasped the concept of favorites, and if asked your three favorite things are:
1) Animal - Monkey
2) Color - Purple
3) Person - Little Mirabel
Your three favorite questions are Why, Why, and Why. "Why, mama? Why do it do that? Why is it like that?" It can go on forever... and ever... and if I try to turn it around and say, "What do you think?" You'll say "What do I think, Mama?" Stinker.
Three is the average number of outfits you'll go through in a day, especially since when (or IF) you take a nap, you insist on wearing jammies. And when you wake up from said nap, you've selected a new outfit to wear. Your creations are really pretty fabulous, and if they're not necessarily cute, they're very Luciya.
Your three favorite things to do are paint in your art table, jump on your mini trampoline, and roar. I don't know where the "Raaawwwr" came from, but we've had to have some serious talks about appropriate roaring time and place, so now you'll look up sincerely and ask us if you may please go outside and roar (since it's only an outside activity). And we'll say yes, and you'll go outside, and raawwwrr, and then come back in.
Three is how many feet tall you are (plus 2 inches), and you weigh 37 pounds. Your pediatrician warned me about your bmi being too high, but I'm taking that with a grain of salt. You eat very healthily, and rarely have juice or sweets. You are active and happy. You're just... solid. (But, I am more concious of the number of snackies we have in between meals).
Three is the average number of times a day I laugh at or am charmed by the things you say. Some recent favorites:
"When Tutu was born at the hospital you feed Tutu and she started to grow."
"I'm trying to get my hair patches off. I have hair patches like Daddy."
L: "When I was a little girl I live in Heek with my daddy." Mama: "Where's Heek?" L: "You take a left and you take a right and you find Heek!"
"Tuna on the tata! Tuna on the tata!" (After watching a few minutes of Lion King for the first time).
{When viewing the whitewater tumbling down the Payette River}: "It looks like lotion."
And three is the number of bounds it took me to get up the stairs and into your room when you cried painfully out in your sleep a few weeks ago. I laid down beside you, curved you into my arms, and said "Mama's here."
You know it.
I love you, Luciya!
Love,
Mama
Ah, the bright and happy colors of Spring.
Especially when they're accompanied by tutus and pigtatils.
Luciya and her good buddies Grace, Eliza, and Maryn will be celebrating their birthdays (which range from February to July), with a Toddler Birthday BBQ Bash, and we got them together for some invitation photos.
Cuteness overload.
