dearest daughters & son

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Five Years Old

My Dearest Babybel,

I haven’t written a Monthly Letter in a long time. A lot has changed in the past couple of years. While I don’t write to you as often as I used to, trust me, this slowing down, this breathing, this mindful attention to the present has been a decidedly good thing for all of us.
   
The past couple years have been the most difficult of both of our lives, but also the most wondrous. The transformations we have both experienced, as I grow into myself at the age of twenty-nine-not-yet-thirty, watching you grow into the person you will become, ever becoming—well, it just leaves me in awe. Truly, awesome.



On your fifth birthday, here are five awesome things about you:

1. Your Sensitivity
I have spent most of my life trying to not be sensitive, to not let people see me cry, to not be affected, because I saw my sensitivity as a weakness. I know that there are moments or days when, through bleary eyes, being sensitive seems so hard to bear. But it is your sensitivity that allows you to feel so deeply, to have empathy and compassion for others. It is your sensitivity that allows your little sister to press your buttons, but it also allows you to proclaim—in your own tearful way—when you feel injustice or outrage, when something shakes your core. Stay with that feeling, stay sensitive.

2. Your Thoughtfulness
Since you were developmentally able, you have truly considered the needs and wishes of others, often before your own. Whether a drawing you made for a specific person or a proclamation in the toy aisle that cousin so-and-so would really enjoy that particular toy—you think of others. You think to help set the table without being told. You think about your Daddy while he is away and what you will do when you reunite. But, when I say you are thoughtful, I guess I also mean you are full of thoughts. You are pensive and like to turn things over in your head, giving careful consideration before you speak, before you decide, before you make a choice. This can take anywhere between one and thirty-seven minutes.

3. Your Intelligence
I know every parent says that their child is a genius; I’m not saying that. But, I am saying that you are pretty damn smart. You’ve always been extremely verbal, with vocabulary and grammar that impresses. And, always, you’ve asked questions, even with my long and circuitous answers, i.e. lectures, you continue to ask. Now, you’ve reached the age where you know things; you know things that I don’t know. And you are happy to pay me back in long, circuitous answers.

You know how to do things too. You have spent the past five years watching, observing, examining, taking notes; and the physical world has become your mental playground. You like to know how things work and why, exactly—and I do mean exactly. You have a mind for engineering and I hate to put you in a box, but that’s a pretty good box to be in.

The parents of the 80s and 90s may have done a disservice to our egos by telling us how smart we all were without our even trying. So, I’ll tell you not only how smart you are, but also how you stay so smart: you think hard, you exercise your brain, you color outside the lines, you give yourself a break and then you try again, you solve problems. I’d be remiss to not tell you that you have a great brain and that you can use your brain to do whatever it can imagine.

 

4. Your Creativity
Sure, you make stuff at school, most of which I put in the recycling bin. Your true creativity shows in the rolls and rolls of scotch tape that you’ve used to connect things to other things, in the cardboard boxes you’ve transformed, in the laundry baskets you’ve commandeered, in the yo-yo strings and balloons and sticks and paper towels rolls you’ve rigged together, in the puppet shows and fashion shows and, even, in that annoying voice you use when you make your lovey “talk” [shiver]. Your creativity is limited only by my scotch tape budget—and maybe, your ability to use a stapler, but that will change in due time, my dear.

No matter what you think or what the world says, please believe that your creativity is limitless. Childhood is a fluid time, the time before you solidify into a grumpy-unchanging-see-the-world-and-yourself-through-one-lens-stick-in-the-mud. Please don’t lose your creativity, but more than that don’t lose you ability, your propensity, your desire to see the world and yourself in all the lights, from all the angles, with all the colors of that rainbow drawing hanging on your bedroom door.

5. Your Beauty
Our society focuses too much on beauty. Or, rather, on what it defines as beautiful. We could go on and on about the whole inside and out beauty, but I want you to believe that you are beautiful. Not because society says so, but because I say so and I am your mommy and what I say goes.

You are gorgeous. When you light up, I do. When you laugh, I want time to stand still and to live in your laughter forever. When you have an idea, your eyes get big and you point your index finger skyward before you rocket off to pursue your thoughts. When you cry or yell, I feel your power. You are a presence, a sight to behold, created in God’s image—and maybe mine and your daddy’s. You are a little clumsy, you have what you may come to see as unruly hair and a silly gap between your two front teeth; and all of it is you, wonderful, beautiful you.

I, and many women you know and will never know, have spent too much time wondering, questioning, doubting our beauty. Measuring, weighing, comparing, primping, waxing, painting, covering up. I don’t want you to believe that you are only your beauty, but in case you ever do, see: 1-4 of this list.

I want you to be able to look in the mirror every single day (or better yet have no desire to look in a mirror, but if you must) and I want you to like, love, celebrate what you see. To trace the constellations of your “beauty marks” (as we call them and as Lolopop called them when I asked about my own when I was little.) To see the way you shine when you are happy. To see the wisdom in your own eyes. To see all the sadness, anger, worry, fear, love, lust, joy, elation—to see the fullness of human emotion in your face. To feel your curly hair brush your cheek and the softness of your pink lips upon another’s. To feel the dizzying rush of turning in circles and the still quiet of darkness. To feel the courage in your bones and the strength in your muscles. To feel truth in your gut and peace in your breath. And it is all kinds of ridiculous, crazy something beautiful.

Happy Birthday, Babybel.

Love you no matter what,

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Three Years Old

Dearest Danjo,

I’m not sure what to say about you being three.

It’s ever so slightly better than two?

Sometimes, once in awhile, every third blue moon or so, you are agreeable or obedient or helpful. Whereas this time last year asking you to put your shoes on was an elaborate drama necessitating proper lighting and a full crew, not to mention five days of filming.

Today, you put your shoes on without throwing them across the room. At my head.

You can help set the table. You can operate the television. You can also get water on your own, picking out a cup and its matching top, pushing a stool up to the in-fridge water dispenser. You can put pants on by yourself. And change your own wet diaper (but the eternal question: why can’t you use the potty?)

You can communicate well—a little too well. You often tell me that I’m “sninky” and need to take a “show-ler.” You’re as clear as you have always been about your dislike for something. You spit or harumph or hit (still).

I try to give you words to use instead of your body and boy do you take to those phrases too!

At least once a day you tell me that you don’t like me or your sister or something else. You have been known to say while playing by yourself or pooping in your Pull-Up, “leave me alone! I need privacy!”

I try to remind myself that the traits that make you seem so difficult now will serve you well as an adult—your determination and unmovable concentration, your certainty, your “managerial” skills, your willingness to express yourself in good times and in bad, your passionate desire to stand up for yourself or for something you want, your ease with and ability to read and react to people (otherwise known as manipulation).

I’ve always said that evolution is on your side; that you are lucky you are cute or Else. I dare not say what Else.

The same is true for our new puppy that arrived to us about a week ago and with whom you’ve held a contentious relationship. The two of you take turns being jealous of one another depending on who I’m cuddling, feeding or taking to the potty. And when I’m cooking dinner or doing the dishes you both act up.

I’ve joked that as with children, I can reassure myself that the dog won’t be doing X, Y or Z when he’s two or three years old. Except with you the time frame is elongated. You won’t be spitting, whining, yelling, throwing things, pulling your sister’s hair and pooping in your pants when you’re eighteen. At least, I hope not. #TBD

In a blink of an eye you will be eighteen or so I’ve been told. So, for now I’ll savor your sweet with your sour. Your obstinacy whether applied to putting your shirt on yourself or to your urgent demand to be picked up. Your desire to cuddle at convenient and inconvenient times. Your jokes about underwear and your flirtatious sense of humor, your silly turns of phrase or unique, entertaining logic that wrap adults around your little finger. Your sing-songs that keep your sister up at night and that fill your playtime as I watch you roll trains over couch cushions or comfort your Minnie Mouse lovey. Your taste in music and song requests in the car for “Never Been” (Taylor Swift’s “I Knew You Were Trouble”) or “I Need You Heart” (“I Need Your Love” by Calvin Harris, feat. Ellie Goulding) or a perennial favorite entitled: “NOT THIS SONG, MOMMY! 'NOTHER ONE!”

For every feeling of frustration, impatience or, even, hurt and scorn that you illicit in me in a day (or an hour!), there are, at least, a dozen moments where you make me laugh, feel joy and pride, help me think or see something differently, make me feel loved like only you can.

Danjo, I love you no matter what.

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Four Years Old

Dear Babybel,

Today you are four years old. I can hardly call you a baby anymore. I don't think toddler quite describes you anymore either.

I think you've moved clearly and swiftly in to the "little girl" category.

I could go on for hundreds, thousands of words about how much you've developed this year: by physical, emotional and intellectual leaps and bounds.

But, I'll spare you the growth chart. I think I'll keep it short and sweet this year:

Pumpkin, Muffin, Sweetheart, Honey, My Love,

You are my life. You are my hope, my joy, my frustration, my know-it-all. You are my buddy, my nemesis, my partner, my super hero. You are my slow-poke, my elocutionist, my logic, my grey hair. You are my mess-ups, my do-overs and my I'm-sorry's. You are my philosopher, my engineer, my scientist. You are my artist, my cartwheel, my quiet time, my home.

You are resilient and brave. You are sweet and sour. You are truth and un-truths and technicalities. You are independent and wiped-away-kisses and secretly whispered I love you's. You are conductor and orchestra, you are adagio and piano, and every single note there is. You are sensitive and strong. You are omnipotent and temperate and precocious. You are my Why and How Come? You are my beginning, my end, my eternity and forevermore.

And I love you no matter what.

Love,

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With my commitment to taking care of myself and my mental health--in addition to (or in conjunction with!) taking care of my family--I'm not able to post here as regularly as I would like or as much as I did in the past.

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To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Forty-Five Months Old and To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Twenty-Five Months Old

Dearest Daughters,

I think it’s safe to say that Danjo has mastered the English language. And not just words—nouns and animal noises. You speak in full sentences, just as I had predicted you would. Nay, you communicate in full sentences.

That is to say, when you’re surly or feel somehow slighted by something I or Bel said, you make certain that we dare not look or utter a word in your direction: “don’t talka to me!” Then the “thousand yard stare” Lolopop calls it; "she’s dejected" I like to say.

You quickly come around.

“I nee that! I neeeeee that,” you’ll cry out when Bel has the yellow marker that will clearly enable you to finish your scribbled masterpiece.

“I don wan tha, Mommy,” you’ll declare as you push the carrots off of your plate.

“I wan a-go with you!” you’ll demand slash implore as I put my shoes on to leave. “I wan a go a run too!?” you’ll plead.

“I have a go home,” you explained to Lolopop the other day, as we left Fried Rice Night to come home and take a bath. This was after you told Lola, “I wan a shoda” (soda) or “em an ems” (M&Ms) or a “matchmako” (marshmallow, duh.)

You’ve always known how to communicate your needs, wants, desires, with what little gestures and capacity you had. And words have made things worse, I mean, better! Right?

Then there’s Bel, who has so many words, hundreds of words. You say new words every day. You have entire books memorized.

And, yet, it’s always so difficult for you to express what you’re feeling.

Or even what you’re thinking. Sometimes I grow so impatient waiting for you to finish sentences. And I know it’s not because you don’t have the words or the intellect; it’s because your mind, like mine, is moving at a million miles per hour, figuring and calculating, measuring and judging and sometimes you just don’t know what word should come next.

You’ve grown more physical about expressing your feelings. And that’s just a euphemism for hitting, flailing, scratching, throwing markers, crumpling paper, etc.

And, oh dear me, does it take all my strength and sanity and grown-up-ness to not throw that wad of paper back at you.

We continue with emotional coaching... “I know you’re mad. I know you’re SO mad at me right now. But, it is not okay to throw things,” and I want to say, “GO TO YOUR ROOM FOR A MILLION BILLION YEARS!” but you’re usually already hysterically clambering into your closet to cry and hide and beat me to the punch by punishing me for a million years, first!

Note to Bel: I don’t feel punished by your absence when you’re acting like a—possibly rabid—certainly very angry caged ape of some sort—a poop slinging gorilla or those annoying howler monkeys or those tiny squirrel ones that out of nowhere jump onto the cage right in front of your face and start shaking the enclosure bars like there's no tomorrow.

In terms of this, your monthly letter, I suppose it’s also important to add that you’re becoming quite the manang, or older sister.

When it strikes your fancy, when no one is looking, when it’s most likely that you’ll get your bossy way—you are very kind to your sister. You try to teach Danjo things, like how to draw a rainbow. Or explain things, like why Daddy’s leaving (“because he has to go to work, Yelly; that’s where he does his job”) or the difference between a garbage truck and a street sweeper. You persist in your educational efforts despite the fact that by the time your explanation is done, Danjo has left the room, climbed up to the art/kitchen table and scribbled through a few thousand pieces of paper--which is something she does with about 87% of her waking hours.

Bel, you are also creative. And, of course, I encourage open-ended art and play. So, most of your little backpacks and bags are packed to go on exotic vacations and pirate adventures. You’ve mastered the use of the tape dispenser, so there are a half-dozen pop-up art galleries in our house—behind the door, next to the television, under the piano for your “baby cousin so when she comes she can see it.”

Danjo, you're also a very considerate child. Any time someone coughs or sneezes, you sweetly ask, “you okay, [insert name here]?”

We visited an elder member of our church recently who is confined to a wheel chair. You were okay with Grandma Anna until she started rolling around in her chair. You climbed into my lap, observing and slightly taken aback by the rolling person/contraption. And when she put her oxygen tubes in her nose, I thought you’d certainly run for the hills. But, you didn’t. You just stood there, at a distance, yes. But, then you finally asked, “you okay, Gramma Anna?”

You are a loving creature. Unfortunately, much of your loving gestures come after displays of, hmmm, shall we say very un-loving behavior?

You still hit, mostly your sister. You pull hair, mostly your sister’s. You grab toys, mostly your sister's. Anything to set her off, terrorizing her, often bullying her as she whimpers and is still figuring out how to not be bullied, terrorized, to not let you get a rise out of her.

And it’s my job, when I’m paying attention, to let you know what parts of your behavior are unacceptable and to teach you remorse and how to seek forgiveness—basically to prevent you from turning into a sociopath.

I never have to ask you twice to apologize. But, I think you’re a sociopath anyway. You are willing and eager to give your sister hugs and to say sorry. Like you didn’t just, um hello? PUNCH YOUR SISTER IN THE FACE. What. The. Heck?

You do tend to run pretty hot and cold and hot and cold, within moments, but STILL who does that? Wrongs someone one moment and in the next gives them a hug? Sociopaths, I tell you.

Perhaps, you see the hug-kiss-and-sorry as your hall pass, your free ticket. You know that you can basically do whatever you want to your sister and it’ll be totally fine as long as you pucker up.

Truly, you are a loving child. And funny. I don’t know how to explain it. You just give funny looks. And smile and laugh and it’s contagious. Most of the time I don’t know what I’m laughing at or why, I just know that you make the people around you feel wonderful.

Lolopop gave you your first haircut. And you tell everyone about it, pointing to your head, “Hay-cut! Hay-cut!” Thank God, the baby mullet is gone, but it makes you look like a kid. And it accentuates those mischievous looks. And makes me sad that you’re growing up so quickly, repeating phrases left and right, growing like a weed (of smaller-statured-Malay-descent, but a weed nonetheless)!

And so is Bel. Sometimes your daddy confuses your clothes and squeezes Bel into Danjo’s clothes. And I start to cry because your clothes don’t fit you and you must have grown six inches over night. But, then I check your tags that read 2T and decide I don’t need shot of vodka after all.

Bel, you’ve always been very independent. I recall a phase where I wriggled in my patience pants, waiting everyday for you to put on your own clothes, your own shoes.

Now, you test my patience, because you’ve regressed to “needing” my help to get dressed, to put your shoes on, to brush your teeth. Okay, I should probably be helping you brush your teeth. But, the other stuff. There’s all these things that I know you can do, but you play helpless.

And you’re only three (despite all your concocting of “my next birthday” plans) and you're still my baby. So, I play along.

Meanwhile, Danjo has begun to obediently put her own shoes on when I say we’re leaving soon.

Danjo, you have also begun to assert opinions about your shoes, your clothes, what you consider to be fashionable. You love wearing your “mina” which is what you call your “ballerina” dresses—which are less like ballet apparel and more like anything with a good spin to it.

Now, I don’t generally go around correcting my children’s language and grammar. I know a parent’s corrections have little effect on a child’s acquisition of a language—they learn more from listening to me talk in context, to them or to other adults.

But, in spite of my subtle suggestions, e.g. “You ballerina dress looks lovely!” you still call it your mina. And trains are evermore "choo choos," except for "Thomas a Train" because clearly to be a real train you have to be anthropomorphized, boring and pretentious.  And you call the doorbell a “ding dong.” And at dinner you ask for “bubble guppies” which is really a television show, but which we all understand to be your word for “bubble water” or San Pellegrino.

I guess you both share that in common. Your insistence. Your willfulness. Whether it is Danjo’s passionate conviction that toothbrushes are called “eeeees.” Or whether it is Bel’s always observant, sometimes logical, ever profoundly-held assertions about her own reality, like that when you were two you never cried or that “Mommy, you’ve never been camping,” when, dude, I TOTALLY have, but there's no point in arguing. You both are so self-assured, already so certain that you are living your own lives on your own terms.

And I guess I’ll just sit over here, in the corner, watching, supplying the scotch tape and bubble guppies.

Love you no matter what,

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Two (WHAT THE FRICK FRACK?) Years Old

Dearest Danjo,

We celebrated your birthday this past weekend with close friends and family. It was a honey badger themed party. And if you're a Dearest Reader that thinks comparing my child to [the viral internet] honey badger is totally inappropriate, you've never met Danjo. (Click here for pictures and a post about the party.)

Your real birthday isn't until Monday, but you don't know that. So, for all intents and purposes, you're two already.

How old are you?

"One, one, one, two!" you reply, pointing that finger at me.

I'd like to pretend I don't know where that finger came from, but I know you learned it from me, as I delivered warnings, admonishments, threats through clenched teeth.

And I know now that my attempts at stern discipline were a total waste of time. Because just as soon as you see that box of crayons, that pile of papers, that basket of freshly laundered and folded clothing--just as soon as you calculate your objective and I see it in your eyes--I know in that instant there is nothing to be done. No amount of finger waving will deter you.

You are a determined individual. Though at times it seems less like determination and more like a confidence, unchallenged by the rules of physics and common convention. You were born with no reason to question whether you're able to climb this or get that, including your way.

Your orneriness knows no bounds. You hit and yell. And the emotional literacy coaching we do with Bel has no influence on you. Let the parenting experts balk, Time Outs are the name of the game with you. Partly to redirect you, to remove you from the situation (usually of hitting your sister--sometimes out of anger, sometimes for shits and giggles), and partly to give you a cooling off period.

When you're mad--at me, at your sister, at the Lapu--there is nothing in the world I could say or do--no amount of ice cream or marshmallows--that would help to achieve a mutually desired outcome.

Mad at me for taking a picture, 'NO!"

It goes:

You and Bel are playing with blocks. You are compelled to grab your sister's block, knock over her tower, or just pull her hair for no apparent reason. Or I've told you no, you can't have another band-aid. Or I've done some teensy thing--like looking at you or existing--that sets you off.

"Say sorry for hitting."

"NO!" and the hitting, pushing, pulling continues.

"I know you're mad, but it is not okay to hit. Go to your room until you are ready to say sorry."

"NOOOOOO!"

Whereupon, I pick you up and set you on your bed, kicking and screaming. You wiggle and writhe to the floor as I turn my back on you, leaving the room. And, within milliseconds, you'll start quietly playing, talking to yourself, singing a song.

Floor writhing.

More and more, you come out of the room yourself, muttering, "Sorry, Danielle," (you call Bel but not other little kids by your own name, I guess because you and she are the same category of person by your accounting). And when you don't come out on your own, all it takes is me popping my head in your room and asking you to tell your sister sorry for hitting.

"Okay, Mommy," you reply, suddenly so agreeable.

Repeat. Fifteen times per day.

Thank goodness you're cute and cuddly and a master manipulator--to make up for all the frustration of your opinionated and mercurial personality over the past two years.

As Lolopop has told me, "If it were you throwing food when you were little, I would have stopped and scolded you. But, now I know. You won't be eighteen and throwing your food on the floor."

Easy for a grandparent to say! Nevertheless, the thought of you at eighteen does offer me comfort that things will turn out alright. Either that or you'll still be throwing food on the floor in a Wellesley College dining hall and that's a bed you'll just have to lie in. [Like Leslie the squirrel girl.][If you went to college with me, you'll know what I mean.][If you didn't, then I don't think I can possibly explain what I mean, what awe-inducing sites were beheld of an eighteen year old who ignored all manner of natural and social law.]

It's not all Frustration and Time Outs these days. You and your sister play with each other more and more, for longer periods of time.

You generally adore your older sister. You repeat nearly every word she utters.

You share inside jokes, bursts of giggles erupting from your room or the backseat of the car.

You've taken to speaking in phrases and sentences, something I had predicted about you. Just as with walking, I just knew that you knew how to walk--you simply refused to do it--I just knew that you knew how to talk, you just were going to do so on your own terms.

Most things are on your own terms. You don't do baby-tricks. You don't respond to commands. You don't do repeat-after-mes. It's all in your contract, check the fine print.

Whereas your sister seems so malleable--in a good way--a sponge eager to take in, process and regurgitate information; you are your own person. You are a self-made kid. I imagine you're the type of person who will be exactly you--regardless of where, when and how you are raised.

You have begun to formulate your own original ideas. About what to wear and how things are done. Seriously. You come up with ideas and ways of doing things that I'd never think of, that are unconventional and creative, that still get the job done. In this way, you are much like your daddy, the big idea guy.

Your binoculars had a "Made in China" sticker stuck to the inside of the lens. You opened the utensil drawer, pulled out a make-your-own-popsicle stick that you had never seen before and fiddled away. Like: hey, I do this ish every day. I solve problems like WHAT, yo!

The line between baby and childhood is drawn by your sudden desire to choose your own clothes and not be moved by any amount of my influence.

Eating ribs like a grown up, sort of.

Big girl, big smoothie.

And you're funny too. Like your daddy.

You make funny faces. And do things that make all of us laugh.

You have a million faces. And a million and a half smiles. That all communicate, with perfect nuance, your every thought and emotion.

Of course, there are all the regular advancements in your physical abilities to report this month:

Practicing sneaking out of the house.

Chillin like a villan.

As usual, never did this before, just hit the playground running and up you climbed. NBD.

You don't walk, you run. (You sort of look like a little Bel from behind in this picture, except: the RUNNING!)

I can't believe it. It's been tough and lovely, short and long, tedious and exciting...

But, it really has been two years, hasn't it?

And here we go, another year before us. May God, grace, forgiveness, our family, the threat of imprisonment, child care professionals, Dora the Explorer and marshmallows helps us!

Happy Birthday, Danjo.

I love you no matter what,

I'll Take a Pass

Dearest Daughters,

This week I would ordinarily write Danjo her monthly letter, but since you'll be two next month, I'll save my (your?) material for then. And, trust, you are not lacking for material!

My other excuse for not writing a full blog post is that I have a temporary job. Just a couple days a week to help out a church-family friend. It's nothing exciting. Just office-y stuff that suits my reptoire in a pleasant working environment. Just my speed. And a chance to spread my wings a little.

They get a little cramped sitting, or alternately chasing you, around the house all week.

And the view don't hurt nothin':

So, instead of filling your ears (eyes?)(I'm being very indecisive this morning?)(?) with my words, feast your eyes upon these peeks into our life this week.

 

Bel says she's "building a circle."

 

While playing with blocks one afternoon, Bel started rubbing my hands with blocks and Danjo my feet. So, I did the next logical thing: I gave them lotion. Free hand and foot massages for all!

 

A lazy afternoon in the park with Danjo.

 

 

 

Roasted grapes and brie for me and my honey.

 

 

 

Mommy's smoothies are too loud.

 

 

 

Working in your "backyard." Monkey see, monkey do!

 

 

 

Daddy went to a football game, so we had No Daddy, No Meat, Broccoli and Cheese Pizza, al fresco. Yay!

 

 

A hot day means indoctrination to a local favorite!

Bacon hashbrown sweet potatoes. Nom nom.

 

 

Gettin' our church on!

Bel told me that I always/have to make dinner. So, I told you to think about what food you could make. And you decided on peanut butter sandwiches. Bel makes dinner, FTW! And Mommy just WINS!

 

 

Love,

Mommy

 

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To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Forty-Two Months (Three and a Half Years) Old

Dearest Babybel,

It’s been quite some time since I last wrote to you. And much has come to pass in our lives.

I want to thank you for weathering the storm so well. Even though no one asked you to; even though it’s not your job to be so stoic—to be so unmoved by clearly moving events; it’s your job to be a three year old; to play and to have melt downs and to need your mommy from time to time.

Even though you have a village of people that support you, I know my troubles were not imperceptible to you or to your sister. I apologize if during the past few months—if even for a second—I wasn’t there when you needed me.

But, I think as the years wear on, you’ll come to agree that I’m healthier person today than I was three months ago, and for that, I’m a better mommy. The skills that I’ve been learning and practicing in caring for myself, help me to care for you more mindfully. And I hope that I can give you the tools and coping mechanisms that I didn’t have access to as a child, a teenager and, even, an adult.

Trying not to put you in a box, I’ll say that you tend to take after me on the personality front. Whether that’s DNA or your birth order or how I nurture you is always a mystery. But, I will say, your sister is unlike me in all the ways that you are like me.

Whereas she represses nothing; she feels and expresses her emotion in the moment, moving on to the next equally passionate emotion, you and I tend to struggle with feelings.

I had an epiphany while watching you melt down, your father adding “it’s like she’s having a mini-panic attack,” which at the time felt like a dig, like he was blaming me for your inability to cope. But, stepping back from the moment, I realized it’s not YOU who were imitating ME; rather, it’s ME who still feels like a three year old YOU. Emotionally, I never really grew up.

When I’ve had panic attacks, I’ve been that three year old—feeling emotions that are too big to name or explain, feeling overwhelmed and fighting with myself to calm down, to be strong, to repress these big unnamable emotions. And in the process of fighting so hard against myself, against the tears, the anxiety, the worry, the frustration, the years of long-held emotions, I ended up curled in a heap on the floor, having the ultimate melt down.

So, recently, in addition to encouraging you to just breath (which is often times so much of the equation) when you are blindsided by feelings you don’t yet know how to deal with, I’ve also been encouraging you to name your emotions, through hiccupping, sobbing hysterical breaths.

It may sound like common sense or maybe it sounds like some crunchy parenting crap you’ve read, but as parents, it is far too easy to dismiss your child’s hysteria as being a “baby.” I want you to stop crying as much as you do, as much as the other people in line at the store do, but I also want you to learn positive, constructive ways of dealing with your emotions.

Telling you to “stop,” “to be quiet,” or even meaning well and telling you to “calm down” can be damaging—from where I sit, on the other side of childhood, at least. And I know when I’m having a panic attack, there’s nothing worse than being told or trying to tell oneself to “stop”; that often makes it worse. Because you want so badly for it to stop and it won’t, because you don’t know how.

I’d rather spend the next year crying with you, teaching you to name and accept your big feelings and move on from them, than for you to feel even an inkling of the insanity, depression and darkness that I felt.

Now, I know I can’t protect you from everything. And it’s your life to live. But, I don’t think it will hurt you (or me) to learn to be present with our feelings a little more. Take a little cue from Danjo.

Meanwhile, your sister is another species altogether! And we’ll have to teach her to rein it in a little.

I’m sorry if that all was a bit boring and tedious, but it’s important. Now, onto the fun stuff!

At three and a half years old, you’re thirty-three pounds and thirty-eight inches tall. This is most important because now you can safely ride in a big girl booster seat in the car. And it has not one, but TWO cup holders, so that’s pretty awesome for you.

You’ve shot up like a weed and have become quite the little grown up.

“I know,” is your response to nearly everything, whether you do or not. And I remember saying that as a child too, whether a compulsion or just an adopted turn of phrase, I know not. Luckily, I grew out of it (sort of—I’m still a bit of a know it all) and I hope you will too, because it is annoying. It makes me want to tear my hair out and scream: “YOU DID NOT KNOW BEDTIME IS IN TEN MINUTES! YOU CAN’T TELL TIME! HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY KNOW?! AND ANYWAY, YOU DON’T KNOW, BECAUSE I JUST CHANGED BEDTIME AND NOW IT’S IN FIVE MINUTES!”

To which, I’m sure you’d respond, “I know.”

With three and half years of wisdom also come three and a half years of self-sufficiency. You can take care of yourself in many regards. You get dressed and use the bathroom and brush your teeth all by yourself. I encourage you to take care of yourself and your sister and, in fact, us, your parents. I aim not to helicopter-parent, so if there is something that you can do, I trust you to do it.

Indeed, it may take a little longer or be a little messier, but you are able to and feel the pride of being able to get yourself a glass of water from the fridge water dispenser AND add ice from the freezer; of being able to get yourself a snack from the cupboard; of helping your sister by getting her a fork or water or her lovey. You help with the laundry and I can send you to other rooms to retrieve things for me: a pack of wipes or my glasses or my iPhone. (NOTE: This is not the only reason to have children, but it’s a good one.)

Just this morning, I was doing a short aerobics video while you two were eating your breakfast of yogurt and butter toast at the table.

“DANIELLE IS COVERED IN YOGURT!” you yelled at me, imploring me to do something before you little sister wreaked further havoc.

“Then, get a napkin or towel and help her wipe her face,” I said, jumping-jacks-ing away.

You yelled to me that you couldn’t find a napkin. And I told you to look harder.

“Oh wait! I found a napkin!” you yelled and I could hear the kerfuffle of your sister trying to squirm and run away from your face-wiping attempts.

“Mommy, you need to take her shirt off, it’s all yogurt-y,” you demanded. For this task, I did break push-up form, knowing your sister wouldn’t cooperate long enough for you to get her shirt off. I peeled it off of her in one quick motion and asked you to pick out clothes for her, take off her wet diaper and see if she’d let you help her get dressed.

I caught glimpses of you through your bedroom door as I continued my workout. I heard snippets of your attempts to get your sister to cooperate, namely “you’re a mermaid, Danielle!” coupled with giggling, which I imagine was a happy misfortune of stuffing two feet down one pant leg.

But, ten minutes later, when my video was over, I found your sister jumping on her bed with a clean diaper and pants on. Topless, but what else is new with that girl?

And no one lost an eye!

Yes, my expectations of you are high, but you rise to them. And for every moment that you spend exploring your independence, there is an equally laden moment spent in my lap or spent helping you put your shoes on.

Your hair is beautiful. And looks different every day.

 

You can have a conversation about almost anything, given that you’re so well read ;)

The other day, your grandparents were recounting a story from your Fourth of July vacation with them. The story was about Danielle and how, at first, she yelled “NO!” at Granpa when he opened up the door on her side of the car to take her out, and that even though she warmed to him over the week, they maintained their yes-no ritual each time he opened her door: “It was our little inside joke,” Grandpa noted.

Pleased as punch over the cuteness that is Danielle, the story was told again a bit later, and having sat through the story twice, you were perhaps feeling a little left out. “It was their little inside joke!” we all cooed, chuckling at That Danielle!

And with a swift one-two punch, without missing a beat, you declared: “I have an outside joke!” 

You’re physical confidence is growing as you (I think inspired by your sister) experiment with your own sofa-acrobatics.

You are creative. You found a bunch of rubber bands on the floor from when we put your new beds together. And discovering that the rubber bands made a plucking sound when taut, you strung them between the knobs of your dresser: “Listen, Mommy, I made a guitar!”

I love to listen to you play—by yourself or with your sister. You sing and talk on-and-on. And I hesitate to move. I don’t take a closer look or even try to sneakily record your voice from down the hall. I’m frozen as I listen, trying to decipher your play. It’s like a magic spell that I dare not break. It’s almost sacred, like if I recorded a video, it would steal your soul.

During these moments, you are too precious for words or for a photo to capture.

So, I soak up these moments. For me. For my own memory. Not for instant playback or YouTube. But, for myself, like a little box, I’m filling up with memory bon bons, so I can savor them later, next month or next year or when you’re my age. I’ll let the sound of your sing-songy voice and your laughter melt on my tongue. And the sight of your disheveled costumery and make-shift tents slide down my throat. And the feeling of your joy and enthusiasm fill my stomach, dissolving and spreading through me.

[Someone’s been listening to too much guided imagery.]

I love you no matter what!

 

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To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Twenty-Two Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

Hello there, silly goose!

You and your sister came home from vacation last night. And it was horrendous.

Like horror movie horrendous: tantrums, spinning heads, vomit and, I kid you not, avocado green diarrhea. You. Are. Welcome. For that visual. (You're not eating while you're reading this, right? Oh, you are? Avocado on your salad? Guacamole? Mmmmmm.)

I've written before about the world-wide phenomenon of Ugliness Upon Arrival. It goes that, even, the most well-behaved children, having spent a lovely day (or week) away from their mother, pleasant little civilized humans, out and about in the public eye; these creatures completely deteriorate upon sight of said mother and arrival home. And yesterday afternoon was further proof that I am, indeed, your ugly place.

Your saving grace: bedtime.

And a new day, wherein I squeeze you close, send you off to daycare and sit here, nostalgically recalling your twenty-second month of life, lingering on the good stuff.

Every month I tell you that words don't do you justice. So, instead of writing this month, I made this for you:

To Danjo on the Occassion of Being Twenty-Two Months Old from Lauren Gibbs-Beadle on Vimeo.

 

Love,

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To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Twenty-One Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

You are my baby.


Even though you're nearly two years old. And need to start getting your act together. Before I kick you out of the house, Missy.

You have certainly entered your terrible twos, in this, your second year of life. You hit. And yell untranslated profanities. And throw yourself on the ground. And yell "NO" in response to almost everything and anyone, except your buddy Lolopop. You continue to get into and onto your environment, particularly if the objects around you seem to pose a physical threat or challenge.

You've begun to utter decipherable phrases, mostly to express your desires:

Iwandown = I want down

Iwanwapu = I want water OR I want Lapu

Iwanuppies = I want you to pick me up

Iwango = GET ME OUT OF THIS HOUSE BEFORE I EXPLODE

Idonwanit = I don't want it or DID YOU HEAR ME, LADY? I DON'T WANT IT. DAMMIT!

And a smattering of words, pronunced in a yet to be determined accent, e.g. cao = car, ca = cow, puppa = puppy/dog, et alia.

And when words fail, you do not shy from grabbing my hand, pulling with all your might and yanking me in the direction of your desires, until a series of yes or no questions confirms your six AM demand for jelly beans or your eagerness to go outside for a "run" (because you don't take "walks"--those are for mere mortals).

You are such a people person. You know how to make the people around you laugh, melt and generally cave to your every whim.

You are the child of a million looks. Your face makes expressions that cannot be captured by the English (or any) language; looks that are only done justice by being in your overwhelming presence.

I'm glad to have been forced by the state of my mental health to learn how to live in, be aware of and embrace the present. So I can capture, preserve in my heart, all those looks, all those hand tugs and all those adoring (i.e. manipulative) kisses and squeezes you dole out.

You, as children are wont to do, are growing before my eyes. A-mazing.

Nevertheless, you are still my baby.

And, holding you in the morning when you wake up, snuggling into my side, settling in, filling the empty space around my body where you belong--I soak you up and in. And the thought crosses my mind that you may be my last baby.

In my plan of plans and my mind of minds I was going to have, at least, another child. But, circumstances being as they are, there is a distinct, though not definitive--if I'm learning anything, it's that there is no such thing as defintive--possibility that you are my last baby.

So, we haven't weaned you off of a bottle (which you do prefer). And from time to time, you're afforded the luxuries of being a baby: being rocked to sleep, finding your way into our bed in the middle of the night, your wishes indulged. You're given the benefit of the doubt that you "don't know better" when it's very likely that you do.

Please do stop me when it seems that I'm holding on to something that's no longer there, living in the past. But, for now, I'll embrace the moment, in which, you're only twenty-one months old, not even two, still a baby.

Love you no matter what,

 

 

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To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Nineteen Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

You've been doing this thing. Where you close your eyes. While you do things.

Not things that are ordinarily done with your eyes closed, like sleeping or sneezing. But, things that most people do with their eyes wide open.

Things like walking. Or spinning. Jumping. Eating.

When I talk about you behind your back (as parents are wont to do), with some one who hasn't witnessed your unique presence, I often conclude, that words don't do you justice. That you're the type of person who defies explanation. "You just have to meet her," I say. As if the person behind me in the grocery check-out lane would set aside time to meet my toddler.

I don't know why they wouldn't want to experience ALL of this:

("Helping" install our new pantry cabinets.)

(Partially clothed, as usual. Reading: "BALL BALL BALL BALL BALL!"

(Sweet and lovely and loving. As your schedule and objectives allow.)

(Fearless and resilient. Not even a dog bite can keep you down.)

(The redeeming Snugglebunny in you.)

(Lover of hummus. And other sacred dips.)

(Dedicated. To the task at hand. Whatever it may be, moment to fleeting moment.)

(Danjo The Great)

(There's a cape-wearing, eye-closing adventure around every corner.)

(Conquering the physical world.)

Your development this month feels exponential. Mostly, because your language acquisition is picking up. Or, I'm just coming to terms with the fact that you are not a baby anymore. It feels so all-of-a-sudden.

It's so hard not to compare you to your sister, who at your age was not only correcting other people's grammar, but also who was precociously serious, wise beyond her years and seemed like a grown-up person.

When I asked Bel to stop, she did. And then we had an in-depth discussion about the ramifications of sticking one's finger in an electric outlet, including, but not limited to an exploration of basic electrical concepts. Whereupon, she'd return to her lab to build a rudimentary (her words, not mine) circuit board to control her animatronic stuffed animals.

But, Danjo, you're a baby. You're my baby. You're energetic and relish being silly. And disobedient. You're a scientist like your sister. It's just that: your hypotheses are of a different nature altogether. You test. FOR. SURE. You test gravity and physical limits. The invisible line between the sidewalk and the street. Your parents' agility and lung capacity, as we shout and chase after you. And get our lazy butts off the couch to actually MAKE you stop hitting your sister.

You're my mini-motivational speaker: don't talk about it Mommy, be about it.

I've been betting against time and giving you the benefit of the doubt, but the end of infantilizing you is near. Though I can only understand every tenth word you say, you understand nearly all the words we say. We are entering your terrible twos, the era of timeouts and tantrums and desperate attempts to teach you to conform to the laws of the land.

(The first time I've ever seen you respond to the word "no"... when your Ninong Unkinan told you to stop throwing oranges.)

"What's the point?" I asked Lolopop. I'm pretty sure you think the word "no" is a vote of confidence, words of encouragement or maybe a dare. You have little to no external motivation. You are no people pleaser. You are ruled by your own desires.

"To make sure she doesn't kill herself," was your Lolopop's sage advice.

My parental toolbox is currently packed with guilt, manipulation, shame/embarrassment, bribery and, also, positive reinforcement. I think I need to head back to the hardware store for you.

The answer may be found in some sort of restraint system. Aisle twelve, I think.

Love you no matter what,