Dear Lulu,
I’m looking at photos from 2022. I remember thinking, “Wow. You’re no longer a baby…” But it was that funny in-between time we label “toddlerhood.” A place nestled after babyhood and before childhood.
Now you’re officially a little girl. I mean cough my apologies: a BIG girl. Because these days, you’re always bigger or older than any other child you know. “Das how it wohks!” Last month, you were “three and 3 inches.” Two weeks ago, you were “four and a half.” Now you’re somehow “four and four-quarters.” I mean, time flies, but that’s astounding. Then again, this is the age of “I know everything,” so I guess you know.
You are the goofiest goof. You love to be sneaky, to “joke” and tell “fibs.” It feels light-years beyond funny face territory, though that’s also a fun time. I love to watch you and Papa laughing and being silly together. Two peas in a pod in those moments.
You are a love. Bedtimes are beyond precious, filled with hugs and kisses and looking into each other’s eyes.
You’re so smart—and how to speak your mind. A few choice phrases as of late:
I need space! (Good for you, my girl. And, also, you know how to milk that at the least opportune times.)
Stop yelling at me!...I don’t like when you scream at me! It houghts my feelings!...[And, on occasion when I gently nudge you toward the door because I’m at my wit’s end and need to physically encourage you] I don’t like when gwone-ups puhs me!
A true fashion icon, you beat your own style drum without reservations. You recently chose your orange peasant dress over red plaid leggings and asked Papa to add a purple belt around your adorable tummy. On the way out, you added a rainbow straw hat. The photo Papa took of you later, with your red school in the background, is perfection.
Out to lunch one day, two women approach us separately and comment on your attire: mismatched leg warmers and boots, a shirt under a dress…One of them asks you, “Did you choose that outfit yourself?” I reply, “Every day.” She smiles and says, “You’re a good mom.”
And the clips! What a fun phase. You sometimes spend 10 full minutes expertly adorning your hair with up to 40 clips. One bedtime, you run from your bedroom to the bathroom (a very rare occurrence) and run back carrying two combs and your basket of hair accessories. Papa peeks in later, and you tell him, “I brussed my haow so it’s not all snaggly.” You ask me to put your hair in a “side bun ponytail.” When I check on you before heading to bed—as I still do every single night—I see your hair adorned with clips. Fashion-forward even as you sleep.
A friend with a one-and-a-half-year-old recently commented on how strange time is during that stage. When I told him how old you are now, he said, “Wow. I could have sworn she was, like, five by now.”
Babies and toddlers change by the day. “Firsts” occur daily or even multiple times a day. Every new face is like a new door opening, another door to this little person whose brain is growing like a chia pet in those old commercials. Time moves more slowly because so many small “new” moments accrue by the hour.
Your changes aren’t as frequent, and many are subtle. A new word (almost daily). Maybe a new expression here and there, but your face does so many things constantly, and you already have so many facial habits that a new one here and there simply feels like one more color in your bounteous box of crayons.
Emerging skills are just thrilling, however. I remember gasping when you learned how to hold things and move them to your mouth—and the hilarity of trial and error. I get it! That must have felt impossible, but you had that same determined look on your face that you wear today. Such intent focus from the first moment you opened your eyes.
Over the past few months, you’ve learned exciting skills like how to pump on a swing, how to do your inhaler all by yourself—and how to sing somewhat in tune, which is very comforting when your Papa is legitimately tone-deaf.
You love to help make your school lunches, cutting with the kid knives Mema bought for you. You learn how to connect carabiners, and you desperately want to learn how to tie. I watch you trying to tie your shoes and know you’ll master that before too long.
You spend a full 30 minutes trying to tie ribbons on baby Blue Tree’s gift, as patient as I’ve ever seen you. After the longest attempt in the history of threedom, you explode in frustrated tears. Sweet thing. My heart breaks.
You sometimes enjoy practicing letters. You draw a darn good “A” one morning, but exclaim, “It’s not pofectly.” You proceed to erase the horizontal line that extends beyond the frame. Dennis looks at me and says, “That’s you.” Sorry.
As I’ve done for the past three years, I spent the past three months jotting down words and phrases in an attempt to capture pieces of you at this moment in time:
Mama do you want to lie in my nook?…I always take care of Mama…Do you want a kiss? Kisses mean we love eats uzzo. Hugs mean we love eats uzzo.
I want to listen to the whole alvum.
I could howdly believe it!
Could you mind if I dump this out?
Could you imagine if…?
I don’t like bein insteruppted.
I’m done Mama. I’m weally twuly love done.
Pops skittle/Popsvigguls (popsicle)
(me petting Lily) I don’t think she rexixnize you…
The little bafroom is tewwible…Oh, I was dust mistaken.
Wally be at Vewonica’s on Foursdays!
Nake you fo that lovely kiss.
Mama, do you need me to hand you your book? Heo!
Goodnight! I love you wiz a howt! [heart]
What the heck?!
He’s topposed to be heow.
Dehw are loads of people ow at the Farmer’s Maowket!
My favohrit seeng is to poop and watch tv all day.
(not getting in the car when a neighbor was talking to me and Papa) I just wanted to hear the whole story.
Is that believable?
I dust wealized…
I absolutely…
I have sweat beets! (Me: Sweat beads?) No! Sweat beets.
(when grown-ups weren’t listening to you) Listen to my wohd!
If they don’t have food I like, that would be a bummo.
Das a bummo.
(You get teary when I start talking about losing teeth. Oops.) I don’t want my teef to fall out!…The wohds you said made me sad.
It sounds like my legs own’t wohkin because they’re so ti-owed…My neck is ti-owed also.
(Me: This reminds me of the song Moonshadow! Do yo want to listen to Moonshadow?) No. Cause it’s makin me bohd [bored] wight now.
(drawing together) Let’s dwaw Hot Pot wight now, k?
Ow you invisible ta…[available to]
(Seeing apple slicer at home) We have apple cuddin prep at scoo-oo!
These pants are too long! Cuz everywhere I step, they step.
School is bohwin.
I prefo (prefer) to…
If you touch this skunk’s butt, he stinks you.
(Me: I don’t think you’re allowed to bring stuffed animal friends to school.) Well, Sassa and Anna bwoght stuffed animals to scoo-oh. Das da pwoblem.
A few fun words:
sewiously
samwits: sandwich
canvaloupe (cantaloupe); Mama! Yo not bein vewy kind to me today. (Lost my cool)
fezzo: feather
smoovie: smoothie
stwon: strong
muzzo: mother (though I think we’ve moved to “mutho” now, sadness)
duvvelyou: W
soet: short
tzinjo: ginger
scoo-oh: school
galoon: lagoon
roo-oh: rule
pinecone: porcupine
misk: mix
encept: except
tsickin feengos
You are a clever sasspot.
Me: Can you pick up this wrapper you threw on the floor?
You: I’m geddin my PJs on.
Me: When you’re done?
You: When I’m done geddin my PJs on, I’m not available because I’m geddin in my bed.
Me: Well, we can’t do that today, but we can do it tomorrow.
You: Well, I won’t want to [insert activity here] tomorrow!
(We wait for you to get out of the car) I dust need a minute.
Mama, I know evewysing yo tellin me!
That’s IT! I’m DONE!
But the thoughtfulness is often there:
I like it but I don’t care for it.
(When you sense my frustration after some serious sass) I like you and I love you.
There’s lots of imaginative play, often taking care of and talking to your babies of furry friends.
To furry friends: Do you need to go in your quiet cohno?…Let’s talk about this. That’s not how we play with our fwends.
You’re discovering anatomy.
I have a bagina.
I want a tunis. [penis]
Mama, why do mine [nipples] look different dan yohs?
You can basically count to 50, with the exception of a few numbers like 20. For the longest time, I thought you said “14” twice. Then I realized that “13” and “14” sound exactly the same—as do “30” and “40.”
You often fill time with singing, and you learn a surprising amount of lyrics. You can sing the entire introduction to Feed the Birds. I introduced you to Castle on a Cloud (Les Mis), and you almost know the entire song and love to sing it together. (When I sing it to you at bedtime, you stare into my eyes and I lose myself.)
You often ask me to sing songs you’ve never heard before, so, of course, I go with old musical songs. You love It Might As Well Be Spring (State Fair), and the version Alexa plays is Andy Williams. I check on you a few minutes later and Alexa has moved on to The Very Thought of You. Those moments are like a dream. “Sing enchanted..” (Some Enchanted Evening)
Popular bedtime songs include We Are One (Lion King II), The Lonely Goatherd (Sound of Music), multiple songs from Mary Poppins, and, more recently, Wendy (Peter Pan).
Ten Minutes Ago has been your ultimate musical obsession for months now. It’s your go-to bedtime song and you sing it all the time, often on a loop. I cried inside the first time we sang the entire song together.
We finally watch the Lesley Ann Warren Cinderella together, a window into my childhood, a moment I’d dreamed of sharing. Now you request the Lesley Ann Warren version. Of course you do.
Summer is full, as always. Picnics thrill you. We pick fruit—strawberries, raspberries, blackcaps, blueberries. Somehow they’re all in season at the same time or in close succession, thanks to the weather this year.
We get a small playground for you, and you love to run out to it freely. Such a simple childhood joy that I’m so thankful for.
We host two bands for Porchfest and you spend most of the day running around with your friends, wanting nothing to do me. Miss Independent.
We visit Zaza in NYC, a girls’ trip. You’re wonderful on our first long bus ride, asking continually, “Are we almost there?” At one point, I shift from “Not yet…” to “We’re getting closer!” and your face radiates with excited light. We trudge through the heat wave to spend time on Central Park playgrounds just for you. We take a ferry (somehow your first boat ride out of my belly!) to DUMBO: carousel, lunch, Museum of Transit…On the long subway ride back, you pass out in Zaza’s arms.
We visit Abigail and Michael, where you, Michael, and their dog Doug have a “snow party” with the stuffing Doug rips from one of his toys. We have brunch with Amanda. And we have two sushi “TV picnic dinner nights” at Zaza’s—your favorite place in the city. Our bus breaks down on the way home, and of course you’re sick as of that day, but you’re a trooper as always.
You get double pink eye, which is one of your most pathetic illnesses to date. We spend about a week holding a wet washcloth over your eyes in the morning to unglue your eyelids. One morning, I hear you call to me and run into your room. You’re standing facing the corner, your tall lamp knocked over in your unsuccessful attempt to walk blindly to your door. After the wet washcloth technique, you exclaim with joy, “I knew you guys would chee-ew up when my eyes wo open!”
We try to have lake time whenever possible at Lodi Point and Taughannock. You’re more interested in the water this year, and floats are big. I’m not always your favorite person these days (even though I know you’re just being three), and my heart leaps every time you want me to go in the water with you.
We set off small fireworks and spend the night at the Wolff house on July 4th to see fireflies. We plan to keep you up until the fireflies come out, but after dessert you proclaim, “Bedtime! Bedtime for Bonzos!” So, we wake you up later. The fireflies underwhelm you, but your face lights up when we send a few paper lanterns into the sky.
Our edelweiss blooms. One tall, beautiful flower just for you.
You start a weekly music time with “upstairs Amy,” singing songs in her apartment, outside on walks, or at the creek. Such a magical new activity.
We try a four-week “creative movement” class. The first week, you bravely run and leap across the floor by yourself. The following two weeks, you and Gordie spend the entire class sitting or standing like lost souls.
You’re going through a Shona phase right now, always wanting to be next to Shona (and for me to go away). Gordie doesn’t like to share his mom, which makes dance class…interesting.
One day, in the car, you tell me, “I don’t want you and Papa to be my mom and dad.” I’m not sure what to say. You ask, “How do you feel?” I say, “Well, I’m a little sad…” After a minute, I ask who you want to be your mom and dad. You pause and reply, “I want Shona to be my mom.” I have to admit: you have good taste. “Well, Shona is very kind and gentle…” I wax poetic about Shona, and it ends up being a very sweet, poignant moment.
Gordie is the closest thing you have to a sibling. You send each other song videos, you miss each other if it has been a long time since your last viewing. You spend Friday mornings together with Mema and navigate big emotions—and sharing.
Emotions are hard. One of your current coping mechanisms when you don’t like what one of us says is asking for someone else. Mema says you often want me at her house. With me, you exclaim, “I want Mema!” when I do or say something that upsets you.
We see Make Way for Ducklings at Hangar Theatre, and you sit there silently with a straight face the entire time. Zaza, Mema, and I can’t stop laughing as the actors desperately try to engage with you (we sit in the front row), and you give them absolutely nothing to work with. They should all win awards for effort. Later, you say that you “kind of liked it, but not really.” Fair. Still, you sometimes surprise me with what captures your attention.
We celebrate Ava, Casey, and baby Blue Tree. Chandra even makes a “blue tree” by painting a giant tree branch blue. People hang wishes and words of love on it. One night, you say, “I want to hold a baby. A real baby that can’t walk yet.” I tell you that baby Blue Tree will likely be the first tiny baby you hold. Of course.
You are always a nurturer. You echo nearly everything Mema says to Lily or Gordie in the sweetest tone. “Here, Lils! Here’s some waddo!”...”Do you want to take off yo shoes, Godie?”
I watch you gravitate toward younger children. At a birthday party, you connect with the youngest child there, someone we’ve never met, helping her climb up steps and running to the bottom of the slide to “catch” her.
Part of me will always regret not giving you the joy of being an older sibling. It is so ingrained in you, my little mama. But you are surrounded by people to help care for. You will find a way to hold that instinct in your core and breathe it into however you walk through your beautiful life.
I love you so.
Love,
Your Mama
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