Nine

Dear Ittybit,

At 7:15 this evening the house shook with cheers. Your brother, your father, an aunt, a grandfather, two grandmothers and I rattled the windows.

You didn't mind that we were fully one minute late. You knew we meant no harm. After all, we're not clock watchers.

Nor did you mind that you received only three gifts; though your grandfather had to be talked out of making a 40-minute round-trip to retrieve his overlooked packages.

The party will always be your gift.

The bringing of people together, even when they sometimes feel so very far apart, has always been your gift to us.

After dinner your Ama Linda told you the story of your birth as she experienced it -- in Minnesota, after excusing herself from giving a college lecture for a moment to take the important call.

"When I returned to the room all thirty college students we're just silent, waiting to know. ...

Her voice recreating the emotion she felt nine years ago as if it were yesterday: 'It's a girl!!!'"

We circled the table, regaling you with memories from the days before your memories attached.

Neither your father nor I could remember what the world was like outside on the day you was born.

I asked him if it had been snowing ... like it had been the day before. He didn't know.

He told you about how proud he was as the nurses made footprints. Not of what he'd made in you but in the mess you made of yourself the moment they loosened their grip and you inked each and every clean surface around you, including the hard to reach bits.

Definitely his child.

I told you how shocked I felt, sitting in the examining room nearly 10 months earlier as the doctor worked her magic with a plastic wheel and calculated your arrival a few days before Christmas.

A Christmas birthday? Only four weeks in and already I'm a horrible mom.

You didn't understand the joke. Your birthday has always made you happy ... Christmas 'round the corner or not. Extra presents or not. People singing off key and completely inaccurately about your domicile.

You do NOT live in a zoo.

Not literally, anyway.

The stories kept flowing.

The first time I saw you. The first time I held you. The first time I stared at your face from daybreak until dark. The first time my mother grabbed you away, saying "give me that baby." She never wanted to let you go.

"I had my best Christmas EVER that year!" I told you -- a declaration you couldn't quite believe.

"What did you get?"

"I got to be a mom."

'Surely we can do better ... '

I hadn't expected to bring my kids to school today. I'd planned to send them off with the bus just like any other Monday.

But it had been a long weekend filled with winter walks, neighborhood parties and a constant albeit quiet grief.  I wasn't surprised that we woke up late. I wanted to make sure they had breakfast ... and I wanted to make sure I didn't spend the last few minutes of our time together today yelling at them to get ready lest they miss their ride.

Not today. 

Today, I wanted to be mindful of the one thing I, and everyone on this planet, can do right now to begin the process of change -- we can spread kindness.  We can smile at each other more; we can kiss our kids and hug them just because they are amazing; and we can help someone who needs us. Especially a stranger.

Right now our schools need us.

And our kids need their schools. Because schools are the places where community truly becomes real to our children. 

I didn't hug my kids as they ran to their classrooms. I didn't follow them and speak to their teachers. I know them well, and know my kids are in excellent hands.

 I did speak to the former principal, though, a woman who is so devoted to the school that she has remained active there despite having to step down from her position as she battles lung cancer. I hugged her and told her I appreciated the time she took trying to comfort me.

As I left the building and headed to my car I was thankful for our president's words:

"There’s only one thing we can be sure of, and that is the love that we have — for our children, for our families, for each other.  The warmth of a small child’s embrace — that is true.  The memories we have of them, the joy that they bring, the wonder we see through their eyes, that fierce and boundless love we feel for them, a love that takes us out of ourselves, and binds us to something larger — we know that’s what matters.  We know we’re always doing right when we’re taking care of them, when we’re teaching them well, when we’re showing acts of kindness.  We don’t go wrong when we do that."

Kindness is what we need. Kindness and community.

Wink and a promise

Dear Ittybit,

You go back to school with fewer teachers, more students in your class and a political mindset that views public education as an entitlement (the pejorative definition). Yet, I am reminded you are still at an advantage. And we need to be grateful.

We also need to be present.

Love,

Mommy

Love and other vegetables

Dear Champ,

One of your teachers at the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children pulled me aside today and told me this story:

She'd been trying to drum up enthusiasm for vegetables among the ranks, asking each kid about their favorites and hoping to plant a seed that might just grow into some leafy green love.

"I love cucumbers. Don't you love cucumbers?"

When she got to you, you turned the question back: "Do you like children?"

"Of course I like children," was her reply. "Just not in my salad."

Roll on the floor laughing, she said, was your response.

I believe her.

I also believe you might rather eat children than salad.

Love and "No, there's no Chocolate until AFTER you eat your dinner,"

Mommy

I hope you get your dreams

Girl, put your records on, tell me your favorite song

You go ahead, let your hair down

Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams,

Just go ahead, let your hair down.


- Corine Bailey Rae

More than it seems

Dear Ittybit,

I know I should feel embarrassed by the excess.

More than two dozen people invited to a two-hour birthday party.

At Christmas time, no less.

But I don't feel embarrassed.

The much reviled gift bag is in full production mode at our house.

I understand the hatred for such things. Before I was a child, I've come to understand, the party WAS the present.

When I was growing up a few kids would go home with prizes, which was probably how all this excess was born. Everyone, as they start having children of their own, remembers feeling like a loser as they left party after party empty handed.

And here we are - adults, a whole lifetime later - trying to compensate for all the mild disappointments with small bag of trinkets to be handed out to the children we sugared up and are sending home with their parents.

We rent places and spaces, trying to create memories that will last until next year when we'll try to top ourselves.

It sounds so much more of an indictment of modern life that it seems. "It's only money" is the polar opposite of "it's such a waste." Schools of thought that can't meet in the middle and play nice.

It's social/economic position vs. social/economic position: The haves vs. the have nots.

Either way, all that angst and anticipation gets channeled into a plastic and paper assembly line. And things that don't really matter at all -- things that will undoubtedly wind up at the bottom of a drawer -- end up meaning more than they should.

... Except that they do, somehow, matter in the moment we do them. In the minutes we spend planning, shopping and producing we are working together. We are sharing a moment.

I had begun to think it didn't matter that it doesn't matter.

But I know it does matter.

The thing we lose by being so caught up in the details is the big picture; this celebration birth and belonging and life gets lost in the minutia of the minute.

More than seven years ago, when I sat on an examining table in a paper robe listening to the doctor telling me I would have a Christmas baby ... I felt sorry for her.

I thought she would forgotten in the hoopla that is the holidays.

I had no way of understanding what a gift I would get that Christmas when I met her. I didn't have the forethought, and still don't, to see how Christmas would be forever changed by you.

Each year brings a new revelation.

So as we ready for the day you will turn seven, I want to tell you to just enjoy this moment for all that it is and all it could be.

And I'll try to do the same.

Love and just-about-birthday kisses,

Mommy

Shadowy

Dear Ittybit,


Some day you will want me to go away.

Far, far away.

You may even wish me dead.

You won't mean it, but it will still hurt.



One day ...

Maybe when I'm not around ...

You'll remember saying it and wish you hadn't.



So I'm telling you now ...



Before I get lost in whatever it is I probably should be doing later ...

After you've stopped bouncing around in front of me ...

Begging for my undivided attention ...



That whatever it was you said didn't hurt my feelings ...

As much as it woke them up.


More minutes ...

To work ...

To play ...

To be alone ...

To be together ...

Will seem so trivial where there are no minutes left.




Love and better balance,


Mommy

Questions and Answers

Dear Ittybit,

I know I seemed frustrated with you as you fidgeted in the dentist's chair.

How many times had the hygienist asked you to "keep your hands on your tummy?"

Too many to count. I ended up sitting by your side, holding your hands.

Just. Sit. Still.

Less. Talking.

More. Listening.

Words spoken over and over again, like a broken record.

When it was the dentist's turn to probe and poke, though, I have to admit an admiration for your brave and inquisitive ways.

As the dentist examined your teeth she dictated her findings to her assistant, who noted them on a computerized chart.

You listened as she recited numbers ... then letters ... and a declaration of healthy without comment.

However the word "erupted" concerned you when she noted it for the record.

"ERUPTED! What does that mean?"

"It means your tooth is growing in, honey," the dentist explained and continued on with the examination.

"Malocclusion? That sounds bad!"

"That just means your teeth are a little misaligned."

Some more words I don't even understand make their way to the computer, but don't compute with either of us.

I am relieved when she immediately asks for an explanation:

"Oh, that' just means you have a little freckle on your tooth. It's nothing to worry about."

It's so impressive to see a child of mine ask such questions. Especially since I find myself to be the deer in the headlights when it comes to such things.

I go to Dr. Google and make myself crazy. You go to the source and get immediate understanding.

I hope you never outgrow the bravery it takes to admit you don't know something. I hope you never grow into fearing the answers.


With love and savings for orthodontics,

Mommy

Viva La Evolution ...

Dear Champ,

It wasn't until you stood on the front porch, headed for the storm door, that I realized what was happening: "My baby was going to school."

My baby ...

Going to school ...

The Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children.

It's a place with a lot of history for me.

The place I'd attended as a tot.

It's even a place I lived (in the tenant apartment) for a brief time in my 20s.

The place you'd been toted as an infant while your sister was a student.

You wasn't nervous in the least. We'd been talking about it all summer. You'd been there before. You remembered the rice table, and cleaved to it like a long lost friend.

I knew you would be fine without me. You're not the type to cling and demand my attention. You are a play-by-yourself kind of guy.

It's the play-by-yourself feature that makes me worry about how well you will eventually play with others. There's a part of me that hovers, knowing that it is possible for the fierce in your nature to come out.

Three other students join you at the table. You are the smallest, though not the youngest. I notice your shoulders sink down even lower and hear the smallest little growl. You want the table all to yourself, but you know school isn't really your kingdom just yet.

No one else could hear your frustration.

"Sharing," I bend to whisper in your ear, "is part of being in school. You will find that playing is much more fun when you share with friends."

Soon the table was crowded with children. You kept playing side by side.

I told you I was going to work, and you stretched to kiss me. "Bye, Mom."

"Is he going to be OK with you leaving," asked his teacher, I headed for the door.

"Oh, he's already kissed me goodbye," I told her. "He's all yours now."

But you're still my baby. No matter how tall you grow.


Love and happy learning,

Mommy

Open mind

Dear Ittybit,

In a thousand years, I would never have picked these shoes and run with them.

But you are not me.

And that's a good thing, I think.

Unlike me, you are attracted to things that shine and sparkle. Things that are pretty and dainty and flouncy and feminine.

If anyone had said those things about me I would have been insulted.

But you ... You see all that is beautiful in the simplicity of something lovely.

Something I would have overlooked.

I am reminded how different we are every time I turn on the radio and scan for songs. I always stop for the gritty rock and punk icons that lit up my world. You want to push on for the digital effects and rolling harmonies of today's happy pop songs.

It occurs to me that in the grand scheme of things, we are what we seek.

So I push on. And I listen. And I remind myself that it's never too late to learn new things.

Love,

Mommy

Cheek to cheek

Dear Ittybit,

You don't mind hanging out with dad, but you prefer activities that don't involve grease and grime.

You're looking more and more grown up lately.

You've started asking me to check your face for remnants of food or other smudges. "Is anything on my face? Are you sure?"

The fight over combing/washing/taming your hair is over. You find the brush and you sit as still as I wrestle snarls and snags. I imagine soon you won't need my help to make your hair silky and smooth.

How many times had you gone to school last year with errant hair and a breakfast-marked face?

I didn't fight you to look presentable. We aren't really presentable people.

But you are noticing now. Determining not to look disheveled.

I see you studying your face in the mirror. Looking for imperfections.

People are starting to tell me that you and I look a lot alike. She is like your Mini Me, they say.

I recoil a little, and tell them I don't see it. I remember thinking how I reacted when I was a teenager and people told me I looked like my mother. I didn't want to see it. I was NOT my mother.

I know that in too few years, she won't smile when someone makes the comparison.

But it's impossible not to feel humbled inside. And it puts the flaws you hold as self evident when someone tells you your daughter, who is beautiful, looks just like you.



With love and European kisses,

Mommy

Just a few days ...

Dear Ittybit,

You've gone off with your father on trip.

Perched high in the crane truck, strapped into your carseat, I bet you're on top of the world.

Car counting, word games and road food await.

It will be a few days before we are reunited as a family.

I won't miss the argument over bedtime. I won't miss harping at you to brush and floss your teeth. Or even the smoothing of tangled hair (though that chore is growing on me, I must admit).

But I will miss tucking you in at night and listening to you read to me. I will miss reading to you and playing our silly games. I will miss your face in the morning and the cup of coffee you slosh through the house ... for me.

Your shoes are scattered about the house - no doubt considered for packing, packed and then reconsidered. As I collect them and put them away - a chore I have protested time and again - I find myself missing your scabby, stinky feet.



Love and Kisses,

Mommy.

Slippery slope

Dear Champ,

You push her hand away as she tries to help you up the slide.

"I CAN DO IT!"

Your sister barely remembers life without you.

I think about this as I watch you play together in the water.

You are six months younger than she was three years ago Saturday.

She seemed so much bigger then than you are now.

Strange how I size you in measures of her, though you two are distinct in almost every way.

Except in terms of Three.

That year comes in like a lion: angry and loud, with a fearful roar. I started telling people you were three months ago ... and then correcting myself ... "Ah, he's nearly three."

I can't lie and say it doesn't matter; the storm cloud stares and the "I frink I hate yous."

These are the best years, or so I'm told. "Cherish them."

Adolescents is biding its time. Soon it will be here with its need for freedom, fair-weather friends and car keys.

There I go, getting ahead of you again. Ticking up your age.

Thankfully, you are a stickler for precision: You are not a baby, or a big boy, or my Buddy. You are just a little boy who, for the moment, still needs help on the way down the slide.

Love and catches,

Mommy

Reusable quotes

Dear Ittybit,

I barely recognized your voice when you crept up behind me as I was unloading the supermarket haul.

"Can I help?"

"Sure," I said, happy for just the company as well as the extra hands.

I smiled as you remarked on every item you touched, taking it on its final journey from shopping tote to refrigerator shelf. It's just now dawning on me how long your reach has grown.

"I love these kind of pickles. ... This juice is heavy, I'm not sure I can lift it myself. ... Oh! You got the yogurt I like, thanks mom. You're the best mom I ever had."

I'm laughing a little as I climb on the step stool to stack boxes of pasta in the cupboard at the end of the counter. I begin my usual response: "I'm the only mom you've ever had, and don't confuse consumerism with competency. ...

You snort, and wave your hand in the air. "I know, I know, I know. ... You're still the best."

I wonder when you got to be so big. It wasn't a month ago that I still saw your baby face beaming at me from behind an alphabet book. Your limbs seem to have branched outward in recent days. You are long and lean. More graceful than gangly.

The alarm on the refrigerator sounds. The door has been open for too long.

I turn to see what the trouble is, envisioning you wrestling a melon into the crisper drawer or trying to alphabetize the mustard jars.

But you are gone and the light from the refrigerator is shining on the empty bags, shapeless and slumped on the floor in front of it.

Your part of the task is over.

I shut the door and begin to smooth the bags. And I hear your voice -- the one I've known since your first words -- bubbling through the kitchen doorway. It's coming from a far room that's been filtered through two other spaces, and followed by the unmistakable sound of children jumping on a bed.

"Let me help you with that. ..."

"Ok, sure."



With love and fancy yogurt,

Mommy

Scream therapy

Dear Son,

I love you.

I LOVE you.

I think you are bright and funny and silly and sweet.

I love you.

I wanted to get that out there, because lately I've been so frazzled that it may seem as if I don't really like you.

Last night, after you woke up at 11 p.m. and didn't settle down, I let you scream it out behind two closed doors: yours and mine. I couldn't go into your room to console you so afraid I was of my own rage.

I have a ton of excuses: I am working long hours without a clear schedule. I'm not sure what direction my formerly beloved industry is heading but I'm not so keen on the road map I've been given. I tell myself it's the uncertainty that is stressful but I'm not so sure I believe me.

My thyroid condition isn't under control at the moment, and quite possibly pressing a thumb to a scale already weighted toward depression. I hope new medication will help me put my head above water.

But those are just theories.

The fact that you woke up this morning happy to see me, as if the night before came wholesale from my imagination, was a gift I am likely to squander in the future when I am again at my weakest.

I don't expect you to judge me favorably for this trait, or the fact that I'm telling you I am likely to repeat it. I am human and fallible.

All I know is that I love you and your sister more than life itself, and the emotion in that is greater and scarier than anything I've ever felt in my years on this earth. It's something that I could only see as a cliche during the salad days, and so I know it won't mean much to you until you experience it for yourself.

Forever and until then ... I just wanted to tell you that I love you.


Love,

Mommy

Now we are six

Dear Ittybit,

I can’t believe you are six.

Didn’t we just get home from the hospital with you, a tiny bundle, swaddled against the bitter cold?

Didn’t I just watch you take your first steps? Say your first words?

I am a cliché.

But you are an original. And you made me a mother on this day, six years ago.

And since then you’ve been changing my world in ways I never could have imagined. You’ve been making me think about the world, and how we live in it; you’ve been making me think about what it is that’s really important in life, not just what we get hung up on. Because of you I live in a strange world of heightened anticipation; a world of fear and wonder.

It only sounds bad when you’ve never visited there before.

When I look at your face – even when you scrunch it into an expression of displeasure – I can’t imagine being anywhere else. You bring joy to that place.

You also bring love, compassion and sensitivity; things I hoped you would possess innately.

Recently we read “The Giving Tree” together. At the end you started to cry.

“I don’t like that man. He just took and took and took. … Why do humans have to be so selfish?” you wondered.

The only answer I can muster is “We don’t have to be … that’s what this story is telling us. We can be more like the tree.”

When I look at you I have hope. I believe, again, in the power of youth and idealism. I believe that you will leave this place better than you found it.

And I feel peaceful.

Happy birthday, little growing girl. You've made the world a better place already.

Love,

Mommy

If it wasn't for the tarnish we might not notice the shine

Dear Ittybit and the Champ,

It has been so tense here these last few weeks.

Perhaps it's because so many corners of our lives seem to be crumbling into a fine dust.

So much tension and strife. So much worry. So much anticipation.

And then came the virus.

The one that emptied out Ittybit the night before Thanksgiving. The one that gripped me a few days later and got your father a little while after that. I was sure it had missed the Champ until the phone rang at my desk the second I sat down in the chair Monday morning.

I turned right around at went home before I even had a chance to fire up the old Dell.

Since then the crud has been playing a game of peek-a-boo.

While you recovered almost immediately, Ittybit, the Champ has been locked in battle -- occasionally vomiting between being otherwise happy, active and hungry. Monday, sick. Tuesday fine. Wednesday fine ... then sick. Thursday fine then sick ... and back to fine.

When you are parents you will understand what such uncertaintly does to a person who is suppose to have at least some of the answers.

I don't handle rollercoasters well. I don't handle illness well.

That's an admission I'm making to myself, because ordinarily I THINK I handle everything well.

But it's gotten to the point now where Ittybit is asking me if I'm "frustrated at the children or just frustrated in general."

I don't handle it well.

I am tired. I am tense. I am tied up in knots.

And one night, when Ittybit is peacefully sleeping, your father is sick and in bed, little Champ (after seemingly getting over it) starts to vomit. ... and then won't settle. There is no sleep. There is no consolation. There is only Nickjr at night and an incontinent dog for company. My own stomach turns with the smell of my surroundings.

I am not at my best. I just want you to stop whining and sleep, I want you to stop asking for water I can't give you. I want to sleep.

I am not comforting. I am on the edge of the cliff I cut out myself from solid rock.

But I am there, turning the channel, cleaning up vomit, wrestling you into fresh clothes when needed. And cleaning up dog pee and troubleshooting her needs: Water? Out? Leftovers? Please stop barking, It's 4 a.m.

It wasn't one of my shining moments.

In the morning I try to get ready for work -- a day I can't really miss because there is a special deadline and not enough people to meet it.

I break down instead as I hear the sick, mad boy bleating plaintively from the sick couch for his mommy.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.

I haven't slept. I feel sick again. I can't do this.

Your father tells me "Just Go" and "It's like ripping off a Band-Aid. ... He only wants you when you're here."

The words sting.

You sit on my lap and calm down, but peace doesn't last for long.

"Waffles," you tell me.

"Dad will have to make waffles."

"No, you make waffles ... you help me."

"I can't help you. We have no waffle mix. I haven't slept. I'm going to be sick ...."

"YOU HELP ME!"

I can't help. Daddy can help"

"I want my Daddy."

I was crushed. And yet, I know I would not have been hurt by it had it not been deserved.

This evening, in the car, after I picked you up from the sitter's house, you both argued most of the way home.

Champ, you told your sister you were bigger than her. Ittybit, you asked me to tell him the truth. I tried. He wouldn't hear of it.

Bicker, bicker, bicker.

Despite the arguing, I smiled and thought this is normal. This is good. This is healthy. It was the first time I can remember smiling in more than two weeks.

And then Champ, you started to sing: "I am sleep, sleep, sleeping ... I am waking up."

I laugh. ... You have as good a voice as your sister's (even if you are smaller).

I will get sleep. Things will be better, I'm telling myself.


Love, Mommy

Big Love

son, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Champ,

You're not a baby anymore.

But you're not a big boy yet, either.

Every morning as we prepare for your sister's school bus to pick her up, you talk about how TODAY is the day it will take you, too.

You have your "pack back," which contains your lunchbox. Those are the things, you presume, you need to gain admission to the giant yellow bus.

The first day good-old-#13 shut its doors and chugged on without you inside broke your heart. An hour of tears followed the snub.

No "Big Boy Adbentures," including a special trip to the toy store for a new racer, could right the slight.

You were prepared the next day, though I think you secretly thought the backpack and its sandwich fare would change the outcome. Nevertheless, when it didn't you didn't let it rattle you. You screamed "goodbye" to your sister, whom we had trouble seeking through the smoked glass windows of the bus, and waved your arms so hard I was afraid you might slip from mine.

She was in there. You were out here. It was O.K.

As we walked back to the house, you convinced yourself the new mantra we've been chanting - "When you're bigger" - would likely be tomorrow.

"I'n bigger now?"

"Not yet, buddy."

"O. ..... K. ...."

Every day seems to bring the alternating emotions of resolve and dispair. On days with heavy tears we stop at the Post Office so you can push the key into the lock, give it a turn and open the door to our mailbox. Close. Turn. Extract.

Again?

It's a simple diversion. Why not. And so we stood there and turned the brass key back and forth. No more mail. Ah ... No mail.

Before long we are back in the car and going along the route of our usual routine.

You question everything you see:

"That My school bus?

"Tomorrow I go on school bus?

"Garbage truck?

"Horsies! WOOK HORSES, MOM!"

We stop as the red lights of another school bus flash in front of us.

"Tomorrow I go on THAT school bus? THAT my school bus?"

"No, honey. You're still a little boy. When you're a big boy then you'll go on a school bus."

Then you smile your crooked smile ... one eye squinted shut: "O ..... K. ..... Tomorrow I'n goning big boy adbenture .. on school bus."

It occurs to me, that as much as I would like to protect you from certain heartbreak, I just hope you can always feel this way: That tomorrow will always offer another chance.

Love and sideways grins,
Mama

Something tells me this won't be the first time I see this look

Dear Ittybit,

How many ways can a parent fail their child on the first day of school?

Why don't we count ...

1. Bus for kindergartners makes a special trip on the first day. ... One hour AFTER the usual time. Stepping on the early bus only to have to climb right back down will cause tears.

2. That bus tag that has your name, address, phone number and route number? The one every other kid has pinned to their clothes? Should have been pinned to your dress not lost in the mess we call our house.

3. You will need to pack a healthy snack each and every day ... BUT NOT ON THE FIRST DAY. Everyone eats graham crackers and milk on the first day.

4. Uhm ... lunch money?

5. Where is that piece of paper from the dentist's office confirming that you are a patient? (Probably hanging out with the bus tag in the mess we call a house).

6. Oh look, there's all these cute pictures of your classmates on the bulletin board. ... We needed to provide a photograph from home? Where did they ask for that? Oh, right there ... where it says put extra clothes in shoe box to store in cubby. At least I remembered the shoe box. Perhaps tomorrow I will remember the clothes.

7. Forms ... morfs ... smorfs? What form was that? Oh, right ... the health one.

8. Homework folder? Whoops. Wrong one.

9. Oh. ... the scissors were communal? Shouldn't have put your name on them, huh? Oh riiiiight. ... says so right there with the photo and extra clothes shoe box.

10. Tearing up in class to the point of vision problems after reading (in class) the little note from your teachers, tucked inside a sandwich baggie containing a little pink cotton ball:

"To Our Dearest Kindergarten Parents,

We just wanted to give you a little gift as you leave your "little growing edge of the world" with us for the first time tomorrow so you will not go away empty handed.

As you hold this cotton ball in your hand tomorrow, the softness will help you recall the gentle spirit of your child. After you have wiped your tears, make your self a warm cup of tea. Put your feet up and relax. Remember that together we will work along side your child this year to help him/her grow to his/her fullest capabilities.

Thank you for entrusting your child with us for the upcoming school year. We promise to do our best every day to be your child's companions in learning and exploring this bright new world he/she has just stepped into ... the wonderful world of "I can!"

Sincerely,

Kate and Nicole

Please know, Ittybit, I don't usually cry at sappy form letters. (Evidently I don't read them either.)

Love,

Mommy

Having reservations

Dear Ittybit,

The summer is scooting by.

I hadn’t been paying attention as most mornings have been encased in a cold crust and me in the desire to stay under the winter covers. The down comforter on my bed has been employed for a fourth season instead of stowed, and there are days I think I could employ another part time.

You never seem to notice the weather. You seem impervious to its grasp. Only when the possibility of cooling ice cream or warming cocoa are in the offering do you pay it any mind.

But the heat arrived, finally, and with it the breathless realization of humidity and humility: School will start for you and with it comes a whole new life for all of us.

Not that we ever took off mid-week to go berry picking or to climb a hill and peer off into the distance from its apex, but now the potential to just get away is monitored by many someones else … principals and teachers and so forth. The eyes of the state are upon us now that you shall have to attend and be counted.

I'm not worried. Not really.

I know you will be brilliant. I know you will rise to any height should you want to reach it.

As any mother does, I worry that others won’t understand you or that they’ll hurt your feelings. I worry that you will lose the confidence and the fearlessness you’ve shown to my ever growing amazement.

As most mothers do, I look for comparisons. I measure my untrained observation of you against my untrained observation in others.

I look around at other girls your age and, still, you stand out to me. Your wit; your observations; your calm, measured approach to investigating new things strikes me as unique though I know all mothers must see this in their children. All mothers marvel. It’s what we do.

We also doubt and get defensive. We project our tepid experiences and lie in wait for their return. I am awake late at night wondering about all the things I will not be able to control; all the things I should not try to control.

I tell myself that my job is not to fix things for you, but to show you how to fix them for yourself. And to teaching how to accept and move on when what is broken seems beyond repair.

I was reminded of all of this as I tried to keep your brother from raiding the cake plates at a birthday party while you girls sat in a circle playing “pass the pressie.”

The object of the game was to pass a present among you until the music stopped. The girl holding the package would carefully unwrap it revealing another later of pretty paper. Three times the music played and stopped as the giggling became quiet and nervous. One girl was saying how she never won anything. Another agreed.

I found myself looking in any direction but where the laughter was keeping time with the tune. I just couldn’t watch.

I didn’t want you to lose. But I didn’t want you to win, either.

That is my dilemma.

What to do?

While in Maine, I had an opportunity to take a surfing lesson for mothers and instead of happily rushing into the water I stood back, angry and indignant. The only reason I felt compelled to do this, I raged, was to prove myself to you, who would be standing in the sand, cheering me on.

It wasn’t proving anything to me.

I have no interest in surfing. I have less interest in balancing on a wave or wearing the seal-like suit that would keep my somewhat warm in the chill of an Atlantic morning. But I said I would go through gritted teeth. I’d committed to looking like a fool and envisioned myself chasing a board through the waves.

As I stood by the surfshop counter, looking in any direction but the clerk's, I almost didn’t hear her ask for the reservation I didn’t have.

Face saved by the reservations I didn’t have, but ego bruised by the reservations I did have.

What to do?

I want to calm the waves of this growing storm; to remind you that life does seem unfair at times; that you will feel the sharp words of others digging into the soft flesh of your innocent chatter. But you will undoubtedly gouge your indignation into some poor soul’s inner core, and you will be the guilty party.

But what is life but a series of highs and lows? An exploration into the unknown.

And then I realize that my job isn’t really to calm the waves, it’s to help you learn to ride them.


Love and reservations,

Mommy