Babysitting
Three 6-year-olds plus one 15-month-old plus one 25-but-actually-about-10-year-old equals possibly insanity! Luckily, I love them all.
Today
It’s so strange for me to think that Lucy will never know a world where 9/11 is just another day on the calendar. That she’ll never understand the freedom of thinking that we are so far away (physically, politically, socially) from those who disagree with our way of life that they would never be able to harm us. To her, the attacks on September 11 will seem like the Kennedy assassination or the attack on Pearl Harbor. It will be a chapter in her history book.
I don’t like to write too much on this day because it seems cheap. Lazy. Never enough. I didn’t lose anyone close to me on that day, so who am I to talk about it? I was only 18 when the two planes slammed into the World Trade Center, another into the Pentagon and yet another into field in Pennsylvania and changed everything I thought about the world. Up until then, the biggest world events for my generation were the killings at Columbine High School and the murder of Tupac (seriously, I remember a journalism class in 2000 where these were the discussion topics). I always felt I was was pretty well informed, I was even taking two classes on Islam that semester. The year before I had befriended a Muslim man and even considered converting. To me it was, and still is, a deeply spiritual and wonderful religion. I was amazed at the similarities to my own Catholic upbringing, and how much I felt I could relate to it’s teachings. I had never expected what would happen that day. Who could have?
So, today I hope we can all put aside our arguments, our political wars, our disagreements, and remember those who died on that day. Those people who, on the day I sat in my warm sorority room, glued to the TV, were dying in those towers. Those who ran in to save others. Those who sat on doomed airplanes. Those who fought back. Take a minute today, despite what you may think about the wars we’re fighting now, and pray for them. I’m sure they’d do the same for you.
And someday, I hope Lucy can once again live in a world a bit more naive, so much so that an attack like this is unfathomable. I hope she can grow up being proud to be an American and really understand what it stands for. Hope. Love. Independence. Freedom. And I hope this world will welcome her with open arms.
15 Months
Dear Lucy,
Earlier this week you turned 15 months old. I know this post is late, but it seems like the past month has been purpetually behind schedule. We had not one, but two trips to your grandparents’ lake cabin in Middleofnowhere, Kansas, spent a few days at the farm of your other grandparents, attended birthday parties, had sleepovers with your cousins and generally, had a ton going on. It’s been one of those months where I looked up and, BAM!, it was time to write another letter to you and holy crap, where did the summer go?!
In the past month, you’ve continued to grow and change, like you seem to insist on doing every month. You have become the constant entertainer. The minute a new person walks into a room your face breaks into a slow smile and you seem to realize, AHA! someone to watch me dance! Then you run over to one of your obnoxious, loud, music-playing toys, start up a rousing rendition of Old McDonald and begin your routine. Your father has been crafting “the routine” for the past few weeks and it mostly consists of shaking your hips, then jumping up and down, then raising the roof, with some possible strong head nodding and screaming thrown in to mix it up a bit. This dance is so funny, most people can’t stop laughing once you start, which just encourages you more. In fact, the more people laugh at the dancing, the more you’ll stop the routine to give yourself a round of applause.
You’ve also started to show a softer side to your wild personality. Along with all of the diving off furniture and knocking down blocks and hitting your father, you’ve started exhibiting some loving tendancies toward things you truly care about. Like your stuffed monkey. You hug that monkey. You kiss that monkey. You put that monkey in your little, pink rocking chair and rock him. You pretend to give him your milk. Monk is your little baby, and you care for him in the sweetest ways. It’s nice to see that side of you, as I was beginning to worry that I’d given birth to a wildabeast.
Lucy, you’ve also begun the great toddler tradition of testing your parents. I’m not so sure if I like this phase, but so far, it’s been managable. Partly because although your father and I don’t agree on some things, one thing we do agree on is diciplining you. Thank god. It’s not that you’re doing anything too bad, we can just tell what’s coming. Like when you climb into your rocking chair and then whine to be let out. You’ll whine and cry and scream and throw your arms into the air. And then, right when we’re about to break, you’ll stop, look at us, and slowly climb out of the chair. Just like we know you can. Then you laugh manically and run off. Gosh, I can’t wait for some teen-infused Lucy angst.
Oh, little monkey. What are we going to do with you? No offense to baby Lucy, but I think toddler Lucy is so much more fun. Spending time with you is like spending time with a good buddy. I look forward so much to our cool fall evenings and afternoons playing outside now that it’s not a zillion degrees outside. Thanks for always running around the park with me. And thanks for swimming at the pool almost every night for the past two weeks, even when it was boring. And thanks for learning to give kisses. And hugs. And for saying “mama” when you think I’m not listening. A small hint, Lulu: Mama’s are always listening.
Love,
Mama
As always, the format for these monthly newsletters is shamelessly copied from Dooce.com. Because I’m quite a lemming and very unoriginal.
Sometimes Mothers Can Do No Right
“On Tuesday morning, just hours after Lindsay Lohan was arrested on charges of driving with a suspended license, driving under the influence and felony cocaine possession, the typically vituperative posts (also, typically, grammatically challenged and typo-ridden) showed up on celebrity gossip Web sites like TMZ and Us Weekly.
Dina Lohan, Lindsay’s mother, was their target — not her father, who has served time in prison, battled his own addictions and was mostly absent during Lindsay’s childhood. While some people may point fingers at him for her problems, most bloggers and celebrity-gawkers see him as a lost cause, and put the onus on her mother.
Indeed, though statistics show that fathers are now more involved than ever in their children’s lives, the perception remains that mothers are ultimately responsible for their children’s behavior. Not to mention that experts say that since the 1980s, expectations of what a so-called “good mother†should do have grown.”
To read more of this article, click here (via NY Times).
14 Months
Dear Lucy,
Today you turn 14 months old. To celebrate, instead of leaving for work at 5:30 a.m. and not seeing you until the end of the day, I stayed home and we had breakfast together. When I walked into your room you were so confused. “Hmmmm…you’re here. Is the doggie here? Is Dada here?” After a few seconds you decided, hey, what the hell, let’s be spontaneous today, and you started jumping all over your crib going “Hi! Hi! Hi!” And then you realized your Elmo doll was on the floor and totally forgot I was even in the room. Glad I mean so much to you, kid.
I went back and re-read some of my older posts about you, Lucy, and realized almost every month I say, “you’re becoming your own person” or “you’re so independent now.” I guess I just need to get over the fact that you are no longer that little blob that needed me for every tiny thing and you’re now a toddler with opinions and thoughts that are very much your own. Opinions on which cup you like (this one, not that one, unless someone else is using that one, in which case, you’d better give me that one…or this one), which is your favorite ball (whichever one is the one you don’t have at that very second) or what is your favorite food (Green beans! No, watermelon! No, green beans! I hate green beans!).
Have I mentioned your dancing yet? Oh well, I’m mentioning it again. Because, my goodness, child, your dancing is HILARIOUS! In all capital letters. You like to drop it like it’s hot or stomp around marching. You’re also a fan of twirling in circles. Twirling and twirling until you get dizzy and fall down laughing. And you really don’t care which music we listen to, as long as you’re able to dance. Your dad’s commented that it’s like living in the movie Footloose. I commented that he, your dad, hater of all 80’s movies except ones starring the Transformers, Ninja Turtles or Howard the Duck, just referenced Footloose? Really? I guess all those episodes of I Love the 80s that I made him watch in college actually paid off.
Also, you have huge feet. Huge and dirty. Like mine. This mortifies your father. But it makes me happy.
The one complaint I have from this month is that you’ve started running away from me. You think it’s a game, chase or something. If I set you down outside while I fiddle around for my keys, I’ll look up and you’ll be halfway down the block, laughing manically. Um, Lucy, stop doing that! And when I start after you, please don’t look back while you’re running to make sure I’m following. This just leads to you falling down on your face. Which is not fun for either of us.
You’re becoming such a fun kid, Lucy. You’re now someone I interact with and play with instead of something I just take care of. You still need me for some things, but I love that you know how to do things yourself, like sit and look at a book or talk to your dolls for hours. I adore your sense of humor, and I secretly died laughing when you whacked your dad on the head with your Elmo doll and the rock-hard Elmo eyes left a huge lump on his forehead. You thought that was so funny, and guess what? You were right. Thanks for making each day more fun than the one before it. And thanks for still needing me to stroke your hair when you’re sad.
I love you, little monkey.
Love,
Mama
