To say that Sophie is driven by dramatic play might be the understatement of the decade. She lives, breathes, and eats dramatic play. Dolls, stuffed animals, even forks and spoons have voices. We have been assuming roles in her scripts for two years. She’ll inhabit a character for days, even weeks, working out the same story over and over again. SHe can easily switch roles within her own stories, and expects us to do the same, which is simply maddening at times. This week she has been Cinderella and we’ve been reenacting the scene where she runs away, flicking her ballet shoe, leaving me, the Prince, to come chase after her and see if it fits. Wash, rinse, repeat. SO much of our converstion starts with, “In this story . . .”
I suppose Cinderella’s an improvement over the past month’s array of animal roles, which were like conversing with a real dog or cat. Not terribly stimulating for us. For her, it is her life, and her learning, which is why I treasure it. For the longest time we didn’t need any kind of props, and really we still don’t, but Sophie’s recent interest in ballet prompted her to ask for a “real ballet dress and shoes.” Since then we’ve started dressing up on a regular basis, which thrills Rosy to the core, as she loves nothing more than to raid a pile of laundry and see how much she get over her head.
Today Sophie was looking in the mirror and said she was talking to her imaginary friend. She couldn’t tell me her name, just that she was “really tall.” I have been long awaiting the arrival of an imaginary friend. I’m so glad she’s here.
Imagination really is everything.
Posted 11 months, 2 weeks ago at 6:05 pm. Add a comment
This past weekend we visited my grandparent’s house in Columbus, Georgia, probably for the last time as a family. My grandparents had the house built in 1987 on Lake Oliver, which sits on the Georgia/Alabama border. We used to sit on the deck in rocking chairs in the evening and look at the sun set over Alabama. My grandmother once caught a huge catfish in that lake, and I have a vague recollection of taking a ride on a “pah-tee” boat (aka a pontoon boat) down some of its creeks.
All weekend I kept waiting for my grandfather to saunter into the kitchen and assume his rightful place at the head of the table, where he could look down onto the lake. Instead, Sophie sat there and made deviled eggs with my cousin, Annie.
We swam in the pool, ran on the lawn, drank from the veritable “Macallan Room” (my Grandfather’s bar). We ate dinner around their table and barely had enough room, as the family continues to expand with sons-in-laws and grandbabies. I slept on my grandmother’s side of their bed, which seemed to have shrunk since I was a little girl. My sister said that she was surprised that it felt so normal to be there, without them. It truly did. Not stuffy, not empty, but full of twenty-two years (not to mention a lifetime) of memories. What will feel strange is when we don’t have the house by the lake. When the desk and the tables and the chests of drawers are sent their separate ways, tucked into corners of our own spaces. As long as the house is intact, we can still wait for the them to emerge from their dressing rooms. We can picture them behind the bar, at the stove, on the porch waving goodbye. Asking their images to leave with us will be an altogether different matter.
Posted 11 months, 2 weeks ago at 11:28 am. Add a comment
It has been a year and half since I wrote you a letter. And what a year and half we’ve had. Your precious voice singing “Happy Birthday” to yourself, a trip to Germany, many weeks waiting and waiting for Rosy, and then her arrival. Overnight, our life changed. The little rituals we had, the time we spent so closely together was flipped on its head. Daddy started putting you to bed. For months I couldn’t even get on the floor and play, as I was constantly nursing, bouncing, or walking your sister through the house. I imagine most women go through a mourning period with the birth of their second child. I truly mourned the intimacy we had, and was wracked with guilt about it. It still hurts, not in the same way, but it hurts on nights like tonight when it’s clear that you’re having a hard time negotiating the changes that come full-bore as Rosy grows. Suddenly there is a sentient being in our house, exploding with mobility and language and personality. People oooh and aaah over her, relatives are just getting a glimpse of who she really is, and that brings them great joy. Just as you bring them great joy. To have to sit back and watch; for lack of a better term, to have to play second fiddle, must be so hard.
Everyone says that no matter how many babies you choose to have, you always have enough love for them all. Your heart expands, your capacity for love grows. But your time, your energy, your patience- not so much. You muddle through by asking more of the oldest. When we go out, I expect that you will be relatively self-sufficient. You’ll walk while I carry Rosy. You’ll listen to the story at the library and work puzzles with your friends while I chase her around. Independence seems to have come at a fortuitous time, and you crave attention from friends your own age (and slightly older). Deep down I know that it’s a natural progression, to let a little bit of you go out into the world, in order to have the attention I need to care for a baby. If I was to have another (and no worries, I won’t!), I’d expect the same of Rosy. But wow, what a lot to ask overnight. What I was once pleasantly surprised by, I’ve now come to expect and need.
That’s not to say, my sweet girl, that I take you for granted. Not for one second do I take the magical, mature, compassionate person you are for granted. I am so lucky to have you, to know you, to kiss you on your round cheek every night. I am lucky to sneak a Mercy Pig book in between Rosy shenanigans, to watch you draw, or let you stir the banana bread batter. My heart breaks a little bit when you want to pretend you’re Rosy, or replicate her elaborate dress-up array piece by painstaking piece. Sophie, I do not want two Rosys. I’d be lost without you, my love. I’d be lost without the one who takes her sister’s hands and spins her through the kitchen, and patiently lets her pretend to wash your hair. I’d be lost without my backseat DJ who requests the “electric eel” song over and over. I’d be lost without my gate-opener and fish-hunter, my dog-loving, cat-whispering Zoo in her beautiful dress who wants nothing more than to reenact “the day you and Daddy met” over and over again (though I did not have a princess dress).
Soon the tables will be turned. The milestones will be yours. Driving, graduation, college . . . (not so soon). Soon I’ll be asking for the attention, from both of you. And you’ll look at Rosy from your perch in some tree, with your chapter book, and tell her to go see what I want. You’ll be so glad yo have a partner in crime. Someone to share the burden of me. Someone to love for how different they are from you, and how very much the same, too. It will all be worth it, Zoo.
Know that I love you so deeply and dearly, every single day. My special big girl.
xo,
mama
Posted 11 months, 2 weeks ago at 7:15 pm. 2 comments
We are up in Georgia for the next few days, visiting the grandparents and great-grandmother. This past weekend we scratched the surface of an accumulated ninety-one years of stuff at my grandfather’s house. We came away with a few treasures, and a lot of nostalgia. I need to start writing the book about him. Seriously.
More in a few days.
Posted 11 months, 3 weeks ago at 6:01 am. Add a comment
One last baby-making post. I promise. One point The Business of Being Born made was how important it is for the powerful female voices in this country to tell their stories of normal, natural childbirth. Given that so much of what we hear is tales of scheduled C-sections, and sections done in conjunction with tummy tucks, before due dates to stave off excessive weight gain (because those are the exciting news stories), it’s even more important to hear about all the options. Dooce.com is perhaps the loudest, most heard voice of the personal bloggers, the Mommy Bloggers, whatever you wish to call her. Heather, author of Dooce, was just ranked in Forbes Magazine as among the Thirty Most Influential Women in Media- along with people like Oprah, Ellen deGeneres, and Rachel Maddow. She has been divulging parts of her most recent birth story over the past few weeks. The third installment appeared today. After reading Ricky Lake’s book (exec. producer of The Business of Being Born), witnessing a friend’s natural childbirth, and doing tons of research, she decided to go drug-free. This was, to put it into context, a huge break from her original birthplan. When I read the first installment of the birth story, I was like a highschool cheerleader, thrilled to read that she was taking that path. Her, Heather, queen bee of bloggers, speaking out for this!!
I’ve read a lot of great birth stories on blogs. Fussy giving birth in her bathroom, Jessica’s four births, Erica and her Sophie. The list goes on. They have been near and dear to my decisions about how to have my babies, and my confidence going into labor, especially the second time with an out-of-hospital birth. For me, writing about my girl’s births was an important part of processing the experience. Here are my stories, so I can find them when my ladies ask for them. Sophie loves to hear about “her” day, almost as much as I love telling her about it (in edited form).
Sophie had a burst of creative energy the other night and drew seven or eight of these big drawings. I adore them. I think they’re so beautiful. And so totally unlike anything she’d ever drawn before. I was worried that teaching her to write letters would negatively impact her drawing. If anything, it’s done the opposite. She’s drawing figures now, but mostly experimenting with large abstract marks. Perfection.
We’ve been working with her on phonics sounds and letter recognition- she’s mastered both with the help of The Letter Factory and tons of reinforcement from Starfall, her own writing, even the phonics toy on our fridge. Last week I decided to see what she could do with the series of BOB Books we checked out from the library. So far, she has blown me away with her abilities to read simple language. I’m noticing that she uses the context and illustrations to figure out words more often than she resorts to phonics. From what little memory I have of learning to read, this seems really familiar. I didn’t spend much time sounding words out. Most came from context and memory. It’s fun to see her mind working in ways I didn’t expect, but that feel natural. I’ve learned as much from her as she’s learned from me.
We spend about fifteen minutes a day reviewing a BOB Book she’s close to mastering, and then introducing a new story. They are fabulous tools- simple, repetitive, but quick and to the point. Concepts (like questions and quotations) are introduced slowly and repeated a few times, characters appear again and again. Even I’m invested in seeing where “Mag hid the bag.” We ordered our own set so we can return the library’s, we like them that much . . . here she is reading one of the earliest stories.
Posted 11 months, 4 weeks ago at 6:44 pm. 2 comments
It was only a matter of time. I watched The Business of Being Born. It was great. The footage of homebirths was such a great anecdote to the hospital emergency births broadcast in endless loops on cable TV. I appreciated hearing Abby Epstein’s (the director’s) own obstetrician encouraging her to try for a homebirth. Our girls weren’t born at home, but they were born with midwives, both of whom deserve an enormous bouquet of thanks for listening to my wishes and doing everything in their power to give me the births I wanted. The time after Sophie was born was a fog of exhilirated exhaustion laced by narcotics. But the half hour after Rosy’s birth is a half hour I will treasure for the rest of my life. The crazy work was over. We weren’t in a hospital, so she was simply handed up, wrapped in a towel. She was wide awake, not crying, just nursing, and nursing. She was hungry and so so sweet. I must have held her there for an hour. Everyone should have that magic.
Laura, our midwife for Rosy’s birth, delivered her last baby this week. She delivered my friend Diana’s son, and our friend Jessica’s two daughters. For nearly a year she was a huge part of our lives, and a great friend. Thank you, Laura, for giving me the experience I needed to have. In the documentary someone comments that a midwife’s job is not to rescue a laboring woman. Let her feel it. Let her face her darkest moments and claim her victory at the end.
Thank you for not rescuing me. Even as I was convinced it was going terribly, horribly wrong, you had patience for me and for my body. It was the wildest ride of my life. And I will never, ever forget it.
I am off to start a Recipes section in the top navbar, a permanent record for me, and eventually my girls. This doesn’t quite qualify, but I just made Sophie a bowl of Popcorn for her Mary Poppins viewing (It’s Sunday, and it’s become a bit of a ritual to have popcorn and a movie). We eat a lot of popcorn in these parts, and not the microwave kind. I will occasionally throw some kernels in a brown paper bag and put them in the microwave, but that’s as close as I come. The stovetop version is just so much better.
Here’s how we do it. Put a couple tablespoons of oil in a heavy, deep pan with a lid. I use a Le Creuset dutch oven. Drop three kernels in and turn the heat to medium-high. When two of those kernels pop, put another quarter cup of kernels in (just enough to cover the bottom, you can eyeball it). Shake so everything gets oily, put the lid almost completely on (just ajar lets the steam escape), and wait. It only takes a couple minutes. Shake every now and then so the unpopped kernels fall to the bottom. Turn off the heat as soon as things slow down. If at first you don’t success, try try again.
We eat ours with salt and nutritional yeast. Yum.
We recently learned from The Popcorn Book that popcorn kernels should be stored in the refrigerator. I have noticed they pop bigger when they’re kept cold. I have no idea why.
I took a sailing course with the National Outdoor Leadership School about ten years ago and had an instructor named Dave who would make popcorn on every beach we stopped at. It was his ritual. Anchor, popcorn. Thanks to him, I will forever associate popcorn and sailing.
Besides thinking of Dave, I always think of SouleMama when I make popcorn. This post is by her husband, and is one of my favorite posts about mothering/parenting, ever.
As I write, Rosy is devouring the remnants of Sophie’s bowl. She loves popcorn about as much as she loves juiceboxes. Rosy popcorn juicebox.
The blue chair belongs to our neighbors. It has long been my favorite spot to take photos of Sophie because the blue sets her eyes off in such a lovely way. We rediscovered it this evening and took some of both wiggly beasts. I wish I could take it with us and replicate the same shot every year.
We had a great day. A good swim, a long nap, some baking, early dinner, lots of playing inside and out, a good breeze. It worked out.
John was working on the boat in Marathon and a couple walking through the marina approached him. “Do you have a boat named Rubicon?” Turns out the Knols, a couple from Ontario sailing through the Keys en route to the Bahamas, have been reading the blog since our first trip down the coast. I’m just glad someone in addition to my sister is out there reading.
