Dear Fia, You Are Three…
Thursday, December 6th, 2012
Dear Fia,
I want to share the first half of this Winnie-the-Pooh poem by A.A. Milne:
When I was One, I had just begun.
When I was Two, I was nearly new.
When I was Three, I was hardly me….
They say three years old is one of the most magical years of childhood. I can believe it. You are gushing with creativity, curiosity and imagination. You are forming into a little person. Yet, the world is still so big. You know your space in it, but you don’t know how vast that space is. You know you’re loved, but not how much. You know you’re safe, but not from what. It is magical for me too. I want bottles with each year of your life in it. Someday when I’m old and gray I can open up your three-year-old bottle and breathe you back into me.
It is hard to fathom three years have passed since that snowy day at Columbia Presbyterian. In some ways it seems like you’ve been with me forever. In other ways, it’s like you are this gift that I’ve only just begun to know. Both are delightful scenarios because while the feeling in my heart is timeless, I get to keep on loving you for years and years to come.
I said to you the other day, “You’re my sunshine.” You looked right back at me, shook your head and said ever-so-earnestly, “No Mama. I’m your daughter.”
You charm me (and maybe manipulate??) in a way no one else can. When I put you in your crib for a nap or bedtime, hug you many times, and walk away, you always stand up and say, “Mama, hug!” as if I hadn’t yet. But I always have more hugs for you. “Hold you tight,” you say, squeezing me as hard as you can. Then, “One nice kiss.” You kiss my cheek. Lately, in keeping me there with more manipulation, you say, “I love you soooooo much.” And hug me even tighter. I don’t want to let go either. Like I said, I need a bottle…
When I finally get you to lie down, the tickling begins.
“Tickle my forehead.”
We started the “tickling” about 6 months ago. Now it seems to expand weekly to every body part. Last night it went like this:
“Tickle my back.” (shirt raised, butt in air). Okay, done.
“Tickle my stomach” (roll over, lift shirt up). I had a slight hangnail.
“Mama, your nail is sharp.”
“I know, so no more tickling. Night night.”
“No Mama, go cut your nail,” you order, pointing to the clippers and emery board on the dresser. Huh? How did you…? Oh, never mind. Just do what she says. I do. Tickling resumes.
“Tickle my knees.”
“Really Fia?”
“Yes Mama,” you reply, as if this wasn’t becoming a tad ridiculous. You pull up your pajama pants and I tickle each knee.
“Okay honey, goodnight.”
“No Mama, what about my elbows?”
Seriously?
But even if I’m exhausted, I never tire of this routine. That’s because someday, when you are a teenager, (with a STRICT curfew), I will yearn for these days. Another mom who has a 16- and 18-year-old told me, “As exhausted as you are now getting them to sleep and waking up at 6 a.m., it’s a lot better than waiting up for them to come home. Trust me.” I do.
The mere thought of it breaks my heart. So when I’m really desperate for you to go to sleep, I channel my new mantra: How lucky I am to have this and not be staring at the clock, hoping you are okay.
At three, you also delight in letting us know if we forgot something. The other day you and I went on our thrice-weekly grocery run.
“I need to get baby food.”
“Oh-O-o-kkay!” you say, brimming with enthusiasm. “I-I-I will pick it out.”
We shopped for all sorts of things. We pay and are in the parking lot when you start giggling and announce with glee, “Mama, you forgot the baby food! Silly Mama!”
You were right. And strategic in making sure we already left before you called me on it. “Logical Consequences,” as my father would say. We head back in, and you continue to repeat “Silly Mama!”
The old adage, “Would you rather be right or happy” may apply to you someday. But for now, you are both right and happy.
Woe to the person who shuts your door all the way. (Which by the way, began when your favorite TV show made you afraid of the dark.) One time I had it almost shut and the air conditioning blew it the rest of the way. From the wailing I heard, I thought your crib had collapsed. I ran in and found you sobbing. “Mama, you aren’t supposed to shut the door!” Tears were streaming down your little face and once again I was reminded what my love for you does. It takes me to my knees. Not because you will be scarred for life from this, but just seeing you so genuinely upset (and feeling betrayed) tugs so deeply at my heartstrings. To anyone else this scenario may sound absurdly dramatic, but feelings aren’t facts. However, they are real.
Since then, I have paid the price. Not a day goes by without this:
“Mama, you need to leave the door open this much, not this much. This much,” you say, as if you’re explaining and demonstrating with your little hands for the first time. Sometimes you insist on getting out of your crib and showing me, just to make sure I really am not an ape.
“Fia, I know honey.”
“But Mama, you left it open.”
“Fia, that was months ago.”
“Mama forgot! Silly Mama.” And we’re back to the glee in being right. Nothing will slip past you, my girl.
You are so articulate. It doesn’t hurt that you have a screenwriter for a father. But still, you understand the meanings of big words. After Wayne–our transexual cat–freaks out batting around a tennis ball, you’ll shout, “Wayne is cantankerous! And feisty!” (Apparently the cat takes after his mom). When Emmett hurls himself into a wall you’ll yell, “Mama! Emmett is being rambunctious!”
I keep saying it can’t get better than this. But apparently it does. Right now you are three and you walk with me. But what I hope for most of all is this, from Winnie-the-Pooh:
“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.”
Categories: Fearless Feisty Mama, Fia Friday, Milestone Monday, Mom Situations, Mom Tricks and Tips, Must Read | Tags: A.A. Milne, birthday, creative, curious, expressions, imaginative, manipulation, party, sleep, sleep training, three, toddler, toddler manipulation, winnie the pooh
