Tomorrow you will be two. You will wake up and call for your Daddy and let us know that you’re hungry, that you want to go downstairs, that slow wakes and morning snuggles are for wusses; let’s get this party started! You will say two hundred times I get it and you will say two thousand times No, I do it!! and you will say two million times Mommy, see? I did it all myself!
You will scowl at anyone who offers you assistance or presumes your needs, even if they presume correctly. You want to pick your own cup, pick your own bowl, pick your own spoon, fetch your own cheese stick. You don’t want anybody to help you don your jacket but you do want everybody to watch so you can yell I did it! I did it over my head! You don’t want anybody to help you with your shoes and when you put them on the wrong feet you don’t want anybody to help you out of your shoes, either. But if we suggest merely, “Switchies, L!” and leave you to your own resources, you will switch them determinedly, with pride.
You don’t want to kiss; you want to grab my head by my hair and draw me to you for a passionate embrace. You don’t want to hug; you want me to hold my arms aloft like a safety net so you, the fearless acrobatic high-wire act, can fling yourself with abandon onto the soft ground of my body. And then you still don’t want me to hug you; you want to take your bounce and leap again and only nestle in when the ride is fully over. But oh, can you nestle.
But never for long. If you’re awake, you always break off before the nestling gets too good. You meet this world on your terms and yours alone.
You want to read books just like your big sister and you want to climb up just like your sister and you want to push the button just like your big sister and you want to pull the handle just like your big sister and don’t let your smaller stature be any reasonable deterrent, because if E can do it you want to do it. You want to be like E. You love your mommy and your teachers and your favorite friends and you really love your daddy but your eyes light up most for your sister.
(And when she’s not screaming in frustration because of you she’s your biggest cheerleader. She translates your words and helps you reach the button and chastises us for not picking you up faster that you may reach her vista. She reads you your books and tells you her dreams and always, always you have a center role in the adventures she’s eternally concocting. She cries if she hears you cry and she needs consoling herself when you are disciplined and she’s the one who reminded me I need to dance the pee-pee dance when you pee on your potty. She could never let you be deprived of anything she’s ever had herself.)
Two years ago tomorrow you were born at near high noon; yet we named you for the night and why? We didn’t know it then but it simply must be because you have this whole universe inside you. You have unexplored mysteries and unidentified molecules and heat flares and Milky Ways of starry brightness. You can rumble and storm but when you shine your brightness upon us, we know everything is okay.
Two years ago tomorrow you came to us and we didn’t know what we would do with you, another kid, a child number two.
And now we don’t know how we’d live without you.
Happy birthday tomorrow, Two. We love you.
===
To read the post from L's first birthday, go here.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus
They've been learning to sing "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Jingle Bells" in class.
She asked me to tell her the story of the birth of Venus again.
We talk about what we believe and what other people believed long ago. She asks about other gods the Romans worshipped.
(Just wait until I introduce Aphrodite and the Greek posse. That'll blow her mind.)
We talk about what we believe today and what other people believe today.
And then, a Moment of Parental Reckoning: E asks if we believe in Santa Claus.
I don't want to mislead her and I also don't want her to ruin the magic that may sparkle in her friends' eyes. I speak carefully: I tell her some people believe there is a Santa Claus (who is not entirely unlike the Tooth Fairy) who descends into homes and leaves gifts for Christian kids. I tell her some people believe there was a real man once a long time ago, but today he's nothing but a story. I remind her (oh so gently) that Jewish people don't generally believe in Santa Claus or other Christian-based beliefs.
Well...I believe in him, Mama.
Tomorrow is the annual holiday party where I work, and because the girls' daycare is in my building, the daycare kids are trotted out every year to the middle of the party. They will hang ornaments that they will have decorated on the large tree and they will entertain the crowd with their off-key but very enthusiastic "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Jingle Bells." There will be a jolly man in a Santa suit who will distribute small gifts to any child who sits on his lap. They both sat on his lap last year.
Is there a Santa Claus? This girl takes such big bites out of the world and loves the challenge of digestion. For all that I know her age sometimes I forget that she's just three. If a white-bearded man in a velvet red suit with a large black buckle shows up and hands her a present every time she hangs a Christmas ornament on a tree and sings "Jingle Bells," of course she believes in Santa Claus. After all, tomorrow he'll be right in front of her.
"Okay," I tell her. "It's okay for you to believe in him."
"You can always believe whatever you want. I'm always going to keep telling you what I believe, but you should always take everything you've ever learned and figure out all by yourself whatever it is you believe."
I will, Mama. And today I believe in Santa Claus. But even though I believe in him I'm NOT sitting on his lap.
She asked me to tell her the story of the birth of Venus again.
We talk about what we believe and what other people believed long ago. She asks about other gods the Romans worshipped.
(Just wait until I introduce Aphrodite and the Greek posse. That'll blow her mind.)
We talk about what we believe today and what other people believe today.
And then, a Moment of Parental Reckoning: E asks if we believe in Santa Claus.
I don't want to mislead her and I also don't want her to ruin the magic that may sparkle in her friends' eyes. I speak carefully: I tell her some people believe there is a Santa Claus (who is not entirely unlike the Tooth Fairy) who descends into homes and leaves gifts for Christian kids. I tell her some people believe there was a real man once a long time ago, but today he's nothing but a story. I remind her (oh so gently) that Jewish people don't generally believe in Santa Claus or other Christian-based beliefs.
Well...I believe in him, Mama.
Tomorrow is the annual holiday party where I work, and because the girls' daycare is in my building, the daycare kids are trotted out every year to the middle of the party. They will hang ornaments that they will have decorated on the large tree and they will entertain the crowd with their off-key but very enthusiastic "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Jingle Bells." There will be a jolly man in a Santa suit who will distribute small gifts to any child who sits on his lap. They both sat on his lap last year.
Is there a Santa Claus? This girl takes such big bites out of the world and loves the challenge of digestion. For all that I know her age sometimes I forget that she's just three. If a white-bearded man in a velvet red suit with a large black buckle shows up and hands her a present every time she hangs a Christmas ornament on a tree and sings "Jingle Bells," of course she believes in Santa Claus. After all, tomorrow he'll be right in front of her.
"Okay," I tell her. "It's okay for you to believe in him."
"You can always believe whatever you want. I'm always going to keep telling you what I believe, but you should always take everything you've ever learned and figure out all by yourself whatever it is you believe."
I will, Mama. And today I believe in Santa Claus. But even though I believe in him I'm NOT sitting on his lap.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Still life with anteaters
On Sunday when I declared that I was going upstairs to paint the stripe on the walls of the baby's room, E declared that she was coming to help. And help she did, in the form of entertaining me with her nonstop chatter. I hadn't been specific enough: I should have said that I was going upstairs to spend a lot of time with the level and the pencil and making tape lie in really straight lines in preparation for painting the stripe on the baby's walls. And E hadn't been specific: she should have said that she expected to be wielding the paint roller again. She quickly grew bored and began poking around the various items piled in the center of the room.
She found her brother's new anteater and ran to her room to bring her own bug sucker to the party. And make no mistake, it was a party. It was a party to celebrate Baby Brother. She told me so, for she was using discarded painter's tape to dress them in their party clothes.
She found her brother's new anteater and ran to her room to bring her own bug sucker to the party. And make no mistake, it was a party. It was a party to celebrate Baby Brother. She told me so, for she was using discarded painter's tape to dress them in their party clothes.
December 7, 2009
Still life with revelers
In honor of the occasion, I present her explanation for their attire via a couplet:
Baby Brother's a boy, Mama. "I know, love." You do?
That's why I needed them to wear this tape - because baby boys like blue.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Maybe all of these holidays are a little too close together
Tell me again the story of Chanukah, E requested from the backseat of the car one morning last week.
"A long, long time ago," I tell her, the Jewish people had their community synagogues just like we do today, but there was also one synagogue that was more important than all the others. In English we call it the Holy Temple."
And because like all the stories we tell again and again, this one has its well-rehearsed script, she interjected: it was the castle of synagogues!
"Yes," I agree, "it was the castle of synagogues. And the people who were in charge of the land where the Jews lived were the Greeks. The Greeks didn't like how Jewish people pray because the Greeks believed in lots and lots of gods and we believe in just one God. So the Greeks came into the Temple and made a big mess. They--"
She interrupted me, breaking from our script: but, Mama? She hesitated. But...I thought that the Indians lived in the Temple.
"What?
Oh--
Ohhh.
Sweetie, are you thinking of Thanksgiving? [Yes.] The Indians didn't live in the Temple. They lived in teepees."
===
In addition to my regular monthly column at Simple Kids, which will be up later this month, I have a special article posting over there today about Chanukah, which we'll begin celebrating on Friday night (without teepees). Writers all have pieces of their work that make them more proud and less proud, and although this little article is a departure from my customary writing style I'm rather fond of how it turned out. Go check it out.
"A long, long time ago," I tell her, the Jewish people had their community synagogues just like we do today, but there was also one synagogue that was more important than all the others. In English we call it the Holy Temple."
And because like all the stories we tell again and again, this one has its well-rehearsed script, she interjected: it was the castle of synagogues!
"Yes," I agree, "it was the castle of synagogues. And the people who were in charge of the land where the Jews lived were the Greeks. The Greeks didn't like how Jewish people pray because the Greeks believed in lots and lots of gods and we believe in just one God. So the Greeks came into the Temple and made a big mess. They--"
She interrupted me, breaking from our script: but, Mama? She hesitated. But...I thought that the Indians lived in the Temple.
"What?
Oh--
Ohhh.
Sweetie, are you thinking of Thanksgiving? [Yes.] The Indians didn't live in the Temple. They lived in teepees."
===
In addition to my regular monthly column at Simple Kids, which will be up later this month, I have a special article posting over there today about Chanukah, which we'll begin celebrating on Friday night (without teepees). Writers all have pieces of their work that make them more proud and less proud, and although this little article is a departure from my customary writing style I'm rather fond of how it turned out. Go check it out.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Portrait of the cookie maker
We have a set of cookie recipes that are not bound as would be an ordinary cookbook but are on individual cards whose storage box is long lost. These recipes are scattered amongst the girls' playthings: some have been used as bookmarks or telescopes or hats for Carler or blankets for a baby doll. Some have been chewed on by one teething toddler or another. Some have been recycled by a frustrated mama who is not winning the War on Chaos.
Sometimes, the girl will come across a recipe, and despite being unable to read, will insist we must make This! Recipe!
Because It's! Delicious!
Sometimes the mama will agree to the fervor because we have all those ingredients in the house and the girl is cute.
Sometimes the mama will busy herself preparing the kitchen and the girl will climb patiently up on a stool. Sometimes the girl will climb impatiently up on a stool and start yelling, Mama! When can I add the Next! Thing!
Sometimes the mama will be reaching into the fridge for that next thing and have to stop, mid-action, to watch her daughter chastising inanimate objects.
(she's always chastising those inanimate objects)
December 6, 2009
Portrait of a girl who yells at the Kitchen-Aid mixer's bowl.
You may be wondering, what kind of thing does one say when yelling in a faux-baritone voice at small kitchen appliances?
Hey, you silly thing! Stop stretching my face!
Sometimes, the girl will come across a recipe, and despite being unable to read, will insist we must make This! Recipe!
Because It's! Delicious!
Sometimes the mama will agree to the fervor because we have all those ingredients in the house and the girl is cute.
Sometimes the mama will busy herself preparing the kitchen and the girl will climb patiently up on a stool. Sometimes the girl will climb impatiently up on a stool and start yelling, Mama! When can I add the Next! Thing!
Sometimes the mama will be reaching into the fridge for that next thing and have to stop, mid-action, to watch her daughter chastising inanimate objects.
(she's always chastising those inanimate objects)
December 6, 2009 Portrait of a girl who yells at the Kitchen-Aid mixer's bowl.
You may be wondering, what kind of thing does one say when yelling in a faux-baritone voice at small kitchen appliances?
Hey, you silly thing! Stop stretching my face!
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