Joseph's Journey to Three

I won't dwell on the fact that I missed last year's birthday blog.  I've never quite forgiven myself for it so you can be quite sure that even though I am exhausted in a way that threatens to make me crazy, I will not be passing up the opportunity to write tonight, on your 3rd birthday.

If I could only write one word to describe you over the past two years it would be, simply: JOY.

You have been the sweetest, the gentlest, most affectionate and the easiest going little-guy these past two years.  So many things delight you and so few things get under your skin (really, there seems to be just one person who can do it effectively over and over again...).

You are so well-natured that nearly everyone that spends any time with you at all comments on just how pleasant you are.  The Indian ladies at YMCA "camp" beam when you walk in the door because they know you'll just happily play with the trucks and let them know when you need your snack.  Then you will sit contentedly at the table until you have finished.  Ms. Judy and Ms. Amy, your Rolling 2s teachers secretly let me know that you were their favorite kid in the class.  You have never had separation issues and usually send me out of the door by blowing a kiss and saying "see you later!"  I've even heard you tell other kids who are upset that, "Mommas always come back."  And when I come back to get you, the smile that spreads across your face as you rush into my arms nearly melts me into a puddle.  I even tried to get this reaction on video tape once, which of course didn't work.  I often take for granted the fact that I can drop you off just about anywhere with any one of my friends.  And, in my line of work, that's such a relief.  

You are eager to try new things; namely, things that involve swimming underwater.  We think that because you made the passage from inside to outside in a tub of water, you've just always believed you could swim.  This past summer, you even coined a phrase for a special swimming technique called "The Under Dog."  Basically, you launch yourself out of an adult's arms and swim under water until someone picks you out.  You never come up sputtering and always come out smiling.  You are adventurous on playgrounds (we've already had one ER visit thanks to that sense of adventure.  No stitches, but a small scar under your bottom lip to remind us) and believe that you can do anything that Marian can do.  Usually, you can.  You've just started taking choir lessons with Marian at church, even though you're a few years to young to really begin the lessons.  But Mr. C., the director of the music program, was shocked to learn that you weren't even three yet.  You listen and participate at least as well as most of the five year olds.

Marian is your best friend and the source of all aggravation.  The two of you play so well together, which is something I only really appreciated once she was in kindergarten and I was home with you for about two weeks.  The amount of time I spent on my hands and knees walking around pretending to be a cat or a lion or a dog was exhausting.  Every morning, just after breakfast, the two of you disappear into the playroom and laugh and talk and create imaginary worlds together.  I'm afraid I don't take the time to watch and marvel at the relationship that the two of you share.   But in the evenings, when I walk up the stairs and find the two of you all curled up in one of your beds, I do find the time to stop and be thankful.  In fact, I must have taken 50 pictures of the two of you alseep, sometimes holding hands, usually sharing one pillow.   We never had any of the sleep issues with you that we had with Marian.  You just happily go to bed, read a few books and drift off.  I think the difference is, you have her lying beside you and that's an incredible source of comfort.

Of course, every once in a while (15 times daily, perhaps) all hell breaks loose between the two of you.  I'm learning when to intervene and when to let the two of you work it out.    I'll never forget the surprise of hearing Marian run away from you the first time you chased her, probably trying to bite her, the fear and panic in her voice was real and intense!  I would say you hold your own very well.

 A few nights ago, you crawled into bed with me in the middle of the night, something that happens on an almost nightly basis still.  You always try to steal my pillow, which is why I have started to insist that you bring your own pillow with you when you come, but this night I was too lazy to get up and get yours.  So we spent the night sharing a pillow and you reached out to make sure that both of your arms were encircling my neck in a giant hug.  At first I was aggravated by the tight quarters and the constant touching.  But it occurred to me that you are not always going to want to sleep an inch from my body,  stroking my cheek and hugging my neck.  I decided to drift off to sleep with the sweetest little arms in the world holding me tight.  Even in the past few weeks, as you've approached the age of three, I've begun to notice that the spontaneous hug sessions and Momma-love are spacing out.  And I imagine that I won't always be able to count on the fact that when we sit at the dinner table and say what we're grateful for that your go-to answer will be, "That Momma's here."  But I am determined not to forget the way you melt my heart on a daily basis with your sweetness,  your affection and joy.

I love you Jojo.  I know that big changes can come when you turn three.  The world can get more frustrating, you can start to throw tantrums in grocery stores, you may refuse to eat all the good vegetables and fruits you've eaten with gusto these past three years.   And if these things happen, as they well might, I won't hold it against you.  Afterall, I've had three years now with the easiest and happiest kid I can imagine.  I'm due a few tantrums and fits.   But I hope that the person you've been these last three years says something about the kind of person you will be when you're 20, 30, 40.  I hope you will always find joy in every corner of the world, that you'll be anxious to try new things and never afraid to tell someone you love them --over and over and over again if they need to hear it. 

Happy birthday, sweet boy.  I love you to the ends of the earth and the top of the shower curtain.  Thank you, thank you for being born to me.

Kindergarten, Day One

When I was in either first or second grade, the teachers sent all of their students home with a little blue pamphlet.  On the front cover was a set of stairs, each one marked with a number 1-12.  I'm sure it was titled something like, "Stair Steps to Success!" or some other inane thing.   I remember, so clearly, looking at those stairs and knowing that I was going to be in school for-ever.  Each year seemed to last an eternity and I had a whole set of stairs to climb between now and 12th grade.

And here's what a change in perspective can do for you.  Today, you walked into that kindergarten room for the first time and I felt with a force equal to that of my love for you, that in a blink of an eye you would be all the way up those stairs and flying the coop.

There were no tears today, at least not as we said goodbye to one another at the door of Ms. Clayton's room (I'll admit that I did get a little choked up at the parent's coffee right after drop-off), but the emotions ran deep right under the surface.  You showed so much bravery and gumption that I couldn't help but believe that everything was going to be just fine.

In fact, the first thing you said to me this morning as you dove into my bed was, "Happy first day of day school!"  Realizing you had said something not-quite-right you then said, "I just like calling it that, it makes me feel better."  It was like bridging the gap between Silver Spring Day School, your preschool, and kindergarten could be made just as easily as changing a few words around.  Then you came downstairs and ordered an egg for breakfast, something we've been discussing recently is the need for a decent breakfast before school, which you ate without a lot of fuss.



I don't expect that every day will go so smoothly.  In fact, I'm rather bracing myself for a firestorm tomorrow.  You told me tonight that you planned to stay home with me tomorrow and then got pretty teary eyed when I explained that you would have to go to school.  When you crawled into bed, you took with you the little note that I had tucked away in your lunch bag and with tears (which I think just might have been real) you told me that it would really make you feel good tomorrow if I would draw a picture of the two of us together.  I'm no artist but I will make you a masterpiece tomorrow morning and I hope you will look at it and school and know just how much I love you.  I hope I've prepared you well for your walk up the "stair steps" but I do hope you take it nice and slow from here. 

When I Turn Five...

Sometimes this past year, when you were merely four, you declared with certainty that when you were five years old you would no longer need a Momma and a Poppa.  There are some days I believe you were right.

You are an independent, fiesty and determined little girl.  But, as we are now one week into this five year old thing, I am very relieved to find that, sometimes, when the stars are aligned just right, you still find comfort in a hug, kiss and "I love you so much" from a Momma.  Anyway, it would be a real shame to send you out on your own now because there would be so much I miss.

I love hearing you construct elaborate make believe worlds and the way you include Joseph in your adventures.  Sometimes, you even allow him to be the momma lion, taking care of you and growling at the dinosaurs that threaten to eat you up.  I don't even mind that sometimes I turn my head for just an instant and when I spin back around, every cushion in the house has been re-purposed to create a store, a camp site or a crash site.  You have a vivid imagination that spins on its own without input from me or anyone else. 

Just last month I attended what will most assuredly be the first of many graduation ceremonies.  And so much about what happened during the ceremony sums you up that I feel compelled to describe it in some detail.  But in order to tell that story I must begin with the horror that was the tricycle accident.

The last week of school, it was a Thursday and I was co-oping, you were out on the playground at the end of the day and all of a sudden I heard you screaming.  I ran over to you and immediately started looking for blood (I usually find it on the head, knees or elbows) but I didn't see it anywhere.  I made a visual path down your body until I landed at your ankle and then saw "the horror."  You had been sliced so deeply across the back of your heel that there was no blood, just a deep, deep gash into your Achilles.  I felt faint, of course, but picked you up and carried you inside so that someone else could take another look at the injury; because, as I told anyone that would listen, I could NOT look at it again.  Someone in the hall suggested that we were going to have to go to the emergency room.  And, without missing a beat, you turned 25.  All of a sudden you stuck out your little finger and yelled, "I am NOT GOING to HOLY CROSS HOSPITAL."  Yep, you called it by name.  When the word "stitches" was thrown about you had an ever-loving fit.  Not once did you complain about the inches long gash on the back of your leg.  So we loaded you up in the van, Ms. Lisa drove with us to the ER, and the two of you talked over the more uneventful aspects of your day.  Then, when we got to the hospital, you allowed me to carry you in without much fuss.  Every once in a while you would remind yourself that stitches were looming on the horizon and you would let out a bawl but for the most part you remained so calm.  I remember sitting there, watching you color a princess castle with Ms. Lisa, and marveling at the way you were handling it all.  I was only able to keep my composure because, somehow, you were keeping yours.

When the doctor came by to see the gash, he confirmed that you would need stitches.  That's when you threw your finger out and said, "I don't like this one little bit.  You tell him, you tell him I am NOT getting stitches.  Take me home right now."  In any other setting, it would have been funny.  But I was so proud of the way you were advocating for yourself.   And then I was just so sad that for all of your determination and verbal eloquence, we still had to get those damn stitches put in your leg.

The stitches were put in and we left on our trip to Colonial Williamsburg as planned.  Then, for the better part of week, I carried you around from point A to point B.  Every trip to the bathroom required assistance, every trip down the stairs in the morning was a challenge and I attended every day of school between the accident and graduation day just so I could help the teachers cart you around. That's why, when graduation day rolled around, I'd arranged for a small stroller that you could sit in and have one of your teachers push you down the aisle.  Imagine my surprise, then, when you came walking down the aisle with your class!  Honestly, why was I surprised...

There are a few things that are so awesome about you and some of those things also make it hard to be your mother.  You are fiercely determined to do things the way you want to do them.  Therefore, being the only kid pushed down the aisle was not going to work for you.  However, just seconds later, you proved that you don't mind being different when you were the ONLY kid not to walk up to the front when Ms. Melanee called your name to receive your little diploma/poem.  Apparently, you had told Ms. Melanee the day before that since you couldn't walk, she could just bring the diploma to you.  Nevermind the fact that you had just practically skipped down the aisle, you meant you were not getting up to get the diploma.  And then after the ceremony, I watched as your friends slung their arms around your shoulders and seemed to love just being around you.   I think in many ways, you were the glue that held that little group together this year.

There are also time when your generosity astounds me.  Poppa and I were recently at each other's throats about a gift card that went missing.  You were asking us over and over again what a gift card is and finally, we stopped bickering long enough to tell you it was a little card that was like money.   You left the room and a minute later returned with your piggy bank, offering it in outstretched hands to the two of us.  That was a very effective way to stop an argument and left me weak in the knees with love for you.

I am more aware, this year than any other, that we traveled some rocky roads together.  I know that you will become exactly the kind of woman I want to be friends with; but it's hard when that awesome woman is only five years old and I'm supposed to be parenting her.  I guess my hope for this upcoming year is that you find the world around you a little less frustrating and a little more magical.  I know it's tough to be little and feel so like you control so little.  But I sometimes wish you would just sit back and enjoy the ride, it will be over before you know it. 

And of course, there are big, big changes on your horizon.  In just a month you will begin kindergarten.  It's hard for me to fathom that someone else will spend more time with you than I do.  Five years is not a long time to spend with someone (especially when they're your kid) and I constantly question whether I have done enough to prepare you for this initial leap from the nest.  But if I know you, you will walk into that building with determination on day one and then you'll start running without looking back on day two.

It's been an awe-inspiring and challenging year.  And I am beyond relieved that when asked last week whether you would be needing my services anymore, now that you're five, you just rolled your eyes like that was the craziest question you'd ever heard.