Dear Lucy,

Scattered around me are remnants of you: A sparkly Tinker Bell hairbrush. Pink Dora slippers. Your Disney Princess place mat that you demand to eat on every. single. meal. Teeny cherished Little People and hair clips you stuffed into the remote holder to hide from your sister. Your art folder and sticker collection which you splay across the kitchen table multiple times a day.

This morning, like every morning, you asked if it was a Daycare Day or a Mummy Lucy House Day (you always conveniently leave out Alice and Spencer until prompted). When I told you it was a Monday and indeed your day away from home, you replied with predictability: “But I want to stay home with YOU” and jabbed me in the chest with your finger before collapsing on my lap and burrowing into your Snuggle Spot under my chin.

Oh, my Baby Goose. The love and affection radiates from you like I never imagined. You are truly my girl, and I love every single moment of your world revolving around me, because I know that’s going to change before I know it. Every day we play a game: “Mumma, I love you bigger than an elephant.” Or, “I love you bigger than a mountain.” Or, “I love you bigger than the sky. And the sky is very big, Mumma,” you say, holding your arms out wide and cocking an eyebrow at me like a professor — teaching me a fact, you see.

This year you have met huge milestones: You go the bathroom by yourself. You are fully potty trained and no longer sleep in a pull-up. You can write your name. You climb things. You talk on the phone. You initiate conversation. You can turn the television on and off, type on the computer and turn on lights.

While large indoor structures still make you nervous, you are no longer afraid of going on the playground or slide by yourself. I’m sure that the confidence you’ve built at daycare has a lot to do with this. You also say hello to everyone you meet.

I often spy on you as you’re playing in your room. You make up stories with your “guys” (stuffed animals) and Barbies, and twirl around the room with Cold Blankie. For your birthday you received a Tag Reader, and will spend hours — literally! — going through your books.

Every day we craft. If we’re busy or forget, you will suddenly remember with a panicked face at dinner that we did not create something together. I love your artsy side, and encourage it as often as I can. Not too long ago you drew your first family portrait, and I actually cried I was so very proud of you. It will never come down from our fridge.

You’ll call yourself Little Mommy and help me around the house: Wiping Alice’s nose, stealing baby wipes and “cleaning” the floor and television, feeding Spencer Dog. You talk about being a grown up all the time, and all the things you’ll do: Eat pickles. Get your nose “pinned” like me.  Drive a van. Sleep in our bed. Be an animal doctor. Have two babies — a girl named Alex, and a boy named Rocket.

While shoveling the driveway last week you told me next year you’ll be five. Honey, Mumma would like to get used to four first, please, mmkay?

“Lucy. How many times do I have to tell you to stop growing?”

“Iiiiii won’t! I’m going to be a grown up, and you can’t stop me!”

It’s a game was play involving cradling you like a baby, but it’s oh-so true. And really hit home when I registered you for junior kindergarten.

You are a thoughtful and kind big sister. You like to teach Alice things like how to blow your nose, hop or colour. You love to chase her and make her giggle — and there is no bigger reward for this hard parenting gig than hearing that. Nothing. I think Alice’s early crawling and walking was just so she could keep up with you, her idol. You have handled the transition into sisterhood very well. Alice can feel your wrath if she’s playing with a favourite toy or is sitting with one of us and you want to, too, but other than the occasional, “I don’t want to get Alice up!” when she wakes from her nap, you are great with her (and LOVE matching!).

Favourite foods include grilled cheese sandwiches (your request for dinner each night), cheese and crackers, tuna noodle casserole, spaghetti and meatballs, and any candy and chocolate. You are a super eater, although it can take you a while to finish dinner (the solution? Putting the timer on or threatening no dessert!).

You are tall for your age, and easily fit size 5 clothes and weigh close to 45 lbs.

I am often confused by your relationship with your Daddy. All day long when you’re home with me, you will ask when he’ll be back from work. But so often you only want me, or say, “I don’t LIKE Daddy.” Are you punishing him for some reason because you see me more? It’s perplexing and can be hurtful for all of us. But when times are good with the two of you? I might as well not exist. He is your favourite playmate and wrestler — roles I could never fill.

But just as you can light up the room with your laughter, equally can you tilt the world’s axis with your anger. To see your temper tantrum is enough to cause terror in the heart’s of every pregnant woman. “They” don’t talk about this when you’re having a baby. Last week you absolutely refused to get dressed, and punctuated the sentiment with a red-faced, tear-streaked, “No MUMMA!” that I’m positive set our van’s alarm off. I had to drag you, kicking and screaming, to the stairs for a time out (for both of us).

You did something similar to your Nana over the weekend, and she actually had to call me to ask what to do. I have to admit a small part of me was pleased when this happened, and I snickered when I hung up the phone after listening to your wailing sobs of not wanting to go pee. Your Nana has always prized herself on “not letting Lucy get away with things,” and it was comforting to see you testing boundaries with other people, to let someone else see what four can be like (and give true vision to why I’ve been threatening to leave you at the end of the driveway for the past four years).

I know it’s frustrating, this in between time when you so seek independence, but are still so young. I remind myself of this every day.

I wasn’t told mood swings, drama and defiance could start so early. We are so similarly stubborn, Lucy, that god help all of us when you turn 13. Your Daddy already has plans to permanently move into the basement and just let us women fend against ourselves like feral kitties.

But I could never appreciate all the sweet in you without some salty tears. So we work together and test each other out, and at the end of each day I walk around the house and pick up the scattered remnants of you with a heart heavy with responsibility and love. To give you space to grow, and the shelter, comfort and encouragement to do so.
I love you, my Goose, my first baby, bigger than anything in the world. Happy 4th birthday.

Love,

Mumma

Dear Alice,

Among the chaos of 20 chattering people, crinkling tissue paper, music from the stereo beside us, you twirled in a circle clutching a cascade of ribbon. “Ahh-ahhh,” you sang, the biggest grin on your face. Eyes popping out of your head. Dancing. Smiling. Clapping.

You are one.

You came into the world in less than eight hours, a week late, on the one day (Halloween 2008) I did not want you to come. I can’t say this stubborn streak has continued, because you are now the most laid back, happy, adaptable baby.

You are your father.

You eat voraciously. We can’t fill up your tray fast enough. You eat everything, and share the rest with Spencer Dog by dangling your fingers down the side of your booster seat into his waiting snout, giggling.

You are smart.

Your first word is da — not for your father, but for dog. Remarkably, this was also your sister’s first word, except she said gog. I absolutely love this about the two of you, and it will be one of my favourite memories of both your babyhoods.

You are on the go.

You took your first steps at 10 months, and have not stopped since. You rarely crawl now. Last week you learned to stand up in that baby way of sticking your puffy diapered bum up in the air and pushing off the ground with your hands. Currently your favourite thing to do is climb up one stair, turn around, and lounge. You dangle a foot up and down, leaning on one arm. We love to strip you down and laugh at your nekkid babyness — teeny hips, chubby legs, giant belly, curved spine. Ironically, you look like a pregnant woman.

You are mischievous.

You are always in my tea pots. In drawers. In cupboards. The toilet. The laundry. The garbage can. The central vacuum cover. The dog’s water dish. I love to sneak up on you and bark, “Ah-liss!” and watch the look of surprise/terror/deer-in-headlights/busted look come across your face — it’s especially hilarious when your chubby fingers instinctively pop open and you drop said object and try to run. Have you seen a pregnant woman try to run?

You are a shoe lover.

You are in the shoe basket all. the. time. If you are out of my sight, I can almost guarantee I’ll hear the sound of velcro ripping within seconds. What’s up with this? You open and close them, carry them, bang them on the ground, hold them over your head like a frat boy who won a kegger contest, proud and drunk looking.

You are a boy lover.

This morning at the walk-in clinic you toddled over to a chair, laid your head on it, and looked up at the elderly man sitting beside you, batting your eye lashes with a dopey grin. Seriously, child. You don’t dislike women, but you most certainly love the opposite sex.

You are the harbourer of few fears.

I can run the vacuum, the hair dryer, the beaters and you will investigate. While your sister bolts upstairs at the first mention of baking, you love when the hot air from the dyer blows your fine dark hair across your face. I can’t say I’ve ever really seen you scared before.

You are a little sister.

Oh, how you love Lucy. You watch every. single. move. she makes. You want everything she does. Your eyes light up whenever she walks in the room. She can make you giggle with a silly face, and make you cry just as fast by ripping a cherished toy out of her hand. This is an evolving relationship, one that requires diligence, patience and perseverance on all our parts. But seeing you two playing pop-up animals and bonking heads with peals of laughter makes it all worth it. That is the reason there are two of you.

You are making up for lost time.

Our first few months together were hard, little one. You hated, well, everyone. You had an undiagnosed milk allergy for some weeks, and pooped and cried and pooped and cried, repeat. I almost lost it once during that dark time. I had to get help. The recent time change and afternoon darkness takes me back to that time a year ago and makes me very anxious. But now your unwavering smile, your giggles at being tossed in the air, your outstretched arms to come up are the difference between now and then. The difference between despair and delight.

You are my last baby.

When your sister was the same age, I was always so excited to see what was next, and did not take enough time to enjoy the stage she was in; I think subconsciously I knew there would be you, too, to relive all these firsts. While I’m not at all sad to know there will be no more babies, I am sad to see you leaving your babyness behind. At the same time, I don’t want to go back. I want to see you continue to grow and learn and explore, to watch your unique personality develop.

You are my Alice.

Happy first birthday, Doo-Doos.

Love,
Mumma

A few moments ago she finished her bottle with a slurp, pushed it away with both hands and feet, and slipped her head under my chin.

A sigh, and she is asleep.

There is a sudden release in my chest. It is no longer tight with the worries of life.

Baby breath, soft, sweet, milky on my skin.

She rumbles a little like the sound of an outboard motor idling under water.

We rock, gently, quietly in the chair my Mother rocked me in.

Her chubby fingers loosely grip my pinky.

She is warm and limp and soft and smells like honey and fresh bread and everything delicious and soothing in the world.

My Alice.

Eleven months old yesterday.

Walking, pointing, yelling, rolling, smiling, laughing, twisting, learning, go-go-going.

Growing.

Stop.

Rock with me.

Snuggle, sigh, sleep.

My Alice,

You stand.

You climb.

You sit (often surrounding yourself with shoes. A girl after my own heart).

You reach for everything. All day long I move things out of your inquisitive hands.

You dance on command (“Boogie, Alice!). You hop a little, or if you’re sitting, bop your noggin in a slow nod like a head banger.

You walk-run with help. And hit animals. And crash into walls. (Godhelpus when you’re 16.)

Every. single. time. I put your hat on, it ends up like this.

Each morning, I get you out of bed first, and place you in the hall. You crawl as fast as your stubby legs will take you, throw your palm in the air, and smack open Lucy’s door. Then you sit and stare and giggle at your big sister. You want to be and be with her all the time.

But no one makes your legs kick faster than Daddy.

You are fearless. One day a girlfriend’s son brought over this battery-operated dinosaur with glowing red eyes that roared. Lucy took one look at it and bolted across the room. You stuck your hand in its mouth.

You mastered a sippy cup at seven months. Purees are for suckers. You’re happiest with pieces of food you can pick up and feed yourself.

You may look like a McDougall…

…and each day fly further away from me…

…but you’ll always be mine.

Happy 10 month birthday, our Doo-Doo Pumpkin.
Love Mumma

Dear Alice,

You are now seven months old, officially on the other side of the hill towards a year. At which point, I will never be able to say I have a baby (in the literal sense, although you and your sister will ALWAYS be my babies).

In other words, stop growing, Missy Poops.

This has been an exciting month. Look at the seven new things you can do now!

• Read the rest of this entry »