Dear Emmeline:
Seven years old. How is that even possible? Everyone says that time passes more quickly as you get older, which is most definitely true. But nothing makes time speed by at such a ridiculous rate as having a child and watching her grow up. Sometimes, my heart aches for the little-bitty girl that you used to be, just as I know that, several years from now, I'll long to have the seven-year-old back.
This has been a big year for you. The tooth fairy has now visited our house six times, and you're quite the snaggle-puss. You recently discovered that the tooth fairy had left one of your teeth behind, secreted in a box I fill with mementos of your childhood, and you were quite confused until I told you that I'd explained to her that I thought it would be nice to keep one of your teeth for you. You accepted this grudgingly but wanted to know if the tooth fairy wanted her money back, seeing as how she didn't get to keep the tooth.
Showing posts with label Letters to My Daughter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Letters to My Daughter. Show all posts
4.03.2011
A Letter to My Daughter, 04.11
Dear Emmeline:
Okay, six-year-old, this is it. You're officially not a baby anymore at all. Except for when you still are. Except for the words that you still mix up on a consistent basis, which never cease to crack me up. "Sanimitizer" for sanitizer. "Coffee" for copy. (As in, "Mommy, don't coffee my paper!") "Andylance" for ambulance. (I like to think that you named that one after me.)
You're all grown up. Except for when you try your hardest not to suck your thumb but can't quite succeed. The dentist told you that if you stopped sucking your thumb right now, you probably won't need braces. So you're trying. Really hard. But it's still difficult for you. I keep telling you stories about how I sucked my thumb until I was seven and then had to wear braces for almost five years. I tell you in great detail about braces, trying to scare the hell out of you--but in a good way. (I don't tell you this part, because I don't want to scare the hell out of you, but I'll never forget the thing they called "the whacker," which the orthodontist used to put metal bands all the way around my teeth. It felt about as good as it sounds. You're fortunate in that now they just glue the braces to the front of your teeth. Orthodontia has, apparently, come a long way in the last 30 years.)
You're almost grown up. I taught you how to tie your shoes recently (which, I have to add, was a challenge, since I'm left-handed and you're not), and you've been practicing diligently ever since.
Okay, six-year-old, this is it. You're officially not a baby anymore at all. Except for when you still are. Except for the words that you still mix up on a consistent basis, which never cease to crack me up. "Sanimitizer" for sanitizer. "Coffee" for copy. (As in, "Mommy, don't coffee my paper!") "Andylance" for ambulance. (I like to think that you named that one after me.)
You're all grown up. Except for when you try your hardest not to suck your thumb but can't quite succeed. The dentist told you that if you stopped sucking your thumb right now, you probably won't need braces. So you're trying. Really hard. But it's still difficult for you. I keep telling you stories about how I sucked my thumb until I was seven and then had to wear braces for almost five years. I tell you in great detail about braces, trying to scare the hell out of you--but in a good way. (I don't tell you this part, because I don't want to scare the hell out of you, but I'll never forget the thing they called "the whacker," which the orthodontist used to put metal bands all the way around my teeth. It felt about as good as it sounds. You're fortunate in that now they just glue the braces to the front of your teeth. Orthodontia has, apparently, come a long way in the last 30 years.)
You're almost grown up. I taught you how to tie your shoes recently (which, I have to add, was a challenge, since I'm left-handed and you're not), and you've been practicing diligently ever since.
7.12.2010
A Letter to My Daughter, 07/10
Dear Emmeline:
And so it begins. You're five now, and there's very little baby left in you. Now, your father and I spend most of our time marveling at how grown up you are. You now roll your eyes at us when you're exasperated. You can finally pronounce "computer" and "penguin" correctly. You prefer iCarly to the Wonder Pets and Dora (although I turn the channel most of the time). You are most definitely, officially, now a little girl.
And a girly-girl at that, I might add, which never ceases to crack me and your father up. (As you will one day figure out, I am not very girly--other than when it comes to shoes.) Your favorite colors are pink, purple and red, and you have reported to me that when you grow up, you will live in a pink house with purple polka-dots. (You have also graciously informed me that your dad and I can come and live with you in the pink house, but that Tchoups must stay here.) You scream when a bug comes anywhere near you.
And so it begins. You're five now, and there's very little baby left in you. Now, your father and I spend most of our time marveling at how grown up you are. You now roll your eyes at us when you're exasperated. You can finally pronounce "computer" and "penguin" correctly. You prefer iCarly to the Wonder Pets and Dora (although I turn the channel most of the time). You are most definitely, officially, now a little girl.
And a girly-girl at that, I might add, which never ceases to crack me and your father up. (As you will one day figure out, I am not very girly--other than when it comes to shoes.) Your favorite colors are pink, purple and red, and you have reported to me that when you grow up, you will live in a pink house with purple polka-dots. (You have also graciously informed me that your dad and I can come and live with you in the pink house, but that Tchoups must stay here.) You scream when a bug comes anywhere near you.
9.10.2009
A Letter to My Daughter, 09/09
Dear Emmeline:
You're four-and-a-half now, and jeez, how the time has flown. You've become the model four-year-old that everyone talks about, the one that makes you laugh out loud at least 2-3 times a day with your antics.
Let's see, where to begin? You finish your third week at "big school" tomorrow and are doing wonderfully there. I think it's been more of an adjustment for me than you--you're attending a Catholic school, as public schools are out of the question. Nothing against Catholics, but I'm not one, so it's been a bit odd for me, and I've been concerned that you might feel left out at times, if you're considered different from the other kids because you don't share their faith. So far, though, you're taking it in stride. You've really warmed to the whole Jesus and Mary thing, including making me play songs about them on the way to school each day. Thank God (no pun intended) for my ipod with the Christmas song playlist on it, or you'd pretty much be out of luck. Last week, you informed me that instead of being Jasmine for Halloween, you want to be the Virgin Mary. I tried to keep a straight face for that one, while also thinking about what a ridiculously cheap Halloween costume that would be (blue sheet? check).
You're four-and-a-half now, and jeez, how the time has flown. You've become the model four-year-old that everyone talks about, the one that makes you laugh out loud at least 2-3 times a day with your antics.
Let's see, where to begin? You finish your third week at "big school" tomorrow and are doing wonderfully there. I think it's been more of an adjustment for me than you--you're attending a Catholic school, as public schools are out of the question. Nothing against Catholics, but I'm not one, so it's been a bit odd for me, and I've been concerned that you might feel left out at times, if you're considered different from the other kids because you don't share their faith. So far, though, you're taking it in stride. You've really warmed to the whole Jesus and Mary thing, including making me play songs about them on the way to school each day. Thank God (no pun intended) for my ipod with the Christmas song playlist on it, or you'd pretty much be out of luck. Last week, you informed me that instead of being Jasmine for Halloween, you want to be the Virgin Mary. I tried to keep a straight face for that one, while also thinking about what a ridiculously cheap Halloween costume that would be (blue sheet? check).
3.04.2009
A Letter to My Daughter, 03/09
Dear Emmeline:
Four years have passed since you were born, and, as mentioned earlier, all of my well-intentioned plans to keep a journal of your babyhood and toddler years haven’t panned out. I really meant to do it, I promise, but like most parents, overcome with the task of the actual parenting, I haven’t often taken the time to put my thoughts into words. And now, in the blink of an eye, my baby girl is four.
You were such a beautiful, easy baby. I rarely remember you crying after the first few weeks-- once I learned what you needed from me, which was not much, other than love, you were about as happy as a baby can be.
There were many, many times when I had absolutely no clue what I was doing and was convinced I was going to be a failure as a mother, like on our first night together, in the hospital. Kenny and I had no earthly idea of why you were crying and tried everything to get you to stop--feeding you, changing you, rocking you, singing to you, putting you in your bassinet, all to no avail. When we finally called the nursery to ask the nurse on duty if she had any advice, her answer was simple. “Do you have a pacifier? If so, then give it to her.” And we gave you the pacifier, and you stopped crying--as simple as that. We had several more sleepless nights those first few weeks after you were born, while we were still muddling our way through this new relationship—I remember one night in particular, when I couldn't get you to sleep, no matter what I did. I finally gave up, and the two of us watched Purple Rain together--it's amazing what you can find on television at 3:00 a.m. (You seemed to prefer the scenes with Morris Day and the Time as opposed to Prince, but you were an infant, so I'll forgive you.)
Four years have passed since you were born, and, as mentioned earlier, all of my well-intentioned plans to keep a journal of your babyhood and toddler years haven’t panned out. I really meant to do it, I promise, but like most parents, overcome with the task of the actual parenting, I haven’t often taken the time to put my thoughts into words. And now, in the blink of an eye, my baby girl is four.
You were such a beautiful, easy baby. I rarely remember you crying after the first few weeks-- once I learned what you needed from me, which was not much, other than love, you were about as happy as a baby can be.
There were many, many times when I had absolutely no clue what I was doing and was convinced I was going to be a failure as a mother, like on our first night together, in the hospital. Kenny and I had no earthly idea of why you were crying and tried everything to get you to stop--feeding you, changing you, rocking you, singing to you, putting you in your bassinet, all to no avail. When we finally called the nursery to ask the nurse on duty if she had any advice, her answer was simple. “Do you have a pacifier? If so, then give it to her.” And we gave you the pacifier, and you stopped crying--as simple as that. We had several more sleepless nights those first few weeks after you were born, while we were still muddling our way through this new relationship—I remember one night in particular, when I couldn't get you to sleep, no matter what I did. I finally gave up, and the two of us watched Purple Rain together--it's amazing what you can find on television at 3:00 a.m. (You seemed to prefer the scenes with Morris Day and the Time as opposed to Prince, but you were an infant, so I'll forgive you.)
11.10.2008
A Letter to My Daughter, 11/08
Dear Emmeline:
You are a funny, funny child. At least a couple of times each day, you say something that cracks me and your father up, often much to our dismay--like the times when we're trying to discipline you and you say something outrageous, which leads to both of us holding back laughter and smiles and flashing each other looks across the room. We try really hard to be stern when the situation calls for it, but sometimes we just want to collapse in laughter as a result of some of the things you come up with.
Your favorite game in the whole wide world right now is when I or K blow raspberries on your stomach. You think this is hilarious and will lie on your back with your arms spread wide, screeching, "Do it again, do it again!" Your second favorite game is pretending that you're going to kiss K and instead giving him a raspberry on his cheek. You then scream out "I tricked you!" and dissolve into hysterical giggles.
You are a funny, funny child. At least a couple of times each day, you say something that cracks me and your father up, often much to our dismay--like the times when we're trying to discipline you and you say something outrageous, which leads to both of us holding back laughter and smiles and flashing each other looks across the room. We try really hard to be stern when the situation calls for it, but sometimes we just want to collapse in laughter as a result of some of the things you come up with.
Your favorite game in the whole wide world right now is when I or K blow raspberries on your stomach. You think this is hilarious and will lie on your back with your arms spread wide, screeching, "Do it again, do it again!" Your second favorite game is pretending that you're going to kiss K and instead giving him a raspberry on his cheek. You then scream out "I tricked you!" and dissolve into hysterical giggles.
10.23.2008
A Letter to My Daughter, 10/08
Dear Emmeline:
You're three-and-a-half now, rapidly going on 30, and I thought that it was about time that I started something that I've meant to do for your three-plus years here, which is to write to you. I started with good intentions--I bought a leather-bound journal when I was pregnant with you, and even recorded a few thoughts in it, starting with the night you were born.
But then, of course, Katrina happened, and all of my good intentions fell by the wayside.
Anyway--you won't see any of this for quite some time to come. Some day, I suppose, I'll decide that the time is right to let you know that your mom is also a person, and I'll clue you in to this blog, if it still exists. I have a feeling, though, that that day is a long way away--I don't think my mother gave me the gift of knowing her as both a person and as a mom until I was around 25.
Tonight, I thought I'd start off by telling you about me.
I'm a sentimental fool, often to my detriment--I almost always look back on my past--and the people who were important to me--with fond memories, regardless of how things may have ended--ex-boyfriends, long-lost friends, all those "I wonder whatever happened to..." people. I have a hard time letting go of people who were once important to me, and I'm a firm believer in letting bygones be bygones.
I'm an ISFJ, which means that I have a hard time expressing my feelings (except semi-anonomously, via this blog) unless I feel extremely comfortable with someone. It also means that I can be too sensitive and too self-conscious. I'm working on it.
When I was pregnant with you, my hormones, like those of most pregnant women, swung wildly. I went from being the even-tempered person that my family and friends know to a crazy person on occasion, most memorably when I yelled at an elderly woman in the grocery store (she started it) and the time I threw the vacuum cleaner across the living room because the hose was clogged. (That one really freaked out your father.)
After you were born, my hormones, like those of most post-partum women, swung wildly. I went from euphoric highs to the lowest of lows. During the first six weeks of your life, I regularly sat in the kitchen each afternoon and cried. When K would ask what was wrong, the only answer I could give--which was completely truthful--was "I don't know."
Stray animals know that I'm a sucker. Just ask Boo-Boo, one of our cats, who came to live with us 11 years ago (bearing that name, I might add), when my friend Curtis, who was an animal control warden, called to tell me that there was the cutest kitten at the shelter who was scheduled to be euthanized that day. Or Betty-Kitty, our other cat (and I have to take full blame for that name), who joined our household 10 years ago, after she finally learned to trust me after she showed up at our house one day and lived under our porch, only coming out for food, for about six months. Or Lola, the stray chihuahua/min-pin/I-don't-really-know-what-in-the-hell-she-was that found us and lived with us for a few months until we found her a home, because I'm a sucker and didn't have it in me to take her to the shelter. Or hell, ask the rats that took up residence in our house after Katrina, that I didn't want your father to poison.
I can be cranky, irrational, bitchy, and/or selfish. I'm working on it.
Some of my favorite movies are the Shawshank Redemption, the Straight Story, and Immortal Beloved. Yes, those movies are, respectively, about a prison breakout, a guy that drives across the mid-west on a lawn mower, and Beethoven. Did I mention that I'm weird? If it makes you feel any better, my favorite books are Where the Redfern Grows, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and To Kill a Mockingbird. And the movie version of Mockingbird was great as well--Gregory Peck will always be Atticus Finch.
Speaking of To Kill a Mockingbird, I asked K when we found out we were having a daughter if he would consider the name Scout. I won't repeat his answer here. I was really surprised when he liked the name Emmeline, as that was another one I threw out there thinking I didn't have a chance in hell of getting agreement on. (See, ferry--or fairy.)
I'm really looking forward to passing my suitcase full of Barbie clothes along to you--one of the few things that survived Katrina. As soon as I find it in the attic and wash all of the dead roaches that you know are hiding in there out of the clothes, it's all yours. I hope that you're a little gentler on them than you've been on the Barbie dolls I handed over to you--so far, you've ripped the heads off of Mrs. Sunshine Family, California Barbie, and Skipper. Mr. Sunshine Family, Ken, and Plain Old Barbie are hanging in there, but their future looks pretty grim.
The sleep-aid commercials with Abraham Lincoln and the talking beaver really crack me up, as do the Filipino prisoners performing Michael Jackson's Thriller. But nothing will ever compare to the dramatic gopher (who's really a prairie dog) for pure comedy gold.
I hate George W. Bush (and will be expecting a visit from the NSA to this blog shortly).
My favorite all-time joke, much to the dismay of everyone I know, is the one about the horse walking into the bar.
I think that just about covers it. You're probably a little bit disturbed now and wishing that you could have a different mother, but I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Sorry.
Love, Mom
You're three-and-a-half now, rapidly going on 30, and I thought that it was about time that I started something that I've meant to do for your three-plus years here, which is to write to you. I started with good intentions--I bought a leather-bound journal when I was pregnant with you, and even recorded a few thoughts in it, starting with the night you were born.
But then, of course, Katrina happened, and all of my good intentions fell by the wayside.
Anyway--you won't see any of this for quite some time to come. Some day, I suppose, I'll decide that the time is right to let you know that your mom is also a person, and I'll clue you in to this blog, if it still exists. I have a feeling, though, that that day is a long way away--I don't think my mother gave me the gift of knowing her as both a person and as a mom until I was around 25.
Tonight, I thought I'd start off by telling you about me.
I'm a sentimental fool, often to my detriment--I almost always look back on my past--and the people who were important to me--with fond memories, regardless of how things may have ended--ex-boyfriends, long-lost friends, all those "I wonder whatever happened to..." people. I have a hard time letting go of people who were once important to me, and I'm a firm believer in letting bygones be bygones.
I'm an ISFJ, which means that I have a hard time expressing my feelings (except semi-anonomously, via this blog) unless I feel extremely comfortable with someone. It also means that I can be too sensitive and too self-conscious. I'm working on it.
When I was pregnant with you, my hormones, like those of most pregnant women, swung wildly. I went from being the even-tempered person that my family and friends know to a crazy person on occasion, most memorably when I yelled at an elderly woman in the grocery store (she started it) and the time I threw the vacuum cleaner across the living room because the hose was clogged. (That one really freaked out your father.)
After you were born, my hormones, like those of most post-partum women, swung wildly. I went from euphoric highs to the lowest of lows. During the first six weeks of your life, I regularly sat in the kitchen each afternoon and cried. When K would ask what was wrong, the only answer I could give--which was completely truthful--was "I don't know."
Stray animals know that I'm a sucker. Just ask Boo-Boo, one of our cats, who came to live with us 11 years ago (bearing that name, I might add), when my friend Curtis, who was an animal control warden, called to tell me that there was the cutest kitten at the shelter who was scheduled to be euthanized that day. Or Betty-Kitty, our other cat (and I have to take full blame for that name), who joined our household 10 years ago, after she finally learned to trust me after she showed up at our house one day and lived under our porch, only coming out for food, for about six months. Or Lola, the stray chihuahua/min-pin/I-don't-really-know-what-in-the-hell-she-was that found us and lived with us for a few months until we found her a home, because I'm a sucker and didn't have it in me to take her to the shelter. Or hell, ask the rats that took up residence in our house after Katrina, that I didn't want your father to poison.
I can be cranky, irrational, bitchy, and/or selfish. I'm working on it.
Some of my favorite movies are the Shawshank Redemption, the Straight Story, and Immortal Beloved. Yes, those movies are, respectively, about a prison breakout, a guy that drives across the mid-west on a lawn mower, and Beethoven. Did I mention that I'm weird? If it makes you feel any better, my favorite books are Where the Redfern Grows, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and To Kill a Mockingbird. And the movie version of Mockingbird was great as well--Gregory Peck will always be Atticus Finch.
Speaking of To Kill a Mockingbird, I asked K when we found out we were having a daughter if he would consider the name Scout. I won't repeat his answer here. I was really surprised when he liked the name Emmeline, as that was another one I threw out there thinking I didn't have a chance in hell of getting agreement on. (See, ferry--or fairy.)
I'm really looking forward to passing my suitcase full of Barbie clothes along to you--one of the few things that survived Katrina. As soon as I find it in the attic and wash all of the dead roaches that you know are hiding in there out of the clothes, it's all yours. I hope that you're a little gentler on them than you've been on the Barbie dolls I handed over to you--so far, you've ripped the heads off of Mrs. Sunshine Family, California Barbie, and Skipper. Mr. Sunshine Family, Ken, and Plain Old Barbie are hanging in there, but their future looks pretty grim.
The sleep-aid commercials with Abraham Lincoln and the talking beaver really crack me up, as do the Filipino prisoners performing Michael Jackson's Thriller. But nothing will ever compare to the dramatic gopher (who's really a prairie dog) for pure comedy gold.
I hate George W. Bush (and will be expecting a visit from the NSA to this blog shortly).
My favorite all-time joke, much to the dismay of everyone I know, is the one about the horse walking into the bar.
I think that just about covers it. You're probably a little bit disturbed now and wishing that you could have a different mother, but I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Sorry.
Love, Mom
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