Letters to my Daughter, February 2010

I will remember February 2010 as the month you really discovered books. We have always loved our evening Bath, Book, Bed sleepytime routine (and really, who wouldn't love a ritual as cozy as this?).

Even the dogs settle down to listen to your father's voice as he reads. I don't know why things have sorted themselves out as they have but he is always the reader. Perhaps it is my doing, because I love listening to his voice as much as you do.

Suddenly, though, without warning you are following me around the house dragging your weight in books, not so I can read to you but so YOU can read to ME (This month has also been punctuated by a litany of "I'll be the mommy, you be the baby, okay?"). You delight in your ability to 'read' a story, and you are quite good; you've memorized every page of "Are You My Mother?" and can tell if I drop so much as a syllable when I read it.

You're still reluctant to completely wean from diapers (okay, I won't go into details) and it's hard for me to simply accept everyone's advice that you'll be ready when you are ready. I know you will, but me being me dictates that I must panic and run for the nearest specialist. You, on the other hand, are not in the least bit bothered by it all and I am so glad for that.

It feels to me like this, when it happens, will be a Really Big Step. It will feel huge, I predict, to no longer have to be sure we have enough of this and we don't forget that whenever we leave the house.  Sometimes as I am running out the door and scanning my mental checklist I am so very aware of these rituals that bond us, gossamer threads slowly detaching one by one by one by one. And I strive to remember to put in place of these mother and baby ties ones that instead bind mother and child, bonds that are more suited to the little girl you are oh so quickly  becoming.

Together, we are exploring our expanding world. We've gone to the library. We've discovered new parks. We've played with new friends. We had a train adventure and we flew kites and we went to the zoo and we danced and we took the dogs for walks around the block. It's been a lovely pink month in our cozy little house.

The other day you came into the room with a pillow under your shirt and announced, "I have a baby in my tummy." My mind whirled through a thousand reactions. Where did you hear that?  Should I have prepared you?  What else was I supposed to have talked with you about before now? As I stood there perplexed, you pulled out the pillow and giggled, "It's just a pillow under my shirt!", delighted with yourself because you 'got' me with your joke. You turned and ran, silver sparkly shoes flying and pink skirt swirling, and you looked so young, so very very young, that just for a moment I allowed myself to believe the impossible: that you will never, ever, ever, ever grow up.