1m2aSandbox

A friend of mine told me that her daughter recently walked out of a bathroom and remarked casually, “Every time I look in the mirror I’m surprised that I’m pretty.”

Nonplussed, my friend pressed the issue and learned that her daughter considers herself unattractive – not because of anything that anyone has said, it’s simply how she sees herself.

Now, my friend and her husband are excellent parents and raise all their children thoughtfully and deliberately, and made the choice a long time ago that they would not dwell on appearances when speaking with their children, especially their daughters. So a compliment from them might sound something like this: “Hey, your outfit looks very pulled together today! I can see that you spent a long time working on it.”

Dear Cora:

I usually start these yearly letters off by saying something like, “I can’t believe it’s time again – the year flew fast!” And while this year might have been speedy, I can DEFINITELY believe it’s time for a birthday letter.

You, my dear, are straining at the leash to turn five. I have seen such growth in you – and I’m not talking physical, though if you don’t slow down you’ll be swimming nekked by July because you’ll outgrow all the swimsuits I JUST BOUGHT YOU – that I can’t help but be aware of how much you’re growing up. Any traces of babyhood have been firmly erased, and you are drawing in your new self with bold strokes, filling up the pages and eschewing any need for an eraser.

Maddie and Cora are almost exactly two years apart. Maddie’s development often seems to catch me by surprise – hey, look at that, she’s rolling over! I can’t believe she recognizes her alphabet! Wow, is she putting her face in the water and blowing bubbles already? That sort of thing. Cora is just the opposite: I’m inclined to think such unfair thoughts as – hey, why isn’t she brushing her teeth as well as Maddie does? When is her attention span going to get better?

It’s not that I’m constantly comparing Cora to Maddie, in a sort of “Well, Maddie rolled over at four months and Cora didn’t do it until five months. Slacker.” way. But with your first child, whatever stage you are in feels like it will go on forever: you will ALWAYS be breastfeeding/pureeing solid foods/changing diapers/potty training/sleep training/whatever. And then suddenly you’re in a different stage.

Sunday was, of course, Mothers’ Day, and I had a lovely time with my girls, my mother, and my mother-in-law. We ate out both lunch and dinner – decadent, I know – and I took a good long nap in the middle of the day – equally decadent.

When Brian asked me last week what I wanted to do for Mothers’ Day, it reminded me of every day over the past several years he’s asked me that question. And how my answer has evolved over time.

The first couple of times Brian asked me what I wanted to do, I responded, “I do NOT want to change a diaper. All. Day. Long.” And he kindly took over the entirety of that chore. All. Day. Long.

The other day Cora and I were in a public restroom – Cora sitting on the potty, me staring politely at the back wall. This is how we do it. A moment of silence, and then Cora said amiably, “You know, Mommy, Chiwallas are baby dogs.”

A Chiwalla, in case you wondered, is a Chihuahua. Sure, I could correct her, but who wants to? It’s so darn cute every time she says it.

“Some Chihuahuas are baby dogs, you’re right, honey. But some are grown-up dogs.”

“No, Mommy, a baby dog is called a Chiwalla.”