Ode to my Daughter

Today H and I got a delayed 5th birthday present for Daughter. Her very first library membership! Anyone who loves books, and Daughter does, knows this is the best gift ever. Daughter's a relatively early reader. As she doesn't watch TV (photosensitive), I helped and encouraged her to read as early as possible.

I sometimes check blogs of 2 moms who had kids at the same time as me. I did today, and this blog really brought a lump to my throat. It's by Joyce Slaton and her daughter who also turned 5 recently has had many, many of the same "symptoms" I struggled with in the past my daughter. Luckily for Joyce, she got an OT to help her, whereas, we just had to find our own solutions with the help of the wonderful world of books and the world wide web ofcourse.

http://blogs.babycenter.com/momformation/2010/04/19/very-violet-letter-to-a-five-year-old/

Thanks Joyce for sharing! Sharing problems and triumphs over the web, oh what a solace and source of strength it has been for me.

Reproducing the wording of the blog here:

Very Violet: Letter to a five-year-old

Posted by Joyce Slaton in Very Violet | April 19th, 2010 | Trackback

My dear Violet:

Today you turned five. I usually stay up crying the night before your birthday; at least, I’ve done that every year. But not this year. Every year before I felt panicked. “I’m losing my baby.” Well, that ship has sailed. My baby is well and truly gone; but in her place she left a really fun little kid. I no longer feel like I’m losing something; instead, I feel like I’m drifting into a new world where you and I can be pals.

This is the year I saw you catch up physically with your peers. There was a time when you were so delayed I despaired of ever seeing you playing with a group of kids. It seemed like every kid on the playground was running and climbing and swinging and laughing while you were stuck in place, screaming. Every week I’ve taken you to your occupational therapy; each Tuesday a semi-nightmare of driving across town and parking and squishing my work into pre- and post-OT sessions, watching from the hallway as you climbed ladders and finished mazes and learned how to pop bubbles as you were swinging side to side. And it has worked. Your therapist came out to me with her chart and her list of developmental milestones, and showed me: you’re ready to graduate. Three more weeks and the last 18 months of Tough Tuesdays will be just a memory.

Now you can ride a bike with training wheels. I don’t have to sit on a bench and bite my knuckles while you try to get your legs in synch and kids much, much younger than you ride by gaily. You are riding right along with them. You can climb to the top of the dome, you can spin on the tire swing. A kid comes up to you on the playground and asks you to play and you can, you do; my fingers tingle with joy watching you.

This is the year your clothing sensitivities fell away, too. No longer are you traipsing around in sundresses and Crocs in the middle of winter. When it is cold, you wear jackets! And pants! And actual shoes without holes in them. Of course, several months ago you started wearing said shoes unfastened, and you still won’t fasten them up and thus sometimes when you run they fall off, and you cry. But to not be stopping every few feet to dig little rocks out of the Croc holes, ah, that is heaven. And people don’t give us dirty looks on the street anymore because you’re not dressed for the weather. I no longer clench up in terror when I pull a new dress over your head, wondering if you’ll like it and dance off merrily, or if it will send you into a 45-minute spiral of rage. Those days are over now. I do not miss them.

This is the year you made real friends. The friend you like the very best, unfortunately, is a little boy who’s lovely to you when you’re alone, but is kinda mean to you at school when this other little boy is around. (Your first enemy! Another milestone!) We have had lots of discussions this year about friends and how they should treat you. You have resolutely stuck to your guns and decided to love this little boy above all others. You’re loyal, at least. If not sensible.

This is the year you put your face in the water at the pool: Twice. Thank God for small miracles. I still haven’t gotten you in swim lessons yet, but it’s coming, it’s coming.

This is the year you finally let me do your hair! Though I have a huge collection of hair ornaments, barrettes and ribbons and bits of colored hair that pin in, and tiny red flowers on clips, and big orange poppies that tie onto your ponytail, you have resolutely refused your entire life to accept them in your hair. But one glorious day, you let me put your hair in two wee darling little braids! And you went off to school that day! And I was so excited that I took a million pictures! Then two days later you cut off three big hunks of hair, and now your hair’s short again. And you won’t let me put in any barrettes. Sigh.

This is the year you learned how to dial the phone (your first phone call: Granddaddy), how to put on your own story CDs, how to make your own peanut butter and jelly sandwich. This is the year I started being able to pull up to the library, give you the bag of books, and let you go put them in the return slot. Or giving you the quarters and trusting you to stick them in the meter. In fact, this is the year we entered the brave new world of me not having to eyeball you every second. If you get out of sight in public, I no longer panic. If something is wrong, you will call to me. This is the year I learned to trust that.

This is the year you got interested in the kitchen. Equipped with the kid-size choppers and cutting board I bought you, you cut crinkle potatoes or big hunks of cucumber for dinner. Unfortunately, though you will wash, peel, cut, cook, and admire said vegetables, you will not eat them. You can, however, pour your own milk, make yourself toast, and measure out flour and sugar for recipes.

This is the year you learned how to whistle, how to write your own name, how to buckle your own booster seat. Oh yeah — this is the year you started riding in a booster seat. Can I tell you how awesome it is to just have this tiny, light, easy-to-carry-and-buckle thing to deal with rather than the bolted-in 50-pound monstrosity we formerly used? My wrists thank you for growing, Violet.

But best of all, this is the year it started being possible to reason with you. Just now as I’m writing this you came up to me and said, “I’m hungry.”

“There’s no milk, I’ll make you some toast.”

“But I want to eat in here and watch Zoboomafoo!”

“Two choices: smoothie in here, or toast in the kitchen. You pick.”

“But I don’t want a smoothie! And I want to watch TV!”

“Toast makes too many crumbs. You want toast, you eat in the kitchen. I’m not going to argue about this.”

“Mom? Will you please make me a smoothie?”

Not a fight, not a scream, not a holdout, not a time-out. This is the year when you started seeing my point. And the year when I started explaining things to you, one friend to another. I have good reasons for the stuff I ask you to do, or the stuff I won’t do for you. I am willing to explain my reasons, and I’m willing to hear your input. Then together we can decide the best direction to go in. Because this is the year we started feeling like a snug little unit. Not the mom-with-baby-appendage, not the mom-lashed-to-screaming-toddler, not the little-kid-running-while-mom-runs-after. But like two friends, two friends who walk together because they like being together.

Because this is the year I started feeling really happy and comfortable as your mom. You have twined your way into every part of my heart; there’s no part of my life that isn’t touched by you and changed by you, no part of me that’s not also a part of you. Ever since you came out of me I’ve felt you moving further and further away, felt us getting more distant from the time when we were one. But lately I’ve felt you moving back.

We are the two who are one, the koala bears holding on for dear life, the old people walking in the park holding hands, the best skaters in the middle of the rink, twirling while everyone smiles at us. If you cut me open and dissected me, you would find you’re in every cell of my body, and most particularly in the very center of my heart. My love for you is fierce and red with teeth, it’s soft and pink and pillowy like a morning snuggling in bed. You have changed me. I am yours.