3 Years
3/26/09
Dear Zoë,
Three years old. Three years ago today you reluctantly entered the world. I say reluctantly because, well, you didn’t seem to want to be born. At least not at that day and time. But enter the world you did and when you did the world tilted on its axis just the tiniest bit.
At first, you did not seem too happy with me or your father. Oh, the crying. And the clawing. And the not-sleeping. Almost as if to say, “You’ll pay for pulling me out of my cozy home.” It was so hard, there were times I was not sure if I would make it to the next hour. But, I did. And then I made it to the next day, the next week, the next month . . . Somewhere along the way, you became our daughter and fell in love with us as much as we were in love with you.
Looking back on those early months is a bit surreal. Someone wise – another mother, I’m sure – once told me that it was good I was writing down what it was like adjusting to you because someday I would forget how hard and heart-wracking it was. At the time, I thought that was utter nonsense. But, it makes sense now. I certainly will never forget the experience, but the context is so different now. You are so different now.
You are a good kid. You are a great kid. Wait – that’s just it – you’re a kid! Holy cow . . . there is no way anyone would ever refer to you as a baby. In addition to being a bit tall for your age, you are quite simply your own person now. You have ideas, and dreams, and preferences, and you tell us about them. More than that, you are so aware of the other people around you – how they’re feeling, what they might like, and (though it pains me to see it so soon) what they think about you.
In the past year, your greatest love has been for all things horse. If it has a horse, if it is a horse, hoof-prints, horseshoes, cowboy hats, cowboy boots . . . “Momma, I like horses.” No kidding, kiddo. Anyone who lives in the greater Kendall County area knows that you like horses. Strangely, you have a particular penchant for black horses. Your dad and I discovered that the carousel at the mall is an awesome incentive for you because it has horses. To ride! More specifically, a black horse. “My black horse,” you call it. You do have a very clear understanding that those horses are not real horses, that you are “not big enough” to ride a real horse. You so wisely tell us that, “When I get bigger, I will ride a black horse.”
That doesn’t stop you from asking for a real horse, though. I like to think that one of my best calls as a parent this year was to inform you that Santa Claus does not deliver live animals. Not only did that put a stop to the real-horse-for-Christmas requests, it pretty much negated any future requests for any other furry/scaly, eating and pooping creatures. Go Momma! Unfortunately, you’re too clever for your own good. You’ve given up asking Santa (or the Easter Bunny) for a horse and have gone straight to the source – Momma and Daddy. The excuses we give don’t seem to hold much water for you: that we don’t make enough money, that the home owners’ association wouldn’t allow it, that we don’t have enough room, etc. To curb your appetite, I’ve found myself taking more and more circuitous drives home to make sure we pass at least one ranch or pasture full of horses.
Thank goodness for the housing slow-down.
Have I mentioned that you tell us about things? If there is anything that defines your third year it is the talking. From the moment you get up to the moment we put you to bed – okay, even after we put you to bed – you are talking about something. And true conversation. Complex sentences. Fifty-cent vocabulary. All of it. There is not a week that goes by that your dad and I don’t look at each other and say, “Did she really just say that?”
I am not sure where you get some of it, but school has had a definite impact. When you sat down at dinner several months ago and said, “Mangia! Mangia!” I couldn’t believe my daughter was speaking Italian, all thanks to the adorable mealtime routine you learned (to say nothing of the Spanish and Mandarin you’ve picked up from Noggin). If I have to hold down a job – and, honestly daughter, I do, for reasons way beyond financial – it is an absolute comfort to me to know that you love school. The relationships that you have developed there are so wonderful for you, both with your teachers and your little friends. And you are learning so darn much, I can’t stand it sometimes. Just a week ago, you moved into the Preschool classroom. We knew this was coming, and in some respects it was hard simply because I knew how much you would hate to leave your “2’s” teacher. But as your mom, to walk into that Preschool classroom and see a classroom . . . and then to be told at the end of your first day that you are working on writing your letters . . . it was a bit much.
That transition was definitely a minor source of contention over the past six months or so. Would you be potty trained by your third birthday? Every time someone would ask me about potty training, I would heave a great sigh and proclaim, “Potty training is the bane of my existence.” I realize that all things come in time, kids have their own schedule, “No one’s gone to kindergarten in diapers,” and all, but you had me stumped. Your dad, too. We just didn’t get it. None of the tricks worked, nothing motivated you, and yet you are such a smart, independent little girl. Frustrating to say the least. And, honestly, I know some of my own issues were interfering. I worried that you would be like I was – chronic urinary tract infections, problems with wetting, endless antibiotics, endless doctor visits. (Now that I think about it, that may be one of the bigger challenges of parenting: getting over your own childhood issues.) But, guess what? You’re not in diapers anymore. You have made so much potty-progress in the last 2 months, it was like someone flipped a switch. Or maybe you decided you’d strung us along long enough.
Kiddo, I can’t recap the last year without a mention of the biggest development – you became a big sister. I’ll admit your dad and I are a touch proud of the way we prepared you for Owen’s arrival. You were involved practically from the moment we found out he was on the way. I wanted you to know that he was as much your baby as Mom and Dad’s, that you would have a very special role as big sister. You take that role very seriously and I’m so proud of you. You are gentle with Owen, you are attentive, and you are interested. I hope when you’re older you remember some of this time – how Owen will only “talk” to you, how you like to feed him in his high chair, how you show him how to roll or crawl, and even wipe up his spit. I know at some point he is going to annoy you. But, I hope the special relationship you two are forming now will run constant, even under the antagonism to come. Because it will come. And soon – he adores you so, as soon as he can walk I know he is going to be chasing after you. Be patient with him, honey.
I look forward to everything this next year will bring – even the inevitable frustrations, on both our parts. The world is just starting to open up before you, and I am so glad your dad and I get to come along for the ride. And, I promise, there will be a ride. On a horse. A black horse.
Love You,
Momma
Dear Zoë,
Three years old. Three years ago today you reluctantly entered the world. I say reluctantly because, well, you didn’t seem to want to be born. At least not at that day and time. But enter the world you did and when you did the world tilted on its axis just the tiniest bit.
At first, you did not seem too happy with me or your father. Oh, the crying. And the clawing. And the not-sleeping. Almost as if to say, “You’ll pay for pulling me out of my cozy home.” It was so hard, there were times I was not sure if I would make it to the next hour. But, I did. And then I made it to the next day, the next week, the next month . . . Somewhere along the way, you became our daughter and fell in love with us as much as we were in love with you.
Looking back on those early months is a bit surreal. Someone wise – another mother, I’m sure – once told me that it was good I was writing down what it was like adjusting to you because someday I would forget how hard and heart-wracking it was. At the time, I thought that was utter nonsense. But, it makes sense now. I certainly will never forget the experience, but the context is so different now. You are so different now.
You are a good kid. You are a great kid. Wait – that’s just it – you’re a kid! Holy cow . . . there is no way anyone would ever refer to you as a baby. In addition to being a bit tall for your age, you are quite simply your own person now. You have ideas, and dreams, and preferences, and you tell us about them. More than that, you are so aware of the other people around you – how they’re feeling, what they might like, and (though it pains me to see it so soon) what they think about you.
In the past year, your greatest love has been for all things horse. If it has a horse, if it is a horse, hoof-prints, horseshoes, cowboy hats, cowboy boots . . . “Momma, I like horses.” No kidding, kiddo. Anyone who lives in the greater Kendall County area knows that you like horses. Strangely, you have a particular penchant for black horses. Your dad and I discovered that the carousel at the mall is an awesome incentive for you because it has horses. To ride! More specifically, a black horse. “My black horse,” you call it. You do have a very clear understanding that those horses are not real horses, that you are “not big enough” to ride a real horse. You so wisely tell us that, “When I get bigger, I will ride a black horse.”
That doesn’t stop you from asking for a real horse, though. I like to think that one of my best calls as a parent this year was to inform you that Santa Claus does not deliver live animals. Not only did that put a stop to the real-horse-for-Christmas requests, it pretty much negated any future requests for any other furry/scaly, eating and pooping creatures. Go Momma! Unfortunately, you’re too clever for your own good. You’ve given up asking Santa (or the Easter Bunny) for a horse and have gone straight to the source – Momma and Daddy. The excuses we give don’t seem to hold much water for you: that we don’t make enough money, that the home owners’ association wouldn’t allow it, that we don’t have enough room, etc. To curb your appetite, I’ve found myself taking more and more circuitous drives home to make sure we pass at least one ranch or pasture full of horses.
Thank goodness for the housing slow-down.
Have I mentioned that you tell us about things? If there is anything that defines your third year it is the talking. From the moment you get up to the moment we put you to bed – okay, even after we put you to bed – you are talking about something. And true conversation. Complex sentences. Fifty-cent vocabulary. All of it. There is not a week that goes by that your dad and I don’t look at each other and say, “Did she really just say that?”
I am not sure where you get some of it, but school has had a definite impact. When you sat down at dinner several months ago and said, “Mangia! Mangia!” I couldn’t believe my daughter was speaking Italian, all thanks to the adorable mealtime routine you learned (to say nothing of the Spanish and Mandarin you’ve picked up from Noggin). If I have to hold down a job – and, honestly daughter, I do, for reasons way beyond financial – it is an absolute comfort to me to know that you love school. The relationships that you have developed there are so wonderful for you, both with your teachers and your little friends. And you are learning so darn much, I can’t stand it sometimes. Just a week ago, you moved into the Preschool classroom. We knew this was coming, and in some respects it was hard simply because I knew how much you would hate to leave your “2’s” teacher. But as your mom, to walk into that Preschool classroom and see a classroom . . . and then to be told at the end of your first day that you are working on writing your letters . . . it was a bit much.
That transition was definitely a minor source of contention over the past six months or so. Would you be potty trained by your third birthday? Every time someone would ask me about potty training, I would heave a great sigh and proclaim, “Potty training is the bane of my existence.” I realize that all things come in time, kids have their own schedule, “No one’s gone to kindergarten in diapers,” and all, but you had me stumped. Your dad, too. We just didn’t get it. None of the tricks worked, nothing motivated you, and yet you are such a smart, independent little girl. Frustrating to say the least. And, honestly, I know some of my own issues were interfering. I worried that you would be like I was – chronic urinary tract infections, problems with wetting, endless antibiotics, endless doctor visits. (Now that I think about it, that may be one of the bigger challenges of parenting: getting over your own childhood issues.) But, guess what? You’re not in diapers anymore. You have made so much potty-progress in the last 2 months, it was like someone flipped a switch. Or maybe you decided you’d strung us along long enough.
Kiddo, I can’t recap the last year without a mention of the biggest development – you became a big sister. I’ll admit your dad and I are a touch proud of the way we prepared you for Owen’s arrival. You were involved practically from the moment we found out he was on the way. I wanted you to know that he was as much your baby as Mom and Dad’s, that you would have a very special role as big sister. You take that role very seriously and I’m so proud of you. You are gentle with Owen, you are attentive, and you are interested. I hope when you’re older you remember some of this time – how Owen will only “talk” to you, how you like to feed him in his high chair, how you show him how to roll or crawl, and even wipe up his spit. I know at some point he is going to annoy you. But, I hope the special relationship you two are forming now will run constant, even under the antagonism to come. Because it will come. And soon – he adores you so, as soon as he can walk I know he is going to be chasing after you. Be patient with him, honey.
I look forward to everything this next year will bring – even the inevitable frustrations, on both our parts. The world is just starting to open up before you, and I am so glad your dad and I get to come along for the ride. And, I promise, there will be a ride. On a horse. A black horse.
Love You,
Momma
Labels: monthly letter, parenting, zoe
posted by Kate at
7:31 PM
1 Comments:
I honestly cannot believe how much she looks like you! She's definitely your daughter (and not just cos of the curls and the dimples by the sound of it! :)
Lots of love,
Bethie x
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