friday cute shot

her mother's daughter

We were playing at the park by the elementary school after dinner and three late teen or early twenty-somethings were doing exercises, jogging slowly with their knees to their hips, running backwards, awkward slow jumps. Lucy, lover of running and trampoline jumping and couch climbing and pool splashing, looked at them and said:  

"They have to do that? That must be tiring."

friday cute shot

four years

Dear Lucy,

Your fourth birthday was almost a month ago, and I owe you a letter. I think it has taken me so long because though I stare at you and stare at you I have no way to sum you up. You are a barrage of in-the-momentness, of sweet hugs and desperate cries and scraped knees and elated feats of physicality, you sit as close to me as you possibly and you retreat to your room for minutes (hours?) of sitting in bed imagining long stories to yourself. You are a whirlwind.

You have long-considered and evocative ways of telling me you love me (“Pretend that I’m your baby superhero, and I shoot rose petals. I shoot gold rose petals at the bad guys, and when I want to tell you I love you, I shoot pink rose petals at you.” Humming. “When I make this sound, it means I’m shooting rose petals at you.”), and of telling me that you’re mad (“I made something.” “Oh, cool! Is it little towers?”“No, it’s poop and pee. And it’s for you.”)

You have an artist's temperament I think, feeling everything so intensely; you also have an artist's eye for beauty and color and line. I have a stack of your pictures on my dresser; I've not really been one to hoard creations out of sentimentality, but so much of your art makes my eyes light up and I really need to get some picture frames.

One of your first words was "silly", and you still love silliness and rhyming and wordplay and nonsense. Also, singing.

You ad libbed a song today at lunch called "Sad but True". It seemed to start out with things that really were sad but true, or at least might be, and filled in with the refrain:

I can't climb to the top of the monkey bars
Sad but true, sad but true
There is no food in my house
Sad but true, sad but true
There are no more tacos
Sad but true, sad but true
All the food is on the floor
Sad but true, sad but true

But by the end of the song ever sadder things were happening, and you were an orphan (sad but true, sad but true). When I pressed you on this, you said the song was in fact true, but it was from the point of view of Oliver Twist.

Your daddy asked you what you would be if you were in a band--the singer? No, you said, I want to be the dancer!

I love you, Baby Everything.

Love,
Mama

it is it, and you are you

Mom, you are doddering. 
 
Doddering?  

No, daw-ter-reeng. 
 
Doctor Ree? 

No, daaa-ter-RING! 
 
What does that mean? 

DOT- TER- RING! 
 
Can you tell me what it means?  

**really frustrated noise that sounds like UGMMFFM** 
It is it and you are you, so . . . you just don’t understand me. 

It means . . . 
**sigh** 
You don’t understand me.