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Becoming a 4-Year-Old

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March 30, 2008

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March 30, 2009

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March 30, 2010

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March 30, 2011

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March 30, 2012

“If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up! Not me!” —J.M. Barrie

Related posts:

  1. Becoming a 3-Year-Old
  2. Becoming a 2-Year-Old
  3. Becoming 1-Year-Olds
This entry was written by kara, posted on April 30, 2012 at 11:12 pm, filed under All and tagged 4 years old, birthday, Sophie. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.
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    I’m taking a break from 5th-grade graduation dress drama ... [Sophie, modeling the dress I found at TJ Maxx for $7: “Mom, this looks like a dress the people at Connor Prairie wore today.” Me, as I send her a link to Who What Wear: “Then you’re in style! There’s a prairie dress trend happening right now!” Andy, who chaperoned today’s field trip, takes one look at Sophie and buries his head into his hands, laughing, which is not at all helpful.] to post pictures from a much more magical evening last Saturday night, at my parents’ house, where we played baseball, cut daisies (my dad grows them every year) under a full moon, ate pizza and celebrated a belated Mother’s Day with my mom. It was perfect. Not all days are. ❤️⚾️❤️ The boys are 9 today. If our house were to describe them it would mention Nerf bullets everywhere, including places the humans can't reach without a ladder so there they live. Dresser tops filled with treasures: fidget spinners, baseball cards, pianos from Great Grandma, dice, framed pictures of Tucker, glasses, rocks, a little glass cat, a little pewter warrior, gum. Shoes taken off and left right at the front door. Comics from the Sunday paper, my old Calvin & Hobbes books, Diary of the Wimpy Kid books, Owen's hand-drawn comic books, stapled. Dirt from cleats. Spelling tests, some good, some not. Nintendo Switch controllers. Toothpaste in unreasonable places. A chess game that has been paused. Smelly socks. Bobble heads. Pinewood derby cars. A baseball signed by Babe Ruth in questionable handwriting. Paper airplanes. An Uno deck. Cereal boxes left opened. Sharpened pencils. Bikes, scooters, Wiffle balls and darts strewn across the lawn. Their humor and storytelling make me laugh every day. I know their stubbornness and drama over injustices real or perceived will someday serve them well. I try to play it cool re affection (per their wishes), but melt when they still dive into my lap. They are hard and easy and easily the two best things that could have ever happened to me on May 19, 2010. End-of-the-year school awards. I think parents should get these, too. In which case Andy and I should DEFINITELY get one for miraculously getting all three kids to school on time, with a couple bites of bagel in each of them, despite waking up at 7:23, including James whose recycling ambassador job starts at 7:35. Owen left 5 minutes later on bike. Sophie got dropped off a minute before the 8 am final bell (ponytails take time). I want a damn certificate please. #5moredays #readynotready They’re in a you-can’t-take-my-picture phase. That’s Five Guys burger No. 2 in one meal. Plus fries. And purple Fanta. (Dr.’s appt. over school lunchtime = treat lunch.) There’s comfort in knowing the bond you have with your kids is shared by mothers who, through experience, are far wiser than you. I’m thankful for their example and great love, and more than ever I admire all the work they put in years before. Happy Mother’s Day. ❤️ “Motherhood” by Eugene Carriere, 1903, France. I said that all I want for Mother’s Day this year is homemade pancakes Sunday morning and a few hours Saturday to sneak away and see the Paris 1900 exhibit at the art museum before it closes. So today, with burnt arms from the boys’ baseball game, I drove to Eden Park, solo, parked far away, and walked. For a long time. At the museum’s cafe I ordered a salad with apples, goat cheese and candied walnuts — and a big plate of kettle chips — and one (and then two) glasses of Chardonnay. I watched the old couples share their bottles of wine and intimate conversation with someday hope. I spent a long time in the exhibit, reading the plaques I wanted, skipping the rest, walking slow. I bought a big beautiful art book on clearance for $5. I began my walk back, stopping to admire the volunteers building a temple out of grief and honeysuckle branches and thought of all the cut honeysuckle branches filling our driveway, wondering if we could do the same. My phone rang. Owen. “Mom? I just wanted to tell you I have a surprise for you when you get home. It’s not a Mother’s Day surprise, because that’s tomorrow.” I silently wondered if it involves fear, bravery and a bike. The skin on my arms is tight from the burn. A mound of work awaits me at home. But also, apparently, a surprise. I am tired. But after the now years-ago particular grief of miscarriage, once and then again, always on this holiday I’m grateful, for three hearts part mine. I’ve watching these girls grow. @jsalbritton, these past five years with you as our troop leader has been such a gift. Thank you. Thrill-seeking in your 40s: Driving your Leaf 20 highway miles home when you have an estimated 27 miles left. #madeit #everyoneon71hatesme #imsweaty Love porch-playing season. almost This week I sent a big Lost Art Press project to the printer so today I took some time to write and it felt good. It’s not as easy to share my stories (now that my kiddos are older I want to better protect their privacy). My life, I fear, is not that interesting. But, a couple weekends ago I did tromp bare feet through the woods in mud. Hence, this. http://www.pleiadesbee.com/2019/05/mud-at-strouds-run.html @jen_heindl I love your gift and use them often. ❤️ King Jupiter James, catching (an extra brave job this year, which is the first year of kid pitch) sky, tonight This kid’s brain amazes us and challenges us daily. I rarely blog anymore out of respect for my kids’ privacy. Lately I’ve been toying with the idea that (gasp) my writing doesn’t have to revolve around my kids. (But they are so present. In everything.) Just know that the I’m-so-damn-proud posts aren’t without a sidebar of frustration and tears. For all my kids. Sometimes, privacy = half truths. That said, Owen made me proud today (we won’t talk about bedtime). He was in the school-wide art show, for a city scape that originally fell out of his backpack’s side pocket on his walk home from school. So, after some tears, he started anew and took the work home daily for several weeks until he finished it (again). I don’t know how he knows about Geico. I think my brother, who creates these in NYC, would be proud of the plaza. I admire a strong work ethic, and work hard to instill it, and yet it isn’t always exhibited with my kids when it comes to, say, cleaning their bedrooms. But it was exhibited here. So I try to hold onto that. And hope it’s this good stuff that sticks. (Parenting, by the way, is exhausting.) The last two pics were 3rd grade class projects. I’m so thankful art education is so valued here. estate sale finds, Trader Joe’s flowers This made me laugh out loud. A bit belated but we had a happy Easter at church (First Unitarian) and then to Grandma’s house for an epic (as the kids said — and it was!) egg hunt, dyeing eggs, make-your-own pizzas and Jill’s delicious praline cake. 🥚
    TAP

  • Favorite Essays

    Choosing Compassion in a Culture of Fear

    Seeking the Bigness in the Everyday

    The Love in Trying

    The View from Up High

    Season of Innocence

    The Huffington Post guest post: Apologies to the Parents I Judged Four Years Ago, a TIME's top 10 opinion piece in 2012

    Simple

    Changing Love

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