lulu letters: parenting a 5-year-old is painful
Dear Lulu,
Your hair is darker, straighter, and thicker. No longer the whimsical, light blonde, fairy pincurls you used to have. You get a haircut in May. You go in looking like a five-year-old and emerge as Hillary Clinton circa 1996. I take a side shot of the blowout, and you can’t see your face. You could easily be a middle-aged Deborah. WOW.
I feel like it’s a crucial step in your transition to full kid-dom. Now you brush your hair yourself, slowly dragging the brush through until you achieve a wavy sheen. One morning, you want your hair in a ponytail—with side tendrils. I watch you looking at yourself in the mirror, and my beaming smile masks the volcanic sob eating my insides.
Parenting a five-year-old is painful in all the hardest and most beautiful ways.
But, my girl, do you have SASS. The ease with which you casually—or not so casually—toss the word “No” defies gravity.
You test us daily, which makes the moments of grace that much sweeter. And, all in all, we’re in a helpful trajectory. Every week, you resist a little less, or listen when we say it’s time to go at least once rather than flat-out refusing every single time, or simply say, "Okay!" when we say something like, "Can you please help us set the table?"
Your Papa's new most-repeated word: "Listen!"
We still tiptoe through certain moments, but we’re leaning more into humor to break the ice—and you’re more willing to go there with us.
Now, did you greet me at the Farmer’s Market, after a long day of camp, by shouting, “NO, MAMA!” with a face that burned my skin off, as you grabbed Mema’s hand and ran away from me? Not a no. Did you say you don’t want me to stay at a play date because I always bother you? Also not a no.
But did you also say that you can’t fall asleep without me? You did,
I’m glad you feel safe to let it all out with me. And I’ll keep forcing that lens even when I die a little inside during the most fiery mom-rage moments.
You are a wonder of skills, including master (lefty) shoe-tier (tyer?), sewer (as in, “one who sews”), and, miraculously, nearly handstander. You are determined and practice as often as possible. I feel like you’re actually going to achieve it soon—yet another thing you can do at five that I never could.
Your reading is quickly progressing, though you still rarely want to read to us. When you do read, we marvel at your skills. You seem to identify at least one new word with each read.
You’ve been doing weekly Spanish/piano with Venissa, and you’ve learned so many colors (among other things). Your favorite game, by far, is the “mystery color game.” You can also basically count to 100 in Spanish.
You continue your special time with Amy P. She teaches you so many beautiful things, from macrame to the cup game, songs and leaves...You teach us that you can chew up plantain leaves (a weed in our background) and put them on bug bites! Wow.
I’ve officially (mostly) surrendered to not writing down funny things you say, because I just can’t keep up. But here are a few from this past month.
Some of my favorite words:
hisself: himself
stwon: strong
en-sy-gid: excited
highlighdoh [highlighter]: the electrolytes I put in my water [I have no idea how this became the word you use, but I’ll never correct it.]
Quotes:
[going off to school] Have a good day! Miss you alweady!
[at bedtime] Thank you for a wonderful day. [which I often say to you]
Those are your boobs. I used to drink milk from those guys.
Me: What’s your presentation on?
You: Spidohs. But it would cweep you out. [That is correct. You already taunt the closest thing I have to a phobia.]
Me: We have one dozen eggs. How much is a dozen?
You: Two pounds? [probably pretty accurate, actually]
I’m gonna hold that baby someday. ‘Cause I’m special. And kids don’t hold babies that often when they’re that young. But I’m special.
[Playing “Categories”—bird edition]
Papa: Blue jay!
Me: Cardinal!
You: Tufted titmouse!
Yes, I was just about to point that out.
[learning something together] Yoh a wondowful teacho. Thank you so much.
Stop vigowin [vigoring?] me awound!
[Teaching Papa how to make a potion] This is my poker-down stick. [You’re nothing if not literal sometimes.]
Me: Please don’t wipe your greasy hands on your dress.
You: It’s fine. We can wash it.
Me: Well, it will still stain your dress.
You: Whatever.
[Me: Speechless]
Pops: Would you like some ketchup?
You: No, thank you. I prefer it plain.
Papa, I’m coming! Let me bweathe!
[in the car] Seatbelts required?
I’m going to make a home for the snail. Or, should I say, habitat.
I love the sour berries. They’re my favorite type.
[walking to our backyard blackcap patch] We pick cohnts [currents] at school…I’ll miss that this summo…And then we’d make a snack that involves cohnts.
I’m big enough to do this now. After all, I’m a Fledgling! I graduated.
And, finally, “I love you more than Santa.” Wow.
Current interests include:
Macrame! Amy P. taught you macrame over the winter, and you are a master. You’ve made multiple impressive projects, including a plant hanger. Your focus is unparalleled.
Braiding: You know how to braid, thanks to macrame, and enjoy doing tiny braids.
Magic: It’s less popular than it used to be, but it lingers, thank goodness. One afternoon, you find a dead worm and exclaim to our guests and us, “I’m going to cut it up to make a potion!” Papa whispers, “She’s actually a witch.” You aptly name it Worm Power Potion.
Finding toads. One toad chills on your arm for a surprisingly long time. I’m convinced it either knows you're magical or knew you in a past life.
Playing chase, monster, and hide-and-seek
K-Pop Demon Hunters…I finally surrender, and we watch it together. It inspires your first wall poster, along with a backpack, activity book, many soundtrack listenings, and your choice facepaint motif of the year: Rumi’s “paddrins” [patterns]
playing school - and family (on a ship…going to school or on a trip…)
Picture books: We’ve circled back to these after months of chapter books, and I have to say I’m relieved. My heart cracked a little when I thought we were done with their magic.
As per usual, we have an eventful few months.
Papa and I end up not going on our big trip due to flight issues, so we semi-crash your special surprise Zaza weekend. You still end up spending all four nights at the Wolff house. One evening, we have the greatest sing-along in the kitchen.
First you embrace the role of director with gusto and lead us in several rounds of Bling Blang, which you learned at school. You sing the verses as you prance around in your undies, and we sing the chorus—with hand motions. We even try to improvise our own verses. Things get crazy.
Then you make up a song, with a chorus that goes like this:
Ribbons or fossils…with a coin!
We know it’s our turn to sing because you point at us quite dramatically. At one point, you add a challenge, “Okay, now I’m not going to point!” Somehow we still know when to sing
Then you bring Zaza and me onstage to act out the song you sing, including a bit where we assume the crab position to make a bridge for you to crawl under.
Finally, we play telephone. You can’t understand why Zaza and I laugh too hard to say the phrases. We can’t either.
The next night, you gather us in a circle on the floor to teach us the cup game. Pops and Mema need some extra support. At one point, you say, “Okay, Mema. I’m going to sit closoh to you, so we can do it togetho.” After we all try it together again, you say, “Okay, the west of you do it togetho. I’m gonna pwactice with Mema.” You also spend some one-on-one time with Pops, who’s quite lost the entire time. You’re such a good teacher.
We host four groups for Porchfest this year, one of our favorite annual traditions—officially a tradition in our third year running. You and Papa make “Lulu Lemonade” [a play on the fitness brand], and you spend the day running around our front yard with friends, in total glee. What a beautiful day.
I do one final school observation. What sticks out: you and Sasha, two peas in a pod. Ruby, a younger friend, scootching up right next to you and even stroking your hair—like you used to do with the “big kids” in the classroom. How you’re now the cool big kid…
You graduate from your Fledgling year at Namaste. Three years in that unbelievable gift of a classroom.
Fledgling parents and grandparents gather on the Namaste lawn for a precious ceremony. Your teacher, Lauren, calls up one fledgling at a time and describes something special about them and how much they’ve grown.
“Emmylou, you know all the rules in the classroom—and you make sure everyone follows them. When someone doesn’t know a rule, who do they go to? You!”
You receive a white rose, a flashlight (to represent the Namaste sentiment), and the most official-looking Kindergarten diploma I’ve ever seen. Not a dry eye on that lawn.
Here are some snippets from your last Namaste progress report, with my addition of bolding:
Emmylou is as confident in her skills academically as she is socially.
Emmylou is confident in her reading abilities and loves to practice reading to younger friends or in the toddler classroom. She knows many puzzle words and continues recognizing more with every book she reads. She continues her work in grammar and building her skills with new phonograms.
In mathematics, Emmylou has practiced addition, multiplication and subtraction in different forms. She knows the names of all 7 continents and enjoys learning about different cultures and ways of living. Emmylou is a curious explorer and notices connections between what she sees outside on the playground and materials in the classroom.
. . . . .
Emmylou is a strong and confident leader in the Chickadee classroom. She is confident in her actions as well as in the power her words hold as an older friend in the classroom. She is also entering into the elementary plane of development and showing this by exploring social justice as she begins to explore the meaning of fairness. Emmylou is very concerned with what is right and what is wrong.
Emmylou now understands that we need to be kind and use our words in order to make meaningful connection with friends. Sometimes, however, our friends have ideas of their own and do things that we do not want them to do. Emmylou tends to have clashes with some of her peers, especially when they “forget” the rules and do something that Emmylou knows they are not supposed to do, she tells the friend “you can’t do that” and it is deeply disturbing to her when her friends do not listen and do it anyway. It is hard for Emmylou to deviate from the set lesson and let herself or her friends explore. She sets herself and her friends to very high standards.
With younger friends, Emmylou is kind and compassionate. She has learned through experience that if she wants to be a role model and a friend she needs to be kind. She is a great advocate for friends who are still learning to find their words and is always there to help them meet their needs in the classroom or on the playground.
I mean, future social justice lawyer or the like? I can see that. Have I mentioned you already negotiate like it’s your job—or, like your father, simply because you don’t like being told what to do? “I won’t take my medicine until…” Yikes, child.
We are fully immersed in summer!
You love swimming and can somehow do an impressive underwater breaststroke. After six YMCA group lessons, I take the plunge (ha) and sign you up for biweekly 15- or 30-min one-on-one lessons. They’re, in a word, intense. But you’re game, barely catching your breath the entire time. We haven’t been to the lake nearly enough yet, but we’ll get there. It’s a must.
You need a new bathing suit, and you say somewhat sheepishly, “I want one…” [gesturing to your belly] A crop-top. I can’t help but smile with yet another tiny sense of loss. Another small step toward big kid-dom. The next day, you tell Mema about your new “crotch top.” She’s very confused.
You gather several pockets-worth of candy from a festival parade, and, as per usual, I stick it on top of the fridge just in case you remember it. You ask for a piece of candy now and then, but we’re still in this magical era of forgetting about most candy.
We celebrate July 4th with 1776 and sparklers. You’re so excited you start clapping uncontrollably—and giggling. You exclaim, /”I didn’t cuvoh my eows!” That night, you have an impromptu sleepover with Mema and Pops to stay up late for “flyoflies.”
I throw you to the wolves by signing you up for six summer camps. We make it through the first one, Girl Scouts. You spend most of the week with a counselor named Firefly (the theme is “Enchanted Forest”), who takes you under her wing, so to speak. Thank goodness for Firefly.
You love listening to your Yoto—specifically the sea, space, and forest meditations. One night, I end up telling you a meditation/story instead, and it has become our nightly ritual. It’s a lot of pressure to think up “the best meditation evvo” every single night…but I do my best. Even on nights when I feel like I have very little left to give, I take a breath and bask in the beauty of this phase. You won’t want me to tell you stories forever: now is the time. Once in a while, you’ll let me play a Yoto meditation and lie next to you. Either way, you snuggle up right next to me, draping your arm over me. Living my dream.
You finally know that you have a brother. Well, kind of. Technically, yes. You are an only child…and a sister. We explain that Malachi, whom we’ve shown you photos of (and whose photo is on our fridge), is your brother… but he lives with another family. We delicately explain how hard we worked to have you, and that we decided you were enough for us. So we helped another couple who needed help having a baby.
My Lulu, you take it all in quietly. My heart pounds awaiting your reaction. Your first question: “Why couldn’t they have a baby?”
A few minutes later, you say softly, “I wish he lived with us.”
I comfort you and—I can’t help myself—I talk about how that would be wonderful and how wonderful it is to just have the three of us. I will forever carry the weight of not giving you the sibling you want more than anything. You would be an amazing big sister, my empathic caretaker. I hope you can carry this with complicated reality in ways that feel good to you.
You say, “I want to make him a pillow.” And you do. You sew a pillow with an “M” in the middle of it.
The next week, I’m showing Malachi’s photo to some friends. You ask what I’m doing, and I say, “I’m showing them Malachi!” I see you whisper to your friend, “He’s my brother.”
My Lulu, my greatest gift, my world. I love you.
Love, Your Mama
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