lulu letters: parenting a 5-year-old is pure magic
- May 6
- 11 min read
Updated: May 7
Dear Lulu,
Something about having a child bends you back to your beginnings, as if you have been drawing a circle all your life and now are compelled to close it.
The Ten Thousand Doors of January
Ah, parenting a 5-year-old...You are 5 ½, and my face hurts from smiling. I am fully bent back to my beginnings as I see you twirl, sing, and perform; as you learn how to write and read; as you have an idealist's lens and feel your world shatter when things don't work out as you wished or planned or imagined.
Like when you say, "I know you're going to have a baby. Trust me." and I have to tell you, yet again, that I'm not. But then I start talking about how you're going to have a baby cousin soon and how your friend is going to have a little sibling soon, and you say, "I'm glad we got invited to the baby showers." Oh, my sweet love, how I long to give you the moon.
Pops shared a photo of you and Lily the other day with this comment: Emmylou asked me to shoot this “cute pose so I can draw a picture of it.” Your Papa said, “She’s such an imaginative little fairy.”
That’s you. I birthed a fairy fireball. That said, one giant leap these past few months: you’re not quite as reactive, and you recover more quickly. When we play, you say "Pause!" when needed and "Action!" to resume the imaginary story. And, on several occasions, you pause to explain that you're not really sad, you're just pretending. Wow. (You also take care of my emotions sometimes, which is a bit of a “yikes” as a mama.)
I recently heard that kids ages 2-5 act like they’re on mushrooms—dancing, singing, in their own worlds all the time. I fully agree. What a magical time.
You Right Now
Collecting rocks, “cwystals,” and other natural treasures—feathers, sticks, nuts…(and not-so-natural treasures—e.g., pieces of broken taillights)
MAGIC. So much magic. You have a magic table with a magic cookbook and potions that you’ve made and that the fairies brought you at your request. Bottles and jars full of colored water and tiny gemstones and herbs…You’re a wonderful potion-namer (e.g., “Pick-It-Up Pine Cone” and “Chew-It-Up Flour Bread”). You work so hard at your magic desk.
Writing—SO much! Notes for me and Papa, letters to fairies, magic potions…
Reading chapter books together: Ivy & Bean, Dragon Girls, Little Witch and The Worst Witch, Magic Treehouse (Merlin series)...
Singing very long and thoughtful made-up songs
Singing Singin’ in the Rain and Cinderella songs word for word
Dancing. So much dancing. Fully passionate, arms graceful, and legs kicking every which way
Performing plays with long, heartfelt, improvised (even rhyming!) songs
Holding onto my pants whenever you feel a little shy or when we go, well, most places
Taking an imaginary “magic pill” that, by some miracle beyond my comprehension, actually puts you to sleep a few times
Brushing your own hair
Ice-skating! We only go a few times, but the last time we go this season, you chuck the walker and skate fully on your own around and around the ice. That little grin on your face every time I exclaim at your bravery and skills.
Climbing like a monkey at the playground (your little delts and biceps!)
Mastering the monkey bars, after years of trying! What a win.
Mastering shoe-tying, after much frustration! Another milestone. (“I can wear these sneakos to schoo-oh now. The teachos won’t think I can tie my own shoes, but I can!”)
Swim lessons! The cutest. My beautiful girl with that little face I just can’t get enough of, floating and kicking and learning how to use your strong muscles in the water. (When the instructor asks you what your favorite animal is, you say, “Tarantula.” What?)
Using words like “Definitely!”
Listening to your Yoto meditations with eyes closed
Doing a puzzle or another activity, so focused
Eating basically anything and everything, including trying an oyster (not a fan, but you tried!). Your appetite never ceases to amaze me. Sauteed beans and greens is simply one of many dishes that I spoon onto your plate, and you eat without complaint, even remarking how much you love.
Telling stories like a…grown-up kid. Full of wonder, excitement, facial expressions, and hand gestures. That slight head tilt and little dimple on your forehead when you’re slightly confused. The little head shakes and tuts when Papa or I say something goofy or weird. Phrases like, “Mama, calm down, calm down. I’m just getting my book, and then I’ll get my pjs on.”
19: Your favorite number. When we play daycare or ship or other imaginary world games, you're often 19. Papa and I fluctuate between being babies, "brother and sister," or "Mama" (me).
Naming: You are such a great character name—Rosabel, for one. You tell us a story about you and your mermaid sisters at dinner one night. They are, in age order: Infinidine (she's infinity and can die and come back), Sistine (20), Vinesta (pronounced Vine-stah, 25), Pearl (16), Stitcha (12), Clovrina (9), and Diamond (6). Wow.
Playing "Dr. Sherman" (and store, where you're always the check-out person, because, of course) with Pops (the doc) and Mema
Too. Much.
Great Lines of Late
Yes, I know. I’m going to see Papa and then I’ll swing by to see you.
I miss Papa so much so want to die.
Papa: You were a pest last night.
You: Yeah, I know. It’s because I was confused about the weatho inside the bed. Mama was hot, and I was cold…
I cleaned every window else.
That’s the part that kills you about Daylight Savings!
Nature’s beautiful, like an owt [art] study.
I’m going to watch Papa make his coffee, then draw, and then have more breakfast. How does that sound?
Can you sing Papa? I need a laugh.
(Papa walks out as you’re talking) “Okay, well. Whatever.”
Excuse you…
HellO-oh? I am geddin weady!
You: I love Papa so much. Even though he’s rough sometimes, I still love him
Me: I’ll always love you.
You: Even if I hit you and scream?
Me: Well, I hope you don’t hit me, but yes. I will always love you.
You: Even if I scream?
Me: Yes
You: Well, I can’t control my body sometimes. The inside AND the outside wants to hit you.
Papa: Come dance with us!
You (washing dishes): I’m not done! You guys just do your thing.
I HATE [caught yourself using “hate”]...Oh. Sowwy Papa.
Me: Drink that before it spills again.
You: Can I get a “Please?”
I’m looking for something pacific.
When I talk about Cowly and Koht [Carly and Kurt], I get tears in my eyes [because you miss them five minutes after we say goodbye].
And…it’s winter again.
Me: Your hair is so fun and wavy today!
You: I know! I love it. I looked in the mirror like 17 times.
It’s not good…it’s great! (This is a new favorite :)
(Talking about Singin’ in the rain, you try to figure out a Lena’s motives) You: Why does she want to be a star and she’s a grown up?…She has a funny voice and she wants to be a star. But she’s not the star…YOU don’t want to be a star….
Me: You mean she’s not acting like a grown up?
I love you 100 pounds.
Me: Mama was a little stressed.
You: I’m sorry…It’s TOTALLY fine. I know you’re tired.
Weally. This is a true story.
Me: May I get up with you guys?
You: Oh, of cohse!
This sometimes happens, and it’s awful.
(You pick a fennel seed out of sausage and exclaim, in the middle of Papa's story) We’ll have a sausage twee!
A pound of/100 pounds of _____. (Whatever it is, it's a lot.)
(Holding the tiny baby doll you just bought) This baby isn’t real yet. It will be real when I take the tags off. Because babies don’t have tags on their legs.
(after Papa says, "I have my eye on that pen.") I'm eyeing on that pen.
And, finally, a Papa quote: “When I was five, I was eating blocks. She’s sewing a continent quilt.”
Pretty much.
Great Words
cabiny (cavity)
savo-tooth tigo
Octovo (birthday month)
soggy [sour] milk
ahmbee-ance (ambulance)
nebli-lizoh (nebulizer - complete w/ a little dance)
twickeeoh (trickier)
squir-roh (squirrel)
chowcold (charcoal)
fabulous (fabulous)
Anowtica (Antarctica)
enciged (excited)
Memorable Snippets
I take you to see our friend play in the Ithaca Concert Band and to see the Ithaca Ballet’s Cinderella. Trying to expose you to performances! You do love theater.
Papa has his annual boys’ trip, and I surprise you with an overnight at a hotel in Ithaca. We have a fun-packed weekend. However, that Sunday morning, you spend 20 minutes upstairs by yourself before showing me about 30 Post-It Notes filled with messages for me. The gist: “Sometimes you forget to play ____ with me.” Really?! That’s your takeaway from this weekend?! I have to laugh. Never enough.
Mema sends a photo: "Taking Dr. Sherman to a whole new level." It's a photo of you with a baby doll under your dress...pregnant. Dr. Sherman apparently said, "I'm going to leave this to my midwife, Ethel. I'll be in here if you need me." You had your baby, then proceeded to have another one at home an hour later. During labor, you exclaimed, "The baby's feet are first!" and grunted as you spun the baby in the right direction. Where you learned that is beyond me, but it was an impressive moment.
Papa teaches you the “Bird is the word” song in the car, and you sing “Bohd is the wohd…” over and over again. Papa and I quietly chuckle in the front seat just as hard every single time you say it.
You somehow get two fillings, so we have them filled. You lie there, watching Moana 2, for about 45 minutes while two people work on your teeth, a contraption holding your mouth open, calm as a cucumber, breathing in cotton candy vapor that makes your hands “sparkly.” Unbelievable.
Your prize is far too little: a tiny plastic slinky that tangles as soon as you start playing with it. So, the next day, I give you $5 to spend at the dollar store. Your selections: a fancy black plastic mirror, a tiny baby doll, water balloons, and a foam football. Way to be balanced, my savvy shopper.
You find a tiny dead mole in our backyard and are filled with sadness. You use a stick to try to remove leaves that have fallen on top of it. Papa suggests burying it, and you dig a hole yourself and put a flat stone on top to mark the site. You want to make a sign, which you lay on top, along with a few yellow flowers and a stone to hold it all in place: “May you rest in peace dead mole” with a pink heart and a drawing of the mole.
You receive plastic unicorn eggs for Easter, and we’ve never seen you so excited. Elated. You spend over 20 minutes jubilantly explaining how “I don’t need the faiwies anymore! I have unicohns!” and how “I’m gonna tell my fwends at school that I have a unicohn brotho and a unicohn sisto because I don’t have any brothos or sistos!” I realize that you think real unicorns will hatch from these eggs…and we’re supposed to leave them in water for 2-3 days.
As beautiful as this thrill is, I can’t let that excitement build only to crash. So, as I brush your hair in bed, I explain how these unicorns aren’t real in the sense that they walk and talk…Your initial reaction is confusion. Your face goes stone-still as you process. And then you erupt into the most heartbreaking tears imaginable. I try the route of “they’re still magic!” Like Paca helped you feel safe and at peace. Papa talks about how disappointment doesn’t feel good in your chest, a great balance to my desperate attempts to keep magic alive. A few minutes later, you read a full sentence of the book, and you smile. You then say, a few minutes after that, “I’m still sad.” I marvel at you.
The next morning, you agree that the unicorns are magic in their own way—and you like my idea to create a special environment for them to play outside. (I have no idea where the unicorns are now, but at least you liked my idea.) The fact that you fully believed these plastic eggs would birth real unicorns is perfection.
You want to make “real magic bread” one afternoon, so you put water and spices in a pan. I explain that we’ll need at least some flour and maybe some baking soda—and I let you have at it. When I show you the baked bread, I’m worried that you’ll be disappointed. It’s…not the most appealing-looking bread I’ve ever seen, but it does resemble bread. After a moment of silence, you whisper, “It’s beautiful!” Ah, to be five and believe in magic as you do!
On the way home from Ithaca one afternoon, we’re talking about how I will be a grandma when you become a mama. You process that carefully, as you do all such conversations, and say, “Mema will be an old lady when I’m a mama…But I want her to stay a grandma!” We talk about how people change very slowly.” A beat later, I hear, “Change is howd.” Oh, my wise soul.
At your school conference, we discuss how shoe-tying is the toughest work, but you’re determined. We also discuss how hard you are on yourself—and how well you express yourself. You speak up, as in “I don’t care to have an argument right now” when a friend gets sassy.
We have a rather odd school situation where you have a run of being not-so-nice to friends, including pushing one smaller friend down. When your teacher talks to you about it, she suggests that you did it because you like to comfort friends (and friends sometimes don’t want to be comforted, which is very hard for you). You agree that you like hugs. Thank goodness for emotionally intelligent teachers.
I wonder if you pushed this friend because you knew that you weren’t supposed to hug or touch friends without their consent, so you tried another route. “If I push her, then I can comfort her!” It’s kind of brilliant, in a way.
We try to talk about it at the dinner table, and you start talking about your “inside self” and “outside self.” How sometimes your inside self is angry even if your outside self is happy. At one point, you say, “My inside self is always angry.” I’m floored by your emotional awareness and ability to voice what many of us adults cannot. Your Papa whispers to me, “I think she has schizophrenia.”
Anyway, your teacher tells us how you bounced back from the pushing incident very quickly, weren’t super upset about it, and told her, “I won’t do that again.” And you haven’t since. You’re learning how to feel empowered, loved, and in control without needing to use your body. Talk about a big life lesson!
My little empathetic bully. Your heart is so loving, and your feelings are so big.
Last snippet for this edition: You write a program of six songs to perform for us—Culfol [Colorful], Actr [Actor], The Book, The Play, Mosic [Music], and Clasic [Classic]. Papa and I sit through these six songs and dances and can't stop smiling/chuckling. It's literally me at your age. For Mosic, you warn us, "This song is very classic. [Classical?] You might fall asleep."
I recently saw a clip on how five-year-olds are magical:
They’re ready for the day like it’s the best adventure ever.
They have 1,000 questions and want answers.
They still reach for your hand without thinking.
They believe you can fix almost anything.
They’re proud of the smallest accomplishments/
They laugh with their whole body.
They still want one more story at bedtime.
They think home is the safest place on earth.
They want to show you everything—every drawing, every rock, every trick.
They tell you their thoughts—unfiltered, honest.
They love big and forgive quickly.
They still look at you like you hung the moon.
They are loud, curious, and full of new things.
They want independence and still need you close.
This is you. We want to bottle you up at this age and keep you forever. It apparently keeps getting better somehow, but we can’t imagine how that’s possible.
I'm leaving you with this quote, my little love:
I hope you will find the cracks in the world and wedge them wider, so the light of other suns shines through; I hope you will keep the world unruly, messy, full of strange magics; I hope you will run through every open Door and tell stories when you return.
The Ten Thousand Doors of January
I love you 100 pounds.
Love, Your Mama
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