lulu letters: summer 2025
- James
- Jul 22
- 11 min read
Dear Lulu,
We just saw Waitress at the Hangar Theatre. It will also be a special show to me because it inspired me to start these letters to you:
Your Papa and I also recently watched the movie Waitress. (Fun fact: Your Papa loves the Sara Bareilles soundtrack to the musical version, so you've probably heard that a lot already and will continue to hear it a lot more.) In the movie, the pregnant main character writes her baby letters. Hearing her speaking to her baby moved me like no other, and I thought, “Why am I not doing that?”
Plus, she names her daughter Lulu. Now I just need to master the art of pies…
You are over "four and free-quartos," nearly five. You are my beautiful, blossoming girl. A little girl who’s growing leaps and bounds. You are quick-witted, curious, passionate, compassionate, loving, independent, feisty, determined, sassy, brave, stubborn, creative, gentle, strong, mischievous, and helpful (sometimes). You are thoughtful. You are kind. You are often shy in large groups, and it takes you a while to warm up.
You are the most sensitive little creature. Emotions are gargantuan right now. When someone hurts themselves, you fall on the ground and/or start crying, “I’m hurt, too!” You scream at me on a semi-regular basis:
“Don’t TELL me that! I KNOW that!”
“You’re hohdin’ my FEELINS!”
And, the very insightful, “I need SPACE!”
And that style. You are a true woman of fashion, always pushing the limits and pulling it off in spades.
We have a very eventful three months. Life keeps getting busier.
In early May, we take our first family trip (not visiting family)...to Florida. We nix the more exotic approach and keep it simple. What a joyful, beautiful trip.
You love the plane ride and watch surprisingly little TV, occupied with puzzle books.
You get blisters on your toes from “swimming” in the hotel pool for hours on end (aka hopping on your tippy toes and moving your arms).
We spend an hour at the Clearwater Aquarium, at which point you decide it’s too hot, and you’re done: “I prefer Trumansburg to Florida. Florida is too hot.” I love how you pronounce every syllable of Flor-i-da. Such wonderful enunciation.
And, most importantly, you experience the ocean for the first time. I have never witnessed such glee. Papa and I keep reminding you not to go too deep, and you guffaw as the waves splash against your back. “I’m fine, I’m fine!” you keep shouting.
The first night, we think we lost the pillow you made at school—probably on the plane. We frantically look everywhere in our hotel room, clearly panicked and distraught. You attempt to soothe us by saying, “It’s okay! I can dust start another pillow at school and finish it at home!” You are incredible. And we find the pillow after all.
Namaste garden work day, Mother’s Day, Mema’s birthday, Father’s Day, birthdays, two Hangar Theatre Kidstuff productions (Aesop’s Fables and The Velveteen Rabbit, Interlaken Olde Home Days (Pops dressed as Mark Twain in front of the library), Trumansburg Farmer’s Markets, two Lodi Point picnics, one Sharing Supper…and a partridge in a pear tree.
Zaza visits for a week, and we pack it in with dinners together every night, ending with a march in the Ithaca Festival parade with Namaste.
We host two groups for Porchfest: Ithaca Ukes and Hula Hut. Sitting on our lawn watching with friends and strangers, the weather perfect and the light beaming on hula dancers, movement and music like the ocean…I cannot imagine a happier space. Visiting friends, neighbors, and family connect and laugh, and I marvel at the beauty of our life here.
South Hill Cider, Finger Lakes Cider House, wineries…We hear live music and savor summer here. You participate in your first protest, complete with a hand-painted sign that melts my heart. We write “Lead with love” and paint a rainbow because “You can write or draw something that makes you happy…something that you believe in.”
We have our annual summer sleepover with Mema and Pops, waking you up for the firefly magic around 10:30 pm. Every year is more lethargic: this year, you can’t even open your eyes. You wake up crying, “I didn’t see the fireflies!”
Luckily, we have dinner there later that week, and we stay until 9:30. You say, “I’m too tired, but I want to see the flyerflies!”...and we see the first one. How magical indeed. You turn out to be an expert flyerfly catcher (not surprising, as your physical acumen far surpasses my own), and we chase them until it grows dark. We put them in a jar that you carry home and put on the chest next to your bed.
We pick strawberries, cherries, raspberries, blackcaps (a gangbuster year for our backyard bounty!), and blueberries. We eat watermelon and swim at Taughannock and Lodi Point, though never often enough for our liking.
We close out these three months with Grassroots, aka “Gwass-a-woots.” Long live that chuckle-inducing pronunciation. Truth be told, I don’t get to dance nearly as much as I’d like. The past few years were…different. You stayed with us and were mostly content listening, dancing, and doing as we did. This year, we spend much more time walking to the play area and running around with friends, and much less time actually listening to music. Still, we hear the most important groups: Dart Brothers and Mama Look! Our dear friends and their Grassroots debuts. We get your annual hairwrap, and you and I visit the shops to pick out a special treat using your money, with another treat from me. You get your face painted, we watch a bit of Compost Theater, and you drive on your friends’ homemade electric cooler-scooter.
This is childhood.
I wrote down relatively few things these past three months. I’ve given up trying to capture even close to most of your zingers and finest moments because days are filled with them. Just as a broken record does, I repeat myself yet again: These feel like the most magical days.
Some quips from these past three months:
(I put a flower in her sock to decorate it.) Mama, I’m sorry to say, this flower itches my leg.
Chili playing in the dress-up clothes while you prance around in your undies: “Papa, can you deal with that?”
(at bedtime) When we were at Mema and Pops’ house for brunch, Andy offered me this book to take home…and I ran away. I feel kind of bad about that.
“I’m the Coach Pilot and you’re the Snack Carrier.”...(later) Papa, would you like to continue playing flight?
I can’t help myself.
(on our flight to Florida) Can we go to Italy sometime and feel the clouds? ‘Cause the mountains are all the way up to the sky!
(At dinner, you get surprisingly bright orange macaroni and cheese.) That’s like highlights!
My armpits have sweat in them…It’s not funny! It’s important!
Papa: Can you imagine having this for breakfast every morning?!
You: That would not be good. Because you can’t have dessert before breakfast. Or lunch!
Me: Would you like more to eat?
You: My belly says it’s good with this
That’s sometin…
(to Chili, who’s scratching at the cabinet that has his food)
I feel you bud, but you don’t get my more ‘til the mohnin!
Good mohnin! I alweady gave you some food. You’re gonna have to wait, sowwy.
(I ask you a question.) Ummm I’m busy right now. Can you see I’m busy right now?
My body says it wants ice-cream…
My body doesn’t want to snuggle this mohnin.
Well, I have dried boogies in my nose. The dried ones are blockin’ the wet ones.
Me: Did Papa explain that?
You: No, I essplained it.
(looking a picture of someone wearing glasses) Mema doesn’t wear glasses like that! She wears them on her head!
I just like granola with cow’s milk. I was just born that way.
(watching a documentary on oceans, so many exclamations):
That’s so coo-oh!
That’s a lot of fish. Like, infinity. I’m tellin ya: infinity.
That’s amazin!
(after reading a recycling book and discussing how we help earth) Mama, you don’t need to give me a paper napkin, because I have napkins at school!
I found my tune! (guitar pick)
(trying a new dish) I’m not a fan of that.
Me: Which song would you like to listen to tonight?
You: I have one in mind…
(Watching Planet Earth documentary): “They’re tellin’ us that we live on a planet in outer space?!”
Me: What do you want to be when you grow up?
You: A mama.
Me: Anything else?
You: A vet.
A few of my favorite Lulu pronunciations:
kyew-oo/skew-oo: cool/school
ridicleous: ridiculous
paddewin: pattern
And, perhaps my favorite of all time:
Papa: How do you play this game?
You (waving your hands, as in “of course”): You dust look at the destwucksuns!
A few sweet common habits:
When Papa “jokes” you, you smile and ask me, “Is that true, Mama?”—waiting for me to confirm that it’s not.
You rest your chin on your fist as you think, or if you’re very focused on what you’re doing (art, puzzle, etc.)
You randomly say, “I’m so happy.”
How you put on chapstick, all around your mouth (just like I used to). Very thorough.
Your response when you ask you a silly question, “Of cohs not!”
Your obsession with snails and slugs, your “collexion”
“I appreciate…”
(When someone gets hurt) I’m sowwy that happened to you.
The use of “literally” → “She litewally did that…”
When you’re excited for a big reveal (something you made, a toy you rediscover, your outfit…), you sing, “Dun…dun…dun dun DUN!” Very much like how Pops sings as you closes a book after finishing it. It’s the cutest.
You’ve also started saying to me, “You’re a big mean bully!” with a huge grin on your face. Not my favorite, but you sometimes shift it now to, “You’re a big nice Mama” because you know I’m “not a fan” of the bully comment. Sometimes you even shift into the sweetest, most genuine, “You’re the nicest Mama evoh…” and my heart melts.
One morning, you go full method acting into the role of a princess, to a new level. You talk about “Emmylou’s Papa” and ask me, “Have you seen your daughter, Emmylou?” I get a bit creative when it’s time to change out of the princess costume for school. “Well, it’s time to go to school. What if you put on Emmylou’s clothes and pretended to be Emmylou?!” You love that idea and proceed to embody the role all the way to school:
Me: What do princesses eat?
You: Umm…cheese sammiches.
Me: What do they enjoy doing?
You: Well, they like to play codes [cards].
On several occasions, we play “Faiwy gowd [fairy guard].” I push the stroller with my baby in it, and you play the cast of characters I ask to help me find the golden flower. (You played this with friends months ago, and it really stuck with you.) You have about seven costume changes, always responding to my question with something like, “Pohaps not. But the unicohn gowd can help you.”
Papa plays with us the second time, complete with all the costume changes. I try to warn him, but he doesn’t understand how long it goes on until the first costume change.
Bedtime typically includes reading (we’re quite obsessed with Jack/Tsack and Annie and The Magic Treehouse at the moment), followed by one or several of the following:
“The ohm [arm] game”: You hold our arm tightly with both of yours, and we say, “Goodnight!” When we try to leave, we dramatically fall back on the bed because we’re stuck. You cackle every time. “Now pwetend you can’t feel my ohm holdin you…” I have yet to really understand that distinction, but I do my best.
A rather elaborate acting out of The Wizard of Oz along to the soundtrack, usually “the munchkin song,” which is, of course, the longest song on the soundtrack. The set-up includes stuffed animals and dolls to represent Dorothy, Toto, Glinda, and the munchkins—all in specific places. When it’s time for the next “act,” you smile with eyes wide and you point as if to say, “It’s time for ____! Let’s go!” We have flowers, a scroll for the coroner, and a cardboard/popsicle stick lollipop for the Lollipop Guild. It’s pretty incredible. Some nights I just don’t have it in me, but, luckily, I pause and reflect on the magic of it all, and we’re off.
A dance party, the three of us, to soundtracks like Lilo & Stitch, Dirty Dancing (“Dohty dancin?!”), and Footloose. Trying to introduce you to a dance world beyond Disney and The Wizard of Oz, and you’re loving it.
A solo song-and-dance party, which we listen to as we chuckle from the living room. We sometimes hear thumps as you stomp around, and your passionate singing voice is everything.
One night, you say, “Mama, remember when we used to sing together?” I’ve made a point over the past few weeks to sing more songs together in bed, just like we used to, and to ask if you want your back rubbed, which you have yet to decline. Those dance parties are the best, but I know the back rubbing won’t last as long.
So many developments. Academically speaking, we’re all about words.
Words are huge.
First, reading. I see you in the near future, an avid reader. I catch you reading to your babies and furry friends every so often, witnessing you “read” the entire What Makes a Rainbow? You’re also very much into learning how to read. We have the “Bob books,” and you prefer to go into your room and practice reading them on your own. We hear you sounding out words and beam.
We mostly listen without offering help, unless you signal that you want it. I brace myself every time I offer, unsure whether you’ll gladly accept or, well, head-butt me in the cheekbone. That happened last week. When we discussed it a bit later, I spoke about our family “manifesto,” which includes Lead with love and Respect each other. You explained, “I was leading with love! I was just loving you!” Nice try, but I respect your attempts at sneaky persuasion.
Then there’s writing. You’re so interested in writing. We watch with wonder as you sit or lie down, pencil in hand, and sound out words and phrases, “Scissors…s-s-s…s. I-i-i…i. Z-z-z…z. R-r-r…r. Z-z-z…z.” We can make out most of what you write, which astounds us. I need to do more to empower your writing: show you the power of words. That said, you already know that. You write letters to the fairies—and to us. Your birthday cards are beloved by all.
Other recent developments:
Big school transitions: You’re a “full Fledgling” (Kindergartner) now. (Cue the waterworks.) You start your new schedule: 8:30-3:30 every school day. After school is as follows: Monday with Mema/Mema and Pops, Tuesday with Amy, Thursday with Mema and Pops at least through dinner. And your classroom now has twice as many children. Emotions are big, and the class transition is rough for you. Shifts are hard, you love your routine and schedule. But I know you’ll continue to grow and thrive.
Lying: Yup. You’re trying this out, this “magical belief” stuff. You arrive home one day wearing shark rainboots not your own. I ask where they came from, and you reply, “My teatsohs [teachers] texted Mema and Pops, and the bwought them for me.” Huh. “So…if I ask Mema and Pops, they’ll say that’s what happened?”...”Don’t ask Mema and Pops…It’s twue.” The next night at dinner, we say that Mema and Pops didn’t bring you the boots. You rest your chin in your hands, take a slow bite of food, and reply, “They pwobably don’t remembo.” I mean, way to stick to your story. Kudos.
We’ve finally shifted to showers! For whatever reason, you finally decided that showers are better than baths. They’re certainly faster—and we always take them together. How I treasure these days.
Climbing! You’ve always been a climber, and you just started “climbing” trees. We have a tree with a smaller branch that you can reach. You put your feet on the trunk and move them up, hanging by the branch. Papa and I take you to a climbing gym, and you enjoy bouldering—a pendulum swinging from the sweet thrill of challenge and frustrating defeat.
Scooting! We haven’t had much luck or interest with your balance bike, BUT you love to scoot—and you’re quite impressive. You have the kick/balance choreography down, you can turn gracefully onto streets, and you even crouch down doing “tricks.” Again with that physical acumen.
And, finally…you’re swimming!!!! We do a few more casual swim lessons in friends’ pools, and you have zero interest in doing the exercises. Then (a few weeks ago), we go to a friend’s pool for a pool party, and you spend over an hour practicing by yourself, with goggles.
I start by encouraging you to put your face under. You say you want to practice on your own, so I watch as you progress from putting half your head under to swimming while holding your nose (legs off the ground, kicking about 90-degree angles), to putting your entire head under, to swimming with your head entirely under. You then start swimming underwater without holding your nose.
You move about four steps in one afternoon. But that’s kind of how it goes with these things, isn’t it? You decide you’re ready, you practice on your own, and you do it.
Welp, eight pages later, I suppose it’s time. Perhaps I need to write more often again…
In short, as Papa said recently, “In a few years, she’ll really be a person. Right now, she’s better than a person.”
I love you so.
Love, Your Mama
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