The Baby

by

Ten!

My daughter is a decade old. A whole decade. It’s astonishing, how quickly the past ten years have swooped by. 

This was the first year… ever??? at least since her birth???? that we had both sets of grandparents on hand for Carla’s birthday. We all went out to dinner at Carla’s favorite restaurant and then came back to our house for presents and cake. After many months of highly specific requests, Carla asked for a simple birthday cake: vanilla cake with raspberry filling and vanilla buttercream. Because I like to make things difficult on myself pretty, and because Carla didn’t have any specific color scheme in mind, I bought a lot of turquoise decorations and then decorated the cake to match. (I did a kind of watercolor effect with the frosting.) 

For her friends birthday party, we went with a succulents theme. I ordered adorable fondant succulent cupcake toppers and – per her request – made a variety of cupcakes (vanilla cake with chocolate buttercream, vanilla cake with vanilla buttercream, chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream, and chocolate cake with vanilla buttercream) so that no one had to eat chocolate if they didn’t want to.

I took ZERO photos of the party favors, which were mini succulents, or of the décor, which included succulent-printed tablecloths, paper plates, and paper napkins, and color-coordinated balloons. The party itself was pretty meh from my perspective (the entertainment was very mediocre, especially compared to parties we’ve had in the past, but it was still QUITE expensive; the venue itself was dirty to the point of disgusting, and I am so glad I still keep Lysol wipes in my vehicle; and the staff pretty much ignored us except during the “entertainment” portion of the day and except at the end when they came into the sweltering, filthy party room to tell us we had five minutes to get out; one kid’s parents hadn’t even arrived yet, and she seemed a little worried that we would LEAVE HER there omg. I think it was a poor enough experience that I may leave a google review.), but the kids seemed to have fun, so that’s really all that matters.

My newly minted ten-year-old is everything I had ever hoped, in my wildest dreams, a ten-year-old would be. 

This past year – fourth grade – was the best school year Carla has had so far. She loved her teachers, she loved math, she went to school happy each and every day. Some prior years, she’d balk at school or complain of morning stomachaches. Almost none of that this year. 

I text my husband every morning after I drop Carla off at school (this habit originated in her infancy, when I was convinced I would forget her in my car, and has endured for ten years), and my texts from this past school year are mostly some variation on “Carla was in a great mood this morning!” or “Our unapologetically late child is very cheerful this morning!” While getting out the door on time was still sometimes a challenge, I found that our mornings together were some of my favorite hours in the day. Carla likes to chat about all manner of interesting things on our short drive to school. How words were invented, what puberty is like, how difficult it is to imagine herself driving a car. She went through a phase where she stuck her head out the window during our drive and pretended to be a dog. She went through a phase where she would give me the “weather report” by opening her window and smelling the air. She wore all black almost every day (which, to be fair, makes a lot of things very easy), and then at the very end of the school year – no warning at all – started dressing in color again and announced that her favorite color was no longer black but turquoise.

Current Carla is extremely independent. She likes to ride her bike around the neighborhood, visiting neighbors (and their dogs). She loves to swing on the swingset, singing at the top of her lungs. She still loves to craft, making elaborate scenarios for her Barbies and dinosaurs and Calico Critters (all of which she still plays with). She sometimes declines a parent reading to her at bedtime, in favor of reading to herself. (She loves to read! Her favorite books are graphic novels, and she loves books that feature animals as the main characters.) 

And yet she is also such a cuddly, loving kiddo who loves to spend time with her parents. She enjoys playing video games or practicing the guitar with her dad. She loves snuggling with me on the couch, watching TV or a movie or letting me read to her. She still likes to play pretend, she still adores stuffed animals. When we walk together, she still voluntarily holds my hand. 

She is extremely capable. Sometimes she will unload the dishwasher without my asking. She can make tacos and scrambled eggs with little supervision. She picks up the mail for our neighbors when they are out of town.

She is more and more interested in her appearance. She has Very Specific Ideas about what she wants to wear, and when. She has become newly dedicated to keeping her hair nice, and has begun blow drying it with a blow dryer she wheedled her grandmother into buying her. She has begun applying a swipe or two of my mascara and a little blush while I am distracted. She is interested in grown-up undergarments and deodorant, although she doesn’t yet need either. 

She loves to be busy – and thank goodness, because this was our busiest year so far. She had activities every single day of the week – sometimes two a day! She is so musical and can now play two instruments (three, if you count the recorder which I emphatically do not) AND pick out songs on the piano. She has been in two plays. She loves to sing and sings all the time: when she wakes up, in the shower, while she’s supposed to be eating breakfast, in the car, in the backyard, while she’s riding her bike. She loves math (bless her fabulous math teachers) and science and computational thinking. She is agreeable and cheerful and delightful 99% of the time. The other time, she is pure sassafras – but that’s expected and normal. 

During my end-of-year conference with her primary teacher, I learned that all the kids gave each other end-of-year compliments on the last day. Carla’s peers said that she was supportive and enthusiastic and fun to be around. Her teacher said she is a light. And she is a light. She makes everything glow. 

She makes my life so bright. I cannot wait to see what she does next. 

by

Times I Cried Watching A League of Their Own

Carla and I have been working our way through some of the family movies you suggested. So far, we’ve done Freaky Friday, in which I think Lindsay Lohan is excellent. Bend it Like Beckham which was more relationship-heavy than I remembered (and, dare I say, sort of boring?). Newsies, which has a banging soundtrack, and to which Carla said, “Why aren’t there any girl characters?” (She’s not wrong; by my count, there are four total women in the entire movie.) 

Most recently, we dove into A League of Their Own. I started crying pretty much right away. I don’t recall it being a tearjerker, do you? The tears welled up so often that I started making a list. (Um, mild spoilers if you have somehow not yet seen this absolute masterpiece of a movie.)

  • When Marla’s dad blamed her lack of femininity on himself, because he raised her alone after his wife died
  • When Marla left her dad, who was so supportive of her baseball prowess, but is now all alone
  • When Shirley Baker couldn’t find her name on the list, and then when another player figured out that Shirley couldn’t read and helped her find her name and they all cheered
  • When all the women were so excited to be chosen as members of the All American League
  • When Doris talked about how her boyfriend made her feel less-than because she can play ball
  • When Mae said “they ain’t closing me down”
  • When the Black woman threw a ball to one of the Peaches and nodded to the Peaches in a way that said, “Yes, I know I should be among you and it’s super shitty that I’m not simply because of the color of my skin.”
  • When the stands were full of cheering crowds
  • The first time the Peaches sing Evelyn’s song in the locker room 
  • When the telegram guy comes into the locker room with the telegram for Betty Spaghetti
  • When Dottie sobs with relief that the telegram wasn’t about Bob, and with worry for the potential that the next one might have his name on it
  • When Bob shows up at Dottie’s door and she can’t believe he’s there, in person, alive
  • When Dottie says “Can we just hold each other for the rest of our lives?”
  • When Jimmy gives Dottie the “baseball gets inside you” speech
  • The entire portion of the film devoted to the series when Dottie is up at bat against Kit, and Kit so fiercely wants to win and Dottie is so stoic and unflappable
  • When Dottie drops the ball and Kit’s team wins
  • When Dottie tells Kit the things she won’t miss from baseball and hugs Kit and tells her she loves her
  • When Old Dottie tells Old Marla she lost her husband just that winter
  • When Old Stillwell tells Old Dottie his mom died

I’m pretty teary these days. I always tend to get emotional around Carla’s birthday (although less so the past few years, which I thought was a good trend; maybe “turning ten” feels like such a big deal, it’s bringing up extra stuff?). I cannot believe she’s hitting double digits. I cannot believe I’ve known her for a full decade. I cannot believe she is about to head into her final year of elementary school. She brings me so much joy and fills my life with so much light and love and energy and glitter – literal and metaphorical – and I just want time to slow down. 

Some people try to talk me out of these feelings. It’s good that Carla is growing up. It’s what she should be doing. It’s better than the alternative. And to those people I say: yes. You are right. I am so proud and overwhelmed by happiness that I get to watch this person grow and change and become ever more herself. It is a precious gift and one that I do not take for granted. 

And yet I am unabashedly sentimental about Carla of yesterday. I want to feel unborn Carla kick against my hand pressed to my stomach. I want to cradle fresh-baked-loaf-of-bread Carla in my arms and watch her head loll, milk-drunk, against my shoulder. I want to trail toddler Carla down the sidewalk, stopping as she points out every acorn, every leaf, every ant with wonderment and glee infusing her squeaky toddler voice. I want to watch kindergarten Carla spin in her twirly skirt and second grade Carla slide down a snow-covered slide and fourth grade Carla play her guitar. I want all of these things at once, just as much as I want to see what middle school and high school and college and parent Carla will be like. I can hold both of those things – the joy and nostalgia, the excitement for what is yet to come and the grief for what no longer is – in my heart and I can give myself space to feel it all.

We also watched A League of Their Own on the day we put in an offer on a new house. I could feel it, that this was OUR new house. It has everything we could want – a mudroom! a crafting space! room for so many books! – and more. It’s in a beautiful neighborhood, with kids Carla’s age in houses on either side of the house and across the street (the one thing our wonderful current neighborhood lacks is kids her age). It has walking trails and ponds and a playground. And there are so many dogs, you guys. So many dogs. It’s pretty close to perfect, and we put in a competitive offer, and I had a good feeling we would get it, but then we had to wait. Watching A League of Their Own was as much a way to distract myself as it was exposing Carla to the great films of my youth. So I’m sure at least some of the crying was less about the characters’ situation and more about the opposing forces of wanting something so much while also being deeply afraid of letting go of the wonderful thing I already have. 

Because when we say hello to a new house – a house we want, and love – we have to say goodbye to the wonderful house we live in now.

It’s just a house. But. This house is so inextricably tied up with Carla. With Carla and the rapid passage of time. 

My husband and I decided, here, in this house, that we wanted a baby. I walked from my bathroom down the hall to my husband’s home office and announced I was pregnant. We painted our baby’s room the perfect shade of pale purple and carefully chose art for her walls. We brought baby Carla home to this house. I slept on the floor in front of her crib countless times. I sat with her on the carpet in the living room, pointing out the sliding glass doors to the wonderful goings on in the yard: the squirrels and bunnies frolicking in the grass, the sun moving over the lawn and peeking through the hedges, the leaves of the oak tree shifting overhead. She learned how to walk here, how to ride a bike, how to swing and blow bubbles and do multiplication. This home was our refuge during the lockdown of 2020. It’s housed ten thousand make-believe games, a hundred thousand art projects, countless hours of singing. How can I leave this house when it’s so full of Carla? So full of versions of Carla that exist only in memory and the molecules of these walls?

Letting go – even when it is a good thing, even when it is the way things should be – is so hard for me. Maybe it is hard for you, too. If not, I envy your ability to leap across the gap to the next thing, confident that you will find footing on the other side. 

As always with anything: Things could change, things could fall apart. As it stands now, we close on our new house in July and will likely move in August or September. This will be Carla’s last birthday in this house, the house she’s lived in her entire life. I am so excited. I am so sad. I hold both of these feelings at once in my heart.

by

Pearls

Carla is, at this very moment, operating a library in our living room. She has made a circulation desk out of couch cushions and has brought down fabric bins from her room to hold books (we are not thinking about the current location of the original contents of the bins) (*cough cough* her bedroom floor) (nor are we thinking about how much less fun it is to dismantle a library than it is to create one). She has divvied up the books by category, which seem to be: Realistic Fiction, Fiction, Piggy & Gerald, and Non-Fiction. She has rounded up all of my library books, from the real library, to use in her offerings. She has her (my old) laptop on the circulation desk and created a Google doc in which she typed the title of every book on her shelves. She has created personalized “photo” library cards for her critters. And now her stuffed animals are asking her for recommendations and checking things out. I already checked out Anastasia Krupnik and read two chapters out loud to the librarian, who sometimes still sucks her thumb. 

Not sure why one of the patrons is being used as a step stool, but we all do our part to encourage reading I suppose.

Carla is at this wonderful age between Little Kid and Tween. She’s got all these responsibilities and behaviors of a big kid, and yet she still loves playing make believe and she still has that childlike wonder and delight in the world around her that transforms my heart into a big neon sign pulsing behind my ribcage.

The little round thing on the right is the library card scanner; the black lamp illusion box is the book scanner. I’m not sure which cat is checking out Little House in the Big Woods, but I hope they won’t argue about it. Not the line of library users waiting their turn to check out.

She had to accompany me to the grocery store this morning because my husband is at the hospital. Call Week bleh. Big as she is, I am just not ready to leave her at home alone for an extended period of time. (My husband and I left her alone for about 30 minutes once, while we went to pick up takeout, and that seemed both fine and terrifying.) She was initially extremely grumpy about being dragged along to the store. Who can blame her, really. 

Each cat has her own library card.

But almost as soon as we went inside, she became quite cheerful and inquisitive. She wanted to push the cart, which she can (mostly) do now without ramming into displays or other shoppers. She asked me what various things were (kumquats, delicata squash, figs) and pointed with glee at the baby artichokes and requested we buy many, many types of fruit (yes: kiwi, plums, blueberries, mango, grapefruit; no: whole coconut, pie pumpkin). I love being able to say yes to her at the grocery store, and I was able to say yes a lot: to two types of yogurt (yes, child! Ask for ALL the yogurt!), to a pumpkin roll from the bakery, to a package of mini stroopwaffles (to share with her father), to packages of frozen cherries and frozen raspberries. 

There was a brief mishap in the refrigerated case that holds things like Pilsbury bread and cinnamon rolls. We were in the rice/quinoa/grains aisle, and the case was at the end of it, and all of a sudden a bunch of cylinders tumbled to the floor. Carla ran to help, along with multiple grocery store staff members, and informed them cheerfully that it “just collapsed out of nowhere!” (I really hope they saw that she was not anywhere nearby when this happened. It really was one of those moments of invisible chaos.) As we walked past, I saw one staff member holding up a cylinder that had popped open, the uncooked dough bulging out.

Then we got to the meat section and while I was putting ground beef into a baggie, she told me she was going to the fish counter to see if they had any live crabs.

No live crabs today, but they did have a WIDE selection of clams. Carla begged me to get her a clam, and I felt kind of terrible about it but I said no. I don’t like clams and I have no idea how to cook them, let alone a single clam. 

Then she pointed out the oysters.

“Do you think they have pearls in them?” she asked. 

I told her no, I didn’t think so, but it was possible. And she wanted me to ask the person staffing the fish counter if there were pearls inside. I told her that it was impossible for that person to know. The oysters were closed, and would remain so until they were cooked.

“No, mommy,” she said, knowingly. “They open and close like this in the water.” She showed me with her mouth. “It’s how they swim. Someone could look inside and see the pearl.”

Okay, fair. But this particular grocery store staff member was certainly not in the water with these oysters before they were caught. 

“I think you should just ask, Mommy.”

I did not want to ask. So we stood there for a few more moments, discussing the probability of finding a pearl in a grocery store oyster. 

I don’t know why it charmed me so much, but it did. How hopeful she was about the possibility of a pearl! How certain she was that the fish counter staffer would know whether pearls were present. How startlingly knowledgeable she was about bivalves. How willing she was to discuss it with me, and how carefully she constructed her arguments, trying to get me on board. 

I don’t think I’m conveying it all well enough, but my heart was so full. It was such a happy shopping trip, such a fun time we spent together even though we were both doing a chore.  

Sometimes I wish I were an oyster, so that I could wrap a morning like this one in gleaming nacre, protecting and preserving these fleeting moments of childhood like the precious pearls they are.  

And now it’s time for lunch. Carla says she will close up the library and take her lunch break in the Book Nook Cafe, which she, the librarian, also owns and operates. It serves Lunchables.