On Turning Three: A Letter to Gigi

Dear Gigi,

Last Friday, your turned three years old.

This morning, you took off your sneakers in the church narthex and threw them at me shouting, "I don't want to wear these today!" Last week, I put you in time out; I don't remember why. You snarked, "You go 'way, you ole' woman!" Your feelings are bigger than the ruffles on your skirts and bloomers, and I fear that your attitude now is merely warming me up for your teenage years.

Every evening around 6:30, you melt.  You try to slap me as I carry you upstairs and undress your exhausted, still baby fat little body.  Then, you wrap your arms around my neck and press your cheek to mine for snuggles, and in an instant, all is forgiven.

You are a force of nature, and to be honest, you scare me a little bit. I believe with my whole heart that you're smarter than me, and you'll do amazing things someday

--if only I can discipline you meaningfully and kindly without breaking your spirit.

You love "My Little Ponies" and Dora the Explorer, and you desperately want to fill my shoes--the higher the heel the better. When you grow up, you want to be a princess with a long pony tail, just like mine. No lipstick is too red, and no job too tough. You think I can handle anything, and even though I know it's not true,

I hope that I'm setting an example for you of the kind of woman you'd like to be.

Your brother knows you're a handful (and he's a bucketful, or so he says). You're at the crossroads of toddlerhood and preschooler--where Cheerios give way to Goldfish Crackers, and diapers give way to potties, even the auto-flushers.

Each day will present its own challenges, and I have no doubt you'll tackle them with gusto. Today, I watched you carefully cover an auto-flusher sensor with toilet paper (or as you call them, "paper towels"), just so that you could handle your business in peace.

Remember this: for me, watching you graduate from college will give me with the same sense of pride and bittersweet gladness that watching you manage your nemesis, the auto-flusher, gave me.

For real.

Someday, you'll trade your frills and tiara for a cap and gown, for a business suit and heels, or scrubs and sensible shoes. I hold not a single doubt that you'll channel all of your three-year old exuberance into becoming an incredible person with your own special spin on whatever you choose to replace your frills: 

You've always know how to work an outfit. 

For now, be three. Throw the fits. Grow into your feelings, and every now and then, let them be bigger than your tiny frame--good or bad. 

Hold close to your friends. You never know which one will be your friend for life. 

Hold closer to your brother. He knows you better than anyone 

(and he totally gets your crazy parents too).

Play with dolls as long as you want. Junior high boys probably won't want to dance anyway--even if you do know all the steps to the Cha Cha Slide. 

Eat the cake. Always. 

Always remember that pretty is as pretty does. 

And you, you are beautiful. 

Because I'm Happy...And Other Little Bits & Pieces

I used to work on big cases for big clients, small cases for enormous clients, and gigantic cases for downright small town clients. I researched and strategized. I made outlines that were chapters long. The issues were complex, and life was even more complicated than that. (I'd love to tell you I don't miss it, but truth be told, I guess I do--in some respects). Today,  I spent most of my day folding used clothing and drinking in the bargain hunter's Mecca--the church garage sale pre-sale. I'm not a hoarder, but darn those hoarding tendencies! Today, my adoptees included a cast-iron dutch oven, harvest gold and avocado green Tupperware tumblers, a princess tent, some yard ornaments, a punch bowl (to be fair, I traded in the one that I already owned--not a hoarder), a cashmere sweater (!), and two country aprons. I dug through boxes of cables, used panties & socks (ew, really people?), and sorted water bottles from coffee mugs until late in the afternoon.

And throughout the day, I constantly caught myself singing: "I love you. You love me. We're a happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me too?" Credit to the big purple dinosaur, Barney. Gigi has never seen his show, but she does enjoy his literature; every night she sings herself to sleep by reading Barney's book of nursery rhymes. And, this week, when I interviewed her as "Star of the Week" for pre-K, she told me that her favorite book is the I Love You book. There was a smile on my face.

Happy.

It also makes me happy that Gigi's favorite foods are Honey Nuts, Cheetos, and Fruit Loops. Second child syndrome. Her brother's favorites at that age were sloppy joe sandwiches and guacamole. Happy. Not necessarily proud.

What else makes me happy?

These two:

She loves her big brother. And sugar cereals. 

He's going through a serious phase peppered with childish curiosity: "Mom, how are you feeling today? Are you feeling okay? Do seals eat people?" Yes, this was all asked in sequence. In the car. On a Monday morning. For the record, he also would like to know if cats have kittens like moms have babies, and if so, well, then how do the babies get out of the cats tummy? Or better yet, how do babies get out of a mommy's tummy? If anyone has a six-year old appropriate answer, I'm all ears (glowing red with embarrassment). 

The first soccer game of the year makes me happy too:

Cutest cheerleader on the field. I'm going to make them re-take this picture when she's 14, and he's 17. 

This makes me pretty happy too. Dad's an awfully good coach. 

Those faces! A game well played. 

Some days, she looks so much like her daddy.

Fancy footwork makes me happy too. 

Not this happy. You know what makes me this happy? Running--when it's 60 degrees outside. 

Hello fall!

Every season, we ask him, "But did you have fun?"  The picture is a bit blurry, but I think the answer is still resoundingly "Yes!"

Little boy jokes make me happy too. "Hey mom," he told me today, "Did you know Bartlesville is a funny word? It sounds like you're burping!"

Of course, little girl dreams make me happy too: "I wish we had a fountain in our house. A princess fountain. A princess water fountain that we could drink from." 

Lately, I've devoted more time to volunteer service than to my computer. I'm behind on my shows, my blog, my books, and my house keeping. But, I've met (and I hope I've helped) people with problems far bigger than the ring around my bathtub. I have the opportunity of a lifetime to teach at a law school that not only places high value on service but that is also my alma mater. I learned to do a headstand this week in yoga class, and I can still run 5 miles at the drop of a hat. I picked up my violin for the first time in months and managed to eek out enough of a tune for Gigi to "Let It Go." 

It's almost November, and soon enough, I'm sure I'll join the minions in giving daily thanks for everything from fluffy towels to the great state I live in, earthquakes, tornadoes, monsoons and all. No doubt before then, I'll feel the pressure of a great thought just waiting to be expanded and expounded onto paper. 

But, for tonight, my thoughts are simple and happy. And, for now, that's who I prefer to be. 

With a Little Help from My Friends

In the 9th grade, I went to a school dance. I'd been to only two dances before that one; I wasn't a particularly popular girl in junior high. But, I had my friends. We stuck together. We sat outside after lunch, or in the bleachers in the gym. We took speech class together and dramatically interpreted Steel Magnolias (I was a killer Shelby--those judges were wrong). We passed countless notes in the halls and giggled away late Friday nights watching Shag. My friends were the ones who convinced me to go to that one last 9th grade dance.

It was a fancy dance, held at the local country club--high living in our small town. My mom made me a polished cotton pastel floral Laura Ashley knock-off; she hot rolled my hair; and she helped me put on mascara and lipstick. I felt beautiful, and terrified. Would I get asked to dance? By a boy? What would I say? What would I do with my hands? 

In an attempt to ease the adolescent angst, the dance organizers revived a late nineteenth century: dance cards. Each young lady was issued a small, half-fold card with numbered lines one through ten. The card was charmingly attached to a silk cord, on the other end of which was a teeny, tiny little pencil. In theory, the boys would simply approach a girl and ask to see her dance card. He would sign up for a dance. Simple. Effortless. A mere registration process. Also in theory, a girl's dance card would be full, and she would have a lovely evening chatting and dancing with ten fine young gentlemen.

Theory rarely translates to reality, particularly when dealing with junior high romance.

My dance card wasn't full. Not even close. I had one dance. Maybe two. They were so awkward. The best part of each dance was when the song ended. Then, I was free to scamper back to my small herd of girlfriends to giggle, squeal, and wonder if I would get to repeat the experience at least one more time that night.

In life, we don't have dance cards.  We do have text messages, and Facebook. Sometimes, we even talk to friends on the phone or manage to grab lunch. We meet each other at work, on soccer fields, at kindergarten fundraisers.

Last week, I had a realization: my dance card is full. I have more friends than days in the week. If I were to have a party at my house, I wouldn't have enough chairs to seat everyone I wanted to invite. (Note: Need to buy more chairs.).

My mom always tells me that we have different friends for different times in our lives. Campfire girls taught me, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver, and the other gold."

For the first time in forever, I have new friends, and old friends, silver friends, and gold friends--all very much treasured.

I have my old friends--the ones who giggled with me at junior high dances and introduced me to V.C. Andrews books. I have my older friends--the ones who knew me before I had permanent teeth and who loved me even when those permanent teeth grew in crooked.

I have my ladies--the ones with whom I share the commonality of law school and law firm experience. When I left private practice, I was afraid I would lose that close knit network of truly brilliant women. Friendship survives firms, and I'm so grateful that it does.

I have mom friends who I know will be lifelong friends, sharing birthday parties, graduations, soccer games, and the occasional (or not so occasional) margarita.

Tonight, I went to Parents' Night at our little Lutheran school. Gigi is technically in two different preschool classes, MWF, and TT. When I mentioned that we would probably attend only one field trip day, her teacher responded, "I would try to go with the Monday/Wednesday/Friday section. Her best friends are in that class, and she'll have so much more fun." (Gigi's bestie isn't in class with her this year, and saying goodbye to him very nearly breaks her heart most mornings).

Gigi is two. Already, she has made friends--the ones who knew her before she had permanent teeth and who will love her when they come in crooked (we've already started the fund for her orthodontic work).

My hope for my little woman is that when she is 37, she'll have the realization that her dance card is full. Friends have made the difference for me. And, to each of them, thank you, I'll call you for lunch (or margaritas) soon.