The Mommy Docket: A Letter to Gigi Who's a Whole Handful

Hey Girl,

Go ahead and turn that frown upside down because you’re a whole handful. A handful of years and a handful of d-r-a-m-a. I don’t worry about you earning a living when you grow up, because with acting skills like these, you’re going to win a Tony. I know it’ll be a Tony and not an Oscar because musicals tend to fare better on stage than on film, and it would be crime to deny this world your perky little singing voice. Sometimes I stand outside your bedroom door listening to you sing your Vacation Bible School songs, “Ooooh-a-oooo, he’s the one that lights up the world!” You’re right. He does light up the world, but to be honest, you light up my world. Fireworks. Explosions. Sunshine and lightening.

I’ve heard that once children turn five, they become more civilized. That’s certainly true for your delicate little table manners and the way you've learned apologize. But the apologies still come far too often after you’ve tried to punch the side of my head as I carry you upstairs for bedtime. You love secrets. Here’s one: bedtime comes every single night. It always will. It’s probably best that you make your peace with it sooner rather than later, for both of our sanity. Civility comes with rest. And, as we discuss every single night, you have to rest because you’re smart, and your mind needs time to adjust to all of that new information, so that tomorrow, you can learn more, and someday, someday you’ll do amazing things. You’ll pilot a plane. You’ll perform on Broadway. You’ll teach another Gigi to read, to rest, to respond to mean girls.

You’ve been through a lot this year: the Wicked Witch, blue airplane toilets and auto-flushers, the infinite boredom of the Air & Space Museum, and mean girls. No wonder you’ve got Drama.

But you’re a handful of something else too. Sometimes those handfuls are sticky; sometimes soft and squishy; sometimes harsh and abrasive. But always a handful. A handful of love. A handful of childhood joy. Handfuls and buckets of tears and giggles. You’ve gotten taller; you’re growing up. You finally, finally outgrew your size 8 sneakers and got that pair of pink cowboy boots. But somehow that little vessel of a body still isn’t quite big enough to hold all of those emotions.

For a year I’ve worried you don’t know your numbers. Or letters. Or generally anything I’d expect you to learn in 2 years of preschool. Then I took you out for pink rose tea—a favorite. You plunked our number onto the table with, “We’re number 44. That means we’re after 43.” When I asked if you knew your letters, you dropped your gaze to the table and ignored my question. I suspect that means, “yes.” Time will tell. You’re only 5.

Don’t let the mean girls get you down. There will always be mean girls. Let them say their hateful things. Let them play with each other. You’ve found your people. Play in the sand; dig with trucks; play tag and ride bikes. Let the mean girls be mean. Someday they’ll get theirs. And you’ll have yours. Your true friends. Your support network. Your travel buddies and confidants. Mean girls will hurt your feelings; your people will hold you up. They’ll tell you you’re smart; you’re worth it; you’re loved. You'll forget the names of the mean girls, or maybe you won't. I remember my mean girls, but I found my people. You will too.

Boys are your people, even when they don't want to play baby dolls or put on make-up and when they smell funny. Your brother is a boy; he's a pretty cool dude. Sneak the hugs and hand holding in line (I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a stolen kiss or two). I promise the teachers think it’s cute, and the mean girls wish it was them. Be kind. You might break a heart or two; you might get yours broken. Remember who your friends are, even the broken hearted boys and the boys who broke your heart.They'll still be your people, patched up hearts and all.

I think we’ve found you a soccer team. You’ve made a few goals, but more importantly you’re making passes too. And every now and again, you lose. Some days are like that. Even when you’re 5.

Every once in a while, do something that scares you. But not with fire. Your brother was right to tattle when you tried to set the cardboard ablaze last week. And while we’re on the subject, let’s say that daddy is starting a fire in the fire pit instead of shouting, “Daddy’s setting a fire!”

On rare occasions, we get to chat about things other than your lunch order (peanut butter sandwich, carrots with ranch, and chocolate milk). We talk about you wanting to be a teacher. I think that means you've had some really good ones so far. We talk about sisters and brothers. Sometimes we talk about how Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton; sometimes we don't. We still talk a lot about your bottom—because even when you’re a whole handful, sometimes you need your mommy to wipe your bottom. “Mommy,” you asked, “Do we have any baby salt?” Baby salt? “You know, like you sprinkle on their bottom.”

I’ll pick up some baby salt along with the infant pepper. I think I’ve got some explaining to do—particularly with your newfound interest in anatomy and how babies enter this world. I can only hope my answers are enough. You’re only 5.

Sometimes, you tell mom I'm your bestest friend--mostly when I let you skip hair washing to watch Paw Patrol. Other times, you tell me I'm the worst mommy ever. Bedtime really should be getting easier by now. Another secret? Sure. I've got one more: I'll be your bestest friend; I'll also be the worst mommy ever, particularly when you break curfew or act like a mean girl. But no matter what, I'll love you the mostest.

For best or worst, I'm the one who's got your back. I'll wipe your nose, your bottom, and your tears for however long you'll let me. I may only have two hands, but I can hold all of your handfuls. Stay funny. Stay kind. Be bold. Be a whole handful.