matching tracksuits

fun in threes, sometimes fours

the girl

Party

Though her birthday was three days ago, L's birthday party was today. Her first birthday was a much more adult-centered party. Her second birthday party was still dominated by adults. This year, it was all about the kids.

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There was pizza and ice cream and candy and juice, but most importantly, there were games.

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I believe we were seeing a little bit of L's school side, As mentioned earlier, L's teachers always comment on her mellow, compliant nature, something we don't see too often here.

Whenever we try to play a game with her, there can be tense moments of an attitude that can be described as a typical toddler egoism: "It's mine; I'll do with it as I please."

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Today, there was none of that. L exhibited a simple graciousness that never demanded to be first, never begged to have it all, never stated that it must be this way and not that. She was the perfect host. It was her party, and she didn't cry because apparently she didn't ever want to.

And who could blame her? L's two best friends from school were there, and what's more, there was dancing.

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The three candles were out in a flash, and the party seemed to wrap up even faster. I glanced at the clock and saw it was, in fact, two hours since the first guests arrived.

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In a word, a success. "See you next year," said one parent as a best friend was leaving.

We're looking forward to it -- especially the Girl.

Three

Today, you turn three. You hold up your fingers, struggling to hold down the thumb and pinkie, and tell me — show me — that you’re three.

In the morning, we celebrate your threeness with activities arranged into trinities: three hugs, three kisses, three tickles. As we head to the kitchen, you decide you want three jumps, so I stand at the base of our small staircase and catch you three times as you leap, in complete trust, three times into my arms. We go back to your room and you want three pushes: I sit on your rug and you gradually, with steady pressure, push me over, landing on me with giggles.

For three years now, we’ve been three. While it’s hard to accept that it was three years ago that you rushed into the world after only an hour of your mother’s labor, it’s equally difficult to accept that it’s only been three years. It seems like so much longer. This is undoubtedly due, in large measure, to the simple fact that you’ve developed more — cognitively and physically — in these three years than you’ll ever develop in your life. You’ve learned to talk, walk, run, dance, tickle, fix chocolate milk, sort things by color, chose your own clothes, put on your jacket, and a million other things that you will take for granted in the future but are in fact life changing advances. you have, in short, become more independent.

In the beginning, there was dependence. You could do nothing for yourself except burp and mess in your shockingly small diaper.

Father and Daughter

Each year, you’ve grown more independent, and more stubborn.

Trying

You’ve gone from having things done for you to insisting on doing everything for yourself. Insisting to the point of utter frustration at times.

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And now, we celebrate your completion of three years. You’re starting your fourth year with us.

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We bring you a small cake — Babcia’s work — and clap as you blow out the candle. Your first year, we did it for you.

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Your first birthday’s presents were of a simple kind: they made noise, or flashed, or rattled. We unwrapped the presents for you and showed you how they work.

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Now, you unwrap your own presents and excitedly examine them.

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We still help you, though. It will be that way for a very long time. Hopefully, a very, very long time. You’ll understand that desire when you have children of your own.

Babcia’s Arrival

Going to the airport for an international arrival is a game of waiting.

We stood at the end of a long corridor and wait as the passengers trickle out, one by one, two by two, a group here and a group there. With three simultaneous international arrivals, it makes for a long process.

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We saw several lovely reunions as we anticipate our own. An uncle arrived from Italy to a niece and nephew running to him full speed. A father returned to a mother and smiling baby. A sister came from German for a visit.

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Finally, it was our turn. L ran to meet Babcia, who scooped her up and gave her a long hug.

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K joined them for a three-generation, all-mother-daughter group hug. It caught the attention of others, just as earlier reunions brought smiles to our face,

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More hugs followed.

Now L just has to start speaking Polish…

Balance

"Shhh! There's a monster in there!" says L as we walk toward her room. She's at that age where she sees monsters, tigers, and bears everywhere. A "smoky, smoky dragon" is a common visitor at night, and right after a bath, an alligator -- simply named Alligator -- comes looking for her as she hides under her big bath towel. Saturday mornings she likes to jump in our bed (even if it's made up -- she'll willingly unmake it) and hide under the covers.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh!" she'll proclaim. "Monster's coming!"

I play along sometimes, but it creates a problem: she gets genuinely scared sometimes, and it's because there's an alligator under her bed or a dragon right over there, in the corner. I reassure here that there's no such thing is monsters, but it's difficult to do if I've just been playing along with her imagination earlier in the evening.

It's difficult to balance her developing imagination with her developing fear.

Will she learn there's no such thing as dragons before she learns Santa doesn't exist? I'm helping create both illusions, feeling slight pangs of guilt about it, and wondering if it's all avoidable.

Memorex

L has an absolutely astounding memory. She can “read” many, many books — at least fifteen, I would say — from memory. She turns the page and quotes almost verbatim the text on the page.

And she corrects me.

“‘That’s what you said yesterday,’ shouted elephant,” I read from one of L’s favorite books, Goose Goofs Off.

“No, Tata! Elephant snorted!” comes the reply.

Fairy Tale

Emptiness

Emptiness inspires dancing — the echo of footsteps is always impressive.

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With the sofa and love seat sold and the remaining furniture stowed throughout the house, we now have a ballroom.

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Conversely, the acoustics inspired music making, with L taking the lead.

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Fourth Thursday

With a three-year old and no travel plans for Thanksgiving, we planned dinner around her nap. That gave us the whole morning to work around the house. As L grows, she's increasingly eager to help.

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It's impossible to put beans into the coffee grinder or tea into the infuser without L calling, "I want to do it! I want to help!" When I stir something in the sauce pan, when K sweeps the kitchen, L is there, ready to help.

Indeed, if we don't let her help (either intentionally or accidentally), it sometimes leads to a mini-meltdown.

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When we arrived at Nana and Papa's for turkey and the fixings, they had a surprise for L.

"We're tired of making a tent for her," Nana explained earlier in the week when I dropped by. It was, I would imagine, a well-established ritual: ottomans pushed together, with a blanket spread over it to create a small space for L to wallow in.

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As planned, it kept the Girl busy while everyone helped out with the final stages of dinner.

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Turkey with dressing and giblet gravy, with sides of rice, casserole, and cranberry sauce. What could be more American? Indeed, as I ate dinner, I remembered when, living with a host family in Poland, I was asked to create a typical American meal. I mentioned the Thanksgiving feast; I was relieved when told (this was 1996) that getting a whole turkey would be, at best, difficult.

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After dinner was play time (until the turkey overwhelmed Papa and he began his post-dinner, in-seat nap).

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It was the first Thanksgiving without any extended family at all. No traveling; no sleeping in strange beds; no absolute dread if it was a rainy day in South Carolina, requiring us all to stay inside with four generations of smokers. It was Thanksgiving without any of the negatives. It also lacked some of the positives that certainly accompany large family gatherings.

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Yet, for one of the first Thanksgivings L will probably remember (at least for a few years), it was perfect. Especially the Mlenmorangie Papa brought out after dinner.

Little Drummer Girl

Happy accidents are part of growing up. Today, L discovered that my old Lincoln Log set makes a fairly good drum.

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Add an old chocolate tin and a tub for totting Play Doe and you have an entire kit.

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Scat Cat

It’s still a cliche love-hate relationship: L still loves, the cat still hates. Or perhaps “the cat fears” would be more accurate.

In my pre-parenthood thoughts of what fatherhood would be like, I never realized that literally everything must be taught — even how to show love. It’s a given when we look at the dysfunctional relationships that are everywhere (most commonly on the covers of magazines in the checkout line). Still, I thought that if we taught by example, L would learn how to express affection.

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We teach by example; we illustrate by experience (“See? We’re gentle with the cat and she comes to us.”); we instruct directly (“Hitting the cat is not a good way to show affection.”). Sometimes it works. Generally, Bida continues to head the other way whenever L enters the room.