Sylvia, Three Years Old

My dear sweet Owlet,

I can't believe it's been three years since you wiggled your way into the world, in the middle of an otherwise-entirely-normal August night. I can't believe it's only been three years that our lives have been so much richer, and full of so much more sunshine, for having you in them.

You're a person all your own, and you always have been. You are fiercely, fiercely independent. Everything you can do by yourself, you do by yourself, and woe betide anyone who tries to do it for you. You don't frustrate easily, and you'll try and try until you figure something out. But once you're "too tired" or once you've decided you want help, woe betide the world if it doesn't rush to your aid. You're loud and emotional and your tantrums can be pretty intense. You feel deeply, happy and sad. You're not really prone to mood swings--you live at a pretty gentle level of content--but when you feel, it's real and strong. You're completely okay with being told no--most of the time--but you need your moments of sadness and you need to live in them for awhile before you move on.

You don't like feeling controlled and something as little as making you stay in time-out past the point you feel remorse and are ready to say sorry will make you react like an animal in a trap--panic and misery everywhere. But on the flip side, you have immense quantities of self control and almost always choose to do the right thing. Aside from the occasional timeout-as-holding-zone when one of your tantrums has gotten out of control, I've rarely had to discipline you with anything other than the question, "Are you going to do this yourself or do I need to do it for you?"

But for all your independence and fierce little core, your capacity for wailing loudly, your occasional quickness to take offense, your deeply intense scowl that I positively dread seeing on you at age twelve, your heart is tender and you are so very kind. No matter the cause, you can't stand to see anyone sad. Your brother can be throwing a fit, or fighting with you, and yet, if you perceive him as sad, you will drop everything--even your cause, your side of the fight--to try to "feel him better" as you say. If he falls and hurts himself, you spring into action immediately, rushing to his side with kisses and hugs and all of his monkeys at once. You have no hangups about saying sorry, and if you hurt anyone, anywhere, you apologize and hug and kiss and sympathize with all the owies. You notice everyone's bandaids and blood, and this is how you make friends, because every small child wants to be friends with someone who actually cares about the progress of their paper cuts and knee scrapes. Whenever you hear a child crying in a store, no matter how obviously tantrum-ing that child is, you will look up at me with your big liquid eyes and say, "Somebody is sad!" You have such a deep little heart, Owlet.

And for all that you will grab a power struggle and hold on like a ferocious little bulldog, you don't like fighting anyone you love. You hate knowing anyone in the family is unhappy with you. You hate sinking yourself into situations where you have to perpetuate a conflict in order to win. Give you an out, a graceful way to save face and go back to everyone being okay with each other, and you will take it, any time. Ninety percent of the time, you are just happy and content, following me or your brother around, dragging an armload of your favorite toys with you, sunshining your way through life as you always have, wide-eyed and scowly and sweet.

People describe you as being friendly and outgoing, and most of the time I don't see it, because your brother blows you out of the water. But you are very comfortable socially, in a way I don't see in a lot of other children. Probably because Peregrine is always there for you, setting a shining example of friendliness and sociability. He sees nothing to fear in school, strangers, or conversation with adults, and therefore neither do you. You quickly adapt to leaving me, carving your own little space wherever you end up. You love school and thrive there, possibly because you are so independent of the rest of us, and you can have your own spot where no one else paves the way for you.

But for all that, you're very reserved in public. There are very, very few people, even among close family and friends, who see the whole of you. You're not shy, per se, you just keep a lot back. You're like an onion, with layers and layers. No one sees a false side of you, but not many people see everything. You give your compassion freely, but you hold your trust very close.

You are happiest when you're following me around, doing whatever I'm doing. You're incredibly good at housework--way better than a just-turned-three-year-old ought to be--and it constantly amazes me what you're capable of. You have a combination of swift efficiency and effectiveness that is quite possibly inherited from your beloved aunt Boodeedee, because it certainly didn't come from either your dad or me. And while you love the daily chores--laundry, unloading the dishwasher, making the bed--you really, really love it when we do something exciting and different. You can't even contain your excitement when we clean the bathrooms, or mop, or switch out all the toothbrushes for fresh ones. When you are bored, instead of destroying things like your brother, you will follow me around saying, "What can I help?" You helped me pack our old house, and unpack into our new one, choosing that over playing with your toys almost every time.

You have a very strong need for touch, despite your dislike of carriers as a baby, and despite your refusal to ever sleep touching someone, and despite the fact that you crawl in bed between your dad and me every day and then complain that it's "too tight" and that we're squishing you. You climb into my lap daily, pretty much every time I sit down and you're otherwise unoccupied. You don't want to talk or do anything, you just want to be there. Sometimes I tease you when you're cranky and tell you you haven't had enough Vitamin Lap-Lap. But that's what it is. You need it like a nutrient.

You still carry things you love around with you everywhere, and if you're not in your own home, you find things you love and carry them with you. You are like a magnet, and you have an incredible capacity for attracting anything pink or purple or green or blue or sparkly, having to do with Frozen or Minnie Mouse or Hello Kitty or house maintenance or babies or sheep or owls or winter clothes or vets or doctors. The other day we were in a thrift store, and I looked up, and suddenly you were there, sitting in a giant kid-sized pink jeep, dressed in some ridiculous Elsa-themed winter coat, and next to you, like it was no big deal, were situated a huge talking Olaf, a small piano, and a Minnie Mouse vacuum cleaner. You make me laugh every day, Owlet, whether it's your eclectic collections, your still-excellent mimicry of faces and voices, your strange little expressions of mischief or embarrassment, or your sharp and hilarious observations about the world. The other day, we were walking down on the beach, and a woman passed us walking some huge Saint-Bernard-Chow-whatever-else mutt, huge and white and fluffy with a black mask around its eyes, and you laughed, and said, "That dog is a sheepy with a raccoon face!"

You're obsessed with all things Frozen and will take any opportunity to sing Let it Go. The halls at school, any stage you see anywhere, or simply a blank space where you have nothing else to do. You'll announce it solemnly--"I'm going to sing Let it Go now"--and then you'll proceed, with due gravity, always beginning, a little hesitantly, "Snwows gwows white on da mountain tonight..." and then speeding up until you can stamp your little foot and sing, "Here I STAAAAANNDD!!!" and ending with, of course, "Cold's boddewed me anyway!" I have far too many videos of you doing this, but I know one day you'll be too cool for school, and princesses, and letting it go, so I'll treasure this while I've got it.

You love your princesses and your sparkles and your twirly dresses, but you also love climbing and playgrounds and bikes and adventures. You've been acing fireman poles since before you were two and a half. You gave your teachers heart attacks, but bless them, they let you do it since they saw how competent you were. You know your limits, and you don't like to fall and get hurt, but you love to climb and slide and use your strong little body. You are so confident in your strength, and I love it so very much. You launch yourself onto some pole or bridge or rock hold, and casually throw back at me, "I am strong. God made me strong." I know your body will change. I know you'll have to deal with hips and breasts and changing proportions and things getting in the way of the strong body you live in and know. But I hope you weather that. I hope I can help you learn to see those things as part of your strength, not hindrances to it. I hope you can always hold femininity and strength together, and never, for one moment, think that you have to choose one above the other.

My sweet owlet princess, my quirky, daring, sensitive, tender, fierce, strong little daughter--it is a joy to raise you. It is a joy to have a little woman by my side, growing more and more into a woman every day, trying on Elsa dresses and rock climbing shoes and nursing bras alike. You are more than I could ever have dreamed of and you are such a delight. I hope this year is full of joy and growth for you. I hope you settle into your new school and make good friends and carve another little place to be you. I hope there is minimal threenager, but mostly, I hope you grow in grace and truth and love as you grow into the beautiful, strong woman God created you to be.

I love you, Sylvia Gabrielle.

Brothers and sisters and communities like that

I don't think I have a greater joy these days than watching my kids develop a relationship with each other that's entirely independent of me. They're at an age when they're kind of in the same developmental stage--I mean, yes, Peregrine is much older and knows much more, but still, they're both "preschoolers"--and pretty much function as a small herd of two. It's delightfully easy, in many ways--same rules, same routines, same set of instructions for both of them for the most part. Sylvia's not a baby any more at all, and that makes her Peregrine's playmate instead of just the baby sister. And oh my goodness, friends: the loyalty that exists between those two floors me. I love to watch them figure this thing out on their own. I love that it is something that belongs to them, something I get to witness but don't really own at all. It's amazing and beautiful. They are so very close to each other. I didn't see this kind of closeness coming. I didn't predict how much Peregrine would smooth Sylvia's path growing up, how secure she would be not just in our love, but in his. I know their feelings of love for each other will ebb and flow. I know they'll go their own ways as they grow older, that they'll want closer friends of their own gender, that their secrets and inside jokes will branch out and belong to others, and that's as it should be. But I hope the core of their love stays. I hope there's a strength there that will be a foundation for the lives that will depend less and less on me as time goes on.

I've had people ask me for advice on helping siblings get along, and it's hard for me to know how to respond. Because on the one hand, I feel like I've done nothing, and I got incredibly lucky with two little ones who simply like each other and want to have a relationship with each other. On the other hand, I feel like I spend immense amounts of energy nurturing that relationship. Certainly, teaching them to work together, teaching them to want to make their relationship work, is incredibly important to me.

I've thrown this post around in my head for a long time, and I've been hesitant to put it down on paper. I think most of my hesitation comes from my dislike of how-to's when it comes to parenting. If you know me at all, you know I mostly don't believe in how-to's. Insert X, add Y, out comes Z--there's none of that in parenting. I can't claim, for one moment, that I have sibling relationships figured out. I have one sibling relationship to guide here. One. The more siblings present in a family, the more relationships there are, and the more complex they'll be. And to be honest, I think so much of sibling relationships has to do with chemistry. I think we'd like to think that there is a way to make kids get along. That we can be a certain type of parent, enforce a certain set of values, and we will have kids with a certain type of relationship. And while I do believe there are things we can do that can help--or hinder--what's already there, the truth is, I honestly believe a huge chunk of it isn't up to the parents. Different kids have different personalities. Some personalities mesh better than others. You can't make kids be best friends, or even friends at all. Peregrine is ridiculously extroverted. He will play with anything that talks to him, or even looks at him in a friendly way. He will choose Sylvia's games, if only because she is willing to play them, and he has to have someone to play with. He has an imminently generous nature that made him a natural sibling. He's never wanted to be an only child. He shares easily, and the idea of jealousy is completely foreign to him. He will give up any number of personal comforts just to have a companion. I credit most of my kids' sweet relationship to this element of Peregrine's nature. He's taught this to Sylvia just by being who he is. She is more prone to jealousy, more guarded of her things and her space. She's learned how to share and let things go, simply because that's the example she's always around. It's something I've barely taught, because I haven't had to. Peregrine just is that way. (He told me the other day that God made it his "special power" to love everyone he knows. It's true, friends. It's true. That child is not without his challenges. But his heart is so very open, and it's a gift straight from God.)

She cons him into playing "bed" on a regular basis. Where they lie there and pretend they're in bed.  And he totally buys it. 

So please understand, none of the following is me saying I've figured it out. It's not me saying I know a secret. It's just some things I've learned, through trial and error, as teacher and parent, that can help steer a relationship between two children in the right direction. It's not a how-to guide. It's a set of tools. They're not the only tools, and they're not foolproof. There will always be hiccups and bumps and unpleasant surprises and extenuating circumstances. There will always be personalities, and chemistry, creating a current that you get to swim with, or against, or across. But they're tools I've used, and for the most part, they have been good ones. (And they're not limited to siblings. I use them in my classroom as well as my home, which makes me feel like maybe, they're good tools, since they've been tried on more than one single relationship that is already a decent one.)

The first tool is to commit, from the beginning, to building a community, instead of an individual, mindset, and modeling that mindset, as much as you can, every moment of every day.

When I was pregnant with Sylvia, I wrote a post on being family centered. That idea--that of being "family-centered" instead of either parent- or child-centered, remains one of my core values both as a mother and as a teacher, and it's even more applicable when parenting (or teaching!) involves more than one child. Raising a family, managing children, is about so much more than noticing and responding to each individual's needs. Yes, individuals matter. I delight in my children's individuality. I love watching the ways they develop and grow that are entirely their own. I can't get over my awe and amazement at the ways God created them--each of them--that are like nothing the world has ever seen, or will see. My children's uniqueness is beautiful and wonderful, and I pray every day that I nurture it well.

But we live in a culture that is pretty saturated with the value of individuality, and I've found that this mindset--individuality over all else--leaks into parenting advice and affects the way we relate to kids.  And whether we intend it or not, we're often sending our kids the message that their individual experiences, feelings, ideas, dreams, etc. ought to be their top priority. We believe, as parents, that multi-tasking all those needs and experiences and feelings is our top priority. We tend to feel like we need to apologize, in words or simply in our own guilty feelings, when a child has to sacrifice even a small piece of their individuality, or has to give up anything at all, for the sake of making a community--our family--run smoothly.

In reality though, belonging to a community requires constant sacrifice. It requires constant delaying of gratification, constant handing over of the spotlight to someone else. It requires us to give up wants and needs and dreams, sometimes forever. And most of the time--if the community is healthy and functional--we don't care, and sometimes we don't even notice, because the community holds us and supports us and gives us so much we couldn't achieve for ourselves chasing those wants and needs and dreams alone. This is true of any community, and it's certainly true for a sibling relationship. In my classroom and in my home, I do everything I can to cultivate this community mindset and the expectation of constant giving and taking and living together. I do everything I can to teach my kids that community living comes first, before the pursuit of personal fulfillment and happiness.

I don't apologize for making one of my kids wait while I attend to the other. Sometimes I make executive decisions without asking everyone what their preferences are, because I know what will be best for everyone, even if it's not best for each individual. I expect my kids to compromise with each other, constantly, and I don't feel bad about it. I don't bend over backwards to try to accommodate everyone, even when that leaves someone (or several someones) significantly inconvenienced. If someone is having a hard time, the others are expected to help, not to whine about it. I don't give everyone gifts on every birthday, or try to make everyone feel special on one person's special day. Sometimes only one person wins, or is star of the day, or gets to be my special helper, and everyone else just has to wait their turn. Maybe I'm tough about it sometimes. But most of the time? It's anything but tough. It just is. It's the way we operate. I talk about it like it's normal, because it is. And like it's joyous, because it is. Let's help each other. Let's help the baby learn. Let's put that toy out of reach so that the baby doesn't choke. Let's be patient, because she's still learning that. Let's be quiet, because he's sick and needs to sleep. No, we can't go out today, because babies need more sleep than big kids and today she needs a good nap in her bed. No, he's on my lap now, and he's very sad and needs more lap time, you can have it when he's finished. It's her birthday, let's wrap presents together, I can't wait to see her open these, she'll be so surprised! I've rarely, if ever, lectured about selflessness and compromise and giving up for others. Mostly I just narrate life and set that expectation. And it's something we do, not something I'm telling them they ought to do. We're in this together. I'm giving and taking, too. And kids, always mimics, tend to accept that.

Yes, Peregrine is very community-minded by nature and responds well to this kind of reasoning. But I talk this way with all my classes, and it's amazing how kids naturally fall into a community mindset. It doesn't eliminate selfishness, by any means. But it sets a standard of a different way of thinking. And it sets a culture in which kids are used to giving up what they want. Not that they always want to, or enjoy it. But at least they've had some practice doing it, and they accept it as normal. It may be hard, but it's not unfair. And if you model joy in this, they will follow. I think joy is the key. You can't lecture or shame kids into delighting in community. But you can lead them.

Of course kids' feelings matter. Feelings of jealousy, of being left out--those are real feelings. Of course we ought to be sensitive to them. But sometimes, their feelings are just reflections of ours. Sometimes--most times, in fact, at least when they're small--they react to the expectation we've already set. And here is where I think modeling joy makes a world of difference. Sometimes you're not stuck between validating feelings and belittling them. Sometimes you can simply step in, and steer the feelings in the direction of truth. You can live a different reality and invite children to walk in your footprints. Children--at least small ones--tend to walk in footprints left for them.

When Sylvia was about a year and a half, she started to notice--and be bothered--when I held other babies. Completely normal toddler behavior, albeit something I'd never experienced with Peregrine. But I remember the day it changed. I was waiting outside Peregrine's gym class, and I'd offered to hold the newborn of one of the other waiting moms while she took her toddler to the bathroom. The baby was fussy and unhappy in her carseat, so I picked her up and put her on my shoulder and Sylvia flipped. She panicked and started grabbing at me, trying to push the baby out of the way and reclaim her place on my lap. I could have scolded her for being selfish and moved the baby out of her reach. Or I could have validated her feelings of jealousy and helped her feel like a baby too, giving her extra attention, apologizing non-verbally for letting a baby take her place. But sometimes those aren't the only options. Sometimes, we can just show the world as it is. Sometimes, jealousy isn't needed because a lap isn't the only place you can be loved, and sometimes, mom's heart is plenty big enough for two. So I knelt down, moved into Sylvia's space, put the tiny newborn into the danger zone of her flailing hands, smiled at them both, and said, "Here, let's take care of the baby together. She's sad, let's help her calm down." I bounced the baby, and shushed her, and found her pacifier, and helped Sylvia's tiny hands do the same. All of us had to give something. I had to juggle two babies. Sylvia had to put up with someone smaller taking a space she thinks she owns. Tiny Stranger Baby had to enter a space where she might end up hit and poked, by accident or on purpose (sorry, stranger baby). But it worked. Because we were all giving, we were all cared for. And Sylvia's attitude toward me holding babies made a complete turnaround in that few minutes. She's never expressed jealousy for a baby again. In fact, she will draw my attention to any crying baby in the vicinity, letting me know that baby "needs a little mama time," and trying to get me to hold it and comfort it, and expecting me to allow her to help and share the lap and bounce the baby, too.

Some of that is personality, I'm sure. She's maternal and sensitive by nature. Some of it was simply the stage of development she was in. She probably would have grown out of it. But children are moldable. We don't just manage them, we shape them. Whatever personality or age or quirks our children possess, we still can play some part in who they learn to be, and what realities they learn to embrace. And there is no quicker way to teach them those realities than to model them ourselves. Learning to get along with others begins way before conflict solving skills or how to share or manage your emotions. It starts with learning to recognize others as equals, to learn that their needs and values and desires are just as valid as your own. That doesn't come naturally to children, it has to be taught. And it has to be taught at a deep, organic, fundamental level.

I'll continue posting on this topic as time allows and as thoughts shape themselves. I have a few more practical tips that I think have helped make relationships between children healthy and sustainable and, for the most part, self-motivated and self-led. But this, I think, is where the foundation is, and so this is where I started. I hope it's been helpful. It's been a great source of joy for me in all the little communities I've shepherded, and I hope it can bring greater grace and love to your little communities as well.

Five Years Old

My sweet little boy,

There are not many years left for me to call you that. You've grown up so much, even between last year and this.

I can't believe it's been five years since your whirlwind entrance into the world. Five years since I first held you in my arms. Five years since I knew your name, and your favorite position in my womb, but virtually nothing else about you.

Here at 5, you're a boy now, and really not a baby anymore. You've grown in leaps and bounds this year. You're pretty much out of your toddler funk, and while you still argue my ears off and test all my boundaries, you're so much more mature about things. You listen to reason, most of the time, and you recognize when you're being a punk. You apologize to me and to others without prompting. You want to act grown-up and you want the responsibilities and privileges that come with being a bit more mature.

You thrive on being treated like a big boy, or better yet, like a man. You take the trash out for me whenever it's needed, lugging the huge bag down the stairs and out the garage door and up into the trash can that you can still barely reach. You strut when you do it. You jump at the chance to build things, or use tools, or take some responsibility that marks you as older and capable and trustworthy. You still draw on the walls "by accident" and you still can't remember to flush the toilet and you have a terrible habit of playing with soap in the sink, but give you a big-boy job and you will ace it, every time.

Your questions get bigger and harder every day. You've started talking this year about physical defects and deformities and wondering why God made people with aspects that don't work. You ask about miscarriages and stillbirths and babies who can't survive because of severe birth defects. I didn't think I'd be having these conversations with a preschooler. I don't know what to tell you, sometimes. I thought it would be a long time before you learned I don't have all the answers, before you asked questions that will likely stay with you the rest of your life. Yet, surprisingly, your highly rational mind is okay with the uncertainty. You're okay with hearing that I don't know. You're okay with learning that the limits are tentative and floating, not hard and fast like you need. This boggles me, but I'll take it as the grace of God, and as proof that He is guiding your heart, and is capable of walking you through these difficult places and taking care of your vulnerabilities.

Your faith is so very strong, and so real and alive. You trust in God the way you trust in your dad and me. You don't doubt our love, and you're not very put off by our disapproval. You take forgiveness for granted and weather irritation and anger, secure in the knowledge that we've always loved you and always will. You've never doubted God's personal love for you, and with that, you can accept that sometimes he says no, and sometimes he's unhappy with your choices. You've never seen contradiction there. You listen to passages in the Bible you don't understand, and you laugh, or scowl, and say, "Why did Jesus say that?" And it's never the ones I have an answer for, it's always the ones I was hoping would go over your head. And when I tell you I don't know, you shrug, and write it off as the personal quirks of someone you love and someone who loves you. You don't let it shake your faith. And this floors me. I wish I knew how to trust like that.

You told me recently that God gave you the "special power" of loving everyone you know. Truer words never spoken, P. I've never known anyone whose heart is so open, who is so willing to share and so free of jealousy. You rejoice in others' happiness as if it was your own. You delight in others' birthdays, surprises, and accomplishments. You laugh with glee when I buy a giant bag of Costco string cheese--a bag you'll never touch, but which will make Sylvia so happy. You save the biggest peach for me, always, never mind that you love them almost as much as I do. You do all this without being asked or prompted. You've always been this way, and a part of me has waited for you to grow out of it, to develop the normal territorial tendencies of toddlers, but you never have. The bigger you get, the bigger your heart gets. You have your faults, P, and I'll be the first to admit it, but there's nothing petty or stingy about you at all.

You remain truthful and honest, and with very little shame about being wrong. You still find the need to pick at the fine print of everything I say, all the time. You know all my buttons, and how to wear quietly away at them until I don't know what to do with you anymore. You still need hard and fast limits, and you still disobey for no other reason than to learn where the boundaries are. So much of the parenting advice I see doesn't work for you. It's taken me five years to figure out how different you can be from other children, and I'm sure I'll keep figuring this out for as long as I know you. Sometimes we clash, you and I. My patience irritates you. You don't like second chances, and you don't perceive grace as love. You'd rather be punished and forgiven than to have allowances made for you. You respond better, and are safer and more secure, with your dad's quicker temper and harsher corrections. I don't understand this, and it goes against my nature and against the way most children are. But it's you, P, and it's you I'm raising, not a textbook child. We'll figure this out, and when we don't, we'll love and forgive each other all the same.

You still snuggle up with me every morning, your head on my neck and your legs wrapped around mine. You never were a snuggly baby, and you're never content to sit and snuggle for long--even in your tired morning daze you're wiggling and twisting and kneading me with your giant feet and talking a mile a minute. But I'll take it, P, because it's you. You give your love so generously, even though it comes with dirt and broken things and non-stop conversation. You never hold back. You're so completely okay with allowing others to interrupt your life, and in return, shamelessly interrupt theirs.

You still love strangers as much as you ever have. You'll sit out in our front yard and yell out greetings at mountain bikers. I let you have your space, like I always have, but I'm always listening, and your conversations crack me up. You compare outfits and water bottles and are always a bit confused when the bikers don't stop and talk with you for a long time. You pick up on social cues quickly and you talk to adults in their language. And when they laugh at your tiny little voice saying things like, "You have a great day now!" you're perplexed at why they think it's funny. You make friends easily and will talk to anyone. You have very little tolerance for badly behaved toddlers or kids being mean, but other than that, you'll play with anyone, anywhere, any game. You still adore babies and will put up with anything from them. You're deeply envious of large families and wish you had been born a twin.

You've gotten so much bolder this year. You're still careful and cautious, and you'll only try things you're sure you can do. But your confidence is growing, and you're more ambitious with what you try. You fall more, and let yourself get hurt. You have an element of macho now that you haven't really had before. You don't want to cry when you're hurt, you want to get back up and try it again. You're proud of your scars and bruises and would rather brag about them, and swagger a little, than let yourself be comforted and pitied. This is so new for you, and it makes you seem so much more grown up. Your hands and feet are enormous and you're all sinews and muscles and suntanned skin.

You're starting kindergarten this fall, and you're so very ready. You thrive on the structure and routine of school, and you miss seeing your friends daily. You're already thinking about math on a level way above your years, and you're figuring out reading. You have a hard time producing anything--you won't draw unless it's perfect or unless you have a template. You can trace letters better than any kindergartner I know, but you refuse to write most of them on your own. I can't wait to see you grow this year, to watch your mind expand and to see you burrow into a little social circle of your own. You miss your friends from last year so much. I hope you're able to replace them and more.

I love you so much, my Peregrine. Five years ago, I didn't know what I was in for, or the sheer force of personality about to invade every corner of my life. I can't say I was unprepared to be a parent, or even to be your parent, because I've been parenting, in one way or another, since I was very small. But you've still managed to surprise me. You've taken some confidence, but you've given much more. You're the gift God gave me, five years ago, and I'm so very glad he chose me to have you, and chose you to give to me. I am so very honored to be your mama, and I look forward to growing alongside you, to guiding and training and discovering you, over the next season of our lives together.

Here's to five years down and many, many more to go. Here's to you, my sweet Peregrine, to your loving heart, your sharp mind, your crazy little body, and your pilgriming soul. I've always loved you, and I always will.

My Children: On Shots

My kids are pretty different when it comes to pain tolerance. P hates pain and goes to great lengths to avoid it. But, when he's actually experiencing it, he's pretty stoic. He responds incredibly well to placebos and actually believes me when I tell him that panicking and screaming is probably making it worse. If P ever does something that results in pain, he connects the dots instantly, and never does it again. Sylvia, on the other hand, has really high pain tolerance and frequently doesn't notice when she gets hurt. She often doesn't make the connection between the things she does and the pain that results. If she thinks she's been insulted, however, she wails and wails and won't calm down. If there are several adults in the room when the floor hits her or a wall jumps out and smacks her in the head, she will often go from one to the other, just to wallow in her misery with everyone who might have a sympathetic ear. But it's not actually the pain she minds, it's the audacity of the object, animate or otherwise, that dared to assault her.

This makes getting shots a radically different experience for each child.

18 month shots, Peregrine: I laid my fully trusting, very verbal toddler down on a table and held his hands. A nurse proceeded to insert 3 or 4 needles into his legs. It was a terrible shock, he cried and cried, and experienced little PTSD flashbacks every single time I laid him down to change his diaper for at least the next week. We talked about it, a lot, and explained what shots were and why we need them and how he wouldn't be getting any for a long time. Every time we had to go to the doctor, I always had to tell him we weren't there for a shot. Thankfully, his beloved pediatrician wasn't giving the shots, so no PTSD there.

18 month shots, Sylvia: I laid my wiggling toddler down on a table and held her hands. She instantly resented me for holding her hands and pinning her down. A nurse stuck three or four needles into her legs. She screamed for a few seconds and glared daggers at the nurse. I let her up. She was mad at me for pinning her, but as soon as she was released, life looked a lot better.

2 year shots, Peregrine: For several weeks, we went over the fact that a shot was coming. We talked about immunity and antibodies, and how he only needed one, and how shots actually hurt less as you get older. Peregrine believed me, and let his worry about the shot be drowned by his intense love of his pediatrician. I put P's pacifier in my purse and told him he could have it after the shot. They let me hold him on my lap and he chatted the nurse's ear off as she got everything ready. He watched the needle going in with scientific interest. Then his big blue eyes filled with tears, and his lip started quivering, and he looked at the nurse and said politely but rather brokenheartedly, "You're hurting me!" Fortunately, she was wicked fast and already had the bandaid on. Peregrine lost a bit of trust in nurses, though several months of mom-therapy later, seemed to accept that they had their jobs to do. He got his dee, and was very glad we had brought it.

2 year shots, Sylvia: Sylvia had no idea what a shot was. So I didn't tell her. She felt privileged to be going to see Dr. Elahi, whom she loves solely because Peregrine loves him. As we walked in, I thought she might need some preparation. So I told her she'd get a bandaid because shots make a little owie, and after that, she'd get a sticker. I laid her down on the table and the nurse stuck a needle in her. She was fairly sure that insult was involved there, somewhere, so she started to glare, but then I said, "All done!" She wavered a bit, feeling like she hadn't given the insult the notice it deserved. But if she was all done, she knew what that meant, and so she started in like a broken record while I talked to the nurse: "I get my sticker now? I have my sticker now? I have a sticker? My sticker? Sticker? Sticker?" Then she got a sticker. She still doesn't know what a shot is.

2 year shots, aftermath: Peregrine talks about shots a lot. What they are, why we need them, with science. He's dreaded his kindergarten shots for literally 2 years. He was horrified when he learned they're giving them at the 4 year appointment instead of the 5. He thinks about shots a lot and is already dreading his next ones, which are at least 5 years out.

2 year shots, aftermath: Sylvia asks daily, "When I getting my shot? I still need my shot."

Perfection

It's a fine line we walk sometimes, between being stuck in the mess of everyday and the whirlwind quickness of time. There's a tightrope between they-grow-up-so-fast and oh-my-goodness-will-you-ever-be-able-to-put-your-shoes-on, and that tightrope is parenting. I feel it, all the time. Rarely ever do I just feel stuck in the moment, because I know how fleeting it is, and I know that my babies won't be babies forever; in fact, they won't be babies for very long at all. But rarely ever can I just soak a moment in without looking forward, a little bit, to letting go some of the burden of that moment's stage of life.

The inhaling of a sweet milky baby head comes with hours of bouncing and rocking and waking up at night, and that's something, in the moment, I know I won't miss.

The crazy little toddler-isms and mispronunciations that I cherish also come with tantrums and irrationality and random stuff flung in the sink just because, and that's something I know I won't miss.

I love my babies, and I miss their baby-ness, but I look forward to the years ahead. I look forward to conversations with deeper thoughts behind them, and watching my little ones grow out of being little, and grow into their own identities, that have less and less to do with me. I look forward to friends and growth and new interests. I know that will come at the cost of snuggles and spontaneous baby love and cuteness. But that's the way of life. Growth is good, and is to be welcomed, not dreaded because of what it leaves behind.

But at night, every single night, someone wants me to sing Let It Go as I tuck them into bed. Technically, they take turns choosing a song, but it doesn't matter, because it's always Let it Go. And I sing, and I belt it out with everything in me, because, a.) you can't really sing Let It Go without, well, letting it go, and b.) they don't care how I sing because they think I'm amazing and not even my students have that kind of trust in me. And then they sing it with me, and we're all singing together, and tiny little Sylvia is over there in bed saying that the cold never bothered her anyway, and P is singing about frozen fractals like he knows what it means, which he does because he analyzes the heck out of that song constantly, and we've gone over every line in it and talked about Elsa's life experiences and reasons for doing things and what a frozen fractal is, and then...then, friends, life is perfect, for just a little while.

There are things I will miss about having preschoolers, and things I won't miss. There are moments of joy, and moments of frustration. But singing Let It Go all together? No self consciousness, no embarrassment, no horror that they came from a woman who lets it go when she sings Let It Go? This moment I cherish, because it's nothing but good.

Emmanuel

"My name reminds me of Jesus."

He says it suddenly, like he says everything. Little thoughts and musings pop out of him at random, often after months of mulling and processing, and it almost always happens in the car on the way to school. I'm grateful for those daily commutes, and I hope as the years pass they will still be the stage for his verbal processing and reflections on the world.

I tell him it should remind him of Jesus, and we go over, for the umpteenth time, the meaning of his name, and with it, the blessing for his life. Peregrine, my pilgrim, my truth seeker, my wrestler, my wanderer, my one determined to do things the hard way and learn by experience. Emmanuel, for no matter his journeys and wrestlings and wanderings, God will always be with him.

He's always thought of his name as special, especially because he shares a name with Jesus. Especially during the Advent season, when we sing what he used to call "The Peregrine Kenneth Emmanuel Song" (known to the rest of the world as O Come O Come Emmanuel), he feels the wonder and weight of sharing a name with the baby God, his connection to that mystery and beauty and marvel.

I've said it before, naming the kids felt so deeply important to Andrew and me. I can't even describe it. I don't tend toward the metaphysical, and I believe far more in faithfulness than destiny. But with naming the kids, I felt, always, as though we were speaking something over them--not a prophecy, necessarily, more a simple naming of what was there. A kind of seeing who they were, but also carving a path for them to walk into. And it was so very different, with both of them. I couldn't have predicted it until they were there, heavy in my womb, little beings alive and full of personality, little hearts and souls unique and created by God. And I couldn't know, then, how very true their names would be, and how much they would need the names we gave them. I can't even imagine what it will be like when they are teens and adults, when their personalities are more developed and mature.

He continues, lightheartedly, as usual, throwing weight and meaning and wisdom around, careless, like all children are, with the most valuable things in the world.

"Sometimes, when I'm scared at night, I just say my name, and it helps me."

I'm floored, really, because that's so much of what I want. So much of what I didn't even know I wanted when Andrew and I first chose his name, for an unknown tiny thing we had not yet even seen. So much that goes above and beyond me, and what I want for him. We tell people to remember who they are, and it's good, but it's never enough, unless you remember who God is, too. Those things together, impossible to untangle, for him now.

So say your name, Peregrine. Say it, and remember. Remember who you are. And in doing it, remember who God is. Remember, above all else, that no matter what, He is with you.