First Day of School!

Dear Scarlett,

You started preschool yesterday. We've chosen to send you to an Italian immersion program across town. I was a little nervous about getting there on time, and more than a little excited to see how you would handle your first day. We got there in plenty of time to take pictures, some with your new friend Leon. Then you got comfortable in the classroom, helped yourself to some breakfast, and had a blast in the sandbox. You took the language in stride, using some of your Italian words and asking us when you didn't understand something. "What is the teacher saying?" you asked at one point, when she wanted you to clean up your cereal bowl.

When it was time for parents to leave, we sang a goodbye song together, and off you went on your adventure. You seemed unfazed that I was leaving (Dad had already left at that point), and equally unfazed when I returned to pick you up. You were full of stories, and told me that you loved one of the teachers (the one with the guitar, surprise surprise). I'm so glad it was a good experience! Dad and I couldn't be more proud of you.

Love,
Mom

Cocoons

You, then:

Now:

Jack is Here!

Dear Scarlett,
On July 27 at 11:09pm, your cousin Jack Theodore was born. I know this for a fact, because I was there, at the foot of the bed, watching him arrive. It was an unbelievable experience to attend a birth, and though my role was so obviously different from the one I played the day you were born, it all felt connected. To have had a baby, and then to watch someone you love have a baby, is like finally hearing the complete version of a great story. I knew what I knew, and now I know more. And it may sound false, but it was much harder to watch your Aunt Lizzie be in pain than it was to go through pain myself. Or maybe it just seems that way because of the distance between me and my own labor.

Jack did not make it easy for Liz. I think this is because he saw very little compelling reason to leave his comfortable existence. He didn't yet know that we were waiting for him, that his room is full of stuffed animals, that he has a dog. These are things worth coming out for. And Liz worked so hard to bring him into the world. When she did, his big eyes were wide open, looking at all of us. He looked just like Uncle Rob, and Dad says that this is so Uncle Rob wouldn't eat him. We can talk about that later.

Jack is now three days old and he is starting to look more like his own person. He has insanely chubby cheeks, dark hair, and--your favorite part--a cord. "Baby Jack has a cord!" you announce multiple times a day. When you first got a glimpse of it, you told us poop was coming out of his belly button. You were amazed that such a thing would be possible, and wanted more than just a quick look. Once we explained what was going on, you were no less amazed, and it has now gone into your file of all things Jack. Other things in the file: "Jack cried and cried." "Jack does not like to be naked." I should mention for posterity that Jack does not cry very much at all, but you were witness to a diaper change that made him angry.

You like to hold Jack and sing to him, and you've been very gentle and loving. When Liz asked you who his mommy was, you went silent with the sheer weirdness of the question. You still think that the creature we called Spud is in Liz's belly. But you do understand that Jack lives with Liz and Rob and Rigby, so it will just be a matter of time before the other pertinent details fall into place. For now, we are all just enjoying the world with Jack in it. It's a happy, happy place.

Love,
Mom

Santa Barbara

You, Lately

Dear Scarlett,
Recently at breakfast, you've been asking me "Mommy, what you are eating, Mommy?" Sometimes later in the day, you say, "Mommy, what you are doing, Mommy?" I'm reading, I'll explain, or I'm making your lunch, or I'm trying to ignore you as you yell at me from 3 rooms away that you NEED an eye pillow while you're taking a nap. You don't use it to cover your eyes, in case you were curious. You just like to hold it.

We started our Italian classes today. For two hours each week, you and Dad and I will drive to North Beach and attend what is basically a preschool class with a small group of other kids and their parents. When the teacher introduced us all, she told the group that I speak a little bit of Italian. This was, how shall I put it...generous. Basically, I know none. But I'm working on it. By the end of class today, I knew the names of many animals, and I also knew how to say Be Careful (Attenta), Be Gentle (Gentile), and Hey, stop kicking that tunnel when other kids are in it (which I said only in English).

After two years of no television for you, Dad and I have relaxed a bit, and you now watch a few short videos a day on YouTube. Your favorites are The Skeleton Dance ("Bones are not scary!" you tell us) and Otter Swim Lesson, which was originally sent to us by Nana and is now an obsession. You like to narrate this one: "The otter doesn't want to go in the water! But Mommy says you have to swim! Then he dries off. Then he has to take a nap. Look, he's peeking out!"

On the actual TV, you and Dad have been checking out some sports: the US Open Golf tournament (which you referred to as "Holes"), the Tour de France (you spent time hunting for the polka dot jersey), and the run-up to this summer's Olympics, which begin in a few weeks.

The other thing that will be happening in the new few weeks is the arrival of your cousin, currently known as Spud. "Spud, come out soon!" you like to say. I think Aunt Shishie agrees with you, but everyone has to just hold their horses until we get back from our vacation next week.

After that, game on. Gentile.

Love, Mom

Playing by your own rules

Dear Scarlett,

You are emptying a bag of crackers onto the living room rug, which has just been vacuumed. When all of the crackers are on the floor and have been sufficiently spread around, I start to clean them up so we can go to the grocery store. At first, I tell you to help, but then I decide that the most I can hope for is that you will stop stepping on the crackers and mashing them into the rug even further.

After several attempts to get you to stop, I say, "Do not step on the crackers. If you step on them one more time, you're going to your room."

You smirk at me and take a giant step into the biggest pile.

"Get out," I tell you. "Go to your room. Right now."

You run off gleefully, shouting, "I'm going to have a time out!!"

Dad and I are in the process of rethinking your punishments, since time out doesn't seem to be having the desired effect. I'll let you know what we come up with.

On the plus side, you crack me up every day. Yesterday you asked a 10-year-old if she wanted to "hang out" at the aquarium. This was after introducing yourself by saying "Hey, this is Scarlett."

In tumbling class this week, when the rest of us were stretching in a circle, you got right into the center and started singing a song Nonnie taught you. "My poor hand is shaking, I cannot make it stop!" you chanted.

In swim class, you wriggle away from me as soon as you can and swim all by yourself. You can get across the pool now, coming up for air whenever you want, and often yelling something in the seconds before you go back under. "I'm having!" you yelled when we were at a pool in Palo Alto with Nonnie last weekend. And then, "Fun!" the next time you surfaced.

It pains me that I don't write you more letters, because every day there is something to record. But I am busy living life with you, rather than writing it down. I try to keep notes, and some of the things you say are so unforgettable, but I still know that I'm missing things. It's ok, I think. I want to just enjoy this time with you: the way you sometimes come up and kiss my leg in the kitchen, or lean against me and say "HUG." The way you ask me to hold your hand, which is really more of a demand, "Mommy will hold your hand," but it makes me smile. The way that you kiss Dad on both of his cheeks every morning before asking "How was your day, Daddy?"

You are a feisty, independent little girl, and unbelievably sweet. Your naughty behavior, which includes enjoying your time outs, is simply another way to mess with us, something you and probably every other toddler in the world have mastered. But I know that when you run away from me and I say "Ok, I'm leaving, see you later," you will immediately run back towards me yelling, "I want to go with you!"

Same here.

Love,
Mom

Smokey Goulding (1991-2012)

Dear Scarlett,
On May 11, we said goodbye to our dear cat Smokey. Smokey was a beautiful, 21-year-old Russian Blue with a feisty attitude and a penchant for eating human food. He often stalked around and under your high chair waiting for a stray garbanzo bean or some macaroni and cheese to roll his way. He did not ever wait long.

I first met Smokey in June of 2005 when I started dating Dad. They used to play a game where Dad would bounce Smokey in his arms, and then toss him in the air over the bed. When Smokey landed, he nuzzled right up to Dad to tell him he wanted to keep playing. Now Dad plays a similar game with you, but when you want more, you just yell "More bouncing again right now please!"

While we were living in New York, Smokey was diagnosed with kidney and thyroid diseases, and we had to put him on several medications. Despite this, he usually acted like a kitten, full of energy and very affectionate.

Smokey lived in Chicago, Boston, New York and San Francisco. He was a very worldly cat, whose favorite things included sitting on Dad's lap every evening, galloping down the hall at odd hours, ice cream, and Emma. And then sometimes not Emma. Smokey was a bit of an enigma. His opinion of you can best be described as dubious. As you will recall from earlier letters, you pulled his fur, grabbed him by his back legs, and generally tormented him with all of your "love." But to his credit, he didn't hold this against you much of the time. When you were very small, he would sit with us in the rocking chair while you nursed. And recently, he even started approaching you while you were reading on our bed. But if you turned too quickly or expressed too much interest in him, he was out of there. He just wanted to watch you.

The day we said goodbye to Smokey, we also said goodbye to your baby monitors. You announced that the one in your room was "scary" and that although the other one was "nice," you wanted neither of them around you. I asked you why one was scary and you said "Because it watches you." I can see how that would be somewhat discomforting, so we took the monitors away. But then it turned out you weren't really scared of them, you just wanted to hold them and talk about them all the time. After two weeks of the monitors being your constant companions ("the monitors are your friends" is a sentence that came out of your mouth more than once), I finally had to tell you that we gave them away to a family with a small baby.

Of Smokey, you sometimes say "Smokey went with the doctor. But he's coming back soon." And when I tell you Smokey is not coming back, you say "Oh yeah." And then you ask for your monitors.

The last thing you said to Smokey was "Hey Smokey, you good cat, you." He was a good cat. It's hard to believe he's gone.

Love,
Mom