Something tells me that this child will not want for entertainment.

She is ready.

I’m sitting in the rocking chair in which I have carved out much of the past half decade looking over at a slumbering girl in curlers. There used to be a crib in that corner. She looked so tiny in that crib, my little babe. Now her long feet stretch out way beyond the mid-point of her twin bed.

Are mamas ever ready?

I remember when her first tooth started to push up on her gums. I was delighted to see her new tooth, yet so sad to say goodbye to that sweet gummy smile.

Isn’t that the way it is with parenting? At each step there is an exciting new development that leaves a loss in its wake.

How many times have I held her in my arms, looked into her sweet face and said, “Can you just stay like this forever?” And yet I can no more hold onto those moments than I can to the air she twirls through. So I tuck these memories in the folds of my heart.

Wasn’t it yesterday that I was nursing my cooing babe with the bluest eyes or scooping up my giggling one-year-old with outstretched arms? Wasn’t this morning filled with the why’s of wondering two-year-old or the constant testing of independent three-year-old? Didn’t I spend this afternoon in the fairytale spun by a four-year-old?

Who is this girl so long and lean, who can make me lunch and write me love notes? Whose curious theories and painted rainbows color my house. Whose elaborate plans and rosy stories fill my days.

I can hear rise and fall of her breathing. Each sound of her slumber is so familiar, my baby, my girl.

Tomorrow she will push through Mr. Kindergarten’s door. I will be sad to surrender my half-sized shadow, but I will be so proud of my bright, brave girl.

I am a little bird to Mama.

Mama is my little flower.

Happy Mother’s Day.

I like to give you flowers, Mama.

I like tha tyou are kind.

I like to give presents to Mama.

I like Mama becuase she is so special and she is my mother.

She is my little crown of happy birthday stars.

I like it when you play with me.

I like to do paintings with you and I like to make crafts for you, and I like to clean up for you.

I like it when you sing songs to me at bedtime.

I like when you snuggle with me and read me books.

I like it when you give me hugs and kisses.

I like to sing songs to you.

I like when you tuck me in at bedtime.

I thank God for Mama because she made me as her kid.

I thank God for Mama because I love her very special.

I like it when you help me do the garden. I like to plant flowers for you.

I like that you are very special and kind and loving to me.

I LOVE YOU MAMA, AVA

(As it appeared in a card this morning).

So while our four-year-old can crack an egg and whisk it to souffle perfection, she is probably not the partner you would want  for an egg toss.

The other night Hungryman fired up the grill and came into the kitchen to teach Ava how to toss something other than a salad.

“Ava, come outside with me. Let’s play catch.”

Ava bounced off her stool and headed for the door.

“Mama, where’s my bubbles?”

“Ava, honey,” Hungryman repeated. “I want to go outside and play catch with you.”

“Mama, are my bubbles downstairs? Do you know where my bubbles are, Mama?”

I stopped chopping apples to answer the girl hopping by the door. “Ava, Daddy wants to play catch with you.”

“I know.” Ava said with a sigh that comes from the exhaustion of having two parents that clearly don’t have a clue. “I need to find my bubbles so I can blow them and then Daddy can catch them.”

The events unfolded exactly as you would imagine. There was a whole lot of tossing and blowing and not a lot of catching. Neither party had any interest in participating what the other one was planning. By the time the pork was ready our lawn was littered with wiffle balls and bubble wisps.

I signed her up for t-ball today.

I predict there might be some dissapointment when she discovers that the pitcher isn’t a giant bubble dispenser and the bat is something other than a wand.

1. My own gum, and I can decide who gets a piece.

2. Stickers. Lots of stickers.

3. Princess paints.

4. A notebook for my princess paints.

5. Two snow buckets and two snow shovels, one for me and one for you.

6. A printer. {Ava, we already have two printers}. My own printer, so I can print stuff. I’ll write it down. It’s starts with a “P.”

7. Candy canes, and then I can eat them when I want to.

8. Crafts.

9. Polka-dot paper.

10. Books!

11.  And a new pair of pink, sparkle boots from the special boot store.

And if you don’t where the special boot store is, she just might draw you a map.

(The building on the left is our house and the building on the right is the special boot store. All the squiggles are the “take a left,”  “go south” and “turn right” instructions. Hungryman added the compass so that I won’t get lost.)

For over a month now, Ava has been sharing her “secret” plan to stay up all night long when Santa comes. When her Mimi was here for Thanksgiving, Ava explained to her that when Santa comes, she’s going to lock all doors, so that Santa can’t leave. Then she is going to wake everyone up in the whole house so that they will finally see that Santa is real.

Someone has neglected to tell her Santa’s little nose trick.

This week while Ava was acting out the play-by-play of Ava-Meets-Santa in our living room, she realized that she’s not going to be in her house on Christmas Eve. She’s going to be at Mimi’s house. She then asked if we could write this note:

Dear Santa,

I love you very much.

I’m not here. I’m at Mimi’s house.

I’m going to be waiting up all night so I can see you.

I love you, Santa.

Love, Ava

She thinks that if we bake some very special cookies to leave with the note that he will think “that that Ava’s just so special” and will come to her Mimi’s house.

Now, I’m not one to squelch imagination. So mostly I play along as the unbelieving mother, whom she is eager to convert. She’s kind of like a Santa-evangelist.

This was a rather agreeable arrangement, one I thought would dissolve on December 25th when Santa neglected to leave her any gifts.

On Monday morning, she woke up on the wiser side of bed and crawled into mine to snuggle. “Mama, Santa’s not really real, is he?”

“No, Ava, he’s just a fun story.”

“Yeah, he’s a fun story. Like a make-believe, pretend story.”

“Yes. And Ava, sometimes people dress up like Santa and pretend to be Santa.”

“Like a play?”

“Yes, just like a play.”

A few hours later, I dropped her off my newly minted Santa-skeptic at preschool. And in equal span of time, I picked her up again. Yet, this time she was glowing.

“Mama! Santa came here! Santa came and not a pretend Santa, the really really real Santa. And Mrs. Claus too. He gave us candy canes and presents and he was really real. He had a real beard; there wasn’t a string and it was white and curly. And when he laughed, his belly jiggled like a bowlful of jelly! It’s really true.

“How do you know he was really real?

“Cause I asked him and he said wasn’t pretending? And he’s coming to my house on Christmas, so there!”

There you have it.

I surrender. I can’t compete with  a gift-dispensing, jelly-bellied man and his jolly wife.

“Come out, Baby!” Mama cried. You refused. Daddy sighed. Doctor shook her head, cut you out instead. “A….GIRL!” Daddy shouted. “Beautiful!!”

I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive me. This is shameless baby picture posting.

I woke up this morning thinking about this picture. It was as though Saint Lucia herself walked into my room with a tray of warm smiles and sweet baby cheeks.

I’d trade in my scarves for a chance to squeeze those cheeks again.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go find some tissue. There is just too much sweetness in that picture.

Thanksgiving Day Turkey

by Ava:

1. Get it from a turkey store.
2. Stir it on a pot on the stove for 7 minutes.
3. Then in the oven for 8 minutes.
4. Take it out and sprinkle spices and little pepperonis on it.
5. Put it on the table and eat it!

There you go, spicy turkey in 15 minutes.

I’m thankful for your face.

I’m thankful for your name.

I’m thankful for your rosy cheeks.

I’m thankful for your hands.

I’m thankful for your soft, soft arms.

I love you, Mama.

And I’m thankful for everything around you.

***

Hoping that your thanksgiving day is full of lovely people and scrumptious treats.