Happy Birthday, Lizzie Girl!

Lizzie turned three this morning at 4:22am.   It's easy to get caught up in cake recipes, birthday hats, and presents to be sewn, cobbled, and wrapped -- and I'll get back to all of that soon -- but first I want to take a few minutes to reflect on the meaning of the day.  For Lizzie, yes, but also for me.  Three years ago I became a mother.   Two beings were born that day: Lizzie, in life, and me as a mother, forever changed.

Lizzie is here.  And how.  What a kid.   I still remember vividly my pregnancy with her.  I can feel where her little feet were lodged under my starboard ribcage for the last 8 weeks.  I remember how much I loved to sit and rub my belly -- especially in those final weeks -- and feel the weird jagged contours of her head, shoulders, knees.  I sang to her and took her for long walks.  I was pretty sure she was a `he'.  I knew just enough not to try to imagine too much what was in store for us.

I remember the long (long) labor, when I should have been miserable -- and certainly was at times -- but was more so overcome by awe.  I still remember her first cry, just out of the womb, so red and messy and loud and big and perfect.  I remember thinking that Eric was kind of an idiot when he announced she was a girl.  ("He must be confused," I recall thinking.)   I remember her first try at nursing in the recovery room -- she was a natural and knew just what to do.  I remember those first few days in the hospital while I recovered from the ordeal of labor, when she was by far the biggest (and loudest) baby in the ward, when she made her first meconium poops (at her dad's dismay as he pumped her legs the way the nurses had showed us), when I was still so tired I was terrified I'd drop her by mistake.

I remember bringing her home.  It had snowed unseasonably early in Charlottesville, and there was snow on the still-blooming Irises by the front gate.  My mom took care of all of us, and I remember feeling so well cared for,  secure, at peace, and happy.  I remember writing down every time she nursed and needed a diaper change, all in great detail.  She was a fantastic eater and good sleeper, but somehow I decided I needed to write it down so carefully, so that every detail of her early life would be done perfectly, i's dotted and t's crossed.  

I remember the subsequent winter and spring flying by in a haze.  I remember getting back to work, a few hours each morning.  I remember play dates with mommy friends for the first few months, then less and less often as I resumed work.  I remember great pride in how well Lizzie nursed, in how well she slept, and in how neat I could keep the house.  ("This is easy.  And look at how we don't have any plastic toys or primary colors.  Lovely.")  I also recall the mix of pride and dismay as Lizzie began to move -- first rolling on her tummy, then scooting and crawling, and finally walking.  The house got messier; the color schemes more chaotic; the sense of quiet calm replaced by noise, mess, chaos.  But I didn't mind.  Paramount was this amazing little person.  We didn't have `a baby'.  We had Lizzie.    Day after day we got to know her better -- her moods, her sillinesses, her pet peeves.

Before I knew it, I was back to work full time in the Fall, and Lizzie was turning one.  She took her first steps on her birthday, and had her first cake and frosting that day, too.  She was quite a character.   She loved hats and necklaces, and to "read" what we called rip-the-flap books.  She had play dates with Anastasia Cettei, and a host of wonderful part time nannies (Kristen and Maddie, and later Monika and Jacqui).  She started to sign and to talk, and was very good with language.  She had stronger preferences than most toddlers her age, and was perfectly willing to remind us what they were.  She loved Signing Time and, as spring rolled around, popsicles outside and trips to Greenleaf park.   As spring turned to summer, Eric and I prepared for a new baby -- also quite clear in utero to be a boy (and turned out to be Alice) -- who was due in fall.  I worked frenetically both to get my research in order before my due date and to spend as much time with Lizzie as I could before "the baby" (seems strange to think of Alice that way now, but so I did then) came.  

Summer was still blazing its way through September when Lizzie started school -- and loved it -- and Alice was born.  I will never forget Lizzie's face when she met Alice for the first time, the morning after Alice was born.  Lizzie looked up at me with awe and glistening eyes, and said "baby sticker," with a sort of timid joy that melts my heart even now as I look back on it.  The next few months were busy, and hard.  Lizzie rejected me many times, demanding her daddy instead.  Understandable, as I was so often busy nursing Alice or asleep, but absolutely heartbreaking.  On my worst days, I was afraid I'd lost my Lizzie forever.  (No, I hadn't in the least, I'm happy to report.)  Lizzie potty trained eagerly and early and became a fabulous speaker.  She learned to dress herself and pour water from a pitcher.    She became a little ring leader at school,  and enjoyed demonstrating her skills as a yogini to most anyone, anywhere.

The winter was even crazier as I travelled for a potential career move,  somehow managed to land my dream job (well, both of them actually, what a terrible wonderful dilemma), and took it.  We got ready to move.  We spiffed up the house, house hunted for a new place, sold our house and bought a new one the next day, packed our things, got on a plane, took off and landed. We set up our new home over the summer and I went to work real-full time and resumed traveling for seminars and research.   In the fall, Lizzie started at her new school -- also a Montessori -- where she is the very youngest, though more seasoned than her other three-year old peers.

Lizzie has had good days and many bad as we've muddled through her two-ness.  I'd be lying to say it's all been easy.  She can be a real turd sometimes.  She's figured out how to be hurtful, and how to obstruct.  She will sometimes be quite naughty, giving Alice a little shove when she thinks we're not looking.  She has demons, these deep seated fears that come out at night that both make me feel so sorry for her ("Mama, will you stay and rub my back?" "Yes, of course, Lizzie, hush now") and yet lead her to the most awful behavior ("Go AWAY Mama.  Don't come up here.  I need Daddy...." (daddy comes) "Go AWAY Daddy!  I need Mama!"  "Go AWAY, Ginger.  Ginger, come back.  I NEED Ginger!")

But she's also a sweet, sweet soul.  Lizzie still cares immensely about other people and want everyone to be happy (except, perhaps, her parents and occasionally Alice).  She cares what other people think of her, too, which is quite new.  She talks.  Constantly.  And sings, and dances, and demands attention.  "Wook at dis, Mama, Wook at dis!  Wook what I made!  It's a picture of of a cat!  Mama.  Mama!  Wook!!!"  She is very, very smart.  Very good with puzzles, counting, letters, memory, and we think reading.  Last night, reading the book Always (maybe the fifth time ever, and the first time that day): me: "I will tame the sea"... Lizzie "No mama.  I will calm the sea."  (sure enough, she was right...)  "Lizzie, how did you know that?"  Points to the page "Calm the sea, Mama.  it's calm the sea."  Yikes.  Similar stories abound...

Oh, how I love thee, Lizzie girl.  You are quite something.  And though you insist you are NOT a little girl.... and that you are a BIG girl... you are and will always be my baby.  

Happy three-ness, my dear.