Dear Livia,

Someday you might be married and you might have a three year old. In that day, in those moments where you either want to ring her neck or find a noose for yourself, remember that you were once a three year old as well. If you have actually survived to adulthood, know it’s a testimony to the amazing grace of God.

You and I are involved in one of the most trying experiences of my life—tantrums. I never thought you, my sweet and contented little baby, would throw tantrums, ever, in your toddler years. I wish I could acknowledge that I have substantial patience and self-control to guide and discipline you in the midst of the fits you throw. But I do not. Indeed, my lack of patience and self-control is incredibly frustrating. I used to think I was a good person. Now I know it’s not true. (That’s only partially said in jest.)

You tripped at the doctor’s office today.

You spilled over, twisted a bit in front of the large aquarium, and something about that ticked you off in a major way. Immediately your piercing screams filled the waiting room and every adult looked to see a shrieking, writhing, crazy child on the floor. I took you to the women’s restroom, warned you to calm down, then spanked you. It was so not fun, in every way imaginable.

When I take a moment to breath in and out, to let go of my frustration, I focus again on how incredibly precious and smart you are. You bring incredible joy to Daddy and me. You surprise us constantly with your attention to detail, your ability to tell and re-tell stories you’ve heard, your sweet spirit, and your love of laughter. You say the funniest things these days and have quite the circle of imaginary friends who are ready to play at your beck and call. You love going to Sunday School and Children’s Church and you’re constantly asking to play with your real live friends as well.

Livia, you remind me on a daily basis that we’re all diamonds in the rough. Lots of rough edges—on you, me and Daddy – that need smoothing out. We discipline you, then recognize the same rebellious, temper tantrum-producing spirits within our own bodies. We’re your parents, so you must learn to obey us, but we’re the same as you. Fallen, in need of a Savior to rescue us from ourselves. God’s grace is abundant, my dear girl. May you depend on Him, just as we do, as you grow.

Love,
Mommy

I sent a musical birthday card to Charity and Andy recently (“We’re 29” says Charity when asked how old *she* is; cracks me up even though I know she and Andy have back-to-back birthdays) that played the song Word Up. And I can’t help but think of the lyrics as I look at this photo of Livia and her friends…

Wave your hands in the air
Like you don’t care, glide by
The People as they start to look and stare.
Do you dance, do your dance quick
Mama, come on baby, tell me what’s
The Word, ah – word up.

Happy birthday to our big (little) girl!

Right now Liv’s napping, all tuckered out from playing with four other little girls. We’ve eaten chocolate cake and yellow cake, buckets of penne pasta and slices of pepperoni pizza. We’ve licked our fair share of Dum Dums and popped a good number of balloons (both on accident and on purpose). We’ve hugged friends and family and thanked them for partying with us. And now, a normal nap in the midst of a special day.

“I three now! I a big girl,” Liv tells me.

Yes, I tell her, but you’ll always be my baby.

Happy birthday, sweet girl!

In the car somewhere between home and Pine Lake Road, a light went off in her little mind. Liv lifted her arm to her face and declared, “I have hair on my arms.”

And then, “Daddy has hair on his legs.”

Yes and yes. True ‘dat.

Livia: [pointing to Daddy] You’re the king.

Jeremy: Who is Mommy?

Liv: The king.

Jeremy: No, she’s the queen. Who are you?

Liv: Jeff.

Jeremy: You’re Jeff?

Liv: No, I pirate. Arrrrgh!

There are some moments, and many phrases, that awaken one to the startling reality: I am a parent! Gasp! It’s not that you don’t feel like a parent in the moments before uttering those phrases but there’s something powerful about the moment that startles you. You recognize you are no longer the hip, cool individual you believed yourself to be; you are now the authority figure of the household, a decidedly unhip, uncool position by its very nature.

The phrases are easy to think of:
– If you [fill in the blank] ONE MORE TIME, I’ll [insert threat].
– What were you THINKING?
– Don’t put that up your nose.
– If you eat one more bite of peas you can have ice cream for dessert.
Etc, etc, etc.

The moments are a bit tougher to remember, but we experienced one, a very sitcomish one in fact, last night.

Scene: A small backyard at dusk. Father holds a shovel. Mother walks slowly outside, a small parcel in her hands. A young child stands beside a hole in the garden soil, dark dirt forms a small pile next to her. The parcel contains the Departed.

Father: It’s time to bury Goldfish.

Child: Goldfish got died. He sick.

Father: Yes, Goldfish died and it’s time to bury him.

Mother: He was a good fish. [Pulls out a phrase she never thought she’d say…] Rest in peace, Goldfish.

The newspaper-wrapped pet is then lowered into the hole, dirt shoveled on top. The sun sets as the family walks indoors.

RIP, Goldfish. Welcome, Betta. [cue Circle of Life music]

According to my two year old, I look like Jeremy and Jeremy looks like Lavar Burton.

This morning Livia kept asking me, “What that?” as she pointed furiously at my torso. (It’s something she does often and I confess it drives me nuts. “That” could be very nearly ANYTHING.) After I made a few wrong guesses Liv said, “You wearing Daddy’s shirt!” Apparently I need to ditch the t-shirts and try something new because this button-down, collared, purple-striped shirt is too mine, little girl.

And the Lavar Burton thing? Well, praise the Lord my child is color-blind. Lavar sports a lovely goatee, as does Jeremy. They do kind of look alike with their charmingly handsome mugs… LOL.

It’s good to be a parent — to be charmed, enthralled, tickled pink by the smallest thing your child does. I don’t expect anyone else to think Liv biting her cheeks is cute, except for Jeremy of course. It’s also good to share this enormous job with another person… The knowing looks and laughing glances Jeremy and I share over our child draw us together, bind us forever in this crazy-kid love.

**************

My dear, dear girl,

How providential it seemed that I wrote this post in the morning because it was a reminder of how much I truly love you by the end of the day. What a day, what a day, what a day. God seems to shout lessons to me on the fifth day of March and today was no exception. The difference was that I heard a whisper from Him, “I have hidden my Word in your heart…” and that whisper prevented me from going over the edge as I viewed the torn, crumpled pages of my bible all over our living room floor. Was it fun? I wonder, to tear those thin sheets and throw caution (not to mention Romans) to the wind? I imagine the glee you probably felt, even in the midst of guilt, as the shredding and crumpling sounds were made by your small hands. By the grace of God, I disciplined you appropriately. By the grace of God, within due time the pizza delivery girl and your daddy arrived at the doorstep. By the grace of God, Nana and Papa claimed you for the night and allowed me to complete the evening’s duties and embrace a sweet night’s rest. It’s takes a village, my girl. What. a. day.

Love,
Mommy

Livia: Make waters? [A few others words, pause.]

Me: You want to make waters.

Livia: [Smiles and shakes head.] No. Make waters. Hood.

Me: Hood? Like a hat?

Livia: [Smiles and laughs.] Make waters. Hood.

Me: [Now at a total loss.] Neighborhood?

Livia: Yeah!! Watch make waters neighborhood?

Me: You want to watch Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood?

Livia: [beaming] YEAH!

We’re both relieved at our communication for exactly two seconds until I say No and she wails the wail of a toddler who skipped her nap. Darn that Rogers for only being on PBS on weekdays.