On Butterflies, Bras, and Tenth Birthdays

My Birthday Girl :-)

One night many, many years ago, I had just finished feeding a two-month old Sophie and had laid her down on her crib. I turned on our night light and flicked off the main light, then hovered over her crib and stared as she slept, her mouth formed in a charming little o, with her hands high above her head, as if in sweet surrender. Her eyelids fluttered, and I felt an overwhelming surge of love for this new, strange, lovely little creature that I was just getting to know. Impulsively, I swept her back up into my arms, and held her as I sat down on my bed. I held her close to my heart, and with the wisdom of mothers knew that this precious time I had with this baby version of my daughter was to pass quickly, and that I was cherish it. Then and there I promised myself that no matter how tired I was, or how my arms ached, or how much I wanted to sleep, that I would hold her and carry her as much as I could before things changed, before my baby grew too much and changed.

I remembered this moment, and wistfully so, when Sophie and I were driving home in the car with my father early this week. I had been so busy with work even from the week before, and had worked straight through the weekend and right up to the beginning of the new week. My father asked Sophie if she felt bad whenever I was away.

She leaned towards him and said in a clear voice: “Lolo, I love my Mama but we don’t have to always be together. She has her priorities and I have school and things to do.”

“Really now,” my father teased in a low, booming voice. To which she replied, “Yes! Who knows, she might need to go to India –“

“India? Why would I need to go to India?” I asked in amusement.

“I don’t know, maybe for work someday. But you have priorities-"

“You do know you’re my biggest priority, right?” I asked pointedly.

“Yes, Mom,” she said impatiently. “What I’m saying is you have things to do and I have things to do. We can’t be together ALL the time. If we were together all the time, then that would be creepy.”

My father roared with laughter as I giggled, then sighed. Sophie as a practical, no-fuss preteen was becoming more aware of her independence, and was beginning to see herself in terms separate from her parents, from me. She was in the process of changing, and was growing physically, emotionally, and mentally at lightning speed, and it truly was an exciting time for her. And as she sheds old versions of herself and begins her movement to maturity, I cannot help but feel a sense of longing, of loss for what was, for what we have had to say goodbye to, to give her the space to bloom and grow.

Early last year, I broke the news to her that she needed to wear a bra. Armed with the new training bras my supportive mother-in-law had bought, I told her the news in a bright and perky manner. (I believe it was something along the lines of, “Guess what? You now get to wear an ultra cool sports bra! Woohoohoo!”) She laughed in disbelief and insisted I was joking. I became more serious and told her that it was true, that her body was developing and that this was something she needed to do. She took everything in, her face slowly crumpling as she cried. I told her that it was okay to feel awkward, and that it was part of growing up.  But I saw the expression in her eyes and knew that she understood that something precious was to be lost, that she would now need to learn to be more aware and conscious of her body.

“I’m scared,” she told me. “I’m scared of growing up,” she said. I held her in my arms and opened my mouth to say “Don’t be,” but changed my mind. Instead, I said, “It’s okay. It’s okay to be scared.” And after our embrace, she stood up and I helped her wear a bra for the very first time, my heart breaking a little as I silently bid goodbye to the blissfully carefree little girl who never thought of her body, save for figuring out how it might run faster or jump higher.  

In a Sea of Yellow Paper Roses



Happy swimmer

It is ten o’clock in the evening and I am a woman obsessed. I am in the thick of preparations for Sophie’s 7^th birthday, and she has decided to have a dainty tea party at home for a few select friends. Her favorite color is yellow, and I have come to the important decision to fill our humble little house with yellow paper roses. I envision a multitude of paper roses hanging from the ceiling, strewn on the floor, lining our staircase, huge yellow paper roses pinned to her guests’ clothing, fetchingly attached to their hair, placed by the foot of the table, on the couch: just a bounty, no, a truckload, nay, a veritable sea of roses to play around with. I have made fifty and I am tired but determined, amused but angry with myself. All she wanted was a simple tea party with nuggets, iced tea, and caramel cake and here I was, slaving away in my self-made paper rose factory. Fifty is enough, I try to convince myself. I shake my head. Of course it isn’t. I was on a mission and I was not going to stop until our entire house was stuffed to the brim with paper roses, so stuffed that little yellow roses flowed from out of the windows and through the door.

“Wow.” I hear her awed voice behind me as she beholds her yellow paper flower sea. She plops down beside me. “Can I help?” She asks.

I sigh and try to dissuade her. I had already nailed my process down to a T. Remove Japanese paper from plastic. Cut to appropriate size. Put together a few sheets and fold like an accordion. Fold accordion in half and attach floral wire. Twist. Open up accordion again. Toss into pile with others. Once critical mass is reached, approach the pile, open each accordion up one by one, and voila – a new batch of paper flowers is created. With each round my efficiency has increased. Left alone to my devices I would reach 100% efficiency and achieve my goal of drowning the entire house in paper roses in time for the party the following day, I just knew it.