Thirty Months

Dear Sofie:

Lately I've been overwhelmed with stories of death. It seems like the mommy blogosphere is overflowing with stories of death - children dying, parents dying. Also, friends of friends dying. It's almost too much for me to deal with. It makes me treasure every second with you, makes me a softer disciplinarian, makes me a little more patient, makes me crawl into bed with you in the middle of the night when I dream that we lose you waiting in line for a picture with Santa. It makes me want to write you a letter.

Today you are two and a half years old. You've got curly uncontrollable hair, big-kid legs, size 8/9 feet, and perfect skin (that you didn't inherit from me). You are still not a great sleeper, but do sleep through the night more often than before. You love to run, and continue to be the kind of kid that will run as far and as fast as possible, regardless of where we are. It's really stressful in parking lots, so I'd like you to stop. You are starting to enjoy playing by yourself for maybe 15 minutes at most, usually with your Mr. Potato Heads or doing some art work.

You still love to talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. You'll talk to anyone, whether or not they're listening. Yesterday at the park you had no problems bragging to a 10 year old boy (who was paying no attention to you) that when you grow up you'd get a soccer ball like him. And a bicycle too. At Second Cup, you also have no problems saying "I want a chocolate croissant, please", and when the teenager behind the counter gives you a plain one by mistake, you easily correct her: "No, I want a chocolate one". I'm pretty sure you rolled your eyes at her too.

While you are not afraid of people, you are somewhat afraid of dragons and spaceships and monsters. Sometimes you ask if dragons are coming or wake up telling me that the spaceships were chasing you. Sometimes during your favourite cartoon, Arthur, there is a dream/fantasy sequence involving aliens or giant gorrillas and it completely freaks you out. It's so funny that you are so fearless in some situations and so terrified in others.

At Easter your Babcia made you her standard treats, and we went to church to have our easter baskets blessed, as per Polish tradition. In your basket, your Babcia placed a baked lamb made out of bread. The problem was that the lamb looked nothing like a lamb. I was pretty sure it was a camel, but you insisted that it was a dog. Your Babcia was pretty upset that we kept calling it the "Easter Dog" that brings chocolate eggs to all the little girls and boys.

In a few days you'll officially be a preschooler. Your dad and I are really excited about it. We think that for the last couple months in the toddler room you've been bored, and your teachers confirmed it. You've been visiting the preschool room for a week now, and you seem to be having such a good time - on Friday you didn't want to go back to toddler, so you spent the whole day with your new preschool friends. I am still a bit on edge about the transition, because when you switched from infant to toddler, you didn't sleep through the night for a few months, but your dad reassures me that you're a much different kid now. I'm not so sure about that.

love,
Mama

Two years and counting

I've started this letter a million times but I just don't know what to write. I feel like everything I write is a disappointment, that I should have some ultimate, wickedly sarcastic, touchingly heartfelt letter, and it's just not coming out the way I want.

Recently you turned two years old. Now, I might be a little bit biased, but I think you're the smartest and cutest little chunky monkey on the planet. You have started to call yourself "chunky monkey", and I suppose I should stop soon because I'm sure it's going to give you some sort of disorder. The truth is that you're not chunky at all, you're 25 lb, the same weight as the 8 month old down the street.

I haven't told you about how you got your name. Your dad and I discussed what to name you for a really long time. I've said before that I was sure you were going to be a boy and that you'd be Gabriel, mostly because I liked the nickname "Gabe". I think I've fallen out of love with that name now. Your middle name was easy, that was my mother's name. Your first name though, took a lot of discussion and thought. It had to work in Filipino and Polish and English. For me, it had to have good nickname capabilities. And as your NYC Aunties would say, it couldn't be a "sissy name". We read websites with lists and lists of names and and through all the female names in our family but couldn't agree on anything. One evening we were watching "I do, Let's eat" on the food network, a reality show that follows a couple through their wedding and reception, with a focus on the food and caterers. The couple was a portugese bride and a greek groom, and when the groom's mom was interviewed, the caption below her said her name was Sophia. I said "Sophia". Your dad said "Sophia" and that was it. We talked about spelling it differently - since in Polish you'd be "Zofia", or more likely "Zosia" - but didn't actually make a decision until after you were born. The day after you were born, someone came by to test your hearing and they were the first people to ask us your name, so they could fill out their paperwork. We looked at each other and said "Uh, Sofia?" and when she asked us to spell it, it came out with an "f". I know that you're probably hoping for a better story than being named after a random lady on tv. If anyone asks I'm OK with you saying that you were named after Sofia Coppola or the capital of Bulgaria.


Barak Obama was elected as the president of the United States yesterday. I wonder what that means to you. I wonder if Change has indeed taken affect, and I wonder how your generation will look back upon his election and his time in office. It's likely that the US will still be Canada's biggest trading partner when you read this, and I wonder how that affects you. I wonder how your generation will look back upon our current economic crisis, and if I will be able to teach you enough smarts not to get a 0% downpayment sub-prime mortgage. I wonder what your personality will be like. Right now you are headstrong and independent, just like I was. I wonder what sports you'll like. Physically you've got a lot of your dad in you, not in facial resemblance necessarily, but more in body shape and definition. You have his strong legs, his narrow shoulders, his feet. You have my hands though, and I have my mom's hands too. I wish you could have met her Sof, you would have been good friends. One day I'll tell you all about her. Or maybe I'll write you a letter.

Love,
Mama

23 months and five days

Dear Sof.

I didn't write a letter for the entire month of September. I think it might be time to put this blog away, as I am no longer really inspired to write, or maybe I'm just too damn tired. Two years later and you still regularly get up in the night. I'm tired, so very tired. I think the last entry will be for your second birthday. So a la FBOFW, let the countdown begin.

I went away for a few days this weekend and when I came back it seemed that you had somehow grown exponentially bigger and were speaking in complex sentences. Even though your dad complains that you are the smallest kid in the class, you are tall enough now to get into trouble that you couldn't before. You can get spoons out of the drawers and express your displeasure with "I don't like this spoon Mommy. Here you go!", and even make a joke, like "Yes, I like yogurt! HAHAHAHAHA!". As food goes, you're generally not a picky kid, except for the cheese and yogurt, but I have to confess. You eat cheese all the time, you just don't know it. We call it "cheddar". You love cheddar bunnies, cheddar muffins, and grilled cheddar sandwiches. You also love the ricotta layer inside a lasagna. I also hide grated parmesan in a lot of your pasta and in risotto. And grated carrots in a lot of other things, but that's to hide it from your dad, not from you.

We signed you up for French classes at daycare, just 30 minutes twice a week. It doesn't cost that much and because you're so verbal we'd figure that we should jump on it. I asked you yesterday if you knew how to sing "Bonjour mes amis" and you said yes, but if I asked you what the quadratic formula was, you'd say yes too, so there's not a lot of weight in your word.


Last night you sat down at my (I guess it's yours now) piano alone and banged on it while singing "Puff the magic dragon". It was one of those moments that I'd like to bottle and save for one of those terrible horrible no good very bad days, or for when you're waking me up in the middle of the night. You were really into it, happily skipping over any words that you forgot. And on skipping, you can now count to 20. One through 12, then 20, no teens. It's foreshadowing for your behaviour, I'm sure. And terrified. You are a little bit obsessed with things with dragons, especially Puff. When "Jackie Paper came no more", Puff looks very sad and you kiss the book to make him better. And in the car I have listened to Puff on repeat - the original by Peter, Paul and Mary - for 40 minutes straight. You don't even like the next song on the CD, Froggie went a courtin', and it's a damn good song.

Other random things:

• you are in love with the 9-year old boy who moved in next door, and their new puppy.
• your whiny protester-limp episodes are apparently only for mommy because you had one at school while I was there and the teachers were all like, "why is she crying like that? She's NEVER like that!"
• although your Polish is not as great as I'd like it to be, there are a few animals that you know have "other names", like frog and heron and bear.
• your hair is just getting long enough for a cut, so I think I will take you for your first one next weekend when Aunties Jenn and Renee come to visit. I hope they bring you a tool set for your birthday because you're really into them.
• the stock market is in the toilet right now and I'm wondering, by the time you read this, how this financial crisis will be remembered. Right now it's being pegged as the worst thing since The Great Depression.
• you still love to dance. your version of dancing is either jumping up and down or just wiggling your butt. Your dad is terrified about the second type and blames your Filipino side. (We do love to party.)
• you have declared an end to cloth diapers, complaining that they're "Too big" and "too hard". It kind of breaks my heart, but yeah they are quite bulky. You also refuse to wear dresses, tights, and jeans. The dress part is what gets me most. I was so ready to get you a little Christmas dress. It kind of makes me yearn for the days when you couldn't speak or do much at all and we'd play dress up all day long, then tell daddy what a hard day we'd had and sorry that there's no dinner, can you please go get us some take-out souvlaki.

Two days ago riding in the car to work, you said "Mommy? Stop talking." Soon, honey.

love,
Mama

22 months less four days

Dear Sofie:
I am not inspired to write lately, but wanted to let you know that the camera is not broken and to show you just how much you've grown and how much of a big personality you have.

Love,
Mama

Twenty-one months, one week and two days

Dear Sofie:
This long weekend was supposed to be the weekend of Ferber:Revisited. Both your dad and I (more I) have become damn tired of the pat-pat-patting of your butt while you go to sleep, and of you waking up in the middle of the night and eventually you ending up in our bed and kicking me in the head. So, this long weekend I had four days off and you're over your jetlag so it seemed the right time to let you cry it out a bit. Now, it was not an easy decision for me to let you cry it out, and I worried about it, anticipated, and was finally in the right emotional and mental state to listen to you cry and cry, asking "Where's Mommy? Where's MOMMY!". All my preparation went to shit though, when during minute 2 of crying it out, I heard a thump and saw your bedroom door open and you walked out crying "mommy, pat!". I was really in shock, as you've never climbed out before, and I was so emotionally ready to listen to you crying. I put you back in the crib and you were able to climb out again in a few seconds, with Dolly in one hand. At this point I gave up and had your dad pat your ass to sleep.

The next night, and every night since then, you've wanted to sleep on the air mattress in the spare bedroom. The one covered with clean but not yet folded laundry. Sara assures me that others (namely her sister) also have such a room, or maybe she just said that so I wouldn't feel like so much of a freak and messy person. Anyway, I suppose you didn't enjoy launching yourself over the crib either, and when we ask you if you want to sleep in your crib (now converted to a daybed by taking one side off) or the "laundry bed", you choose the latter. I took the opportunity to stop patting your butt and I've been folding laundry at the foot of the bed and getting up to put it away. At first I try to make a lot of noise with opening drawers and clanking hangers, just so you know that yes, really I am right in the next room and yes, I'm just putting away laundry. I pop in and out a bit, fold a bit, put things away. Eventually I leave the room and don't come back, even though you're still awake and somehow you fall asleep. All by yourself. No ass patting. It's FABULOUS, and I'm getting so much laundry done at the same time! As an added bonus, you've slept through the night for maybe 4 of 6 of those nights. As a second added bonus, when you woke up around midnight last night and your dad went to check on you, I heard "Daddy! Fold! Laundry!" and, don't tell daddy, but I did a little happy dance while lying in bed, because I've lived with your dad for years and this was the first time he's actually folded laundry. I did find shirts in his sock drawer the next day. Why does he know where to get things like clothes and pots, but not where to put them back?

A side effect of you not being in a crib is your ability to just get up and go where ever you want. This morning I thought I was dreaming when I heard whimpering but I opened my eyes, there you (and Dolly) were, asking for milk at 5:45am. I tried to ignore you but you stuck your face right in mine and said "GET UP! IT'S MILK TIME!", so I rolled over and turned my back to you. I'm kidding, of course.

Love,
Mama

21 months and two days

Dear Sofie:

You, like a million other toddlers, have a strange obsession with Dora. Actually, you seem to think there is only Diego (that's Dora's cousin for the non-parents), because you call Dora "Diego", but you mix up the characters from the shows. I keep trying to tell you that it's DORA who has the backpack (that's knapsack for the Canadians) and DIEGO who has the rescue pack (that's rescue pack for the Canadians) and that the monkey and fox are only on Dora and that the fox is not named "OhMan", but actually "Swiper", but you just don't seem to get it. Anyway, I try not to buy you too many products with licensed characters but for the plane trip to Europe I sucked it up and bought you LOTS of Dora stuff. I'm talking a magnadoodle, an aquadoodle and over 100 stickers of Dora in various outfits. When we got to France, Dora was also everywhere, and you know what? The French think that Dora is - are you ready - FRENCH. When I explained to someone that no, she's actually quite hispanic and like, could you look at her colouring and how she's celebrating Cinco de Mayo in this episode, she said "oh yes, she has a cousin named Diego", and the minute possibility that Dora was in fact not French actually materialized somewhere in the back of her brain, behind the part that thinks it's OK to force feed ducks with a hose for the sake of foie gras.

You are really into my guitar lately, and I've noticed that you enjoy guitar-based music much more than any other (save Raffi, who is still the all knowing and powerful in our CD player). You love "strumming" my guitar with "pickles", and love to listen to Buena Vista Social club. This morning it was just you and me in the car on the way to school and Maggie May by Rod Stewart came on the radio. As a responsible parent and music lover, I went into the speech about how Rod Stewart was mostly evil, especially when he tries to sing "American Classics" or whatever, but there are two songs that are worth knowing, loving, and memorizing. One of them is Maggie May and the other is In My Soul. The rest? Crap. Crap on a stick. But before I could complete my lecture, you yelled out "Guitar! Guitar!" and you're right, the long intro is played on guitar. I was a bit stunned that you could pick out the sound, and my hopes of having a little musical prodigy in the cow-patterned car seat did a little somersault in my head.

Yesterday we went to Ikea to buy a whole bunch of crap (because really, that's all there is to buy at Ikea) and we ran into very pregnant Auntie Cindy, carrying way too many things (including shelving brackets that were two metres long, a pack of cinnamon buns, her purse and a plastic box) while trying to push the button on the machine to "take a number". Long story short, we ended up at Auntie Cindy and Uncle Keith's house for dinner. You've taken to calling Auntie Cindy just "Cindy" and Uncle Keith just "Uncle Cindy" and its damn hilarious and to be honest Daddy and I aren't correcting you because it's so freaking funny. You used to be quite afraid of Uncle Cindy, and he'd have to bribe you with fruity puffs or some other treat to get you to come near him. But last night you were soooo in love with Uncle Cindy, he could barely go to the washroom without you freaking out and asking where he had gone. I'm glad because I really like Auntie Cindy and Uncle Cindy and now that they're having a Baby Cindy (or Keith, I dunno if it's a boy or girl) then you'll have someone to play with. Cindy and I are strangely linked - we had very different, yet very similar upbringings and we seem to implicitly understand each other. I mean, sure there are times that I want to kill her, as I'm sure she does me, but for the most part we're very good friends. It's hard to find friends like that Sof, they are few and far between. I hope you're able to find a few too.

love,
Mama

p.s. the camera is still broken, so these pictures are a bit old. You're eating a tomato whole, because you love tomatoes and because you've decided that you want to eat all your fruit whole and have a tantrum if your fruit is cut up. The same for muffins, as your poor Babcia found out when you went mental on her for cutting up the muffins she made for you. You're only allowed to eat fruit whole outside because of the sticky trail that you leave behind, not to mention the skin that you like to leave behind while shooting me a look of disgust and wondering how I could possibly even think about serving you fruit with skin.

21 months less one week

Dear Sofie:
I've been up since 4 am with you and your jet lag so you'll understand if this entry rambles a bit. France and Poland were lots of fun, I'll try to go over the highlights

• Our flight out was delayed 5 hours. About 3.2 seconds after we got on the plane you said "All done! Go now!" and tried to walk off the plane. However, since it was 11pm it didn't take too much for you to pass out, and you stayed that way for most of the flight.
• Normandy was lovely, as always. The great French-Norwegian/Canadian-Polish-Filipino toy stroller war between you and Ella was ultimately won by no one, and there were very cute times when you two actually got along and worked together to pretend to wash dishes and break a playpen and to hide in the red currant bushes, scarfing down as many as you could possibly shove into your little mouths.
• It's widely known that you refuse to eat bread and cheese, but in France you actually ate bread, and even asked for it. Your dad and I were stunned. This didn't carry over into Poland.
  
• You loved looking at the horse and donkeys but were terrified of the chickens, who were equally if not more terrified of you.
• Ella's birthday party was unlike any other two year old's birthday party I've ever been to, although admittedly I haven't been to many. It began around 4pm with the most amazing raspberry and cream cake I've ever tasted, and I don't even like raspberries or cream. Then the kids played a fishing game with little rods in the sandbox. You were the youngest and showed no interest in the game and also didn't seem to understand the concept of unwrapping the little prize attached to the plastic fish that you (and your dad) caught. The adults then played several games. I was the captain of the team named "Les camemberts", and although we did not win the "name the country in which these 20 photos were taken" game, we did do well on the "identify various types of wine" game, no thanks to me. Norway beat out Canada in the smoked salmon contest, but I am fairly certain that it's because they don't have sockeye salmon in France, and clearly the mostly French judges' palates were not sophisticated enough to appreciate it. Then there was lots of food. I gave up and went to bed at around 2am, when you woke up, but your dad stayed up until 4:30. Apparently this would've been the correct time to start making French Onion Soup. "It's not a starter!" Sabine will yell, explaining that it's only made between 4 and 7 am, when the party is ending but no one is leaving and they need something to carry them over until it's appropriate to eat croissants.
  
• I desperately wanted to buy you a Corolle doll and was devestated in the toy store when I read that they were all made in China, except for the one that had a badly made sticker over the "Made in China" that said "Made in Spain". I sucked it up and purchased one anyway, and Sabine bought her a little overall outfit, since you wear overalls all the time.
  
• Krakow was fun and it was so nice to see Ciocia (Aunt) Erin again! You seemed to miss Auntie Cindy though, because at first you insisted on calling Erin "Cindy" and kept asking where Keith was. You enjoyed chasing her cats (while saying "cat cat cat cat") and frequently asking me who the cats were, even though you knew their names. Ciocia Erin lives again in a crazy land of open concept stairs and had a temporary "gate" set up (read: collapsed cardboard box wedged against the stairs) that bothered the cats greatly. The stairs are the ultimate Out Tonight stairs and I took a picture but don't have them because I had to use Ciocia Erin's camera, as mine refuses to work.
• This visit was the first time your dad has seen his hometown since he left in 1991. I would like to think that it was somewhat emotional, especially he remembers communist Poland and returned to an European Union Poland, but your dad being all Eastern European, I'm not really sure. He was very excited after seeing an old neighbour that he grew up with, and was brave enough to walk up to the door of his very best friend to find that his parents still lived in the same apartment and was able to leave our contact information.
  
• I don't even know how to lead in this point, but at a rustic (think picnic tables) restaurant, the bread arrived with a little pot of what I thought was sour cream (I think it was cheese) and a little pot of what I thought was roasted garlic spread. It was beigeish with dark beige chunks. Upon closer inpsection it turned out to be - are you ready - lard. Yes, with chunks of fat still whole. And yes I tried it - twice because I tell you that you need to give everything at least 2 tastes - but chased it down with lots of beer. Your dad's pierogi plate came with dollops of lard on top. Ew.
• For only three full days in Poland, we bought a LOT. I finally got a cutlery set, as your dad forbade (well, not really, but strongly discouraged) that we buy a set until we were in Poland. I suspect he said this thinking that we'd never go to there, and man is he eating his words now. With a really nice fork. We also got a table cloth, various bottles of mead (honey wine), a stein for daddy, lots of books in Polish for you, including Anne of Green Gables because it just seemed right that you should have it, and I got a little giddy flipping through the book and reading words like "Diana Barry".
  
• Our marathon trip back to Canada involved an 8am flight from Krakow to Paris, then a 5 hour layover, then an 8 hour flight back to Toronto. In the airport we walked past someone who looked familiar and the conversation went something like this:
  
• mommy: "That guy looks familiar. I bet he works with me."
• daddy: "You loser, that's Rick Hillier"
• mommy: "No!"
• daddy: "Yes."
• We were both pretty star struck at the sight of him, and after I whacked him with my knapsack getting on the little shuttle to our plane we found ourselves sitting next to his wife. You kicked her in your sleep with your dirty little socks. Walking to the customs area, your dad and I were a little too overflowing with awe-ness, being thankful that we didn't sit next to Rick himself, wondering how you'd start a conversation with him: "So, you, uh, like tanks?" and "You look taller on TV". We also wondered whether or not Rick got his own line in the customs area. Like, one line for Canadian citizens, one line for the bilingual agent and one line for freaking RICK HILLIER. We imagined that the conversation with the customs agent would go something like:
  
• Agent: "And what was the purpose of your trip?"
• General Brigadoon His Royal Highness J.C. Hillier: "None of your fucking business."
• Agent: "OK, come on in with all the tobacco and alcohol you want.
  Not that he's a bad person and would swear like that, but you know, just because he's freaking Rick Hillier. When we got off the plane they did another passport check and we didn't see Rick after that, which is good because I probably would've whacked him with my luggage while chasing my suitcase around the stupid carousel.

I think that's all for now, Peanut. Little things are coming back to me and I'll try to add them. Overall it was a really great trip and I'm glad we did it.

love,
Mama