Oh My Heavens! Seven!
Dear Audyn,
It's February 18. Your birthday was over two weeks ago! Kiddo, I owe you a letter. To explain, we've all been sick, except for Daddy. It took a little while for us to figure out what we had but hardly any time at all to feel better. Your initial declaration you weren't feeling well was characteristically understated. You felt you needed to stay home because your throat and tummy hurt and your nose was stuffy. When I asked if you wanted Ibprofen, you weren't sure. "I'm fine," you said and went back to bed. We hardly heard from you those few days. You played in your room, read in your bed, ran around with your sister and brother who were also home sick. Every time I asked you how you felt, you'd pause, tilt your head to the side to self-assess, and give a little Audyn grin. "Still not good," you'd reply in a way that made me think you were strangely satisfied by the fact. You never wanted to take so much as a throat lozenge to soothe your aches. A few times, I felt sure you were tricking me and should go to school. I finally sent you back last Thursday--with strep throat. I heard plenty of details from your older sister about how she was feeling and plenty of whining from your younger brother to deduce how he was feeling. But you I wasn't sure about. My mystery girl. Sometimes we get so little information from you.
You are my quiet sidler. One minute there's no one near. I'm moving around the kitchen doing my thing. The next, I have a little dark-haired pip at my elbow. It can take you a while to ask a question or share a thought. You might shadow me a minute or two, ask what I'm making. Then (the characteristic pause), "Mommy? I have a question." It's how you start nearly every conversation with us. "Emelyn? I have a question." "Daddy? I have a question." And then you wait for one of us to reply, "What's your question, Audyn?" Unless we ask, you won't go on.
You had your first official big kid birthday party this year. In the past, you've only asked Grammy and Papa to your birthday celebrations. This year we sent invitations to six friends. We planned the party with a dinosaur theme (your favorite animal). Daddy made a dinosaur cake, Mommy planned a dinosaur game. You asked your friends to bring their snow gear to play outside. At the appointed time, guests began spinning their wheels up our snowy driveway. It took everyone a little longer to get to the house because of the fresh snow. Once they all arrived, there was none of the ordinary birthday party running around or hooting and hollering. It was a quiet affair. Even by the time we got to the game where everyone had to "hatch baby dinosaurs out of eggs" (figure out how to pop a roomful of white balloons out of which sprung miniature colored dinosaurs and confetti), it was still relatively quiet. A steady beat of dinosaur-themed music, some giggles, a request or two for help, and the loud snap and wheeze of deflation made for strangely calm balloon-popping fun. At the table, girls quietly chatted while they spooned green frosted cake into their mouths. At gift opening time, everyone circled around you and politely watched: a stuffed dinosaur, a Playmobil dinosaur set, Legos, a bead kit and a handful of other gifts. Afterwards, you all played together on the living room floor. I couldn't help but peak in a time or two to make sure everyone was OK. You were all perfectly content.
As the middle child, you're often the peace maker in our family. You love your brother and sister and often work to appease their moments of discontent. You like to lend a hand when you sense I'm overwhelmed. I've noticed you stepping into the big sister role more and more this past year--playing the things Kaleb likes to play, allowing him to climb all over you, forgiving him quickly when he gets too rough, and teaching him so many things. You let him help you pick out your clothes, you climb in his bed to read with him, you teach him about dinosaurs and show him how to put Lincoln Logs together. I'm always struck by your patience with him, your kindness. After all, he can be a pesky little brother; it would be easy to dismiss him or to insist on playing your way. Sometimes you do. But often--very often--you don't.
You also make an excellent playmate for Emelyn. The two of you play for hours in your bedroom, weaving imaginary worlds out of Calico Critters, miniature dinosaurs, American Girl dolls, a play dairy farm, and more. It's not unusual for me to find stashes of recyclables under your bed. "No, Mom!" you protest. "Those are for my robot costume" or "Emelyn and I are making a telescope." To me it looks like a lot of clutter. To you it's a landscape of possibility.
Your first love is most definitely dinosaurs. This year you've taken a new interest in learning all the different kinds; I never thought I would know as much about dinosaurs as I do now and you're right, they are interesting and different and as you've reminded me, "They can't hurt people because they're extinct." Dinosaurs fit into your larger passion for animals. You won't watch movies where animals get mistreated, not even in cartoon form.When we pray together at night, you ask God to protect animals. When you dream of your future, you plan the farm you'll some day own. You've already told me I can come live with you there, help you take care of the animals, and write when I'm not working for you. I can't think of a better way to retire than that!
At school you are quiet and hardworking. You try very hard to be a good friend. Even in your third year of school, you express a yearning to be home with Mom. There are belly aches that pop up Sunday nights and Monday mornings. There are tears at the prospect of a full week of ahead. I do believe you enjoy school; you love learning. And most days, you come bounding to the car with a wide grin.
"How was your day?" I'll ask.
"Great," you'll reply.
But I see myself at your age when you report that someone has been mistreated and it made your heart sad or that you're worried a grown up will think you've done something wrong when you haven't. "Then everyone looks at me," you say. "They think I'm terrible." You carry those hurts a long time. Your memory of them is even longer. And it stacks up. You don't like direct attention or loud notice. Your feelings bruise easily. You turn those round doe eyes with dark lashes on me and there is hurt in there. I tilt my head and give an encouraging smile. It's OK, I try to say with my eyes. It wasn't meant. You might be easily hurt, but you are also quick to forgive. It's as if you've been longing to do it when I apologize. You throw her arms around my neck, and rest your head against my cheek, tuck it under my chin. "It's okay, Mommy, I forgive you." Every time you say every word of it. No half-hearted mumble. No long standing grudge.
You try to protect the ones you love. I worry sometimes--you don't complain about the hurt feelings or the things that make you afraid. From time to time fears or old wounds surface in surprising outbursts that catch us off guard. I look for clues. I gently ask. I wait. To see. If the truth will surface.
We have good talks at night. This week has challenged you and tonight we took some good advice from Grammy. You wrote down the things that worry you the most and then we crumpled them up and threw them away. "You give those things to God," Grammy said over the phone. "You let them go." We prayed. And you settled in to sleep. I watched you take that little ritual to heart. I told you the story of two little girls just like you who were afraid of the same things you are when they were seven (and we turned out okay!). It's natural to feel scared. It's normal to worry. But you can't hold on to it forever. Fear is the thief that steals joy.
Before you drift to sleep each night, you need to be kissed and hugged by each of us. Then you must give out kisses and hugs. The two are completely separate moments in your mind. If you feel you haven't hugged Daddy and me back, you demand we return. "You didn't kiss us goodnight!" you and Emelyn often claim. Even though we did, not 30 seconds ago. Still, I must go marching back and receive your hug or repeat a goodnight kiss, or our peace maker becomes a peace breaker.
Audyn, you are a joy. A few months ago, you wrote a short narrative at school. Your teacher still has it so I can't quite remember the exact wording. But it said something like this: "When my brother Kaleb was born, we didn't know what it would be like. But he is the best brother ever. He makes us laugh every day. He makes our family better."
Dear Audyn,
When you were born I didn't know exactly who you would be. But you are the most wonderful daughter. You make me laugh every day. You are perfectly silly and incredibly kind. Your smile lights up a room. Your sweet, sensitive spirit fills our house with so much love. Your spunk and feisty determination make us proud. Your imagination expands our view of the world. You make our family better. Every day. Happy seventh birthday, Little Pip.
It's February 18. Your birthday was over two weeks ago! Kiddo, I owe you a letter. To explain, we've all been sick, except for Daddy. It took a little while for us to figure out what we had but hardly any time at all to feel better. Your initial declaration you weren't feeling well was characteristically understated. You felt you needed to stay home because your throat and tummy hurt and your nose was stuffy. When I asked if you wanted Ibprofen, you weren't sure. "I'm fine," you said and went back to bed. We hardly heard from you those few days. You played in your room, read in your bed, ran around with your sister and brother who were also home sick. Every time I asked you how you felt, you'd pause, tilt your head to the side to self-assess, and give a little Audyn grin. "Still not good," you'd reply in a way that made me think you were strangely satisfied by the fact. You never wanted to take so much as a throat lozenge to soothe your aches. A few times, I felt sure you were tricking me and should go to school. I finally sent you back last Thursday--with strep throat. I heard plenty of details from your older sister about how she was feeling and plenty of whining from your younger brother to deduce how he was feeling. But you I wasn't sure about. My mystery girl. Sometimes we get so little information from you.
 |
| 3rd birthday |
You had your first official big kid birthday party this year. In the past, you've only asked Grammy and Papa to your birthday celebrations. This year we sent invitations to six friends. We planned the party with a dinosaur theme (your favorite animal). Daddy made a dinosaur cake, Mommy planned a dinosaur game. You asked your friends to bring their snow gear to play outside. At the appointed time, guests began spinning their wheels up our snowy driveway. It took everyone a little longer to get to the house because of the fresh snow. Once they all arrived, there was none of the ordinary birthday party running around or hooting and hollering. It was a quiet affair. Even by the time we got to the game where everyone had to "hatch baby dinosaurs out of eggs" (figure out how to pop a roomful of white balloons out of which sprung miniature colored dinosaurs and confetti), it was still relatively quiet. A steady beat of dinosaur-themed music, some giggles, a request or two for help, and the loud snap and wheeze of deflation made for strangely calm balloon-popping fun. At the table, girls quietly chatted while they spooned green frosted cake into their mouths. At gift opening time, everyone circled around you and politely watched: a stuffed dinosaur, a Playmobil dinosaur set, Legos, a bead kit and a handful of other gifts. Afterwards, you all played together on the living room floor. I couldn't help but peak in a time or two to make sure everyone was OK. You were all perfectly content.
As the middle child, you're often the peace maker in our family. You love your brother and sister and often work to appease their moments of discontent. You like to lend a hand when you sense I'm overwhelmed. I've noticed you stepping into the big sister role more and more this past year--playing the things Kaleb likes to play, allowing him to climb all over you, forgiving him quickly when he gets too rough, and teaching him so many things. You let him help you pick out your clothes, you climb in his bed to read with him, you teach him about dinosaurs and show him how to put Lincoln Logs together. I'm always struck by your patience with him, your kindness. After all, he can be a pesky little brother; it would be easy to dismiss him or to insist on playing your way. Sometimes you do. But often--very often--you don't.
You also make an excellent playmate for Emelyn. The two of you play for hours in your bedroom, weaving imaginary worlds out of Calico Critters, miniature dinosaurs, American Girl dolls, a play dairy farm, and more. It's not unusual for me to find stashes of recyclables under your bed. "No, Mom!" you protest. "Those are for my robot costume" or "Emelyn and I are making a telescope." To me it looks like a lot of clutter. To you it's a landscape of possibility.Your first love is most definitely dinosaurs. This year you've taken a new interest in learning all the different kinds; I never thought I would know as much about dinosaurs as I do now and you're right, they are interesting and different and as you've reminded me, "They can't hurt people because they're extinct." Dinosaurs fit into your larger passion for animals. You won't watch movies where animals get mistreated, not even in cartoon form.When we pray together at night, you ask God to protect animals. When you dream of your future, you plan the farm you'll some day own. You've already told me I can come live with you there, help you take care of the animals, and write when I'm not working for you. I can't think of a better way to retire than that!
At school you are quiet and hardworking. You try very hard to be a good friend. Even in your third year of school, you express a yearning to be home with Mom. There are belly aches that pop up Sunday nights and Monday mornings. There are tears at the prospect of a full week of ahead. I do believe you enjoy school; you love learning. And most days, you come bounding to the car with a wide grin.
"How was your day?" I'll ask.
"Great," you'll reply.
 |
| the don't-look-at-me face |
You try to protect the ones you love. I worry sometimes--you don't complain about the hurt feelings or the things that make you afraid. From time to time fears or old wounds surface in surprising outbursts that catch us off guard. I look for clues. I gently ask. I wait. To see. If the truth will surface.
We have good talks at night. This week has challenged you and tonight we took some good advice from Grammy. You wrote down the things that worry you the most and then we crumpled them up and threw them away. "You give those things to God," Grammy said over the phone. "You let them go." We prayed. And you settled in to sleep. I watched you take that little ritual to heart. I told you the story of two little girls just like you who were afraid of the same things you are when they were seven (and we turned out okay!). It's natural to feel scared. It's normal to worry. But you can't hold on to it forever. Fear is the thief that steals joy.
Before you drift to sleep each night, you need to be kissed and hugged by each of us. Then you must give out kisses and hugs. The two are completely separate moments in your mind. If you feel you haven't hugged Daddy and me back, you demand we return. "You didn't kiss us goodnight!" you and Emelyn often claim. Even though we did, not 30 seconds ago. Still, I must go marching back and receive your hug or repeat a goodnight kiss, or our peace maker becomes a peace breaker.
Audyn, you are a joy. A few months ago, you wrote a short narrative at school. Your teacher still has it so I can't quite remember the exact wording. But it said something like this: "When my brother Kaleb was born, we didn't know what it would be like. But he is the best brother ever. He makes us laugh every day. He makes our family better."
Dear Audyn,
When you were born I didn't know exactly who you would be. But you are the most wonderful daughter. You make me laugh every day. You are perfectly silly and incredibly kind. Your smile lights up a room. Your sweet, sensitive spirit fills our house with so much love. Your spunk and feisty determination make us proud. Your imagination expands our view of the world. You make our family better. Every day. Happy seventh birthday, Little Pip.