Sofia Stories

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the earth

Today like every other day
We wake up empty and scared.
Don't open the door of your study
And begin reading.
Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There a hundreds of ways to kneel
And kiss the earth.
                                Rumi

Dear Sofia,

It is storming outside, and I miss you. You are on a a great adventure with your beloved cousin, aunt, uncle and grandfather.  You are no doubt swimming, boogie boarding, feeding endless treats to the dogs, enjoying being the "big cousin" and reading "When Papa Snores" with your Papa.  You have decided he snores less than your grandmother.  This debate is a source of ongoing entertainment.  In any case, you do not miss me. Which is good.

I'm thinking about you for a lot of reasons - but mostly because of the fact that I want to apologize for being so distracted lately.  There has been a lot going on.  Some good, some not as good, and while I know that ultimately it is the nature of growth, it still hurts.

As a child I remember waking up in the middle of the night in agony from leg cramps (appropriately named growing pains). And my parents would explain that this pain was the result of my bones elongating and the muscles and skin around them stretching to make room for my new, bigger bones. 

I remember being in so much pain that I did not want to grow, that I didn't want to make room for more bone and more muscle and more skin.

And that is why I have been distracted, and why I am apologizing, because now, just like when I was a child, I have been saying to myself, "I don't want to grow, it hurts too much," and this has taken my attention.

When you make room for something new, and you kick out the old, no matter what, it is painful. 

One of our favorite neighbors whose children you adore have moved. And last night I ran into the mom as she walked out of her now empty house with the realtor, who was to officially put up the 'For Sale' sign the following day.  We were talking about her new house and how much she loves it and then, suddenly, she just burst out crying. "We were engaged in this house," she said. "All three kids were born here."  And I understood. She was torn about pulling down the wooden, hand-engraved sign that hung over the mantle top that said, "Once upon a time..." 

Their story in that house was ending.  And as the credits rolled and the words, 'The End,' came up, there were tears.

Your father and I are ending a chapter of our lives as well.  The credits are rolling.  The words 'The End' are coming up. And there are tears. 

But we are excited for the future.

As a child I could never have known where my grown legs (that had hurt so much to come to be) would take me.  I am thankful for every single place - good and bad - that we have gone.  And I have come to find that the thing that anchors me through the undulating waves is writing. Writing my book, writing to you, to friends, to family. Pen on paper, scribbling; or, in this case, fingers on keyboard, tapping.  It is my way of kneeling to kiss the earth.  It is what grounds me. 

And I would ride a hundred waves of despair to remember this.

So find the thing that grounds you. That anchors you, when the growing pains come.

For they surely will.

In the meantime, laugh and play the day away with your cousin and the dogs, without missing us.

But if the day ever comes that you do miss us, or anything from the past, if you ever wake up empty and scared, take down a musical instrument and let the beauty you love be what you do.

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the earth.

I love you,
Mom

Love what you love

Dear Sofia,

Yesterday, you told me that you wish, really really wish, that there was a parent store.

"Imagine a place," you said, "Where they had all the parents in the world hanging on the walls and that a child could pick the parent that she wanted."

Of course my initial thought was, "What? Am I not the parent you would pick? What's wrong with me? Why do you want another parent?" and then the perfectionist/desperate side of me chimed in, "Okay, I'll change, what do you want, pancakes for dinner, done. Lollipops for breakfast, your wish is my command. Please pick me from the store, please, please."

But I tried to stay present and I took a deep breath and as gently as my ego allowed me to muster, I said, "What type of mommy would you pick?"

"Well," you said, "The most beautiful mommy in the world."

At this point my ego is having a heart attack, I'm thinking but not saying, "What? Am I ugly, you know many people think I'm attractive. In fact, there are plenty of other six year old kids who think I'm kind of pretty, if you must know, and would pick me from a parent store."

But again (thankfully)I paused before saying:

"Okaaaay. What would this super (sarcasm was not contained) beautiful mommy look like."

"Kind of like you --but her skin wouldn't be quite as tan."

Thanks, kid.

"Maybe I would pick daddy"

Of course you would.

"Well, I'd pick him if there were no other men that looked exactly like him but had blue eyes instead of his black eyes."

Aha! he's not perfect either! At least the two of us can live together having been jointly rejected by our one and only daughter for some pale ass, freaky blue-eyed parent people*. *(I love all skin and eye colors)

And then this great mature me that comes out every so often showed up and said:
"You know, Sofs, the cool thing is that you do, in a way, get to pick your parents. You take the good things that we, your parents by blood and birth and HARD (yes, there was a slight emphasis) work, give you-- and then you reach out to other people who have exactly what it is that you want.
And through these authors and teachers and friends and family,  you find your "parent collective" a mish mash of all the mentors that you need to reach everything you're seeking in life. I have found many mentors that have guided me to be the person that I am. What I'm trying to say is that, this beauty that you seek, it is not about the color of the skin, or of the color of the eyes, but this "beauty" that you are seeking is about what you love, what you are attracted to, what you are interested in. And these things are worth noting. Because, one of the most challenging but greatest practices in life is simply to love what you love and to know what it is."

Okay maybe I didn't say exactly like that... but it was close. 

I did say that you have the absolute right and sovereignty to love what you love.

And, I'm adding now, after the fact, you should not let anyone sway you differently, even if loving that thing, means that you are going against everything that it is that your parents stand for, or in this case look like.
You love fair skin and blue eyes and the aqua Hawaiian dress. Then love it.
You love pet mice. Sponge Bob. Consumerism. Lamb meat.  Have at it.

And when you get older, piece together these things that you deeply, truly love, and find the teachers who'll guide you towards your vision of beauty.

Having said all of this, my sweet child, the bottom line is, you did pick us from the parent store.

And I'm very glad you did.

loving you in extra strong sunblock,

your mom

p.s. you learned to ride your bike this week, no training wheels!

Summertime

 Dear Sofia,

We have had a busy summer so far, which is part of why I haven't written.  Also-I'm teaching writing and adjusting to the schedule.

Yesterday in class we talked about characters and stories and how often in movies or books the protagonist leaves the world as he/she knows it to enter a new world.

So, I've been thinking about transitions. About entering different worlds.

And all the ways that you've been transitioning and all the new worlds you've been entering.

First, we started the summer with your "bridging ceremony."  You walked over a bridge symbolizing your transition from kindergarten to first grade. It was a very emotional and beautiful day.

Then, you got two caterpillars. You named one butter and the other fly. We watched them cocoon and become butterflies. You released them into our backyard.

Then, you went snorkeling for the first time, in a reef in the middle of the ocean in the Bahamas. It was an amazing moment when you lifted your head from the clear blue water and yelled, "It's so beautiful! It's a whole new world!"  You swam with barracudas and angelfish and parrot fish.

Then, you asked me what infinity plus infinity equals. I said I don't know, infinity.  You said, "I think it's God. Or maybe mucus." You had a cold at the time.

You swam with a dolphin named Diego and now you want us to have a dolphin for a pet. You told me how much you love sea animals and how sometimes you wished you could live in their world.

This is no surprise to us, as your initials are SEA.

You told me about Ms. Rosa, a fairy that lives near you and protects you. "She is an angel fairy," you said "and she is about 3 inches tall." She sleeps, cradled in your hand sometimes.  "She has black hair, she wears a pink shirt with a red jacket and a black skirt and red heels. she is 79 years old. She is very sweet and smells of lemons."  She owns a cafe that you said was, "part Starbucks, part Subway and part candy shop"

You've been in Lego camp and Pirate camp and Animation camp and the night before the first day you always say you feel a little scared  and we've talked about how some nervousness or fear is always present, even for adults, when you're entering into new adventures, and that you just have to expect it and move through it.

You saw your grandmother turn 60 and you asked a lot of questions about death.

You saw a stranger yell at me for no reason and we had to talk about the fact that some people in life will not be nice. You didn't understand why I didn't yell back. Why I just kept walking, looking ahead.

And you made me think about this, about how to handle the people in one's life that for whatever reason are difficult and I told you the story of the protagonist at the end of the second act in the movie, when they are about to make the final transition into the new world. I explained that this is when they get challenged the most and when the character has to really commit to what they know in their heart is the truth for them.

Do not let negative voices get in your way, because it is their last desperate attempt to hold you back from the great adventures of your life.

So remember, when entering new worlds, be brave and walk through fear.

Stand up for yourself when you run into antagonists.

But always maintain your own integrity and truth.

Then, you render them powerless, and you are truly free.

Be a pirate. Dive in to new situations. Talk to angels. And Snorkel often.

Love, mom

Parents who blog

Dear Sofia,

So-- there's all sorts of talk about all the parents who blog about their children---and how one day their kids are going to look back and say 1. WTF? 2. Why did you have to write about me? 3. Why'd you have to tell the world about all my shiat? 4. Why, why, why?

Some thoughts on this:

1. This is what happens when a person with a masters in fine arts has no job and gets stuck on his or her book during the rewriting process.  Really, there's a lot of us. Have pity.
2. You're in my grill a lot. Or, more eloquently put, you're my muse.
3. Well, there's a level of catharsis.
4. And it makes me be more present with you.
5. And in the future when you're living in South Africa (your latest destination of choice) I get to remember you, us, this time, with some details, some color, some texture. And I do love this time.
6. If you end up not being okay with this, keep in mind-- we have a very limited readership.
7. Okay, I admit it, I do secretly fantasize that you will read this blog one day and say, "Oh, my God, you are the world's most fantastic mom. I love you.  Thank you for all the nights you got up with me and for not taking that TV writing job so we could have quality time together.  I learn so much from you. Your knowledge and wisdom is beyond compare. And, did you know, you're a fabulous writer!  In fact, as I read your blog, I realize I have no choice but to be a loving human being who gives back to the world. Actually, I want to live next door to you, because you are so cool."  Or something like that.
8. Oh, crap--I hope this will be okay with you.
9. I'm sorry if it's not.
10. Again, let me emphasize, we have a VERY limited readership.
11. Your dad kills mice.
12. You're right, I should have been a Vet. It's way cooler. Everyone loves Vets, it's economy proof and they stay busy so they're not off writing about their poor, unsuspecting children.
13. I'm sorry, for real, if you're not happy about this.
14. I do love you (notice how I end every blog with how much I love you. It's true. Okay maybe there's a little sugaring up, but it's still 100 percent true.)
15. Guess what, if you write a memoir, it's probably going to be all about me, so consider us even.
16. Remember how much I have loved you. And how I was on bed rest for 3 months while pregnant with you---when you're writing said memoir.
17. Because, because, because: I listen more, I watch you more, I think about you more, I'm a better mother more.

That's why.

love,
momoblogger

 

Mantras

Dear Sofia,
It's been a while. I'm in the last throws of finishing my first book.
It's exciting and scary and a little frustrating at times.
But I'm determined to accomplish my task.
I'm learning from you, though. You-just set your mind to something and you make it happen.
So-I will follow your lead.
In fact- just last week you said, "I want to be in a magazine."
You said it to me three times in a row, on three separate occasions, like a mantra, for no apparent reason.
On Monday, I get an e-mail asking me if you can be in our local parenting magazine. 
Today is the photo shoot.
How amazing is that?
You reminded me that if you know what you want, believe it, and say it out loud (three times seems to work), there's a good chance it will happen.
That's what writing a book is anyway, right?
Imagining a story out of thin air and making it real.
I will finish my book, I will finish my book, I will finish my book.
Thank you for reminding me to say that.
Love you,
Momo
p.s. your father caught you singing in bed last night a song about "first grade, first grade" to the tune of "New York, New York." We stood outside your door amazed at you singing at the top of your lungs, so free. So beautiful. I just want you to know that we are enthralled by you. Every night we get in bed, we look at each other and just say, "she's amazing."
We love you. We gush over you. We think you're really special.
I just want you to know that.

I'm scared

Dear Sofia,

I walked into my office the other morning and as I sat at my desk I realized that you'd been there.

I found-- written on a post it note, upon which I'd already written a note to myself (p. 33 scene doesn't make sense), the words "I'm scared."

And at first I felt bad, I don't want you to be scared, but then when I thought about it, I realized that I certainly can't make you not feel scared-- but I can try to help you manage the feeling. 

Because, the truth is, we're all scared sometimes.

In fact,

I'm scared that the scene on pg. 33 doesn't make sense, that my book doesn't make sense, that I don't.

I'm scared that something bad will happen to you or your father or any of our friends or family. 

I'm scared about things that I hear about on the news--violence that seems to have no end.

So--every time you tell me "I'm having a bad thought" and I say "wrap it up in a ball of sunlight and throw it into the sky, up to the sun, and then the sun will burn it up and turn it into more light.'"
Half of it is to make you feel better, and the other half is to convince myself.

And I love watching you squint real hard, in your six-year-old dramatic way, as you throw your scary thoughts into the sky and I hope the thought is gone for good. 

Sometimes it is, and other times you say flatly, "it didn't work."

I know the feeling.

These thoughts, our mind, feeling scared, it's a tricky thing to negotiate. 
It doesn't get easier, you just get a little better at it with more practice.

These days you're afraid of 'The Grinch'.
But later you will be haunted by the stories of pain and suffering in the world and of your own daily fears and worries.

There's a story right now about a little girl who was abducted by her Sunday school teacher and it's unbearable and incomprehensible.

When you get older, even I, will tell you stories to scare you about why you can't have a computer in your room, about boys and dating and you will think I'm being ridiculous. 

Like with your grandma, my mom, when she sat me down when I was ten with her file that she'd collected of things that had happened to other little girls. And she presented all of these stories to me as a warning and it scared me and it protected me.

But it didn't cover everything--because that's impossible--and I had my own hard lessons to learn and grinches to meet, and I wish I hadn't.  But no matter how much we want to, WE JUST CAN'T protect our children from life and fear. 

I will probably do the same thing my mom did, start a file about the stories I hear, terrible stories about the Internet and predators and dry drowning and crazy things I didn't even know were possible. 

Even your grandpa (my dad) called the other night, late, because he was watching the story of Natalee Holloway who disappeared in Aruba.  Your father spoke to him. What did he say, I asked? He said, "watch Sofia, watch her, be careful."

Sofs--we'd implant you with a chip, buy a permanent body shield, make you walk around with two German Shepards and three body guards if we thought that we could protect you.

But the truth-- the humbling, hard truth of the matter is-- that our job only goes so far.

Imagine it like this, we can protect you from the sand dunes to the ocean's edge---but there's a whole huge ocean --of which we have no control.

Okay, now I'm going to write a little post it note that I'm going to leave on your grandma's desk saying: 

"I'm scared."

Hell yes, I'm scared.

And, truth be told, I realized this vast and agonizing feeling when you were a mere 8 weeks old.

We'd arrived in LA after driving across the country with you-- because you were born four weeks early and we didn't want you to be exposed to airplane germs (first time parents) after we'd struggled so hard to get you into the world intact.

And we were home, and you were sleeping soundly, safe in your new crib, in your pale blue room with your candy-colored lanterns that's we'd bought for you on our trip to Vietnam, before you were even conceived.

And then it hit me like a ton of terrible bricks: I turned to your father, panicked, and l said, "She's outside of me now, there's nothing I can do--will ever be able to do-- to really make sure that she's safe."  And he held me as I cried through all of my fears and terrors, as I relived things that had happened to me and my family and my friends and people in the news--horrible things--I just cried and prayed.

And then, I took all of those thoughts and I wrapped them up in sunlight and I shot them up into the sun and I let go.

After all, It's the only thing we can really do.

I don't want you to be scared.

But when you are: wrap it up in a ball of sunlight and throw it into the sky, up to the sun, and then the sun will burn it up and turn it into more light.

And focus on the more light part.

I will.

May you always be safe,

Love,
Mom

Butterfly

Dear Sofia,

This morning you were supposed to wear a "spring t-shirt" for school.  We did not have a designated "spring t-shirt" so I found two shirts that I hoped would work.
One had a bunch of butterflies all over it and one had raindrops and a small sun.
These are not "spring t-shirts" you said.
Sure they are. Butterflies come out of their cocoon in spring--so that's very springy. And it rains a lot in spring, in fact, there's a saying, April showers bring may flowers.
Mom-- it rains in the summer here.
True.
If I wear the rain shirt people will think I'm dressed for "summer." I'm picking the butterfly one.
Perfect.
So--with the butterflies, do the parents hug them when they come out of the cocoon and say, WELCOME!
I would imagine it's something like that.
Oh-so it's like when human kids turn 18 and they've been really responsible and their parents give them a car.
(blank stare) Um, sort of.
I can't wait to come out of my cocoon.

So-you left for school and I was left thinking about this. Oddly, I have been thinking about cocoons a lot recently. I'm trying to finish my book, I'm speaking on Green businesses today in front of 300 Hispanic woman, and yesterday I learned about bonds for four hours.  When I have a week like this, I can't help but find myself exactly as I was when I was six years old, standing in front of the mirror saying, who am I?

And I keep thinking (hoping) that the day will come when I will bust through the cocoon and manifest as my absolute true self (say a millionaire rock star) and all will be well with the world.

But, I am finding, that it doesn't quite work this way. 

It works a little more like every Spring you discover a little something about yourself and you flutter around, 'Oh, I can teach!'  And then fall rolls around and you start to re-build your cocoon and by winter you are are snuggled up and reinventing yourself (not on purpose) and then, boom, Spring rolls around and you re-emerge as a new butterfly.  Not entirely brand new, you may still have the same black spot from the previous year, but now, there's a new color on you, a new thing you've learned. And people around you might say, why can't you just be one butterfly and stick to it. And you want to say back, I wish I could, I want to, but I'm just not made that way.

So-instead of one big shift, it's more like every year you EVOLVE.

On the one hand, it's kind of boring you may think, it would be fantastic to have what we see in the movies. Girl enters cocoon shy and awkward and emerges fearless, stunning, brilliant rock star (okay-so, I've discovered a secret passion). But the truth is that if there was only one BIG change, like the butterflies, after our heyday of flying around, let's face it--- we would just die.

And so, to live out a long and vivacious and interesting and exciting life, reinvention becomes critical.  Remember, we are living longer and longer, it might be challenging to be, say, a bond expert for a hundred years.
You may feel bound (sorry, had to do it).

So, Sofs, that's what I wanted to share today, in the spirit of spring.

Allow yourself the freedom to cocoon and reemerge year after year as the person you were meant to be.

Allow yourself the freedom and joy of EVOLVING.

And, based on your great idea, every Spring, I will look at you in all your complex and multilayerd ways and give you a big hug and say, WELCOME! This new evolved you, is...beautiful.

Love, mom-papillon

p.s. The human kids have to be REALLY responsible to get a car.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow you will be six.

Tomorrow we will have a dog party--where you insisted that I write on the invite "Dog costumes optional" to which every mother has e-mailed me confused. And to which I have responded, "It was Sofia's vision."

And it is.

Tomorrow you will jump on your jumpy house and laugh and run around on your sugar high and it will be complete chaos and I will swear to myself, like I do every year, "Next year will be small." And then your birthday rolls around and you ask me to invite 30 of your closest friends--- and for the next few weeks you invite nearly every person we run into.

And then we end up with a Greek wedding. Every year. And I'm bamboozled by it every year, your enthusiasm and clarity and vision. I want everyone at my party! you say.

And who can resist the sentiment? So- I just say yes.

Because really what I'm bamboozled by is the fact that you're here.

And that I get to be your mom.

Tomorrow, 6 years ago, I went into the hospital and had you. Via C-section. You were adorable and beautiful in a your-father's-face-and-three-inches-of-thick-black-hair kind of way.

You were a complete miracle to us, after having gone into labor at 24 weeks. Going to the hospital, the doctor telling me that we would probably deliver you within days, and that there was a 50% chance of survival, and then-- with lots of medicines and me horizontal for three months, in and out of the hospital, and a village of friends and family-- you were saved.

And you came out just right.

And every single year on your birthday I think about that day as if it was yesterday and all the fear and excitement and joy and terror and pain that came along with it.

When you were three years old you told me, "I didn't like being in your belly, mommy, because I couldn't hug you." It doesn't quite make up for the pre-term labor trauma---but it was sweet.

Tomorrow I will smile, like I do every year on this day, because I feel so lucky to have you as my daughter and your father as my husband.

Tomorrow I will think about what you like, all things dog. Writing "chapter books", drawing beautiful pictures, and how last year you wanted a magic party which included a magician, superman plates and sparkles everywhere. All things "magical." And how this year you tell me that magic isn't real and you don't believe in fairies.

Tomorrow I will I think about how you told me that if you have a daughter, she will be named Silvia or Carla and if you have a boy he will be named Nelson or David. And how you aren't actually sure if you want to have a child or if you even want to get married. But if you do have one--you'd like it to be a baby girl.

Tomorrow and every day after---I will tell you that's fine. You get to live whatever life you want. 

Tomorrow I will think about how tall you're getting and that it's getting hard for me to pick you up.
And that, when you sit on my lap, you like to put your forehead right in the crook of my neck and say, "mommy you're just the right size for me." But I wonder if the day will come when I'm not the right size for you. And I try to not linger on this.

Tomorrow I will be beyond joyful knowing that you're growing so big and so happy and so smart and so strong willed. And more than anything, tomorrow I will think about how much I love you and how I wish you the most glorious sixth birthday ever.

Happy Birthday to my 6 year old.  And to many many tomorrows.

Love, mommy

on being american (the one that was supposed to post)

I've been out of town for a week, unable to post and was horrified when I saw that this (which was still in DRAFT form--was accidentally published.) (I have a lot of these--pieces of stories that I'm waiting to connect to something else that happened, waiting for it to make sense to me.)

This one did not make sense to me yet and was not ready to post. So I apologize. I'm mortified that this was out there for a week--- but I figure this is part of the thrill of blogging. The, oh sh-- moments of realizing that something that was not meant to be out there--was out-- unintentionally. 

Anyway--I'm still rocking back and forth as I write this--so I'll let the cat out of the bag-- I was on a Disney cruise. That's right. I actually high-fived Minnie mouse as I lounged by the pool reading my Vanity Fair. It was a very surreal and fun experience. Great for kids. Loud for parents.

So---back to being American. My whole life I wanted to be American. I wanted to have blonde hair and I wanted to have parents that spoke perfect English. I wanted my dad to give me a dictionary like my friend's dad did in college, inscribed with the words: to my beautiful daughter for love of the English language.  I wanted to have parents that laughed around the dinner table telling American styled jokes using impeccable words.

For me it was more about correcting my parents words, translating for them the world they saw outside of our house and feeling like I was living a double life-the one outside my house and the one inside my house.

So it was a huge surprise to me when Sofia, last week, decided she wanted to make a movie called: An American Family.

She took a piece of cardboard and she drew a picture of all of us and she wrote in big letters above our renderings: An American family. (FYI: the renderings include both of the dogs and I'm always colored in brown-- as is she-- and Phil is always colored in peach or yellow)

She took her picture, and she held it in front of all of us, as we made our "movie."

I couldn't help but think about Phil's father changing his name as he came into this country, after surviving the Holocaust, because it sounded more "American". And I thought about my dad being exiled from Cuba. I thought about all the people who would ask me where I was from growing up because I had tan skin and asking my parents if I was adopted.  And my friends asking my mom to say the word sheet and beach, because it came out sounding like shit and bitch.

And then- Sofia- without the slightest hesitation decides to make a movie called "An American family" and I'm a part of this picture.

I'm in an American family? What?

It reminds me of my sister who was talking to her then boyfriend-now husband- and was saying, "You know because Americans do this... and American like that..." And he interrupted her and said, "Um-you know that I'm American, right?"

This proves the sense of distance that she and I have always had from one cultural identity. We have kind of always felt a little Cuban, a little Puerto Rican, a little American and now a little Jewish (by marriage) depending on the day.   

But never ever did we feel comfortable with just one thing.

So- when we finished our "American" movie, Sofia says, "Let's sing, 'Cause I'm proud to be an American,' mommy and daddy."

And we all did. The French Moroccan Polish dad, the Puerto Rican Cuban mom, the Yorkie Pappillon lap dog, the liver spotted Dalmatian dog and the 100 % American kid singing 'I'm proud to be an American in the middle of the park."

Phil and I grew up with seven languages being spoken in our homes (between the two of us) with parents who mispronounced everything.  And Sofia is being raised with one language--American English---(and parents who mispronounce words only when they've had a little too much to drink).

Today, as I sit here and write this, on the heels of being on a boat with people dressed up like cartoon characters while they sing the song, "It's a Small World" --and getting to eat from eight meal services a day while being entertained and marketed to 24 hours a day -- I can say with no small amount of derision and pride (in equal measures) that I am American.

I don't have blonde hair, my parents still speak with an accent, depending on which side of my family I'm with, or what holiday is being celebrated, I have to readjust and think--what am I today? 

But when all is said and done, I know what I am. I am proud to be an American.  Because my daughter is American and because our nuclear family is American and because, for God's sake, I just came back from being on a Disney cruise--nothing is more American than that.

Play

Sofia,

The other morning you told me that Andrew is not sure he wants to marry you--because now Peyton wants to marry him. You explained, "But-I told him, you promised you'd marry me." He told you that he needed to think about it because when he agreed to marry you-you were his only choice.

You seemed disappointed, so I told you that you'd meet a lot of wonderful people in your life and that you didn't need to pick the person you were going to marry in kindergarten. In fact, I wanted to say but didn't, I highly recommend against it.

You asked me when I met your father and were shocked that I met him "so late." I told you that you were a kind, creative, insightful girl and that many people would want be around you.

"But I really want to marry Andrew," you said. Then you told me that Andrew had said that he was going to "Play with Peyton and then marry you."

Let me caution you on this.

There will be people that you want to play with--that don't want to play with you. And then there will be people that want to play with you-- that you don't want to play with. This is life. Don't ever take it personally. If someone loves you that you don't love back-- be kind.

But if it happens that you love someone that doesn't love you back, well then, let them go. No hard feelings, but you must make room for all the amazing people who will see you and appreciate you exactly as you are.

Imagine it this way--you only have ten parking spots around you. You don't want the spots taken up by people who don't fully appreciate you, because when the ones who will appreciate you come driving around, all the spots will be taken and they'll move on to another parking lot.

I'm surprised to be writing this now, when you're only five, but I guess I can remember when Cameron didn't want to sit next to me, only Kirsten, when I was in kindergarten, and how it did make me a little sad.

And then when I got older I remember my mother rubbing my back in the middle of the night as I cried because I was heartbroken that my boyfriend had found someone else to "play" with.

I can't protect you from this, and I wouldn't if I could because these are the events that will teach you how to recognize your partner in the future. They are invaluable lessons, even though-- at the time-- they suck.

So in the end, don't worry too much about who does or who doesn't want to play with you. 

Just make sure that you play.

You will find your true friends and they will find you.

And remember: YOU are complete.

p.s. I understand that I have used the word play to mean a variety of things, which I will explain at age-appropriate times.

with love, m