Skipping Town

Dear Lulu, It's been an incredibly exciting month, a fun near-end to summer, and this past week you've been in camp at your new preschool. You have loved every second of it. You had a wobbly chin when I left on the first day, but you didn't cry, and the teacher said you were quiet for about ten minutes and then were fine. You've had so much fun--you're so excited to go each day, and when I pick you up, you're eager to return the next day. As usual, you won't give us too much information about what you did, but now and then you'll share a detail, like making trail mix (you were thrilled, and we've been making trail mix each day since). This is all a big relief to me, because you loved your old school and friends. But we get to walk to school now, which is exciting; there is an outdoor playground; and everyone seems warm and kind. I'm really glad you got to do this camp, jus t to get familiar with the school before the year actually begins,

We are on the cusp of change: ponies are overtaking princesses. We've been in princess-world for almost one full year, and now, as summer comes to an end, both girls' interest in the Disney Princesses seems to be waning. They still play a lot with their Barbie-size princess dolls, but they haven't played with their Magiclips very much lately, and they no longer gravitate toward any potholder, keychain, outlet cover, or what-have-you with a princess on it. Today Lucia even told me that next time we go to New Hampshire, she doesn't want to take her princesses. She wants to take ponies instead. And so begins our My Little Pony era. We've had ponies for a while now--I bought a few at a yard sale a couple of summers ago, and the girls have always played with them now and then, without much fervor. Greta was always much more interested. But now--but now. They saw an impressive collection of My Little Ponies when we visited friends in Pittsburgh last month. And they disc

This evening, as Lucia, Greta, Andrew, and I ate dinner overlooking the fields and pond in New Hampshire, Lucia expressed her ardent appreciation for the pieces of plum on her plate. It was as though she'd never seen a plum before, as though I hadn't been offering them to her all summer. "Mama, these are so, so yummy," she said. "How did you MAKE these plums?" "I didn't 'make' them," I said. "They're pieces of fruit, like apples, cut into slices." Andrew, always helpful, said, "God made the plums." Lucia gazed out over the twilit fields. Birds chirped. Crickets chirped. A few remaining clouds wisped across the sky in the cool, brilliant, final light of day, illuminating the gold and purple wildflowers. "Who IS God?" she said eventually. My response was weak. I had no idea what to say, falling back on creationist nonsense because I couldn't come up with anything better. "And that's

Dear Lulu, This letter is late, but I purposely waited to write it so I could write about a very exciting event: your big debut as a flower girl in your cousin Lexi's wedding on July 19. For months, I'd been preparing you: talking up the honor, the dress, the excitement, the princess-like aspects of the day. We watched YouTube videos of flower girls. We talked about brides and aisles and flowers. You're almost five years old--an age of reason, usually. But it was the "usually" that, of course, made me nervous. Ninety percent of the time, you're agreeable and amenable and wonderful; ten percent of the time...you're otherwise, like any kid. With a four year old, there's no guarantee of predictability. But we needn't have worried. You were so extremely excited, talking about the wedding for weeks beforehand. You sailed through the rehearsal, and had a good sleep the night before the wedding. (We had two adjoining suites at the Mayflower in DC--roy

Dear Baby Grets, Sorry: Big Girl Grets. You won't abide being called a baby these days, and you're taking more and more pride in doing things by yourself. "FELF," you say firmly, whether it's climbing into your carseat, climbing out of your carseat, getting dressed, or using the potty. You also don't like when we offer you bites of food you've expressed an interest in: "No. OWN," you say. And so we give you your own. Miracle of miracles, you seem to be potty trained. Not only that: you don't even want help. You announce "Go pee-pee," stride into the bathroom, pull down your underwear and pants, climb onto the toilet, and go. You (cursorily) wipe, flush, and step onto the step stool to wash your hands. The first time you managed to flush by yourself, you were overcome with pride and excitement. "Me big girl now!!" you exclaimed, clasping your hands in front of your neck. I am just as excited about this development as yo