How 'bout Some Music?

I am told that children have active imaginations. Judging by the proliferation of names around this house, I am going to say yes to that.

Annalee has now referred to her father as: Prince Steven, Eric, Grampa, Brother, and at least one other term of fantasy and endearment that I wish I could remember.

She has referred to her mother as: Queen, Sister, Lacy, and at least one other term of fantasy and endearment that I wish I could remember.

She currently prefers to be known as Genevieve and, sometimes, Princess Genevieve. Woe be unto you if you call her "Annalee" at the wrong time.

Yesterday, when a friend of hers was having a down moment, Annalee put on her lullabye CD for the two of them to listen to when the two of them were alone in Annalee's room. (The friend had been told that she and her folks would have to leave soon and didn't want to go.) Of course, putting the music on was just a friend being a friend, but it's not something I remember doing when I was three and a half.

Smart Lady

I have been silenced, to some extent, by the idea that by writing down Annalee's amazing doings and sayings I would be diminishing her somehow.

However, after much soul-searching, I am returning to my jottings here in an effort to preserve a record of one of the world's most beloved people during her early years.

A couple of weeks ago, she understood something faster than I thought made sense and I said, "How did you know that?"

"Because I'm a smart lady," she said.

For most of the first half of her fourth year, she responded to questions regarding her age with just about any number greater than her actual age, having gleaned, evidently, that older people have more say in the world.

At the park: "How old are you?"

"Seven," Annalee answered.

At Whole Foods: "How old are you?"

"Thirty-five."

At the pool: "How old are you?"

"Eighty-three." (This was her favorite age for weeks.)

Although she is no longer "with child," she has successfully accepted several new beings into the world as her sister-daughters: Monica, Katelyn, Baby Pink, and Apple Dumplet. All of them are beloved, and well-attended to.

Monica

Our princess is with child. Or, anyway, she thinks she is. "My baby is coming out today," she says. Initially dubbed "Harmonica," her unborn child's name has been shortened to "Monica." The "pregnancy" has been going on for nearly three weeks, and seems to have sprung from spending time with a friend whose mommy was pregnant.

Noting that the friend's mom had evidently decided to become with child, Annalee decided that she, too, would make such a decision. And she has been resolute, never drifting from the reality that there is a special someone inside her. "Monica likes chocolate," she has mentioned, more than once.

She has also been resolute in the decision to refer to Kim and me as "Sister" and "Brother" for nigh on six weeks. It is not impossible that she wants to have a new sibling. One would especially think so, given that she sometimes refers to "Monica," too, as "Sister." For instance, I have heard her say, "Sister is going to come today," not quite looking at her belly, but somehow gesturing toward her "oven" with her entire being, without actually moving a muscle.

On the other hand, Annalee may call Kim and me "Sister" and "Brother" just because she likes it and had tired, temporarily one imagines, of the top-down power structure of parents, named as such. By a striking coincidence, my own parents had me refer to them by their first names, Read and Jenny, until I was ten. It was a hippie, California-in-the-sixties, power-to-the-children sort of thing. Until everyone pretty much longed for the words "mom" and "dad," which, eventually we did.

And which, today, I pretty much do again.

And Then You Do

When your child falls, as Annalee did last night, there is a tendency to question your parenting skills. Because parents enjoy more power over their children than over anyone else in their lives, it's easy to go overboard with this questioning, as though it is God questioning God during some hideous phase of the Inquisition. "What were you thinking when you invented gravity? Didn't you foresee this child's terrible fall?" "What were you thinking when you invented concrete? Not a very good idea, in the end, was it?"

We were sitting on the front porch when it happened, I with my guitar in my lap, and Kim with a glass of lime-aid that she and Annalee had just made in her hand. I was singing songs, and Annalee was run-dancing, as joyous as we had seen her. We knew she was tired, and we'll kick ourselves for weeks. On the last of Annalee's trips up the concrete path from the front door to the sidewalk, she tumbled at full speed, getting her hands out in front of her but taking far too much of the impact with her forehead.

The air in this house is saturated with love most of the time, but last night, when Annalee woke up hungry around mightnight and the three of us had some pizza before putting Annalee back down, the air was super-saturated. You think you can't love them any more than you already do, and then you do.

Learning Curve

At age 2 years and 9 months, Annalee has ridden a sled, her Jetsons-like one-girl car, her friend May's pink scooter, roller skates, and her tricycle. While either her mom or I have hovered helpfully nearby for just about all of these ventures, she has grown more autonomous on the trike, able, for instance, to steer competently within the confines of the sidewalk on the way to the playground as well as pedal more or less steadily on flat surfaces and down hills. Uphill is still a minor challenge. Luckily, I am never farther than a few feet away, so a push is proffered and, eventually, accepted. Unlike four decades ago, a helmet is de rigueur for all of the toddler gravity games.

We swam in Barton Creek today, after watching performers celebrate Mother Earth Day at Zilker Park. Annalee bragged to her mama, "I went under the water and came back up all by myself!"

Upon Awakening

Someone got her first pair of roller skates yesterday, along with her first set of elbow and knee pads. She already had a helmet to wear while riding her tricycle. The skates, made of bright pink plastic, are the sort you strap around your shoes -- with a heel cup for extra stabilization. I drove up to find my beloved child practicing on her new wheeled shoes, her mom ever-present for support and sudden catches, with the widest eyes and biggest smile I may ever have seen. "I'm a big girl, Daddy," she said, sweat pouring from under her pink helmet, when I opened the car door. "You sure are," I said. "This is incredible."

She wanted to skate one more time before bed, in the pitch dark, and something tells me I know what she's going to want to do when she wakes up.

Big Girl

For her own reasons, Annalee spent the last couple of hours of yesterday referring to her mom as "Grandma" and myself as "Grampa." Kim and I have theorized that she is doing so to poke fun at us (she clearly loves it, and keeps invoking our new appellations in every sentence -- "OK, Grandma?"). She may simply miss her grandparents, all of whom live far from Texas.

She is wearing "big girl" underwear more and more, diapers less and less. She insists on putting on her own clothing, which she has learned to do in the last month. She can put on her own shirts, underpants, pants, socks, and shoes (with minor left-right guidance). She insists, too, on having a go at tying her shoes with laces before allowing Mom or Dad to finish the job.

She says, "I'm a big girl" many times a day.