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Breathe Into the Bag.

Sing invented songs for every action. Hold toys utensils clothing foodstuff at eye level and label it — every time. She counted to twelve in the morning. Make her draw straight lines — both vertical and horizontal. Make her draw circles. If she resists, place your hand over hers and guide her toward it. She looks deeply into my eyes and says with firm convention things I cannot comprehend. Hand her her clothing; putting on her clothes is a 28-month-old skill. In August, when summer starts its slow, hot last hurrah, she will be three.

Here is yet another yellow carbon; read every line, as it reiterates what they’ve told you. Decide on whether she will go to school in the fall; it may be prudent to place some of the impetus for acquiring these skills on a classroom, a teacher, on interaction with other children. She jokes; she laughs at appropriate moments; she says, “Delicious!” “Mmm, yummy!” “That’s not funny!” She says tons of moderately discernible things, knows the alphabet, identifies letters out of sequence, has the patience to wait for the resolution of a story. Note that this yellow carbon has been careful to credit her for what she does well: uses catch phrases appropriately. Picks up visual cues fairly quickly, is excellent with rhythms. Appreciate that no one who visits your home is condescending; the women seem duly charmed by your daughter. Do not assess their genuineness. Try not to be fearful of her upcoming ear test, though one of the women has mentioned that some of the children she visits have needed their adenoids removed, have — like your daughter — never had ear infections, but may still have standing fluid in their ears making it difficult to hear.

Do not spend every waking moment wondering what is wrong. Make knots in the rope, at each interval where you’ve already been given a solution; use those to climb. She sings hourly; her voice, a modulating lilt, is rarely off key. She plays the piano for over 30 minutes, rarely choosing to hop down from the stool. Imagine her a virtuoso. Imagine her an American Sign Language interpreter for the UN. Imagine her in a concert hall, bringing up a well of sound and pitching it forth with her whole body.

Do not be so quick to cry when your mothering feels micromanaged; no one believes you are bad at it but you. (But would it hurt to hear that you’re good at it from the people who see you do it most?) Do not be ungrateful. Articulate your need to discover more of this on your own; becoming a grandparent — even a live-in one — does not mean re-parenting your own child. Do not take advantage of the other caring eyes and hands; she is yours, and the memory of her daily needs is yours to initiate. Meet them before you must be reminded.

When you are not with her, do not leave so much of yourself at her feet. But also avoid giving the same fathoms of love to those you’re with; the bottomless concern, fierce protectiveness, and doting adoration with which you parent are not owed to anyone else. It will likely be misconstrued. Who could ever understand the rawness of it, save perhaps the single father, save perhaps the man who mourns?

Meet the home visit teacher at the library, to join the special playgroup. It will be good for her, she says, and it will be good for you. You will meet other mothers who are going through this. Do not think the phrase “going through this.” This is not a malady, just a difference.

Go back. Start short and slow. Do not overwhelm her. Forget sentences for now. Forget enunciation. Forget how we treat our children like thoroughbreds. Forget whatever inadequacies you’ve developed as a mother and a daughter and a lover and a friend. And just sit with what is happening. Quiet your raging, voluminous insecurities. Tell God you’re sorry; He will know for what and why. She likes farm songs. Cow is one of her clearest, most confident words. She does animal impressions. Imagine her the next Temple Grandin. She likes sky; she is a budding Mae Jemison. Imagine no one else. She is herself herself herself. Do not compare her. She is herself herself herself. And she is mine. 

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Nonfiction, Parenting

Jump at De Sun.

You have unassailable rhythm. This is a characteristic we noticed, even before you began to develop fine motor skills. You were three months old, and you could hit a drum with a mallet. You could keen your ear to cadences. The small cymbals of a tambourine shook under the strike of your infant palm. You hummed melodies before your mouth could form the ovals and planes necessary to pronounce lyrics.

Like so many children, you possess a raw musicality, a boundless curiosity in all instrumentation. But I also see an inkling of discipline in you, a commitment to practice quite unusual in two-year-olds. It is the rare day that passes without you asking to play your great-nana’s electric piano. Once you’re lifted onto the stool, it is difficult to coax you down. The praise you receive is too rapturous; the power you feel when the pads of your fingers elicit a chord is too intoxicating. We know that, if allowed, you would stay there for more than an hour as long as we were also there to laud you.

As your mother, it is my imperative to nurture this quality in you, even as it awes and unsettles me. My charge is to propel you toward each zenith for which you’re brave enough to press, while also making myself a nonjudgmental net to catch you when you fall. I mustn’t betray too colossal an expectation, too devastating a disappointment. Your pursuits are your own. Any joy or sorrow I feel as you set forth is mine to manage.

Increasingly, I am coming to understand the act of mothering as a cultivation of temperance. It is a holding-in-check of our most outsized expectations, a delicate calibration of all that we want for our children, all that they are capable of achieving, and all the moments when we each will need to accept a reality that resembles none of those possibilities.

But darling, you make this temperance difficult. How can I filter these bright beams of expectation when you glow so incandescently with promise? How can I allow you field of grass-skipping girldom, when with each day, you invent new reasons for me to spur you toward the sun?

It isn’t easy to wait for the coming years to unfurl themselves like a story quilt and reveal how you’ll evolve. But I will not anger God (or you) by rushing time. Its glacial inching is a grace. I will sip you slowly and relish each talent expanding. My every affirmation will be liberally and patiently seeded. I will make it my aim to know who you are, at any given moment, rather than to trouble us both over all the wondrous things I imagine you’ll become.

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