”This One Time…”
Thanksgiving 2017
Dear Sophia,
This world we live in is in a hurry. On Mondays we’re hustling toward Fridays, on
blistery days we’re hoping for the warmth of the sun. We transition from one holiday to the next so
fast they start to blur together. Each
year, the stores rush in displays and décor for the next season, the next main
event. We hardly had a chance to realize
fall had arrived because the Christmas trees were up the day after
Halloween. Thanksgiving doesn’t have
much of a chance.
Thanksgiving, though, is one of my most beloved
holidays. It’s an opportunity for family
members who don’t usually see one another to sit at the shared table. It’s the hum of conversation and sound of
clinking glass; the soft words of family prayers and the pitter-pattering of
little feet. It’s not only about the plentiful
food, but the chaos in the kitchen, like a practiced dance as we’re fighting
over the oven and counter space. It’s
the greeting of the guests, the roundtable thanks, the laughter, and the kids’
table. It’s the lingering after dinner,
the leisurely pace, the pause we’ve been craving and savor in this busy, dizzy
world.
This year, I decided to add graduate school to my already
full plate – a demanding job with added travel and being a mommy to you. What I soon found was that getting through
each day felt like a cruel exercise in time management – any time I chose
homework or the office was less time spent with you. And so I’d sacrifice sleep instead, only to
fall asleep during playtime. As much and
as hard as I wished for the power to stop time, I knew it wasn’t possible, so
all I could do was learn to do my best with the time I have been given.
I’ve said this before: There are no guarantees in this
life. We’re not given a timetable or
score sheet, and we’re not promised tomorrow.
I think about what I want to tell you today, even if you’re not ready to
comprehend it. And so, I write.
I write about moments and glimpses in time. I write about your milestones, but also about
our day to day, when you’ve made me laugh or pause or even cry, as I’m realizing
what a big girl you’re becoming. I write
about a new word or phrase you’ve added to your vocabulary, another song you’ve
picked up, hand motions and all. I write
about the pictures I’m sending to your e-mail address, snapshots of the places
we’ve gone and new things we’ve tried and different foods we’ve eaten. I write about times you’ve challenged me and
other times you’ve equally surprised me.
I write about things I’m trying to instill in you but mostly about what YOU
have taught ME, because you have been my teacher all along.
So what have I learned this year?
Be present. In this world of distractions and the
concept of multitasking, it’s easy to lose focus. Whenever I’ve reluctantly turned my attention
away, you gently remind me to be with you in the here and now. “Mommy, look!” you’ll exclaim. “Come here,” and I’m there. Ever since you were a baby, you’ve wanted to
be included, literally a part of the conversation. Your daddy and I will be talking about our
day and you’ll call one of us by name until we stop and look over, only for you
to flash your trademark smile. It’s a
constant reminder to be mindful.
Be nice. You have an incredibly kind heart and a
caring, sweet demeanor. Your teachers
remark about how empathetic you are, so in tune with others’ emotions, hugging
your friends when they’re in distress. You
look forward to feeding Bianca every day and showering her with kisses. Even though your cousin James has surpassed
you in size, you recognize that he’s younger, just as you innately know and
respect that cousin Addie is older.
Every night since your cousin Ryan was born only a short month ago, you
ask to see his picture – such a simple request, but you’re instantly
happy. You’ve shown us that there are so
many ways to exhibit kindness and affection, and to express it as often as we
can.
Be bold. Somehow, you find a way to help us forget
ourselves – the shyness, the self-consciousness, the awkwardness. You order us to run outside. You encourage us to dance in the middle of
restaurants. You invite people into our
lives and connect us in meaningful ways.
And you’re not afraid – of differences, of discovering, of going a bit
off-roading.
Be funny. Whether you’re “teecle” tackling me or
making up a new game to play, your laughter fills our home. When times are stressful, you lighten the
mood; when you have the floor, you’re ready to shine. We often muse about our little firecracker,
bursting with personality, easily offering up your big, cheesy smile. You’ve taught us not to take life too
seriously and to let loose and have fun.
Be you. I hope you never lose your positive outlook on the world. One day it may not seem as open or straightforward,
but that inner optimism will get you though.
It’s the strut in your step, your creative nature, your
independence. It’s the way you belt out
songs, how you need to organize things and put them away, the rush of excited
conversation when I pick you up. It’s
your big, warm hugs, your horizontal sleeping, and, “I love you, Mommy,” which
are the best words ever spoken, every time.
I want to thank you for teaching me to be, and today I capture this letter as our picture in time – despite
the flurry and frenzy of the start of the holiday season. Thank you, my smart, darling, headstrong,
sassy girl, for reminding me to recharge and reassess, and for reserving an oh,
so grateful heart.
Love,
Mommy
