It's Not Supposed To Happen This Early

It's just NOT!
I just had the most heartbreaking conversation with my four-year-old Sweet Pea in the car.


We were stopped at a red light, talking about her day and Buddy's day, just like every other time I have picked them up from school this year. I noticed that both kids seemed really tired, which I assumed was due to the number of last-day-of-school activities. In Buddy's case, that was true and maybe that was part of it for Sweet Pea, too.
Then, she said something I hoped I would never hear her say.
"Mommy, Ava is better than me."


Huh?? Where in the world would she get an idea like that? So, I asked her what she meant and she proceeded to fill me in on how pretty Ava is, and how everyone likes her because she has so many dolls and toys and such pretty clothes. "Her clothes are a lot prettier than mine, Mommy, and she has a lot more bows than I do."
She went on to say that Ava brought presents for Mrs. Pam and Mrs. Pam's new grandson (these were actually gifts from the whole class, but I guess that's not easy for a four-year-old to grasp), and that Ava got brand new gold shoes and she even has an Elsa doll. But, I think the part that bothered me the most was when she told me that she doesn't like her own face and she wants to look like Ava.
"I just want to be Ava!"


She is four. FOUR! It's not supposed to happen now! I know it happens and that self-esteem plummets when girls hit middle school, but we have been giving her the Aibileen Cooper pep talk for four years now, trying to postpone that as long as possible. She IS kind. She IS smart. She IS important. She is also polite, funny, affectionate, beautiful, and the best big sister her brothers could ever hope to have. I don't think she has gone to bed without hearing how wonderful she is in four years.
I want to know who told her she's supposed to look like or dress like someone else.Where did she get this mess??


Don't get me wrong, I have experienced the same thing. I, too, wanted to look like the other girls - the ones who were cutesy and petite (which I've never been), blond (which I've never been without paying for it), and had more cute outfits than they could count and name brand shoes and all that. I'd be lying if I said I didn't sometimes sit in my second grade classroom wishing I had a cascading mane of blond tresses adorned with one of those barrettes that had the ribbons woven around it. Remember those?

 If you were born after 1982, probably not. I don't think my thick, mousy brown waves would have held one. And, then there was the perm. Oh, Lordy, the perm. Oops, sorry. Repressed memories are flooding back.
 But, I was older. I wasn't FOUR.


At four years old, I'm pretty sure my self-esteem was still intact. I knew that I was smart and housed and clothed and fed and loved and that was all that mattered. My cousin was a petite blond, but I didn't want to BE her. I just wanted to share my Strawberry Shortcake doll with her. I didn't realize that I didn't look like the other girls until someone pointed it out.


I do not want that for her!! I want her to know how incredible she is and that there is no such thing as someone who is pretty or better than she is. I want her to know that she is fearfully and wonderfully made, that she is perfect just the way she is and that her hair and clothes and how many toys she has just DO NOT MATTER! It's all just stuff. It's crap. None of it will make any difference in the big picture.
I wish that, when I was an eight- or nine-year-old envying the other girls for their bird legs and Care Bear collections, someone had shown me a snapshot of myself in my thirties, with a husband who adores me, three fantastic kids, taking a brief hiatus from a career I love to hang out with them for a while, good friends, a wonderful church...need I go on? Maybe I still would have wanted to look like someone else, but maybe it would have helped to know that in the grand scheme of things, I was going to be happy whether I had Sam & Libby shoes or shoes from Payless.


Part of me wonders if this is my doing. Does she feel left out because I don't dress her in ruffles the size of lampshades and bows the size of her head every time she leaves the house, like all the little preppy preschoolers? I honestly don't want her to be someone who thinks the sky is going to fall if she doesn't have exactly what the perceived, "everyone" else has. I mean, she's a well-dressed child, but I want her to look like a four-year-old who's going to climb stuff and have fun, not a doll.


So, I said what I think, I hope, I was supposed to say. I told her all the things I love about her, and that God made her wonderful, exactly the way she is. I told her that only Ava can be Ava, and only Sweet Pea can be Sweet Pea. I told her how much I love her.


I hope she believed me.


It shouldn't happen at all. But, really, it's not supposed to happen this early.
:(

I'm Sorry, Noah.

For the greater portion of my elementary school years, and in most of my middle- and high school classes, my name was not Heather.
No, it was Heather L.
And, I hated it.


Don't get me wrong, I like the name Heather. It's a perfectly fine name. I just didn't like being Heather L.


You see, in 1977, the year I graced the world with my presence, Heather was the fifth most popular name in the country. Therefore, I was hardly ever the only Heather in my class, and there were often at least three of us sitting in the same classroom, looking up every time someone said our first names, getting the wrong papers back, and confusing the teachers and other students.


My mother always asserted that she had no idea the name was so popular when she gave it to me, and I never believed her. How could she not know?? Didn't she pay attention to what other people were naming their babies when she was considering names for me??


Now, I believe her.


We deliberately gave our first two children names that were not even in the top 100 for that very reason. Classic names, yes, but not common among today's babies.


I'm sorry, Noah. I only know one other person with a little boy named Noah, and he's older than you. I had no idea that it was going to be the number ONE name in the country for baby boys last year. I just didn't know.


So, in a couple of years, when you become Noah H. and remain so for at least the next twelve years, you can put all the blame on your dad and me. We should have paid closer attention.


My bad.

Say What?

I always used to write about the cute ways Sweet Pea pronounced words, but I have been neglectful in recording those things for Buddy. Mom of the year, folks.
I hope you are as amused by these as we are.


"Mennerade": Lemonade. As in, "I have some mennerade wif my famwich? Peez, peez?"
"Yes, it doesn't": No.
"No, I am!": No.
"Yes, I not!": No.
"Mah-Win": Madeline
"Ollange": Orange
"El-woe": Yellow
"Squirrled": Scored
"Pillow": Could be pillow. Could be Pluto. Sometimes we have to clarify.
Speaking of pillows, he is as attached to his pillow as Sweet Pea is to her lovey. He carries it with him everywhere and chews on the corner. So, so sweet. I really just want to gobble him up.
"Grill": Girl. Now, this one has been confusing not only for us, but for Buddy himself. Hence, the following conversation -
Me: "Do you want to try a grilled cheese?"
Buddy: "No! I want a boy cheese!"
Which brings us to our final word, which is,
"Yuck!": Any food that is not a pb&j or fruit. Of these two, the child eats only enough to keep himself alive, no matter how much we try to encourage him to eat or to try new things. He even refused a marshmallow I tried to give him.
He has picky eaters on both sides of his family, but he also has people who are obsessed with food on both sides. And, of the picky eaters, trust me, we still love to eat.


So, that's what it's like to talk to our middle child. Our wonderfully sweet, affectionate, intelligent, rambunctious middle child.
Don't you just want to squeeze him?