Exploring Womanhood > Journals > Growing Together: A Journal From Mother to Daughter > Entries

Entry #7 ~ May 19 - June 5, 2002
~ "Charon need Mama."

May 19, 2002

Dear Charon,

It's been a cold spring, save a few strange, heat-wave days. I am eager to spend time out in the sun with you, but I still wonder where the winter went. It seems I was just getting used to saying, "She's two-and-a-half," when people asked me your age, and now I'm struggling to believe it when I say, "She's almost three." (You'll be three in July, just two months from today.)

You've been clingy. You rarely cry, but these last two days, you've been getting upset, and it's hard for me to figure out why, or how to make you feel better. You keep saying, "Charon need Mama," when I'm right next to you, or even while I'm holding you. You get easily startled - "What's that??" you say, jumping into my lap, referring to a small noise from outside. Yesterday, you were frightened by an ant, creeping across the living room floor; and today I had to save you from every tiny bit of fuzz and dirt you saw there, too. I think you understand that the ant (and the fuzz and the dirt and the noises) won't hurt you. It's strange, but I get the feeling that you're practicing being scared, needing Mama, wanting to check in and be sure I'll be there whenever you really need me. I'll always be there, hon. And I'll always reassure you that I'll be there.

My favorite new sentence of yours: I'll say, "I love you, Charon," and you'll reply, "I love you, Mama." But I heard another one today that almost beat that. After hearing, "Charon need Mama," so often lately, I loved it when you looked up at me today as I was holding you, and said, "Charon need Daddy."

We need you, too, my dearest.

Love,
Mom

May 28, 2002

Dear Charon,

Well, I think I figured out where the clinginess was coming from. You came down with a bad cold on Friday, and have been fighting it these last few days. You are so cute, my dear, plugging away at whatever you're doing, trying not to let a runny nose get you down. These last two days, you've been crankier; I think you're getting fed up with it.

You are also complaining a bit about your mouth. I've peeked in back, to see if I can spot those reclusive two-year molars that haven't made an appearance yet. Nothing there that I can see, but that doesn't mean they're not on the way. I've been waiting for them for awhile, ever since you turned two, actually. I was starting to worry a bit, and asked at the dentist when we took you in about a week ago.

It was your first visit. I had an appointment, and, last-minute, we decided to bring you in, too. I was anxious about it, because you usually get very frightened in new situations, but you did really well. They were so nice, letting you warm up to the ideas before trying anything with you. You agreed to sit on my lap in the big chair and have a ride. She gave you a sparkly toothbrush, and now, every time you brush your teeth with it, you say, "Thank you, dentist!" You got a bit teary when you saw the beginning of my teeth cleaning, so the hygienist stopped and explained that it wasn't hurting me, and we found something new for you to do.

The red balloon she gave you was the biggest hit. You adored it. The two of you had a bond then, so she even got you to open her mouth! ("Can you roar like a lion, Charon? Great! What pretty teeth you have!") She counted your teeth, got a good look at all of them and felt in back to see if she could find any signs of those molars yet. She said they might be coming, not to worry too much about them, and showed me a chart that said children usually get them anywhere from 28-43 months. All in all, a positive experience for you. Hooray!

I'll write more later. Not much time to write when I've got a sick kiddo to care for.

I love you,
Mom

June 5, 2002

Dear Charon,

You've fully recovered from your cold now. You and I are both much happier. It's so hard to see you sick. Often, I wish I could take on the illness for you. Then I usually start showing signs of coming down with it, too, and I reverse my decision: "No, I didn't mean it! At least wait until Charon gets better!" I was lucky this time, and just fought off symptoms for a couple of days, and was healthy again along with you.

I've decided I need to read Raising Your Spirited Child by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka. It's been on my bookshelf for awhile now, and I just haven't gotten to it. The author, a Minnesota native, wrote the book to help parents handle the spiritedness of their children. I'm not sure that you'd be considered "spirited" by the book's definition, but I know you definitely get spunkier when you don't feel good, and I need to learn ways to help you deal with life when you're out of sorts. I think I will write a bit now each week about the book, and the insights it gives me into you (and me.)

Here's a sweet story for you. Gramma Charon and Grampa Bill were in town for the weekend, and they came over on Monday to say goodbye to you. You were thrilled to see them again, and immediately engaged Gramma in a game of pretend. Grampa and I sat back and watched you, getting a kick out of the things you'd say and do. At one point, Gramma asked you if you wanted to play with the dollhouse baby or the tools. Usually, you take some time to think about things, but this question was easy. "Tools," you said, matter-of-factly, as if that was the obvious choice. I wonder if you'll ever be interested in baby dolls. I have a feeling you won't! You're not very interested in real babies either, which makes your mom wonder how it will work if you ever have a sibling.

When they were getting ready to go, Gramma said, "We have to leave now. It's time for us to go home." You looked at them both and said, in that third-person way you have, "Charon need go to ----- Lake." (----- Lake is where they live right now.) We were all quite surprised and pleased that you remembered the name of their home, which was also the cabin of my childhood. We went there to visit in April, and, thanks to you, we've just set the date for our next trip.

Let's go!

Love,
Mom