Five Years

My first girl. My sweet Blueberry. You were once so tiny, and now you are a long-legged, brilliant child. How sweet it is to think that you turned five years old last week. It would be easy to say it is bittersweet, thinking of how quickly the time has passed, but there is no bitterness to tinge the sweetness of the girl you are becoming. I relished every delightful and challenging phase with you, dear one. From the tiny hands to the to chubby hands to the nimble-fingered hands. You are five now. A whole hand.

First Birthday

I remember you were thinking about taking your first steps around this time. And you were sweet, lively, never tired, happy. You woke with a smile on sunshiny mornings, snuggled right next to me, and brought me more and more stories to read at night so you could delay sleep. You tenacious baby.

Second Birthday

I remember you beginning to explore your independence. By the end of the year, you weaned, you stopped wearing diapers, you became more excited by art and books. I remember everything, because I was there. I saw you.

Third Birthday

When you were three, you rode your first trike, became a princess, a ballerina, a mermaid, a fairy. Your imagination took off even further and you immersed yourself in stories, weaving fantasy into our everyday lives. I played dress up with you almost every day.

Fourth Birthday

Ah, my sweet fairy. You are creative, outgoing, eager to please. This year you began to do some lessons at home and are a bright and curious student. You are both energetic and thoughtful, spontaneous and intuitive. You began to have real nightmares this year, too, as you start to realize there are dark things in this beautiful world. I remember because I held you, walked the floor with you, read Peter Rabbit to you in the middle of the night and told you it was ok. Because it was. It was good.

Fifth Birthday

You, my Bluest Blueberry girl, are the sweetest, smartest, brightest five year old I know. You are a fantastic big sister, a big help to your mama, and keep us all full of life. You are learning to write letters, and love to help me cook. You are a pirate, a fairy, a butterfly, a mother. Every day is new and exciting. You have had your first big girl haircut, you have lost your first tooth, you have watched your little sister take part of your place with generosity and joy, realized that your parents are a bit human after all, you have started to find your voice. You are funny, witty, creative, silly, and empathetic. You are both a challenge and a delight. Some people have called you "a handful," but I know better. You are a whole hand.

Lost to the Sea

"The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem to be filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster [...]"
--- Elizabeth Bishop from "One Art"

Where has the month gone? February, strange warm February, has skittered away from us as if it were bouncing then caught by a playful gust of wind....


Balls are at once delightful and cruel toys. Much like balloons or socks, they seem to have been designed with "the intent to be lost."

Blueberry takes her beloved blue ball to the beach. Bounces it.

The ball finds itself unhanded, the ball likes its freedom.

At this point I cannot help but refer you to Berryman's "The Ball Poem."


What is the boy now, who has lost his ball,
What, what is he to do? I saw it go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over--there it is in the water!
No use to say 'O there are other balls':
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His ball went.

I encourage you to read the rest of the poem -- an incredible musing on the "epistemology of loss" -- but Blueberry, watching the ball taken by the wind and drift of the tide, experiences the loss without Berryman's "ultimate shaking grief ," but rather with wistful acceptance. I refuse, yes refuse, to compare Bishop's version of loss ("Practice losing something everyday") to Berryman's ("People will take balls, /Balls will be lost always, little boy, /And no one buys a ball back.") because, well, it gets too gendered. But my darling girl takes her disaster in stride. She cries for a brief moment, realizes the ocean is far too cold to race in after her ball, then asks if we can sing a goodbye song to the ball. She imagines the ball finding its way over the sea to another child. It is graceful. She is practicing.