Letter Purge: Keep & Burn

Trying to make our basement a sports basement. Eventually, a climbling wall, basketball hoop, ballet barre. That is the goal. Right now, it just looks like Serbia.

We have all of our correspondence in three plastic bins. ALL of our correspondence. Geoff to me in college. Me to Geoff in college. Geoff to me in Denmark. My parents to me since college. My sister's to me in college. Joyce's to me from fourth grade through college. And various and miscellaneous. Then there are the other correspondence: Grands to us. Grands to our kids. And then the Christmas cards! Do people just throw these away? Some, yes, I can toss. But some, some are great photos, some are crafted-family newsletters that are funny and sweet.

Then there is the weird in-between category that my posthumous editors will call "The Slutty Period" and these are letters that when I asked Geoff if I should keep them caused him to ask, "Whose story are we trying to tell by keeping these letters?" They are letters and ephemera from boyfriends. I married my high school sweet-heart. Everyone knows that. But I want to keep these letters to signify the short run I had in the dating world. Clara and Calliope will read them and laugh and see that they have a choice to end up with fellas who do tight-handed drawings of themselves with various guitars OR they can choose men like Geoff. They can choose guys who name their members or they can choose men like Geoff. They can choose partners who torment them with philosophical debate OR they can choose men like Geoff. Of course, I will tell them. But these letters are proof. I think that adolescents are big on proof.

A friend said that when they moved, she did a ceremonial fire to burn a lot of letters and journals she wanted to put behind her. So we tried that with some stuff last night. We put some stacks of old letters and notebooks in the fireplace and stoked it. It was kind of beautiful, the paper turning white to yellow, to deep red, then to gray ash in these detrital layers of thin film. When you blew at them, they turned to powder. The fire was so smoky, we threw open the windows. And what was worse was that where the kids sleep on the third floor, it was smokiest of all. What if there's symbolism in that? Whoa.

Anyway, FYI, I think I have kept a pretty representative sampling of the best letters. And no, I'm sorry you can't read them.

To our dear baby as you turn three:

I don't know where you came from but you have got me wrapped around your finger. This is trouble for me, I know, but forgive me, I am a Mama who loves babies. Your growing pains have been felt in your sibings, yourself, and me and Dad. Getting weaned, dry nights, getting your own cup, making your bed-- these have been hurdles that you cleared this year! Now onto literacy, onto friendship, onto strollerless hikes, your own library card!

At the beginning of Winter, at Family Swim, you would cling to our necks and fuss if I had to even shift you onto my hip to carry you in the water rather than have you face-to-face, you a 25 pound necklace. And now, you are the bell of the ball at your swim class. You refuse to wear the bubble, says it hurts your belly. When I recommended you wear your one-piece, you gave me lip service and packed the bikini in your lunch bag. You swim only aided by the barbell. And if I reach for you, you turn and swim swiftly away. The turning, the quick little kicks you do in the water are wonderful. I wear my goggles and watch you underwater: a wiggling mermaid with caramel skin and a polka-dot ruffle skirt as a fin-tail. Then your hands, oh my, the painted nails under water, doing the "ice cream scoop" stroke!

I am savoring this time when I have a tidy little rhythm with you-- play dough, watch Bible Songs, cut fruit for snack, load laundry. Or going to the Y, the library, the thrift store. Our serene little days, our pacts (Gumballs for behaving in the hardware store. A teeny Hagen Dazs of her own at Shop Rite if you sits in the seat. All-you-can eat cheezits at daily Mass.)

My voice is the major chord that you hear in the world. And I know that it won't be like this forever: Manny has adopted his teacher's Philly accent. Benicio's life goal is a game-system. Clara idolizes her teacher who drives a purple car and lives in a pink house. I am relishing the one-on-oneness of our time together. When it was just Manny and me during our days-- I thought he was made of glass. Now, with a sort-of do-over, I see that neither of us is made of glass. We are made of sturdy stuff, and when you wrap your arms around my neck, I am saying, Baby, I got you.

Thumbelina: A Slideshow

If you want to see Calliope's third year in pictures, watch this slideshow. Music from Dan Zanes' "76 Trombones."

Three Posts to Honor Three Years

Lists for Calliope.

Things You Did Your First Week Being 3:
-asserted your way into ballet class (with a recital in 9 weeks)
-packed away 1.5 hot dogs
-told two boys at nursery school to call you "Sarah"
-planted pansies with me

Popular Expressions With You Right Now:
-Please, I beg you!
-Ah hah, your boyish!
-Please, I'll be your friend and invite you to my party!
-Please, I'll invite you into my club!
-I'm winning and your losing.

Gems
-You thought that your friend from swim-class whose name is Donal was "the name from the pacem song" (as in Dona Nobis Pacem).
-You were making sandbox cakes with a friend today. You told her, "You have pretty hands."