A Morning with My Preschooler at La Mesa Eco Park

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.

marcel proust

I still remember when I first visited La Mesa Eco Park in Quezon City for a fashion editorial shoot (one of my favorites!).  I was amazed that a park that large (33 hectares) could be hidden within this crowded city. That was in 2010 and I hadn't been back since, until a few weeks ago when E's nursery class visited the park for their end-of-year field trip and family day. I am glad to report that the park is still as green and well-kept as it was many years ago (which is not often the case for public areas in Manila, unfortunately).

One of the joys of having children is that I get to be a traveller in my hometown. I've lived in Metro Manila for most of my life and I've visited most of the kid-friendly places in the city, thanks to the 11 years I spent as a writer and then an editor for three kids' magazines (first, K-Zone; then, Monster Allergy; then, finally, my beloved Total Girl). But I was not yet a parent in those days.

Visiting with a preschooler on a mission to fully experience everything rather than with a fashion editorial team on a tight schedule allowed me to see the park with fresh, eager, and gracious eyes. I know some may dread taking their young kids out in public because of the potential for disaster—I know because, on some days, I am one of those people—but I urge you to bring a venti cup of coffee to rinse away the pessimism  and try to see all the potential for wonder, three feet from the ground, arms outstretched, head in constant motion. Up, down, back, around, then back up again. And if, on that morning, you are having trouble finding joy, bring a magnifying glass. No, really. Literally. Because if you do, I guarantee your preschooler will have no trouble pointing out to you that there is much to wonder about hiding in plain view.

Can a Fearful Mom Raise a Fearless Girl?

"Be careful!" "Hold on tightly!" "You're high up, okay?" "Are you scared?" Maybe she hadn't been five minutes ago as she ran towards the carousel, her favorite ride at the mall. She had ridden many times before, with a parent or grandparent standing next to her as was dictated by the safety sign by the ticket booth. But, today, my three-year-old daughter was tall enough to ride on her own. "I want to ride by myself," she'd announced. "The big horse." We paid for the ticket and ushered her in, so proud of our big girl. Then the precautionary litany started.

Suddenly, the ride lost a little bit of its magic. I saw her face stiffen as the horse went up, then down. She whispered in its metal ear and planted a kiss on its mane. "Mommy, I'm scared," she called to me while her face still showed a smile frozen in place. I asked her if she wanted to stop; she said no. I walked beside her till she felt safe again. I can't tell when the switch happened, when she stopped being fearless and settled for being daring, taking the risk despite feeling fearful. Not a bad consolation, except I wonder: Was the fear inherent, a necessary rite of passage from baby to big girl, or inherited, passed on from fearful parent to once-fearless child? 

There will never be another first solo carousel ride, so I guess we'll never know. I do know that, next time, she'll be more inclined to choose the smaller horse, the easier ride, the less dangerous option. She'll back down for the benefit of those of us watching. But who really benefits when a child plays it safe? 

The Problem with Scars

As she climbed out of her carseat, I saw it: the 3-inch-wide scrape on her knee, which, in its redness, still did not go with the outfit she'd carefully put together for herself: a pink striped top and orange skirt made for twirling and curtseying. Why hadn't I noticed it as we were getting dressed? She should have worn pants today. She caught me looking at her and asked me what was wrong. I stopped myself from saying what I was thinking.

Why did I care? She was obviously over the pain that had caused it, saying proudly an hour after it happened that "it only hurts I little 'cause it's healing and I'm brave." It did not bother her enough to make her choose leggings instead of the skirt she announced was "perfect, because I'm a princess today." It caused her so little discomfort that she hadn't even stopped to scratch it like she does bug bites or dry patches. So why was I, the onlooker, feeling so ill at ease?

Walking around, people complimented her smile and mentioned how grown up she looked, but in my head, I heard other voices: "Babae pa naman" ("Especially since she's a girl"). How could I let this happen to her? How could I let her body get this way? Marked up and imperfect. What if the scars don't lighten? How would she wear shorts and short skirts when she's older? How will she be able to show off her legs? They come and offer their prescriptions: this will help, this will heal, this will make her better. I thank them for the gifts, the balms, the suggestions. They work on the dark marks, but some scars don't heal.

What We Talk About When I Talk About Love with My Daughter

I wish she knew how much I love her. She doubts it sometimes. I see her eyes. She feels that if she could be small again, so small she fit on my lap alongside her brother—no, smaller, so she could squeeze back inside me where it is warm and safe and she doesn't need to share—then she could have all the love that would be enough to fill her. Or, failing that, if only she could be tall, so tall she could "reach the sky," she would then outgrow the hurt that threatens to bury her. She burst into tears the other night and whispered that exact wish. "I wish I could be tall. My heart would not hurt if I were tall." Oh, darling, grown ups have more heartbreak than you could ever imagine. Stay small, stay here with me.

But even here I can not keep you safe. Even now I sometimes have to nudge you away to make room for another.

It was my fear when I was pregnant with her brother. I doubted myself, my capacity to multiply. Even before there were two, I mourned the days of "me and you, just us two." At 34, I wondered and had no faith in love; what more at 3 years and 3 months?

10-Minute Paper Pirate Costume for Pretend Play

Avast, ye landlubbers!

My daughter wanted to be a pirate. Oh, happy day! You must understand, I come from a long line of pirates (well, my brother and I, see above) and I had been hoping even before she was born that my daughter would continue the family tradition. However, ever since she discovered Sofia the First, all I hear is Sofia this, Sofia that. So when she asked me the other day if she could have a pirate costume, naturally I said yes.

Unfortunately, I didn't have time to make a real pirate costume. Who knew how long this whim would last? I had to act fast or risk losing her to the princess crew forever.

I did have paper, a printer, some leftover ribbon from Christmas, and 10 minutes to spare while my second cup of coffee brewed and I needed to get back to work. So, while she napped, I hacked this quick and cheap fix. (Please remember that this took less than 10 minutes so it's not meant to be long-wearing or authentic.)

Process, not Progress: What My Preschooler Taught Me About Art

"Painting is not fun." These were words exclaimed in exasperation, a response to my insisting that we paint this morning. Okay, every morning. It was a wake-up call. I had committed the mortal sin of art with kids:

I had been focusing on the product of creation rather than the process of creation. 

In my defense, I had only made what I thought were casual suggestions: "Why don't we paint this leaf that you found?" or "Why don't you paint something that makes you happy?" Open-ended enough, I thought. But, even in those statements there was a hidden clause: we had to make something.

It was the unspoken "something" that had hung in the air over our last few art sessions. A shapeless mold that her work has to fit into; shapeless, but a mold nonetheless. One time, as was my habit, I'd asked her what she was drawing. She answered, "Please don't ask me, Mommy." Maybe she herself had not decided yet.

They're Not All Teachable Moments

Art therapy and alone time heals (some) wounds.

"Mommy, sometimes it's not easy to be with friends." She sat down next to me in a sad little pile of tangled hair and dirty feet. I'd left her outside to play with her friends, our neighbors; they'd been devising new rules for a game of Hide and Seek, like only a group of three-and-belows could do.

This looked serious. I put her brother down on the play mat to explore. "Jacob, your sister needs to talk to Mommy," I said, more for her benefit that for his, at six months old. I wanted her to know she had my full attention, even with her brother semi-crawling off the mat to paw at the tile. It was the least I could do after that solemn statement.

Being Big is Not Easy

She watched her brother take his first bites of food as he sat in my lap. He grimaced, but opened his mouth for more, and we all cheered.

It was not easy for her to swallow.

At breakfast, she cheered along with us, although she picked up an old habit of banging on her tray as loudly as she could.

But at lunch, as she watched him sit on my lap again, so close to me as she sat a foot away, it must have occurred to her that this was the new way things were going to be.

So used to being the center of attention, she realized she was no longer the only bright star in the family constellation (although she was still the brightest). Here he was, to stay, forever, in the lap that used to be hers.

Used to be? That can not be. Why should I sit here quietly?

And so she screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

This was the scene this morning at breakfast. I guess it was to be expected. She would not eat her food or be consoled or quiet down. She would not settle for anything less than my full attention.

But her brother had to eat. It was his turn, his moment. He had waited so expectantly for this milestone, although probably not as expectantly as I did. All the research, the new wooden bowls, the new blue spoons, the brown rice ground up (organic, of course—let's see how long that lasts), the milk freshly squeezed, they all led up to this first taste of solid food. And I wasn't about to hand him over to someone else to feed.

So I let her scream. And scream. And scream.

Feelings are not shut down here; at least, we try. She had to scream. She had to express her hurt. It was not going to go away with a shush or a treat. Her brother was here to stay. But her feelings didn't have to.

After he'd finished most of his meal, I let our helper hold him and turned my attention to my bigger baby. On my lap once again, her arms wrapped around me.

"It's not easy watching Mommy feed Jacob, huh? Do you miss being the baby that Mommy feeds?" She nodded through her tears. "Did you just want to sit with Mommy for awhile?" No answer.

She sat in my arms silently for a very long time.

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Is your "big" girl or boy having big feelings about having a little sibling? Here are some words from wiser teachers that I try to remember:

Helping Kids Adjust to Life with a New Baby (janet lansbury)
10 Tips to Foster Great Sibling Relationships from the Start (aha parenting)
Preschooler Jealous of Baby: What to Do (aha parenting)
7 Ways to Help Your Child Adjust to a New Baby (huffington post)
From Sibling Rivals to Sibling Best Friends (peaceful parents, confident kids)

It is not easy being a big sister, but it can be beautiful.

"If You Can Make a Circle": A Simple Way to Use Art to Teach Shapes

Exploring the beauty of shapes

I've been struggling finding engaging activities for our homeschool preschool, but this morning, as usual, it was she who showed me an activity we could both enjoy and learn from. Letting the child lead is truly the wisest principle for early childhood education in our household. She's a much better teacher and initiator than I am.

I'd tried other activities to help her practice her shapes, but she runs from anything pre-planned and presented to her as a "lesson". Quizzing her with flash cards? Not our thing. She knows her shapes already, and the goal is not memorization of shape names, but training the brain to see how shapes fit into our world and to see that there are shapes all around us. It was about exploring possibilities and using objects creatively. I'd bought her a wonderful Learning Resources wooden pattern blocks set to play with because a lot of moms seemed to have success with those, but she is completely uninterested in them. So it was back to the drawing board.

It just so happened, drawing was actually the answer I was looking for:

Baby Sign Language: It Worked For Us!

Time to eat, Mom!

When you're a first-time mom, you come across a lot of must-tries that turn out to be disasters, a load of pishposh, or simply just a waste of time. Baby sign language is not one of those. Baby sign language, you say? Sounds like voodoo. But, for us, it worked! We are so glad we read about it, tried it, and kept at it! I have a lot of fond memories of Ella signing (I shared one in a previous post) and sometimes, when she nurses, she'll still sign "I love you" and we'll touch hands (sort of an "I love you"-five), our little ritual and secret language. I look forward to the memories I'll make with Jacob. He'll be six months old next week and we'll begin signing with him soon (although I've already begun signing, "I love you," out of habit. I wonder what his first word will be. 

(Click on for 5 reasons we love Baby Sign Language and 5 quick tips for getting started, after the jump)

Building Blocks: A Lesson in Letting Her Lead

This is my new approach to teaching her: Give her something that stimulates her mentally, then sit down and have my coffee. Win-win.

I'm half-joking. But I'm serious about how well this worked this morning. Left alone, she is able to focus on the task at hand, whatever she feels that may be. When I'm too near, she is distracted as her main goal becomes trying to get my attention. My full attention. Look away and you'll hear a crash, a splash, or a more explicit "Mommy, look at me!"

Today, the task at hand was building a tower by stacking boxes.