A THREE YEAR OLD GIRL

I stayed up very late the night before the party, sewing mountains of fluffy white tulle into tutu's for the guests.  I tore the gauzy fabric into strips and layered them around the elastic as the machine hummed and the children slept.  We found the tulle at the the old fabric shop around the corner from our apartment, the one with the dusty turn-of-the-century Singer sewing machine sitting in the window and the rainbow spools of thread piled high on tiny shelves.  The man who runs the shop had given us a deal on the yardage, on account that it was Biet's third birthday.  "You're three? And a ballerina?" he had inquired with a grin. "I'm three! And I'm the prima!" replied Biet, straight-faced yet beaming with pride, her little eyebrows raised high into rounded arches so as to inspire awe in the man of her great talents.

Of course, this second statement was false. I'm not even sure what one must do to become a prima ballerina, though I have an inkling that it involves years of practice and gruesome competition, none of which Biet could even imagine.
But on the day of her party, we did our best to make it true, if only for a little while.

The playground would become the stage.  A sparkling curtain of gold would hang in the back, and the whole world, which to Biet entailed whomever happened to be at playground on this fine Saturday morning, would be the audience.  All eyes would be on the prima, surrounded by her ensemble, as she twirled and whirled under the balloons and paper flowers which peppered the air above.  There would be blue hats and white tutu's, and pearls for everyone!  This was the birthday girl's wish.

Oh,  and the cake was to have both pearls and eyes.  This really had nothing to do with ballet, and everything to do with the opinionated decisiveness of three-year-olds. With a little blue food coloring and imagination, we pulled it off.

I remember that at Biet's last birthday, which just happened to be in this exact same park, she received a giant pink tutu from a friend.  Having worked so hard on bringing her up in an environment focused on creativity and expression, free of the fluff and the pink princess culture so dominant in our society, I was stunned when she squealed and put the tutu on, wearing it for the remainder of the party.  I didn't quite know how to handle a "girly" girl, and hadn't even truly considered that I may have one on my hands.  As it turns out, and as I come to realize more and more over time, all of the gender stereotypes, whether they lean one way or the other, are actually irrelevant.  What is relevant are happy kids, a playful and colorful childhood, enthusiastic days and open minds.  Over the last twelve months, I've worked hard on letting go and really embracing what makes my kids happy.  Biet has thrown herself into ballet, and dance, and pink tutu's, and that's awesome.  She has embraced the notion of motherhood, as she's watched me mother Lucien from day one, and she loves her little baby dolls dearly.  It's amazing to see her care for them.  Is it too girly and stereotypical? I really don't care.  Is it beautiful and empathetic and nurturing? Absolutely.  She also loves fire trucks. And painting.  And music.  Some days, her favorite color is pink. Other's, it's black.  And it's all wonderful.  It's all who she is, and who she is becoming.  And I love every bit of it, every bit of her.

So when she asked for a ballet tutu party, I did my best to make it happen.   We never actually made it to the recital part, but I think after all of the friends and pizza and presents and cake, she forgot all about it anyway.  Her good friends joined together to celebrate her, and her three years of life, and it was lovely.  And as children's parties always are, it was also a whirlwind of mayhem and laughter and mess, just the way it's supposed to be.

That night, and for many days after, she lay in bed at the end of day and told me with a tired little smile "Mama, I'm THREE. And it was my party. And I was the prima ballerina."  

"Yes, you were," I told her, "and you were perfect. Did you have fun?"

She smiled even wider and tucked her baby dolls into bed next to her. "Yes, Mama, I did. And we're gonna have another birthday party tomorrow!"

Well child, I'm not quite sure about that. We will have many more birthdays, but not just yet.  Let's all slow down a little and enjoy each day of this upcoming year together, as a three-year-old little girl and her thirty-year-old Mama.  I'm sure I will look back on this time and say, "Biet, you were so little! Remember when you made me hunt for eyeball decorations all over the city for your birthday cake?!" And you will look back and say, "Mama, you were so young! Remember when you stayed up all night sewing tutu's for my friends?!"

These are the days, my tiny dancer. I love you so very much.  Happy Birthday.


Looking back:
// the day of Biet's 2nd birthday  + Biet's first birthday party + Biet at one year old //

MY MAN'S BIRTHDAY

A double chocolate cake was served at midnight.

A deliriously tired little girl helped to blow out the candles, and then wanted to do it again. 

So we re-lit them.  Four times. 

And somehow, watching her blow them out- with her excitement, determination, focus, pride, and joy- was even more exciting for us than it was for her, if that is possible. 

And so began Gaby's birthday this year. 

The next morning we rose and made our way to the West village. Biet and I had an early morning ballet class, Gaby had an hour-long date with his son. The weather wasn't quite sure what it wanted to do, sputtering storm-like drizzles on us one moment, and blanketing the city in a humid gray fog the next. No sooner had we dashed through the rain and purchased a blanket for poor under-dressed baby Lou (or rather, a huge beautiful scarf for me that would happily double as a blanket for baby Lou.. NYC with kids- its all about multi-tasking!), had the temperature shot up ten degrees and the air become hot and sticky.  The day seemed odd, but we were determined to change that.  

A stint at the Minetta playground brightened everyone's mood. Biet insisted on taking Lucien down the slide with her, and so, snug in the arms of his sister, he slid down his first slide.  Sometimes I see the way she takes care of him: the way that she adores and loves him and wants to teach him, and I know in my heart how lucky they are to have each other.  It's a bond beyond words with those two, and it's amazing to watch as it strengthens and deepens over time.  

The winds began to change.  

The sun began to shine. 

And the day began to accumulate that NYC magic that it so deserved. 

We stopped in to Pepe Rosso to pick up some Italian to-go.  He loves the gnocchi. I love the salmon. But in honor of my man's birthday, I decided to go out on a limb and try some new dishes (stick with the gnocchi and the salmon, trust me).  Gaby and I used to stop in for impromptu dinners here long before we had children, long before we were married, when we used to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend. We would pop into this little hole in the wall, snuggle into one of their three bright red candle-lit tables, and instantly feel like we owned the place.  And when we were finished, our bellies full of home-cooked food and our souls full of good conversation and laughter, we would stroll down Sullivan street and instantly feel like we owned the whole city.  Oh, Pepe Rosso. 

As we carried our lunch up to the park in the warm afternoon sun, Biet suddenly yelled out "Beatles!" and began wiggle-dancing, as toddlers do, in my arms.  She had caught the familiar sound of Sg. Pepper wafting out of the open windows of a tiny bar, and wanted to stop and listen. 

And dance.  

And sing along.  

And so we did. 

And in that moment, dancing and singing on the street, Gaby was given, by his two year old daughter, just about the best gift imaginable.   She may be more obsessed with The Beatles than he is. 

Onward we went, to the prettiest of all downtown parks, Washington Square.  While baby Lou napped, we lunched on the grass, finishing off our picnic with a couple of ice cream bars (or "chocolate popsicles," if you ask Biet) from the ice cream man.  A four piece band boomed old timey music behind us.  We sat side by side on a secluded park bench, and all was beautiful.  Lucien awoke just in time to taste his first ice cream (Oh boy! How this boy loves to eat!), and to practice, at the insistence of his sister, his standing.  Then with bellies full of pasta and ice cream, and souls full of the majestic ever-growing love of family, we walked down West 4th street.  And we began to feel like we owned the whole city. 

Westward we walked, past 6th Avenue and 7th, into the winding narrow streets of the far west village. Trees heavy with late-summer greenery draped overhead, and every once in a while a pulled curtain or open window would showcase a pretty little vignette from the inside of one of the mysterious and immaculate townhouses.  Oh, west village, please give me back my heart.  Gaby and I pointed out which apartments we would live in, and where the kids would go to school, and where they would play.  One day, baby. One day. 

As Biet slumbered in her stroller while it bounced along the old uneven sidewalks, we indulged in a banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery.  As it turns out, baby Lou may just be the biggest Magnolia banana pudding fan in all of Manhattan.  Gaby and I stumbled upon a little park in the middle of the road, and sat, once more, upon a city bench, to lounge and dream, talk and scheme.  Now the clouds had all drifted, and the sun was beaming, and it really felt like a birthday kind of day.  I realized as we sat there that it was in this exact spot that we had taken this picture when I was pregnant with Lucien.  This city has an unparalleled way of constantly feeling new.  It's something I've always admired about it. 

We sat with our two kids.  Our. two. kids. 

The paths we've walked, the adventures we've lived, the journey we are embarked upon now- are all such testaments to the wonder of this life and the good in this world.  It always becomes a little clearer to me around birthdays.  Now our birthdays are celebrated and understood not just by us, but through the eyes of our children.  Our world has grown so much bigger.  Our love has grown so much bigger.  As we sat on that little bench in that little garden in the middle of the street, it was just so clear. 

It was indeed a happy birthday. 

Until the sun set behind the buildings, we walked. Down through Soho, further west, then East.. we marched all over downtown.  Just before ending the day on a stoop on Bond street with french fries and ketchup (At Biet's request), a car pulled up next to us with the windows rolled down and the unmistakeable sound of "Let it Be" blaring from the speakers.  A dark haired gentleman with a big smile and a thick Brooklyn accent suddenly leaned out and yelled to Gaby, "Hey Man! You got a lottery ticket right there! Look at that beautiful wife, beautiful little girl, amazing son- healthy baby son! And you got New York City.. and a beautiful day! You better be counting your blessings at night!"  

And as a big smile spread across Gaby's face, he turned to the man, with John Lennon blasting in the background,  and yelled back, "Every night, brother!"

Happy Birthday Gaby. You're just amazing.  Every year these birthdays get better and better.  

BIET'S SECOND BIRTHDAY PARTY

In celebration of my little firecracker’s second birthday (I CANNOT believe it has been two years), we gathered some friends together in our very favorite of all parks, good old Tompkins Square (although I must say that it's nearly tied with Washington Square as far as favorite parks go). I laid out a couple of blankets, threw down a dozen balls for the kids to play with, arranged the straws in their mason jars and the paper plates in their pretty wire holders, stacked the party hats, iced the cupcakes, strung the decorations, and set out the food (a giant tub of bagels and cream cheese, apples, oranges, bananas, and seltzer).  And then the toddlers arrived.  And with them came mayhem.  In my head, I had envisioned a laid back picnic with everyone lounging on the grass playing music and snacking.  In reality. the decorations flew everywhere, the bagels were stepped on, the balls landed on the cupcakes (and the ice, and our faces), and pieces of half eaten banana ended up in my purse.  There were a couple of costume changes involved, we never actually got around to lighting the birthday candles, there were multiple toddler escape attempts through the fence- it was madness.  And of course I accidentally scheduled the party on the exact same day that the park hosts the Howl Festival, so performance art and music and characters of all sorts surrounded us.  We were right in front of the bandshell where “Men in Skirts” drag performers rolled out the hits, and over on the street giant canvases were stretched for artists to paint throughout the day.  A man dressed as a bug (?) robot (?) randomly joined the party.   Then a couple of hoola hoops showed up and made the rounds.  Good times, I tell you- good times. 


Biet's party was loud, messy, totally not what I had expected (I’m still learning the ropes of this whole toddler thing), and... utterly perfect.  I couldn’t have planned a more fitting day for my wild little pearl of a girl.  She was born in the East Village, after all.  :) 

Baby girl, I can't wait to make this year as fantastically adventuresome and lively as that day in the park. xx

(and thank you LaTonya & Leigh & Karolina & Christine & KRISTIN! for making it out!)

... and these invitations that I designed a couple of weeks ago ended up being kind of perfect too..

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE POPPYSEED

One evening, before motherhood had entwined itself through my heart, before we moved to Brooklyn, back when Gaby and I would regularly sit by the window of our tiny candlelit Manhattan apartment together, which was free of toddler laughter and baby squeals, and speak eagerly about the great unknown before us, I took a pregnancy test.

And hence little Biet became part of our existence. 

Each following week, we would excitedly read the updates which stated, "this week, you baby is the size of a ..." and the very first one told us that a magical little creature, just the size of a poppyseed, was growing in my belly.  The name stuck. 

We referred to Biet as "Poppyseed"until the day she was born.  When we finally revealed her name to friends and loved ones, it was a bit of a challenge to drop the moniker.  Now I practically never use the word, except when referring to a poppyseed muffin, but its something that I never want to forget.  

Two years have passed since our little poppyseed took her first breath and became Biet Luna.  Two ridiculously amazing, challenging, life-affirming years.  This little girl of mine is fast becoming a lady: a rambunctious spitfire glowing lady ready at any moment to take on an adventure, willing at every moment to give a compassionate kiss with all of the daughterly love in the world.  She changed me the moment she came into our lives.  She empowered us all. 

In celebration of her two years of life, we headed back to where it all began, to her birthplace and her favorite neighborhood downtown.  She roamed free on the streets, dirtying up her little hightop sneakers in many a park and swing set.  We let her wander into any playground we happened to pass along our way.  We met friends for dinner and she had pasta and kale salad and chocolate mousse to her heart's content.  As the sun was setting we found ourselves walking up Avenue A, so we dashed into Tompkins Square playground for one last jaunt before it closed up for the night.  Just before heading in, I quietly picked up a pint of ice cream and three little spoons from the corner store.  And after the slides had been slid down and the swings had been swung, we all four sat on a park bench under an old streetlamp amongst the trees and shared our late-night ice-cream treat.  Just then, fireworks began booming in the distance, their shooting sparks just visible above the buildings.  I told Biet the fireworks for for her.

And just as we were strolling home, thinking that the evening couldn't possibly get any more magical,  we stumbled upon a hippy dance party on the street.  Music filled the warm spring air from the back of bicycle-mounted boom boxes as the dancers twirled along the sidewalk.  We made it to the party just in time for the final song, Prince's Purple Rain. Biet hopped into my arms and we went to town.  I serenaded her, she did a jig on my shoulders.  We were the life of the party, I tell you.

With the last note of the song, the birthday revelry came to end, and we tiredly made our way home.  Biet was so happy.  It was such a fitting birthday for such a spirited girl.  Our little two-year-old poppyseed.  Happy Birthday Biet Luna.

**the winner of the Spring Giveaway is Lauren Toledo. Congratulations Lauren!**