Five Years Old! — Nadine At Home

Ursula turned 5 last month. As is customary, I wrote her a letter. As is also customary, that letter is a little late. Please assume I’m posting this in June. Thank you. Carry on.

Dear Ursula,

You made it! It’s been a long countdown. At one point you worried that your birthday would never come.

And then it did.

And now you’re a five-year-old junior-kindergarten grad. And I refuse to start the countdown to 6.

Last night, you read a chapter of a book you got for your birthday. YOU’RE READING CHAPTER BOOKS. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud (and blown away) I am of your reading progress this year. When you started kindergarten, you could recognize the alphabet and the words “mom,” “dad” and “Ursula.” Now you can read words like “sparkly” and “disappeared” and confidently spell your last name: K-A-L-I-N-A-U-S-K-A-S.

You’re growing up at lightning speed. I blame school. The minute you put on a backpack — or maybe it was the first day I left you to find your classmates and walk into the school without my help — you seemed older and wiser and WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BABY GIRL?

We had a bumpy start: You accidentally ran away from school on your second day. I found you wandering alone in the playground at pickup time. Without a jacket or backpack. It was scary for everyone. But your school was great, and staff quickly readjusted the pickup/drop-off routine to make sure it didn’t happen again.

A few days later, we were called to the school office because you were “covered in blood.” Um. Turns out “covered in blood” actually meant “she got a bloody lip when she fell in gym class and blood didn’t get on her clothes at all.” My poor heart.

And then you moved classes. We were so thrilled with your original classroom placement that the news you were being moved into an “overflow” class was hard to take. (There’s a kid boom in our ward and the school had a record SIX full kindergarten classes this year.) But you fell in love with your new teachers on day one — plus the new classroom had lockers, not cubbies, which is way cooler — and quickly adjusted to a new normal.

A snowman wearing a waffle shirt he bought at the waffle store.

This new normal included getting every gross childhood illness possible before Christmas: pinkeye, lice, runny noses and relentless coughs.

You made friends. Real ones. Ones I didn’t introduce you to. I had to get out of my introverted comfort zone and introduce myself to parents on the playground in an attempt to connect with these strangers who were suddenly important to my daughter. One friend you met on “intro to kindergarten” day. We were at school for less than an hour, and already you were attached at the hip to a little girl in a princess costume.

Teachers were quick to observe this insta-friendship, and even moved you to the new kindergarten class together later that month.

Other friends came just as quickly: a handful of sweet girls (and a couple boys) who liked to play pretend and work on their reading.

Wearing your “Mister Rogers cardigan” for World Kindness Day. You excel at theme dressing.

You went to your first official birthday party. An afternoon of crafts and unicorns and rainbows and all the sugar. There was also a python. And I learned who Jojo Sawa is. Now I understand why most parents didn’t stay: SO MUCH GLITTER.

And then came the school strikes.

We were all so happy your teachers were fighting for you, but sad for the cancelled classes.

Don’t worry. The teachers won. Although it doesn’t really feel like that because….

COVID-19.

I know the phrase “one for the history books” is often misused, but your 2019-2020 school year will literally be studied in the future.

You’ve been at home since March Break, checking in with teachers and classmates online. And while some kids really struggled with this transition, you fully embraced it.

Every morning, you checked Instagram for stories, activities and videos from your teacher. You signed up for every possible online class meeting. You took every scavenger hunt seriously. You asked me to send your teacher photos of pretty much everything you did for 100 days.

You taught yourself to read.

And type.

You took advantage of every resource as your way of staying connected to the classroom you love so much, and for that I am so grateful and humbled. You adjusted to social distancing with so much more grace and acceptance than anyone I know, even though I know it’s been hard not to see friends and family.

Whenever you’re sad, we do schoolwork or draw.

You always draw yourself with great hair.

You have great hair.

You even gave yourself cool swoopy bangs last week.

(Don’t ever touch scissors again. Cool?)

During March Break — the beginning of social distancing — you wanted an indoor beach day. So we had one. We watched The Little Mermaid and listened to The Beach Boys and ate a picnic in the living room. We’ve since had another. It’s on your roster of “possible days we could have this week.”

A few weeks ago, you made your own cereal. Because we didn’t have any Cinnamon Toast Crunch on hand and why not?

You’ve mastered the scooter, weaving around with ease and jumping off without fear (or failing.)

You’ve learned the art of entertaining yourself and you never complain about your daily two-hour quiet time while your brother naps. (This is so life-giving to your dad and I. So thank you.)

Once, you spent your entire quiet time cleaning your room, putting away toys and reorganizing your bookshelf. You swept and everything. I realize this might never happen again, so I’m writing it down to immortalize that miraculous afternoon.

You love princesses — Elsa and Anna especially. But when you realized that acting out the story of Frozen would require you to sing in front of me, you got stage fright and asked if you could be Sven the reindeer instead.

We bought you an Elsa dress and Frozen-themed school curriculum for your birthday so we can still do schoolwork (in style) this summer.

You know how to use the remote, and understand the what-to-watch rules. Which means Daddy and I can now occasionally sleep in while you “babysit” in the living room. THANK YOU.

When you do break the rules, you get quiet. Embarrassed. And you quickly learn your lesson. You’re learning that lying about doing something wrong is always worse than humbly admitting it. Always.

Your brother is your best friend. (He’s also occasionally your worst enemy. But there’s a global pandemic and sometimes roles double up.)

In the last few months, you’ve learned to share and play together so well. You go on bear hunts together. You bury yourselves in blankets and pretend to be ghosts. You run a restaurant together. (Most popular menu items: soup and pancakes.) You splash each other in alleyway mud puddles. You play “family” and tell each other to take naps.

He’s your partner in crime. See: The Great Crayola Disaster of 2020.

You announced this week that you’ll be teaching Gilbert to read this summer since you’re not in junior kindergarten anymore. Good luck.

You go through paper and markers at an alarming rate. So. Much. Art.

You have great style.

A couple weeks ago, you kicked Daddy out of your room while you were getting dressed because you didn’t like his wardrobe opinions. Minutes later, you came downstairs in a striped long-sleeved top and floral leggings under short denim overalls. Was it inappropriate for the heat wave? Yes. But did you look cool? Also yes.

Adolescence is gonna be fun.

For Halloween, you wanted to be True from True and the Rainbow Kingdom.

You were so committed to the look that I had to come to school that afternoon to help you get everything in place. I was so proud of your unique choice — and, quite frankly, my own DIY efforts — but I think the attention your costume got was a little overwhelming for you. “People were touching my backpack.”

It rained on Halloween so we skipped the trick-or-treating and went to a party at a nearby church instead. YOU DIDN’T COMPLAIN.

This year, you have become more flexible and patient. You still want to know what we’re going to do and when, but you also now take changes to these plans in stride. You understand that it’s hard to fly a kite when there’s no wind, and are learning to trust us when we postpone plans for weather/work/life reasons.

(That said, when it comes to anticipating birthdays, nothing beats a homemade countdown calendar.)

You’ve figured out how to use Photo Booth. Which means I keep finding pics like this on my laptop.

While you’ve adjusted well to a socially distanced life filled with zoom calls and too much screen time — every online chat turns into a show-and-tell — the occasional porch visits from family and friends are guaranteed mood-boosters.

On your birthday, we walked through the neighbourhood, visiting four of your classmates from a distance. It was the sweetest thing. You were so happy, even though the sun was beating down on us at the peak of the day and it totally wiped me out. You brought each friend a drawing of the two of you together. I hope you never underestimate thoughtful gestures like that.

And then your dad made you the most epic birthday cake. It took three days. Don’t ever doubt your parents’ love for you.

You eat real food now, like tacos and ham sandwiches and roast chicken. Only took five years.

You passed two levels of swimming lessons this year. You are learning to be brave. I hope you also soon learn to hold your breath. It will help.

You’ve discovered LEGO.

You’re learning to follow building instructions and worksheets. Often when you ask for help, you can actually solve your own problem if you just slow down and think it through or try again.

You like being the boss. Child, you’re the third firstborn to be part of this family. Wait in line.

The shower isn’t as scary anymore.

You will NOT STOP TALKING at the dinner table. Or reading packaging and spelling out all the long words. Because nothing says lunchtime like a lesson in M-A-Y-O-N-N-A-I-S-E.

Today you interrupted me during my daily lecture about not interrupting.

You’re still writing songs. The latest one was about cheese. (“1-2-3, I like cheese….”)

When you’re bored of quiet time, or feeling especially tired, you nap.

(Even your report card noted: “Sometimes Ursula needs extended quiet time in the afternoon and will always ask if she can take a pillow, blanket and find a quiet spot to lay down.”)

You like baking shows. And Disney. And “Be Our Chef,” the Disney-themed kids’ baking show.

You understand that we’re waiting on a vaccine. And are already prepping for it. “I’m gonna be sad. I’ll bring a toy to the doctor’s.”

(I heard you tell your brother he can’t go to swimming lessons “until you get a shot.”)

You cry when other people are sad.

When your teacher read you a book about autism, you quickly connected to the main character because “I get shy around my friends sometimes, too.”

When we were talking about Black Lives Matter, you seemed confused as to why anyone would treat someone poorly because of their skin colour. “They can’t change that!”

It is my intention, hope and prayer that you grow up to be empathetic, kind, passionate and brave. To be able to discern when and how to stand up for, walk beside, and make way for others.