Every Christmas, Handsome and I go to the Nutcracker at the Opera House. It's tradition. Just plan on it. Assume it. Look forward to it. And enjoy it. I love the Nutcracker. It's sweet. It's beautiful, playful, innocent. It's Christmas personified.
This year the day came and Lil' Miss Wiggles Louise woke up a fever fired mucous machine. She was green and toasted and in need of constant lovin'. And I hate leaving a baby like that. Then Daddy suggested that the monkey and I have a Mommy Date. And that idea went over BIG. Suzy Q was on her best behavior all day. She napped and shared and buttered us up. We put on her prettiest cream lace dress, ringlets slipping from her "ballerina ponytail", red lady-bug rain boots adding her signature bit of snazz, off we went to catch the train for a night of fancy fun in the city.
We ate oranges on the train and counted down the stops. We held hands on the street and looked at the city, all dressed up in twinkle lights for us. We always play eye-spy when we're on our way, and this evening, Curly spotted a great big neon snowflake suspended in the alley. Huge and sparkly and twinkling "Merry Christmas" in the dark.
In the opera house, she was my little lady. She had quick little chats with the ushers, about her dress, and Santa, and mostly her ladybugs. We settled into our seats and played eye-spy. Fancy ladies bedecked with flowers in the white molding. Fringed red curtains so luxurious I always feel like we could dive right in and swim in there. A silver moon against the black backdrop.
The lights flickered. The show began. And I watched, with my girl on my lap, whispering questions and promising to be brave as the Nutcracker battled the mouse king and whisked Clara off to visit the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Pink ladies and snow flakes and children spinning brightly colored parasols. Flowers and sweet little sheep. We guided each other through story; she reminding me to be patient with the little black lamb: "he was just a little behind".
It was crowded in the lobby afterward. Everyone was smooshed. Hot. Crowded. And apparently stuck. I was afraid that discomfort would bring the night to an upsetting, though quite age-appropriate end. I was working to avoid it. I loved every moment of this night with my girl. It was special to me. And I did not want it marred by a tantrum. Then I saw our salvation in the elegant arch of the window above. Snow. Falling softly, in great jolly fluffs. I pointed and whispered and my girl cried out "SNOW!" in that voice that only children have. You know the one. Melting and infectious. Benevolent as the smell of bacon beckoning you out of bed on a icy winter morning. Then we were outside in the final grand finale. The streets were covered, white batting wrapped over every harsh corner. She made me play. And I did not fight her.
The holidays are full of glitter and decor. Music and events and traditions. I love those things, but they are only context. They only matter when I've got Christmas inside of me. And Christmas for me is like a fire lit within. Every year I wait for it to catch, like a camper working with tinder. I never know what exactly will light my spark, it's different every time. But this year, it was little Curly's voice, reaching up to greet that soft first snow. Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Second Star to the Right
We love the park. The girls would be happy if everyday I simply packed them in the stroller and took them to the playground. Gloom or shine. All. Day. Every. Day. And they would slide and chase and climb. But most of all they would swing. They are expert swingers, those two. Sugar Blue is never ready to get out. You can see her savoring the flavor of the air on her cheeks, ingesting it like honey and letting it amplify all that is sweet. She lounges and smiles. Takes advantage of the opportunity to see the world upside down. Giggles and shines. And always wishes for more.
And Curly. Curly, Curly, Curly Sue. She has mastered the art of swinging. She extracts every ounce of fun there is to be had in two chains and a plastic seat. She's an expert at the twist and spin, underdogs and superman style. But her specialty is the classic set up, back straight, face lit. Pumping her legs or coasting, floating. She flies, lets the breeze swirl her curls like a mane around her face. The motion seems to lift her to a secret place, a Never Never Land tailored uniquely to her. She packs the rhythm in her pockets like pixie dust, saves it for later. I think swinging is her happy thought.
I introduced her to the spider strategy not long ago. I slid between the chain links and lifted her on my lap. Then four legs pumped, two shorter, two longer. A gleeful squeal escaped Louise as we swung like a pendulum, gently gaining altitude with each bend in our joints. Wind kissed my cheekbones, whispered in my ear and I looked at my first little girl, already far past the second star to the right and circling the mermaid lagoon. I was transported, Wendy led by Peter Pan's perfect charm. The moment passed, warm and slow as amber syrup from a pitcher. Lately, that's my happy thought.
And Curly. Curly, Curly, Curly Sue. She has mastered the art of swinging. She extracts every ounce of fun there is to be had in two chains and a plastic seat. She's an expert at the twist and spin, underdogs and superman style. But her specialty is the classic set up, back straight, face lit. Pumping her legs or coasting, floating. She flies, lets the breeze swirl her curls like a mane around her face. The motion seems to lift her to a secret place, a Never Never Land tailored uniquely to her. She packs the rhythm in her pockets like pixie dust, saves it for later. I think swinging is her happy thought.
I introduced her to the spider strategy not long ago. I slid between the chain links and lifted her on my lap. Then four legs pumped, two shorter, two longer. A gleeful squeal escaped Louise as we swung like a pendulum, gently gaining altitude with each bend in our joints. Wind kissed my cheekbones, whispered in my ear and I looked at my first little girl, already far past the second star to the right and circling the mermaid lagoon. I was transported, Wendy led by Peter Pan's perfect charm. The moment passed, warm and slow as amber syrup from a pitcher. Lately, that's my happy thought.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
It's Mahk!
Coming out of the grocery store our purple rocket shopping cart was hijacked by a kindly helper who introduced himself as "Mahk!" in heavy Bostonian English. Smiling, he informed me that he would be taking care of us today. I'm usually one to avoid this type of help, but not even I could resist the childlike joy in this man's face. Pushing my groceries was his Christmas morning. I yielded girls and groceries into the supervised care of this down-syndrome hero, feeling strangely special to receive his attention. Then he zoomed the girls to our car, even made sound effects. He loaded all the groceries into the trunk, took note of all our names, and generally made a gentleman of himself. I put Curly in the car to get herself started on the seatbelt process while I grabbed baby Louise. I heard Suzie slam the door behind her and Mark rushed over, to play. I heard quacking and giggles. I felt secure in taking my time getting Sweetie Blue out of the rocket and into her seat. A soft hand reached over the shotgun headrest, quack-quack-quacking around. Looking for my curly little love. It's MAHK!!! He appeared with black eyes shining. He was delighted. She was delighted. We were delighted. He stuck around for one more round of "Who is this Duck?". Then off he went to save the day of some other customer who had no idea they were in need.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Freestyle
A few weeks ago I took the girls to an arts festival while Daddy studied. In a word it was awesome. "Punkins" of every color, free face painting, all kinds of fine pictures for sale, and a kids tent settled next to the hugest subwoofers I've ever seen, or heard. You could paint a pumpkin for two bucks; so I bought two and let Curly style both while Bobalouise lovingly identified every other gourd in the joint...when she wasn't busy hooting with the band on her kazoo. Before the hour had passed Suzie had produced pumpkins so very Pollock meets Rothko and Bugs had been there to help all volunteers understand that pumpkins are amazing in that they are round, orange, and quite easily fallen off of. I scribbled initials in our signature pink and started herding them toward the door. We made a small detour to get the stinker's face painted; then I exited to the sunshine with one Sweetface a bouquet of flowers, and the other greatly troubled by the mess on her sister's cheeks.
The pumpkins were still wet and we had energy to burn so I suggested they dance in the grassy sunshine while our prizes dried. This was wildly successful! The band did cover after cover of everything from Cotton Eye Joe to Michael Jackson through the years. And the girls were busting a move. Little Lou bounced in wide circles across the lawn. Slightly oblivious, and totally delighted. Sweet Sue, she was a blur. Light glinting off golden curls, ice blue polka dot skirt casting shadows on the dying grass. Twirling, leaping, posing for dramatic effect. Song after song after song. I couldn't keep my eyes off her, she was so fun to watch.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found an old woman, purple sweatsuit hanging on her fragile frame, the fuzzy hair of a much loved teddy bear, eyes deep with purpose. She asked me if Curly had dance classes, encouraged me to get her some, discussed the lifelong benefits of music in one's life. Curly could tell she'd been noticed and gave her performance everything she had. I enjoyed it. This woman was sweet, sincere, kind, passionate. And soon I could tell she was tired. Her daughter came to guide her back to her folding chair but not before our patron made me promise to foster the arts in my home. I think she may have had some difficulty with short term memory, we replayed the conversation three times more. But she was right about everything. And we had fun.
The pumpkins were still wet and we had energy to burn so I suggested they dance in the grassy sunshine while our prizes dried. This was wildly successful! The band did cover after cover of everything from Cotton Eye Joe to Michael Jackson through the years. And the girls were busting a move. Little Lou bounced in wide circles across the lawn. Slightly oblivious, and totally delighted. Sweet Sue, she was a blur. Light glinting off golden curls, ice blue polka dot skirt casting shadows on the dying grass. Twirling, leaping, posing for dramatic effect. Song after song after song. I couldn't keep my eyes off her, she was so fun to watch.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found an old woman, purple sweatsuit hanging on her fragile frame, the fuzzy hair of a much loved teddy bear, eyes deep with purpose. She asked me if Curly had dance classes, encouraged me to get her some, discussed the lifelong benefits of music in one's life. Curly could tell she'd been noticed and gave her performance everything she had. I enjoyed it. This woman was sweet, sincere, kind, passionate. And soon I could tell she was tired. Her daughter came to guide her back to her folding chair but not before our patron made me promise to foster the arts in my home. I think she may have had some difficulty with short term memory, we replayed the conversation three times more. But she was right about everything. And we had fun.
2:19:10
Six months ago I set a goal. One that I thought was pretty big. And one that was pretty much just for me. I wanted to run a half marathon: 13 miles. I picked one that friends had run; a hilly but beautiful course in New Hampshire, very comfortable for family spectators, and with the promise of fresh orchard produce at the end. Six months went by. Flew by. We kept up with life. Hubby studied for the boards, I trained as much as possible. Then Saturday arrived, beautiful. We got up early, ate breakfast, packed snacks and entertainment for two little munchkins, and trekked up there. I picked up my d-tag and I stretched in the port-a-potty line. Kuni got settled with the girls somewhere. Then hundreds of us slipped into line. And I ran, we ran, up and down, past flashes of crimson and gold peeking out from the green under a sky of Easter egg blue. The air was clean and gently warm, it was a day designed for running.
I loved it. All two hours, nineteen minutes, ten seconds of it. I'm amazed at the human body. I love how my muscles remembered how to do this, even though it was more than I'd ever done before. I love the camaraderie of running; I love the support I feel from the other contenders, how we push each other, make each other work, make each other better. I love the circus of a race, it's a buffet for the eye and ear what with the furry man, the horse woman, the power granny, and the lone hilltop bagpipe serenader. I love the metaphor it is for life: so much putting one foot in front of the other, how the hardest days are the most important ones to finish, the great, subtle rewards of consistency. I loved seeing my favorites waving at the finish. And I'll definitely do it again. I'll do it again for the smell of the air in the woods, for the time spent alone with my thoughts in a crowd. I'll do again to give my soul a chance to keep pace with my feet. I'll do it again to stay who I am, and improve it. But more than anything, I'll do it again, 'cause it made me happy. :)
I loved it. All two hours, nineteen minutes, ten seconds of it. I'm amazed at the human body. I love how my muscles remembered how to do this, even though it was more than I'd ever done before. I love the camaraderie of running; I love the support I feel from the other contenders, how we push each other, make each other work, make each other better. I love the circus of a race, it's a buffet for the eye and ear what with the furry man, the horse woman, the power granny, and the lone hilltop bagpipe serenader. I love the metaphor it is for life: so much putting one foot in front of the other, how the hardest days are the most important ones to finish, the great, subtle rewards of consistency. I loved seeing my favorites waving at the finish. And I'll definitely do it again. I'll do it again for the smell of the air in the woods, for the time spent alone with my thoughts in a crowd. I'll do again to give my soul a chance to keep pace with my feet. I'll do it again to stay who I am, and improve it. But more than anything, I'll do it again, 'cause it made me happy. :)
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Tracks
A few weekends ago we had family in town. As usual, we played, ate, chatted, and went to bed late. Then morning came. Soon. Very soon. Somewhere in the six o'clock hour the blue eyed one was smiling and babbling and bouncing me out of dreamland. It's happened before and I know it'll happen again but just this once I wanted to extend a little extra courtesy to the other souls inhabiting our 900 sq. feet so I did my best to sneak silently out the front door before we could wake them; keys in hand, pudger on my hip, and the beach in mind. No baby was ever so delighted to be strapped into a car seat.
We parked and went to watch the blue light stretch into the white morning and grow deeper across the water as the day arrived. She sat in the cradle of my crossed legs, smelling the stillness just like me I presume. And scanning her surroundings with her clear, curious, innocent eyes. Then something captivated her and she hopped off with purpose, like a little bird to peck seed. It's one of the little things that makes Louie our Lou. She spends the day marching around, pointing, and clucking, like a merry little chubby chicken. And this morning was no different.
I sat back and watched for a moment. Fuzzy blonde head, sweet face, cheerful bumble-bee jammers accented with a red plaid scarf to ward off the brisk breeze I hadn't anticipated. She was a sight to enjoy. I hopped down and she let me join her bobble-head tour of the freshly groomed sand. The trucks and tractors that had lately manicured the beach had left trapezoid tracks, dogs later added their circles, and birds their heavily outlined triangles. Looking behind me I saw the oblong traces of two baby feet, criss-crossing and dancing through the rest. I thought of the quiet that preserves astronaut footprints in moon dust. Bugs cooed a question, smiled a smile she couldn't help.
We went home. The day progressed; I bet our footprints were recycled into a sandcastle by noon. I'm glad: we made them in living sand instead of stale debris. So I'm saving them here instead.
We parked and went to watch the blue light stretch into the white morning and grow deeper across the water as the day arrived. She sat in the cradle of my crossed legs, smelling the stillness just like me I presume. And scanning her surroundings with her clear, curious, innocent eyes. Then something captivated her and she hopped off with purpose, like a little bird to peck seed. It's one of the little things that makes Louie our Lou. She spends the day marching around, pointing, and clucking, like a merry little chubby chicken. And this morning was no different.
I sat back and watched for a moment. Fuzzy blonde head, sweet face, cheerful bumble-bee jammers accented with a red plaid scarf to ward off the brisk breeze I hadn't anticipated. She was a sight to enjoy. I hopped down and she let me join her bobble-head tour of the freshly groomed sand. The trucks and tractors that had lately manicured the beach had left trapezoid tracks, dogs later added their circles, and birds their heavily outlined triangles. Looking behind me I saw the oblong traces of two baby feet, criss-crossing and dancing through the rest. I thought of the quiet that preserves astronaut footprints in moon dust. Bugs cooed a question, smiled a smile she couldn't help.
We went home. The day progressed; I bet our footprints were recycled into a sandcastle by noon. I'm glad: we made them in living sand instead of stale debris. So I'm saving them here instead.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Siblingitis
Siblingitis: severe inflammation of tiny, tender emotional egos characterized by swift oscillation between soft, playful affection and extreme, physically manifested frustration. Listed as most common cause of maternal insanity. Tx: time
We have a daily cycle of acute siblingitis going; Love: despise. Love: annoy. Love: attack. All quite reactionary and mutual. Emotional outbursts puntuate the day, ricocheting like a bullet in a tin can. It's funny. And sometimes it makes me totally nuts.
There are days the monkey and the bug are sisters and best frenemies. I love their interest in each other. Blue desperately wants to participate in every aspect of Curly's life; Curly diligently seeks to teach her sissy all that she knows. They can play together in ways I wouldn't have anticipated at so young an age: they already have games original to them, the rules to which I'm fairly ignorant of but can see that they each fully understand. And seemingly just for the sake of contrast, they are already supreme masters of button pushing. Like they each came with a complete and perfect knowledge of exactly how to drive the other absolutely mad. This morning the girls stretched across the back seat to brush fingertips on the way to drop daddy off. Just trying to have physical contact as long as they could, and beaming each time they found success. An hour later, RED ALERT, children are screaming bloody murder and hoarding cups of juice. Repeat the cycle at least five times a day, swapping out infinite unique scenarios.
The episodes, be they happy or sad, indulgent or defiant, expire quickly. It's so weird. I think it's just part of learning to live together. To share space, attention, possessions, and air. To be a family requires work, apparently from the word go. I remember that, just didn't realize it all started quite so early. I thought you had to have some kind of verbal ability, or at least some idea of personal property to really get in each other's way. And it's all so different from this seat. The fighting, small scale and temporary as it is, hurts my head, and sometimes my heart. And I have a sneaky inclination to be lazy and avoid. To somehow acquire two of everything, because sharing is hard, whether it's toys or mom, whether you're 1 or 3 or 30. And it's even harder to teach. I'm tempted to seperate them, give them totally distinct lives, and only mix them when they're sure to appreciate each other.
Then I think of my brothers. How close we are in age. Four of us in ten years. You know we suffered our share of siblingitis. I think of my brothers. How I love and admire them. How I would pick each of them as my friend even if we hadn't been forced to figure out how to enjoy each other. And I feel like they would pick me too. I remember a bunch of things, moments that make a mental collage of my childhood as the only girl. Me providing the drama, taking the bait every time. Those fellas, they never would let me take myself too seriously. I remember once, I had this dress for a formal dance. Periwinkly blue silk with a lace up back and whale bone corset. It was prissy, prissy, princess as they come. My brothers christened it "the Buick" and refered to it at every possible opportunity. The poor dress joined the ranks of "the Grecian goddess" and "the wedding dress" (which, incidentally, was black) and a whole bunch of other dresses, not to mention dates, I could never be in the same room with again without suppressing a smirk. I'm smirking even thinking about it.
I think of my brothers and the bzillion inside jokes we have; words and cues and subtle looks that refer to instances that will never grow old. How learning to breathe in concert yeilded far more benefits than simply surviving the threat of suffocation. We're growing in four different directions, yet our roots are still intertwined. Our kids are and will be special to each other, and extra special to us. And I think of my husband, and his sisters, and how they're the same. And how they welcomed me too. And my thinking shifts. The siblingitis, still leads to a good bit of vaso-constriction. But all the sudden it's worth it. I don't need to exterminate or cure it. I can let this run its course. And I don't need to get impatient about it. I can try to guide this, and help the girls fashion their interactive skills. And I'll mediate innumerable contentions of indecipherable cause. And I'll stop being a baby, stop looking for the easy out or feeling like I must be totally failing if my girls don't always get along. Even when they are just one and three.
Siblingitis is a function of the process of loving each other. Of growing together. It'll shake out, bit by bit, year by year, so slowly and steadily I won't even notice until it's gone. Somewhere, in that weird annoying process, people figure it out. Families bend and adjust and grow and stretch, the elasticity of each member improving until the fit is snug, yet most accommodating. I'm glad my girls will get to know that. And get to be that.
We have a daily cycle of acute siblingitis going; Love: despise. Love: annoy. Love: attack. All quite reactionary and mutual. Emotional outbursts puntuate the day, ricocheting like a bullet in a tin can. It's funny. And sometimes it makes me totally nuts.
There are days the monkey and the bug are sisters and best frenemies. I love their interest in each other. Blue desperately wants to participate in every aspect of Curly's life; Curly diligently seeks to teach her sissy all that she knows. They can play together in ways I wouldn't have anticipated at so young an age: they already have games original to them, the rules to which I'm fairly ignorant of but can see that they each fully understand. And seemingly just for the sake of contrast, they are already supreme masters of button pushing. Like they each came with a complete and perfect knowledge of exactly how to drive the other absolutely mad. This morning the girls stretched across the back seat to brush fingertips on the way to drop daddy off. Just trying to have physical contact as long as they could, and beaming each time they found success. An hour later, RED ALERT, children are screaming bloody murder and hoarding cups of juice. Repeat the cycle at least five times a day, swapping out infinite unique scenarios.
The episodes, be they happy or sad, indulgent or defiant, expire quickly. It's so weird. I think it's just part of learning to live together. To share space, attention, possessions, and air. To be a family requires work, apparently from the word go. I remember that, just didn't realize it all started quite so early. I thought you had to have some kind of verbal ability, or at least some idea of personal property to really get in each other's way. And it's all so different from this seat. The fighting, small scale and temporary as it is, hurts my head, and sometimes my heart. And I have a sneaky inclination to be lazy and avoid. To somehow acquire two of everything, because sharing is hard, whether it's toys or mom, whether you're 1 or 3 or 30. And it's even harder to teach. I'm tempted to seperate them, give them totally distinct lives, and only mix them when they're sure to appreciate each other.
Then I think of my brothers. How close we are in age. Four of us in ten years. You know we suffered our share of siblingitis. I think of my brothers. How I love and admire them. How I would pick each of them as my friend even if we hadn't been forced to figure out how to enjoy each other. And I feel like they would pick me too. I remember a bunch of things, moments that make a mental collage of my childhood as the only girl. Me providing the drama, taking the bait every time. Those fellas, they never would let me take myself too seriously. I remember once, I had this dress for a formal dance. Periwinkly blue silk with a lace up back and whale bone corset. It was prissy, prissy, princess as they come. My brothers christened it "the Buick" and refered to it at every possible opportunity. The poor dress joined the ranks of "the Grecian goddess" and "the wedding dress" (which, incidentally, was black) and a whole bunch of other dresses, not to mention dates, I could never be in the same room with again without suppressing a smirk. I'm smirking even thinking about it.
I think of my brothers and the bzillion inside jokes we have; words and cues and subtle looks that refer to instances that will never grow old. How learning to breathe in concert yeilded far more benefits than simply surviving the threat of suffocation. We're growing in four different directions, yet our roots are still intertwined. Our kids are and will be special to each other, and extra special to us. And I think of my husband, and his sisters, and how they're the same. And how they welcomed me too. And my thinking shifts. The siblingitis, still leads to a good bit of vaso-constriction. But all the sudden it's worth it. I don't need to exterminate or cure it. I can let this run its course. And I don't need to get impatient about it. I can try to guide this, and help the girls fashion their interactive skills. And I'll mediate innumerable contentions of indecipherable cause. And I'll stop being a baby, stop looking for the easy out or feeling like I must be totally failing if my girls don't always get along. Even when they are just one and three.
Siblingitis is a function of the process of loving each other. Of growing together. It'll shake out, bit by bit, year by year, so slowly and steadily I won't even notice until it's gone. Somewhere, in that weird annoying process, people figure it out. Families bend and adjust and grow and stretch, the elasticity of each member improving until the fit is snug, yet most accommodating. I'm glad my girls will get to know that. And get to be that.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Story of a Day
Monday in Review:
In the morning, we see Daddy off, get breakfast, wash faces, get dressed and indulge in our daily dose of curly-headed-hair-combing torture.....Yay! Approximately 5000 questions are ventured in this process, including a few about all types of anatomy, if you follow me here. And a very important one about squirrels.
Then we put on a movie for the monkey while the ladybug gets put down for a nap. With the baby snoozing, I turn off the movie and Sue and I test the bouncing abilities of the new couches, read a few books, and make up a dance about "how do you do and shake hands". Our favorite part is when you march around in a circle.
When Zooby wakes up from naps she always gives me a long sweet hug. We call it the snuggle wakey and if I could put any lovely part of the joy she is on "instant re-live", I'd be tempted to choose that. We come out to the living room together where she promptly ditches me to climb in and out of a blue plastic chair 18 times, each time making sure to hoot in the seat with her arms high in the sky until her accomplishment is verbally acknowledged. And congratulated. I move on from this game to get the kitchen tidy and while I do that, Curly tells me all about "Castle in the Sky" while baking me all sorts of delicious culinary air and Louie studies our shoes with the earnest calm of a scientist on the brink of a revolutionary discovery. I love it.
Now lunch: Kraft mac 'n cheese and about half a watermelon. They wolf it down in their individual ways. There are two schools of thought about eating in this house, mine and Daddy's. He can make his food disappear like a well-practiced magician. I am slow as a snail. It's really a question of single-minded focus on the task at hand. Bugs is a committed eater. The monkey dawdles just like her mama. We chit chat and I learn all about Curly's philosophy about parties, monsters, and that Jesus is her friend, and son, and Santa is his daddy. Yes? No. Hmmm.....
Daddy calls, he's done for the day. We load up in Goldie and pick him up at the clinic. Then it's time for errands: Babies'rus, Sports Authority, Micheals, and KamMan market. A few hours and one near poopy diaper disaster later we make it home, goodies in hand. Daddy finally gets to hang his Father's Day/birthday gift ( a canvas tryptic the girls painted up for him entitled "Making Purple" that looks stellar on the wall) while I throw together some dinner. I pick yakisoba, beefed up with leftover steak and veggies. Yum.
Somewhere in there, we do magic stickers, write a note to Auntie Ne', and have a wild rumpus. It starts with the theme from Jaws: Duuuhnuh.....Duuuhnuh....Duhnuh, Duhnuh, duhnuhduhnuh....... The girls know this game well. It involves screaming, flailing, and general rosy-cheeked shiny-eyed rough housing. It goes until Daddy calls for calm and the girls get in their last rowdy contributions: Curly whispers the daintiest little "tickl, tickl, tickl" you ever will hear, Lou impersonates a smug squishy lion saying "whaaaaar". This new word has come along with "bobb-eye" and "ba" (ball). I believe she quite enjoys it.
Later, chopsticks cleared, jammies on, stories read, and songs sung, I go out for my run. I'm training for a half marathon. I head for the beach and enjoy my jog. I people watch as the sun sets: a couple of teenagers hopping on a bullet bike and blazing away, kids jabbering, using up the last of a sunsoaked day in every manner they know, runners, walkers, dogs dizzy with nasal joy, a construction worker, shoes off, toes in the sand. And a silver-haired couple, his arm around her shoulder, her head resting on his, quiet and content to just sit next to each other. I hope this last is a vision, a promise of a tomorrow far in the distance. I have a moment of gratitude for Kuni; we're a good team, even in the things we do "seperately".
More Jimmy Eat World, Tom Petty, The Killers, rhythmic footsteps, measured breathing. I'm on the return and it's dark now. The Yacht Club is all lit up, looking far more high brow than usual. A rogue firework bursts in the sky, raining violet white witchcraft on the skyline. The same skyline twinkles and winks goodnight. Then I go home, looking forward to tomorrow. Tired and happy and feeling young.
In the morning, we see Daddy off, get breakfast, wash faces, get dressed and indulge in our daily dose of curly-headed-hair-combing torture.....Yay! Approximately 5000 questions are ventured in this process, including a few about all types of anatomy, if you follow me here. And a very important one about squirrels.
Then we put on a movie for the monkey while the ladybug gets put down for a nap. With the baby snoozing, I turn off the movie and Sue and I test the bouncing abilities of the new couches, read a few books, and make up a dance about "how do you do and shake hands". Our favorite part is when you march around in a circle.
When Zooby wakes up from naps she always gives me a long sweet hug. We call it the snuggle wakey and if I could put any lovely part of the joy she is on "instant re-live", I'd be tempted to choose that. We come out to the living room together where she promptly ditches me to climb in and out of a blue plastic chair 18 times, each time making sure to hoot in the seat with her arms high in the sky until her accomplishment is verbally acknowledged. And congratulated. I move on from this game to get the kitchen tidy and while I do that, Curly tells me all about "Castle in the Sky" while baking me all sorts of delicious culinary air and Louie studies our shoes with the earnest calm of a scientist on the brink of a revolutionary discovery. I love it.
Now lunch: Kraft mac 'n cheese and about half a watermelon. They wolf it down in their individual ways. There are two schools of thought about eating in this house, mine and Daddy's. He can make his food disappear like a well-practiced magician. I am slow as a snail. It's really a question of single-minded focus on the task at hand. Bugs is a committed eater. The monkey dawdles just like her mama. We chit chat and I learn all about Curly's philosophy about parties, monsters, and that Jesus is her friend, and son, and Santa is his daddy. Yes? No. Hmmm.....
Daddy calls, he's done for the day. We load up in Goldie and pick him up at the clinic. Then it's time for errands: Babies'rus, Sports Authority, Micheals, and KamMan market. A few hours and one near poopy diaper disaster later we make it home, goodies in hand. Daddy finally gets to hang his Father's Day/birthday gift ( a canvas tryptic the girls painted up for him entitled "Making Purple" that looks stellar on the wall) while I throw together some dinner. I pick yakisoba, beefed up with leftover steak and veggies. Yum.
Somewhere in there, we do magic stickers, write a note to Auntie Ne', and have a wild rumpus. It starts with the theme from Jaws: Duuuhnuh.....Duuuhnuh....Duhnuh, Duhnuh, duhnuhduhnuh....... The girls know this game well. It involves screaming, flailing, and general rosy-cheeked shiny-eyed rough housing. It goes until Daddy calls for calm and the girls get in their last rowdy contributions: Curly whispers the daintiest little "tickl, tickl, tickl" you ever will hear, Lou impersonates a smug squishy lion saying "whaaaaar". This new word has come along with "bobb-eye" and "ba" (ball). I believe she quite enjoys it.
Later, chopsticks cleared, jammies on, stories read, and songs sung, I go out for my run. I'm training for a half marathon. I head for the beach and enjoy my jog. I people watch as the sun sets: a couple of teenagers hopping on a bullet bike and blazing away, kids jabbering, using up the last of a sunsoaked day in every manner they know, runners, walkers, dogs dizzy with nasal joy, a construction worker, shoes off, toes in the sand. And a silver-haired couple, his arm around her shoulder, her head resting on his, quiet and content to just sit next to each other. I hope this last is a vision, a promise of a tomorrow far in the distance. I have a moment of gratitude for Kuni; we're a good team, even in the things we do "seperately".
More Jimmy Eat World, Tom Petty, The Killers, rhythmic footsteps, measured breathing. I'm on the return and it's dark now. The Yacht Club is all lit up, looking far more high brow than usual. A rogue firework bursts in the sky, raining violet white witchcraft on the skyline. The same skyline twinkles and winks goodnight. Then I go home, looking forward to tomorrow. Tired and happy and feeling young.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sky Pie
When I was sixteenish my dad gave me a birthday card. And a gift, but the card is what I remember because of the good advice inside:
"Dear Jennie,
Always keep your head in the clouds and your feet on the ground.
Love, Dad"
I like it. 'Cause it's a perfect mantra for a practical idealist like me. I like big dreams and high goals. I'm about hitching my wagon to a star. I believe in faith and hope. But I know about work. It satisfies me. And I like the definitions and cooperation reality insists upon.
Back in the days of the blue kitchen and the pink bedroom my dad used to tell me about this dinosaur museum he was wishing into existence. A really amazing one, with the world's longest and tallest ossified mysteries standing proud in galleries bigger than air plane hangers. A museum that was truly about experiential learning, where kids could hear, and see, compare, touch, and play. A place that provided context and truly addressed an audience. A place that set the stage with a trip through a star tunnel. And a program called "Dino-snorz" that let you bring your sleeping bag and dream away under those majestic bones. Pie in the sky kinda stuff. Except one day, not too long after that sixteenish birthday, it came true.
On a recent trip home we visited the North American Museum of Ancient Life, a place where the dino-tales my Daddy told me became concrete; A piece of sky pie served up and tasting sweet. I watched my girls play, touch, learn, enjoy. We splashed and built and organized and fed bunches of beasts in the erosion table. We carefully uncovered dinos in a sand pit. We felt the texture of fossils under our finger tips: ancient plant life, giant lizards, mammoths, turtles the size of one-man submarines. We asked questions. My girls loved it. And I, for the umpteenth time, was proud of my dad. And inspired to eat my own pie in the sky, and teach the girls to do the same, with our feet on the ground and our heads in the clouds.
"Dear Jennie,
Always keep your head in the clouds and your feet on the ground.
Love, Dad"
I like it. 'Cause it's a perfect mantra for a practical idealist like me. I like big dreams and high goals. I'm about hitching my wagon to a star. I believe in faith and hope. But I know about work. It satisfies me. And I like the definitions and cooperation reality insists upon.
Back in the days of the blue kitchen and the pink bedroom my dad used to tell me about this dinosaur museum he was wishing into existence. A really amazing one, with the world's longest and tallest ossified mysteries standing proud in galleries bigger than air plane hangers. A museum that was truly about experiential learning, where kids could hear, and see, compare, touch, and play. A place that provided context and truly addressed an audience. A place that set the stage with a trip through a star tunnel. And a program called "Dino-snorz" that let you bring your sleeping bag and dream away under those majestic bones. Pie in the sky kinda stuff. Except one day, not too long after that sixteenish birthday, it came true.
On a recent trip home we visited the North American Museum of Ancient Life, a place where the dino-tales my Daddy told me became concrete; A piece of sky pie served up and tasting sweet. I watched my girls play, touch, learn, enjoy. We splashed and built and organized and fed bunches of beasts in the erosion table. We carefully uncovered dinos in a sand pit. We felt the texture of fossils under our finger tips: ancient plant life, giant lizards, mammoths, turtles the size of one-man submarines. We asked questions. My girls loved it. And I, for the umpteenth time, was proud of my dad. And inspired to eat my own pie in the sky, and teach the girls to do the same, with our feet on the ground and our heads in the clouds.
Friday, June 19, 2009
A Thousand Paper Cranes
Once upon a time my handsome hubby folded one thousand paper cranes as a Christmas present for me. I, know! Sweet. He put his legion of tiny winged creatures in a tall plastic vase where they live on the top shelf of our bookcase. And I love them: love them for the delicate, meticulous, sentimental gift that they are. And, strangely, love them for the gorgeous color collection they embody. That man of mine, he picked the perfect colors for this lovely gift: soft baby pink, bold earthy turquoise, sunset orange, deep rose red, sunshine yellow, lush purple, fresh greens, and blues that reflect ocean and sky in a variety of moods. Colors that lend breath to each tiny little crane as it dances it's part in the wish-granting choreography that is its legendary destiny.
I am not the only one who loves those magical origami beings. Curly Sue is crazy about them. That's why they live on the top shelf, because sometimes I feel a little protective of my special things.....maybe even a little stingy in my sharing? Maybe. But, this particular point of stinginess broke one day last week. I decided to let my big girl play with the prized paper birds with the understanding that if she did not treat them very carefully, this would be a one time thing. She had asked so often, so eagerly, that I thought I ought to at least give it a try. She agreed, so, with a deep steadying breath, I handed her the goods and let her loose. And I did not regret it. Not one bit.
We took them down and looked at them. Talked about their beautiful colors, about the way Daddy folded them one by one. Tossed them in the air to see if they really flew. Then decided to make them fly. Together we piled them in a loose gigantic lump on a piece of fabric; and one, two, three, we held the corners tight and bounced those babies higher each time until they came raining down on my laughing sweetie, lively, lovely, blobs of color falling in concert with her gorgeous giggle. And showering magic to match the sparkle in her joyful eyes. We repeated again. Lined them up end to end in one gigantic rainbow. Then talked about how the real cranes act, flapped our wings, experimented with sounds, 'till our play evolved into a game of animal chase. She the eagle, me the lion. She the eagle, me the bunny. She the eagle, me the frog. Eagle, dog, eagle, elephant, eagle. Laughing, flying, crazy, regal eagle.
In the end, she carefully helped me place each paper crane back in the vase. One wish granted, a thousand more born. A thousand more promised in simple joy, simple faith.
I am not the only one who loves those magical origami beings. Curly Sue is crazy about them. That's why they live on the top shelf, because sometimes I feel a little protective of my special things.....maybe even a little stingy in my sharing? Maybe. But, this particular point of stinginess broke one day last week. I decided to let my big girl play with the prized paper birds with the understanding that if she did not treat them very carefully, this would be a one time thing. She had asked so often, so eagerly, that I thought I ought to at least give it a try. She agreed, so, with a deep steadying breath, I handed her the goods and let her loose. And I did not regret it. Not one bit.
We took them down and looked at them. Talked about their beautiful colors, about the way Daddy folded them one by one. Tossed them in the air to see if they really flew. Then decided to make them fly. Together we piled them in a loose gigantic lump on a piece of fabric; and one, two, three, we held the corners tight and bounced those babies higher each time until they came raining down on my laughing sweetie, lively, lovely, blobs of color falling in concert with her gorgeous giggle. And showering magic to match the sparkle in her joyful eyes. We repeated again. Lined them up end to end in one gigantic rainbow. Then talked about how the real cranes act, flapped our wings, experimented with sounds, 'till our play evolved into a game of animal chase. She the eagle, me the lion. She the eagle, me the bunny. She the eagle, me the frog. Eagle, dog, eagle, elephant, eagle. Laughing, flying, crazy, regal eagle.
In the end, she carefully helped me place each paper crane back in the vase. One wish granted, a thousand more born. A thousand more promised in simple joy, simple faith.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Four
We spent last week in Toronto with family. Kuni's Japanese grandmother flew in for a visit and we happily zipped up to introduce the girls to the woman who had a hand in naming them. Hiibaachan is a one of a kind. A tiny, lovely, general of a lady. She and I don't speak enough of the same language to have a conversation in the classical kind of way, but that's never stopped us from talking. We have things to say! So we chat here and there, in our respective tongues; two languages, lots of gestures, lots of enunciating. It's rare that our verbal exchanges are technically successful, but that never seems to slow her down, so I keep trying as well. And the message is clear, she and I have love for each other. And that's all I need to know. She adores the girls. They speak even less Japanese than I do. But all the same, by the end of the week, the same message had been delivered between Hiibaachan and Louise, Hiibaachan and Suze too. I could see that it brought her joy. And me too.
We went to the zoo on Wednesday. Chihiro, the bug of "fathomless depth", our baby who's not such a baby these days, casually glanced at an animal or two while she people-watched. A parade of individuals marched by for her entertainment: folks dressed in school uniforms, turbans, even full sleeve tattoos. We wandered for hours, enjoying creatures as varied as the humans observing them. Towards the end of the afternoon, Hiro-chan opted to ride on Hiibaachan's lap in the wheel-chair. The two of them cruised around with perfect posture, one out of nature, the other out of practice. Periodically, bitsy Lou softened her stance and rested her fresh, pudgy cheek against Hiibaachan's shoulder. Young and old, enjoying the sunshine with all their strength. I watched them, and I felt happy.
Hisako, the monkey destined for "eternal child"hood, is a notoriously slow warmer. I like that about her, she's cautious. She showed obvious signs of uncertainty regarding this stranger so clearly thrilled to be in her presence. It took till Friday evening for her to finally crack. Hiibaachan was invited to sit in on bedtime stories, so down the stairs they all went: Daddy, Curly, Baachan, Hiibaachan. I got some things settled upstairs and went down to contribute my good-night kisses. Crowded on the bed I found four generations, sweet-stinky monkey in the middle, listening to "Go Diego Go" in a circle of comfort while Hiibaachan lived a dream and drifted off beside her. I joined the party. The warmth of the room reminded me of the family I grew up with, often voluntarily crammed in together for the pure pleasure of one another's company. I wondered how many people feel so at home with the families they married. And I felt lucky.
We went to the zoo on Wednesday. Chihiro, the bug of "fathomless depth", our baby who's not such a baby these days, casually glanced at an animal or two while she people-watched. A parade of individuals marched by for her entertainment: folks dressed in school uniforms, turbans, even full sleeve tattoos. We wandered for hours, enjoying creatures as varied as the humans observing them. Towards the end of the afternoon, Hiro-chan opted to ride on Hiibaachan's lap in the wheel-chair. The two of them cruised around with perfect posture, one out of nature, the other out of practice. Periodically, bitsy Lou softened her stance and rested her fresh, pudgy cheek against Hiibaachan's shoulder. Young and old, enjoying the sunshine with all their strength. I watched them, and I felt happy.
Hisako, the monkey destined for "eternal child"hood, is a notoriously slow warmer. I like that about her, she's cautious. She showed obvious signs of uncertainty regarding this stranger so clearly thrilled to be in her presence. It took till Friday evening for her to finally crack. Hiibaachan was invited to sit in on bedtime stories, so down the stairs they all went: Daddy, Curly, Baachan, Hiibaachan. I got some things settled upstairs and went down to contribute my good-night kisses. Crowded on the bed I found four generations, sweet-stinky monkey in the middle, listening to "Go Diego Go" in a circle of comfort while Hiibaachan lived a dream and drifted off beside her. I joined the party. The warmth of the room reminded me of the family I grew up with, often voluntarily crammed in together for the pure pleasure of one another's company. I wondered how many people feel so at home with the families they married. And I felt lucky.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Bella Mama, Prima Ballerina
Monday, April 6, 2009
Fun in a Bin
Today we had some fun in a bin. A clear plastic bin, whose blue lid is missing, that had mysteriously made it's way into my room utterly free of its contents. So I used it as a toddler-distracter, in the hopes that maybe I could write an email in peace. But still, in fact, I couldn't. 'Cause I got sucked in. It went down like this:
I sat at the desk with a pudgy little cherub fresh from a nap in my arms and made to move like lightning and get through all my business while baby Blue was still too delirious to interfere. Then in flew Curly, with her energy swirling in behind her like a glittering cape. She invigorated Louise with her very presence and the next thing I knew there was no longer space for my finger on the keyboard, nor the rest of my body in the chair. Essentially, I dove at the first possible distracting apparatus that caught my eye: the clear plastic bin of yet untapped magical powers.
"Scooby, look at that boat just waiting for you to sail across the sea!" And she took the bait with a "Bye, bye, cabin!". But she couldn't shove off without her rosy first mate, whom I happily plunked down beside her. Mission accomplished, back to business.
And type-type-click, blah-blah-blah... SCREAM! Now there are sharks. Animated toddler, baby is pleasantly confused. Whatever can we do about these sharks?!? There is, of course, only one hope: whales. Curly Sue scans the horizon, paddling frantically. Sweet Pudgers raises her eyebrows and grins. Still no whales in sight! Then splash! Finally, a pod of friends playing in the spray. And now I'm an active player, doing double duty as both whale tail and boat propeller while the captain guides us, giggling, under the desk where we see whales, pink and purple and green, through the glass bottom of our craft. And the baby's eyebrow's climb to new heights. Sue leads us along, painting our adventure as it occurs to her fresh little imagination. Then bright-eyed Lou gave the signal, put her little pudgy hands in mine, and stood up. Then stepped out. Sweet thing overboard, and game over. Just as Daddy's key turned in the lock.
Our voyage was brief. A small adventure among many. But I loved it for more than its obvious playfulness. It was a miniature triumph in my mothering psyche. You see, I've been working on my balance. Because two is more than one. More goodness, more struggle. More work, more joy, more feelings. More multi-tasking, more balls in the air. I have moments where I feel divided, like I lack to ability to give each of them the attention they deserve. Or maybe it's more I'm reluctant to give up the ability to drink in every moment of each childhood as though she were an only child. I can't spend the bulk of every day focusing on either of them alone. And I think I might wonder what I'm missing with either of them. But today cruising our white carpet and observing pink and purple marine life, I felt a little release from that. I found my center of balance for a moment. And I know those moments will grow as I do, as our family does.
I sat at the desk with a pudgy little cherub fresh from a nap in my arms and made to move like lightning and get through all my business while baby Blue was still too delirious to interfere. Then in flew Curly, with her energy swirling in behind her like a glittering cape. She invigorated Louise with her very presence and the next thing I knew there was no longer space for my finger on the keyboard, nor the rest of my body in the chair. Essentially, I dove at the first possible distracting apparatus that caught my eye: the clear plastic bin of yet untapped magical powers.
"Scooby, look at that boat just waiting for you to sail across the sea!" And she took the bait with a "Bye, bye, cabin!". But she couldn't shove off without her rosy first mate, whom I happily plunked down beside her. Mission accomplished, back to business.
And type-type-click, blah-blah-blah... SCREAM! Now there are sharks. Animated toddler, baby is pleasantly confused. Whatever can we do about these sharks?!? There is, of course, only one hope: whales. Curly Sue scans the horizon, paddling frantically. Sweet Pudgers raises her eyebrows and grins. Still no whales in sight! Then splash! Finally, a pod of friends playing in the spray. And now I'm an active player, doing double duty as both whale tail and boat propeller while the captain guides us, giggling, under the desk where we see whales, pink and purple and green, through the glass bottom of our craft. And the baby's eyebrow's climb to new heights. Sue leads us along, painting our adventure as it occurs to her fresh little imagination. Then bright-eyed Lou gave the signal, put her little pudgy hands in mine, and stood up. Then stepped out. Sweet thing overboard, and game over. Just as Daddy's key turned in the lock.
Our voyage was brief. A small adventure among many. But I loved it for more than its obvious playfulness. It was a miniature triumph in my mothering psyche. You see, I've been working on my balance. Because two is more than one. More goodness, more struggle. More work, more joy, more feelings. More multi-tasking, more balls in the air. I have moments where I feel divided, like I lack to ability to give each of them the attention they deserve. Or maybe it's more I'm reluctant to give up the ability to drink in every moment of each childhood as though she were an only child. I can't spend the bulk of every day focusing on either of them alone. And I think I might wonder what I'm missing with either of them. But today cruising our white carpet and observing pink and purple marine life, I felt a little release from that. I found my center of balance for a moment. And I know those moments will grow as I do, as our family does.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
For Mom
My mom hit a chronological milestone this week and her family threw her a party. I was miles away but I sent this little blurb along so she knew I was celebrating too:
Mom is a lot of things to me. My mother. My teacher. My friend. Fresh flowers on the table, warm meals in pretty serving dishes, the welcome escape of a good read; all remind me of her. A few years ago, Mom and I spent a weekend in Southern Utah, just the two of us. I don't remember exactly how old I was, or what official entertainment we had planned. But I will always remember chilling out in the sauna while we waited for that forgotten main event. In true Diane fashion, Mom had made a trip to the library beforehand and brought plenty of books along with us. Somehow she talked me into reading Irma Bombeck aloud.....and we must of read half of it in there, melting right off the benches and totally busting a gut! Maybe I remember that because we stayed in there forever. Maybe I remember 'cause it got so hot I thought my acrylic french-tip nails were going to explode right off my fingers. But mostly I think I remember because of the way Mom's laugh filled the hot box and sweetened the air. I love Mom's laugh. It's rich and sincere. And it, like the way she's always learning, or the way she loves to share, is a constant about her. It's one of the many details that gives her such life. And one of the many ways she will stay forever young.
Happy Birthday Mama! I love you.
Mom is a lot of things to me. My mother. My teacher. My friend. Fresh flowers on the table, warm meals in pretty serving dishes, the welcome escape of a good read; all remind me of her. A few years ago, Mom and I spent a weekend in Southern Utah, just the two of us. I don't remember exactly how old I was, or what official entertainment we had planned. But I will always remember chilling out in the sauna while we waited for that forgotten main event. In true Diane fashion, Mom had made a trip to the library beforehand and brought plenty of books along with us. Somehow she talked me into reading Irma Bombeck aloud.....and we must of read half of it in there, melting right off the benches and totally busting a gut! Maybe I remember that because we stayed in there forever. Maybe I remember 'cause it got so hot I thought my acrylic french-tip nails were going to explode right off my fingers. But mostly I think I remember because of the way Mom's laugh filled the hot box and sweetened the air. I love Mom's laugh. It's rich and sincere. And it, like the way she's always learning, or the way she loves to share, is a constant about her. It's one of the many details that gives her such life. And one of the many ways she will stay forever young.
Happy Birthday Mama! I love you.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Chicken Nuggets and Fries
Today was full. Of meals and errands, smiles and tantrums, schedules and phone calls, and rain and messes and conscious efforts to just keep it together. The baby has officially abandoned the infant box I've been desperately trying to trap her in. She's got two teeth on the way and has decided that she stands. With our help, but on her own two feet. Always. And the monkey is shunning the very idea of a nap. Like it reeks. As for me, my gear shift has been stuck in go-speed for at least nine days now. And Daddy kissed us goodbye before I was even coherent this morning. So today, in all of it's exhaustiveness was a pretty representative sample of a day in our life as of late. With the exception of a couple fantastic hours in the car this afternoon.
We were driving home from Target when it happened. Curly asked for a restaurant and a green and crusty "NOPE" was on the tip of my tongue. "We didn't have time for it." Which technically, we didn't. But I did some quick math mixed with some toddler-mode realism and found my car heading for the drive-thru window and my voice was ordering chicken nuggets and chocolate milk. I paid and made sure BBQ sauce and ketchup had been included. Then Goldie the car kindly chauffeured us to the beach. Where we the three of us enjoyed our junk food in the front seat, in full view of green stormy water and the city skyline. Pushing every button on the dashboard while seagulls bobbed on the waves. Sue and I talked about Daddy; that we miss him every minute and what he's having for lunch downtown. Then dogs, as a variety passed by. And finally named our bobble-head retriever. I believe we settled on Kyle. Meanwhile, the rosy little chubosaurus we like to call Lou stood, of course, on my lap. Most pleasantly focused on the traffic out the window. Tasting fries and chocolate ice cream. And occasionally honking the horn with her big diapered bottom. And just like that we got lunch, complete with clean up, checked off the list. Which is all we probably would have done with that space of time anyway. But this way we got cars zooming, birds surfing, and canines dutifully walking their owners. And it was just plain lovely.
We were driving home from Target when it happened. Curly asked for a restaurant and a green and crusty "NOPE" was on the tip of my tongue. "We didn't have time for it." Which technically, we didn't. But I did some quick math mixed with some toddler-mode realism and found my car heading for the drive-thru window and my voice was ordering chicken nuggets and chocolate milk. I paid and made sure BBQ sauce and ketchup had been included. Then Goldie the car kindly chauffeured us to the beach. Where we the three of us enjoyed our junk food in the front seat, in full view of green stormy water and the city skyline. Pushing every button on the dashboard while seagulls bobbed on the waves. Sue and I talked about Daddy; that we miss him every minute and what he's having for lunch downtown. Then dogs, as a variety passed by. And finally named our bobble-head retriever. I believe we settled on Kyle. Meanwhile, the rosy little chubosaurus we like to call Lou stood, of course, on my lap. Most pleasantly focused on the traffic out the window. Tasting fries and chocolate ice cream. And occasionally honking the horn with her big diapered bottom. And just like that we got lunch, complete with clean up, checked off the list. Which is all we probably would have done with that space of time anyway. But this way we got cars zooming, birds surfing, and canines dutifully walking their owners. And it was just plain lovely.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Windows
I love our apartment in the afternoons. Clean, white daylight pours through the big windows in the bedroom and the nursery, gently lighting our dreaming space. I love those windows. They make our home open and airy. They lend magical qualities to everyday moments. And today especially, I loved them twice. First for the minutes I spent with that lucsious lil' blue eyed baby. Nursing and playing together on an antique bed, with its antique mattress. Sunny yellow bedspread rumpled at the the foot, as bed-making is not a habit for me....yet. And light, fresh as new sheets, magnifying the perfection of those sweet cheeks. Then later, when the curly one woke from her nap and dove directly into a terrific fit. Screaming and kicking and beating the wall. There's been much of this lately; she's two. I ignored. Then scolded. But the tantrum only got worse. So then I just stared, stupidly. 'Cause I'm just learning too. And after a moment tried again. I scooped her up and cuddled her in the rocking chair. To my surprise, she let me. She softened and snuggled. And asked for a lullaby. A request I happily granted as the sunshine washed over us. I let it soak into my skin, the pure light of winter giving way to a fresh lively spring. Rocking and singing, grateful, and humbled, and warm. And a little bit new myself.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
When I was a little girl, my family lived next door to an Italian man and his British wife. They had kids, but I don't remember much about them. Just Peter, and Mary, two dogs and the back yard. As I remember it she had a small but lovely rose garden on the side that met with our property, next to his tomatoes. And on Saturday day mornings you could hear Peter out there, working the soil and singing opera like Pavarotti himself. It was idyllic. They were warm and welcoming people and though their cameo appearances in my life were relatively brief, they somehow mean an awful lot to me. Peter died of a heart attack when I was very young. I have no memory of the funeral, small impressions of his family after that point. But every time I smell a garden fresh tomato, I'm way back in that house with the blue kitchen and the pink bedroom with Figaro's chorus wafting in through the open window. The memory stays fresh, and consistent. And warms me like a cup of hot soup.
Isn't it strange how your mind squirrels things away like that? Picking seemingly at random and programing directly into the skeletal structure of your perspective. I have more. Brilliant fuchsia peonies are directly related to my mother, who planted them and graced our kitchen tables with them in wildly delicate bunches because her of grandmother. A walk home from elementary school with my brother that replays its vignette each time I crunch a leaf or breath in crisp autumn air. Piano music makes me close my eyes and drift in and out of consciousness on an overstuffed green couch while another brother fill our home with music and the smell of pot roast and rolls save my from being rocked to entirely sleep by the gently melodies. Tom Petty songs that transport me to the first time I danced barefoot in the living room with my husband. These moments, these things and effects, they've fused with the essence of me. And what's more, with the fibers that tie me to the ones I love. Sometimes I think they may be the sensory core of why I love what and who I do, colors that bring life to relationships that might truly otherwise be flat formalities.
And new ones too. Every morning and evening the bells of Sacred Heart Church call children to school and worshipers to mass. I have rocked, nursed and loved two babies by this accompaniment. And now, those ringing tones are tied forever to soft morning light, green leaves, pink blossoms, and sweet innocents. Curly Sue, standing squarely at the edge of the ocean, salty breezes blowing hair into a halo around her face while she looked on to infinity without batting an eyelash. This is what my minds eye sees when I smell brine on the wind. Deep, deep impressions pressed flawlessly in the soft clay of my memory. And soon, if not already, my girls will be making them too. Encoding moments and perceptions directly into their sophisticated little hard-drives. And building their sense of the world from and around that foundation. I wonder what those flashes will be?
Isn't it strange how your mind squirrels things away like that? Picking seemingly at random and programing directly into the skeletal structure of your perspective. I have more. Brilliant fuchsia peonies are directly related to my mother, who planted them and graced our kitchen tables with them in wildly delicate bunches because her of grandmother. A walk home from elementary school with my brother that replays its vignette each time I crunch a leaf or breath in crisp autumn air. Piano music makes me close my eyes and drift in and out of consciousness on an overstuffed green couch while another brother fill our home with music and the smell of pot roast and rolls save my from being rocked to entirely sleep by the gently melodies. Tom Petty songs that transport me to the first time I danced barefoot in the living room with my husband. These moments, these things and effects, they've fused with the essence of me. And what's more, with the fibers that tie me to the ones I love. Sometimes I think they may be the sensory core of why I love what and who I do, colors that bring life to relationships that might truly otherwise be flat formalities.
And new ones too. Every morning and evening the bells of Sacred Heart Church call children to school and worshipers to mass. I have rocked, nursed and loved two babies by this accompaniment. And now, those ringing tones are tied forever to soft morning light, green leaves, pink blossoms, and sweet innocents. Curly Sue, standing squarely at the edge of the ocean, salty breezes blowing hair into a halo around her face while she looked on to infinity without batting an eyelash. This is what my minds eye sees when I smell brine on the wind. Deep, deep impressions pressed flawlessly in the soft clay of my memory. And soon, if not already, my girls will be making them too. Encoding moments and perceptions directly into their sophisticated little hard-drives. And building their sense of the world from and around that foundation. I wonder what those flashes will be?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Baby Hands
Ten pudgy digits, two fleshy palms. The backs are dimpled at the knuckles. Dimpled so deeply that when she straightens more than one finger at a time the divots become creases, like lines attempting to connect the dots. But the wrists are still somehow dainty. Like a bottleneck, they force the chubbiness of her forearms into bracelets overlapping her hand. I love these baby hands.
They are getting increasingly dexterous. They can pass an item back and forth and back again, hold a spoon (or anything else for that matter) in her mouth, swat a tower of blocks right over, or gently stroke her little stuffed giraffe. But that's mainly just their larger utility. Like a fine emotional tool, Lou's baby hands have whittled a spot on the list of the reasons I have so enjoyed her infancy. Because it is with those that she reaches for Curly every time she sees her. Because with them she has conducted a tactile exploration of Daddy's beard. Because she sandwiches my cheeks between them before she opens her mouth at arms length, like a glutton with a cheeseburger, on her way to give me a big wet kiss. Or at least that's what I call it. And because, those little hands reach up to me as that sweet thing's eyes flutter at half mast, my lullaby escaping while soft little fingers trace a sensory map of my face and the baby drifts off to sleep. And oh, how I love those tiny hands.
They are getting increasingly dexterous. They can pass an item back and forth and back again, hold a spoon (or anything else for that matter) in her mouth, swat a tower of blocks right over, or gently stroke her little stuffed giraffe. But that's mainly just their larger utility. Like a fine emotional tool, Lou's baby hands have whittled a spot on the list of the reasons I have so enjoyed her infancy. Because it is with those that she reaches for Curly every time she sees her. Because with them she has conducted a tactile exploration of Daddy's beard. Because she sandwiches my cheeks between them before she opens her mouth at arms length, like a glutton with a cheeseburger, on her way to give me a big wet kiss. Or at least that's what I call it. And because, those little hands reach up to me as that sweet thing's eyes flutter at half mast, my lullaby escaping while soft little fingers trace a sensory map of my face and the baby drifts off to sleep. And oh, how I love those tiny hands.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Pink Sunshine
Dear Curly,
This morning you were such a little weasel! A curly headed, mischievious little monkey that gave me a genuine run for my money. You bossed and whined and demanded by turns. I tried to remember you're two. You woke Louie from her nap. And I counted to ten. You snatched things and ran, laughing like an evil genius. And I took a deep breath. You dumped an entire glass of milk on the floor and gleefully splashed in the puddle. And I prayed for patience. You intentionally clawed your sister and punched me in the nose. And we both took a time out.
Somehow or other, we made it till lunch time. It was a marathon of running up the downhill escalator. But food was consumed and carpet survived. Baby Lou went for her nap in the bassinet and you were read two stories. Then sung one song. And do you know which tune you emphatically requested today? Pink Sunshine: You're my pink sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray.....
No melody could fit you better. In spite of the fact that you were an absolute maniac today, pink sunshine is exactly what you are. An impish little ray of rose colored light. Charming, and occasionally impossible to tame. You wreaked havoc on my to do list this morning. No matter, housekeeping never was my forte anyway. And laundry will always wait. Right now you've gone and made me smile in spite of myself. So sweet dreams, you beautiful little stink-pot. I love you.
Love,
Mommy
This morning you were such a little weasel! A curly headed, mischievious little monkey that gave me a genuine run for my money. You bossed and whined and demanded by turns. I tried to remember you're two. You woke Louie from her nap. And I counted to ten. You snatched things and ran, laughing like an evil genius. And I took a deep breath. You dumped an entire glass of milk on the floor and gleefully splashed in the puddle. And I prayed for patience. You intentionally clawed your sister and punched me in the nose. And we both took a time out.
Somehow or other, we made it till lunch time. It was a marathon of running up the downhill escalator. But food was consumed and carpet survived. Baby Lou went for her nap in the bassinet and you were read two stories. Then sung one song. And do you know which tune you emphatically requested today? Pink Sunshine: You're my pink sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray.....
No melody could fit you better. In spite of the fact that you were an absolute maniac today, pink sunshine is exactly what you are. An impish little ray of rose colored light. Charming, and occasionally impossible to tame. You wreaked havoc on my to do list this morning. No matter, housekeeping never was my forte anyway. And laundry will always wait. Right now you've gone and made me smile in spite of myself. So sweet dreams, you beautiful little stink-pot. I love you.
Love,
Mommy
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Giggles
I'm climbing out of my annual winter funk. The after-holiday, gray, fat, and exhausted, all-I-wanna-do-is-dig-in-and-hibernate sticky mood that is just a frigid fact of January. For me. Usually. But I seem to be thawing a little earlier this year; my energy level has experienced a bit of a burst that just needs constant fueling to maintain. I'm seeing the light and I'm ready to say enough with the funk already! I've relieved the TV of babysitting duty, gotten dressed nearly every day this week, and even spent this morning playing kitchen and pink play-dough with Curly and her blonde and blue-eyed cousin, the one and only "Good-Job-Bob"bette. This has got to be some kind of record; it all started with an attack of the giggles.
You know those giggle fits that strike unexpectedly? That leave you breathless and utterly refreshed? Little Lou had her first one in the church parking lot Tuesday night. Bedtime, frozen darkness, time to go home. I'm settling the little chunk of chub into her car-seat when she graciously filled her drawers......Nice. Then she beamed at me. Unbelievably pleased. Which made me smile as I got her all bundled up in her lady-bug softy and transferred her to the front seat, to attempt a somewhat up-side-down diaper change while crouched between shotgun and the glove box. I smirked and squished myself into position while her little eyes gleamed with amusement. Oh my, she wiggled a whole bunch. Apparently this was a game. Chee-ky. All the same, I still cringed as I reached for the little monkey's diaper tab after wrestling her into place. My fingertips were icicles! But I did it, and instead of a cry, or a squirm, she responded with a perfect laugh. Melodic and sincere. I laughed back. And the atmosphere changed. I got a moment with my little honey-bug that came pre-photo-shopped. A small little spotlight of warmth for just the two of us. Chuckles in razor clarity. Everything else in shadow or soft focus. Our giggles triggered more, then more, feeding on each other, impeding but outlasting the business at hand. Then I surrendered my funk to a blessing. I took some advise from a baby. And remembered to thank heavens for the gift of the giggles.
You know those giggle fits that strike unexpectedly? That leave you breathless and utterly refreshed? Little Lou had her first one in the church parking lot Tuesday night. Bedtime, frozen darkness, time to go home. I'm settling the little chunk of chub into her car-seat when she graciously filled her drawers......Nice. Then she beamed at me. Unbelievably pleased. Which made me smile as I got her all bundled up in her lady-bug softy and transferred her to the front seat, to attempt a somewhat up-side-down diaper change while crouched between shotgun and the glove box. I smirked and squished myself into position while her little eyes gleamed with amusement. Oh my, she wiggled a whole bunch. Apparently this was a game. Chee-ky. All the same, I still cringed as I reached for the little monkey's diaper tab after wrestling her into place. My fingertips were icicles! But I did it, and instead of a cry, or a squirm, she responded with a perfect laugh. Melodic and sincere. I laughed back. And the atmosphere changed. I got a moment with my little honey-bug that came pre-photo-shopped. A small little spotlight of warmth for just the two of us. Chuckles in razor clarity. Everything else in shadow or soft focus. Our giggles triggered more, then more, feeding on each other, impeding but outlasting the business at hand. Then I surrendered my funk to a blessing. I took some advise from a baby. And remembered to thank heavens for the gift of the giggles.
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