Silent Night

The twinkle lights are shining a gentle rainbow of spotlights on three little nativity scenes on the mantle.  The tree is guarding a nest of presents, dressed in white and red and green, cradling a baby "Jesus" swaddled in cream pillow cases.  I can hear Curly Sue gently crooning out her version of "Angels We Have Heard On High" in the girls room where she and her sister lie, two little souls are snuggled and bundled.  Christmas is glowing softly in my heart.  

Again

Remember the day with terrible children and the miserable mother and the quarters in the pancake batter and the time outs all around?  We're back there.  Again. Back to the stress and the screeching and the tight, stiff feelings.  And the faces like anguished drama masks.  The girls are evil geniuses today.  Each makes the other their target.  They had an amazing knock down drag out fight within the confines of their double stroller.  Criminal contortionist kind of stuff.  Right down Main Street.  In the pouring rain.  Pouring.  Rain.  I caught a beautician gawking at us through the window....her jaw dropped right down to her collarbone. 
They got frog marched straight to their beds as soon as we got home.  And I stormed around, putting shoes away and threatening impending doom should I hear as much as one whisper of naughtiness. 
I heard a giggle.  Then two.  I was swooping in to.....I don't know what.  Transform into a beast, I suppose, when I got pulled up short.  They were in there, demons gone, children back.  Making a nest out of all their pillows with a stack of books waiting on the edge of the bed.  My mind flashed on the Wicked Witch of the West I'd just met in the hall mirror.  Didn't like it one little bit.  I'm in time out, again. 
In time out to remember, again, the guidance I was granted sitting next to the pancake batter puddle with twenty-five cent lilly-pads: Love them.  It came to me softly like breeze slipping through white linen.  Simply love them.  That's the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end of what I aim to do as their mother.  Everything else will grow out of that.  Love them, feed them.  Love them, clothe them.  Love them, teach them.  Love them, tell them.  Love them, laugh with them.  Love them, correct them.  Love them, play with them.  Love them, listen to them.  Love them, hold them.  Love them, guide them.
There are days when I remember.  When I hold those two words in the center of my mind and they help me relax.  Release.  Like the breathing in yoga helps me stretch.  And be strong.  Things flow smoother on those days.  Today, I was forgetting.  So I gave myself a time out.  And, will probably need several more at several other dates.  Until, hopefully, I finally remember forever.  But today, I'll settle for remembering, again.     

I'm Their Guest....

Remember way back when I promised to share my tips and tricks?  Well, I finally did!  Check out my thoughts on working with your littles in my guest spot on Bloom.  Thanks for having me Anne and Emily!

Weekend Ritual

There is a Daddy in this house.  He has two little girls.  He loves them.  They pretty much think he is it.  Saturday morning I came out in the living room and there they were, snuggled in the blanket.  Him in the middle, a chipmunk on each side.  Still in pajamas, all three.  Pink hedgehogs and purple red-riding hoods and blue plaid.  Observing the time-honored Saturday morning tradition......cartoons.  Did you remember?  I sort of forgot.  That's why there's a Daddy in this house.  'Cause there they were rosy and giggling and warm.  And completely unaware of to-do lists or chores.  Just enjoying Daddy and Pablo, and Tasha, and Tyrone.  And now I remember.  That sooo happy feeling of an empty day completely full with the simple promise of Dad.  And cartoons.  And cold cereal.  And pajamas till....never.  They do it every weekend.  I sleep in.  Next weekend, I'm gonna sleep in again.  But this weekend, when I stumbled in, it was like standing outside a window in the snow, watching a family start in under a fully loaded Christmas tree.  And having every confidence they would welcome you.  It made me feel cozy.  Like he always does.  So glad there's a Daddy in this house.   

Silhouette

The other day out at the swing set the sun treated me to a silhouette of myself pushing the girls higher and higher.  There I was larger than life, taller than tall.  My arms, stretched like tree limbs, caught and released two little bodies on aerial seats.  I love the fine detail of a shadow.  It gave me lace from the leaves above.  It outlined every errant hair blowing in the wind.  It reminded me with graceful loops and a tiny heart suspended above my head that I was in fact still wearing the crown from playing princesses with Sue while we rounded up shoes and socks.  There was my happy projected in the black.  I smiled and kept the crown on.  And we kept on playing.  Happy me.  Happy girls.  Happy us.  Happy sun.  Happy day.

A letter to Little B

Dear Bazooka Jane,

The other day at Aldi you made the assumption that all other customers were there to see you (and by the end of the trip they were ). You announced your self and your shiny shoes and told everyone you are two. Except you're not. Yet. But it made me think. About you and the bursting little life inside you. All smiles and eyelashes and fearless joy. And the places they will take you. It made me think about the pieces of your little personality. And the enormous strength you already have.

Every time I take you to the beach you make a frank and furious bee line for the water. With you there is no pausing to test the temperature of the cold Atlantic blue one toe at a time. You just plow right in, as deep as you can go, until someone saves you from yourself or a wave knocks you flat. At which point, you will only laugh, pick your little self up and head right back in with an even bigger grin. Sweet thing, you terrify your mother. But I have to confess, there is a part of me that loves this. Not the idea that you have no sense of danger, so much. But the idea of living without fear, of seeking life and adventure with insatiable zest and gusto. Don't lose that. Temper it with some sense, if you please, but keep it alive if you can.

You and I each measure our will against the other, mine to keep you breathing oxygen, yours to discover what it means to be a fish. Most often the only compromise we can find is to waltz across the wet sand. You in my arms and the wind in our hair. One, two-three, slow, quick-quick. Tide washing over my feet and your sister contentedly gathering every pink rock on the beach behind our swirling resolution. I love this part. Every piece of it from the blue horizon to the gray rocks marking the perimeter. The smell, the breeze, the gentle sounds, and the cool spray on my legs. And my girl laughing with her eyes. I love it. Keep this part too. Keep your will and your drive and your ability to yield too. And never forget how to let someone sweep you off your feet and waltz, two-three, slow, quick-quick, into the breeze.

I love you, Crazy. Love,

Mama

Sneetches

I was in the kitchen getting dinner settled and a little laundry folded fresh and warm from the dryer. The girls were splashing in the tub with their Daddy standing guard. Our new house features a much deeper tub than our old one could boast and the splashing possibilities here are primo. I heard plenty of giggles and swim-itty sounds. Then when I entered the bathroom with towels in hand I caught the tail end of the game:

"Stand up Sweetie!" the Monkey would call, and up the little one would burst, water streaming off her like an ocean fleeing a new formed volcanic peak. Then promptly a bright colored foam letter was firmly placed over Lil' Blue's navel, an orange "X" marking the spot, or a green "A". She ever so proudly displayed her new belly adornment to the audience like one of Suess' Sneetches fresh out of the magic machine with spanking new "stars upon thars". Then crash, she plummets to the white porcelain floor and the water steals her new sophistication in one smooth swipe. The "X" floats off behind a pink rubber duck and the "A" sinks slowly to the bottom. Never mind, there are more: "Stand up, Sweetie!"......

Reverting a Little

When I was a little girl my Dad's job required him to travel quite a bit. My actual memories of this are pretty much limited to the following:

a) My mom and I would have a sleep-over in my parents water-bed. Wrapped in a nest of blankets and pillows while still afloat on a friendly sea. I have vague recollections of wiggling while half asleep to keep the bed rolling. I think my love of the ocean is somehow tied to this. If that wasn't enough, I also often got to watch a movie to boot.

b) Dad would bring home gifts for all his kids, and come to think of it, probably my mom too. One time I got a Hershey bar from the factory in Pennsylvania. It was about the size of my current computer monitor.

c) I missed him lots. Do you remember the song from "American Tale"? Somewhere out there, beneath the pale moon sky, Some one's thinking of me, and loving me to-night I remember staying awake long after the movie had run out and Mom's regimen of stories and songs had been exhausted. Aching for my Daddy and singing myself to sleep like Fivel Mouskewitz in his makeshift bed. For whatever reason, that's the only song that ever helped.

The last few nights a piece of me has slipped back a bit to that little girl. I miss my Dad. And that piece of me is still singing the same old song. And some where out there, if love can see us through, Then we'll be together, Somewhere out there, out where dreams come true. Same as every time before, and valid as ever.

Love you Daddy.

How to Catch a Rainbow

Baachan and Jiichan have a new door with a pretty little window alongside it. One morning I heard Sweetie Blue riding her Diego truck in the hall and I peeked around the corner to see what she was up to. Sunshine streamed through the window, a collection of simple solo rays lending a bit of life to the blue way. I remember light shooting through the little diamond window in my Grandparents cabin first thing in the morning like that. A spotlight on the braided rug, calling attention to the woolen colors collaborating as they warmed the floor for feet fresh out of a bed on a cold mountain morning. It was one of my favorite ways to wake up. Ever. This was a little bit the same. It just made me feel cozy.
I caught up to the munchkin. We played more truck on the cool white tile. I noticed the joints of the window were acting as prisms, casting tiny little rectangles of red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. Little geometric rainbows painted on a robin egg canvas. I showed the little Puddin' Bear. She touched them, showed me all the pinks, and blues, and even a couple of "g'een"s. Let the sunshine highlight her golden little pixie face. Then she was off, like kitten after a butterfly.
I thought to bring Curly back a bit later, show her the rainbows too. But when she woke up they were already gone. And though I know they must be there, I haven't chanced upon them since.

I am mother to two little girls. They used to be babies and already are not. They are the fairies and imps of my world, leaving traces of sugar and cinnamon behind them as they flit about their mystical business. I know these prismatic instants are part of their daily magic. I can feel them. Generally, they escape me in the music and noise of housekeeping, callings, friendships, hobbies, and forward motion. The days pass in gusts like a whirlwind, and every once in a while I get moment to experience their childhoods as I pass through the calm eye of the storm. And those are the fleeting pauses in which rainbows are caught.

Breakfast in Bed

This morning I woke up when a blanket, baby doll, and cup of water were piled on my neck: "Foh'you, Mommy!"   Later they brought me breakfast in bed.  Daddy's specialty; ham, egg and cheese bagel, blueberry yogurt, and a big pink mug of minty hot cocoa.  Mmmmm.   They gave me loves and cards and wished me a happy mothers day.  The monkey proudly even signed her own name.  Bouncy little Lou waved her doggie card in my face and instantly reclaimed it.  Sweetie Sue climbed under the covers with me and Daddy turned on the Chipmunks Squeakuel for us to watch.  The little one jumped on the bed for us, sat on her sister, and ate all my ham.  The curly one took care of my cheese for me, and dispatched me for a glass of milk.  I felt a little bit like Mrs. Large in her well wished for bubble bath.  It was lovely.

Bird Bath

The blue bird got a rare solo bath this evening.  I think she's part fish.  She loves to splash and dunk her own head.  She slithers along the bottom like a snake and "whim"s on her stomach like a frog.  But she's still a little bird to me.  A happy little bluebird.  Hopping along and singing the most joyous little song.  She was born with a gift for enjoying everything around her.  I watch her, everyday.  Investigating the world like an unexpected gift, wrapped in aquamarine paper with a wide, orange ribbon.  It came without a card but she knows exactly who it's from.  She circles the box, hops all over it, chirps, tugs at the ribbon, pecks at the wrapping, tears into it with total abandon.  She finds the treasure inside and laughs.  Sings about it.  Throws it in the air just to catch it on the way down.  She was in the tub, jabbering at her little fishies.  Giddy about her dinosaur sponges.  She stopped to pat my face with her wet little paws.  And directly dove into the water just to peek at me over the rim, with the same old silly secret in her eyes.  And that transparent smile that makes me laugh.  She's delicious.  My little bird, twittering from branch to branch, then lighting on my finger for the briefest of moments, and directly flitting away.  

Magnolia Blossom

I love those first warm days of spring.  We went for a walk on a sunny Sunday afternoon and let the sunshine warm us clear through the bone.  The girls brought their strollers.  And babies.  The blue-bird stopped every six inches, demanding sweetly "Wha' DAT?!"  The Daddy and I took it in shifts, staying with the tiny inquisitor, keeping up with Motor-legs the monkey.  It was my turn to hold the soft, tiny hand.  My turn to meet the honest blue eyes and explain about individual blades of grass and diamonds of chain link.  My turn to slow the pace, indulge in the awesome everyday details.  I savored Louie's hearty sweetness; like a warm oatmeal chocolate chip cookie in my mouth.  She held " Babita" so as to give her plastic head a better view of a dandelion.  I looked ahead.  I saw my other sweethearts had reached our target.  Curly had parked "Cinderella Baby" in her stroller in the shade of an iconic magnolia tree.  She was up on his shoulders, sniffing a blossom.  Their silhouette was gray and back-lit under an umbrella dripping pink and ivory.  I took a picture in my mind.  And here it is.     

Going Home

We are moving.  Somewhere.  Sometime in June.  We're almost done with dental school.  With this city.  And with this apartment.  This has me thoughtful.  And my emotions swirly.  Some days, I cannot wait.  Like when the cat upstairs sounds like a rhino on a rampage.  Like when the neighbor's garlic chicken invades my kitchen so strongly I can't smell what I'm cooking.  Like Mondays, when it's me against the laundry.  The girls and I drag a big granny cart basically vacuum packed with 60ish pounds of laundry, quarters, dryer balls, and detergent down the hall, ride the elevator, and down another hall.  I trap us in the laundry room and play everything I can think of until it's time to switch to the dryer and then figure out what to do while our clothes get mostly dry.  Nap? Lunch? Errands?  It seems like the laundry's always finished just when I most need to not go downstairs....Other days it makes my heart sick.  This is the home where we grew into the family.  And I love it.  This is where my babies came home from the hospital.  This is where I found sweet friendships.  This is where I learned to cry again.  This is where I learned to fly.  This is where we all began to grow up.  Together.  As a unit.  Sometimes, I'm perfectly calm about it.  Moving on is simply a matter of finding a new place to fall in love.  Sometimes I think I'm crazy.  Sometimes, I feel like I'm lucky; like I'm kind of homeless in the best way possible.  Where ever I we go, home will be there.  It's like this: 

I was sitting in a cafe in Utah a few weeks ago.  The decor was moose.  Bear.  Horses.  Mountain, ranch motif.  Beautiful wood booths.  Rawhide chairs.  Clear finishes.  Snow piled outside.  Twinkle lights waiting to shine on the roof.  A wild place mellowed.  George Strait was singing in the background.  I was eating a Hawaiian burger.  I was home.

Driving home from Park City forever ago.  Alone in my green Saturn.  Collective Soul.  Windburned.  Tired.  Satisfied.  Sun on white peaks.  The backside of the mountain that greeted me, framed by my window, every morning.  White.  Yellow.  Warm.  Happy.  I was home.

I went running off the National Mall in D.C.   I came upon an old, forgotten WWII memorial.  Stone pillars gently swallowed by moss and ivy.  Inscriptions in the rock.  It was quiet.  Reverent.  Like a ruin.  Like a prayer.  Just me and the soul of that moment.  I was grateful.  I was home.

At a mountain resort in Costa Rica.  I had pancakes, plantains, and warm black beans for breakfast.  I sat on the edge the mountain and sketched.  Deep red.  Lacy green canopy.  Blue sky.  Black mountain.  I heard monkeys in the trees behind me.  Butterflies.  Birds.  Lizards.  Everything different; smaller, bigger, brighter, more delicate.  I was in another world.  I was home. 

Endless afternoons on Oahu.  North Shore.  Waimea.  Sharks Cove.  We paddled to goat island.  Coral under my feet.  Seven shades of blue.  Many shades of green.  Foam.  Waves crashing, exploding into walls of white.  Breathing.  Deeply.  With my eyes closed.  Mist generously raining down on me.  Softly though, like pixy dust.  Like kisses blown from far away.  I was home.

I was snuggled on our cozy red love sac.  Christmas lights glowing.  Girls sleeping in the next room.  Snow falling softly outside.  My honey was on his way.  The world felt like velvet.  Content wrapped around me, held me close.  I was home.

The fog curling outside.  The rungs of the balcony dripping.  Blueberry coffeecake baking.  Warm.  Sweet.  Heavy.  Curly in her nightgown.  Sweet Blue too.  She was nearly bald then.  And very new.  I was home.

In the city.  A playground.  An old stone church.  A necklace of greenspaces dropping yellow leaves across the paths between the concrete aisles. Eating a PB and J on whole-wheat.  Talking movies, literature, travel with a friend.  Picking my children out of the tiny crowd.  I was home.


In the North End.  Eating the perfect meal.  Roasted beets, potatoes, grilled salmon, white wine sauce.  Perfection.  Sweetheart across from me, amused by the way I'm shamelessly eavesdropping on our table neighbors.  People watching out the window.  White boxes tied with string.  Kids. Tourists. Just people.  Walking down cobblestone.  Exploring again.  I was home.

Spring air.  Fresh.  I smell pink magnolia blossoms on graceful branches, sunny daffodils.  I smell green.  Wet wood cushions every scent.  Soft breeze.  Open windows.  I am home.

Kisses In My Pocket

Curly always catches the kisses I blow to her.  Always.  Reaches out and grabs them out of the air and rubs them into her cheek or her nose or on top of her head or into her belly.  Lately, she stuffs them in her pocket and calls over her shoulder, "I've got some kisses in my pocket anytime, in case I need them!"  Curls bouncing, skirt swaying, elbows pumping, off to save the day.  And that's pretty much my favorite picture of her lately.  Love her. 

Pink Ladies

There were apples on the beach when we got there.  I have no idea how they came to be there, but there they were.  A bushel-worth of apples scattered over the sand like marbles on gravel drive.  I thought they were balls at first.  There were so many of them and they looked so bright against the streusel colored sand....but they were apples; shiny pink with yellow-orange underbellies.  Pink Ladies from South America.

I picked one up and it was soft; the sun and salty air had baked it.  The blue bird tried to eat one.  I taught her to toss it in the water for the seagulls instead.  She did it with unbelievable definition to her actions.  That apple was going in the water with all deliberate feelings.  The game kind of took flight from there.

There goes the rosey-cheeked little monkey, running with all her limbs.  Gathering apples and bouncing over the seaweed stripe that separates the sandcastle beach from soggy one.  There go her apples: splish, splash, splunk.  One for the wave, one for the foam, one for the birds to dive for.   

Here comes the blue bird.  First to toss the apple one handed.  It lands, kush, in the sand.  She kicks it forward once or twice, then picks it up tenderly with two hands, only to lift it high above her head and slam it mightily in the tide.

Then off they run for more.  And I ski-ball a few in myself.  The sky is blue.  And flawless, like someone spent the night on scaffolding giving it a fresh coat of paint.  The sun is warm.  The girls run.  The girls laugh.  The sand is like sugar under my feet.  And spring is here.  Hallelujah, spring is here.

We count the apples when we're all done.  50 little orbs strung along the coast like a pink pearl necklace.  A little sartorial nod to the new season.  Happy spring!    

Time Out

I'm in time out.  My girls are in monsters mode this morning.  So I fired them.  And then I fired me.

The monkey rolled out on the wrong side of the bed this morning.  She got three time outs for: hitting, kicking, and an evil combo headbutt-bite.  Before 9 AM.  So I banished her to her room for a nap.  Fired.

The blue bird, isn't really fired.  You can't really fire a baby.  And 18 months is still a baby.  But if she wasn't a baby I would've fired her.  For whining about treats.  And trying eight gazillion times to rescue her sis from her banishment.  For being a sweetheart?  Baby?  Couldn't fire her.  Put her down for a nap instead.

Then the monkey, who still hasn't taken a nap, rather ripped her room apart like a puppy, woke up the munchkin.  Who now wants me to go "nigh-nigh piwwwwow".  Desperately.

So the baby is crying, and the kiddo is thwarting, and I am getting shrill.  And it ain't pretty.  There's this awful quality to my yelling voice that triggers this image of my normal face melting off to reveal a wraith-like Medusa figure within.  With flames splashing around me like waves crashing on rocks and everything.  I don't like it, so: Fired.

I'm letting them do whatever the please in their room for twenty minutes.  Obviously I need a minute to remember that they're my little loves, lest I sell them to the circus two for a dollar.....So, timer set.....

Dear girls,

I love you.  I also want to ban the following behaviors, forever: pinching, kicking, biting, fussing, whining, and saying the word "mine" with unnecessary vehemence.  Ok?  Ok.  Now that's settled, let's move on. There's a few things I want you to know.

-Curly.  You amaze me every day with your sweetness and your stinkiness.  I love you because you are so full of everything.  You are always up to something, which makes things terribly interesting.  You remind me of your Auntie with your faces and your phrases and your sudden flashes of heart-stopping golden generosity.  That makes me love you both more than usual.  And yesterday I complimented your good job sharing and you smiled and said to me:  "Know what Mommy? I like to share with you because I just love you so much."  And got on with your business.  It made my day.  So thanks.

-Bazooka Jane.  You are moving towards two.  You've got plans and attitudes and...words.  This week you swapped the word "m'ow" for carefully enunciated "meeee-ow".  I cannot stop you.  What will I do?  Your whole life I've sort of had a futile hope you'd be my chubby little infant forever.  You bucked that idea, now didn't you?  But I admit I love this too.  You're my little scientist on a discovery adventure.  You never ever stop moving.  Or smiling.  Or climbing things.  Ever.  I particularly like the way you are a truly emancipated little love bug who frequently pauses to give just-because-loves.  You're a busy little maniac that just breathes joy into my world.  If you could, hold off on getting rid of your so tiny little lisp when you say words like "mithce" just yet.  But I'll step aside and embrace things as you carry on with the development.  It's surprisingly delicious.  

Love,

Mom

 Time in.

Castles in the Sky

Curly thinks the temple is a castle.  I think it's because she knows it's where we get married, and it's all tower-and-spire-y and well, princesses get married in places that aren't really that far off.  The other day she found a picture of the Salt Lake City temple in her quiet book and screamed out "That's where you got married!"  She rushed off to our bedroom where a picture of me and the Daddy man rests on the wall, all heavenly in our white dress/black tuxedo/perfect day happiness.  "See, there you are!" she points.  "Someday, when I find my true love, I'll get married in the temple too."  And I died.  At her strong little confidence in the fairy tale.

Once upon a time, I met my true love.  At first we were friends.  And then we were more.  And then one day he asked me to marry him.  And I said "yes". 

Then, once upon a time, a little later on, I woke up in a hotel room to hear my parents stirring next door.  I was 21.  The temple was out my window.  A white dress hung from the armoir.  I was quiet.  I was calmer than I've ever been.  I was happy.  I had waffles with strawberries and whip cream while my hair was styled.  Five hours later, I was a Mrs. 

The flowers were new.  And everywhere.  And beautiful.  We wandered the garden, slipping in and out of coats to pose for pictures.  My brothers inhaled a bag of Lion House rolls off to the side while they waited.  The entire day went off without a hitch.  It was a perfect start. 

A few years went by.  We worked jobs.  I got my B.A.  We moved across the country.  We had a baby.  Then another.  Did a lot of everything, including Dental School.  We grew.

Then, one more once a time.  Handsome and I went back to the temple.  We opted to act as proxies in sealing ceremonies for couples who've passed on.  Our church believes in eternal families.  There was a woman there who'd brought in a stack of family names, many of them with children.  Daughters and nieces and cousins to be reunited forever with their parents.  I was their proxy.  She was so excited for them; I felt honored by her.  Pleased to participate.  I slipped into my own place, felt pastel chalk images of mothers receiving swaddled babies: Here you go.   

And then I couldn't help it.  With each repetition I just relived the moments when my own angels were handed to me.  Fresh little individual beings.  Curly, doing everything from birth on down on her own terms.  She's the one with a plan.  So very, very present.  So earnest.  So invested.  I remember fine details.  Her wet little curls and sweet little nose.  Her birdie legs that would become squishy little sausage casings in a matter of days.  Her cry.  She changed my world the moment the nurse placed her on my chest, like a veil lifted before my eyes and colors and forms sharpened, magnified.  Then Little Louie Blue Eyes, who came so casually I barely knew what was going on.  The midwife told me to reach and catch her, and I did it without even thinking.  And there she was.  Simple.  Sweet.  Confident.  Content.  Like she just did stuff like being born every day.  Like she was available to take me by the hand and show me what to do next if I needed her to, but she wasn't gonna push.  She just knew exactly where she belonged, and it was here.  With us.

I'm not one to divine much about whys and hows when it comes to the gifts the good Lord has seen fit to give me.  But I know those three, the monkey, the blue bird, and the handsome man, they were pretty much just handed to me like the babies in my soft pigment imaginings: here you go.  And sometimes I want to cry and laugh and essentially just melt into a shiny puddle of emotion at that idea.  "Here's love and struggle and beauty and pain and everything else that makes life holy, here you go."

I guess the lesson for me is to cherish what I've got in this minute.  To look at life and see what it is.  And remember to have faith.  And believe in living happily ever after.  Just like my baby does.           

Daffies

When we go to the store, I employ a system of bribery to get the grocery shopping done without losing my smile.  It's called: if you are good we'll get a treat.  Original, I know.  Last time the girls got a bonus for super good behavior we didn't get candy, or so tiny icecreams, or a movie from "the red box".  We got six flaky, sprouting brown bulbs that looked like loser onions but promised to magically turn into paperwhites; white baby daffies Curly Sue has every expectation of being pink in spite of everything she's been told.  And how can I resist that kind of optimism? 
We took them home.  We did the classic family home evening about faith.  And planted them in a red, rectangular flower box brought in off the balcony.  I'm usually a houseplant killer, but not these babies.  They are getting down-right nurtured.  They play in the girls windowsill during the day, and sleep on their dresser at night.  And everytime we water them Lil' Blue Lou gently tucks them back snug in the dirt with a whispered "Pah, pah, pah, nigh-nigh-ee".  Because apparently, everything that we're not currently holding in our hands is night-night.
Now, zoom out for a minute so you can catch the gist of the rest of our January: the Month of Ill.  We have a bad relationship with her, a grudge that took root four years ago and has not been forgiven. January is our nemesis.  She hates us in a sneaky, underhanded way.  She's like a bad cop, filing all the right paperwork but threatening capital punishment over parking violations in dark interrogation rooms with no lawyer.  She gets us sweating over nothing and we just can't trust 'er.  I can't prove it, but it's definitely her fault we've been so. dang. sick.  all year.  All twenty-four days of it.  I swear, there have been 80 gajillion vomiting episodes this month. It happens every year.  January is death.  Then February brings my birthday and Valentines and sometimes even a crocus or two.  February is the good cop.  The one that makes you feel like everything's gonna be okay, no matter what Officer Hellbound just told you.  She promises to let you live.  And she tells the truth.
But in the meantime, we've seen January in top form this week.  Louie has been stealth vomiting and moving along with her life like nothing happened until she drops amazing bowel movements straight through her diaper and clothes to the carpet.  And by amazing, I mean awesome like a stinky green flash flood.  She's been trying to keep singing her song like my usual happy little blue bird but she's just not there.  And poor Sue, she's been living on Motrin and Tylenol in an effort to beat down that raging fever of hers for good.  It's been this or that since January One.  They seem to just keep swapping symptoms.  The Daddy got his own taste of it today.  And I'm about toast. 
Zoom back in and I'll tell you we went to the doctor, who told us it was "just another viral infection".  And I felt oddly comforted by that.  We are to hang in there.  Keep fighting a good fight.  And we have.  Our house is a world of thermometers, pedialyte, laundry, clorox wipes, fussing ladies, popsicles, spinning heads, exhausted parents, playdough, crayons, and that blessed cartoon monkey Curious George.
And daffies.  Through it all we water them everyday.  Leave them to play in the sunshine.  And give them their pat, pat, pats.  They've been thriving.  Today I noticed how deep the green of their little shoots is.  The very color of life in a world that's turning a ghostly puce.  I think the contrast of that vivacious green peeking out through a rich brown with a red border is so pleasant.  It made me a promise today about survival, about being sunny in the middle of sludgy muck.  It helped me keep my eyes open.  And I love those green peepers for it.  So I think we'll plant paperwhite daffies every January from now on.  See if we can't soften the bad cop up a bit.       

Somebody

Every once in a while I get hung up on the thought of Somebody.  Who they are, what they look like, what their story is.  I think about it every time I drive by an abandoned car on the freeway I wonder where they are, the Somebody that should be behind that wheel....where did they go?  are they coming back?  were they alone?  did they leave all their stuff locked up in the trunk or pack it with them?  did they stomp off towards the gas station or just start walking resignedly?  I get distracted imagining the stories of those lonely automobiles.  And one of these days when I get my act together, I'm gonna write down a collection of my little make believes....
But today I am less obsessed with who Somebody was.  I am mostly grateful for what Somebody did.  Like I was grateful that Somebody was carefree enough to jump on a piece of plastic and go flying down a snowy hill.  'Cause one way or another it led to our afternoon out with friends.  The girls swooping and giggling and taking breaks on the playground until their cheeks were purple and we herded them into the car.  I'm grateful somebody made it possible to record all kinds of information on compact discs.  My honey and our girls are watching Curious George and eating apple snack as I type this.  And I'm so glad Somebody messed around with heat and time and flour and yeast until it became a known fact that if you mix the right ingredients in the right way and wait, the warm, comforting smell of bread will fill the house before the genuine article fills your stomach.  Because homemade bread is the culinary equivalent of a hot bubble bath.  I'm grateful Somebody did all that leg work for all these good things.  'Cause I'm finding plenty to fill my days. 
So thank you, Somebody.  Maybe it'll be my turn someday.....