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.   

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

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.           

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.

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.

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?

Ave Maria

I've been thinking of Mary lately. She seems new to me somehow, the last few years, especially this year. She's a bigger part of the story, a real character, a real player. She, the mother of the very Son of God. As I nurse the bug to sleep each night, I think of her on that first Christmas night, nestled in the dark warmth of the everyday basics that sheltered them. I think of the moment when my babies were born, and handed to me. That exquisite first cry that twice has unlocked secret and incredible reserves of love, patience, and gratitude within me. Then the time-stopping moment when each of my girls have looked at me with completely perfect confidence. I am their mother, together with their father I will teach and shelter them. Equip them appropriately to live their lives. They know this, and so I am given the ability to believe it as well. Those moments have crystallized in my memory, they have transformed from wispy impressions to a nearly tangible image. And with each of those moments, a new me began. As if each of my sweet ones gave life to me, instead of the other way around. Since becoming a mother, my heart and soul have expanded and risen like a balloon filled with hot air. And from this altitude, the vista has been something else. If this is true for me, how much more so for the woman whom Gabriel declared blessed among all? How she must have gloried in that baby, wondered at that child. How her heart must have broken as they nailed Him to the cross. And how infinitely she must have rejoiced at His return! The magnitude of her faith has become indescribable in my mind. As I celebrate this season, as we celebrate Jesus Christ, my heart, dear Mary, spills over with joy for you. Merry Christmas.

Sugared Strawberries

When I was a kid the family across the street had a girl about my age and we were good friends. We used to play this game where we would close our eyes and just breathe....then we'd tell each other what the smells we inhaled made us think of. My favorite place to play the game was just inside her front door; it smelled the way that Easter yellow would smell if colors had a scent.
The game became a habit for me and I've played it ever since. I played it as soon as I got off the plane when I went to Hawaii. It smelled just like flowers, and peace. I play it now when we visit museums, when I get on the train, when I turn down new streets. And I play it on the sly when I'm with people I love. With my Grandpa, who smells like leather and oil. My brother, who smells just like a new magazine. Every person has a fragrance, absolutely unique to them. And when I smell their scent, it's like having them with me no matter how far apart we are.
My three favorite scents the game has shown me are the ones I get to smell everyday. My husband, who smells like a soft, gray-green blanket, the kind I want wrapped around me when I snuggle up with a book on a rainy day. Little Lou, who smells fresh and sweet, like any baby should. And Curly Sue. When she sits in my lap or snuggles me at bed time, I close my eyes and breathe in. All I can see is sugared strawberries in a blue bowl. And a little bit of sunshine. And I can't help but smile.

Dear Me.....

A note to myself in a moment of madness.....

Dear Me,

It's time to just take a deep breath. Calm down, relax, and breathe. There are moments when chaos is acceptable. Don't worry that the house is a disaster, that breakfast is currently just a puddle of pancake batter mixed with all your laundry quarters on the kitchen floor, that its ten o'clock and your 0 for 3 getting anybody ready for the day. That there is an entire whiny soundtrack accompanying the scene. Or that the baby has eaten pretty much continuously for the past 24 hours and shows no sign of slowing down. The house will not disintegrate under the clutter, no one will starve and there is still plenty of time to get dressed.

If you need to, put the girls somewhere secure while you shut yourself in the bathroom for a two-minute tantrum of your own. Go ahead, jump up and down, flail on the floor, whatever you need to do. Then come out and embrace it. Dance in your pajamas. Be silly with them. Make them laugh, and let them make you laugh. Live in this moment, for it surely will pass. Speak gently, teach patiently, love tenderly. Because I promise you this, whether flavored as a sludgy nightmare or a cotton-candy daydream, today is only happening once.

Love,
Yourself

She will be loved....

As mentioned, I have two beautiful little girls. The first is currently in that Tasmanian devil stage we all like to call "age 2". She is an absolute tornado of giggles and sweetness and mischief and every once in a while we hit the eye of the storm and then it's time to cuddle and read books. And everything about her is screaming pink. I love it. I love her! And up until the arrival of our latest little ladybug, she was pretty much my world.

I remember being pregnant with her. I had this picture in my mind of exactly what she was like, and a million day-dreams come true about the mother I could be to her. I indulged in everything about her baby-hood; spent hours just holding her, adoring her, responding to her every squawk. Since she came first, and we had just moved across the country immediately before her birth, I had time to be obsessed :) Not so much with pregnancy number two. I felt like I couldn't really grasp who this one was or how I could possibly be the same mama to her. And I worried about it a little. Not that I should have.

She's here now. Our latest little gift. This peaceful, gentle soul. She's a change of pace, a whole new ball game. Her first six weeks of life have been somewhat different than her sister's. But every bit as beautiful. I can't hold her for hours and hours on end, or get lost in as many quiet moments, just the two of us. And sometimes I still feel like I have know idea how I should approach being a mother to two. But the moment they handed me this new little baby, any anxiety over that disappeared completely. Magically, this gigantic space appeared in my heart, all for her. Just for her. And so I'm okay with winging it, a lot, because now I know one essential thing: she will, without a doubt, be loved. Hugely, wholeheartedly, individually loved. And that, is enough. Its the best thing I could have offered her anyway.