First Snow

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. :)

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.

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.