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..... 

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.