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.