Inevitably, my initial maneuvers do not produce much chatter, leaving me to follow up with one of the many other questions I keep handy like the shiny, steel tools of a dentist. I am prepped to pull teeth at a moment’s notice.
What was the best part of your day today? Your least favorite part?
Did you ask any questions today?
What did you write about in writers’ workshop today?
Who did you play with on the playground?
How was tumbling?
What books did your teacher read to you?
How did you and [insert other half of recently unstable friendship] get along today?
Who did you sit next to at lunch?
On most evenings, I’ve usually cracked the safe after one or two questions. In fact, I often need to regroup and try to reel their focus back to the meal.
This evening, BigGirl’s topic of daily review focused around boys. (Like mother, like daughter!)
For a few months now, I’ve silently suspected that Boy #1 has a bit of a puppy crush on my girl. This is, of course, based in part on tales of playful teasing I’ve heard, but also on a few exchanges I’ve witnessed from across the room or playground. My girl rolls her eyes as she tells all about how he always sits next to her and has given her his own little nickname for her. I happen to believe he’s pulling her pigtails…if you know what I mean.
Boy #2 is new on the scene. I don’t know him, and I’m really pulling out all the stops to get any good leads on him…but by the sound of the preliminary intelligence I’ve gathered thus far, he too “could be a contender”.
Chiming in from the other side of the table, BabyGirl eagerly spent her precious “turn to talk” stringing together a long, drawn-out tale that could captivate the attention of a herd of cats. Tonight she told us all about playing on a bouncy house inside the gymnasium (“because it was too cold and windy to go out on the playground, Ms. Teacher said”) until the real live horse that was at her school ran away, but – luckily for us – the baby horse (Yeah, you didn’t know there was a baby horse, did ya?) stayed…well, that is, until Bad Boy in her class called it a poo-poo face and Ms. Teacher told the boys and girls a story about a baby alligator. “But, last night, when I was born, I read that book before,” she finally concluded.
Perplexed? So are we. Every. Single. Time.
Regardless of believability (or even coherence) of their dinner table tales, I love listening to their little memories (and fantasies) of the day.
Oh, and the sweetest part? Many nights, after BigGirl’s rattled on and on about her daily dose of drama for a while, she gets a little quiet before cheerily looking across the table at me and saying, “So, Mommy. How was your day?”
I was making my bed one morning when something came up about a crab. Without thinking too much, I made reference to my own association with a crab. This, most obviously, raised questions and eyebrows with BigGirl.
I don’t remember when I first learned about astrology. I suppose it was a piece-meal process found within the pages of Mama’s morning newspaper horoscope section and the back pages of Glamour magazines. Regardless of its origin, I’ve always been naturally drawn to astrology. I latched on and nursed it fervently, thirsty for more. It was sweet and familiar and comforting. I have returned to it time and time again throughout my adolescent and adult life.
On that morning with BigGirl, I stood at the edge of my bed, smoothing sheets. Pulling at the coverlet. Neatly piling pillows, European, standard, throw, bolster. I talked about stars and planets and symbols – crabs, twins, scales, fish, insects, lions. I spoke of constellations and personal traits. She listened, wide-eyed and fascinated. Until, as I finally draped the chocolate blanket gracefully at the foot of my side of the bed, we left our lesson and the Wedgewood blue walls of my bedroom behind us for the day.
The next night, questions arose again. I retrieved my trusty bank of astrological knowledge from the top shelf, and we poured through its pages together at the kitchen table. FireDaddy joined us and dove into the pages for a few moments before passing it back.
He remembered the many late nights I spent long ago on the floor of our office, leaning over my bulbous pregnant tummy, working on birth charts. Consulting the internet for latitude and longitude coordinates for our birth places – first mine, then his, and finally BigGirl’s. BabyGirl’s had yet to be determined.
I remembered the mess of numbers and charts that flooded my mind for weeks. I could see my yellow legal pad and scraps of paper with notes about days, times, places, and calculations. Long stretches of self-doubt had been broken by fleeting, yet glorious, moments of triumph and sure success.
I am aware that many people do not condone or believe in the mysterious knowledge revealed by the stars. But, that doesn’t really matter to me. I love watching BigGirl’s knowledge, theories, understanding of this universe grow and change everyday. She, a brilliant star somewhere within the Gemini constellation, will form her own beliefs and feelings about God, heaven, and our amazingly temporary existence on this plane of consciousness.
As her mother, I will open my heart, spirit, and beliefs for her to freely question and explore. She will know the word namaste and, I hope, believe it. I will tell her my stories of angels and baby Jesus and visits from souls of friends and family who’ve passed. I will listen as she asks why God makes things happen and what I believe lies in the darkness between the stars.
Until the day for which I’m anxious finally arrives, when I will hear from her lips how her intuitive little mind has explained the wonders of our world. And, on that day, I will be the wide-eyed student and she will teach me.
I always wanted a sister. I still wish I had one. One that was really mine – not just obligated by marriage or some sort of Uber-Friend. I dreamt of a sister on whom I could stake my claim, in whom I could expect undying loyalty. A bond of blood, chromosomes, life and heart. A history filled with pinky-promises, tearful fights, side-splitting laughter, and whispers in the dark.
I love watching my girlies cuddle like kittens – in front of the TV, eating snacks, beneath quilts and sheets, even at the kitchen table. Everyday their closeness – or, rather, their absence of personal space and boundaries – amazes me. It is not the same with brothers.
Yet, I am surprised at how rough and tumble they can be. More and more, lately, I find them man-handling each other – wrestling around like hyper little puppies in a pen, knowing full well that Mama will snatch them up by the scruff of their neck any second. I’ll walk through the den and find them behind the couch, halfway beneath an end table – one sister pinned flat on her back as the other straddles her chest. Their giggles escalating uncontrollably like wild fires.
BabyGirl was less than a year old when we moved them into the same bedroom. At a routine well check-up, I hashed out some baby sleep questions with the pediatrician. At the time, he asked me if I wanted BabyGirl to be more reliant on me or her sister. Did I want her to learn to be comforted by BigGirl in the night, or me? I knew then that, while I did not wish to place a burden on BigGirl, I wanted them to share a close bond that would comfort them both throughout their nights – and days – forever.
A long time ago, My Daddy told my brothers and me that we were the closest thing in the world to each other. He spoke these words in a fit of frustration and heartbreak; we fought like cats and dogs. I’ve never forgotten that lecture. In fact, I’ve preached my own version of it a few times to my girlies.
On the last occasion I tried to impart that pearl of wisdom to my girls, I watched BigGirl’s eyes tearfully soak up my message. I explained to her that, one day, a long time away from today, Mommy and Daddy would be gone. We would be in heaven. But, they wouldn’t be alone because they would have each other. That is the best, most important gift Mommy and Daddy has ever given them – each other. They will be best friends, worst enemies, soul mates, teacher and student, companions, playmates, competition, and – one day – parents to each other. Over time, they will be everything to each other.
To each other, they will scream obscenities, hurl prized possessions, confide deepest secrets, and confess dreams and fears. Between them, they will protect each others’ stories. They will know each other better than FireDaddy and I will ever know either of them. A bittersweet thought.
I love my girlies. I love BigGirl and I love BabyGirl. I love them more than I know how to describe. But, what I love even more than either of them is their sisterhood. My love for them as a pair is exponentially larger and grander and more amazingly overwhelming than my love for either of them independently.
When I was pregnant with BabyGirl, I feared that this wonderful new addition would jeopardize my relationship with BigGirl. I worried that I could not possibly love another baby as much as I so obviously loved her. I worried about jealousy, sibling rivalry, perceived favoritism, and all sorts of potential threats. I sought the council of friends, my mother, and every mother of multiple children I knew.
One mother, I don’t remember who, finally spoke the words that settled the worry in my heart. “Don’t think of it as taking something away from her…you are giving her a gift no one else can, a gift like no other. You are giving her the best gift of all – a sister.”
Last night, I cuddled next to BigGirl in a booth at Denny’s. I held her under my arm and rested my cheek on her familiar sandy blonde head. I told her that earlier, a friend of mine talked to me about her daughter that was all grown up. She’s in her twenties. And, I told her, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like when my baby was all grown up.
“It will be exactly the same, Mommy.”
“It will? I’ll still be able to hug you and squeeze you and kiss you and hold you whenever I want to?” I questioned.
“Yes. I promise. It will always be just like this.”
I wish she was right.
Today, I’m going to steal another bit of love while I can.
Even in Florida, it has been darn right cold outside this week. The kind of cold that makes you crave pajamas. Sweat pants. Big, squishy, crew socks. Hoodies. Blankets and quilts. Blazing fires in your fireplace and hot cocoa -- or the “grown-up” version of cocoa, hot lattes.
My bed has taken quite good care of me each night; a quilt, and sometimes a throw blanket, layered on top of my coverlet. Even with the assistance of a crow bar, I would still struggle to pry myself loose from its warm embrace. My personal bed heaters, Bo and Daisy, have risen to the occasion beautifully. Bo dutifully curls up by my feetsies, keeping my sock-clad toesies warm. Daisy wads her balled-up self under my arm and, on occasion, moves to my pillow in the night, molding to the top of my head like a canine stocking cap.
My kitchen, this week, has pumped out comfort food: crock-pot chicken with dressing, pork chops, chili, spaghetti, and, coming soon, asparagus & green pea risotto. For this weekend, I’m planning a roast, cooked over the course of the day. On Monday, we celebrated a successful first day back to “the grind” with a fresh batch of fudge brownies and tall glasses of skim milk.
Ironically, this week (by far the coldest week in recent memory) BigGirl’s homework included star gazing. Star gazing. In freezing temperatures. So, she and FireDaddy bundled up in their warmest winter gear, and spent time in the dark night yard, searching for constellations. Orion, Cassiopeia, Lepus… The Lollipop. They shivered as they came inside, sporting red noses, rosy cheeks, and excited smiles. They talked loudly and with renewed energy as they told BabyGirl and I their every observation.
Each night this week, the girlies have prayed for snow, wishing against all odds that the magic of inside-out jammies would bring a winter weather miracle to Florida. BigGirl has gone so far as wearing three layers inside out…an undershirt, and two layers of pajamas – all inside-out. Each morning, BabyGirl has crept straight from sleep, eyes filled with hope, to the sliding glass door to check for snow. Each day, these hopeful girlies have been disappointed only momentarily, realizing they can try again tonight, and maybe tomorrow will be different.
While much of me is tired of the frivolous annoyances brought on by the cold – covering plants, dripping faucets, the weight of extra coats, bundling up protesting children, searching closets, drawers and hampers for weather-appropriate clothes for the girlies, starting the car early each morning and carrying blankets to warm my Drama Princesses on the way to school – I must admit that much of me has enjoyed it. In some ways, it is a fun, refreshing change of pace. It’s fun to wear scarves and hats and gloves and tights and boots. Create a new look, a new “cold weather you”. It’s fun to cozy up in the big bed together, shivering between cold sheets. It’s such a treat to enjoy a warm fire (especially living with FireDaddy…but that’s another post) and feel your heart flutter at the prospect of future flurries.
The cold has returned pieces of my childhood to my mind. The smell of snow. Counting marshmallows in my hot chocolate. Watching the way those marshmallows slowly soften and get bubbly as they melt into my warm treat. My Mama relentlessly prodded and stoked the fire. Daddy, in his Wellington boots, stocking cap, brown jacket and gloves, replenished firewood from stacks out back. I remember how cold my feet were as they walked on the tile in our Texas home, and how, as I played outside, my fingers and face stung long before I confessed my chill to anyone. A gray winter sky hung low above brown, dormant yards. Barren gray trees stretching from cold red clay to touch heavy clouds. Freezing cold air carried the smell of burning wood to my nose. I hear the crunch of snow under my feet and remember stiffly walking in my heavy winter jacket and boots. One year, the lake froze and I stood fearful on the safety of the back law, watching in awe as my crazy uncles walked out onto the ice, playing and goofing around like a bunch of overgrown boys. One year, the unexpected sight of snow in the morning as I woke up at a friend’s house made me homesick. You should be at home when it snows, I thought. I missed My Mama and My Daddy and my brothers.
I’m a little homesick today at the thought of it all.
We made it home safely last night from our Hillbilly Holiday. Today, the girlies and I have done virtually nothing other than bask in the comfort of home, only venturing out to retrieve our loving and faithful pets from their “camp” and make a quick stop for Christmas card photos.
I promised my girlies an afternoon treat of cocoa and cookies. Today’s snack was made better by a special holiday serenade from Michael Buble. Later, we spent more than an hour gathered around the kitchen table, catching up on our advent coloring pages. (My hand has yet to fully recover from The Crayola Grip.)
My suitcase still lies in the floor of my office, waiting for me to properly unpack the clean shirts, socks, pants, and sweaters. Laundry from our journey, now washed, dried, and folded neatly, patiently awaits my attention. My guest bedroom remains a pile of projects to complete and gifts to prepare. My refrigerator and cupboards are nearly bare and I’ve no specific plans yet for holiday baking or special eats.
Today, the girlies focused their energy today on reuniting with their toys and various belongings. BabyGirl slept for hours this evening curled up in a chair like a kitten. I chatted with My Mama, FireDaddy’s Mama, and my girlies. I cuddled my puppies and kissed my babies. I talked with friends and gave thanks for our safe return.
My Blackberry is filled with notes on thoughts from my journey I’d like to share with you….but today is not the day, friends.
Christmas, if you ask me, is best seen through the eyes of a child. I love watching my little girlies experience the magic. So, naturally, some of my most favorite Christmas decorations are the ones centered around my babies.
One of the earliest traditions began as a gift from a secret Santa [My brother and sister-in-law]. Before BabyGirl was with us, a box containing this advent house appeared unexpectedly on our front porch. This beautiful house brings so much excitement to our family throughout the entire month of December. Every night, we open a door and discover the treasure is hiding inside. Hair bows, bath fizzies, candies, “grow me” pets, coin purses, stamps, stickers, play dough and more. As BabyGirl has grown and taken a more active role in holidays, they take turns opening doors each night. BigGirl opens all the odds, BabyGirl opens the evens. Some doors contain items to be shared, while others hold something for each of them. In years past, some treats have been a little larger than these little doors can handle. In those cases, our little elf has been known to leave clues guiding the way to their daily dose of Christmas cheer.
Last year, we welcomed a brand new tradition to our home: Elway, the Elf on the Shelf. Elway and his friends have become quite the rage all over the land of Christmas, it seems…but that doesn’t make him any less special to us. I laughed this year as BabyGirl said to me, “Mommy. He watching me. I don’t want him watching me.” (Guilty conscience, my dear??) This year, it was apparent that Elway brought the house with him on his long trek from the North Pole. And…he brought with him another mysterious box…with no return address.
Elway also brought with him this adorable pink tree. We found the perfect home for it on the tea table in the girlies’ room. We’ve begun slowly decorating it with knick-knacks and homemade ornaments. And (more evidence that the Big Man from the North had something to do with all this Christmas goodness), two consecutive doors in the advent house revealed supplies to make angel ornaments! Who else would have known but the Big Man himself?
There are also child-sized, unbreakable versions of Christmas favorites throughout my house. I fell in love with this children’s nativity set (seen here as arranged by BigGirl) from Bombay Kids, (R.I.P. Bombay Company & Bombay Kids. You are missed...)
… and this stuffed Hallmark Christmas tree with buttons for hanging felt ornament sets. (The ornament sets came with little board books telling holiday stories, too! Even better!)
And, this year, our traditions have even been enhanced by the blogosphere! Thanks to Elsie Marley, the girlies and I are making advent coloring books, one day at a time. Well, BigGirl wants to compile her art into a collection. BabyGirl wants to hang hers on the wall over her bed. (I think I’m going to hang a string and clip them, a la clothesline, as we go.) It’s amazing how much fun it has been…just simple paper and crayons! And, it’s free!
That is my all time favorite church song. As an adult, I attended a particular church for a while mostly because they sang this song every Sunday at the end of the service. And, I loved the pastor. He was like a loving grandfather, welcoming everyone into his humble home. Even heathens like me. :)
December first marks, for many, the beginning of the holiday season. The season of giving. But, sadly, I truly believe that this “season of giving” has become much more of a “season of shopping, stressing, and spending”. I’m trying so hard this year, as I watch my daughters grow, and pray they don’t get jaded to that “giving” part, to focus on the spirit and heart of the season.
Hell. When I think of it that way, who needs a season?
I want my girls to be givers. I want them to be filled with hearts overflowing with love for their family, friends, and fellow humans. I want them to care about the world and the people and the air, the water, the trees, the wind, the clouds in the sky, and butterflies and puppies and apples. I do not want them to wander lonely through this world with clear vision only as far as the end of their own nose. I do not want them to view their beliefs, their thoughts, their needs as supreme and righteous, but rather, as one of many valid perspectives.
Not only do I want them to love and care for others, but I want them to love and care for themselves. I want more for them than I have been able to give to myself. I see them through mother’s eyes: eyes that see clearly every fault and every virtue – and love them just the way that they are. They’re perfect, even their imperfections.
Over and over and over again I’ve preached to BigGirl, “All I expect is that you do the best you can do,” so much that she now cuts me off and finishes the sentence with that annoyed tone we’ve all used with our mothers. The one that sounds like the teachers and parents on Charlie Brown. The one that says, “Would you stop saying that already?” But it’s true. I expect her to do her best at everything. Everything. Not just school work and dance, but friendship. Sisterhood. Being a daughter and a dog owner. Being a citizen of the Earth.
I have a friend who told me once that when her daughters were young she told them, “When you lie to me, I can see crosses in the back of your eyes.” She also said, “Even when Mommy and Daddy can’t see you, God is always watching.” (No offense, folks…but see what I mean about being Catholic?)
I want them to carry God, Buddha, the Golden Rule, karma, whatever it is they decide to believe in one day, in their hearts always. I want them to be proud of their every decision – or at least 99% of them. I want them to sleep well at night knowing they gave to the world. They made a difference in someone’s life each day.
I read this article today that discussed the importance of giving. It’s important in ways you may not have suspected. I’d like to try this project, and I would love it if you would join me.
Give a “gift” everyday for a month.
Mind you, “gifts” aren’t always tied in pretty paper and ribbons. A gift, says the article, could be simply saving the last piece of cake for your husband. Or, perhaps you go out of your way to make your children their favorite meal one night. Perhaps you give your change to a neighbor’s or friend’s child. Perhaps you volunteer your time in a classroom – helping someone other than your own child. Maybe you bring your co-worker coffee unexpectedly one day. The bottom line is – do something thoughtful and nice for someone without expecting anything in return, other than perhaps a smile and a “thank you”.
I’m going to try it. I hope you will too.
Let there be peace on Earth, and let it begin with me.
As a teacher, I totally "get" the idealistic thinking behind assigning projects to students. I completely understand the lofty goals that accompany the standard "Dear Parents" letter, detailing the project guidelines, due date, and scoring information. After all, projects are authentic learning. They give students choices. They close the gap between home and school. They are directly linked to standards. The possibilities are endless when you truly unleash your little learners and say, "Go! Be free and LEARN!!!"
As a student, I often shared my teachers' glorified visions of excellence. I'm sure I secretly (or perhaps not so secretly) strived at times to be the best: turn in the fanciest diorama, write the longest report, or build the biggest balsa wood Aztec dwelling. I do not doubt that I (at least internally) wanted my speech to get the most laughs, my science fair project to win the blue ribbon, and my work to receive the highest honor. I WANTED that 100/A+!
Now, enter phase two of my life...parenthood. In many ways, projects are a curse. They take over my life. They cost money - money for which I had plans. Plans that didn't include buying jiggly eyes and felt. My evenings are quickly consumed by cracking the whip over BigGirl while repeatedly turning BabyGirl away. Trips to libraries to hunt down juvenile nonfiction books. Hours pouring over the internet researching the topic and sifting through websites looking for age-appropriate and applicable content.
However, projects as a parent aren't all bad. With each project, I fall in love with BigGirl's love of learning all over again. I am continually amazed by the wheels in her head. Her inquisitive nature and knack for piecing together random knowledge with memories is unbelievable. I love the time we spend together and, inevitably, I learn something new. And, for that, I'm always a better person in the end. It is during the hours of toiling away over these school projects that I am reassured - she will be OK. She will succeed in this rat race of a world. She will rise to the top like cream in milk. This girl of mine, she's going somewhere.
I also am reminded by my friend that these moments are memories in the making. Just as I will never forget the night I stayed up till "the middle of the night" (probably 10:00!) with my parents creating the greatest solar system model of all time, she will never forget the hour we spent interviewing a couple in Scotland via Skype. I will never forget how cool it was to use that awesome leftover silver metallic wallpaper (No, it was not from my own home. Daddy was a custom homebuilder.) to cover the outside of the moving box that housed my painted styrofoam planets suspended by fishing line. And BigGirl will never forget painting paper plaid and pleating it into a miniature kilt. Just as I will remember with a smile the pride I felt walking down the fourth grade hallway and seeing my solar system stand out in the row of models, I'm sure she will never forget the awkward pride she felt as her class watched her VoiceThread, and listened to her own voice teach her classmates about her heritage.
This project is not the first we've done together, nor will it be the last, I'm sure. We've made a gingerbread girl, a leprechaun trap, costumes for literary parades, a Hopi doll, and - the first projects ever - family books. (A tradition at our preschool.)
My heart swells as I compare these moments with my budding student to the moments from my own childhood. My diagram of a flower received special praise from my fifth grade teacher (the meanest teacher in the world) because I outlined everything in black to make the edges stand out. (I'm 99% sure she hated me and that was the only praise I received from her all year. That's why I'll never forget it.) That was also the year My Daddy helped me build the balsa wood Aztec dwelling. The next year, my mother drove me around to shoe stores searching for the perfect pair of lace-up ankle boots to accompany my Laura Ingall's Wilder era project. To be honest, I really don't remember that presentation, but I'll never forget the costume or the time spent preparing it with my mother. And I'm pretty sure she returned the boots immediately afterwards. We didn't have the money to be spending on those boots right then. Believe me. My mother helped me again soon. She helped me write an "award winning" speech in sixth grade, just after we moved to Florida. I even went on to the semi-finals - which was a big deal for "the new girl", who, prior to that point, was mostly known for talking with a Texas Twang.
At some point, probably high school, the time working with parents began to fade...as it rightly should. Projects became my own procrastination, and the memories changed. I can recall sitting in my bedroom for hours memorizing poems in French for Le Congrés, building my repetoire, line after line after line. My senior year, I remember sitting at my desk, staring at my bulletin board, searching for the inspiration for yet another speech. This one was about my great grandmother. I remember clearly the moment my eyes stumbled across the words from this Nike ad* (circa 1990) hanging there. It all fell into place.
"You don't have to be your mother unless she is who you want to be. You don't have to be your mother's mother, or your mother's mother's mother, or even your grandmother's mother on your father's side. You may inherit their chins, their hips, or their eyes, but you are not destined to become the woman who came before you, you are not destined to live their lives. So if you inherit something, inherit their strength. If you inherit something, inherit their resilience. Because the only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be."
And tonight, as I enjoy the relative calm in my home before the next project is assigned, I will remember that those moments spent on projects with my girls are irreplaceable. Those moments are a gift I give my BigGirl - and one day, my BabyGirl. It is in those moments that they will inherit from me, just as I inherited from my parents. It is on those moments that she will one day look back and smile.
Pssst! If you haven't seen it yet - you have to give my girl props. :)
And just for fun, check this out from last spring**. Heh, heh, heh.....
* I still love that ad, even today. Probably more than ever. ** Just so you know, I couldn't let BigGirl turn the project in since FireDaddy did it completely without her help/involvement. Her finished project was a shoebox with a trap door that had tissue paper grass covering the top and a shiny coin glued on top of the trap door. (Equally as ingenius, I thought...)
