That's What She Said

I am sure when people witness me with the lil' dude, my phone firmly in my hand, they assume I'm just like every other overworked and over-connected parent in the world.
Well, I am not.
I mean ... yes. I am overly-connected. Guilty.

But when it comes to time with my daughter, I am avidly documenting every single she says, thinks, does, and looks like with that phone. I have a note started that has her Quotes of the Day on it. I have 4,000 pictures of her. I don't ever, ever want to forget her nuances, creativity, fears whether legit or not, or misheard lyrics. Phone in hand; baby girl in heart.

Here are some of my current fave lil' dude-isms:

At my bedside one sunny morning, Do you have pants on under there? If you don't I am not getting in with you. 

On seeing Kim Kardashian on TV, She is SO pretty! But where did she come from?

On having the sun in her face when it was -2* outside, The sun is NOT doing its job today! It's out but I am still freezing!

Driving down a stomach-dropping hill, Whoa! That made my tushy worried!

On her Daddy's skills, If he built the Beagle's doghouse, why couldn't he build a barn for my real-life horse?

On why Saturday morning basketball isn't very awesome, I figured it out, Mama. It's because there is NO music in that gym!

On being asked to be her Godfather's Flower Girl in May, If I don't get to wear a flower actually in my hair, I don't get why they call it that?

On listening to CeeLo Green's newest song, Mama ... he says a BAD word in that song! I want to tell you what it is ... can I if it's bad? Well ... he said (as I brace for the eff-bomb or worse) ... stupid!

On future plans, I hope (Bestie) E. goes to college with me. I want to French braid her hair in the dorm.

On her new, kiwi-flavored and green GoGurt, Ummmm, the blueberries are rotten in this. I won't eat it!

On possessions, When can we have that garage sale to sell my baby stuff? I want a new American Girl cat and bed and my piggy bank is out of paper money. (over her mother's dead body)

On anything, everything, and all the time, I am freaking out. I am going to freak out.

On her Daddy's singing skills, Daddy you are cancelled from singing all girl songs Mama and me like on the radio.

On practical uses, handing me back her banana 10 minutes after she wanted to eat it, Well, I didn't want to eat it ... I just wanted to know what it was like to hold with the peeler open.

On infinite love, I love you to the universe ... because it's bigger than the earth.

Stuck Like Glue

Imitation is the highest form of flattery ... especially when it comes in the form of tiny, blonde sprite.
Hello, my name is Lil' Dude's Mama and my five-year-old is in love with me.
And I'm the happiest girl on the planet.

The Dad and I were away last weekend and Kid Rock was left in the care of her grandparents for three delicious days. When we came home, I had a tiny barnacle stuck to me and we're still going strong all these days later. Since she and I were both off Monday, we trekked to our fave coffee shop. We quickly realized the combination of President's Day and local students and lunch time meant "our" spot was taken. We settled in at the counter to wait for $21 of coffee shop ridiculous awesomeness.

Mama, this isn't working. I can't see you this way. We need a booth. I will watch for people to leave, she told me, scanning the crowd. I assumed she meant she needed her space to set out Monopoly, the Star Wars version, of course, or a puzzle or Go Fish. Our standard routine.

No. What she needed was her Mama, front in center.

She found us a booth and we resettled into our space where we went on to have a killer conversation for a few hours, completely devoid of distractions other than hamming it up for the camera, lipgloss applying, and whipped cream stealing. We just sat and visited like little chatty birds, woman-to-woman,  big to little.

Days like Monday leaving me shaking my head in disbelief; she's only five? I have known her forever, she's woven into my soul and pumps through my veins. She's my purpose and retribution and focus and flight. She's literally ... me.

Tuesday morning we rocked matching infinity scarves and stunner shades. She told me she'd tried wearing her scarf all day like I do, even though she doesn't understand why I'd want to.

She loved it, all day long.
Warm neck + fashion = For the win. Teach 'em young!

Yesterday, I came out in long-sleeved and short-sleeved layered tees, busted up jeans, a belt, and boots. So did she. We even had to perfect her front-tuck like Mama. Hashtag, trend.

She sings my songs. And I sing hers. She steals my glitter and feathers and buttons and pearls. I tell her she's capable and brave and hilarious and a rockstar.

We're women; we spar. I tried to reason and so does she. We're cut from the same cloth and come from a long line of headstrong women who make no excuses or apologies for the way they are. I try to remember she is literally watching every move I make right this second. I try to remember this as I love myself. As I exhibit politeness on the street. As I judge humanity. How I talk about how lucky we are to have what we have. As I eat vegetables, take vitamins, send thank you's and count my blessings.

She walks on her tip-toes in her Uggs; emulating the way I walk in my heeled boots.
She reminds me to cross my legs when we're sitting.
Just like my Mom or Grandma would.

She races to read my Bible, People, before I even do.
That's dangerous ground, girl ...
She looks for her favorite actress, Amanda Seyfried, and we discuss her style.
A+ - always, AND, she has a dog she never is without.
Amanda, babe, you have the tiniest, fiercest fan out here in the Midwest.
Be good!

Because she's watching you like she's watching me and that's the most important thing ever.
In the history of ever.

On Being Fancy

She's a girl, that's for sure.
She thinks pants are lame. Lame.
So bedtime ritual includes laying out the next day's outfit because that shit takes forever when you're five and your walk-in closet is better than your mother's.

Pre-K schedule has the lil' dude playing outside on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. So, preparation for those days includes pants. It's the worst ... but not worse than managing a wardrobe malfunction including snow pants, a skirt or dress, and tights.

So yesterday was a fancy outfit-approved day since no snow pants were involved.
She laid out the ruffliest ensemble she owned in anticipation.
And then we got a blizzard, and school was cancelled and when she woke up just shy of noon, she donned her Monday fancy anyways. I told her she didn't need to waste that outfit on a day at home that included eating fistfuls of CheezIts, painting, singing Katy Perry into my round brush, and cuddling with Mama.

Waste? It's not wasting my dress, Mama. Today is just another today and I wearing the outfit I already picked out! I like feeling fancy. It makes me happy and today, I am happy.

When You Grow Up

Your face was rocked off yesterday when you got to Preschool and a whole new Veterinarian's office was set up for your class. Complete with needy, stuffed pets, stethoscopes, and white lab coats, you were in your element.

On the way home, you starting talking about college- it's your new obsession. College, college. We talk about your plans for 13+ years from now like it's something you'll do before the thaw. You definitely decided without a doubt yesterday that you're going to be a Vet when you grow up. You're quite sure you'll attend the same college as your father- because it's where you currently take swimming lessons and is close to home. Makes sense. Yes, you can go there to become a Vet. Or at least lay the ground work towards such ambition. Yes, you bring your own clothes, laptop, music, and learn to make your own food (but not drinks; ahem) in your room. You can have bunk-beds, you have to have a roommate, yes, she'll be a girl, and yes, without a freaking doubt, you can bring your NaNa with.

{Your mother brought her baby blanket to college; she was unapologetic about it to anyone who asked. And look at how awesome she turned out}

As I tucked you in last night you asked, What if I want to be a princess? Can I still go to college? Do they teach girls how to be princesses at Daddy's College?

You have plenty of time to decide what you want to be when you grow up, babe. Princess Veterinarian as a double major? Absolutely.

Courtside

The day came.
Finally, you could say.
I bet your Daddy could say ... finally! After five years, one month, one week, four days, and 22 and a half hours ... you took to the basketball court ... a day he had been looking to since December 7, 2007, at 12:37pm.

(Even if you were a girl)

And I was just as excited as he was; I started basketball as a first grader. It was love at first uncoordinated, gangly dribble. And walking into that hot, stuffy gym on a cold winter Saturday morning sent my nostalgia into hyperdrive. I spent hundreds of Saturday mornings in a gym in Nikes.

And you were enthusiastic about your new sport so long as you could continue gymnastics- we promised. I would say this to anyone I love; if you're having a bad day, please go watch 11 four and five year olds scrimmaging on a basketball court. It made my 2013.

You're an outgoing kid all of a sudden, we overheard you telling anyone in earshot what your favorite color is (purple) that you're in gymnastics and can't be in swimming until basketball is over, and what you were doing that night (going to a Timberwolves game in your Kevin Love jersey "even though he is not playing,") so you might need to work on focus this season. When the Blue Team had 6 players and your Green Team only had 5, you followed the opponent you were guarding to the sidelines when it was his turn to sit out. You told your coach, you told me to follow my guy; this is my guy. 
2013; made.

And I have said it before and will continue to do so. I don't care what you do in life so long as it's not illegal street drugs, or hockey. I really don't. I'd be proud of a spelling bee champ. A lifeguard. A singer, songwriter, baton twirler, or peace corp cadet. It makes no difference to me what your passions are. I just want to cheer for you. I also want you to be part of a team, I think teams are essential to life.

I moved to my hometown as a fourth grader. I had a mullet.
That detail doesn't necessarily matter in this story, I just want you to know life sucks for everyone, at some point.
Anyways.
I moved to my hometown when I was nine. I had no friends, lived way outside of town in the woods, liked to read, and knew I wanted to play basketball at this school, too. I had the Nikes and elastic-bottomed sweats to prove it. My parents signed me up for the town's youth basketball association, and we played all winter long on Saturday mornings. There wasn't much participation from my elementary school, so my team merged with the Catholic elementary school to form one team.

It was there, in fourth and fifth grade before entering middle school, I met five of my besties, your Fairy Godmother included, on an opposing team. Back then, 24 years ago, those girls were the WORST. Their team, from an elitist, newer elementary school, was good. Like, embarrassingly good. They had chemistry, from being schoolmates since kindergarten, from having parents as coaches who had a clue about the game. I had a cobbled-together team comprised of complete strangers, plus some prep school goody-goodies and rotating and clueless coaches. Watching that team together made me jealous. Of their skill. Of their camaraderie.

When I entered 6th grade at the middle school, our district's seven elementary schools dumped into one school. The girls from the team I had just spent two years loathing were suddenly my new teammates. And, as sports and teams go, we figured it out, and fast.

As 11-year olds, we shared scrunchies in team colors, LipSmackers, silk shirts, Espirit bookbags, and lunches on cold buses on game night. We learned each other's weaknesses and strengths, knew which buttons to push, which to respect. We traded secrets and boyfriends and Algebra answers and thought we ruled the world. And we did. We made Jock Jams our anthems, wore tall socks, signed casts, ran Killers when we were late, stood up for each other, and ate JellyBellys on the bench. We made bad, bad decisions and heartfelt apologies. We had braces on our teeth baring the blue and white of our school's colors. We coordinated our outfits off the court, on non-gamedays, and sent flowers to the girls with broken hearts; legitimate or not. We crashed our cars, looked for our boyfriends and crushes in the bleachers, and made up ridiculous cheers and chants. We drove our coaches crazy, and made our parents proud. We learned how much we needed each other and how to handle all the shit in life nobody tells you about, ages 11 to present day.

I graduated from high school 15 years ago this year. Those girls are buried in my heart, and run through my veins. To this day.
We cried buckets of tears at our basketball banquet senior year, the year that was so hard for all of us on that team. We were tan by graduation that June and smiling together, arms around each other, wrists full of scrunchies, charms around our necks with our jersey numbers on them. We ruled the world.

And we still do. Ask any one of us, and we'll tell you. Even your two Aunties who weren't on the team, but became the best Super Fans of all time remember those days and that team.

So yes, longest story short. I hope for you what I hoped for me.
Have a team. Meet your people. Find your niche.
Ballet, speech, Habitat for Humanity, band, soccer, ceramics.
I don't care.
Just find it.

2013

To most, 2013 is the year of the snake.
But to me, 2013 is the year of Kindergarten.

I was cleaning out closets, drawers, and nooks and crannies in all this January newness when I found a bottle of baby lotion I used on the lil' dude when she was a newborn. Just flipping open the cap, catching one tiny whiff ... there I was, in the winter of 2008 with my tiny pink swaddle on maternity leave. A kid who slept all day, a stack of novels, a lot of coffee, and as content as I'd ever been.

Those were the days. And yes, these are the days. I'm quick to count my blessings.

I know nothing will change when she enters elementary school. She'll still be the child the Dad and I have raised. The same child who has an iron-clad memory, already understands sarcasm, sings every song on the radio, eats CheezIts for breakfast, sleeps with 47 stuffed animals, and is calmed by ancient episodes of Scooby Doo.

And it's not a separation issue; I've spent more than enough time away from her in five years. She's been in daycare full-time since she was 10 weeks old, in preschool for two years, and spends weeks away from home every summer lounging with her peeps. I kiss her face goodbye just about every month for travel. She goes, I go, we miss, we survive, we come back. I used to miss her as a mother's purpose; I missed her weight on my chest, and her space in mine. Now I miss her as a human; as my tiny friend who tells me enough with the daily scarfs, and that my marinara sauce needs more brown sugar (and she whispers it, because it's our secret ingredient).

And she'll come back a bigger and better person than she already is. She'll come back with arcade jewelry belonging to her friends. She have the wrong artwork in her backpack she'll rightfully return the next morning. She'll lose the baby enunciation's of those last words she hasn't been able to pronounce correctly. She'll read to me at night.

2013 was the first year out of the past many where I didn't wake up on January 1st and wonder when my life was going to change. When I'd get the sign. When I'd announce the news. And it actually feels really, really damn good to wake up, start the coffee, and look for the blonde head buried in its bed and know ... my life has already changed. So all I want for this year is to live, love, and be grateful.

I'm well on my way.

And yes, Kindergarten is out there- way, way out there past several Thursday nights of gymnastics and post Subway dinners, beyond March Madness and long, long walks in the slush. It's at the end of the return of the Koi fish at St. Ben's, birthday cakes baked for the Beagle, the summer week spent in an old, red cabin, and even after new shoes and State Fair corndogs.

No matter how long or how quickly it gets here, I promise I'll be ready.

Reflections at Christmastime

Lil' Dude's Mama, circa 1982

One of my Besties began her email to the group of us this morning;
Hi friends- back at work today. boo. The growing pains of getting older and changing traditions suck. I miss being a kid sometimes! ha
I know what she means.

Yesterday was perfect, Christmas magic here at the Casa de Lil' Dude. Just the three of us, four if you count the one with a tail. It was the first time in my adult life I've spent Christmas Day home just as us- as in, where I live and with whom I live. The year the lil' dude was born, my parents and brother brought Christmas to us. But yesterday was a first.

And at first, I balked at not traveling after Santa showed up. I'm so accustomed to organizing, packing, and schlepping an entire truckload of holiday cheer to someone else's house. I'm a diehard traditionalist; I love upholding traditions and reveling in repeated, repetitious joy year after year. But I eventually embraced the change of routine ... and it was perfect and the first of our new Christmas Day tradition was born.

Who knew I'd love it so much.

And we weren't short of family time this holiday- one big Christmas December 15th, another December 22nd, and some mini celebrations the 16th, 17th, 20th, and 23rd. Christmas Eve was at my Grandma's ... that's unmissable. Unless in the event of a newborn baby or snowstorm.

This year, I really felt what it's like to straddle that line of child/adult, of daughter/parent. I realized how much I owe it to my own Mother for the past 33 Christmases she continues to make for me. I realize how much goes into ... everything.

Perpetuating myths, magic, Christmas traditions
Shopping, shopping, budgeting, shopping, wrapping, presenting
Remembering everything & everyone from teachers, coaches, aides, dogs, and friends
Handling travel, menus, grocery stores, recipes, adjusted routines
For never, ever saying or acting like any of the holiday mayhem was anything except worth it
Managing expectations, ridiculous wish lists, ungratefulness at times
With gratitude, exuberance, and grace

Clearly, traits she learned from her own Mother, My Grandma, who at 81 years old, invites all 55 members of her family, from her eldest daughter down to her great-great granddaughter to Christmas Eve dinner at the Fellowship Hall at Zion Lutheran Church mentioning in the invitation please bring a bottle of soda or juice to share, I'll have all the rest and very true to her written word takes care of all the rest- all 55 of us and our specific holiday favorites including Swedish meatballs, Lutefisk, ice cream roll, pickled herring, Lefse, Rosettes, white dinner rolls, and her legendary mashed potatoes. She became a Mother 64 years ago and she's made Christmases- each and every single one, perfect and memorable despite circumstance ever since.

This year, in my traditional handwritten thank you notes post holiday, I will make more than a brief mention to both of those women how much I appreciate their continued effort toward family celebration and Christmas in general. How I know it pained both of them to celebrate when it meant doing so without my Grandpa, or when new work schedules meant my Mom had to work Christmas Day for the first time in her kids' lives. How they both forged on with a song in their hearts despite heartache, overwhelmingness, sickness, fatigue, and circumstance.

Because that's the true meaning of Christmas.
And I learned it from the best(s).