When I was a girl, I was never in my parents' bedroom.
It wasn't a policy- there wasn't a keep-out sign on their door.
It was just a space that was all theirs. I never pajama-footed my way to their bed early mornings. Never begged to sleep between them stormy nights. Never had girls' night slumber parties with Mama-daughter in that bedroom.
That's why when we visit their house and you have access to their bedroom- where you play Legos in front of Grandma G's armoire for hours, or watch YouTube videos on the laptop in their bed in the dark, I secretly smile. Those grandparents and their knack for bending, or altogether dismissing, the rules between one generation and the next. They all do it. My grandparents were no different. My Grandma S. let me swim (in a RIVER and chlorinated pool) in my cast the (second) summer I broke my arm. Our little secret, she said. Until that bad boy started to smell. Then it was everyone's damn secret. And my Grandpa R. ... the man who did not believe in delaying gratitude, would let me pour a brand new box of Lucky Charms straight out into a mixing bowl until the toy came tumbling out into my waiting hands. When Grandma wasn't looking, of course.
Over the weekend you were camping out in their bedroom. Papa came in for something, and opened his closet door. His and Grandma G's are connected internally, but have separate doors on the exterior. When you shut either of the doors, it acts like a vacuum, pushing open the adjacent door. So when he shut his door, hers opened.
You came out to the kitchen where we were all congregated on Saturday night. You whispered you needed Grandma to come here. She went with you.
Out you came arms full of Easter eggs and miniature stuffed crap intended for their insides.
Look, you showed us. The Easter Bunny left all his eggs and stuff RIGHT IN GRANDMA'S CLOSET, and he did it A DAY EARLY!
"Yes," deadpanned Grandma. "That stupid Easter Bunny just left them right on my closet shelf. He must have needed the extra time and storage space to drop them off before Easter morning," she continued.
Hook, line, and an absolute believer at age six, sunk.
Later that night as I tucked you into your own bed and space downstairs, you whispered, what if Grandma G. is the Easter Bunny?
I perched on the edge of your bed, brushed your bangs back from your forehead and admitted that yes, Grandma G. is many, many things. Wickedly talented. Relentlessly stubborn. Effortlessly low-maintenance. The best gift-giver ever. Incredible mojito-mixer and baker extraordinaire. A no-nonsense, honest feedback-giver. Beautiful flower-growing green thumber, and most selfless human I have ever met, but she is not the Easter Bunny.
I promise.
The next morning, you woke up to the dining room table set beautifully for a tea party with new Peter Rabbit porcelain dishes. There was a colorful note from the Easter Bunny with instructions to look for a giant basket inside and 12 eggs outside. The little kitchen chair where you left him a plate full of Jelly Bellies, baby carrots, romaine, and Dove dark chocolate eggs and a handwritten note depicting his likeness you sketched had been well-attended; there wasn't much left save for a few crumbs, pieces of candy wrapper tinfoil, and the tiniest, dirtiest little set of bunny footprints you ever did see, right there on the dishcloth you left him for such purpose. You know Grandma G. doesn't care for her floors to get dirty from the animals ... and that Bunny will have wet feet when he comes hoppin' in!
Monday, April 21, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Because Someone Else Said It Best
101 Things I Will Teach My Daughter
By Leah Froehle
1. Chocolate is only a temporary fix.
2. A properly-fitting bra is not a luxury. It is a necessity.
3. Your happiness is your happiness and yours alone.
4. How to apply red lipstick.
5. How to wear the crap out of red lipstick.
6. A boyfriend does not validate your existence.
7. Eat the extra slice of pizza.
8. Wear what makes you feel gracefully at ease.
9. Love the world unconditionally.
10. Seek beauty in all things.
11. Buy your friends dinner when you can.
12. Wear sunscreen like it’s your second job.
13. Try with all your might to keep in contact with far-away friends.
14. Make the world feel at ease around you.
15. Walk with your head up.
16. Order a cheeseburger on the first date if you want to.
17. Never, ever bite your nails.
18. Swipe on some lipstick, put on your leather jacket, and sneak into a bar somewhere.
19. Learn from your mistakes that night.
20. Dental hygiene is not multiple choice.
21. Your GPA is not a confession of your character.
22. There is strength in breaking down.
23. You don’t have to like yoga.
24. Pick a tea.
25. Take care of your feet.
26. Pick a perfume.
27. Even if you’re tall, wear the heels anyway.
28. Classy is a relative term.
29. Drink whiskey if you like whiskey.
30. Drink wine if you like wine.
31. Like what you like.
32. Offer no explanation.
33. Advil and Gatorade.
34. You are no less of a woman when you’re in sweats and gym shoes than a woman in stilettos and a pencil skirt.
35. A woman is a woman is a woman.
36. Love your fellow woman with all your heart and soul.
37. Cry, uninhibited, with your friends.
38. Laugh until you can’t breathe with your friends.
39. Tell me everything.
40. Exercise to be strong and healthy. A beautiful soul needs a sturdy vessel.
41. There is no shame in hoping for love.
42. My cooking is the best cooking.
43. Do not take sex lightly.
44. I mean it.
45. Anna Karenina. I’d like it if you read it.
46. The world spins on the principle of inherent tragedy.
47. Do not be blind to it.
48. Men are effectively idiots until the age of 26.
49. Carbohydrates are not the enemy.
50. Involve yourself in an organized activity of your choosing.
51. Listen to classical music occasionally.
52. Take hot baths.
53. Do not use bath salts.
54. You are more than capable.
55. I promise.
56. Don’t smile if you don’t mean it.
57. Mean your anger. Mean your sadness. Mean your pain.
58. I am always, always listening.
59. Travel.
60. Get stuck in a foreign country with $4.67 in your account.
61. Make me furious.
62. Make me worry.
63. Come home smelly, tired, and with a good story.
64. Your story isn’t really yours.
65. You are a compilation of others’ stories.
66. Well-fitting and modest is ALWAYS sexier than too small and tight.
67. Who cares if glitter isn’t tasteful?
68. It’s too much eyeliner if you have to ask.
69. Learn to bake for when you’re sad and I’m not there.
70. Humility and subservience are not synonyms.
71. Wash your face twice per day.
72. Be gentle with your skin.
73. Science is really cool.
74. So is literature.
75. And history.
76. And math.
77. There is no substitute for fresh air.
78. Carry your weight.
79. Make up for it later if you can’t.
80. That salad is not better than pasta and it never will be.
81. You’re fooling no one.
82. Find at least three green vegetables you can tolerate.
83. A smoothie is not a meal.
84. Expect the best from everyone.
85. People will let you down.
86. Bask in the sun (wearing a sunhat and SPF 90).
87. There is a certain kind of man you need to avoid at all costs.
88. You’ll know it when you meet him.
89. What other people say is right doesn’t always feel right.
90. What feels right is where your happiness is.
91. Give thoughtful gifts.
92. Form an opinion.
93. Stick to it.
94. Exfoliation in moderation.
95. Argue with people when you need to.
96. If it’s worth fighting for, fight fiercely.
97. Don’t fight for acceptance.
98. You shouldn’t have to.
99. Take pictures, but not too many.
100. Follow your bliss at all costs. (I’m cutting you off at 22, though).
101. Chocolate ice cream, however, might just be a permanent fix.
Monday, March 31, 2014
VIP
It is finally THE WEEK.
In Mrs. W's Kindergarten class, all 28 of you have a turn being "VIP" for an entire week. You've been looking forward to your week since last fall. All things in due time, babe. This week you'll be the star of the show- you will be eternal line leader, snack time prepper, teacher helper, and overall go-to girl.
You were tasked with making a poster- all about you!
Name: Lil' Dude aka Kid Rock
I am: 4'0 tall, and 53 pounds
I am 6 years old.
My favorite color is baby blue
When I grow up, I want to be a doctor
Things I love: horses, pineapple, & chicken nuggets
Things I don't: bees, bats, spiders, & chicken
(I know- riddle me that)
Three wishes:
I wish: I had a unicorn named Penelope
I wish: I lived in a castle in the Black Hills of South Dakota
I wish: I had a unicorn hot tub with rainbow bubbles
Mrs. W. also asks parents to write a letter to their VIP's to be read in front of the entire class. What a cool concept. I have written you approximately 4,000 letters in your lifetime, but I was thrilled with my assignment.
Dear Lil' Dude;
Happy VIP week! We know you have been so anxious and excited for this week to be here. You are our Very Important Person already ... you completed our family! We love you for your confidence, tender heart, and dauntless spirit. We're proud of you for how hard you work, how kind you are, and how you're always happy just being you. You're the best daughter any parents could possibly have, and we're so lucky you're ours. Have so much fun this week, we can't wait to hear all about your adventures. We love you more than Starbucks & Syracuse basketball! -Daddy & Mama
And the icing on your VIP cake will be the Cold Spring Bakery donuts you requested to bring as your special treat.
That's my girl.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
I Need You
I just told someone last weekend how good of a sleeper the lil' dude has always been.
I would never fabricate the fine details of our good fortune. She slept through the night beginning at five days old. Seriously. My own Mama was still staying with us post-hospital discharge, so I have two reliable witnesses. Anyhow, as I was saying, sleep. Never in the middle of the night did the lil' dude magically appear in our doorway or bed. I never had to tiredly shoo, shoo, shoo her away or retuck her in 40 times.
And when I said that out loud, I admitted I probably wished it HAD happened. I never had great stories of why I looked like shit the next day, bags 3-deep under my eyes, brain a foggy disarray. I never had the opportunity to watch marathon episodes of whatever was on E! in the middle of the night. I never had to hurriedly disengage a sweat mass of mini-human off my chest when the alarm went off. I never.
On this side of it, I know everything works out exactly how it's supposed to happen. I take nothing for granted. I know our foray into parenting was ... without the right words for it, made simple by an utterly awesome kid who knew what she was doing when she came into our lives.
Back to the point of this post.
A night or two after I lamented about my sleepful baby, she screamed out for me at 4am.
She screamed so loud, I NEED YOU, MAMA! and I was sprinting through the dark toward that dreadful sound before I registered what was actually happening.
Monsters; several.
Lights; on.
Soothing; forthcoming.
After I calmed down my baby girl she said, I have something to ask you but I know you'll say no.
What? I asked her.
Will you stay with me, right in my bed?
Will I ever. Try to evict me!
I shoved 34 stuffies off her bed, settled the quilt mountain and bevy of pillows and bedded down, her heat-seeking missile status clinging to my chest for the next 150 minutes until the sun rose and so did we. She clung to me like her life depended on it. If I tried to roll over, she proved her tether by rolling with me.
Stay this way, Mama, so I can feel your breathing.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Over My Dead Body
The true intention of this blog was to write about me, as I relate to my daughter. These stories are my legacy to her.
When I was little, I loved nothing more than pouring over my own baby book and asking my Grandma or own Mama about the stories on the pages. I loved knowing where I came from, the House That Built Me. But I really loved hearing the stories from the mouths of those who lived them. I have always been an avid collector of stories. For years, I've loved reading obituaries in newspapers. It's not morbid. It's me wanting to know about people. I began writing other's people's stories in high school when I joined my school's paper. I was an editor of my college's newspaper. I read at least 2 novels a week. I read 12-15 magazines a month. I devour stories. I honestly believe blogs and Twitter and even Instagram were made for newshounds like me. I recently "Liked" a new Facebook page called "Humans of New York" where a guy simply photographs strangers on the street in New York and pauses to see what they have to say. I eat that shit up.
So this blog is comprised of my stories for my daughter. It holds more truth than anything else I've created in my life. It might be more than she bargained for, but at least she'll know who I was, and at least I'll be unapologetic for it- all of it.
There has been a topic floating around in my brain for awhile now, and little pieces of what I wanted to say or illustrate started to form just this week. Anyone who knows me knows I love The Today Show. (When I was very young, 3ish, I wanted to be Dan Rather when I grew up. I simply adore the news) The Today Show is journalism at its best. It's delivered in the morning, served with a side of sexy and grace, and as the years go by, so do its anchors, but I remain stoic. I loved Katie Couric. I loved Meredith Viera. I loved Ann Curry. And if (when) Matt Lauer leaves ... oh hell no. I won't even go there. Anyways, last week they debuted a new series called "Love Your Selfie" which is a word play on the social media/pop culture reference of posting your own photos to various streams of publicity. The series went deeper though to the very core of Loving Thy Self, and finally gave me the last bit of whatever it is I needed to write this down for my own girl.
I have spent years ... decades even, hating my body. Not hating myself, there is a very distinct separation of the two. But- one can argue that hate positioned toward one piece of yourself will inevitably lead to letting it seep into all the other parts you find just OK. Do you know what the very first thing I said to The Dad when he asked me to marry him was? (well, for clarity, I said Yes, then I asked if we could go to Maui on our honeymoon and he said Yes) I said to him ... "I am going to go on the South Beach Diet now!" He was still on one knee and kinda just blinked and said, "OK?" That is a sad girl right there on one of the happiest days of her life. That was over ten years ago.
I hated my body in high school because I had to wear two sports bras when I practiced and played sports. I hated my size 10 feet. Hated my acne.
I hated my body in college when I started feeding it alcohol, nicotine, and shitty garbage food and stopped using it for practice and play. I hated it for needing so much sleep.
I hated my body when I graduated four years later, I hated it for being a size at the very end of women's charts in the stores I had always loved- mainstream stores at the mall I was nearly sizing myself out of.
I hated my body when I wedding dress shopped, and I only wanted my own Mama and mother-in-law with because I didn't want any of my girls to see what size I had to order. I hated that I thought they would even remotely care.
I hated my body when I had to have surgery to repair it- ovarian cyst removals, breast reduction, heel surgeries to repair bone structure issues. I hated my body when it took me six months- and what was really only a blissful, clueless six months at that- to conceive the Lil' Dude.
I hated my body when my caffeine withdrawal headaches during pregnancy made my cry most of the first trimester. I hated the stretch marks that lasted to infinity. I hated that I took that body and its amazing baby-growin' skills for granted. I hated my body for not being able to go into labor itself.
I hated my body for three years YEARS IN ALL CAPS of infertility. My infertility. Only mine. I hating ending other's people's dreams with my body. I hated the stirrups, the insurance, the confessions, the pharmacy, the explanations, the endless hoping, the acupuncture, the signs, the no booze-no-gluten-no-caffeine-no-effing-kidding- gig I embarked on. I hate that the only emotion I remember from that entire stint, is hate.
Hate is such an effing waste of time.
Two years ago, I went to see a tattooist alone. I curled onto my side and had him spend two hours drawing a lone blackbird on a branch on my ribs right underneath my heart. I had him write, "Hope is the thing with Feathers" right onto the body I had always hated. I didn't care my entire torso was exposed to this young, fearless kid, right in that expansive studio. He asked me my story with the tattoo and placement. I didn't cry when I told him I was there at age 32 to start taking back all that hate and letting some love in. He stopped working, and commended me and thanked me for letting him do this job he loved so much, because of clients like me.
A year ago I joined a real gym. I funneled all that hate into something useful.
Hate is such an effing useless emotion.
I steeled myself through various training tools. I made myself present when my trainer- a male, no less, recorded my weight, BMI, and body fat statistics. He made me say them out loud. He made me own them. Never again, he said. Never again, I repeated. I took my first real yoga class. Namaste, bitches. I set my alarm for 4:50 to get to Spin. I wear a heart-rate monitor so I don't do anything mindlessly. Chug water, chug life. I can list the caloric content of every single food item on the planet. That doesn't mean I hate myself. I finally don't. I make no apologies or excuses to my daughter when she asks where I am going, what I am doing with my time away from her. Empowering me means I'm empowering her. I fill all my feeds with the honest people who motivate me. And I stopped all that hating. All those decades of being my very last fan ... done. All the mirrors and sizes and scales and photos- no more hate. I wore a bikini publicly for the first time in my life last fall on a girls' trip with the girls I have loved since pre-puberty ... Who have loved me through all my stories. No hate.
Why?
She's six. Right now, she has endless amounts of energy and long, thin legs. She asked us this weekend if she could join dance. That's a separate post for another time. She knows what's healthy and what's reserved for special occasions and treats. She goes to sleep each night and wakes up each day thinking she is the most awesome person on the planet. She loves herself to the core of her being, and with everything she's got. She's her own biggest fan and promoter. She is quintessentially, what every human should be. Born thinking she is only amazing and worthy and capable of such greatness.
And when the day comes where she thinks she has something to hate about herself, I will be armed. I will not let that word define her life the way it's defined mine.
Over my (ridiculously strong and ever-evolving) dead body.
When I was little, I loved nothing more than pouring over my own baby book and asking my Grandma or own Mama about the stories on the pages. I loved knowing where I came from, the House That Built Me. But I really loved hearing the stories from the mouths of those who lived them. I have always been an avid collector of stories. For years, I've loved reading obituaries in newspapers. It's not morbid. It's me wanting to know about people. I began writing other's people's stories in high school when I joined my school's paper. I was an editor of my college's newspaper. I read at least 2 novels a week. I read 12-15 magazines a month. I devour stories. I honestly believe blogs and Twitter and even Instagram were made for newshounds like me. I recently "Liked" a new Facebook page called "Humans of New York" where a guy simply photographs strangers on the street in New York and pauses to see what they have to say. I eat that shit up.
So this blog is comprised of my stories for my daughter. It holds more truth than anything else I've created in my life. It might be more than she bargained for, but at least she'll know who I was, and at least I'll be unapologetic for it- all of it.
There has been a topic floating around in my brain for awhile now, and little pieces of what I wanted to say or illustrate started to form just this week. Anyone who knows me knows I love The Today Show. (When I was very young, 3ish, I wanted to be Dan Rather when I grew up. I simply adore the news) The Today Show is journalism at its best. It's delivered in the morning, served with a side of sexy and grace, and as the years go by, so do its anchors, but I remain stoic. I loved Katie Couric. I loved Meredith Viera. I loved Ann Curry. And if (when) Matt Lauer leaves ... oh hell no. I won't even go there. Anyways, last week they debuted a new series called "Love Your Selfie" which is a word play on the social media/pop culture reference of posting your own photos to various streams of publicity. The series went deeper though to the very core of Loving Thy Self, and finally gave me the last bit of whatever it is I needed to write this down for my own girl.
I have spent years ... decades even, hating my body. Not hating myself, there is a very distinct separation of the two. But- one can argue that hate positioned toward one piece of yourself will inevitably lead to letting it seep into all the other parts you find just OK. Do you know what the very first thing I said to The Dad when he asked me to marry him was? (well, for clarity, I said Yes, then I asked if we could go to Maui on our honeymoon and he said Yes) I said to him ... "I am going to go on the South Beach Diet now!" He was still on one knee and kinda just blinked and said, "OK?" That is a sad girl right there on one of the happiest days of her life. That was over ten years ago.
I hated my body in high school because I had to wear two sports bras when I practiced and played sports. I hated my size 10 feet. Hated my acne.
I hated my body in college when I started feeding it alcohol, nicotine, and shitty garbage food and stopped using it for practice and play. I hated it for needing so much sleep.
I hated my body when I graduated four years later, I hated it for being a size at the very end of women's charts in the stores I had always loved- mainstream stores at the mall I was nearly sizing myself out of.
I hated my body when I wedding dress shopped, and I only wanted my own Mama and mother-in-law with because I didn't want any of my girls to see what size I had to order. I hated that I thought they would even remotely care.
I hated my body when I had to have surgery to repair it- ovarian cyst removals, breast reduction, heel surgeries to repair bone structure issues. I hated my body when it took me six months- and what was really only a blissful, clueless six months at that- to conceive the Lil' Dude.
I hated my body when my caffeine withdrawal headaches during pregnancy made my cry most of the first trimester. I hated the stretch marks that lasted to infinity. I hated that I took that body and its amazing baby-growin' skills for granted. I hated my body for not being able to go into labor itself.
I hated my body for three years YEARS IN ALL CAPS of infertility. My infertility. Only mine. I hating ending other's people's dreams with my body. I hated the stirrups, the insurance, the confessions, the pharmacy, the explanations, the endless hoping, the acupuncture, the signs, the no booze-no-gluten-no-caffeine-no-effing-kidding- gig I embarked on. I hate that the only emotion I remember from that entire stint, is hate.
Hate is such an effing waste of time.
Two years ago, I went to see a tattooist alone. I curled onto my side and had him spend two hours drawing a lone blackbird on a branch on my ribs right underneath my heart. I had him write, "Hope is the thing with Feathers" right onto the body I had always hated. I didn't care my entire torso was exposed to this young, fearless kid, right in that expansive studio. He asked me my story with the tattoo and placement. I didn't cry when I told him I was there at age 32 to start taking back all that hate and letting some love in. He stopped working, and commended me and thanked me for letting him do this job he loved so much, because of clients like me.
A year ago I joined a real gym. I funneled all that hate into something useful.
Hate is such an effing useless emotion.
I steeled myself through various training tools. I made myself present when my trainer- a male, no less, recorded my weight, BMI, and body fat statistics. He made me say them out loud. He made me own them. Never again, he said. Never again, I repeated. I took my first real yoga class. Namaste, bitches. I set my alarm for 4:50 to get to Spin. I wear a heart-rate monitor so I don't do anything mindlessly. Chug water, chug life. I can list the caloric content of every single food item on the planet. That doesn't mean I hate myself. I finally don't. I make no apologies or excuses to my daughter when she asks where I am going, what I am doing with my time away from her. Empowering me means I'm empowering her. I fill all my feeds with the honest people who motivate me. And I stopped all that hating. All those decades of being my very last fan ... done. All the mirrors and sizes and scales and photos- no more hate. I wore a bikini publicly for the first time in my life last fall on a girls' trip with the girls I have loved since pre-puberty ... Who have loved me through all my stories. No hate.
Why?
She's six. Right now, she has endless amounts of energy and long, thin legs. She asked us this weekend if she could join dance. That's a separate post for another time. She knows what's healthy and what's reserved for special occasions and treats. She goes to sleep each night and wakes up each day thinking she is the most awesome person on the planet. She loves herself to the core of her being, and with everything she's got. She's her own biggest fan and promoter. She is quintessentially, what every human should be. Born thinking she is only amazing and worthy and capable of such greatness.
And when the day comes where she thinks she has something to hate about herself, I will be armed. I will not let that word define her life the way it's defined mine.
Over my (ridiculously strong and ever-evolving) dead body.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
And I Will Rescue You
'Lil' Dude is back down here again. She was in around 10am but barely registered a temp. Now, she's still around 100* but she said if I called, you would come.'
I didn't even hesitate. I rushed out of my office ... The office I finally stepped foot in after 10 or 11 days, mind you, with a to-do list six miles long and worse.
Long story short, she was fine. Talking a mile a minute on the way home, planning her snack and what her and I would do when we settled in. False, kid. Mama's got piles of crap to do. And you're grounded.
I could have left her at school ... The nurse said she could stay in the infirmary without issue until the bell. But I kept thinking of how I told her that very morning; if you need me, I can be there. Two shakes. It was more on me than it was on her. I made a conscious decision to be true to my word. A little putting my money where my mouth is, so to speak.
I tell that kid a 1,000 things a day. I bet she hears 996 of that. But if the four items she retains relate to me not letting her down ... To proving her right ... To maintaining her faith in my Super Mamahood ... Then I am doing something right.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Sorry It Took So Long For Me to Catch Up
Parenthood is a marathon. It's not a sprint.
It's an ever-evolving take on the future.
Planning, planning, planning.
Promising, promising, promising.
And some execution.
With my eye on the future, I write this post.
A day in the life, I suppose.
Ammunition is what it really is.
Hi sweet girl.
I spent last week away from you- not unusual.
Mother Nature stretched it even further than usual.
Nothing we haven't been through before.
So- I missed Valentine's Day. It's just a day, right Hallmark?
I mean ... I missed Halloween this year, too.
I'm becoming an Absentee Holiday Parent.
It's the worst.
It's the life.
When I finally made it home, Daddy handed me your sleeping heft in the middle of the night. You were a sweaty mess, completely drugged up by nocturnalness and a long, busy week. You weren't coherent enough to give me the Valentine you'd made, even though you made him swear on Syracuse he'd wake you up, so I tucked you in and whispered to you ... that I was there. I'm sorry it took so long for me to catch up. I just got stuck, I whispered, a line from one of my favorite novels and movies.
Saturday morning the sun came up and so did you. All was right in everyone's world that February morning, in the 8 o'clock hour. I'll never forget your face.
And since you woke up that morning, you have been more than my sidekick. You have simply been my side. As I shower, you lay on the bathmat waiting patiently. As I take laundry out of the dryer, you're right behind me, handing me errant socks. As I apply mascara, you're entwined between my legs the way you used to do when you first learned to walk. I prefer to do my reading on the love seat due to its proximity to the sunniest window the house offers, and I have been sharing my nook with you ... you're literally cramping my style, but you're indefinitely worth the pain my muscles feel. Up and down the stairs I sprint, your feet quicken behind me. I just need Mama Time, you admit over and over, as if asking for forgiveness instead of permission.
When you were a baby, I'd give you your last bottle in your darkened room, rocking you in the rocker your great-Grandpa R. made. Your little chubby hand would always work its way up my neck, or under my camisole strap. Skin on skin- any restlessness you had would then dissipate when you made that contact. I catch myself remembering that exact touch more and more.
When I tucked you in last night you said you didn't feel good. It's not like you at all to delay bedtime with excuses. You've always owned your defiance- stating with 100% honesty why you weren't interested in sleeping. I asked what I could do for you- handing you a bucket. Just stay with me until I calm down. Let me sleep with you. Let me stay.
Ah. Yes, that makes sense. Three straight days of you and I with little to no breaks and here we were on the cusp of going back to our days separately. My heart splintered. I laid with you awhile, smoothing your hair, humming pop hits to you. You lost the fight and passed out. Quiet for good.
When I eased you awake today, you launched right back into the litany of perils you felt.
Daddy offered to stay home with you but I assured him you'd be OK. Mama's instinct I suppose.
As I buckled you in, I reminded you that if at any time during the day you felt bad and needed me, I could be there in two shakes. You nodded solemnly. How many hours 'til I get off the bus? I told you. I would be waiting.
I have already admitted to not being able to protect you from everything life will show you. It will go down as the thing that rips me apart. That keeps me running near hysteria and my anxiety level sky-high. But that's life, and I am certainly not the first mother on this planet to experience her heart walking around outside her body. And I won't be the last.
So I tell you the story of our last few days of union with the intent that when life gets big and ugly, and I am your target or antichrist or reason, you'll summon up the memories we've made this month, when the only thing that mattered to you was me and how many steps it took to reach me.
You have a heart bigger than Texas and your Mama's sentimentality.
I trust you'll always know the exact number of steps that cover the expanse between you and I.
Mama loves.
It's an ever-evolving take on the future.
Planning, planning, planning.
Promising, promising, promising.
And some execution.
With my eye on the future, I write this post.
A day in the life, I suppose.
Ammunition is what it really is.
Hi sweet girl.
I spent last week away from you- not unusual.
Mother Nature stretched it even further than usual.
Nothing we haven't been through before.
So- I missed Valentine's Day. It's just a day, right Hallmark?
I mean ... I missed Halloween this year, too.
I'm becoming an Absentee Holiday Parent.
It's the worst.
It's the life.
When I finally made it home, Daddy handed me your sleeping heft in the middle of the night. You were a sweaty mess, completely drugged up by nocturnalness and a long, busy week. You weren't coherent enough to give me the Valentine you'd made, even though you made him swear on Syracuse he'd wake you up, so I tucked you in and whispered to you ... that I was there. I'm sorry it took so long for me to catch up. I just got stuck, I whispered, a line from one of my favorite novels and movies.
Saturday morning the sun came up and so did you. All was right in everyone's world that February morning, in the 8 o'clock hour. I'll never forget your face.
And since you woke up that morning, you have been more than my sidekick. You have simply been my side. As I shower, you lay on the bathmat waiting patiently. As I take laundry out of the dryer, you're right behind me, handing me errant socks. As I apply mascara, you're entwined between my legs the way you used to do when you first learned to walk. I prefer to do my reading on the love seat due to its proximity to the sunniest window the house offers, and I have been sharing my nook with you ... you're literally cramping my style, but you're indefinitely worth the pain my muscles feel. Up and down the stairs I sprint, your feet quicken behind me. I just need Mama Time, you admit over and over, as if asking for forgiveness instead of permission.
When you were a baby, I'd give you your last bottle in your darkened room, rocking you in the rocker your great-Grandpa R. made. Your little chubby hand would always work its way up my neck, or under my camisole strap. Skin on skin- any restlessness you had would then dissipate when you made that contact. I catch myself remembering that exact touch more and more.
When I tucked you in last night you said you didn't feel good. It's not like you at all to delay bedtime with excuses. You've always owned your defiance- stating with 100% honesty why you weren't interested in sleeping. I asked what I could do for you- handing you a bucket. Just stay with me until I calm down. Let me sleep with you. Let me stay.
Ah. Yes, that makes sense. Three straight days of you and I with little to no breaks and here we were on the cusp of going back to our days separately. My heart splintered. I laid with you awhile, smoothing your hair, humming pop hits to you. You lost the fight and passed out. Quiet for good.
When I eased you awake today, you launched right back into the litany of perils you felt.
Daddy offered to stay home with you but I assured him you'd be OK. Mama's instinct I suppose.
As I buckled you in, I reminded you that if at any time during the day you felt bad and needed me, I could be there in two shakes. You nodded solemnly. How many hours 'til I get off the bus? I told you. I would be waiting.
I have already admitted to not being able to protect you from everything life will show you. It will go down as the thing that rips me apart. That keeps me running near hysteria and my anxiety level sky-high. But that's life, and I am certainly not the first mother on this planet to experience her heart walking around outside her body. And I won't be the last.
So I tell you the story of our last few days of union with the intent that when life gets big and ugly, and I am your target or antichrist or reason, you'll summon up the memories we've made this month, when the only thing that mattered to you was me and how many steps it took to reach me.
You have a heart bigger than Texas and your Mama's sentimentality.
I trust you'll always know the exact number of steps that cover the expanse between you and I.
Mama loves.
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