Isle of Wonder

It may be that my oldest daughter turned eight today.  It may be spending the weekend with family we don't see often enough.  It may be that we had a house fire (minor in scale, major in emotion) as the weekend hit.   It may be the huge outpouring of love from friends far and near; it may be all of the above and then some.  But I just feel fragile today.

Nothing shakes me more than the safety net I think I've built showing wear and tear, or unexpected holes.  Friday night, I faced my biggest Mama fear in having to evacuate my sleeping children from our home in subzero temperatures.  It wasn't until we arrived at our neighbors home that I realized I had done so barefoot.  I have the frostbite to prove that a Mama in a state of emergency feels nothing but adrenaline and the need to save her babies.  I'm proud of that, and scared of that, and sad that I had to find out.  Rest soundly little ones knowing that your Mama really will do anything to make sure you are safe, even if she doesn't know she is doing it.

In the hours that followed, and throughout the weekend, friends reached out to offer their help, their time and their belongings.  I still cannot find the words to describe how much this means.  While we were fortunate to need only temporary shelter and we lost very little, I am awed knowing that for the second time, our neighbors opened their home with no notice, took on the role of protecting and reassuring my babies, and did so with grace and love. 

You know who you are and you mean the world to me.

To all who took moments out of their day to check on us, ask how we were doing, what we needed...please know that there is nothing bigger than just letting us know you are there.  While asking for help and accepting help, are not our strengths, surrounding ourselves with amazing people apparently is.  Sometimes parenting feels like a remote island, and you all made it clear that we are more a chain of interconnected isles.

Eight years ago today I was closing out my second day of labor and we were certain in the belief of soon-to-be new parents that our birth plan, (aka "Let's give this type A Mama something to plan and *think* she has control over"), was about to begin, after an admittedly prolonged start.

Not to be.

In the last minutes of the 22nd, Miss Eight arrived following an emergency c-section.  Exhausted, in pain, and stunned by the rapid switch from water tub labor and Enya to operating room and epidural, my baby was here.  Looking at her today, I still see that wee purplish-red face super-imposed over the braces-shiny smile of her rapidly changing profile.  She's a great kid.  A tough kid.  A smart kid.  An emotional kid.  A challenge and a privilege every day.

And in jest, I commented today that in ten more years I was going to boot her out of the nest.

Then promptly had a panic attack.  Ten years.  Ten wondrous, tricky, painful, awe-inspiring, proud and fear-filled years.  Will it be enough to teach her how to surround herself with the people who will make her life better, easier, and more joyful?  Will we teach her to make good decisions, based on fact and with caution?  Will she find someone to love that loves her back in the way she deserves, and sees her with the same awe that her father and I did for the first time eight years ago?

 (And if they don't, do they know that I have friends who will post my bail money?)    I'm joking.  Really.  (Sort of.)

All of this has left me a little emotional.  A little fragile.  A little sad.  Both of the weekend "big events" made me realize how life changes so quickly.  It takes a second to change a life in either direction.  It has made everything feel fraught with importance.  Every decision has felt big.  And so, to the lady at the drive-through, I really couldn't decide if I wanted my coffee hot or cold this morning because"What if I made the wrong choice and it altered the flow of history?"

 So bear with me my friends...I'm indecisive in a big way right now.

I just want to sit here and hug my babies and everything that is not that, feels impossible.

Swish

Dearly Beloved, 
We are gathered here to celebrate the all-too short life of Cupcake the goldfish.  She was the best fish we "ever had".  She was a master of pebble picking and spitting, the queen of plastic plant pilfering, and was sensitive enough to seven year old sensibilities do her "business" after we had gone to bed, unlike a certain fishy counterpart who shall be nameless, (ahem Star, ahem).  We mourn your graceful swishiness, and your spirited flake consumption.  We will miss your burbly bubble blowing. 

Cupcake leaves behind a family of humans with varying levels of emotion.  Namely, a seven year old who has realized the pain of loving something and losing it.  A child who knows that another fish is not a replacement.  A child who has been pierced once again by the ever-present spear of growing up.  Loving something is never easy; never one hundred percent rainbows and unicorns beautiful.  When we see something possessing life, we want it to always be so.   Alas,  in the history of humans, and especially humans with goldfish, it is not to be.

40 Days and 40 Nights

Just a quick observation here.  The world is changing. My parent's generation wanted to give us the things they didn't have.   My generation has exceeded the call of duty ten-fold.  What have we done?

 I recently read an article on a 40 days and 40 bags challenge in which one has to tackle areas of the home and remove one bag of clutter daily.  It hit me with jaw-dropping awe that my challenge would not be finding forty bags of unneeded clutter, but instead deciding which of the too many and too much would go.  And then I was struck with the most horrible crushing inertia.  It's all just too much. 

We don't need over thirty coloring books.  We don't need twenty-plus coffee mugs.  WE don't need this much of ANYTHING.  I don't know how to get off this crazy train, but someone please pull the emergency signal..I'm starting to covet the spare environment of Miss Hannigan's orphans.   

So lest anyone become alarmed that a) I've written twice in 24 hours after a year's absence, or b) fear that my children will be left playing with a stick and nothing else...this is all just musing.

 Something will be done, just what,  I don't know.

 I started by moving the kitchen table.  (I know you are gob-smacked by my logic.)  And then I thought, "You know, I really should go read that 40 days thing again..."  Which led to printing out the schedule, (please note it makes me feel more organized if you pronounce it "shed-yule"), and tracking record, (because one thing we "type A" folk love is a chart and a deadline), and then...well, here I am; talking to you and pondering how to begin. 

Anyway, I have a bag to fill, two children to shower and some clutter to divest myself of.   And of small consolation, even Noah was allowed to collect two of everything ;)

Enough Already

When was the last time I wrote?....Well, not that long ago…What?  A year?  No… I meant to write.  I wrote to you all in my head a bunch of times…Okay, it’s been a year.  Well,…A generous year.  How in the world did so much time go by?

The biggest piece of news falls into the category of ancestry.  My middle daughter has determined that she is a “real and true princess”.  There is no dissuading her.  Don’t try logic or genealogy.  She knows.  She is a real princess because of her voice and the fact that she wears dresses all of the time.  (Which is indeed a radical switch from her pants and “adventure shoes" gear of only a year ago.)  In trying to discuss this, Little Middle decided to call me at my own game, thereby dubbing me “Queen of Book-Reading”.  Well, if I get to be the queen...maybe. 

And, to my credit, I have been able to use her princess-hood as leverage, as in “A real princess” would eat all of her vegetables/ try a bit of the meat/ not grumble about her food.”  Manipulative yes, but it works and right now, I’m willing to gamble against future therapy in order to keep her alive long enough to decide she needs it and that it is all my fault.

Miss Seven is turning Eight(teen) in a few days and we are all in the throes of redefining how we interact with one another.  This has been less a planned and rational execution of forethought and more a hostile take-over.   On a moment to moment basis we vacillate between really deep and sophisticated conversations about big, real-world problems, and whining about not being allowed to watch television, or eat candy for breakfast, or the fact that we are breathing in the same room in a way that annoys her.   

I miss my capricious and mischievous younger child.  This territory is a bit scary without a map and frankly, I thought we would be farther into this journey before we hit the stage where I suddenly lost every ounce of cool and became the most ridiculous adult in the world.    

 However, those days are often closely followed by request for me to stay until she falls asleep, scare away the monsters in the dark, or make room in my lap for her.  As hard as she pushes me away, she still wants and needs me.  I’m struggling to make the switch as rapidly as she does throughout the day.  It takes a lot of grown-up talk to myself to be the grown-up and not my wounded Mama Pride.

Meanwhile, the outside world continues to rumble along and the girls have developed an awareness of the social sorting they witness, feel, and possibly take part in during the day.  When I was eight, the worst thing I could imagine was being called stupid.  For my children, fat is the shame-filled word.  And with that has come the realization that their Mama is not skinny.    I am also the oldest Mama in second grade.  (Don’t be jealous, I had that distinction in first grade too, overachiever that I am.)  Miss Eight’s definition of beautiful comes replete with being young, fashionable, having long hair, impeccable (albeit glittery) make-up, a skinny frame, and impossibly high heels.    On a good day, I have time for make-up.  My natural lack of athleticism and coordination precludes heels.  And as for the rest…It remains to be seen. 

And Little One, now eighteen months old.  Walking, talking (a little), and climbing everything in our house as though it was her ordained job.  I recently entered the room, having exited long enough to throw a towel into a hamper in an adjoining room, to find her standing in the middle of the table, with her head haloed by the three lamps of our light fixture.  Although she was not stuck, she didn’t know how to extricate herself and the tug-of-wills-war began with her wanting my help, just not my help off the table.  “Hep?  Hep?..NO Mama!  NO Maamaa…Hep?”  You get the picture.

So until next time, I bid you enough.  Enough love, patience, and gratitude to take each day as it comes.