Tumble Dry

Open to Interpretation

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 21:09:00 +0000

There is direction, there is interpretation and then there is Fin.

"Give me a thumbs up, Ave."

"Now you, Fin."

And, scene.

.

Endings

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 19:31:00 +0000

I am not ashamed to admit that for every five books I read, I turn ahead to the last part in at least 4. I like knowing, somehow if I know that the hero is triumphant, the love is requited or that the child is saved, I can more easily enjoy the story. I suppose to some this may mean that I am not getting the full effect of the book, I will comfortably say, it's my choice.

More and more I am learning how little a say I have in life. I can impact journeys, shape beginnings, but, when it comes down to it, I cannot change endings. The layers between loss have become more slender, the stretches of time between one passing and the next seem uncomfortably close. Actually, I think it is just the predictability, the knowing that no matter whether I could turn the to the pages ahead or not, there are more. Always, there will be more.

Yesterday a man died. A father. A husband. A cousin. A son. An uncle. A friend. A teacher. A soul. One minute he was here, as potent and unstoppable as John Wayne, and the next, he simply was no more. I am reeling, wondering how I could so completely have missed the possibility of this twist. This loss.

It has been said before, but it feels as if something greater should have precipitated this. After the news settled, there was more. Relaying and narrating. Bearing witness to the realization of loss is a page that, given the choice, I would not read. Naked shock. Years whizzing before glassy eyes, a nearly imperceptible whoosh of air.

I am so very sorry that Ted has gone. He had a twinkle and a ferocity of hug that always made me squeeze back in the way you only do for some people. I am perching softly as those who loved him longer reminisce. There is laughter, but more then that there is a kind of stillness in the silence of reflection.

It is between those layers, when there is no speaking, when his spirit seems most present.

May you sail peacefully, dear friend.

.

Burn

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 14:38:00 +0000

She usually points at the stained glass window and breathes a reverent, "Ah winnow, mama. Ah winnow," stretching out a pink finger and staring wide-eyed. This morning, going down a less travelled staircase, she was drawn to first the Choir Room and second the Sanctuary.

We looked at the pictures of choir directors in robes and standing beside pianos, then at the faces of singing congregation members. "Ah singin' singers sing," she nodded. I smiled, taking her hand and leading her toward the door. She held her arms out and said, "Mama, 'old me?" She settled in my arms and we slipped down the stairs, admiring the window and the shapes the light cast through it onto the floor.

When we got down the stairs she craned her neck, the honeyed light through the bank of windows in the Sanctuary was too great a pull. Her body leaned away from my own and I slid my hand behind her to keep her from falling.

"Look d'at, mama. S'dat?" She turned to me, waiting for me to say something that would explain the halos of light. I began to give a dismissive and vague explanation as I went toward the door, but something pulled me back. We walked to the door of the Sanctuary and stood at the threshold for a moment. She didn't push or pull, or even say anything, her head just scanned the room.

I stepped on foot in as my nose began to burn. The landscape of gently fraying tapestries shining under beams of gold and green light held me. Our heads turned together and looked toward the back wall, nondescript dark wood paneling and cabinets open to reveal inexpensive canisters of coffee and the various paper accouterments necessary for large coffee service. Finley put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Mama, ember."

I looked at her, my eyes burning as tears raced to the surface and cascaded down my cheeks. "What, honey?"

She touched her forehead to mine and then leaned back as she said, "Mama, member?"

I nodded and said, "I do, honey. Mama does remember."

I have no idea if Finley was really saying what I heard, but standing there bathed in the light of so many Sunday School memories, the smells of old tomes, standing coffee and aged rooms, I remembered my grandfather and his love. For me, for my grandmother, for my mom, for life.

He loved so much. I remember now.

Here's to loving and remembering.

And, go!

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 18:29:00 +0000

I am all too aware of the inevitabilities of aging. I'm not talking about the lines that are at first paper thin and then later, like grooves in the yard, revealing the preferred trudging path. Or the shift in color, my morning, pre-shower and make-up face erring on the side of sallow as opposed to pale. Those passages I am, if not entirely at peace with, at least prepared for and managing.

The inevitabilities that are currently weighing heaviest on my heart are of a different measure of time. My memories are laced with mint scented walks to school, little hand-written notes accompanying snacks waiting for the latch-key Amanda and elaborate shrubbery fortresses for Star Wars figures. There were t-ball games and vacations, birthday parties and bus rides downtown. They all merge in my mind to create one sort of meandering, yet cohesive sense of a childhood.

I do not remember the orchestration of events or the balance of wanting and getting, needing and yearning. Now, as I live those same years on the other side of the reflection, I am daunted. It occurred to me that there is no when, no when there is enough time, when we have the money, when we get the swing of it.

There is simply now, followed excruciatingly swiftly by what they remember. As I wince from the near-misses and barely-there's I am in the midst of the creation of their memories. Three little girls collating and cataloging the entirety of their youth in each of these days.

We are month past the first day of kindergarten, one field trip down, a first invitation just received and school pictures ushering in potlucks and PTA. This is not even touching on the songs being learned and the lush toddler dimples and folds that are growing ever more distant.

I had been thinking that I would know, that like the grace I thought I'd acquire as a woman and the growing out of breakouts and moodiness, there would be this discovery of lightness and ease that would guide me into enrolling the girls in dance, conquering the play date code of conduct. I would slip free of the cloak of less-thanness.

I would feel comfortable, proud and accomplished. I wouldn't walk away from tucking the girls in and fight a lump in my throat as they whispered, "And soon, I'll do the ballerina class? Right, mama?" and "Tomorrow night will you be able to cuddle with me?" Instead I still end each day thinking I have not measured up, whether for time, money or attention.

I know it isn't the classes or the perfect packed lunches that will be their memory, it will be unpredictable threads in between, the time we drove a little longer just to hear the last song, or the way we let them hold the ketchup themselves in a restaurant. I risk, each time I strive for perfection, missing that thing that is perfect to them.

For Avery.

For Finley.

For Briar.

For Sean.

For myself.

I get now, that it is this moment, this very moment that is the most important. I may never get them into dance or to the circus, but what I can do, and what I absolutely must do, is give them this moment in the truest most present way that I can, because it's not my idea of perfect that matters.

.

Layers

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 01:52:00 +0000

Not more than a couple of weeks ago I was marveling over my survival of kindergarten. I had thought it would be like the first day back to work after having Briar, keening and begging. I remember trying to unearth what had to be a different reality, it couldn't be possible that I was supposed to leave my perfect, vulnerable first-born with someone else. All day.

Five years later I can still see myself sobbing in a chair with my mom on the other end of the line. I was pleading with her to make it ok. I am not sure if I wanted permission to stay home or something else, but I sought an answer and solace that no one had. Now I find myself in a similar situation, this time it is bigger, the scope of my wishes.

Avery has been speeding right alongside Briar, with new mannerisms and preferences bubbling to the surface each day. Whether it's her arms crossed, eyes wide, "That's very inner-tresting," or "Mom, can you just stop touching my hair now? I can kiss you to make you not sad," I am in awe of her unstoppable self-discovery.

Finley is equally immersed in a full-throttle development, hers being both physical and intellectual. She longs to be as big and capable as her sisters, but protests vehemently is she feels at all displaced from her roost as the baby. She runs, jumps, claps and exclaims, but lingers with cuddles, "ode me's" and "I wuh yuh's."

I am frozen by the way time is hurtling forward, lines blossoming across my face, all the while the girls' faces become more chiseled and their flirtations and interests explode in waves away from me. Farther with each experience. We were in Connecticut a couple of weeks ago to visit family. We stole away to tool around New Haven. I hadn't realized that visiting a place so dear to my grandfather would affect me so deeply.

It was a beautiful day, the girls were content and adorable sitting in the back seat with all manner of toy, snack and sleep prop imaginable. Sean and I were next to each other in the front seat, each of us entranced by the new sights and the overall beauty of the day— no deadlines, no chores, just the open road. I stuck my head out the window and made the girls laugh as I closed my eyes and drank in the timeless feeling of sun on my face and wind in my hair.

At one point I snapped a picture, and it is the looking at that picture that tortures me.

I know we don't live forever. I know we have the best days of our lives and more. What I am having trouble managing is the idea that he is gone, that I will be gone, that time is marching on and that I don't get freebie minutes to figure it out. No sooner have I made a mistake or forgotten something than I am forced to consider the next thing. Move on.

What if I move on after the wrong thing? How do I manage 3 perfectly distinct daughters? Control the fear when someone singles out one, or when I am frustrated with another? I am rambling here, I know. Rusty from too much time away.

It really comes down to this— I am a mom. A daughter. A wife. A sister. A writer. A runner. A goof. A sentimental. I fear being too misshapen by trying to do certain things well and allowing others to slide. I cannot be perfect, but sometimes, it feels like if I don't try I am failing.

+++++

October will be here soon. It will be the month I try to focus more on living than dying. Come November I'll give El Dia de Los Muertos its due, but for now it is on la vida. Mi vida.

.

Predictably so

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 03:28:00 +0000

There isn't a parent in the world who hasn't reached this milestone and exclaimed, "Five year old, hardly seems possible!"

And even knowing this I find myself watching Sean putting the training wheels on the birthday bike and marveling, "Five years, it doesn't seem possible."

Truth be told I've been saying it since she woke up, "Briar! Tomorrow you'll be five years old. Five. Years. Old." At first she looked at me with excitement, but as the day wore on the look become a gently withering sort of, "C'mon, mom, it's been coming all year. Are you really surprised? I expected more of you?"

****

I can say that it is one of those perfect examples of time's treachery and mockery. Here today, gone tomorrow, and yet, yesterday is still so perfectly here. The smell of newborn skin, the burn in my lung and legs on that first family walk to the park, the ache of learning to nurse, the first day back at work.

I had no idea how much I would love being a mom and as I enter this new phase of being a mom to a student, I realize I am as unprepared as ever. The thing is, I didn't know you could shine brighter. I didn't know that you could sparkle brighter than when you took your first step. The triumph of your first bite delivered by your own hand with a big girl spoon. Your first play date. First big girl bed. First you were right and I was wrong.

But there you are, radiant as the day I first laid eyes on you. You are breathless with excitement, torn between sharing and replaying the events for yourself. I am hungry to take as much as you'll give me for as long as you're willing. You are, even with the addition of two sisters, my baby.

I wanted you more than I have ever wanted anything. I wished for you, worked for you, and wept when I thought you weren't coming. And then you were real. On the way. I pored over all the books I could find, weighed every decision, imagined every possibility, and counted the minutes until I'd hold you in my arms.

I know that tomorrow as we celebrate your fifth, we are entering a new era. I will do my best to be what you want and who you want in the way that you want. I can't promise I'll be perfect, but I can promise that I will try my best and love you in the wide, open way that you have taught me.

****

Mrs. Kowalski talked about how you found more sparkles than any student she had ever known. Not surprising when you consider that your are, in the purest sense, a sparkle yourself.

I adore you, sweet Briar Davie.

Is that you?

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 16:37:00 +0000

I have been feeling it for some time now, but like the unwanted stare of a stranger, I have turned away, denying it. I have felt the gentle, yet persistent tug, but have been unwilling to face it. This hand that beckons grips me without touching, it is pointing rather than pulling.

I move forward with the days concentrating on keeping pace, not getting ahead or anticipating. It seems enough to offer just enough resistance to keep from speeding, so fast have these last few years been. No one seems to be bothering me with this uncharacteristic slowness, no one is asking me to hurry.

Today it hit me that they are unworried because they are not here. No one is watching or judging. I've fallen behind of my own will. I can stay here, but it is no more a victory than the runner who does not lose for never entering the race.

And there it is again, that feeling, small and familiar, but stronger than before. This time it's pulling me and I know I cannot recoil. This is love and life. Briar is asking me to go with her, to celebrate and join her in today. Now.

My perfect, little, baby Briar is ready and if I am to keep from missing it, I have to go. It's time for school.

She is ready because of me, not in spite of me. I wish this success didn't make me feel as if I were splitting down the middle. I am so proud of her.

.

Ah-mo

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 01:31:00 +0000

I suppose it might get old, this writing out the phonetic spelling of little kid words, or more specifically the reading of it. I've gone back through my archives and read some of my old posts. There are many I'd rather have gone, the style, the content or the absence of editing all making me blush. I don't strike them from the record, knowing that in the same way that there will be memories I'd rather didn't exist, so too will there be less than perfect blog entries.

My legacy for the girls, part memories we created together and part my retelling of moments they may not recall, is something I hope will be as rich as it is authentic. There have been starts and stops, pictures and blanks, but there is a thread. A gossamer line of our life together that will carry on after our paths spider and carry us to different stages.

[Enter a bit of maudlin here] I hope when they read entries like this, they'll no how from the moment I began typing the sentence about our paths, rather than "our path," I felt the hot prick of tears stinging my eyes and an intense ache rose in my throat. I want them also to know that just as I felt I might dissolve into a fit of tears that would surely last for days, the phone rang. Their dad. They;ll likely remember us working. Working during the day. Working at night. Working on the weekend. They may not remember my time at home with them, may not know how often I crept into their room to press my lips against the soft indent where their jaw lines met their ears, careful not to wake them, yet all the while wishing they would stir. We do work hard, probably always will, but even in the thick of it, there is a connection that sees him calling me just as I feel as if my heart may break.

We share smiles and tears over the things they say. Avery, hard at work in the bathroom, "Know why I do it this way mom?" she asked through clenched teeth. "No," I say, "Why?" And she nods and says, "It's just what humans do." I replay the interactions at the park. "So she held this clover out to the ducks and the ducks looked at her like, 'um, yeah, at least toss me a crouton, kid." I explain, "And then all the duck toddle toward her and she starts whispering 'I love you duckies. I'm so sorry, but I don't have food this time, but I promise you that maybe next time I could bring you some,' and I'll be damned if they don't listen to her."

We are busy and driven, but there is always the axis, the role of parents to three spectacular girls. Each day I become more aware of how frightening a gift this really is. How ever will I sustain the distance that becomes necessary? How will I manage not getting to witness every moment? To not always be where you start and end your days?

Ah-mo

Finley has become so verbal, such an incredible vocabulary and desire to communicate. I marvel at the new words each day, celebrating and mourning. I was thinking the other day that between the teeth, the sprinting and the counting, baby days were over. She gave me her look, this shoulder hitched up into her chin, lips pursed, eyes dancing, nose wrinkled look followed by wide eyes, a nod and, "Ah-mo?"

Milk. Mom. Still.

I break as I say yes and she explodes in a laugh and then leaps into my arms or flops onto the floor to nurse beside me. I won't deny the intensity of my completion in her still needing and wanting this from me. She wraps her arms around me and sighs contentedly, "Ah-mo," as she snakes a hand between my elbow and side. I kiss her hair and she looks up at me.

Flecks and sparkles from a life, fusing to create the terrain of my journey. I will revisit these precious grooves. My girls and my life.

.

Still Here

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 14:30:00 +0000

Ever hear the one about the mom who finally had a health hiccup and proceeded to completely lose her sh*t?

No?

Check it out.

Sorry to have been absent, somewhere between Chicago and normal I lost my way. Been burying my head in babies and daydreams. I suppose there are worse things to do. I've missed this though, this place where I wax euphoric on my family.

If I'd had my head on straight I'd have shared with you the way Finley almost broke her leg and how through the experience she reminded us how to carry on and be present in all that you have, rather than adrift in the not having.

I would have told you that Avery says, "I am feeling really a'frushrade and I am so angry," instead of screaming or stomping.

You'd know that Briar brings lumps to our throats as she quests for new words and valiantly tries to keep up with the pace of her emerging girl. The highs and lows and irrepressible passion of life at almost-five.

Then, quieter, I'd let you know how Sean has been, how he has stayed right beside me, unerring in his assurances that everything will be fine. Until last night. I'd tell you that the fear I have been searching for in his face finally came and at that moment I was overcome with gratitude for the way he had been hiding it.

I am still here, loving and living. I see calmer waters just ahead and I'm shooting straight for them, if it takes me a while to reach them, just know I'll be back.

.

Loops

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 14:59:00 +0000

I find the moments lately to be like tiny pulls in a sweater, as the even surface of my life shifts. The girls are growing faster than my heart and mind can bear— first days of school, thank you's from a baby and the burgeoning countenance of a young woman. I trace my finger over the pulls, the once taut weave of helpless and able now loosened, ability mounting and futility rising.

I want to hold things back, keep the teeth from springing, the strides from lengthening. It's hard not to feel them pulling ever closer to the day when they'll parent their own children, turn doting eyes upon lovers rather than parents. I watch the lines upon my face, the smudges of age on my hands and the unwelcome sensation of wanting to rest and I know that it is beyond me/

They are my babies, that will not change, but my chest aches with how everything else is destined to end. Nursing, holding, fixing.

I've made no secret of choosing to see joy in this blessing of life with three girls. I find myself clasping Sean's hand, laying my head on his shoulder and whispering, "They're beginnings, right? Not endings?"

These pulls in my sweater are new stories, new loves, new ways, but at their start, they are my babies. My life.

H2Fun

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 10:14:00 +0000

Yesterday was my birthday, I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a bit dubious about the idea of spending a good deal of it on a raft in the Hudson. The Tramps were shooting a commercial for SOC during a white water rafting trip. Ever game, I went along, biting back a bit of whining about the weather. Because, seriously, it was chilly. And wet.

I chatted up the guide as we waited for the bus. Yes, a bus. We go high glamour for birthdays 'round these parts.

We paddled, floated and then swam. The water, as it turns out, was perfect. I slipped out of the raft and into the river, my pfd tightly cinched and doing its job I bobbed about in the water. Every so often I'd turn and stroke into the current, sending water sluicing over my body and the delicious burn of exertion running through my legs.

At one point I joked that I felt like a navy seal as the charcoal sleeves of my shirt blended into the water. "Did you say navy seal?" the guide asked. "Did you know there is a navy seal approach to getting back in the raft? Wanna try?" I looked at him and asked how as the rest of the group watched. I imagined the number of ways a woman could embarrass herself by "putting your back to the raft and then lifting yourself in a backward somersault up and into the raft."

They waited. I hemmed and hawed. And then I thought, "What the hell?"

I may not get high marks for grace, but it was the most fun I can remember having in a long time. Empowering, invigorating and unforgettable.

I couldn't have asked for anything more than the chance to feel strong, alive and loved.

Thanks, you know who you are!

Inevitable

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 20:13:00 +0000

You hear about it all the time, people's blogs being found out. A family member, a co-worker, a friend. I'd never really considered what I might do, and really, I imagined that it was unlikely to happen to me.

Enter frosty stares, chilly glares and angry mares (self-indulgent rhyming seems appropriate in a post addressing people being mad at me for what I write.)

I don't quite know how to handle it— do I apologize? defend myself? justify? carry on as if nothing has happened?

I'm really not sure.

I feel fairly grounded in my right to write about my experiences, but I can cop to crossing a line. (Abba-dabba-doodler, you were heard, considered, and I hope honored.) I really don't want to strike this blog and begin anew without names and using veiled locations etcetera.

I think perhaps what may be more appropriate is to understand that people are going to think what they are going to think. If I write it I need to have stones enough to handle it when they stare and point or look askance at me and my family.

I think I've addressed the offending posts, not that this particular person would admit to being here reading and judging, spreading her take. I know she's here. I know how she feels. I don't begrudge her those feelings.

I am, however, not going to stop being who I am or carry the burden of her ire. I am sorry if she felt slighted by what I considered to be a true account of my experience. I won't write about it again.

I am getting back to what is most important, which is what I can participate in and contribute to— my family, my home, and my community.

Here's to peace, even if it is just promising to not be rude. I can do it, can you?

Wistful City

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 14:25:00 +0000

I have loved Chicago, I really have. As far as cities go it is beautiful with soaring buildings and architectural triumphs that delight the eye. The gardens are magnificent and for as large as it is, what I have seen has been clean and inviting. All of that being said, I find myself wishing I was with my family.

The moose, oh how Avery would have squealed.

The mermaid, "like a sea princess" Briar would have gushed.

A street performer in head-to-toe-silver next to larger than life statues? Would have stopped them in their tracks.

The funky mirror thing? Three daughters— mirrors...'nuf said.

And Sean, I find him around every corner, in beautiful signage and umbrellas, in couples holding hands and dads lifting their daughters.

I miss them, I adore them and I thank them for helping me see so much magic in Chicago. I'll be home soon.

Finless

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 02:17:00 +0000

I've been struggling with how to describe the ache, it is as intense and consuming as anything I've ever felt, from mourning to puppy love. I suppose, in a sense, it's both. Finley is nearly fifteen months old and in less than 30 hours I will leave for 3 days for BlogHer 2009. I did it last year, but she came with me. She was on my chest the entire time. She nursed happily, cooed contentedly through sessions and gave me something upon which I could legitimately focus if, say, I got terrified by a phalanx of bloggers I admired in the hotel hallway. It was also sinfully decadent time alone with her, as her older sisters stayed back at home with Sean.

This time she'll stay home with her sisters and Sean. I cannot expect her to stay engaged, rested or quiet during the round the clock activities. I also don't know that I can expect her to want to nurse when I get home or trust that my body will still be capable. She is, and I say this with the full understanding that I am belaboring the point, my last baby. This is the last baby I will nurse, the last full summer of diapering,the last summer before having a school age daughter.

It's inevitable that these things will happen, but I can't help feel that in some way I am hurrying time along and that is simply not my intention. I hope (feel free to chime in here please!) that this is a lesson.

That it's ok to go to a conference about something that has helped you to discover who you are.

That if you are lucky enough to have two parents, you should have one-on-one time.

That we must live in each moment.

That mom is strong.

That you can do it.

And so like Fin's first dip in the ocean.

And her immediate impulse to leap to me.

I am going to remember the squeals of delight and splashing laughter. Despite wanting to cling to my girls, I'm going to chase the surf rather than run from it, swim away from shore, so that I can be reminded once again, how sweet standing upon it can be.

.

Tides

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 19:23:00 +0000

It's been more than a year since I wrote about the heartache of life's demands. It's actually the heartache of my own desires, but that is so hard to admit, isn't it? Whether you are a mom or a wife, a civil servant or a student, to admit when you desire to have something or do something that has nothing to do with altruism or good will, but really just comes down to this is what I want.

Sean and I have gone round after round about time, whether it's time for ourselves to work on projects unencumbered or to simply be together. He can say it without guilt or hesitation, "I miss my wife" or "I want some non-kid time." I can barely utter those words for fear of some imaginary rod coming down and branding me an irresponsible mom.

I've been trying to do better at things, a hair appointment here and a date there. The introduction of toddler Tuesday has been lifesaving as it gives me a kind of license to revel without overtly demanding something. Overall I think it's good and that I have things figured out and then something happens.

It came like a shot of lightning through a clear sky.

September.

Kindergarten.

Weaning.

No more babies.

It's July and come fall I'll have one daughter in kindergarten, one daughter in preschool and another experimenting with sentences and pedals. My perfect place as the axis of their world is shifting and, in an act of futile desperation, I am seizing a last wisp of ruffled nightgown and baby tendril.

Today was a blur of green sparkles and Elmer's glue, pear-juice laced kisses and laughter. I sidled along casting dollhouse shadows with faeries and scarves. With any luck I'll turn these last hours of now into days and as we hurtle into the first autumn of school days, I'll have left a trail of seeds that will be perennials, bright and showy. Forever.

.

You'll Never Know

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 20:53:00 +0000

We were swaying to the lullabye, our reflection keeping time in the hazy mirror. I watched us, her hand on my arm sliding to and fro, her face drawn in a lazy smile, an expression of utter contentment on both our faces. I imagined her standing beside me, long limbs and taut muscles electric with ability and a life thick with things that have nothing to do with me. I squeeze her as I crane my face into press against her cheek.

Remember this baby, hold this squeeze for later.

She smiles and points, "Bay-bee. Uh bay-bee a mama!" I grin and point back. I step closer to the mirror and sharpen our reflection, my attempt to fill more of this sliver in time. Minutes being choked by days that turn into night and then morning before I know it. Longer necks, brighter eyes and the cruel slash of a perfectly pronounced word, "Ummmm, juice."

I felt myself deny the laptop and the emails it held, deciding instead to define this afternoon as more memory than accomplishment. We danced there before the mirror for a while. My hands cupped her body, the entire length of my arms at work cradling her long torso and legs. Her belly pressed into mine as she cocked her head to look back and forth between reflection and real.

"It's me. I am right here and right there. Right here holding you."

She softly shuffled her feet and shimmied her body closer into my arms. Tinier and closer.

"I'm always going to be your mama, sweet Fin. And you know what? You know what my littlest you?"

She extended her neck and waited, a grin upon her face as I pointed to the mirror.

"You will always, always, always be my baby, even when you are the biggest of all."

We smiled at each other and ourselves and I tried to imagine how this memory would taste years and years later. Like the traces of sugar on a wrapper, I think I'll find sweetness and dust and the tiniest sensation that i beat the system and got a little more.

I waited a while longer before laying her in the crib, though her eyes were drowsy and she was ready to go. I traced the dimples on her elbows and touched my lips to hers until I felt her start to giggle. Then I put her tenderly into her crib, whispering how much I loved her because you never know when it will be the last time.

On second thought

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 17:35:00 +0000

Found myself getting my overly-sensitive nose bent out of joint over things beyond my control. Again.

Does it amaze anyone else how we fall into self-defeating ruts, whether it's not working out, falling behind on chores or getting sucked into the vortex of giving a rip about who likes you and who takes you back to the meanies in fifth grade? I'm too old for this. I'm a parent, aren't we supposed to be beyond this people?

I have a handle on eating right, at least keeping complete pigstyness at bay and of practicing what I preach, but man alive the relationship dynamics get me.

Morose, blue, self-pitying and impotently pissed, that was me this morning. Gross.

Enter iPhoto, Fin and Sean.

Salvation.

So while I'd really prefer it weren't an issue, I'm going to ignore the clouds some people bring, and focus on the abundance of blue sky in my life.

.

You Meaning

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 19:50:00 +0000

I find myself chronicling time from when Fin joined our family, really from the positive home pregnancy test. I suppose it has to do with that being the most recent milestone, but I imagine it being more because it was when the ribbon of our family met at each end. Our magnificent bow, complete with frills and knots and new whispers of color.

Lately our soundtrack, already pealing with laughter, exclaims and stampeding feet, has been peppered with a raspy new element.

I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said each hour brought new sounds, words. I've been listening, amazed by the explosiveness of it and finding myself more witness than participant. A few days ago I decided to engage, responding, sometimes with my best guess, other times with certainty thanks to dimpled elbows and pudgy fingers gesturing me along.

"You want some juice?"

"No."

"You want to read a book?"

"No!"

"Oh, Finley, you need me to change your diaper?"

"NO!"

Fin, our sweet family, exclamation point. I know these "no's" are yeses, said it with passion and twinkles, hands moving with Fosse-flair. And so I take the "no's" and treat each as yes, bringing drinks that were declined, reading stories that weren't requested.

But when I ask for kisses or swoop in for a cuddle I always find myself wrapped in yes. A cool, soft cheek against my own, a soft and steady pat upon my back, legs pressing at my side and the jut of a chin tapping repeatedly at my shoulder. A nodded yes.

My riddle solved.

I admit it, I watched

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 01:59:00 +0000

I have never watched a full episode of Jon and Kate Plus 8, but tonight, the girls asleep and Sean at work, I watched. I kind of wish I hadn't. This parenting and marriage thing is not easy. I write about the beauty of my children and my life, and while I mean every word there is, of course a dark side. I have my eye-rolling moments or my wishing they would just for the love of all that is good go to bed moments.

None of us wants our foibles to be on display or to have someone weigh in on something based on their limited perspective. I've read the rants about the riches and perks, but at the end of the day it's still a marriage and kids. The amount of energy, commitment and perseverance needed is sobering.

Listening to their interviews I thought at one point as Jon talked about the divorce requiring communication and how it might help, "You bet it does dickhead, but so did marriage," and then I bit my tongue. Who the hell do I think I am to judge him. Sure he's on tv, sure he is annoyingly laidback and exudes a palpable air of "Whatever, my shit doesn't really stink," but he is also privy to so much that we don't know.

I want my marriage to work. I want not to screw things up for my girls, but there but for the grace of god I can see myself in this kind of failure. Kids are hard. Marriage is hard. Life is hard. It's also breathtakingly beautiful, but I don't believe there is a person out there who hasn't had one outweigh the other to the point that it sours you.

Tonight I am grateful that despite some times when it has seemed bleak and some nights when I thought I was truly not capable of making it through bedtime without screaming, my kids are sleeping and I miss my husband.

We have made it through another day. So tonight, after watching that show, I am reminded that it really is day by day and each one requires work, love and biting back things that you have no business saying.

Let's play nice and preserve the love that we can, eh?

You'll Forget

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 01:42:00 +0000

Once upon a time I hated the input. I would tense each time I felt their eyes on me, anticipating the, "Oh, don't waste a minute," and "One day you won't be so excited," and on and on. My experience was sacred. my emotions my own, the first of their kind.

Five years later I understand my place a bit more. I know that while my feelings are sacred, there is a thread that runs through us all, an unstoppable, unavoidable, unforgiving truth. I know that the grizzled checker and the overly-perfumed, touchy-feely woman at the store both know my path.

It does go fast. Mercilessly so.

I am as aware of the inevitability of my aging and death, as I am of my children's growing up and moving on. I am sick with obsession and protest, running from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button all the while turning Darius Rucker on auto-repeat. I cannot make up my mind, and I suppose in some ways I am grateful for that. I think to accept the fleetingness of it all would be tragic, but so too would be the constant hand wringing.

I find myself each day having a new perspective on my performance—

I am failing, working too many hours and saying no to Play Doh.

I am awesome: organic food, bedtime stories and slow dancing with dad.

I yelled. I loathe myself.

I managed the stroller, scooter, bike and babies. Park, bath and cuddles.

Other times I am almost divided, wishing I could just work or just parent. Or, as embarrassed as I am to admit it, just laze about. I think this moment in time of being ashamed of professional aspirations and sheepish about stay-at-home envy has got to be the zenith of my discomfiture. Or maybe it's not.

Maybe what they say about the teen years is worse. The angst and constant battle of wills.

Or maybe it's the post teen years of perceived obsolescence.

What I know tonight is that despite how easy it is to forget things, I remember briar's first laugh on Christmas Eve.
I remember Avery touching me and saying, "You my Manda?"
And I am hearing Finley say as she pulls away from a third kiss, "Ayyy yawve ooo."

I am letting go of not signing up for dance class and for being late for check ups.

I am finding a way to tell Sean that I miss being a couple.

I beginning to understand how different and precious my relationships with each girl are.

And, I am passing through these days, each rife with their own bliss and agony, like an automobile on a coastal highway at daybreak, marveling at the beauty of the fog all the while hoping its unchangeable inconsistent ways don't trip me up.

If I were to die tomorrow, which I desperately hope I won't, but know that I could, I hope they know two things*: How very much I love them and how hard I tried not to screw up.

*When they are teenagers I am going to read this and pretend they said it.

Blam

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 01:53:00 +0000

"I'd really like to go for a family walk," I whispered to Sean behind my hand as we finished dinner.

"Tonight?" he asked.

I nodded and he smiled. After we cleared plates and washed hands we headed out the front door. The girls were beside themselves. Briar clambered into the wagon next to Fin as Ave bee-bopped on the sidewalk saying between bouncing curls and loud giggles, "I'm going to do my super run."

We went much farther than we'd intended to go. Sean pulled the wagon with me running down the sidewalk with Ave, sometimes behind her, sometimes wickedly ahead of her. Briar hopped out for the last block and did her thing, running ahead as if she would never stop, confidence and peace thick in her wake. Fin literally sang, her face set in an unfettered state of bliss. It was as close to the perfection of summer nights at age 8, as anything I've felt in a long time.

"Will you water the flowers in that bed if I take the girls up?" He looked to where I was pointing and nodded, a little excited, I think, for the time alone. "Fin just told me, 'aw dun,' so that's good," he said as he passed her to me.

I was going to take the girls up to bed, but I saw the playroom strewn with toys, costumes and blankets. It seemed a perfect opportunity to wind down and accomplish something. "Let's go. Shoes off, in the cabinet. Then let's clean up the big room, ok girls?" They scampered off ahead of me and I smiled, proud of my little ringleted herd. "Avery, you're on trains. Put'em on the table. Briar, you pick up the costumes. Fin-diddle, you just get the babies, ok?"

They spread out across the room cleaning and playing in lazy loops like drunken bees. Finally the room was clean and the big girls headed to the door. Fin made one more pass to the far end of the room and disaster struck. I heard a clap and she crumpled, her hands moving lightning-fast to her face and then shrieks. Heartbreaking, ear piercing howls of pain and surprise. I ran to her as the girls stood rooted in place.

"What's wrong?" they murmured.

I scooped her in my arms and the blood came, huge spurts of blood. I couldn't tell where they were coming from as I cradled her in my arms, holding her face away from my body as I tried to gauge the severity. I was a hair's breadth from losing it as the blood came think and dark, spotting across my arm and soaking my chest.

The girls were spinning in circles until I barked, as much for myself as for them, "Stop it. Just move it, upstairs." I pressed wet paper towels against Fin's bottom lip as we moved upstairs. Once in the bathroom I began blotting with a cold wet towel, she was cut inside and out. After a minute the bleeding slowed down and I looked at her, "You want some milk, sweet girl?" She didn't give me her usual, "N'yeah!" instead just leaning into me.

I collapsed on a stool and nursed her while Avery rubbed my shoulder, her fingers tracing the dried blood, and Briar hummed and traced a hand along Fin's back. We stayed like that for quite some time, before I ushered the girls to their room so I could get Sean.

"Honey, I need your help." He looked at me, "Ok," and then I said, "I have Fin and she's bleeding, I need you to help me see how badly." He was calm and quick, guiding us under a light and checking her mouth. More blood than damage sent us upstairs to put her to bed. My guilt was thick as I explained that I hadn't taken the girls to bed. There was a look on his face, nothing he needed to say, or even would. We both know that you can do something 99 times, but there will be that one time that deviates do dramatically that you kick yourself.

We dressed the girls in their pjs, did the bedtime routine with an extra step of Motrin and Neosporin for Fin and kissed them goodnight. Fin turned gratefully to her bed and cuddled in to the corner. "You ok, mama?" he asked me. I nodded weakly.

Sean went downstairs and I went to change. I tiptoed down the hall. I peeled my shirt and bra off and grabbed a fresh tank top. I heard Finley begin to cry and headed into her.

"You ok? Mama's here," I shushed.

She wrapped her arms and legs around me and buried her face in my neck. I rocked side to side as she flipped her face from side to side. After a minute her head popped up and she looked at me. Her eyes scanned my face and then she leaned back. I said, "You ok?" and she sat up straight beaming at me and then leaned in and gave me a huge kiss. She leaned back, eyed my face again and made a contented trilling sound before kissing me again.

We swayed in the dark together, her hand pressing into my arms purposefully, "Don't leave yet."

Inside her arms I felt less guilt than I did peace. I hope she found more comfort than pain, my sweet little Fin.

"I'm not going anywhere, Fin."

Shhhhhhh

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 02:24:00 +0000

"Is there a place to go?" I asked.

"Yup. The guy was really nice, said there was a little girls room upstairs." Sean said with his hand on the small of my back.

I stepped out of the car and said, "C'mon girls, let's go upstairs and go to the bathroom."

"Ok," they chirped in unison.

We tromped upstairs, stopping every step or two to reconfirm that we were going to the bathroom.

"That's right. We'll go right up to the bathroom and then hit the road again," I said ushering them up the carpeted stairs.

We walked single file down the hallways past a few doors.

"Mom, what's hit the road? Does it hurt?" Ave asked.

"No honey, it means go." I said.

"Hit means go?" she stopped.

"No, but go," I said chuckling. She snickered and scampered ahead. We got to the end of the hallway and then finally into the bathroom. Briar went first while Avery played with a squat farm sink at just her height. Briar launched herself off the toilet with a whisper-shout, "Your turn, Ave!" and nearly elbowing Briar off of the sink.

Avery sat and did her thing, cat one point shushing Briar. After she was done she went to the sink to wash her hands.

"Mom?" Ave asked in a stage whisper.

"Yes, sweetie."

"Mom, after I wash my hands can we see the little girl?" She asked hopefully.

"What little girl?" I asked.

"The little girl who lives here and uses that little sink. Can we see her?" She asked as I clumsily put together in my head that she was referring to the little girl of Sean's "little girls room," comment.

"No, we can't honey," I said as I dried her hands.

"Why, cause she's sleeping?" she asked looking up at me. Her eyes were so dark, so expectant that I lost myself in the moment of thinking of nothing but her face.

"Mom, it's ok. I'll hold Briar's hand and we'll walk without waking her up, ok?" She and Briar were already holding hands.

*******
It's these moments when I am able to occupy not just the space near her, but the trajectory of her thoughts, that I find myself being weak, and riding rather than steering. One day I'll need to explain, but not this day.

This day and the days ahead will embrace sleeping little girls, fairies in gardens and anything else that the three shades of blue in my daughters' eyes are able to see.

Whispers

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 29 May 2009 19:28:00 +0000

When I was a little girl I lived on Hickory Lane. There was a field near our house that I loved disappearing to. It was, to my young eyes, enormous, a wide expanse of promise filled brush. I would run out, far enough to feel deliciously free, but not so far that I couldn't get back home before whatever evil might be lurking in the shadows leapt out at me. I would spend hours fashioning homesteads, hunting magic creatures and hiding from passing cars.

Briar has found a field.

She just finished preschool, an event that drove home how fast she is growing and how despite her quest for independence, she is still a very, little girl. The last day of school was something I've not even tried to write about, the tears so forceful and the quake of her shoulders continuing well into the night. Her heartbreak took everyone by surprise and continues to laps at the edges of our days.

Reading a note from her teacher today, we were reduced to tears, "But why can't I see her anymore?" She asked.

"Honey, you can. You can visit," I explained, underlining the place on the card where her teacher had said as much.

"But why can't she be my teacher anymore?" Her eyes bore into me, reminding me of the first teacher I had, Miss. Thompson, a five year old girl's answer to a rock star.

"Well, once you start school, that's what happens. You have a new teacher each year." She looked at me, waiting to see if I meant it, when she saw that I wasn't going to say anymore her face crumpled.

"But I love her. I love her so much. She's. She's. She's my teacher," and the rest was muffled as she buried her face in my neck.

I swallowed hard and felt a flutter, this is just the first.

This fall she'll start kindergarten. She asks new questions each day,

"Will there be line leader jobs in kindergarten?"

"Will the teacher know my name?"

"D'ya think we'll learn the letters of the school?"

I answer as I can, occasionally choosing my responses in ways that I think will make her happier or prepare her for differences. The wound of not having communicated clearly enough that school was ending weighs on me.

The field I find her disappearing to is a place that suspends her between baby and child. I both understand and am exhausted by this place. She slips behind layers of fear and need, running to me, hiding behind my legs. I stroke and soothe, shush and encourage.

"Mama, carry me," she'll say in a whisper.

"Honey, I can't. I've got Fin," I'll say, or worse, "Honey, why are you asking me that? You are a big girl." I agonize over this, knowing that she'll never be smaller than she is today. She is a big girl, and yet she is my baby.

There are times as she traverses this field that she pushes me away. The first blush of embarrassment of me and for me. I hold her sinewy body in my arms and want her to stay, but she twitches, her neck craning literally and figuratively for something more. A pretty girl. A playground. A project, teacher, classmate or party.

I can feel her pulling away, but managing her own tether, something that keeps her tied to me, if only for a thin veil of protection from that which she is not quite sure of. I want to be here or there or wherever she needs me. I want to be ok as I hear the whispers of the girl ahead and as I hear the whispers of the girl who is here now, mama, will you cuddle with me?

I hope that I can understand the whispers between the rustles of school days and bedtime. I want to make sure she knows I am here, on the periphery of her field, always willing to pick her up or drop her off no matter how old she is.

I'm not beautiful

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 28 May 2009 02:02:00 +0000

Sean was working late and I had the girls in various stages of undress as we transitioned from reading to dancing. Ave was the first to get dressed, donning her pink ballerina costume with its bodice of dog-eared bows and quirky, stick-straight-up-instead-of-out-tutu. I was rushing to get Briar a fourth, fifth and six skirt to add to her faux hoop-skirtesque ensemble.

"Inowbooyflll," tickled at my ear.

"What?" I asked turning to see who and where it came from.

Ave was sitting with her knees tucked beneath her in the corner, her hair fell over her face as she looked up at me. "What did you say, sweets?" I asked.

"I'm not beautiful," she said, eyes sorrowful and piercing.

"You're what?" I said lowering myself to her level.

"I'm not beautiful," she said louder, clutching one bent knee in her arms as her chin rested on it.

"Excuse me? You aren't beautiful? I'm sorry, but you are the most beautiful middlest, Avery I have ever known." I said it with a playful, emphatic tone, but inside my chest felt as if it was pressing in on itself.

No, please no. Please don't let this be happening.

"No, I'm just not beautiful." Her eyes were free of tears, her mouth flirting with a smile, but the damage was done. She said something that shouldn't matter, shouldn't stop play and that simply wasn't true.

*****

I still have days when I put on a dress and I fear that my height or build will make someone question my femininity. It's ridiculous, but years of doubt and insecurities, genuine and posed, leave a mark. I am cautious not to say things in front of the girls, but they see beyond what we know. I am strong and proud, tall and sharp, but it is in my moments of slouching, my hesitations springing from doubt that call out to them.

She didn't say she wasn't smart, didn't say she wasn't strong, she chose beautiful. She wanted my attention, my concern. Have I done something to make her think that beauty is what I value most? Has someone else? Does it matter?

She is my strong, beautiful, hilarious, amazing Avery. Her hurt made me feel powerless and I fear it's but a fraction of what lies ahead. Now I have to try and find my way between "Yes, you are" and "You are so many things," making sure I get the balance right.

Photo Booth

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 20 May 2009 02:00:00 +0000

I have an addiction.

I won't be seeking treatment.