Tumble Dry

With the dawn

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 14:48:00 +0000

The rooms were still, the only sound the gentle whir of the paddles on the fan. The sheets were cool around me, the blankets long since kicked aside. The drapes were drawn, but for a narrow slit on each wall through which reflections from the lake snuck casting dancing shadows on the highest point along the wall.

Finley's face was buried in my chest and her palm rested on my cheek, her breath was soft and touched my skin like a kiss. Briar was in the next bed, her limbs, silver in the light, were spread out making the most of the full size bed. A blue twist of fleece blanket snaked around her torso and one hand peeked out, her fingers like points on a tiara, even in sleep conjuring princesses. Avery stirred in the next room, little murmurs and creaks teased at the door.

I watched the shimmering light on the wall, its movement constant and captivating. The sun on the lake was changing the reflection, lines flickered like streamers on handlebars and I smiled. Soon the girls would wake; a baby at my breast, Avery tracing the lines on my skin, and Briar leaning her slight frame into my own.

Three daughters and a new dawn.

I am so very blessed.

Laundry, schmaundry

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 02:20:00 +0000

If you are looking for something articulate, revisit this.

I haven't done it much, so i feel wholly justified in posting a bit of baby video. If you don't mind just sitting back and watching pure joy, 'mon in, Fin's'a'gurgling.

Win a Caddy!

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 02:26:00 +0000

Umm, you know I wasn't talking about a Cadillac, right? You don't want one of those, they're nearly impossible to parallel park and you'd have Billy Joel stuck in your head every time you got in the car.

No, this is a SaraBear® diaper caddy. And, in the way the traditional Cadillac can carry more than just people,

the diaper caddies can do more than carry diapers.

Pop over to The Nest and you might just win yourself a caddy.

Here's a gratuitous baby shot:

Conversation with a 2 year old

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 02:31:00 +0000

Me: Ave, is Briar sleeping?

Silence.

Me: Ave? Can you tell mama if Bri is asleep?

More silence.

Me: Ave? Is Briar asleep?

Ave: No, she's just sleepin'.

Me: Hey Ave?

Ave: Yes?

Me: What is that?

Ave: That?

Ave: That just pee. That pee from my diaper.

Summer Squeal

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 14:55:00 +0000

I've not been a very good blogger lately, been working on being a good mom. This isn't an excuse or an apology, just a matter of fact. Another fact, I am miss writing here. My hope is to merge Tumble Dry and The Wink, so that I have one place to go. Three girls makes two blogs perhaps one thing too many. If you'll bear with me as I work through the mechanics (read: Have Raeanne work some magic).

I promise, I have so much more that I want to write. I cannot wait to tackle describing Finley's personality, from her lopsided pirate smile to her insistent demeanor. What began as "Life with Briar" and morphed, in my own mind, to "Two and Counting," and which could now easily be "Living for Three," is more precious to me than ever before. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I am so honored and grateful that you are on this journey with us.

More soon, I promise.

Footsteps

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 10:56:00 +0000

He comes to me when I walk.

Last night, with Finley riding on my chest, I took a walk. Sean was putting the girls to bed as I slipped out. We walked slowly, Finley's hands held one of mine as her mouth moved along as if playing the harmonica. A mellow breeze moved the air, cooling and chasing away the humidity of the day. I smiled at the checkerboard of perfectly manicured lawns and dandelion dotted yards, a challenge to step up our own yard work and license to slack at the same time.

A few blocks from home we came upon one of the biggest houses in town, infamous for its owners mean, mean dogs. Watching for the dogs, I was surprised to come face-to-face with a little boy. He was tearing around in the yard in a tshirt and underwear, little tighty-whities, but black. His legs were pale, his knees knobby, and the sight of him screeching to a halt as he saw me had me chuckling aloud.

We turned the corner at the end of the street, a blur of pale legs and dark underwear danced at the corner of my eye. The grass along the sidewalk was dewy, droplets of water from an afternoon watering clung to the thick blades. Turning another corner the view changed, a canopy of trees spread out before us, heavily blossomed bushes bordered the path and the porches ahead seemed to preen as the perennials coloring the ground beneath them shone in the setting sun.

I felt it a moment after breathing in the fragrance of the neighborhood, tiger lilies, lilacs and fresh cut grass. A sting in my eyes, the sudden burn of new tears, a lump in my throat threatening to engulf me and then he was there. The smell of his skin, the prick of his whiskers and the sound of his laugh.

I stopped, looking around for the specific trigger, my eyes coming to rest on an enormous fruit tree, gnarly limbs twisting out from a stocky trunk. My eyes blurred, Fin's feet gently tapped on my sides, and I sobbed. Three more shudders came and went as tears coursed down my cheeks landing on the swirls of blonde and brunette hair on Fin's head. Blinking and breathing in the heady scent of summer, I nodded and smiled. The passage from keeping the pain of his absence at bay to the unmistakable knowledge that he was there had hurt, but I was through. Aware.

And so, holding Fin's bare foot, I lifted my face to the beauty before me and said with a crooked smile, "Hey Grandpa."

Lucky comes in many colors

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 18:29:00 +0000

Not a meme, not a letter, rather a post to send some good things out into the universe, bear with me.

To Karen - The envelopes that arrived for Briar and Avery yesterday were, after reverent inspection of their metallic stickers, ripped open with wild abandon. The cards inside, richly decorated with incredible drawings and sweet words from Lars, brought enormous smiles to the girls' faces. Thank you!

Ree - Finley blissfully kicked her feet and stretched her arms as she leaned into the afternoon breeze from her lush perch upon the exquisite blanket you sent. Thank you.

Melissa - I am an ass with no excuse for having failed to thank you** properly for the incredible shower you through us. I have the thank you cards that I will use to thank you and let me tell you, they're gorgeous. One day I hope to get my act together to scribe some beautiful sort of thanks to you on one of them.

Mom - Thank you, thank you, thank you for coming and taking such wonderful care of all of us as we found our footing. Avery keeps talking about "mygrandma," you achieved one word status. Thank you for the salon offer as well, I cannot wait!

Neighborhood* - Thank you for the meals, well wishes and friendship. It sounds so 1950's, but it has felt as if we were swept up in your collective embrace. It made a huge difference.

Tet - Your card arrived today, handwriting is indeed sweet. Thanks for thinking of us! We'll hope for a visit too!

Babe - Thank you, thank you, thank you. Nearly five years ago you promised to be there for me, time and again you've proven how seriously you took that vow. I love you.

All of you*** - Thank you for reading this blog, for leaving your words of concern for Ave, your welcome to the worlds for Fin and your shared laughter in the adventures of Briar. I treasure this place of sharing and your presence in it is more dear than I could ever say.

*To the rat-b*astard cat that keeps trying to kill our cat - you are not included in this thank you. You are a mangy, Pet Cemetaryesque, nightmare of a creature and one of these days I will succeed in dousing you with water!

** This failure extends to Trina, Deb, Amy, Kristy, Tara, Derek, Paula, Julia, Ben - some of these cards are filled out and stuffed in their envelopes. I seem unable to master the fine art of choreographing the writing and the mailing. Grrr.

***Even to you folks who never leave a comment, but who I can see in the numbers, thank you.

Waterworks

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 19:22:00 +0000

Mine, not hers.

Avery has approached every single minute of this whole broken leg thing with utter grace and equanimity, neither of which I think I could have mustered at two, let alone at 34. She has adapted, scooting, slithering and even hop-walking. Her demands have been well within reason and any "abuse" of help, ie "take me here," and "take me there," has been short-lived.

Yesterday all the kids were out front playing, some holding a lemonade sale, others riding scooters and bikes. Eventually they congregated in one driveway to draw chalk art and pick flowers. Avery was right in the middle and enjoying herself until the inevitable drift happened with one girl going one way and another the other way.

Avery assessed the situation, looked down at her leg and then up at Grandma and said, "Grandma, I wanna run." It was like an epiphany, a sudden awareness that she hadn't been running, and then again, this time with the delight of a person discovering a great solution, "Grandam, I wanna RUN!" Her face held every belief that Grandma would make it possible and she'd run.

After a few days of feeling like we'd overestimated how hard this would be, the reality of a summer cast came rushing back. Poor Ave, poor Grandma.

"But I didn't get a present!"

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 12:13:00 +0000

And the excruciating struggle to find balance continues.

I knew that there would be trouble, positioning the focus too deliberately on one always incites anger and tears. We had been trying to make sure that, as we nursed Avery back to health, Briar understood that she had not been responsible for Avery's injury. Unfortunately, once we realized Briar carried no guilt we underestimated her capacity for envy. We we were getting by until the present.

It was bedtime, the girls were waiting upstairs while Sean and I gathered up the necessary bedtime accoutrements, when the doorbell rang. It was a client of Sean's.

"Heard what happened to little Ave and just wanted to bring something by."

After thanking him we carried the gaily wrapped bag upstairs.

"Ave, look, Kevin brought you a present!" Briar leapt from her bed and ran to Avery's bedside. "Can we open it? Can we look inside? Is it for us? Let's see what's for me?"

Avery blinked slowly, not overly excited about the gift, as we pulled the plush monkey from the bag we explained to Briar that it was a gift to say sorry for all the things that Avery couldn't do.

"But I want one," she pouted.

"I know honey, but the thing is there are so many things you can do that Avery can't," I explained as her lower lip trembled.

"You can run and swing and go and play at Jen's house, Avery has to rest until her leg is healed," I spoke softly, trying to be gentle, sensitive to Briar's hurt. Eventually we left the room, Sean to go back into work and me to get Fin down for the night.

About forty minutes later the sound of soft sobbing floated down the stairs. I carried Fin up and into the girls' room. Avery was awake, but still. Briar was in bed with the covers pulled up to her eyes as she cried.

"What is it?" I asked her.

She looked at me and said something in a very soft voice.

"I can't hear you, babe, what is it?"

Again, she spoke from beneath the fleece princess blanket in a whisper.

"Briar, I cannot hear you," Fin was starting to fuss in my arms.

Briar stared back at me and said another impossible to hear sentence. Fin thrashed and squealed and I snapped.

"Briar! I cannot hear you, just say it!" My tone was harsh.

She sat straight up in bed, slamming the blanket down on her bed and with her body tense as could be, she turned her head sharply my way and shouted, "But I didn't get a present!" As soon as the words were out her shoulders slumped and she began to sob.

My heart broke. Of course she was hurt, exhausted by the attention given to Avery. I t wasn't that she was unsympathetic, acting throughout the day like a sort of handmaiden for Avery, bringing her juice, toys, blankets and more. To have a puffy, cuddly monkey delivered to her sister at the time of day when Briar, our poor sleeper, is at her neediest, was simply too much. Her tears and anguish were every bit as genuine and painful as Ave's fracture.

I perched on her bed and caught her up in my arms, her silky head resting on my shoulder and against Fin's face. Her tiny shoulders were wracked with sobs. I murmured "It's oks" into her head. I made no promises for presents, as I stroked her back and told her how much we loved her. I realized that the 3-4 weeks in a cast was going to mean suffering not just for Ave, but for Briar too. So, as we figure out how to entertain Ave, we'll also work on how to keep Briar feeling special too.

Lucky for me, she's a sucker for princesses so a quick homemade crown made for a brilliant ear-to-ear grin.

Hurts me more than it does you

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 11:54:00 +0000

I call BS on that one. Because as much as I know that what I am going to have to do for the next three weeks is beyond lousy, I know that it hurts Avery more. I'll keep this short because very soon the girls will be up and I am going to have some serious work on my hands.

Last night at about 10pm a doctor at the local ECC confirmed that Avery, in a normal bit of rough-housing, indeed fractured her tibia.

Summer.

A swing set half the way done in the back yard.

New swimsuits to be broken in.

A Dora slip-n-slide type thingie just purchased.

And a passion for running, climbing and digging unlike I've ever seen before.

So, you can imagine how she'll respond to the news that she isn't to walk for several weeks.

Damn.

And with that I officially open the window to suggestions of how to cope.

A place in their history

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 20:34:00 +0000

Seems like each day moves with greater speed, my ability to see the moments without blurred edges grows ever more difficult. I am trying, with the gentle counsel of friends like Janet to approach life with three kids with less guilt, less expectations of perfection (Ha!) from myself.

The other night Sean had taken Briar and Avery out on the porch to watch a passing storm, once it was on its way to the next town he led the girls upstairs. He took my laptop to set them up for a little pre-bedtime Curious George, while I rocked Finley in the nursery. I listened to him talking to them, the girls chirping questions and squealing with exclaims over this little thing and that, their nightly dance to bedtime.

He popped his head in the door and let me know he was going downstairs to lock up. My shoulders loosened as Finley melted into me, her lips pressing against my neck and the steady rhythm of her breath like a gentle march upon my soul, I am here, always a part of you. The muffled sounds of the girls talking down the hall dusted the moment with a kind of completion, three daughters, needing me and not. A husband, shadowing me, close enough to take the weight at any given moment. I curled up in the moment, deliciously unhurried.

When I opened my eyes it was quiet, there were no floorboards creaking, no little voices traveling down the hall. I lifted myself from the chair, Finley's sleeping form warm against mine in the cool air conditioning, and crept to the hallway. I expected to see the girls in their room, but it was empty, I turned and saw light spilling from our room.

They were on their stomachs, heads propped in their hands and feet absentmindedly kicked up behind them, Avery's wide paddle feet were dirty and leaning against Briar's pale calf. The laptop was at the foot of our bed and the air positively crackled with up-past-their-bedtime-delight, one of Briar's leg was singing to and fro and Avery had a hand alongside the laptop, as if it moved the spell might be broken.

A smile spread across my face as I remembered the bliss of sneaking past the bedtime hour, the thrill of conning mom and dad. There weren't laptops or portable dvd players when I was a kid, but it crossed my mind that if there had been the idea of watching something in this way would have been about as amazing a thing as I could have hoped for.

Briar's leg stopped swinging and her head popped up intuitively. She felt me watching her, and as her head turned and she saw me, a guilty smile blossomed over her face. I smiled back and whispered, "I was watching you." She grinned even wider in response and turned back to the show with a giggle. Avery turned at the sound and smiled at me too, "We watchin' George, mama!"

After so many weeks of blurry days and foggy nights I felt something with crystal clear authenticity, this moment and this night would live on in them. As they grow and perhaps even when they stand in the hallway watching their own children, they'll smile remembering the stormy night that they stayed up watching a movie on mom and dad's bed. We are a part of you, sweet girls.

Pygmy windows and pudgy tummies

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 19:38:00 +0000

Greetings from the Adirondacks,
with humidity so fierce,
even the blackflies have left.

We trekked to Sears last night in search of an AC unit that would fit our windows and somewhere a contractor snorted, many decades past having installed deviously narrow windows.

Me: "Ah, yes, we're looking for an AC unit no wider than 15 inches."

Dude from Sears (with a chuckle): "You mean no taller than 15 inches."

Me: "No, I mean no wider than 15 inches."

Dude from Sears: "Ah, no, you mean tall, windows don't come 15 inches wide." (swallowing a snide, "Unless you're in a 5 x 5 cell.")

Me: "No, I really mean 15 inches. The window we need to install this in is 15 and 1/4 inches wide."

Dude from Sears: Silence.

Me: Projecting serious waves of, "Figure it out."

Dude from Sears: "We have this one, it's 14 and 3/4 inches but it's supposed to go in the windows that slide side to side."

We all looked at it, circling the thing which must have shot out three feet in back, thereby necessitating the construction of a support and destruction of siding.

Me: "How much?"

DfS: "Ah, like 4-something."

Deducing quickly that he did not mean a five spot would cover it, I slunk my head and bade him farewell.

*****

42 days.

It's been 42 days since Finely arrived. She is amazing and wonderful and our family feels so perfectly complete. My belly however, well, my belly feels, umm, like Finley, soft and rolly polly. Nothing wrong with that really, except that I am going in a pool tonight. In front of people. I'd stay out but it's like the 7th chamber of hell it's so hot here. You know the kind of hot that starts before the coffee has even brewed and has you drenched with sweat before you've switched from towel to underwear after a shower?

At 42 days I could theoretically start working out, but again, the heat...

Why did I move here again?

Oh, yeah, that's right.

Go Now.

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 14:58:00 +0000

I received a comment here the other day from a person I didn't recognize. I clicked through to visit the woman's blog and found every parent's nightmare, her daughter Serenity has been diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia. I have no words, just an enormous lump in my throat and an unrelenting desire to help.

How?

I have no idea. I know my girls delight in receiving mail, so we'll be sending a package of some sort, filled with frivolous things whose sole purpose is to bring joy. Would you do me a favor? Please? Go and visit Serenity's site. Leave a comment for her parents.
Hug your children.
Swallow whatever complaint is dancing on the tip of your tongue and take several moments to just be grateful.
Grateful for your health.
Grateful for your family.

I'll be posting something similar on The Wink.

Thanks.

When words fail

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 18:17:00 +0000

I keep hoping that the lump in my throat will shatter, breaking into a hundred little pieces that will scatter about -- letters, forming words, allowing me to cast a light on the swirls of emotion that have held me these last few weeks. I find myself uncharacteristically without words as the arrival of Finley has shifted my world, my now and my yesterday.

My baby.

Finley.

Avery.

Briar.

They are each my baby.

How is it then that as I hold Finley in my arms and watch Avery, faint vestiges of her baby self still clinging to her thighs, I cannot see my baby Briar? This new sensation of remembering through forgetting is excruciating. Finley burrows against me, sometimes suckling, other times simply pressing as much flesh against my own as she can. Avery wraps her arms around my leg, "Pick my up, mommy. Want you pick my up." As I bend to lift her, I catch Briar from the corner of my eye, a blur of pink satin and flyaway ringlets.

Holding these two dark haired girls in my arms, my fair-haired princess stands by herself. I can feel the tears that coursed down my cheeks day in and day out as I wept at the indescribable beauty of my firstborn. She was the embodiment of every thing I'd ever wished for, having her in my arms took away every hurt I'd ever experienced and I was breathless with the piercing authenticity of joy. Her every move was chronicled in photos and remember-this-moment scrawls on all manner of paper- notebooks, receipts, book-pages, whatever was handy. My need to have each word and action pass through my hand in words I would borrow to light my way years ahead was unending. How brutal, then, to find myself less than four years later, already seeking out those words, the corridors of my memory already constricting in the dark.

With FInley sleeping and Avery calmly tracing the freckles on my arm I ask, "Briar? You ok, sweetie? You need anything?" She turns, her look is one of surprise that I am there, or perhaps the surprise is that I am talking to her. Again the memory of so many nights comes back, as Avery grew inside of me I would rock Briar, reading her stories before bed and murmuring between the lines that she was my baby.

Always my first, that's you my Briar. My first. Don't you ever forget. You are my baby Briar.

Her neck is long, the distance between the curves of her jaw and shoulder endless, a rich expanse of creamy skin. Her blonde hair nips at her neck and catches in her eyelashes, her beauty is so lush, it catches us off guard. She will break hearts, she already has. I realize that as two pregnancies have grown inside of me, my heart and body working in tandem to prepare, she has grown up. The baby that nursed at my breast now comes to me to let me know that Finley needs milk. She shepherds Avery through the house, teaching and scolding, her tone and inflection mirroring my own. I forget to ask if she needs things, so intently have I been focusing on the things that demand my attention.

I am clawing from the inside out, desperate to find my way back to her. Panic stained with failure, my eyes well and dark shadows lap along my spirit, I cannot resolve my distance from her. Finley's cries are so strong, Avery's hunger so fierce that I turn away and my compulsion to do it all, be all things to all people, has kept my shame a secret. Until now.

Tonight I finally spoke aloud what has haunted me since before FInley was born and what worried me most as we anticipated Avery.

"I've failed her, neglected her," my cheeks flames as I said it and I began crying. Sean, as he always does, said just enough and then followed up with action. He took Avery on the longest walk around the block ever, leaving me free to spend an hour in the backyard with Briar, while Finley napped, no laptop, no dinner to cook, no distractions.

We sat in the grass making "wrinkles" on our clothes as the sun sparkled off her Cinderella costume. We flipped "helicopters" in the air and giggled as the cat leapt to catch them like a dog with a frisbee. I swallowed apologies and bit back tears as I saw her closer than I have in ages. She was luminous and completely without worry or any sort of heightened hunger to be near me. We hugged and talked and had what was ultimately a very normal, uneventful evening. I had worried that we'd never have this again, but what I learned was that I have been wrong. I will never have my first year with Briar again.

What we had was perfect and unhurried and lives on in our memories, the pictures I took and the notes I kept. What we have now is different, not bad. She is still my first, still my Briarriffic. And, after watching the sunset over us I know that as those two pregnancies grew, so did Briar, her own heart and mind doing what they needed to prepare. And so we sat together last night, a mama and her firstborn, legs touching, quietly enjoying being together.

Forgive me my infatuation

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 31 May 2008 16:47:00 +0000

I wake up each morning to a life I never imagined, even when I dared to dream for the perfect fairy tale - three daughters, each magnificent and dazzling in her own way, prancing, singing and questing at every turn. A loving husband who looks at me with a mixture of marvel and passion, his hands reaching for mine in the night, at the dinner table and on walks. A house brimming with the kind of electricity born from a life rich with love and memories.

Between morning cuddles, impromptu vocal performances and declarations of love as strong as in our earliest days of courtship, I am blissfully adrift, unable to focus on any one thing, rather alighting on one delicious experience after another.

My laptop sits, slightly dusty and strewn with burp cloths and Lowe's circulars, an old friend. I long to write, to capture the memories of each day in words that will soothe me as I sit waiting for the girls to return from track meets, dates, and overnights. Right now there isn't the time, the pull of little hands and sunny days are too strong.

I'll be back, I promise, but I've got hair to tousle, lips to kiss and shoulders to rub.

27 Days

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 25 May 2008 15:37:00 +0000

27 days of learning that time is unforgiving. Waste a minute and it's gone. Fritter away an afternoon pissed off about this or that and all you've done is lost an afternoon. Last night I was watching the girls play as a slideshow of picture flowed on the monitor above their heads. Incredulity doesn't begin to scrape the surface of how I feel about Briar turning four this year. Four.

If four years can go by in the blink of an eye, then before I know it I'll be watching our daughters at 4, 6 and 8.

12, 14 and 16.

****

Gulp.

****

While my mom was visiting she looked at Avery, so sure and independent, and said, "That one, she's just on loan to you."

On loan, not too far from the truth when you think how soon it will be our job to stand back and allow her to forge her own path. Squeezing hands and biting back my own opinions because it will be her life. I have moments when I believe I'll be able to do it and others when I think 50 years wouldn't be enough time to do all that I want to as a mom. I am well aware that they'll need us beyond 18, but the boundaries change. The privilege of intervention and opinion becomes tenuous, a blend of respect and patience must be practiced. We each have a birthright that comes into play - life, our own life.

Learn.

Explore.

Screw-up.

Run home.

Leave.

Come back.

Or not.

****
We watched Juno the other night, seeing a 16 year old pregnant, no judgement, just the glaring reality that in about 10 years my own baby will be able to have a baby. My brain hurts, my heart aches and my breath sprints. How to keep up. How to make the most of every minute without falling prey to the allure of bitching and regretting.

The more I live, the more I learn, the more I realize I have no idea how I'll do it until I am there. If I do get confronted by the pregnant at 16 scenario I hope I can be as kick-ass an ally as Allison Janney in the ultrasound lab*.

****

*Under no circumstances (says the woman with one, two, three daughters) is the inclusion of that flip line to be considered any sort of invitation or foreshadowing of an ability to cope with a pregnant teen. Oy, three daughters...I was still a virgin at 16, that should count for something, right?

The Money Store

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 21 May 2008 18:24:00 +0000

Briar was sitting in the back of the car as she explained with great solemnity to Avery -

"We cannot have the ice cream. We cannot have it because Mom has no money and Daddy has to be at his office making money. Only after we go to the money store can we be getting the ice cream. Ok? Alright? The money store then ice cream, got it?"

It got me thinking, I have some errands that need running.

Visit the Sleep Store.

Pop into the Self-grooming Supermarket.

Hit the Extra-hours-in-the-day Superstore.

Swing through the Second Shower Shop.

Go to the Patience Mart.

Then again, maybe I'll just hit the Money Store and pay someone else to do it all.

One more minute

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 18 May 2008 21:08:00 +0000

One more minute

Oh, it was simply excruciating, and no, this isn't in reference to the girls asking for one more minute. The girls are too wise for that, Avery discovered some months ago that the secret is to ask for "tain mo' minutes," because that way, when mom says, "No, baby, I'm sorry. It's time for bed," you can say, "Nine minutes?" I have melted every time she has done it and now Briar has caught on to the tactic.

I was on the couch with Fin in the middle of the day. She was burrowed in my hoody, the skin of our bellies hot against each other, her silky head pressing irresistibly upon my mouth, napping. Really napping. I don't nap. Ever. My entire body was relaxed beneath the blanket Briar had spread over us. I'd managed to sleep-talk my way through a phone call from a friend/neighbor/client of Sean's about our Dyson --anything or anyone else and I'd have hung up, but spreading the Dyson gospel is pure joy.

Anyway, I knew I had more in me, that I could ride this nap much later into the afternoon, but a three and a half year old can only be so quiet for so long. I ached with gratitude that she so happily played at my feet. Her angelic behavior made it clear that she was equally grateful not to be napping. Until hunger set in.

"I'm hungry again. May I have an apple?" Briar asked from the end of the couch.

"Sure, sweetie. Can you get it out of the fridge yourself, Fin is still sleeping," I whispered, though Finley sleeps best when the house is shaking with activity and the walls are reverberating with screams and crashes.

Silence.

"They are in the drawer in the bottom of the fridge," I directed.

Three times she tried to open the door and three times it didn't bridge. Classic. The door that is forever popping open on me clamps shut like a steel trap when a hungry 3 year old approaches it.

"Just poke your hand in between the pieces, right by the scrunchy part. Don't use the handle," even as I said it I knew she wouldn't get it. Lately I find that my directions often confuse her more and she forgets things like, you know, what a window is.

"By the window," I say.

"Window?" she asks incredulously in front of a window bursting with blinding sunlight.

"By this window?" pointing at a bookshelf.

"No, honey, the window. The place you look to see if the squirrel is on the bird feeder."

"By this one window?" gesturing to the fireplace.

So as I heard her feet simply walk across the hardwoods of the kitchen and then fall silent as she walked across the carpet and to the other side of the house my heart broke. She wasn't going to interrupt my nap, wasn't going to eat, wasn't going to do anything but play quietly by herself. It was as effective as a cold shower. I was suddenly alert and fine with being up.

I scooped Finley in my arms and padded into the kitchen. We grabbed an apple and took it into Briar. She saw us and her face exploded into a Christmas morning size smile.

"An apple! You brought me an apple!"

My pigtails had slipped out and were poking the corners of my sandy eyes, my shirt was milk stained and misshapen, and a Finley still slept in my arms. Standing there as Briar devoured the apple I felt happier and more rested than I have in weeks. It was the perfect punctuation for an unexpected nap.

The Expense of Postpartum Joy

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 15 May 2008 13:42:00 +0000

One of the traits I inherited from my Grandpa Davie is a zest for life, followed immediately by a sentimentality so strong that it can stop me in my tracks, weeping with homesickness, weeping with joy at having seen a beautiful thing, weeping just to weep.

Sunday was Mother's Day, and when asked what I wanted to do, sentimentality and joie de vivre took over. I wanted to watch sunlight braid itself into the golden curls on Briar's head, I wanted to watch Avery gallop, hips swiveling with each magnificent stride, I wanted to feel Fin on my chest, the gentle rumble of snoring and the kisses of newborn fingertips on my bare skin. I wanted to stand proudly with Sean watching our brood. And so I did. For six glorious hours we played at the park, picnicked beneath evergreens and then scaled the mossy trails of Buck Mountain.

It was just the kind of day a person could weep for having tasted.

Today I weep with fever and aches, my body upset with my heart for trodding so heavily toward joy that it trumped reason.

Off to a hot bath, but oh the sweet memories of the day. Maybe Grandpa was watching, weeping and sighing at the beauty of it all. I hope so.

Not so little things

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 11 May 2008 14:00:00 +0000

For granola bars and hand written notes,
For compost piles and faerie blankets,

For riding the bus and my aunt went to Europe,
For pretty little blue bird and ting-a-ling-a-ling,

For Anne Murray in the living room late,
For number one with the bullet,

For painted nurseries and bran bullets,
For back splashes and enchanted granddaughters,

Happy Mother's Day.

How much would she fetch on Ebay?

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 08 May 2008 03:30:00 +0000

Or maybe even Etsy, since technically I made her...

My kid turns crackers into liquid gold...

And here she is after eating the golden cracker...

"We call Grandma?"

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 07 May 2008 00:56:00 +0000

"Did she leave?" Briar asked, her blue eyes shining with knowing. Grandma had carefully explained that she would be leaving, from the sun's first move toward the horizon, she began to tenderly plant the seeds.

"Grandma is going to be going on a plane, but we'll talk on the phone."

Her voice was light, her face cheery as she painted a picture of phone calls and memories. The girls nodded at the suggestion of practicing a phone call.

"Hello, Briar? Avery? It's Grandma."

"Hi Grandma."

"Hi Gramma."

The role playing only held their attention for so long, requiring Grandma to revisit the theme every so often to ensure that when she left in the pre-dawn hours, the empty bed the girls would wake up to wouldn't leave them distraught. Between apple slices and bedtime stories she would quietly and gently remind them, "So, tomorrow Grandma's going on a plane to her house."

"With Papa?" Avery asked.

"Yes."

"And Abbie?"

"Yup."

"And Tico and Maddie at your house?"

Smiling and teary, "Yes, that's right."

Avery smiled, Briar nodded. They were satisfied trusting the warmth of Grandma's voice, but my ears heard a different voice. I heard the longing behind the words, the fervent wishing that tomorrow wouldn't come, that she wouldn't find herself sitting on a plane somewhere over the northeast as her granddaughters woke to find her gone.

"She left? Gone?" They asked.

"Yes," I answered, the sting in my eyes and lump in my throat made my stomach lurch. Understanding that the unyielding pain of parenting comes back as a grandparent, twofold, aching for child and grandchild. I looked at my girls and imagined myself at that age, the magic of Grandma and Grandpa, the confusion of time and distance. The miles between us are not something I can easily remedy, but standing in the empty room, a stack of folded quilts in the corner and a cluster of discarded toys beside the sofa, I saw the concrete promise of the visit.

Grandma came to visit, spending each moment from the girls first bed-headed squeals, to the end of the day grimy-from-playing-hard little hands scrambling for one last snack and a goodnight kiss, showering the girls with attention. It was magically mundane with Grandma handling naps and baths, playtime and bed time.

She came for Finley's arrival and with her she delivered memories that will last a lifetime for our entire family. We miss you Grandma.

Dizzy

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 05 May 2008 20:29:00 +0000

So, there is this...

Literally like holding sunshine and giggles in my arms. Pressing my face against her silky head, feeling her fingers on my skin, her heart beating against my chest as little toes burrow in my still soft belly, I ache with contentment, mystified that I should be so lucky, and then I see this...

And I think I might burst with the beauty of my world.

Off to weep a happy mess!

Whispers on my soul

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sat, 03 May 2008 17:30:00 +0000

Downy skin
Pursed lips
Glistening chin

Petal-soft hands
Strawberry-sweet mewing
Milk-drunk kisses

Twirling arms
Fluttering lids
Napping starts

Giggling sisters
Loud exclaims
Six little hands

Open mouth
Outstretched arms
Rhythmic breaths

All as one

Finley Frost

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 01 May 2008 16:35:00 +0000

She came after the dawn of the first sunny day in weeks.

Mama worked hard.

There was meconium...

but it washed right off and sucked right out.

More sunshine in the way of Dr. Guido, who some call an Adirondack version of Dr. McDreamy.

Then she was in my arms...

And forever in my dreams.

Welcome home, Fin.