One Fish, Two Fish

Little One recently developed a love of rabbits.  She asked for one for Christmas, and was valiantly thankful when She got one- that was plush and stuffed. "Fluffy" has become a favorite, but She still kept asking for a real bunny.  To be Her very own, to care for and love.
Soon Missy was drawn into pining for a pet, and their little hearts were just bleeding all over the place making a huge mess.  So J and I had a powwow; we needed a plan.
Soon after, I surprised the Sisters with a visit to the aquarium store.

We oohed and aahhed over all the exotic creatures, and then stopped and fell in love with the stand of vivid, flowy betta fish.  I pulled them aside and presented The Deal.
IF they earned all the money needed to buy the fish, AND all the stuff fishes need, and IF they promised to take care of the fish and understood that I really, seriously, no seriously, would take-the-fishes-right-back-where-they-came from-so-help-me in the case they weren't being taken care of, THEN they could have a fish.  Of their very, very own.  To be In Charge of, to love, to name, and to keep.
Well, Little One mused, it's not quite a bunny.  But still super great! We had a deal.
They patiently listened to the pet shop guy preach about all that would be needed to care for this menagerie of one.  We added up the cost.  And went home to the chore chart.

All of those flowers are responsibilities the Littles are expected to complete each and every day.  But in the little basket there are stars with extra chores they may do to earn money.  There are plenty of options, but since they have not yet figured out how to form a union, the wages for these tasks are quite low- a quarter to vacuum, 10 cents to polish the fingerprints off the chairs.  They did lots of extra chores to add to their piggy banks.

Chopping veggies

Working hard for the money

Mister wanted to help too

Baking brownies from a recipe.  All I did was put them in and out of the oven. And eat them.  I did lots of that.

Plus, they have both been hoarding money since forever.  They each spent some money at Christmas buying presents for each other and for Mister, but otherwise they've scrooged it up in their room every time they find a penny on the sidewalk or rake in cash from selling their old toys at a yard sale.

They also pooled their resources, both in terms of labor and cash, and decided to share a jar of fish food and water conditioner, to save on overhead. Wise financial planning.

Also, all my cheap ways have rubbed off on them. Rather than buy the pricey glass bowls and marbles at the fish store, they chose to shop for these supplies at the thrift store.  They carefully compared prices in the glass isle, and chose less expensive options.

So before we knew it, our little laborers had saved up all they needed.  They were just a little excited about reaching their goal.

Finally, the big day came.  The bowls and rocks were clean, filled, and temperature acclimated.  The pennies and nickels were counted and packed up.  When I got home from yoga class, the Sisters were at the window, and were jumping into their shoes and jackets before I got through the door.

We drove to the aquarium store and the Littles explained their purpose (by which I mean shouted it while jumping up and down giggling), and the manager was all about it.  He told them all about how wonderful they were, and gave them a veritable college course in betta-fish ownership.  They listened, they nodded.  They asked a few questions.  And then.  Drumroll please.

They got to pick out the perfect fish.  It took a good long time, but in the end they were certain they had chosen just the very exactly perfect, right fish for them.


Little One chose a robust and vivid blue fish with red underfins which swam and swirled quite like a peacock.  Blue like the ocean, She named it "Wave".

Missy selected a slender, docile, pale pink opalescent fish with a few purple spots.  She'd had the name ready a long time- "Smiley".

We've brought them home, released them from their dixie cups into their new, slightly larger habitats, and they have been quite doted upon already.

Smiley and Wave have joined us at the dinner table, they've been shown countless drawings made just for them, they have been sung to and talked to and cooed at.  They are each read bedtime stories by their new girl, and placed on the bedside table to "almost cuddle" through the night.

It will be very interesting to see how these relationships play out.  For now though, I'm happy to think that some message about work ethics and economics must have filtered in through the excitement, I'm happy to have had so much laundry sorted for me, and I must admit they are pretty and fun to watch.  Mister and I spent half an hour sitting together today, peacefully eating banana slices and watching them swirl.
Of course, part of that time I was thinking, "What are we doing all I need is another two creatures to keep alive around here".  But after laying in bed this morning, listening to Missy croon love songs to Smiley, and after Little One whizzed through Her homework yesterday with Wave's "help", I confess it's true.  The more, the merrier!

The Selflessness of Selfishness

A couple of months ago, I was having a rough night.  I was shuffling around.   J was working night shift, I was home with three fussy kids, all with colds.  The Littles were finishing up dinner, I was at the stove.  I was getting more for someone?  I was starting to clean up? I don't remember.
What I remember is a sudden shooting pain, from my heels my shoulders.  Like lightning.  Like fire.
I went rigid, I drew a sharp breath.  And then, I had no legs.  They were gone.  It felt as though someone had actually pulled them out from beneath me; they simply were not there.
Without legs to stand on, I fell.  I tried to catch myself on the edge of the stove, but I wasn't strong enough.  I crumpled to the floor, took a moment to get my bearings, and was shocked to find that I still had no legs.
The Sisters could see me from the dining room; they were asking if I was all right, if I fell down.
I was telling them I was ok, I'll be there in a minute, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears.  Disassociated from me, like the lower half of my body.
I stayed there awhile. 10 minutes that felt like hours. Finally, I was able to grab onto the bar of the oven door, and pull myself up.
I was able to shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the water.  I got Mister into the tub.  But it was hard; it was very hard.  I carried Him from the high chair to the tub on Faith. I carried him inches at a time, with great effort, telling myself all the way- my legs are there; I see them.  I can do this; I'm fine.  I put Him in the bath.  I could tell now, that my legs were not gone.
But my legs and my back felt strange.  Weak and heavy, sort of transparent. My arms began to feel heavy, like I was lifting them through thick mud instead of air.  I tried to pick Mr up out of the tub and found that I couldn't.  I just could not.  I may as well have been trying to lift the house itself.
It wasn't because it hurt, I just couldn't make my arms lift Him.  I began panic.  But what about my kids?  Because they were watching, I didn't get hysterical.  Because there were there, depending on me, I didn't have the luxury of that.
So instead, they got a very, very long bath.
I waited.  Eventually, with my direction, Little One was able to get Mr into my lap, where he held onto my neck like a little monkey. From there I stood up and was able to get Him to the changing table, put Him to bed.  Because they are so independent now, I was able to get the Sisters into bed, and then I laid down too.
By the morning,  I was as good as I had been before the lighting at the stove.
Which was really only kind of ok, actually.  I'd been having numbness in my feet and hands for weeks.  So much so that once I'd been holding my flat iron with my finger on the plate and not noticed until I smelled burning skin.  So much that I'd gone out and bought flat shoes because I could no longer balance in my heels.  I stopped going to yoga because I kept falling down. So I went to a doctor.  I had bloodwork, MRIs, lots of tests.
It turns out I was lucky.  I apparently had Guillon-barre syndrome; a problem in which the immune system reacts to a mild illness by attacking the cells of the nervous system.  Only a third of people who get this remain able to walk at all.  Many people become totally paralyzed; in some even their heart and lungs stop.  I had a really mild case, and the best thing about this syndrome compared to other things I was tested for, is that (as long as you don't die), it goes away.
It can take a long time, I'm told, for nerve cells to heal.  But they almost always do, eventually, heal. I'm already a whole lot better.  I still have some numbness and tingling in my hands and feet; I still cannot feel my big toes even if you were to stick a needle in them, even if you put them in ice.  But I will, in time.
Looking back now I feel stupid.  All those weeks of struggling to braid the girls' hair, of dropping everything, of straining to walk the kids to school, before even making an appointment to see my doctor.  I think of that night at the stove and am horrified.  It could have become so much worse than it did- it's incredibly lucky that it didn't- why on earth did I not call for help?  What if it had become worse- and my kids were there alone in the bath.  
The thing is.  At the time, I wasn't so much worried about the problems I was having as I was ashamed of them.  With my new job, J's residency hours, the kids' new schools, and getting used to a new home, I was stressed out and missing a lot of sleep.  I would stumble or drop something and think, "wow, I am just really not handling things very well".  I was disappointed in myself for not being able to pull myself together.  I just needed to try harder, to manage time better and get more rest. The night I couldn't lift Mister from the tub I was scared.  But more than that, I was angry at myself for being so weak.  For making such a big deal out of a strained muscle or something, for not being able to make myself push through it and look after my kids.
As a mother, the primacy of caring for your children can become so overwhelming that you start to forget yourself. You stop being able to see yourself as a person, start to forget that you need things. As your focus shifts to the people who need you, it's easy to feel less human and more like the machine that keeps the conveyor belt of life rolling.  How many times have I packed well-balanced, allergy-safe, carefully planned-out snacks for three kids for an all day excursion- and not even thought of bringing an apple for myself?  How many times have I insisted J take a nap after a long shift- yet after staying up all night with sick or fussy kids, when have I ever asked for a nap? I have cancelled lots of plans and pushed plenty of deadlines because someone was sick or tired and needed to be in bed- but I've never skipped gymnastics practice, story time, or field trips because I had a fever or headache.  Machines are not supposed to take sick days, or naps, or even bathroom breaks.
Usually, it's not my line to complain about those facts.  I believe that parenting requires sacrifice and prioritizing my kids needs over my own, and I'm good with that.  I don't resent anyone when we are in our sixth hour of Smithsonian museums and I'm starving while the kids munch organic apples dipped in home-made soy-yogurt.  It's no one's fault.
But mine.  Because sacrifice implies that you are giving something up for the good of others.  Prioritizing kids means doing the best thing for them.  Is it really for their good, is it really what's best for them, if I get hungry or exhausted and can't quite be at my best?  Or if I get sick and sicker and end up unable to get my baby out of a bath tub?
This whole experience has left me feeling extremely fortunate.  Because it wasn't bad enough to have caused any permanent damage.  But it was bad enough to shock me into reassessing the way I see myself, and into realizing that the way I take care of myself directly and profoundly impacts my ability to take care of everyone else.  Sometimes toughing it out and ignoring yourself to be there for others isn't brave or valiant or generous.  It's just stupid.
As I recover from that bizarre episode, I feel a lot like Mister, discovering the joy of movement and abilities.  I go to yoga and I'm grinning through the poses that burn- because I can do it without falling over!  I put on my old shoes and do a little dance in them.  Because I can! Everything seems like so much fun; things I had taken for granted are significant again. I'm practicing french-braiding the Sisters hair, I'm mending things by hand, I'm cutting stuff out with scissors.  And.
I'm eating breakfast, even if we will be a little late for school.  I'm locking the bathroom door.  And today (after tucking in two post-scary-dream Littles and soothing one who bumped His head in the middle of the night) even though the kitchen was messy and there was work to do, when Mister took a nap, I did too.  It may seem strange, but for my New Year's Resolution, I'm going to try to take better care of my family- by being a little more selfish.

Presentation Is Everything

When you have a toddler (which, unimaginably, I do now), people are always asking if He's a picky eater. So far I've just laughed- far from it!  Mister has been happy to eat anything.  Everything.  He's taken to signing "food" at random people.  "You finishing that? " At a New Years party, He sauntered up to a lady on the couch, picked up her fork, and helped Himself.
He continues to be amenable to any food.  But.  Whether He will happily eat it, or fling it on the floor, depends entirely on how it is served.
Cheerios and raisins are apparently finger-food.  Those can be served plain on a plate and He will eat them. Fine.  Steamed carrots? Yeah-no.  Fling on the ground.  Steamed carrots on a plate, with a fork? Hmm.  Maybe, maybe...no.  Fling on ground.  Carrots on the end of a fork held by a loving adult? BIG no.  No way.  FLING ON GROUND!
Same exact steamed carrots, with a fork, with one bite already on the fork, waiting, now we have a deal. He will eat them all.
Oatmeal from a spoon in my hand is destined for the wall.  Oatmeal with a spoon in His hand is destined for (the front of His shirt and) His mouth.
Peas, conversely, in a bowl with a spoon are going to be poured over the side of the high-chair.  Take that, peas!  Peas spread out on a plate (not in a pile), are a delicacy and will be devoured.
Milk is chugged from a bottle, hurled with epithets in a straw-cup.
Water is shunned in a bottle, sipped happily from a straw-cup.
Bananas are only good served whole, to chomp like a monkey.
The rules are exacting, nonsensical, and prone to change without notice.
This guy, I tell you. It's like a dictator! It's like a spoiled rock star!  It's almost like dealing with a... a... toddler.  

Always

C: "Little One, can you turn on the light?" 

LO: "Um, sure, I think so mom."

She reaches, it's too far.  

She hops.  She jumps.  

Again and again, throwing Herself up the wall with Her fingers stretched waaaaaay up, trying to hit the switch.  

She's six, but She's little.  She's still so little, and the light switch is just too high.  

I watch Her a few more times, then offer, 

"Little One, would you like a little help with it?" 

She doesn't slow down.  She's jumping with all Her might now, running out of breath.  

"Just-a, few-more, times, mama-"

"Ok, love, no hurry.  Just let me know."

I look on as She jumps again.  Five times, ten. Twenty? I don't know how many.  

Then-  

She gets it.  

The light flashes on.  

She stops, panting, Her hands on Her hips, beaming as bright as the bulbs.  

I'm grinning too.  

"You did it!!"

Little One smiles, She wiggles Her hips in a little victory dance and chants, 

"Always believe in your self."

This is  one of the most beautiful things about being a parent.  Getting to witness these little moments, these trivial things, that are not little or trivial at all.  

The Little In Mister

When we rock in the chair before bedtime, Little Mister likes me to hold my hand up, outstretched, so He can press His little fist into my palm.  I curl my fingers around His hand, closing it in.  He signs and coos, His eyes flutter shut.  He finds it somehow comforting, to have His hand held in mine, like that.

Every time, I know, His hand takes up a little more space in mine.  One day soon, I won't be able to close my fingers all the way around it.  Some day, His hand will be able to encircle my own.  

It's a distinctive strangeness, mothering this boy, to know that He will grow into a man.  That He will with some certainty become much bigger and stronger than I am.  How amazing to consider that, as I cradle Him so tiny, so fragile in the crook of my arm.  

Of course all my children will some day surpass me in strength, as I age, but this one will likely get there first, and while I still feel strong myself.  While I still feel that I am his protectress, His shelter.   

I think of my mother, caring for her father now.  I think of how one day, I will need my children to look after me.  To protect me, to lift me, to hold my hand.  

Sleepy Summer Snuggler

It is such a beautiful thing, this cyclical nature of life and loving. It is, if we are lucky enough for it to work the way it seems meant to.  When I reflect, I am hopeful and thankful in this future dependence on my children.  But for now, it seems so far away.  While I hear the racing of time along life's track, coming at me like a locomotive, I close my eyes.  I drown out the sound with a gentle lullaby.  I  hold His hand, close to my heart, and savor the little while it fits in mine.  

Miss-isms

Little Miss girl-with-a-curl is approaching four.
This is terrible, because before my very eyes the last traces of babyness are evaporating like drops of water on a hot skillet.  Strangely, despite the fact that She is my middle child, Missy is still sort of "The Baby" in my heart.  It may be Her so-sensitive nature, it may be the high tonnage of cuddles Her soul continues to require.  I don't know.  But the idea of Little Miss growing up is particularly difficult to wrap my brain around.
Nonetheless, it's happening, and fast.  The change in Her even in just the last couple of months is drastic.  Because, the wonderful thing about Miss approaching Four is that She is blooming.
She is stepping out from behind my leg to smile and chat with people.  Even strangers (sometimes)!
She is learning to go with the flow a little more.  Most importantly, She has grown in confidence.
A lot of this has to do with Her great pride in being a big sister.  Some of it has to do with Little One encouraging Her as much as She does.  I think it also comes from having found some things that She is good at, and really enjoys.
Gymnastics class has been a great asset to Missy.  She surprised us all by loving it so much, and it seems to be an activity that suits Her abilities and interest really well.
Her other great passion is Art.  I suppose it always has been, but now that She's in school She has the opportunity to paint, in several mediums, every day.  And boy does She.  Her teachers are lovely montessori teachers, and have a fondness for the intensity of Little Miss's love and careful thoughtfulness when She paints, so they encourage Her.  She is a prolific painter.
We use the large ones for gift-wrap, the smaller ones for greeting cards.  I've saved some favorites.  And still, we could wallpaper with it.  At home, She draws, colors, and journals every day.  Sometimes for hours.
Today when She got home from school I asked Her to choose any activity She liked for us to do together while Mister napped.  She wanted to "cuddle under a blanket and you can watch me draw in my journal".  So we did.  Each page had an elaborate story to go with the illustrations. Her imagination is wild and wonderful.
And Her artistry isn't limited to art- it's a part of Her, it comes out through the way She talks.
Missy can be reserved, but She's anything but cheap on words.  A few examples:

Miss comes shopping with me for a new dress.
C: "What do you think of this one, Missy?"
Miss: "Uh, well, uh.  Well.  It's prettyah than a rusty old car."

C: "I'd like to button up your coat.  Are you a little chilly?"
Miss: "Oh! I am! I'm  cold- coldah than ice! Coldah than snow!  My hands is feezing icicles and my toes is moh frozen than a shivah-ry lake of frozen ice!" 

C: "Hey guys! It's snack time! Would anyone like a snack?" 
Miss: "Me! I am hungry-ah than a barbarian." 

C: "I love you, Missy."
Miss: "Oh, most loviest Mama.  I love you too!  You ah the best mommy.  You.  You ah nicer than a cruel stepmothah. OR a wicked witch."