Not Breaking The Internet

C:"time for dinner! We are having daddy's famous chickpea masala!"

Littles:"yay!"

Then Little One gets all teenagery and rolls her eyes. She deadpans: "famous? It's not famous."

C: "well, sure it is!"

LO:"is it on a website?"

***crickets***

LO:"yeah. Didn't think so. Not famous." 

But Her Vocabulary Is Progressing Well

The miracle of learning to read is an altogether different experience with Little Miss.
She wants to be able to read.  Secretly.  She practices and tries- when no one is watching.  She is learning, slowly, but it is not. yo. business.  
So.  Practicing together takes patience.  She gets frustrated, She says She gives up, She huffs and puffs and wriggles around.
But She reads.
So tonight we practiced.  It was brilliant, watching what She can do- if She will.  When we finished, She went to bed frustrated that She'd had to try so hard, and mad at me for sending Her to bed (an hour past bedtime) instead of next reading to Her.
But Miss is so extremely practical.  She wants to know the reasons for things.  Once She deems them necessary, they will be done.  So as I tucked Her in I tried to explain to Her the magic of reading.

"When you know how to read, you can do ANYthing!  You want to fly? You can read about how to become a pilot or how to build an airplane! If you want to go down under the ocean and meet an octopus, you can read and learn how to become a diver, and where to find an octopus.  If you want... (searching for something relevant to Her interests)...if you want 50 cats, you can read all about how to take care of cats, and-"

Miss can't take it anymore.  She interrupts, Her fists clenched, Her eyes piercing: "Arg! FIFTY cats? FIFTY?! UGH! Mom- that's WUH-DIC-A-LUS!"

I can say nothing.  I mean.  She's right.

Missy: "Fifty cats. Theh would be no woom foh anyone. Wu-dic-a-lus."

And She rolled over and went to sleep.  

Bad Blood

A benefit to writing your own story is you get to be the hero if you want!  Which, of course, I do.  SuperC! Saving the day by changing the baby with one hand and sticking a bandaid on the preschooler with the other, while answering the gradeschooler's questions about why a / is used to denote fractions.  Tum-ta-da!

But every good hero has nemeses. One of mine, is Kidzbop.  

This diabolical entity is many things.  But in my life it takes the form of a Pandora station that plays all the crap pop songs you have never heard of because you are not a 12 year old girl, and then plays them in re-mixes performed by Alvin and the bleeping Chipmunks.  

I have Little One's Kindergarten teacher to thank for this monstrosity.  Apparently, she liked to play it in the afternoons and let the kids dance around to such educational gems as "all about that base".  The Disneyfied version.  She let Little One set it up, so Little One knows all about how to get Kidzbop on any device.  And She is. OBSESSED.  

It is all Kidzbop, all day.  Every. Day.  And so, SO loud.  

In my effort not to already be the curmudgeonly older generation (too much) I mostly try to just plaster on my haunted grin, and bear it.  Though sometimes it feels a little like the CIA is probably playing a joke on me, spying to see how long it will be until I crack under the torture.  

Sometimes I get into it and dance along. But really, guys, as a general thing?  

Chipmunks singing Katy Perry??? Why????

Every time I think I win a battle against this villain, playing something else, or hiding the iPad, it's little minions find a way to blast it again. 

Last month I arrived in Ethiopia, allllll the way across the world, in a place where there is no Pandora.  No Spotify.  No iAnything.  No Kidzbop! And what do I see. 

 I CAN'T ESCAPE!

Both Sisters are into this stuff.  

But at least I have my uncorrupted baby. 

Last night, I was washing Little Mister in the tub.  He started singing. 

Mr: "ya wa ga baaaah bod! ya wa ga baaaaah bod!"

He's so cute! Right?  So cute, all innocent and tiny, singing in His sweet little voice in the tub.  Singing His cute little made-up song.  

His sisters hear Him and start giggling.  A little too something, those giggles.  

They clap for Him and say, "Yes! Yes that's right!"

Then they start signing.  They start singing: "baby now we got bad blood you know we used to be bad love..."  

And I realized my sweet baby was singing some violent, angry, girl-drama Taylor Swift song.  

He learned Bad Blood before the ABCs.  I die.  

Kidzbop Strikes again.    

Living The Dream

There's a thing about my job with this charity.  It's amplified, I think, by every heartbeat with which I truly believe in what I am doing, in who I am working for.  It's this inability to keep work and life separate, at all, because the two things live together in my heart.  They share real estate, so there isn't such a thing as moving from one to the other at the end of the day.
There's not such a thing as leaving anything at the office, because for one thing my office is my house, so I'm literally always in it.  But for another, the work isn't about place, it's about what's taking up space in my thoughts, in my heart.  I have a photo above my desk of the AFC kids when they were small.  It's tacked up with the little handmade cards and pictures they've given me over the years.  So that when things get hard, I can look up and be forced to remember why.
I read something lately about this "do what you love, love what you do" mantra.  I believe in that concept in a sense.  But it sounds so breezy, like doing what you love means you're just hanging out riding on endorphins all the livelong day.   That would be some strong kool-aid.
This past weekend we had a big fundraiser in Los Angeles, and there were so many wonderful things about it.  I had the chance to work with some really good people, to share a story and cause I wholeheartedly believe in.  The team there did a good job and people came and understood the mission and supported and that was great.
I also missed a lot of sleep, missed my kids, missed the only weekend J has off this month.  As happens in life, there were also glitches and issues and problems, and in the end I'm home still dealing with those things and I'm entirely exhausted.  I'm feeling a little defeated, discouraged, overwhelmed.  In all honesty?  I feel like quitting.  I want to pack up and go be a hermit on a mountain somewhere and stuff my fingers in my ears and sing "LALALA!" to just completely drown out the world.  I would bring a lot of chocolate.
Haven't we all had those days? Maybe not the hermit thing.  But days when it feels like your best is not enough? Like there's never going to be an end in sight where it will be enough? When we feel like quitting.
I feel about this job much the way I feel about parenting.  I love it.  I love it.  I love it deep down to my core, out my fingertips and toes and through the atoms of each cell in me.  I want to be here.  I asked for this, and I jumped for joy when it happened, and I feel it is my great privilege and honor and joy to get to do this with my one life.  I. Love. What. I. Do.
But that is the easy part.
The hard part is not the loving.  It's the doing.  It's the part where even when I feel like quitting, I just... don't.  It's the part where I'm so tired, in my body, in my heart, that I can't get out of bed in the morning.  But- for the things I love- I do.  It is rehashing the same issue with the same people on the phone for hours and hours when I was supposed to be at dinner with my family.  It's staying up all night going over the books and the math again and again.  It's telling my son for 500th time to please sit down in the bath tub.  It's cleaning the pee off the floor.  It's enforcing the rules when I'm too tired to talk, and wondering what I'm doing wrong that I really have to explain again why we don't jump on the trampoline with pencils in our hands.  It's laying down finally at one am and popping right back up to soothe a nightmare. It's stopping what I'm doing- even if it's something very important to me- to ooh and ahh over the leaf She found with the orange spots, because that's something that is important to Her.  The hard part is doing what I love.
No matter how big and how sincere my Love is, for my work, for my kids, for the people and things I care about, there are times I fail them.  There are times I feel like I have no business doing anything for anyone, and times I really think the hermit thing with the chocolate has got to be the way to go.  Things are hard sometimes. Even the ones I love. Maybe especially those.
I won't do everything right or take everything in stride, and I certainly don't expect to be kicking back with my kool-aid riding those perpetual endorphins anytime soon.  I'm tired and I have heartburn and someone else's snot is in my hair and I've been yelled at a lot today.  But when my alarm clock goes off in the morning, I'll will get up, and just start moving.
Because I love what I do, I do what I love. 

Baby You're A Firework

 For Independence Day, we celebrated with all the standard stuff.  Picnics, bounce castles, popsicles.  Construction paper flags, big band music, and glow sticks.
Documentary videos and books about the history of the declaration of independence, of America, and fireworks.  And of course, fireworks.
I think this might be the first year Little Miss has stayed awake long enough to see any.  Since last year we were all sleeping by the time the sky lit up, it was also Little Mister's first encounter.
He was amazed.  At first, He jumped and held onto me like we might all be about to blow up, and looked at me like, "whatintheholyheckmom!" But when He saw that I wasn't in a panic, He settled in to watch (from the safety of my lap).
He kept pointing up at the display and saying, "Color! Color-color! Color! Nice."  
Nature celebrated with us, too, as a big orange harvest moon climbed up through the lights.  It was as amazing as the fireworks.  Mister pointed- "Ball!" He asked for it.  "Ball! Please?" 
Oh my Mister.  If only I could fetch you the moon, I would.
Luckily, the whole point of the holiday is that you are lucky enough to belong to a country in which you have the freedom to chase any dream you choose.  If you want to shoot for the moon? Have a ball.

Birthday

Yep.  I had one.  

It was kind of hard to tell, at first.  Since J worked like 12 hours that day, and I spent it cleaning bathrooms and organizing the basement and covering my ears and rocking back and forth signing REALLY LOUDLY to drown out all the WHINING from the kids who were stuck in the house due to a mosquito invasion of apocalyptic proportions, and neglected due to the bathroom scrubbing and basement cleaning.  

As a special treat there was the insurance adjuster who came to assess my birthday present this year, which will be a new car door, seeing as how I smashed the other one into a wall.  Tricky, those walls! He knew it was my birthday, so he brought me a back-scratcher shaped like a bear claw.  Er.  Thanks..

He also tried to give me the gift of "hey, you're not that old" by giving me his number, and repeatedly telling me to call and text him, but not to tell my husband.  Or to tell him about the back-scratcher either.  And if he were my man, he wouldn't be mad at me for wrecking the car.  ('Don't tell your husband I said that').  And then after he left, he sent a few text messages and then came back, texting me from the driveway to ask if he could come in and borrow some duct tape.  Really? At which point I directed him to the furthest hardware store and went back to the basement, where it was less creepy.

The Sisters wanted to throw me a "party", which means they got out every piece of everything and flung it around the room, draping beads and scarves and, ahem, my bras ("they're so fancy!") from the furniture and lamps and taping stuff to the walls.  

Then, while I tried to wrestle a two-ton angry crocodile (or maybe it was Mister, hard to tell which was what that day) into a nap, Sisters decided to bake me a cake.  I guess the floor in there was white anyways, so whats a bunch of flour and sugar and stuff? Right?!

The whole gang of them wanted in on decorating it, too, so we got out- the sprinkles. Which, all the moms who shuddered upon reading that know, are almost as bad as glitter.  

J had offered to bring a birthday dinner home, but he got stuck at work until after bedtime, and couldn't text me until the children were already gnawing on their own elbows they were so hungry.  So it was microwaved tofu-dogs and freezer peas for dinner.  And wine.  For me. 

I re-wrestled the crocodile into bed, and stopped at the door to chuckle.  

Because I mean.  

This day.

This day guys! 

Then, guess what?

I walked back to the dining room, where I'd left the sisters finishing their dinners, and there they were. Grinning. With such a beautiful chocolate brownie cake, a banner that said "happy birthday mommy we love you so so so so much", a stack of handmade cards, and two gloriously decorated boxes.  

They sang to me.  

We had cake, and I opened the boxes, which they had apparently been hiding under their beds for weeks.  They were filled with little treasures.  

We chatted and laughed and I was showered in hugs and kisses.  

It was the best birthday ever.  

It was the first time that my children, all on their own, threw me a birthday celebration.  They worked hard and they did it because they love me.  

I realize that as I've aged and grown another year, so have they.  There has begun a great tectonic shift beneath the surface of our relationship, a change by which now, and more and more from now until forever, I not only take care of my children, but they take care of me, too.  

My children have always saved me, taught me, and brought me joy.  But now, they do it on purpose. 

On my birthday I realized, there is certainly a gift in that.  

Miss Magic

On our way home from a day trip, Little Miss pipes up in the backseat.

Missy: "Mommy? You know I think I am little bit magic.  I think I have some magic in me, in my inside me.  Buh-cause, you know what?" 

C: "wow, tell me!"

Miss: "Well.  When I'm sometimes tired, even I'm too tired to try foh being magic, still when I'm tired, sometimes, my own eyes just... Close. All by theh-selfs."

C: "They do?  Well that is pretty cool."

Miss (in a voice of awe): "Yes.  Mommy.  Isn't that a little bit of...a miracle? I think.... I think it might be a little miracle."  

Bus Crash

I took the Little two to check-ups.
We'd spent a long day out in a park with friends, Mister had missed exactly one point five naps, and lunch, and was playing on the giant school bus in the waiting room when we were called back.  He could not be enticed to leave the huge steering wheel, so I fetched him.
As He wriggled and complained, I stooped to get through the doorway of the bus.  My heel caught on a frayed bit of carpet on the top step.  And, if you'd like to imagine how I fell, you should be thinking to yourself "tiiiiimmmbeeeeerrrrrrr!" as you watch me fully fly off the steps, with Mister in arms, and eat it.  In the middle of the packed waiting room.
Now.  If you are going to massively fail in this epic manner and fall, crashing into the wooden armchairs, and crack your kids head open and break his leg (which, incidentally, I do not recommend), it can be said that the best place for this to happen, if it has to, would be a pediatrics waiting room.
Because crowds of people will SHREIK with compassion and rush up around you, office staff and nurses and medical technicians will come rushing en force, and multiple doctors will be ripped away from their duties and thrust upon you to assess your emergency.
However.  IF you are going to massively fail in this manner as fall, as above, while instinctively cocooning your baby in a scooped-out hollow of your thoracic cavity which you didn't even know you had, so that despite the epicness of the fall He is FINE- which I don't recommend either- I can tell you.  The actual worst place for this to happen is the peds waiting room.
Because people will SCREAM and SHRIEK and began squealing in Spanish "His face! His Face! It broke His Face! AAHHH! THE BABY'S FACE!!!" Which only adds to the confusion as the office staff which has also rushed over starts yelling at random people, "what? What's she saying?!" who throw up their hands "I dunno! I dunno but she saw it she knows what happened and the kid is hurt!" At which point the nurses flock and the doctors are wrenched from their patients and thrust upon you to make sure your baby, who didn't get hurt but did get scared, is really, totally, fully, and exquisitely FREAKED OUT.  Because "WHO-are-all-these-crazy-people-and-why-are-they-screaming-in-my-face-and-touching-me-and-shining-lights-into-my-eyes-I-want-to-drive-the-bus".
And then, because He bit His tongue a tiny bit (so tiny they couldn't even find the cut when they SEARCHED HIS MOUTH for it later- oh He loved that)- and one single drop of blood appeared at the corner of His mouth- Baby's Face Woman starts again shrieking "His Blooding His blooding!!!!" and Her family member has to help her to her chair and the whole thing revs back up.
Mister and I had to have full examinations.  We had to be checked for concussions.  We had to sit for 15 minutes and be monitored.  You know what an over-tired toddler who just got His bus stolen from Him and is not happy with these crazy people does NOT want to do?  Sit for 15 minutes and be monitored.  So He would get up and run towards the open door, and I would chase Him down and bring Him back to the Chair Of Shame.  And He would cry.  Because He wants. the. bus.
And the nurses would hear Him cry and come running- Is He ok?! Did He fall again?? Is He hurt?!
Little Miss, meanwhile, is doing Her absolute best to actually disappear into the corner, because She wants NONE of that loco.  Our doctor was out, so we saw a new lady, who gave us an extra-thorough examination because, frankly, I think she doubted my capacity.  And then, we headed over to immunizations.  But that's another story.  

Summer Vacation

Little Miss:  "So, now that school is ovah, foh me and foh sistah, it's summahtime.  Right?"

C: "Yes!"

LM: "So, that means that Daddy gets to stop wohking too!!!"

C: "Oh! Nooo, he has to keep working sweetie.  All summer."

Dead silence.

Miss: "But. But.  But....so...when does he finish?"

C: "finish working?  you mean for the day?"

Miss: "No when does he FINISH.  When will he finish his big job, so he can STOP wohking!"

C: "He can't love.  He has to keep working.  All the way till you're a grown up!"

Lots of stunned silence.  Contorted faces of disappointment and outrage at the injustice of the world.

Miss: "Well.  It would be bettah, you know.  If he just could wohk on-y on the days I go to gymnastics."

C: "You'd like it better if Daddy only worked on Saturdays?"

Miss(grumbling): "YES!  At LEAST for the summah."


Well.  J gets no such luck.  In fact, he will be working almost all the hours this summer on some difficult rotations.  Sorry J.  But for the rest of us, it's summer!  We are celebrating.  The Littles have been staying up late catching fireflies, playing until they must be revived by popsicle, swimming, playing with friends, and checking out all the books from the library.  Mister can't believe His luck.  Sisters are with Him all the time!  

News From The Ark

Well hello there.
It seems that every time I post here, I start out with some iteration of "it's been a long time".
It's like a person who loves to cook grand, multi-course meals, whose life speeds up so fast they realize one day they've had nothing but drive-through take-out for months.
Me, I like to write overly involved stories about things that are important to me, trying to preserve these gorgeous, fleeting moments, but it's come to a point around here that Instagram is about as good as it gets.
But the busy cook-at-heart would surely stay up late stirring spices into a pot from time to time, for the sake of remembering who they are, right?  And now and then, even though I should be doing other things, I pop in around here.
Hey.  It's been a long time!
But we're all still around.
This has been a rough year in some ways.  In the last six months, we lost J's remaining grandparent.  And his father, unexpectedly.  We lost my Nana, as I've mentioned.  And then, just a week later, my grandfather.  My grandaddy was a really, really important and special person to me.  I think I just shut down for awhile.  But I'm just carrying on, as we do, and missing him quietly.
We have also been adjusting to not only having J in residency (with the erratic, stressful schedule that entails) and having me go back to work (from home, mostly, with the erratic, stressful schedule that entails), but doing both at once.  We've had some struggles with Little One and school, plus, you know, Life.  Waah wahhh wahh.
The last year almost, it's felt like our little family was sailing through a storm.  We hunkered down, getting tossed around and soaked and bumping our heads on the rafters and just riding it out.
But, slowly (and with the help of J's parents and my mom, bless them), we've adjusted ballast so that, even though it's still windy out there, we've got a pretty even keel and strong sea legs.  Balance.
I returned from a trip to Ethiopia just in time for the last week of school, and all that fun and chaos. Little One had one more snow-day-make-up on today, and now we are FREE for the summer.  Freeeeeeeee!
It is possible that this change will knock me sideways again for awhile, but I have to admit I am incredibly excited to have long days spread before me with all my littles home.
Here are a few updates on those little monkeys, since it's been awhile:

Little One
Well for one thing, She lost another tooth tonight.  The growing up just will. not. stop.  It's crazy.
Little One has had a great year at school with friends, and a rough year with the learning part, but She handled all of it like a star.  I'm so proud of the way She has faced Her challenges and been a good friend and not stopped hugging me goodbye at drop-off yet.  She might be a little boy crazy.  But this is not really new.

Miss
Missy has traveled light years in Her ability to express Herself and handle Her emotions.  She is still our drama queen, no doubt. But She's able to reassure Herself that the world is not actually ending if She can't find Her favorite shoes.  She was the darling of Her preschool teachers, who really truly will never believe that I could call Her dramatic or accuse Her of refusing to get dressed for school in the morning, leading to Her arrival at school in nothing (I mean nothing) but a bathrobe.  She painted Her way through preschool, but somehow learned to read. It's because She quietly notices everything. She's the most cuddly, loving, kissy Little of all time, and also hilarious.  Mostly on purpose.

Little Mister
This guy.  He has his moments.  Moments in which He is hangry, and then gets frustrated, and reacts by throwing Himself backwards with all His might, whacking His head on the floor, and then, every time, freezes for a moment- in complete shock, as if it's never happened before- and then cries because, you know.  THAT HURTS.  In those moments I can only look at Him blankly and wonder if maybe I drank heavily during pregnancy and forgot about it.  But most of the time, most of it, He is sweet and fun and adorable.  He talks all the time, constantly, and we are realizing that He is actually saying stuff.  We can make a lot of it out now, and He's pretty funny.  He loooooovves His sisters.  He loves raisins.  And shoes.  And, ok, all the things.  He loves all things.  Except the ones He can't have.  Those things are WAHHHHHAAAAHHH!  Lucky for Him, with two doting Sisters wrapped around His pinky, there aren't a lot of those.

J
Not a Little.  But he counts right?!  I hear he's doing fine.  If you see him, you can ask.  I'll have to take your word for it.  Kidding, kidding.  Sort of.  J is working long hours and long weeks.  But he's still making time to be superdad, and I'm trying to accept the extra housework and kid-wrangling he's been picking up lately as we adjust that ballast.  It's funny how difficult it can be for a person who considers herself to be a feminist to allow someone else to do the laundry.  I just bite my tongue really hard, and breathe deeply in a quiet place for awhile repeating, "it's ok that he sorted into only two piles. If they all turn out pink I can buy all new clothes. Let it go. Let it goooo".   That Frozen movie song really applies to mis-sorted laundry.  Which never turns out pink.  He's basically a champ.

Me
Well I have a laundry problem, clearly.  But I'm thankful that J is so supportive of the new balance we are finding as a family.  I'm thankful to have a job I believe in that I can do without hiring help with my Littles, and that our moms step in at crucial times when I otherwise would have had to hire help.  And I'm especially thankful for this time when my Littles are all going to be with me all day, all summer. And like it.  At least, hopefully they'll like most of it.  I know these days are finite, I know they are precious.  I take none of it for granted.  And, despite the rough waters at times (that's life!) I am thoroughly enjoying the ride.  

Legendary

I'm not blogging these days.
I'm on strike.  I'm mad about the missing photos, mad that I can't get the darn thing to upload in order to back it up, and mad that I never thought, until I lost the pictures, to back up a blog.  I mean.  Isn't the internet totally safe and unchangeable?!  Hmm.
But.  Yesterday, my Nana died.  Even if the internet is as fickle, as changeable, as ephemeral as Life, I want to write it down here- my Nana died.
I haven't been able to write it anywhere else.  Or say it, or post it like people do now, or even respond to all the nice condolence messages from friends who heard about it from other people's postings.  I guess that means that it's upset me more than I want to admit.  Because it's more than I know she'd want.
Nana didn't want me to be upset.  She wanted me to understand what she had learned hard, and then lived hard, in her life.  Which is that we can choose to make this spin on the earth one great big party. So why not?  My Nana was colorful, irreverent, inarguable, and deadly beautiful even- actually especially- when her face became deeply lined with years.
Some people become legends after they die, but Nana was a living legend, as long as I have been around.  She lived a life that could not be written by the most imaginative author.  It's not just the amazing things she did- like riding the Mexican range as a cowgirl that could outride the cowboys, like becoming one of the first barnstorming female pilots, like getting a tattoo for her 80th birthday- it's the way she did them because she wasn't supposed to.  Like smoking for over 8 decades, eating MnM's and pink-frosted donuts for breakfast, yet living to be as healthy as an ox and sharp as a knife for nearly a century.
My Nana survived dark horrors and tragedies. She often told me that the thing about hard times is that even when they happen beyond our control, we have a choice about what controls us.  It is an absolute fact that nothing controlled Nana, but Nana.  She chose to be funny, full of laughter, and to do whatever made her happy without the slightest care to what anyone else thought about it.
As a kid we had lots of visits and trips together. I spent many Easters and some summer vacations at her ranch in Texas, and a memorable trip wandering through Mexico near her childhood home. As an adult sometimes I sit and marvel at the profound impact my grandparents have had on shaping the person I've grown to be.  If I take a step back and look at myself with really critical eyes, I can see so clearly.  They are all there.
Nana taught me my first swear words, in English and in Spanish.  She showed me that people will love you more if you are real, than if you try to fit some mold.  She told me how to have compassion without pity, strength without violence, and adventure without apology.  A former shoe model and the only person, ever, with small enough feet for me to share shoes with, she is the one who gave me a passion for heels and showed me how what you wear can influence the way you walk- not just across the room, but through the world. Nana herself was fond of blindingly bright colors, rhinestones, and jewelry for miles.
She wouldn't mind that it's not quite my style. She never wanted to be (and never could be) imitated.  But she wanted me to know that whatever my style is- in the way I dress, talk, walk, and live- it better be mine because it's me.  Period.   She wanted me to know that whatever I wanted to be or to do was ok, so long as I believed in it, in myself.  And she did too.  What a gift, I realize, to have had this woman, this gale force, at my back all my years.
When Nana was diagnosed with metastatic cancer a few short weeks ago, I got right on a plane and joined the family there with her.  We didn't talk about it.  It was like any other visit; we ate enchiladas and she told stories and we all laughed until we choked on our MnMs. There was a kind of denial, because nothing has ever stopped this woman.  She was unstoppable, and it seemed ostentatious for Death to presume to do so.  Legends never die.
Now it is like I have looked out the window each morning of my life, and there are the mountains.  Then yesterday, a mountain was gone.  Vanished.  How can it be?
I miss the inspiring majesty of it, the distant beauty and mystery of it, I miss knowing it was there if I ever needed a place to seek refuge.
I'm sad.  Of course, if she were, here, Nana wouldn't like it.  No.  She'd want us to have a party and celebrate her life, to talk about her and laugh, to find our fortitude and to move forward.  Knowing this, my cousin and I went out and had her favorite dinner- enchiladas and coronas- in her honor.  We told stories and we laughed.  We're sad because we can't help it.  But among all of us cousins, I've noticed a reverence for her, with a glint in our eyes. Even in mourning her, we can't be completely somber, because she's there in the back of our minds, finding something funny about the whole thing.
In my own children, I sometimes see a streak of feistiness, a wild display of individuality, an irrational yearning for adventure. I see fire in the green eyes of my daughters, the same green as mine,  the same as my Nana's.   Despite all the parenting books, the common sense, the better judgement, I find myself celebrating those moments.  They are how I know it is true, after all.  Legends never die.

Blog Break

The other day i was looking for a photo which I only have here on this blog.  To my surprise, it wasn't there.  I've realized that none of my photos from this blog are there before 2011.  They're gone.  Since this has been sort of my family scrapbook, I'm sad. :(  See.  Sad face.
And in the course of trying to figure out what's gone wrong and whether I can fix it, there's been some suggestion that I might have maxed out my photo memory (didn't know I could do that).  So, now I'm all afraid to post anything, lest it bump something else off.
While I try to sort out the issue, I'll be taking a break.  Hopefully to return soon.  And if any of you know how to perform internet miracles, please send some divine intervention my way.  

With Chocolate and Kleenex

We have been s-ICK over here.  The last couple of weeks have been a toxic slurry of nose goo, coughs, fevers, and the dreaded pink eye.  "When can She go back to school?" I ask the doctor.  "How about when She stops looking like an extra in a zombie movie?" Ok then.
After a week and a half of un-planned vacation, we have stir-crazy children and a behind-at-work mama.  Luckily, the Sisters have come around in the last day or so, and my mom is here to save the day. (!) So Mister has a lot of love to soothe His oh-so-pitiful self, and we are determined to have a happy Valentine's Day.
Now, in the case that tomorrow I'm the next one hit (I hear that if you get slimed by a zombie, you turn into one), or in the case that we are all well and having too much Valentine fun to stop, or in the (most likely) case that I fall into a chocolate coma, here is a happy, happy Valentine wish for YOU from the Littles.
We may be far, I may not check in often enough, and we might not say it as much as we think it, but it IS true, Peanuts.

We love you.  

Knock-knock Jokester

Little Mister has finally come around to reading.  He now LOVES to be read to, or to toddle Himself into His room, shut the door, and spend ages pulling books off shelves and leaving through them.
Or maybe He's just in there searching for the right one.  Because He does have absolute favorites, and He won't put up with any grown-ups trying to waste His time on boring stuff like "goodnight moon", and for sure will not be having any Sisters try to rope Him into a Fancy Nancy.  ANYthing but Fancy Nancy!
His current absolute, we've-read-it-10,000-times-and-it's-looking-haggard book is "Go Dog, Go".  He has some of the pages memorized now, and starts waving at the characters before I read the text- "goodbye, goodbye".  He also likes "Llama, Llama, Red Pajamas", an occasional board book, and "The Wonderful Sounds Mr. Brown Can Do."
One of the sounds Mr. Brown can do, in case you wondered, is he can sound like a hand on a door.  Knock Knock.
When I read it, I rap on the back of the book to make a knocking sound (I'm not as wonderful as Mr. Brown), which is hilarious.  It has, in fact, become Little Mister's signature joke.  If He's feeling silly, He will get your attention, knock on something, and then- haha! wait for it!- look at you all goofy and expectantly, waiting for you to laugh.
Before bed we read, we rock, we snuggle.  And then He reaches waaay over to the crib and knocks.  I'm supposed to say, "Knock knock? Who's there?" and he screams with laughter, sometimes until He cries.  Sometimes, we've been knocking and laughing a long time, and finally I kiss His silly cheek and settle Him into bed.  He laughs Himself to sleep.

Superbowling

Superbowl-pajama party.  Double win!

The day before Superbowl, we had a fun but very busy day- we were jetting from one activity to another for 12 hours.  So on Sunday, we really didn't feel like getting back on the road. Mister was practically threatening revolt if He had to miss one more nap.  But we still wanted to have all the most important elements of a good Superbowl party:  chips, dips, game, good company.

So we decided to throw our own family Superbowl party!  

For dinner we had nachos (Little One's thanks to daiya vegan cheese), chips, raw veggies, and lots of home-made dips.  The Sisters thought it was about the most awesome thing ever.  

Missy was unimpressed by the football ("They don't even SAY anything.  They jus' run AWOUND.  This is a boh-ring movie")  but She sat and watched, and waited for the halftime show.  

And then fell fast asleep during the commercial break before the halftime show, and missed it.  

Little One has long liked to watch football, and She was super into the game.  She didn't like the commercials, but loved the football, and the halftime show (during Missy Elliot- "I don't know what they call this dance- but I. LOVE. IT!) and, also, the chips.  

She almost made it to the end of the game, but got too tired.  

Little One: "How much more of the game is there?" 

C: "Well we are in the 3rd quarter, and - how many quarters in a whole?"

LO: "In a what?"

C: "A whole. How many quarters do you need for a whole?"

LO: "What?! You don't need any quarters for a whole. All you need is a shovel!" 

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.