Life is a Banquet

You at 22

Dear Tavy,

You celebrated your 22 month birthday yesterday by standing on your hands. You backed yourself over the closed door, kicked your feet up, and then looked at me as if to say, "I knew it was that easy." Now, you've been doing it over and over all morning, and it pretty much encapsulates you at 22 months: dare devil, original, learning new stuff, and fiercely independent.

Right now, you are organizing your puzzle box by stacking all like pieces together. There are little stonehenge puzzles around my office. I'm particularly touched by the farm animal totem on my desk. Earlier, while BAD mama was on facebook, you took several sheets of tissue paper and proceeded to wrap up various stuffed animals and babies. You unwrapped them over and over, happily declaring, "New Baby! New Baby! Happy Day!" I assume you are practicing for the two short months until your birthday. "Me Box! Happy! Happy!" Yes, there will be LOTS of boxes, but I'm not ready for you to be two!

On Friday morning, you managed to open the fridge on your own and dumped an entire carton of eggs on the floor. You were most displeased with this turn of events. "Oh no! Oh noooooooooo! Eggs! Eggs Floor! Mama! Wipe! Mama Wipe!" All twelve did a humpty dumpty on us and were cracked beyond repair. Apparently though, you had really wanted SCRAMBLED eggs, as you ran for a plate when I said, "Eggs cracked!"

You anticipate so much now. I turn the car into a place you have been before and you crow with delight, "See Babies!" You know Katie's house, and C's house, and the park. You know that farmer's market contains berries. You shake your head mournfully when I let the dog outside, "No Out Hide. No Out Hide. LA EATER!" You take the words out of my mouth and make me more aware of every syllable I utter.

We make the turn into my work, and you start chanting the name of the high schooler who watches you for an hour on Tuesday and Thursday. You LOOOOOOOOOOOVE her. LOVE. Especially when she's not around. You talk about her constantly, ask if she's coming when we head out, and get super excited when it's time to go see her. When she's THERE though, you play hard to get and want to "See Mama!" You do like to wear your monkey though and let her take you for walks.

I love seeing you wandering the halls where I work. It's worth the money just to see my worlds collide.I like that you will know that I work. "Mama Room! Mama room! Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" You announce your presence and hop up on a chair. "IE WORK!" You roar. "IE READ!" You leave poor S in your wake as you own the empty room. It won't be long before you'll be drawing on the white boards and playing school to your babies.

Sometimes we talk about "This time next year . . ." And then you totally fake us out by doing that NOW. Right now. We have been picking lots of fruit, and while you bellowed in your wagon for another "Pee Bah!" sandwich, I remarked that soon you would be picking cherries too. Daddy decided to give you a demo and let you pick a few, but you LOVED it so much, that he gave you a full-time job. He used the monkey to buckle you into the crook of a tree, then with one hand on you, he and you filled a bag. Later, you took all the stems off the cherries. We have the videos to prove it because we just couldn't believe that you were such a good little worker bee.

However, I really shouldn't be surprised. If I ask you to pick up books or dirty clothes, you happily do it, and nothing makes you happier than collecting trash. "TRASSSS?" You ask hopefully as you present each scrap of paper for the okay to toss it in. You can dismantle an entire room in nothing flat and you leave no surface unruffled, but you are more than just a hurricane. You are learning how things go together, how they work, and the endless possibilities of a world for your taking. Markers? Time to tattoo your whole body! Gum? Time to distribute it! Hair bows? Must find hair! Paper? Must find markers!

You are constantly on the move. Every open space is a chance to run for the sheer joy of running. Every person is potential friend to say "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" to. But you are also more quiet this month. We can read longer and longer books as your attention span increases. You love "Wittle Bar!" and ask me to read Little Bear over and over and over and over. You love night time story time, and you have become the mistress of the nightly stall.

But I love those little moments of quietness when all your motion slows down and you are warm and soft and unbearably sweet. You are my sun, moon, and stars. You at 22 months is the greatest gift.

This too shall pass

It's 5:45 and I'm in the rocking chair, arms full of sleeping toddler who makes disapproving moof-moof noises if I lurch in the direction of her bed, doing complex quadratic equations in my head about my remaining amount of sleep--her potential wake-up time, Freak's alarm, my bladder needs . . . Then it hits me. I won't be doing this forever. Someday, I will be old, and my arms will be empty, and my heart will be full, and all I will hear is that sappy country song, "You're gonna miss this time."

I remember one night at 3 a.m. when she was three weeks old, sitting in the living room, on the left side of the couch, feet on the floor, nursing pillow strapped on, lights blazing, because that was the only way I could nurse without pain, and vowing to never forget what she looked like right then. I wanted to turn my brain into one of the gold records they send off into space and preserve forever the particular shade of tea-rose pink of her cheeks, the curve of her lip that reminded me of wedding cake roses, the perfectly shaped little ear, the tiny hand so trustingly resting on my breast, perfectly content in the world.

Six months later at 4 a.m., sitting upright in our bed, nursing pillow on, knowing that the nursing pillow and miracle blanket were becoming mere props instead of necessities ranking slightly above showers, I tried to imprint the way she tumbled out both sides of the pillow, her weight as I tiptoed the papoose back to bed, the exact ache in my left wrist, the torsion on my elbows that morphed overnight into sore shoulders and stiff hips as suddenly side lying nursing was possible.  Even as I craved four hours of uninterrupted sleep, I wanted to preserve the feeling of our stomachs touching in glass mason jars to be opened during the winter of my life.

Last summer, spending money we didn't have as my summer class was canceled and falling into a routine of dinner and netflix, I wanted to make a hologram of her sweaty body sprawled across my lap, the weight of her head on my elbow, the inability to move. The perfect evening of watching Cranford with four generations of women, her softly snoring in tune with my grandmother who wasn't sleeping, just resting her eyes, really. The hallelujah moment of discovering the white noise machine and the loss of her piglet snuffles as MY white noise. I was going to never forget her weight, her presence in my arms.

Later, as nursing gave way to rocking, I swore that I would never tire of the little cocoon of her and I and the squeak of the chair and the hard wooden seat beneath me, and the soft body cradled in my arms. And then, she mainly rocked straddling my thigh as she overflowed the capacity of my arms but not my heart, I wanted a snow globe containing the feeling of her ear against my heart beat, the blood circulating as love. My body complained, but I was sure that I was building a defense against the cruelty of time.

And, yet, I cannot remember what nursing really felt like, how much she weighed, not in pounds but in presence, what her head felt like cue ball bald versus ducky fluff. The newborn days are hazy at best. I want to do it all again, but really I want to do THIS baby again. I'll succeed in my efforts to make hollodeck I can return to.

This week, she doesn't want to be rocked. Clanna's visit marked the turning point in wanted to be comforted by "Pat Back!" not "Mama Rock!" She craves story time, not hush little baby time. She's moving beyond the Dear Santa she demanded for months on end. She drifts through all sixty odd of Little Bear, memorizing far more than me in that moment. Her future self won't remember a bed time without chapter books as I long for just one or a thousand more rocks. I send her off to sleep with Megan Whalen Turner's The Thief, but time is the true thief here.

Cleaning with the Crank

Sorting the Towels for Clanna
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

I am 100% sure that Tavy is my daughter. Biologically. Her little swaddled up won-ton package never left my or Freak's arms the entire time she was in the hospital. And yet . . . I wonder . . .

Me: What to do we do next? (expecting no reply and fully expecting to head for my coffee)
T: CLEAN UP! (frantically starts gathering up clothes from the playroom floor) Dirty shirt! Dirty Bants! Dirty Hat!
Me: Mama's hat is NOT dirty.
T: CLEAN hat! (Plunks on my head, and not needing a sunhat in the playroom, I remove it).
T: (stern face) No! Clean up hat! (puts back on my head). Clean wif Hat!
Me: It's a little early in the day for prepositions, don't you think.
T: Wittle Early. Clean up! CLEAN UP!
(I move to start cleaning the various puzzle pieces from the heap. For the past year, puzzles are cleaned by me giving her the pieces for the appropriate bin).
T: NO! IE DO! IE DO! (And proceeds to place the piece with the correct Melissa and Doug's puzzle). Oh no! OH NO! (points to missing pieces).
Me: Tavy do THAT too. (handing her the rubber maid bin for that puzzle).
T: NO! NO! IE DO! (runs off to fetch one of her play purses and frantically stuffs all the pieces for that puzzle in that bag.)
Me: Can we put the bag in the bin!
T: NO! IE DO! (Takes her bag and shoves it in a changing table drawer) ALL DONE MAMA!
Me: Okay! Good Job!
T: HARRRRD JOB! (Clanna taught her this phrase).
Me: Dirty pants for the dirty pile!
T: CLEAN pants! (Ignores pants I am holding out and removes her pants). Oh NO! DIRTY SHIRT! (Looks down at the minsicule stain from breakfast on shirt.) SHIRT OFF! SHIRT OFF! SHIRT OFF NOW!
Me: Shirt is CLEAN.
T: NO! NEED CLEAN SHIRT!
Me: How about we put some books on shelves instead?
T: (toddles the books to the shelf, then looks down at shirt again). DIRTY SHIRT (shakes head like she can't believe I have allowed this injustice to go on).
T (now shirt less): DIRTY dish!
Me (point to the doll dish box): In the Tavy dish box . . .
T: Need NEW box. IE DO!

21.5 months and she's already choosing her own storage containers. Anyone want to guess what tween room cleaning will look like in a few years? OH NO! IE DO!

Over Sharing

It's MY Drink.
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

It seems like just the other day that we were wondering when Tavy would figure out how to put two words together. Then I had my gallbladder out on May 29, and she said, "SEE MAMA" for six hours straight. Over the next month, she started attaching owners to all items and tasks. "Mama bag!" "Mama Sit!" and then great galloping gizards, by Uncle Monkey's wedding on the 27th of June (less than a month!!) she was putting together little sentences pretty reliably and using words with purpose and inviting conversation. "Mama rock?" "Need Iss-You! (tissue)" "Nanny read book!" Around that time, she decided to name herself. "I" seemed too formal for Miss T while "Me" seemed so barbaric. And Tavy has T which she can't handle yet, so she named herself "IE" (EYE-EE). In the last week, she pretty much repeats or attempts everything we say, which is amazing to watch.

One of her latest words is "share." She says this like CHAR with an commanding tone envied by drill sergeants everywhere. It's like she is charbroiling her world with her caustic demands. To wit:

Scene: In my kitchen, I'm pouring my coffee and adding milk.
Tavy: Mama Milk! Mama YaYa!
Me: Yep. Having my milk in my mama water. Not for babies. Not for Tavy.
Tavy: Mama CHAR milk! (Keep in mind that we have been unable to convince her to drink anything other water with any regularity, but hope springs eternal).
Me (pouring a tiny mug of milk to match my coffee mug): Tavy's Milk!
Tavy: IE CHAR! IE CHAR MAMA MILK! (And thus milk banks are invented . . .)
FIVE SECONDS LATER . . .
Tavy: CHAR?
Me (distracted): No, I have my own . . .
Tavy: Oh no! Sit Sit CHAR! Sit Sit CHAR Milk! Oh no! No CHAR! No CHAR!

Commence the crying over split milk.

Floating

Several years ago, I went on a trip to Florida that changed my life, and my enduring memory of the trip is laying in the Ocean, eyes closed, floating for what felt like hours every day. When I was a tween, my aunt and uncle took me to Brighton Beach, but I have no real memories of the place, just floating in the Atlantic, disregarding everything I had been told about the filthy water and just floating until I imagined myself miles away.

When I was pregnant, I was blessed to get to swim frequently, and the whole last trimester is defined in my memory by floating. I have never loved my body more than I did in that warm pool, Buddha belly triumphantly out, alone with Beta-now-Tavy.

Today, I took a nap that wasn't and lay on the bed, craving that sensation of floating with a piercing longing. I am reminded of the other kind of floating, the floating that carries me back to dark places I never want to traverse again. The hours I used to float pre-Tavy waiting for a lightening bolt of clarity to rouse me back to myself, back to the person I really am.

Now, I have a toddler who says "Open Door! Mama! Open Door! All Done Nap!" And I cease my bed floating and go off in search of my happy. I wonder why I feel so adrift right now, and why with drama swirling all around me, all I want to do is float. Really float. Arms out, buoyant, hours passing in minutes. The kind of floating that cleanses my soul instead of bringing in more soot.

I.

Just.

Want.

To.

Float.

The After Picture

June 09 After
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

This came out WAY darker than I was anticipating, but I swear there are actually a TON of highlights, some of which are bleach blonde, some of which are purple, and some of which are red, but the base shade of chocolate makes photographing a challenge.

The cut though is made of awesome.

Freak, however, thinks that this doesn't match the dress I will be wearing to the wedding. So we'll call this a partial win?

Happy Father's Day

Or as we like to call it around here, "Happy Weekend Where Daddy Gets to Sleep In."

Happy Father's Day to the man who makes me fall more in love with him every time I watch him with our daughter:

Hair I am: Your input needed!

My current hair situation is nothing short of horrid. HORRID:

Now, I have a date with a lovely hair salon next week while Clanna (!!!!!!!) is in town to watch Hurricane Tavy while I get my hair did. I usually go my own color, but I'm really craving serious highlights, and since that worked so well last time at home (see horrid, awful home hair color that induced labor), I thought I would splurge on getting it done at the salon. I can't decide exactly what look I'm going for. Here are a few images that are inspiring me right now. Thoughts? Suggestions?

Choice A: I'm thinking that I would need less golden tones given my rosacea, but LOVE:

Choice B: I'm tempted to go this radical, but would probably use one of the other cuts unless you can make an argument for me and bangs becoming close personal friends.

Choice C: I'm digging the cut, but it might be too high maintence for me. Am I going to need a blow dry and product EVERYDAY? Cause no.  Also, adding much more visible highlights?

Choice D: Radical, but do you see how totally happy, confident, and in love with her fluffy self this woman is? I'm VERY tempted to just go for it and top it off with radical highlights. Talk me out of or into it.

Ode to Uncle Nanny

Even before recent events, I've been in a bit of a funk the last couple of months. Nothing as bad as depressions of yore, but I didn't really realize it until I looked around and realized ta gray pallor that had descended since Uncle Nanny abandoned us for the bright lights and big city. Sure, he's a measly hour's drive away. A drive that I don't make without Freak. And a drive that he requires public transportation for (and given recent cutbacks, an act of God). But, I miss him. And, he doesn't read my blog, but I want to give him a shout out anyway. Next Sunday is all about the Dads, but I'm hereby declaring tomorrow Fabulous Uncle Day. 

I miss the routine we had going. I was really nervous about him moving out here. After all, the last time we shared living quarters he was a quirky 12 year old who couldn't keep his junior high locker combination straight. And the last few years have had their ups and downs for both of us, and neither of us is great on the phone. But, he came, and it was full of awesome as he jumped right into Tavy's life with unbridled enthusiasm. She was just learning to walk, and he would lead her around. And around. And around. He patiently sorted flash cards with her, hunted for baby baby, and played telephone. Their natural rapport after just the first week made my heart hurt.

I actually miss the time before he found work. I miss the quiet afternoons with just the three of us. I miss the time I spent grading or working on class prep with them playing on the floor of my office. I miss the spontaneous trips to the store and downtown. He made me see my city with fresh eyes. Also, his eyes were my eyes reflecting a shared history that made me instantly realize that Tavy needs a sibling so that she can experience what it is like to be with someone who gets you on that level.

I miss his love of my cooking, and his willingness to whip my kitchen into shape. My house has deteriorated in recent weeks. Thanks to MoxieClean I'm finding my MoJo again, and just makes me appreciate him all the more. I miss how he finds everything amazing from gluten free pizza to Weeds to Tavy's first real words. He watched her become a toddler each day, and I will always associate this time in our lives with his living here.

We spent a beautiful memorial day with him, and its obvious that he's thriving in the urban environment. He's a city guy, and this was never going to be a long term thing. Our relationship is evolving into something new, and its still wonderful--he shows us greek grocery stores, and we show him state parks that we hadn't explored before. Tavy soaks up each visit with him and talks about him constantly. Today she was experimenting with three word sentences, and they all involved him. Nanny {she says his actual name} eat food! Nanny go Big YaYa! Nanny eat soup! {which sounds suspiciously like a curse} Nanny go outside! Nanny go bye! Nanny eat rock! {she's all about learning rules right now}. Nanny clean up! {Thanks for giving me credit, kid} Nanny phone Mama! {All this stemmed from ONE voicemail message} {Don't ask why I'm loving brackets today} She runs to his door every so often, and I want to weep at her hopefulness. She sobs when she first sees him now, like a kid being picked up from daycare because it is finally safe to express those emotions. I have hope that their special bond will continue.

When I saw the love of the family who surrounded the grieving parents this parent, I was struck anew by how precious my family is. Those near and those flung far. Two years ago, I was alone here, craving biological connection. Now, I am doubly blessed. And I've resolved to work on affirming our connections and establishing new traditions as we work out what it means to be a family without an elder to guide us. I also have my family of choice, the friends who surround me, and I'm glad that Uncle Nanny gets to see this me too.

Here's to you, Uncle Nanny. I miss you. I'm so happy and proud of you. You are turning into the most amazing adult. You are living your dream and creating new ones, and I'm your biggest cheerleader. My dishes still miss you though.

Memorial

  There were flowers. So many flowers all triumphantly, majestically ALIVE awaiting planting in a memorial garden where they will live on for the one who cannot. There were speeches, the beauty and eloquence of which defies quotation. There were friends, too numerous to count, the devotion of whom was unquestioned and the love unconditional and unending. There was a tiny picture that embodied perfection.

And still.

There was no sense.

None.

The injustice of the universe was stunning.  Stunningly awful. One of the speakers spoke about the etymology of the word awful, both "awe inspiring" and "horrid." And that's exactly what this was.

It was one of the most beautiful events I have ever attended, and the outpouring of love was indeed awe inspiring. And it was also horrid. I didn't want to be anywhere else, and yet I did. not. want. to. be. there.

My pink peony bushes are overflowing right now, touching the earth with their bounty, and earlier in the week, I had thought how I would sneak over to my friend's house this weekend and leave her a large vase to welcome the new arrival. Instead, yesterday, I carefully selected a plant that will bloom delicate purple blossoms each June. The sticky sweet smell of peonies as they wilt is making me ill right now.

Today is also my mother's birthday, and like the day itself, it seemed both fitting and bizarrely macabre. When I called my mother at midnight, I couldn't make it through happy birthday. Instead, I spent most of the phone conversation alternately railing at the universe and marveling at the sheet stupid luck of my own good fortune.

There is no sense in the senseless. But, there is love. So much love for my sweet, sweet friends. I'm so sorry that I never got to meet their beautiful little girl whose arrival was awaited by so many and whose passing is mourned by a multitude.

If you would like a tangible way to share the love, please consider donating to the one the raffles benefiting the families.