Gimme Five (Up High, Down Low)

I can't function today, and I blame Babies R Us.

It was the same sort of day in the very same month, five years or maybe five days ago. The early autumn breeze had swept away the heavy humid air, and the sun laid a coat of crisp, short-sleeved warmth across the sparsely-leaved ground.

He was bundled up to his eyeballs, goodness knows why. Didn't his mother know how to dress a newborn?

Of course she didn't.

She didn't even know that hiccups were normal, that they'd go away on their own. And she hadn't even the sense to google it. She just swirled around the house with the wits and direction of a dust particle. Aimless panic.

"We MUST go to Babies R Us!" she announced.

"You mean right now?" Her husband didn't know better either.

"YES RIGHT NOW!" And the tears and reasons poured out.
"We don't have a baby thermometer or a single fall outfit that fits! And he can't wear his sleepers all day! And he's too small for the sleepers anyway, and what if he gets a fever? How will we know? Oh, and there's another hiccup. Yes, I'm going. Right NOW."

And so I, er, I mean she went.

And that was five years ago, not exactly to the day. But close enough to make me weep uncontrollably after perusing the newborn sleepers this morning in Babies R Us. Of course now it is for my friend's baby. And I know now how to handle hiccups and nursing strikes and that my friend will never use that baby wipe warmer she registered for. Yes, I'll be the wise and knowing old lady mom at the baby shower on Saturday.

But today I am just a mess. The first day of Kindergarten came and went without a tear from either party. But five? Five YEARS? I can't stop thinking back to when he was five days or five weeks. I can't stop simultaneously grieving and applauding as he walks farther from the womb and further down the path he is making for himself.

I promised myself I wasn't going to do a big gushy birthday post. But I forgot to make myself swear not to fall into an emotional heap next to the exersaucers. Maybe next year I'll be more prepared. I'll write up a contract and make myself sign it, and in no uncertain terms am I to set foot in Babies R Us in September.

So happy, so weepy. Up high, down low. But always (and forever) in love with the boy who turned me into a mama.

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She Cannot Stand a Standstill

Those little feet were tap, tap, tapping. And not in an Irish jig way. In a it's time to get goin', under my feet, baby, grass is growin' way.

Those little legs belong to the girl who shouted at her mother to "go faster!" as she kicked back in the jogger and giggled. (It was a very effective personal training technique, no matter how much her mother complained).

Those cotton-clad toes wiggled while we idled at the stoplight this morning. And when she could no longer stomach the standstill, she bellowed in the deepest tone available in 2T size, "C'MON PEOPLE!!" (And then repeated it about a dozen more times after she heard her mommy snicker.)

Oh yes, she heard the "C'MON PEOPLE!" line from the lady driver up front. More than once, if you can imagine. And don't be fooled by that lady's flip-flops and freckles and babbling on about days at the beach. That lady is not even slightly laid back.

And apparently neither is her little girl.

Again, don't let her pensive, peaceful look deceive you. Had you seen her before or after the snap of this shot, you'd know she was squirming on the door step plotting her escape.

Because C'MON PEOPLE! We have places to go, people to see, and we simply cannot stand a standstill.

She is my little girl, after all.

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I'm linking this up to Melissa's Show & Tell Monday. She taught us several weeks ago to attempt portraits in the door frame to make use of the light without it coming straight in the subject's face. As you can see from the photo, my subject was less than cooperative. She scooted right into the sun and promptly began enacting her exit strategies. So I resorted to taking a picture of her feet. Her feet may never stop moving, but at least they don't squint.
And I swear Melissa is a far better teacher than my show and tell posts let on. Really and truly!

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Ninety-Nine Red Baboons Go By

We came home from a party last night double-fisting the treats. A cup full of favors and a balloon for each.

Just as Dani won't take her eyes off her treasure, won't let go for a second, I'm holding on to something too.

I'm holding on to the way she calls it a "red baboon", to the way she begs to put on her "swimming soup", and to how she calls me "Mama" like she's still my baby.

They played with the balloons until bedtime and from waking until breakfast, from breakfast and beyond. "Baboon" wars are being waged as I type. But no matter how tightly they clutch the string, the balloons won't be airborne for much longer.

The balloons shrink, and my babies grow.

And soon baboons will be balloons, soups will be suits, and mama will be mother.

But for now, we all hold on to our red baboons.

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Growing on Me

You know you're getting old when your to do list includes one-liners like "bills" and "weed". And by weed, you mean of course the kind you pull, not smoke.

You know you're getting old when you tell your children that "all you want for your birthday is a clean house and good attitudes." (Thank you, Mother dearest. I finally understand why you said this every stinkin' year.) And tell me, children, why is it so hard to give your mother what she asks, hmm?

You know you're getting old when you spend all your birthday money to outsource your responsibilities. I splurged to hire my friend the Wild Weeding Woman. She's going to show up at my house next week to help me weed and cut back the perennials. (Hey, would you look at that? I know a real gardening word! I used that in the proper context all by myself! Aren't ya proud?). Oh, and I also splurged to hire a babysitter. I know. It's really too much excitement for one paragraph.

You know you're getting old when you wear yourself out just watching your children run rectangles in the driveway. Caed set up a course with four corners, using boogie boards and sidewalk chalk. Of course, Dani refused to fit her circled self into a rectangular race, and instead purposefully crashed her tricycle over and over. And laughed every time. Do you know how hard it is to crash a tricycle? Well, it's a piece of cake for Dani. She laid it out like a beach blanket.

You know you're getting old when things that happened yesterday actually happened five years ago.

You know you're getting old when you can't gaze at her eyes and not feel a tear coming on.

You know you're getting old when you find yourself happy in a wallflower, white noise, barely notice it kind of way.

Not wild screamy happy like the time your high school boyfriend (no longer yours and off to college) sent you a dozen red roses all the way from California for your Sweet 16. Or nearly falling off the cliff happy like the time the aforementioned high school boyfriend turned college boyfriend asked you to marry him in the shadow of Half Dome.

But messy, sweet kind of happy, like the time you shared a gorgeous view and the best morning buns in the entire universe with your family and then watched them running off the sugar buzz up and down and up the hill.

And if this is what it's like to grow older, well, then growing older is definitely growing on me.

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High Light at Low Tide

When we woke widely to alarms of morning, squabbling gulls and crows and a squeal from my early bird to enter the fray.

When the sun climbed swiftly the rungs of sky, stepping on fog's fingers until it fell to its demise.

When the tide rolled back the blue tarp, unveiling sand bridges cove to cove, a masterpiece carved by insomniac waves.

When all these joined hands, we were caught in the circle's middle and pulled as willing captives to a morning at the beach.

This was the first day in all our seasons when we saw the sandbar at its highest and the water at its lowest, and it felt like a brand new place.

Wearing the watermarks of every tidal pool we'd passed, my two lined up dripping handed to pull me forward.

"We can get over there to the other side. It's not too deep! C'mon!" Caed tugged.

"C'mon!" Dani echoed.

Not halfway through and the water at Dani's waste, both sister and brother recanted their courage.

"Back! Back!" they shouted. And we all reversed course.

But the appeal of the unprinted sand on the opposite shore was strong, and we'd no sooner turned around, then we were back at it again.

And again we retreated.

And then a third time, but no charm. The tide crept higher to cover markings of morning, and the water grew only deeper.

So we crossed back over sparkled bridges, back to familiar blanket and shore, and eventually home.

A few days later, Caed blurted from the back seat. "Mommy! I thought of something we forgot to try to get us across that water to those other tidal pools."

"We did?" I couldn't imagine what.

"We forgot to pray to God," he offered.

I smiled sideways, lips pursed, a patronizing "how sweet" on the tip of my tongue. Then I pressed, "And how would that have helped us?"

"You know, with power and stuff," he began.

"Like to help us to not be afraid and to do our best?" I suggested.

"Well, more like, because God, well...I think He would have made the water just the right size for me."

He hadn't heard flannelgraphed stories of parted waters or of strides taken above the sea. Yet he already imagined God to be more powerful and personal than my grown-up construct would allow.

He saw no reason God wouldn't resize the Atlantic just for him.
It didn't seem foolish, not to a little boy, that the God who fixed limits for the sea and set its doors and bars in place, who said, "This far you may come and no farther; here is where your proud waves halt'", that this God could lead him safely across.

I savored his statement of sweet foolish faith, even as I doubted.

Weeks later I still waver between dismissal and belief, all the while knowing I am the foolish one to etch limits around the Limitless. I say "Nothing is impossible!", but retreat to a plausible position, far away from the deep water, as soon as the words escape.

And so I pray.

I pray for faith the size of a mustard seed, or of a little boy, the kind of faith that can move mountains and oceans and a hardened heart like mine.

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Beware the Underground Day Spas

Just a quick announcement. The Salon de Boudreaux is now open for business. Apparently I let Dani go too long without the necessary beauty treatments, so she took matters into her own hands this morning. She's a go-getter, that one.

When there wasn't a peep from her room at 6:30 a.m., I said a prayer of thanks and made coffee. Fifteen minutes later, Caed came downstairs and wondered if it was still night time. And if not, then why wasn't Dani up?

"Good question," I said. "She's probably sleeping in. But let's go peek in on her just to make sure."

I rounded the corner in time to hear Caed shout, "Oh my goodness! She's into some SEER-ious mischief!"

Let me paint the picture.

I opened the door to find a buck naked two year old, standing on a chair, straining to reach the top of her bookshelf, her bum glistening from the two tons of Aquaphor she had slathered ALL OVER.

But really, can you blame her? With all the societal/marketing pressure put on these toddlers to keep up their "smooth as a baby's butt" skin and maintain that "sweet baby smell", it's no wonder they're creating underground (or perhaps just under-the-bed) day spas. It starts too young. It really does. That said, the answer to the question at the beginning of this paragraph is YES. I could most definitely blame her.

She turned and flashed a smile, "I p'itty Mama?" She of course meant to say "pretty", but "pity" was a more suitable word. Because who wouldn't pity the mama who had to clean up a widely distributed tub of Aquaphor, half a tube of A&D, and the remainder of the lavender calming cream? Not to mention a very greasy toddler?

And what a rotten time to run out of calming cream. Because YES, we could stand to get a little dollop of calm right about now. Please, just a few drops on my hands so I don't start a fire with all the wringing and clenching.

Luckily, I have a stash of calming cream for grown-ups tucked away in the kitchen for occasions such as this. It's called Baileys.

Oh I kid. I'd never drink Baileys so early in the morning.

At least not without some coffee in it.

Good thing I had already made coffee.

But seriously, I can give thanks that at least the green glitter incident from last Wednesday was separate and apart from today's beauty treatment gone awry. Because can you imagine if she had taken hold of that glitter while she was covered in Aquaphor? Can you say human art project?

And just in case you want to see the look on her face when she was caught, this is TOTALLY it.

Granted, this picture was taken in a totally different context. But if I had tried to snap a picture before the crime scene was cleaned up, I guarantee you this post would have turned into a plea for help on how to remove petroleum jelly from a camera lens....

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A Time to Laugh

There is a time to cry and a time to laugh. And Friday? Friday is a time to laugh.
Even if we must resort to laughing about falling down.

My mom taught me never to laugh at the misfortune of others, but I'm going to ignore her just this once because OH MY WORD, if ever there was a reason to make an exception, it's this little video clip:



So when you're done laughing with me, then go laugh with Amber for Friday Funnies. There's bound to be enough funny on Friday to propel us all into the weekend with a smile, right?

But a quick word of advice: When you step out to enjoy the weekend, do it with flat shoes on your feet. Because apparently even the professionals are rendered weeble-wobbly in the ever lovely but terribly dangerous platform shoes. (Oh, and it looks like I get the award for referencing the obscure 70s toy known as the Weeble Wobble three times in just one week. I hope the award is a Weeble Wobble, because those little things crack me up in a mature three year old sort of way.)

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No Use Fighting It, Right?

It is sunny.
It is warm.
It is Friday.
It is inevitable....

Have a wonderful weekend!

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I'm Only a Kid

No sooner did I write about my weeble wobbleness, then I read this excerpt from Prince Caspian (part of The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis):

"Welcome Prince," said Aslan. "Do you feel yourself sufficient to take up the kingship of Narnia?"

"I, I don't think I do, Sir," said Caspian. "I'm only a kid."

"Good," said Aslan. "If you had thought yourself sufficient, it would have been proof that you were not."

"Therefore under us and under the high king, you shall be king......"

I am coming to terms with the foolishness of my faith. How it makes one so vulnerable and dependent and insufficient and yet so protected and capable and fully equipped.

At 35, I can't say "I'm only a kid." But I often feel like one. My feet seem too small to fill the shoes. My patience, too short to measure up.

"I'm only a failure," I say as I fumble for an excuse not to step forward.

And that's when He reminds me that what I am (a kid, a failure) is not the point. It is what He has made and will make of me that matters.

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Weebles Wobble But They Don't Fall Down

And this is motherhood.
I pray for a spring in my step
And get a slinky in my shoe.
They look like twins.

But tell that to the mother
Who just fell head over heels
Over head
Over heels
Down the stairs.

I begged for bread, not stone.
For energy, not exhaustion.
Yet I'm twisted and breaking
Like a blasted slinky.

If I define good gifts differently, so what?
Why is His version the only one that counts?
Maybe He adorns me in these ankle wobblers
So I'm forced to hold His hand
All the time.
Whether on wheel-screeched parking lots
Or hop-scotched sidewalks.

So that I might
Stumble,
But not be hurled headlong?

Yes.
Maybe that's it.


p.s. I didn't really fall on a slinky. Sorry to disappoint. That was just a metaphor or word picture or whatever it's called these days. And that's not really a poem up there. It's just me taking the easy way out so I could post these thoughts without worrying about sentence structure.

p.p.s. Somebody (not me) took that lovely photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/auntiep/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.

p.s.(cubed): Okay, maybe it was sort of a poem. It's just that nothing makes me feel more foolish than posting a poem. Except maybe singing a solo or tripping in my high heels, only one of which I've done in the past twenty years. Can you guess which one?

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