settling in
June 26, 2011 § Leave a comment
It has become a routine in an unfamiliar space; I settle our hotel room. This simple act of unpacking and familiarizing creates a source of comfort that centers me for the unpredictable rhythm of days adrift in the boundless space of vacation. Last week, as my family explored a new city, I celebrated my children’s ability to settle naturally in unfamiliar spaces.
My daughter settled in water; her energy and frustrations seemed to wash away where the sky met water and she surfaced serene. Each day she woke dreaming of water and each evening she would center under water. Splashing or floating, each gesture seemed an artful expression of joy.
My son settled in exploration. Each new space created an opportunity for him to release his mind of the weight of questions and delight in new answers. He moved quickly from curiosity to curiosity, pausing to find the source of logic. The social norms that usually confine him fell away under the guise of “tourist” and his joy in the pursuit of knowledge drew other curious travelers to his side.
It was a beautiful week. As we settle back in to our normal routines, I am trying to find moments to capture our new memories in scribbles.
in the bag
June 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
Or not. Packing is an art. Packing for a family an enigma. Still, I felt comfortably confident as we pulled out of our driveway on the verge of vacation that everything we needed was in the proverbial bag. Then our daughter, sent us scavenging for help.
Late on our first full day of vacation our daughter had an accident. Reaching blindly underneath the hotel bed frame for a toy, a stray splinter of wood cut a deep path beneath the nail bed of her pinky finger. My husband tried patiently to retract the stubborn piece of wood while our daughter bravely held her breath between gulping sobs that racked her small frame. Tired and frightened our daughter fell asleep. By morning it was clear we needed help.
In a quiet children’s emergency room we found a friendly community of doctors and nurses that met our daughter’s tears with soothing words and able hands. For all my efforts to predict, plan, and pack we were entirely dependent on strangers for comfort and care. A very warm thanks to the staff at St. Anthony’s in St. Louis.
my father
June 18, 2011 § Leave a comment
Sentiments and memories, unintended, pull on my heartstrings. There are moments in a lifetime when the absence of a parent seems larger than memories and love can fill. My father is alive but absent from my life, acceptance and forgiveness for the path that divided us cannot dull the pieces of the little girl nestled in my heart that wish for my father’s love. Once upon a time he was my hero. Smart and funny, charismatic and handsome, he was the person I tirelessly tried to please. Good and bad, somewhere in the shades of love there are lessons and gifts.
Sometimes our parents model examples that help us choose a healthier path. Standing on the shoulders of their mistakes we look into the horizon and try to map a path that winds around old mistakes. It is a mixed blessing, but a gift. As other’s celebrate their fathers, I am taking a moment to remember a simpler time when it was easier to love mine and to recognize the unintentional lessons I gained as my father’s daughter that guide me as I chart my journey as a mother.
skating by
June 14, 2011 § Leave a comment
Bedtime on a summer evening feels like a sad impossibility to a spirited six-year-old. Bath, books, and kisses signaled the end of another day. For me. The sound of our hall linen closet clicking open and closed combined with the frenzied thumping of little feet racing back to bed told me the evening was young. I called out a firm “good-night” from my side of the hallway, aware the stolen moments are the sweetest. Silence followed and so I tiptoed to my daughter’s doorway curious to discover if sleep or a secret adventure created the absence of sound. This is what I found…
Curled up on her bed, head bent in a determined endeavor, my daughter was tying wash clothes to her feet; one orange and one pink, ends flopping over like terry cloth bunny ears. Her efforts revealed she tipped her head determinedly and declared, I am making skates. Then to demonstrate the significance of the task at hand, she popped off her bed and skated around her room, hardwood floors welcoming the adventure, and I let it pass with a smile.
pyramid
June 5, 2011 § 1 Comment
As an infant my daughter would perform improvisational theater from the confined stage of her crib. I would marvel at the range of tones that infused her dramatic monologues, happily entertained by my daughter’s performances. Six and a half years later she still holds my attention captive in her tangled web of words.
When words replaced my daughter’s sounds I was delighted to accompany her on a journey into language. Yesterday was last night ago. Sit next to me was jumbled in to sit be next to me. The ideas were familiar enough to decode, but the presentation engaging for the subtle rearrangement. She was my Yoda and I absorbed her quandaries like ancient riddles. Amusing she was.
Happily, the tangled lines of daily sharings have been transcribed with the development of written language. As she matures into appropriate sentence structure and corrects occasional word choices, I smile at the endearing, lingering mispronunciation. Every sentence is passionately punctuated with a pyramid. Period.
coded
May 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
My son has his own soundtrack, a stream of sounds and commentary that accompany him as he moves through the world. Sitting beside him in the waiting room of a doctor’s office, he began making sound effects to accompany the portable game that held his attention tightly. I tuned out his familiar sounds and began reading a book. As we waited, distracted and absorbed in our own activities, a new sound joined the space. A young girl making a mechanical click deep in her throat settled into a seat nearby.
Next to me, my son was drawn out of his game curiously enamoured by the stranger’s sounds. His eyebrows drawn together and his brown eyes focused, he watched the girl before asking me simply, Why? The girl’s mother, kind and patient, explained her daughter was trying to communicate in a language of her own. I let the woman’s words guide my son, waiting for his response.
He watched the girl in silence, listening closely. Then, his eyes registered excitement. Moving so that he stood between the girl and her mother, my son sought a conversation in Morse Code. I would love to say they chatted, perhaps they did. Later, we parted ways, my son said good-bye and the girl offered her response. I held the moment close and gave thanks for the kindness of children and the simple language of friendship.
selves
May 19, 2011 § Leave a comment
Before my mother moved away, she left me a box of miscellaneous mementos she had safely stowed away in her basement crawl space. As so often happens, I collected the materials and shelved them in my own home for another day. The box followed us, unmarked and overlooked, into our second home. On a summer day, as we shuffled boxes and bins looking for something and valiantly attempting to make sense of the chaotic contents of our garage, I found pieces of my past in my mother’s castaway clutter.
My daughter, entranced by the random collection accompanied me on my journey through old pictures, assignments, yearbooks, and keepsakes. I introduced my daughter to new chapters of an old story. Among the photographs was an overly posed, professional picture of two teenagers standing close, their awkwardness and affection at once innocent and endearing, familiar and foreign.
At dinner that evening, my daughter’s enthusiasm over her day’s discoveries exclaimed, Mommy has a boyfriend! I smiled at her choice of tense, amused and enchanted that she so naturally merges moments from the past with the present. It is a special gift of time and I am endeared by my daughter’s wish to know each of us, as individuals, among stories and photographs. We introduce her to our selves and she loves us all completely.
censored
May 18, 2011 § 1 Comment
My daughter has an unfortunate, entirely innocent habit of pointing with her middle finger. School-aged and social, it occurred to me I may need to inform the space between my daughter’s unconscious act and outside interpretation. Casually, I suggested she choose another finger for pointing explaining simply that her middle finger alone implies a bad word. Her surprise evident in big, blue eyes wide with wonder she asked in tones of awe, What word?
Aware of her raw curiosity and cautious not to fan the flame, I didn’t name the gesture. Instead, I said it was a word so unkind that even adults shouldn’t say it. She promptly buried her fingers in each ear and with a certainty that bespoke the reassurance of a safety net covering the fragile ground on which we stood she directed me offering, Say the bad word so that I won’t hear it.
I was momentarily befuddled by her logic, curiosity contrasting innocence in tones of authority wrapped in caution. I was called back to my daughter’s wonderment with a new question. Does Daddy know the word?
Without waiting for my response, she flew up the stairs. Breathless and eager she faced her father gesturing pointedly with her forbidden finger and asked, Do you know what this means?*
*We are still working on the answer.
everyday moments
May 15, 2011 § Leave a comment
In my earliest days as a mother I promised myself to absorb each moment with my children; I was mindful that tomorrow comes too soon to wish away today. Still, a memory of my children as infants or toddlers will tease a smile and I relinquish myself to a moment of remembering. Motherhood has gifted me generous portions of gratitude for everyday moments.
Last week a childhood milestone created simple moments of joy. On an uncharacteristically warm day, when the seasons themselves seemed to be misplaced, my daughter emerged from school radiating happiness. I felt the change as my mind read the lines of her face. The raised eyebrows highlighting wide eyes and dimples punctuating a broad smile I leaned into her joy, finding the misplaced tooth. The loose tooth that she had so patiently clung to had slipped free.
My daughter opened a pastel colored, plastic treasure box revealing her tiny tooth and then replaced one treasure for another, casting the tooth aside for a ladybug. This is my daughter, spontaneous and passionate. Clutching both treasures in her fists she began sharing the source of her smile with friends, teachers, and neighbors. I could barely follow her spirited steps, so I kept my eyes on her face marking the subtle change and absorbing her enthusiasm.
Once home, her tooth was set aside. My daughter spent the late afternoon in our backyard, first freeing the ladybug and then filling out her free time between the sandbox, water balloons, baseball, and chalk. Long after her bath, tired eyes and slow footsteps turned frantic as we scoured the house in search of her forgotten tooth. Amidst tears and with urgent efforts, the tooth was found and stored away in the traditional keepsake that had often nestled under my son’s pillow.
As my daughter gave in to sleep I gathered the moment close, momentarily allowing myself to permit a memory of my son’s sleeping form to merge with the present, each child sharing a milestone and my heart full with a simple joy.
the robot
May 9, 2011 § 1 Comment
My son’s mind is perpetually generating new ideas and his pockets weighted with an eclectic assortment of mysterious pieces void of rhyme or reason. His notebooks are filled with blueprints and lists, evidence of philosophical engineering. Filed unsystematically among his homework papers I uncovered a list in his rushed penmanship titled: Robot. He proceeded to map a plan on folded up, forgotten paper.
- take classes
- buy gadgets
- buy equipment
- design robot
- hire volunteer professionals & experts for free
- build parts
- assemble
- etc.
- win Nobel Prize
- pay Dad back
- throw this list away casually
I am missing information, but the self-assurance underlying his plan is spectacular. I wonder when we stop reaching for the moon and focus on the space between our steps.
scribblechic 