Sophie's prayer

Sophie age 6

"Please let the night come smoothly...
Help my heart be brave and strong and ready for tomorrow."

~Sophie's prayer~

Every night I stand on the top wrung of Sophie's bunk bed and hold her hand.
I listen to her voice as it reaches out in prayer.
It trickles slowly.  It is early run-off from a white mountain still frozen.
She asks for help to accept her step-parents exactly as they are.
She says thank you for her little brother and sister, even though they drive her crazy.
She asks Nannie Bonnie and Kitty to take care of each other.  They have both passed on, and we assume they are in the same place, together.
She asks for help to let her gymnastics unfold each day.
Her wording is abstract and poetic.
She takes long pauses in between.
In the end she breaths deep and exhales, "Amen."
Then she reaches for me with arms too strong for her small body.
She pulls me in and whispers, "I love you Mom."


Some nights I am so tired, I almost wish she would forget to pray.
She never does.  My tired toes grip the wooden ladder and my burning eyes close.
I hear the trickle.  It is clear and fresh every time.
And I am put in my place once again.
I remember a simple truth.
It takes 2 minutes.
2 minutes to grow an integrity strong enough to carry me through a lifetime.
This is the best I can hope for.
I hope she walks into the world with roots so thick and so deep that no wind can uproot her.

Sophie's eyes see so much...

mundane angel

opening presents with Mom

Yesterday we celebrated Beckam's first birthday.
Cars...Cars...and more cars.
He is in the laundry room right now grumbling an engine sound to himself.
He is driving in and out of the funnel shaped concrete where the laundry water drains.
"I taught him that," Andrew says every time Beckam vrooms his car.




Most baby boys acquire this skill.
All of my brothers did.
Next comes the machine gun sound.
It is more sophisticated.  He probably won't get it until kindergarten.
Beckam doesn't do anything original, not yet.


family birthday party at Christmas

Maybe none of us ever do.

When I studied art in school, I thought this was the goal.
To paint the most original, one-of-a-kind.
Now I realize even the biggest names never did that.
Van Gogh painted the view from his asylum window.
He painted the sunflowers on his kitchen table.
Monet painted his own backyard.
We can only recreate what we know.

The point is not to be different.
It is to be mindful...to know more.
It is to record all of it.  The mundane.  The simple.  The colors.



me reading.  Beckam escaping

I just took a break to hold Beckam up to the light switch and let him turn it off and on.
I see his two bottom teeth because his mouth hangs open.  He breathes slow.  His baby breath floats up into my nose.  He kicks his feet every time the light changes.  We could do this for an hour.

I put him down and go to my computer.
I am reading about the Sandy Hook Elementary shooting.
26 people were killed.  20 children...20 children...I can't understand this reality.
I read about one of the fathers.  He is speaking out already, about his daughter, Emilie. 
I read about Emilie Parker. 
He describes her as an angel.  A bright spirit who was sensitive to the feelings of others.
I am crying.  She is real.  I can't believe it, and I realize it at the same time.
Beckam's little fingers grasp my pants.  He is looking up at me with all 4 teeth, and wild orange hair.
I scoop him into my lap and hold his cheek to mine.  I hum to him, "I love you buddy..I love you.."


walking

He lets me do this for a long time.  His quiet matches mine.
He pulls away and looks into my eyes.  He is comforting me.  This happens often with my kids, but it is always a surprise.  I am in awe at his intuition.  This may sound silly, but to a mother, it is not.
They are the same.
Emilie and Beckam. "...sensitive to the feelings of others...bright angel...."
They do not need to be different to be precious.
Beckam is mine to experience, for now, and hopefully for a long time.

The only way I know how to honor the families who lost their angels is to care for mine.
To be mindful of them.

This sounds like a simple ideal, and it is.
But had I not sat down to write today,  I would forget.
This is why writing is vital.  Because I cannot always realize my life as I am living it.

Sardines

I've been missing writing - and also not missing it.
I mean, it's more than that.
I miss the self who writes.
She is in a coma, waiting until energy may be spared for her.
I ache for the sleep which is absorbed by every person in this family.

Beckam turns 1 tomorrow.
He squawks every time I walk away from him.
Squawk is an understatement.
He sounds more like a hyena or a shrill monkey from some desert market place.
My ears are raw and nervous from this noise, from the anticipation of it.

I told Andrew last night,
"I wanna drop kick that kid."
I can kick pretty far. He'd go at least across the street.
He's the perfect size for punting.

Of course, instead I pray.
I reach deep into the well and hope for a bit more water so I don't go stale.
I mash fingers into my cheeks and push all air in my lungs, out.
At 11:30 last night it was Sophie, Pepper, Andrew and myself all sardined into my bed.
"Come here, Mom," Sophie urges. With her 10 year-old gymnast arms she holds me.
Age melts.
"We've all gotta go through it," She says.

Beckam wails against the door of the other room.
I can hear from his cry that he is chewing on the wood of his crib.
We huddle there while Beckam works himself into a crescendo of gasping and coughing.
Shit. I think he's going to puke.
I go in to prevent the vomit and find him hanging onto the bars for dear life.

My boy is roaring out, and he is demanding we make room.
I heave him up and out of his cage.
I shush, I rock, I kiss. He still cries, thrashes, and gnaws on his blanket.
His body is too big for me to hold.
I feel inadequate.
But I cradle him anyway until he is asleep.
I lay him back down...tip-toe... he pops up for round 2 of crying.
I exhale, leave the sardines to their can, and do the only thing I know to do.
I get in the shower.
I pray again.
I let the water rain a curtain down, like the thick, velvet drapes of a theatrical stage.
There is no role for me to play in here.
I stay for a long time.
If the hot water would never run out, I would sleep in here.
When I turn off my curtain, the cold rushes against my wet skin, and also the quiet.
Finally.

I remember my original sardine can.
We huddled close through so many storms.
Now one of my family has lost their soul mate...their penguin.
And we are immediately sucked in tight around the pain.
We cannot make it untrue...but at least no one suffers alone.

Happy poop

post-baby powder fight - Pepper won

I remember Grandma telling me about weight loss after her 4 boys.
"I never had to exercise. I burned enough calories just chasing them around."
I wonder, 'Is this what is happening to me?"

My dinner last night equaled five bites of mac n cheeze and a fish stick.
The toddler diet, just add todders, and it's quite affective.
Beckam started walking on Thanksgiving.
I now have 2 toddlers.
He woke up at 5 a.m.
It is now 5:44 a.m.
He is quarantined in the bath tub, banging his toys against the porcelain, and nibbling a graham cracker.
Everyone else is asleep. In about an hour, Beckam will go back to sleep, and the rest of them will rise. I am the only person awake for all of it. I average 5-6 hours of sleep per night. On a good night, those hours are all in a row.

Mom is the hottest commodity in this place.
She is me. 
Funny thing is, she represents only one facet of me.
Yet I am her about 78% of the time, even with my eyes closed.
This time, here at my computer, is one of the only spaces where I am not "Mom."

a bath fixes everything

Other times are:

in the shower (sometimes)

driving in the car alone to pick up Sophie from gymnastics when I get to listen to my own music.

in bed with Andrew right before we both pass out mid-conversation, my head in the crook of his shoulder and his tattoos.

Running

For about 10% of weekdays, I am Art teacher.
However, this also involves children...other people's children.
50 of them...in one day.

I suppose this is why I can go for days without writing.
Because it is easier not to hope for time.
I don't want to start and get interrupted.
It is like a tiny heart-break when I hear their voices at the top of the stairs.
"MOOooooOOOm"
But just like heart-break, there is love in it.
So I get up from the computer, spread my smile on, and greet them.
Pepper's tossled hair pokes out from around the door jamb.
She looks lost and still dreaming.
I scoop up her onsie-feet from the linoleum and hold her like a baby.
"My girl...I am so happy to see you.  Did you have a good sleep?"
To which she rubs her eyes, grins and nods.
______________________________________________________

I can hear Beckam in the bathroom grunting...

Explosion.
Poop out the top of his jeans.
I get it on my hands as I try to take his clothes off.
I'll be good if I can get his shirt over his head without smearing crap in his hair.
At least it's not diarrhea anymore.
I am happy to see this poop.

Now it is 6:23.
My time is up.

 both asleep in Beckam's crib

Thanksgiving

No one ever takes pictures of me.
Sometimes I feel left out and wish I could see myself reflected in these memories.
Over time, they will be the only evidence to remind me, any of this ever happened.
But my actual face is not the only depiction of Sarah.
In a way, these people tell more about me than a million portraits of my face.
I care for these people.
I do their laundry.
I bake them cookies.
I hold them until they fall asleep...Andrew included.

When I look back, I will not see my own face, I'll see theirs.

I will see Beckam looking up at me from a midnight rocking chair with his blanky in his fingertips.

This is our family on Thanksgiving.
Beckam waddled around the gym.
He took his most ambitious steps on this day.
He stood watching the older boys playing
basketball, hypnotized.
Sophie and I had a hand-stand contest.
We collided into each other as we walked on palms to keep our balance.
I wondered if his family thought me ridiculous.
A grown woman trying to do a walkover, which I could barely pull off.
I had to bicycle my legs franticly to make it over.
Sophie laughed so hard that no sound came out.
Her mouth gaping and tears in her eyes.
We ended up collapsed on the gym floor, shirts up over our bellies, hair splayed wide.

 



Pepper of course, nibbled on mints from a tiny box.  I think she really is a fairy. 

On our way home, Andrew and I talked logistics.  How are we going to proceed with this family?  We need to buy a house.  Which means we need to save $7,000 for a down payment.  This is the scary part.  We sacrifice everything for these tiny moments with our children.  So much happens behind the scenes.  Things they never see.  I am glad it is this way.  I am content to work backstage so they can shine.

Note to Beckam

  

Dear Beckam

Please stay asleep all night.
I can't be mad at you for causing me to loose sleep.  I know it is not intentional.
But this has been going on for 2 weeks, this cold.
And we both need to rest.

I can't help but to cuddle your thick chunk of body in the rocking chair, no matter how much mucus shoots from your nose.

I will remember you as the baby I rocked through snow storms.
Quiet living rooms in delicate winter hours.
Our time set apart from the rest of life.  Just you and I and the snowfall.
Your grumbly little cry turning to a story of things I feel but can't put into words.
I understand, and I tell you so,
"I know little buddy...I know."

I smooth your red hair, my red hair, along your wide forehead.
You are my only red-head.
The only one with my orange zest.
It makes me love both of us more.
Your forehead has a dark flower of bruise on one side.  This bruise is always with you.  It migrates, but I can always find it.  Evidence of your efforts to walk.  Already you are a rugby player.

Today you blew bubbles in the bath with Sophie.
She is sick, but she smiled at you.

Pepper was in hysterics watching you stick your monkey butt into the air and push your truck across the kitchen.

I will miss you this way,  perhaps more than any other baby.  I don't know why.
But I will encourage you to grow up, just as I have the others.
Even though I ache to think of the Beckam I held today, turning into someone else.
Someone bigger. 
Someone less innocent.
Someone who thinks he's not supposed to cry.
Someone I can't rock in the living room snow.

3 am

It is 3 am
Beckam is awake.
He has glow-in-the-dark mucus coming out of his eyes and nose.
He can't stay asleep.
I laid awake listening to him grumble and yell to himself for an hour.
He almost talked his body into going back to sleep.
But the mucus won.
So now he is lying on the couch watching Baby Einstein's.
At least the soundtrack is Mozart.
He was threatening to wake the whole house, so I had to do something.

Just before I got out of bed, I floated in euphoria.
Like being drunk or in love for the first time.
I could have stayed there forever.  I was that tired and that comfortable.
Every piece of my body slotted into the mattress as if I was packed for shipping.
I laid perfectly still, soaked it in for 3 more seconds, took a deep breath through my nose and threw the covers off.

The only way I've made it through motherhood is by telling myself, 'This is temporary.'
I don't want to miss it because I am angry at the incovenience.
There is something much more important going on here.
I lay my cheek next to Beckam's cheek.
I rock in him in the snowy living room.
"I'm sorry you are suffering.  I'm sorry you are sick little Buddy."
His mass always surprises me when I hold him.
He is a pint sized football player, which seems a ridiculous thing to cuddle.
But he will become a man.  Now is my chance. 
Now is my chance to fill him up before he realizes that I am a woman and he is a man.
When my babies are newborn, it feels like I am pouring something out of myself and into them.  I am bringing them to life, like watering a plant.
It is the thing that makes the light.  The light which makes it impossible to ignore love, impossible not to care even when it's hard.  They will need it more than anything else.  And I don't want to miss a chance to give it to them.

Now it is 3:39 am
I think he may be ready to go back to sleep, and hopefully I can too.

Birth story

Beckam the moment after birth 2011

I just got home from watching Birth Story at the library.
It is a documentary about Ina May Gaskin.
She is a pioneer of midwifery.
She has been a witness to natural birth for 40 years.

Now the whole world is quiet.  It is distilled into one fact. 

I have done that. 

Three times, I have done that.  I know it is real.


I know what it feels like to hold a new life up under my chin the second it hits the air.  I know the full body shudder and release from pain which follows the second a baby is born.  I know Andrew's forehead pressed into mine as I get ready to push.  He centers me one more time, and then I go into my center and groan out a sound I never make at any other time.   I surrender my whole body.  It's the only way to finish. 
It's hard to write about because I go to a place with no words.  But I want to write about it because I am afraid I'll forget.

I invited a newly-pregnant woman to the screening.  Last week I asked her if she'd like to learn about natural birth.
She gave me a blank look. 
In the last 3 days I've shown her 2 documentaries:  Birth Story and The Business of Being Born.
She is not blank anymore.

As I drove my mini-van through downtown city lights, the phone up to my ear, I was smiling, and crying.  Not really crying,  just the small tears that come when I hear truth echoed back to me.  I was listening to that same girl bursting with words.  She wants it.  Not everyone wants it, but she does, and I did.  I wanted it, bad.


Look at me.  Hooked up to nothing.  3 minutes post birth

My mom told me,
"If you have your baby naturally, without drugs, you experience all of it.  It's harder than anything you'll ever do.  And once you do it, it becomes a source of strength that no one can ever take away from you."
My Mom has birthed 7 babies this way.
My aunt Lucy has birthed 10.
This is the legacy of birth in my family.
It is rare.

So now I am the one to tell pregnant women, what was said to me.
If no one had ever told me, I would have missed the depth of my own capacity...of what birth had to teach me.
I didn't have eyes to see it.

I have stumbled into the role of doula.
I don't have to sell anything.
I just tell women about what birth can be.
And they say:  I want to do that.  Will you come with me?  Will you help me?
What can I do but say:  Of course.  Of course I'll be there.
It's the only way I don't forget what it is.
Because a spiritual experience will never stay fresh in my pocket.



The moment of staring and staring and staring...

Pepper and that crazy tongue right after birth 2009

 

 

Andrew Beckam and I at the birth center 2011

Why I love pictures

I was looking through my pictures this morning, and I was amazed at how much life we've lived.

With kids it all changes so fast.  At least I can look back and appreciate it all over again.

This is just 11 seconds worth of Beckam.

Learning to stand June 2012



Gorilla baby at Liberty park June 2012




Crawling at Heritage park August 2012




Rock climbing in Ferguson's October 2012





borrowing a Harley Dude's scarf at Backstreet club October 2012




Hulk Baby October 2012




early morning sunshine August 2012




Riding the turtle at Liberty park October 2012




Car ride taken by Sophie October 2012




Those odd toddler seats in the bathroom at Smith's September 2012




Leslie's wedding October 2012



climb into the leaves



Sophie took this one.  She has an eye.



It was Saturday afternoon.  I had promised Sophie, friends and myself that we'd go climbing.  I had lost my voice 2 days ago, and my throat felt like a burning straw.  Not even a whole straw, but the kind you get with a Capri Sun.  My muscles were thin and asleep.  I started sweating just from walking up the stairs.

How can I take 4 kids up the canyone today?

Then I remembered how many times I've put one foot in front of the other and walked into beauty.  No matter how tired. 

One step at a time, Sarah.  Okay.  What have I got to loose?

Look what I gained.

Thank you Kai for the backpack and for sharing your joy of climbing.

Thank you Sophie, Beach and Pepper for your play and smiles.

Thank you Gary for carrying Pepper down the trail.

Thank you Katrina for appearing magically again.

Thank you Scott for your huff, puff, squeal up the 5.11.

Thank you AB for your heart.

Thank you Cody for the use of your finger-nail clippers.  You are a magician.

Thank you to my body for cooperating.

Grace is all around me.  My life is saturated with it.

 



Best friends down the trail





Beckam, Katrina and I at the base of climb



Beckam's cradle



He was so tired he nearly bobbed right out of the pack



brings back memories of Sophie as a baby



no shortage of imagination or beauty here



Date Night

Half way through the movie I slipped my feet into Andrew's lap.

His hands warm my popcycle toes.

We started out as strangers.

He munched popcorn all through the previews.

I sat indian style in my seat, not moving, hearing him crunch.

He tries to be quiet, but I can still hear it.

The movie is about love.

Real love.

It is about us.

Two hours pass.

The credits roll black and white into the ceiling.

I look over at him.
"I know you still love me."

"I do," and he looks soft.  He is not the same man who was frantically scrubbing dishes in our kitchen two hours ago, trying to make it to the movie on time.  He is not the one who comes home and opens the bills with scrunched up forehead, ignoring the kids.  Ignoring me. 

He is the one who wrapped arms around me on a summer boat when the wind moved fast over our bare skin.
"We used to be like that," he says.
"I know.  And now we are somebodies Mom and Dad.  Isn't it crazy?"
Our foreheads touch and eyes close.  I feel a tear in mine.
"It happened so fast," he says.

"I know.  But I'm so glad you're doing it with me.  Thank you for doing it with me," my voice cracks and I am really crying.  Right here in the dark theatre, I can't help it.  I don't want to help it.  I want him to know.

"Do you think I'm crazy for crying right here?" I ask.
"No," and he means it.  He knows.
We sit huddled into each other.

We are the only people in the theatre.

When a girl needs her Dad

I call my Dad on the way to the hospital.

He was about the 5th person I tried.  He should have been the first.

He answered.

"Dad?"

My voice breaks and sounds like someone else. 

"What's going on honey?"

"Well, I'm just on my way up to Primary Children's.  Sophie hurt her arm in gym.  Jeff called.  I just needed to talk to someone, I guess..  Beckam was up all night from 12:30-5:30 in the morning.  I got no sleep.  He's been crying all day cuz he's teething and constipated.  I can't handle one more thing, but I have to..."

"Oh...yeah...it can be exhausting.  Even Mom's resolve runs out sometimes, huh?"

He recognizes where I am.  His voice runs delicate over my sharp edges, smoothing them back into human form.  I am a little girl again.  I wonder if this is the most honest identity I have.

"...Then the kitty killed a mouse and Pepper got all worried.  I had to distract her so she didn't see Spock bite the mouses' head off and start eating it. Beckam is inconsolable.  I don't know how to help him.  It's all just too sad.  I've been running around, buying prune juice.  Then he pooped in the bath..."  I sob and ramble.  My rant runs itself out.  I catch my breath.

"Feel better?'  he asks?

Sniffle..."Yes."  I let out a little gurgly laugh, cuz I know it's both ridiculous and not.  I am a paradox on wheels right now.

"Yes, I am okay.  I just pulled up to the hospital.  Thanks Dad.  I think I can go in there now."

"You're welcome, honey.  Call me when you're done."

I walk in.  Sophie is perched on the bed smiling.

Jeff is solid next to her.

I take my place in the chair beside him.

It is quiet.

We are waiting, holding space for Sophie.

The longer we are there, I can feel Jeff's concern growing.

He lets out a pondering "Hmmm..."

Maybe I have more intuition about him than I thought.

We spend 3 hours in the E.R.

They X-ray Sophie's arm.

"What's that?"

Jeff identifies a tiny chip of bone off to the side in the grey and black image.

"Oh, that's probably just a growth plate," says the X-ray tech.

Nope.

It's not a growth plate.

It's a piece of bone she pulled off when her elbow dislocated.

"I DID break my arm!  I knew it!  I knew something wasn't right in there!!"  She is excited by the novelty of it.

Her best friend from gym calls.  They are giddy and swapping stories.  The nurse comes in with the splint.

"K.  I gotta go Beach.  They're here to put on my cast."  Still smiling.

I take Sophie home.  Her dad is scheduled at the fire station in the morning.  I look over my shoulder to see tears in her eyes.  I know.

"You don't want Dad to go, huh?"

Her bottom lip trembles.  She didn't let him see her cry, but I know too much.  

"I know Sof.  Even if we were still together, he'd still have to go to the station...ya know?'

She nods her head and the tears fall over the rim of her eyes, down her cheek.

I put my hand on her knee and look into her.  

"I called my Dad on the way here.  Sometimes you just need your Dad, huh?"

She nods again and shudders at the truth of my statement.

We drive home.  

I point out the city lights to her.

I used to sit at the top of the driveway growing up in L.A. and watch them twinkle, my Dad beside me.

Maybe it only happened once.  But it was enough for me to hold onto.

"You know why I was so happy in the hospital, Mom?  Cuz I needed you and you were both there.  Not just one of you...both of you."

A Single Stem

Flipping through the pictures on my camera I realize, there are few of Sophie.

She unfolds into thoughtful, creative stuff all the time.  I miss it.

Just like the unruly kids in class, the toddler and baby get the most attention.

While the brilliant student off in in the corner is unlocking Algebra's secrets, nobody notices.

concentrated painting with her new easel

She cooks her own recipes in her wok.  She doesn't even need a stool anymore.  I let her use the chef's knife on her own.  It's as long as her arm.  I have my dad to thank for that.  He gave us a 2 foot machete to hack down bamboo in the backyard when I was 10.

Sophie makes art with a recklessness and frustration which I feel too.  She is rarely satisfied with the 

artistic process.  She would rather bounce her body off the ground.

She reads books to her siblings with gusto and sing-song kid voice.  On nights when my patience is thinner than a coffee filter, she steps in with fresh face and gentle hands.

Yesterday she constructed a Science lab and melted wax into dried leaves.  It included a tiny notebook where she took note of her observations.

She arranges beautiful table settings.  She wants everyone to come join her.  Sometimes I never make it to her table.  I remember the magic of fancy dishes.  Grandma Kappos would let me use any glass in the cupboard.  It was like a full bar in there.  She had every kind of glass you could imagine.  It made my tummy turn just looking at them.  My breathing got real quiet as I'd peer into the musty shelf.  I'd lift a single stem out so slowly and set it on the counter, like picking roses.  The day I broke one, she didn't even get mad.  She just said, 

"Well, glasses break."  Then she smiled.

Today, I will take Sophie to the 2nd hand store and buy some fancy glasses.  We will get apple cider and pick flowers.  It's time for a girls night.  She needs to know how precious she is.  When Grandma let me use her fancy glasses, I thought, "Wow, she must really trust me."

I'd leave feeling quite capable and tall.

"Ruthluess Toothless" 2009

made her own dinner complete with  flute of Strawberry milk 2010

showing off muscles with Monica at the U of U gymnastics meet 2011

reading the Mommy book to Beckam on Mother's day 2012