Leaving Beckam

 Looking at these pictures I realize I hardly knew Beckam yet.  He was only 2 months old, and still very much asleep.
I only knew him as delicate, dependent and a little spunky with his shock of orange hair.
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Now he is 9 months old and nearly walking.
He loves to push full-sized kitchen chairs around the house.
He eats piles of spaghetti with his whole fist.
He smiles at strangers.  He just learned how to wave goodbye using his entire arm.
He dances with Pepper in his crib, holding onto the bars and bouncing his enormous baby butt.
He really does have a big butt...even for a baby.
Every day he falls and bruises his head.  There is a permanent dark spot on the crest above his eye. He is tougher now.  Sturdy, like a pair of Carhardt pants.

 When it's just he and I alone in the quiet house, I lay belly to belly with him.  I stare into his eyes and whisper how I adore him.  I tell him I'm sorry for the times he is scared and I can't get to him right away.  I tell him Sophie loves him, and Pepper loves him.  I tell him his Dad is going to be too hard on him and I won't be able to ease that.  I tell him it's because his Dad loves him and wants him to be strong.  I tell him his Dad is a dying breed of man, and he is lucky to have him.  I thank him for coming to our family.

Lately I've been explaining to him that I am going away.
I am going to Lake Powell for a week and he's going to stay with Aunt Nennie and Grandma.  I tell him,
"You'll be okay.  Sometimes you will feel really sad.  You'll cry and wonder where I am.  You'll want me to hold you but I won't be there.  I'm sorry for that.  Nennie will snuggle you and Grandma will get your blanky.  Pepper will be there and Sophie and your cousin Max. Uncle Brad with the big muscles and deep voice may hold you too.  I know it won't be the same.  But I promise I'm coming back.  And we'll be right here again...okay?"

He reaches out and puts his fingers into my mouth.  I run my hand along his soft baby back, and he squirms cuz it tickles.
His laugh is a grumbly piglet noise.

 I hope he sleeps well at night...
I hope he is greeted with a loud,
"Good morning Baby Boy Beckam!"
I hope he laughs with Pepper.
I hope he doesn't learn to walk while I'm gone.
His 2nd tooth will probably pop up to sit beside the 1st.

I'm afraid he will get too sad and Nennie or Grandma will back down.  I'm afraid they will feel inadequate to comfort him, so they won't try.
I think I'm more afraid for the two of them than for him.
I'm afraid I'm asking too much.  I'm afraid that no one else can give the energy I do.
I'm afraid they won't see the little details which matter so much.
Like how the velcro tabs on his diaper give Beckam a tiny red rash on his hips.  You have to smooth the diaper underneath to protect his skin.

Now that I write this, it sounds silly.
I trust them to hold him as long as he needs...
Even if it is 2 a.m.
I know them as mothers.
They won't ignore their instincts.
They both love him enough to do what I do.

So on Saturday morning I will drop him at Grandma's with his sisters.  I'll plop him down onto his big butt to crawl around and dance with Pepper.  I'll try not to imagine him looking for me.  I will trust a Grace bigger than myself to cradle him, and I know it will.  Just an exercise for what is to come...

Not-so-tiny prayers

Pepper fell asleep in the car at 5 p.m. yesterday.

Pepper Self Portrait - with my phone

She is still asleep at 5:30 a.m. this morning.

I guess she was tired.

I tried to wake her up several times.  I couldn't fathom she could actually sleep all the way through to morning.  Also, she still had a Starburst in her mouth.  She did wake up once, chew it swallow the pink juice and go back to sleep.

At 2 a.m. she came to find me, "Mom, the sun is goin' down."

"Yes, Pepper.  Let's go back to bed."

I scoop her feet up off the floor and rest my cheek on hers.

I was expecting this.  I am not mad.

"Let's get snuggly," I say "Do you need a drink?"

"I have to go potty."

On the toilet we talk about how everyone is asleep.

"Mom, Beckam's asleep?"

"Yes."

"Mom, Sophie's asleep?  I love that Sophie."

"Yes."

"Mom, the ponies are asleep?"

"Yes."

She smiles a half-awake, post-dentist smile.

We settle into her pink blanket.  She points at me,

"Mom, you pray."
"Okay."

She settles deeper into her blanket and grins.

We go down the list and say thank you for everyone.  Dad, Gwen, Uncle Brent, Beckam, Kitty, Gary, Brooklyn, Flint, Kat, Jennie, Finn, Lily, Nennie, Max, Grandma, Grandpa, Sophie, and all the horses.  Please help Pepper be nice and not hit her friends, and share and sleep all night long in her own bed.

Then she went back to sleep, and so did I, in the pink blanket.

Somehow I have taught my children to pray.  Completely on their own, they have decided it is important.  I never tell them to do it.  They tell me.  

only a witness

Sophie had her first gymnastics meet of the season yesterday.

I couldn't be there.  My dear friend was getting married at exactly the same time.

At 2:13 p.m. I was driving up the canyon into Park City on my way to the wedding.

My hair pinned up all tight and swirly like a 1940's poster.

"Hey, that looks life Jeff's car...IT IS!  It is!  Andrew get closer!"

It was Sophie and her dad on their way to the meet.

I thrust my whole torso out of the window and into the wind.

My arms S.O.S. flailing, and I was shouting, even though she would never hear me.

I just had to let her know I was there in some way.

Her tiny palm waved back just as they went up the ramp to the exit.

She saw me.

I hope it made her laugh. 

I hope the laughing helped.

 Gymnastics is tense.  The hair is tight.  The leotards suction onto tiny bodies.  Each move is precise, and point your toes.  Always point your toes.  Deductions from scores are measured in tiny increments, and everything counts.  I sometimes wonder why I put my child under this microscope.  Then I remember, I didn't put her here.  She put herself right where she wants to be.
She shows up at gymnastics 3 X's @ week and works at it from 4-8 pm.  4 hours.  She never complains.
Her muscles are beginning to show their efforts.  I see her poise shine through when she talks to adults with a polished smile and awareness.
Sometimes I just want her to be wild, but that comes naturally.  There is no shortage of spunky savage in my daughter.  But to see it reigned in scares me.

I called to see how it went.  Jeff said she placed lower than she wanted to.
"She was crying."
I am protective.  I should have been there.  I should have been there to tell her it doesn't matter.  She is exceptional, and other people's scores are arbitrary, limited, and inaccurate.  I know all of her, and she deserves nothing less than maximum appreciation.  I have tears in my eyes now as I write this.  I know I can't shield her.  I know it will be years before she unlearns these measurements, these categories.  I am still unlearning them myself.  And I can't get in her way.
There will always be an illusion to uncover.  If she were 1st place, she would have to unlearn that too.
Mine will be only one voice in the cacophony of a massive world song.
There will be long stretches where she can't hear it at all.

Sometimes I wish she were a dancer.  At least then there would be good music, and I imagine more freedom.  Funny, Sarah...
I cannot choose her path.  I have always known she would ferociously find her own.  Now that she is doing it, I am in awe of her.  Just as I felt watching her first moments of life.  I am only a witness.  My role is vital and small at the same time.

Sophie and her team-mates.

wit-ness

n.
a. One who can give a firsthand account of something seen, heard or experienced:  a witness to the accident.

b.One who is called on to be present at a transaction in order to attest to what takes place.

wit-nessed, wit-nessi-ng, wit-ness-es

v.
a.To be present at or have personal knowledge of.

b.To take note of; observe.

spaghetti

Baby Beckam's 1st spaghetti

When I was a kid my mom used to make us spaghetti burritos.

I have never met another person familiar with this invention, so I assume it is an original.

We lived off pancakes, cereal, cinnamon toast and ramen noodles.

My mom would make huge vats of hot cocoa from scratch and toast a whole loaf of bread.

Cocoa and toast was my favorite breakfast...or dinner.

I'd stir the pot and imagine myself a witch.

By 12 years old, I had perfected my own concoction.

It is not an easy task.  

I often ended up with a mixture so bitter from too much cocoa that I'd have to call in the senior witch to work her magic.

I didn't realize this was "poor people food."

Just like in old stories from another time, we couldn't afford meat at every meal.

Meat was an extravagance.  Especially for a family of six kids all under the age of ten.

When we had bacon my Mom cooked about 4 packages.  That's 60 slices - ten per person.

Not a single sliver was left over.

We'd lick our fingers and do the bacon dance.

The bishop's store house fed us in the end, right before my Mom left.

She left because she was tired.

The post-Mom menu was short:

fish-sticks, tator-tots, and chimichangas.  All frozen.

We were just as poor then.  The difference...now no one cooked for us.

The house was stale and quiet.  We waited for the steel box oven to do what Mom used to.

Now I have to feed my own kids and their diets are much the same.

I cannot afford to come close to ideal nutrition.

However our kitchen is full of light.

We each have an apron hanging on the wall.

Mine is made from an old He-Man bedsheet.  Andrew gave it to me for Mother's Day.

Sophie and Pepper's were hand-made by my friend Linda.

We cook together.

Sophie has her own wok.  

Imagination bounces off the sides of it.

Our kitchen welcomes friends, and it bakes lots of cookies.

Sisters Sophie and Pepper

Family lunch and light - cousin Max, Sophie, Pepper, Aunt Nennie