tummy juice

Too long since I've awoken and claimed a morning to write.
Perhaps it is the stillness that only comes from new snow.
It's grace floats into my kitchen and reminds me.
It reminds me of the voice I can only hear when it's quiet.
Now it finally feels like Christmas.  The twinkling tree in my living room does not feel so out of place.
We've been listening to Christmas radio in the car, but that doesn't cut it.
Pepper has been memorizing all the lyrics.  She sang them for her Dad last night.
And I sat tall and proud as she bee-bopped along to Santa Clause is Coming to Town.
I kept looking from him to her to make sure he was smiling.  He did.  Good.
How could I not see her as a reflection of me?
It is so hard not to take her accomplishments personally, to take credit for them.
Even one so trite as a 4 year old singing.  
I know better.  I know the danger of this, but I fall into it anyway.
Pep is so like me already, with her love of books and words and metaphor and irony.
For the last month she's been enlightening me with homophones.

"Mom, a bat is an animal and a toy.
Mom, a rock is like a rock and you Rock OuT!
Mom, a brush is like you brush your hair and a paint brush!
Mom, a cat is like an animal AND a Name!
Mom, squash is like you eat it and I squash you!
Mom, Beach is like Sophie's friend AND it's the ocean in California!"

I can see in the slim rectangle of my rear view mirror, her mind is blown, every time.
This just keeps happening!  One word.  Two meanings.  Crazy!

See the green tummy juice?

She has also taken to writing the names of:  Mom, Pepper and "Dod."
Then she draws us.
Yesterday when her Dod's mouth ended up a straight line, she started laughing.
"Dad's mad...cuz he just got home from work."
She saw it.  That subtle change in his mouth communicated emotion.  I love her for seeing that, and for finding the humor in it.
She also draws each persons' tummy, with the tummy juice inside.
This is clearly important, because she rarely leaves it out.
I am not certain what the "U" after each persons' name is for.
I'll have to ask her when she wakes up.

In some way this feels like my accomplishment.
Even though all I've done is facilitate.
I read her books, and I answer her questions.
I tell her she is smart, and I am proud of her.

See how long and capable her fingers are!

However, I wonder if there is a better word than proud.
I've always wondered this.
Am I setting her up to please me, rather than pursue her own identity?
Some would say I am thinking too hard, but I disagree.
I am leaving space for Grace to claim her magic.
In reality, I am no more responsible for Pepper's artistry then I am the snow lying smooth on my back yard.
I cannot conjur the spell she casts on the world at Christmas time.
I cannot claim Pepper as a thing I have made.
I didn't teach her to draw fingers on her figures.
I am not the narrator on our walks to school.
She hears her own voice.
A voice very similar to this one I find on quiet mornings.
So maybe I can approach her as I do the snow, with gratitude for her presence and her magic.
Maybe instead of saying,
"I am proud of you."
I can say,
"Thank you for sharing your drawings with me.  It makes me feel so happy to see your art work.
You are very good at using your imagination, and I love how you draw the tummy with tummy juice in it."

Sophie's birthday

She loves her Dad

We stay at the campfire long after the guests are gone, playing music in the dark.
Just Sophie, her Dad (AKA Jeff-dad), Pepper, Beckam, their Dad (Andrew)...and me.
I am the rope linking these two families.  The mother of both.
I don't know where to sit.
So I sit in the middle by the fire, pretending to be cold.
We all enjoy each other.  We are there because we want to be.

Pepper wears Jeff-dad's head lamp and frolicks like an erratic dear.

Happy birthday girl

She giggles and points her light in his face, then down at her shoes.
Sometimes she is more like a fairy then a solid person.
Her imagination dominates, and she gets lost easily.
She speaks in a vocabulary too abstract for a 4 year-old.
Yet somehow, she cracks it with a poet's whip.

Jeff-dad finds her hilarious.
He has to cover his mouth and look away so she doesn't see him laughing at her naughtiness.
This makes it easier.

Jeff getting Pepper ready to climb
Myself and Andrew in the background

I may not know how he sees me, or my new husband, or my son who looks just like Andrew.
But I know he adores Pepper.

Earlier in the evening, we took Sophie and her friends climbing.

Team Gymnasts teaching Pepper

I belayed Jeff so he could lead the climbs.
He still talks to himself while he's up there.
Then he belayed me, so I could clean the routes and bring down his gear.
When a move is hard, we exhale the same breath.  It makes the same sound.
Because he was my teacher.
We rarely made eye contact or spoke.
But there was trust.  Right?  There must have been.
Even though I chose to end our marriage, we still have a partnership.
This amazes me.
And yet, it is simple, we do it for Sophie.

Her birthday cake was a pan of brownies with a ridiculous marzipan frog perched in the corner.
That was my job.
Her dad brought hamburger patties stuffed with whole cloves of roasted garlic.
After we ate, there was a cloud of garlic floating from guests' mouths.
I can always tell when Jeff's been cooking, because Sophie comes home with breath that knocks me over.
Andrew sweetly and patiently sat with Baby Beckam.
He knew I needed to be with my "other" family.  I don't know what else to call it.
He supports me with no strings of guilt - just simply and wholy.
I don't have to explain.  He gets it.

Jeff, Sophie and I are like a goofy three-legged dog who still runs even though it's not supposed to.
We are broken, but not totally.  And we certainly have not given up.

Beach helping Pepper

First day of class

student #1

I didn't get the job.
The letter came on Saturday.
I was lying on the couch, holding Beckam and watching The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
Andrew flipped it from the stack of mail,
"You'll probably want this one."
As soon as I saw it, I knew.  The position had been filled, by someone else.
I read it.  The letter was short, courteous and precise.
Beckam shifted his weight and I snuggled deeper into him.
Relief.
In the days following my interview, it became clear.  I cannot be his Mom and their employee.
One will have to suffer.
Either I will be scrambling to care for my children, or I will be coming up short as McGillis' art teacher.
It is not time.

I was somewhat disappointed.

Student #2

I mean, how can an interview go any better than that!
I guess I'll never know why they
didn't hire me.
But I am grateful, because they chose right.

If anything I want to slow down.
I want to make Mickey Mouse pancakes for breakfast and pile them with blueberries.
I want to teach Pepper how to read.
I want to cook colorful dinners for Sophie.
I want to serve her a palate of purple, orange, red and green.
It makes her feel loved when I feed her vegetables and good sources of protein.
Why would I not encourage that!
However, in my haste, I throw toast and prepackaged bars at her.
She flicks her eyes sideways at me in quiet dissapointment.
I can do better.
I want to give my children all that I would my students.
My creativity, my art, my patience, and my hands flailing wide in passionate explanation of what is possible.
They are only here for a little while.
I don't want to waste it because I am confused or dilluted in my efforts.

I didn't get the job, and it is the best thing that could have happened.
It opened my eyes to who I am supposed to be teaching right now.
And it's not someone else's kids.
It's mine.

Student #3

Annie

Sophie and Annie at Strut your Mutt 2006

Sophie's dog Annie, is dying.  I saw her yesterday. Her head is cocked to one side and leads her on a crooked path.


Simple acts like hopping off the curb are impossible and she falls down all the time.
Her tail, once perky as a squirrel's, has lost it's curl and now slumps behind her.
She rarely wags it.
She wanders the house not sleeping.  She pees and poops in the house.
She is lost, I can see it in her eyes.  I think that's why she doesn't sleep.  She just paces the house, her nails clicking on the wood floor.

Every time we get in the car, Sophie gazes out the window and starts to cry.  She has done it five times.
It all started out optimistic.  There might be a cure.  Now it has been 3 weeks, and the possible cure is not touching Annie's ailments.  She is getting worse, and Sophie knows it.
We drive home at sunset, and she starts talking,
"Yesterday Dad let out a huge sigh.  When I asked him what was wrong he said, I'm sad about Annie.  I can tell he's going to put her down soon.  I know she's gonna go."

Then she erupts into tears again.  I look over at her as I drive.  I get goosebumps and tears in my eyes too. Her sorrow is contagious.

"I don't want Annie to go..." Her bottom lip protrudes and I remember her as a toddler.  I wish I weren't driving so I could hug her.  But she doesn't need me to hug her.  She can endure this kind of pain, because it makes sense.

she picked out her own princess outfit

"When I'm around people, I don't really think about it.  But then when we get in the car, it's quiet, and I think about Annie."

"I understand.  I cry in the car too,"  I tell her.

At bedtime she asks me to climb up into the top bunk with her.  I feel like a giant spider as I clamber up over the edge and fold myself into place.  She wants to talk again.  She wants to talk about the difference between her Dad and me.  We've been divorced for 8 years.  We got Annie-dog the year I left.  The three of us went to the animal shelter.  It was my idea.  Did I subconsciously know I wouldn't be there to care for them?  Did I pick Annie to take my place?  Sophie was so little then, only two.  Annie lived to play, to run as fast as she could, every chance she got.  Her gold coat stretched thin over muscles taught and toned as a race horse.  She stirred up the air and demanded we all stop and go to the park, now.

"Mom, I think I know why you picked Annie...cuz she is so bright and free like you."

I can barely stand this.  Knowing the years the three of them got by without me.  Knowing Sophie had only Annie to fill the gaping hole left by my absence.  I picture them walking to the grocery store on Saturday mornings, just Jeff, Sophie and Annie.  A three-legged animal who will not give up.  I know the pit he must have had in his stomach as he cooked her breakfast on his old iron skillet.  The one he wouldn't let me wash with soap.
This well is endless, and will always bring up tears.

"Mom, it's weird.  Dad acts more sad about Annie then he did when Nannie Bonnie died, and that's his mom.  I never saw him be sad."

"Ya, I understand.  Dad doesn't show a lot of emotion.  Even though you didn't see it, I'm sure he was sad.  Maybe he was being strong for you.  Maybe some of his sadness for Nannie Bonnie is coming out now."

"Ya, I think so.  You're good for different things.  I love my Dad for the way he supports me in gymnastics, and how he keeps me on track.  And I love you cuz you are the fun path, and I can talk to you, and you understand me."

"That's good Sof.  We both love you in the ways we know how.  It's good that you understand that...wanna pray?"

"Sure....
God, please help me say goodbye to Annie...even though it's the hardest thing to say.
Please help me know it's what is best for her.
Thank you for letting her have such a good life.
Thank you for my Mom and my Dad and how they are different and they both love me."

it must be love

Growing up together, these two little people.

Pepper hits Beckam daily.

She comes up from behind and knocks him down.

I wonder:  Is this normal?

They are like tiny spouses, occupying the same space and forced to get along.  Yet underneath it, there is a love which must exist.  

licking the cupcake bowl

watching the elevator at the Main Library

rock climbing nap

the turtle at Liberty Park

2 seconds

The yellow plasma car

Pepper chipped her remaining front tooth yesterday.
The weight of an entire dentist chair is now perched on my shoulders like a massive steal parrot.
It causes me to release hefty amounts of air in the form of a sigh every 20 minutes.  I just dealt with this.  Now?  Again?  Really?





Last night at the park, we stood in the parking lot getting ready
to leave. The sun was setting.

One tooth missing.  One to go

"WEEEEEEEEEEEE!"  I turned my head.

Beckam and Pepper were bombing a massive hill on the yellow plasma car.
I'd known since the day we got it, someone was going down on that thing.
I didn't think it would be both of them at the same time.
For one second it was cute to see them.  Beckam at the wheel and Pepper wrapped around him.
Then it sunk in.  There is no way they are going to be able to stop.
I sprinted in my stupid pink flip-flops which held me back.  Maybe if it hadn't been for those flip-flops, I could have gotten in front of them.
I ran along side the car trying to pass it.  Beckam's hands firmly on the wheel, he looked over at me then back to the wheel.  He was realizing, as I had, that he was not in control.  But he held that wheel tightly on course and I thought,  It's a good thing he's steering this thing and not Pepper. 
Crazy how even in those moments of intense adrenaline, a clear thought can hang solid and straight as a pendulum.  I realized in stopped time as I ran along side that car, the kind of a person Beckam is.  He wasn't going to let go of that wheel or let it veer off course.  The problem was though, he couldn't stop himself.  They were only half-way down the hill.
I grabbed the wheel and tried to pull them to me, but the speed was too much and we all went flying, then skidding down the concrete.

In another stopped moment, I saw Pepper's face bounce off the ground and the look of shock in her eyes at the force of it.  Beckam rolled into me and didn't hit as hard.

In the next frame, time went back to normal  It took me a minute to catch up.  My kids lay sprawled and bleeding, their cries floated into my stunned ears and pierced the shock bubble.  I picked up the bloodiest one, Pepper.  Her mouth was full of it, and I couldn't see the source.  I cradled her in my lap and spoke quietly.
I told her:   It's going to be ok.  You're safe now.  We'll take care of you.
Her forehead was swelling in the spot where she hit.  She kept telling me her tooth hurt.  I was watching her eyes for signs of a concussion.  My main concern was watching her head bounce off the ground.   I know it takes a little time to know, but I was trying to know that she was ok.  I was asking her eyes to tell me.  All they said was:  I am scared and I am in pain.
The other adults came rushing in and picked up Beckam.  I could hear by his cry that he was ok.  He was mostly scared.  At least one of them is sturdy.
My hands were shaking.  Like sand in a rushing river, the guilt settled.  If only I could have gotten my body in front of them more, maybe they would have crashed into me first.  Had it been only one kid, I could have done it, but not two.  Pepper was on the back.  That's why she hit the hardest.  I just couldn't run fast enough to pass them.  They were about to get away from me.  I had to make a move.  Even though time had stopped, it didn't stop long enough.
I gave them a bath.  I washed the blood from their heads.  Beckam acted as if nothing had happened.  Pepper wimpered like a puppy at the pound.

An hour later, she sat in the back seat cheerily retelling the story of her ordeal.  I think she is going to be ok.  But we have to go back to the dentist because the root of her tooth is exposed.
The guilt has yet to wash downstream.  Usually I can let things unfold with my kids.  I know I can't protect them from pain.  But I almost did this time.  Just not quite.  I regret wearing those stupid flip-flops.  I regret the 2 seconds before I sprinted towards them.  The 2 seconds when I thought they were cute riding that plasma car together.  That's all I needed was 2 seconds.

partners in crime

Little Pepper Feelings

She always finds Beckam's bottle.
Climbing in Ferguson canyon

Last night driving, Pepper whining in the back seat, her shrill voice scraping down the back of my head.

"Be Quiet Pepper!!"

Well...actually, if I'm being completely honest, what I said was,

"Shut-UP Pepper!"

Yes.  Not one of my prouder Mom moments.  I know I'm not supposed to say shut-up to my kids.  Somehow I thought it would get the point across better.  It didn't.
My rear view mirror is pointed at a sharp angle, so I can see both her and Beckam.
I peak up just in time to see her face melt and she wimpers,

"Mom, you are really hurting my little Pepper feelings right now..."

Home-made poncho at the REAL game.

I clamp a hand over my smile so she doesn't see it.

"I'm sorry Pepper.  I shouldn't have said that to you."

"I'm not very good at this right now, Mom.  I am not very good at being this girl."

She looks sincerely lost.  She looks out the window for an answer in the fast-wizzing world, and finding none she looks back to me.
Everyday.  She needs my reassurance everyday.
Pepper is my most sensitive child, absolutely.  Like a long, slender champagne flute, she is transparent, and easily tipped over.  She is also a beautiful vessel, and whatever liquid she holds, becomes magical.

Mom Rope

I woke up at 6:46 this morning, my feet sticking to the wood floor in the kitchen.  I looked up from my feet to find a rose bouquet perched on the counter.  Next to it was a card with my name scrawled in fimiliar cursive.  People rarely write in cursive anymore, but my husband always does.
I told him early on, 'The best gift you can give me is a real letter.'
Now we have been swapping letters for 7 years, on Mother's Day, Father's Day, Wedding Anniversary, and  Valentine's Day.

I sat with my coffee, on the bar stool, and read mine today.  I can still feel the stickiness the tears left when I read it.  He validated my work.  He told me he would try harder to remember.  He said all the things we are too busy to say.  He wrote it after I had gone to sleep.  I had to wipe tears 3 times to get through the whole letter.  I looked around at our kitchen.  It is such a common place thing we are doing, raising this family, being married.  At this counter I make waffles, administer tylenol, cut carrot sticks for Sophie's lunch.  I hop up onto it while Andrew gets his coffee before work.  We get about 5 minutes.  Sometimes he comes and wraps arms around me before he leaves.  He kisses my forehead.  Sometimes I stand arms folded across my chest and we exchange silent glances sideways.  All he gets is a curt, 'Bye.'  The door slams extra loud.  We are not always nice, and that's ok.  We have something better than nice.  We have trust.  I trust we will always come full circle.

At an earlier time, this would have scared me.  But now I can't spare the energy.  I have 3 kids to care for, and Sophie has to be at school in 45 minutes.  The cycle starts again.  Just as Andrew and I have varied degrees of patience and affection for each other, I vascilate with my kids.  Some mornings they can spill Cheerios all over the kitchen, and spend 10 minutes feeding the fish, run around naked in juggly delight, and I will just smile.  Other mornings, if Sophie shuts the fridge too hard, I yell at her,
'Beckam is still sleeping!  Be quiet!  Hurry up!  But be quiet!"
She rolls her eyes and struts her gymnast butt down the hall.  I apologize to her daily.  In our family there is a trickle down affect.  He apologizes to me, I to her, she to Pepper, and Pepper to Beckam.  Imagine if we never softened to each other.  This is how it works.  It is a series of tiny recognition, surrender and apology.  It is how the flow continues between us.

St. Patty's day spread

I was taught originally by my Mother.  She sang to me at night in her tangy voice, just small enough for a little girls ears.  She smoothed back my hair and sat with me until  I was asleep.  Now I do this for Sophie and Pepper.  It is not easy at the end of a long day, but I do it, because she did it for me.

She created magic at every holiday.  She sewed me Easter dresses, complete with a hat and gloves.  She made me a quilt with tiny pink roses on it.  I still remember the thin white ribbon she tied it with.  I got it for Christmas.  On holidays mornings, I knew there was a spread waiting.  It was SO hard to stay in bed.  All those gifts laid out looked like a shimmering lake at sunset and made my tummy tickle.

Easter spread

As an adult she taught me about a different kind of magic.  She helped me get sober.  She taught me about recovery.  She showed me the door.  Since then I have found teachers everywhere.  All around me, the trickle down is in effect.  I find the small experience I had as a child is happening simultaneously to a powerful degree.  It makes me less afraid.  It helps me let go of my own children, and trust the world of mothers.  Now I can walk far and free.  This is what I hope for mine.  I hope I can plant a love so deep that it can never be uprooted.  I hope they carry it and swing wide.  I hope they trust it to catch them.

swing wide Sophie

Thank you Mom.

Pillow swap

Andrew is gone for the weekend.
I feel his absence in little things.
I locked the door before I went to bed.  I never do that.
I made a mental note:  the garbage cans have to go out to the street tonight.
I only filled up the coffee pot to the 8 instead of the 12.
I left dishes sitting in the sink all day.
I let Pepper sleep in my bed.
I throw his hard, unwelcoming memory foam pillow on the ground and replace it with Pepper's Hello Kitty pillow.
I feel like I should put the pillow somewhere, so it knows that I know, Andrew is coming back.
But a pillow is an inanimate object, so I leave it on the floor with a promise to wash the pillow case in the morning.
Pepper snuggles into me, which means she digs her little toes between my shoulder blades.
All our books are packed for the move so I tell her a story.
Actually, she told me what the story should be and I just followed her formula.

"Princess Pepper rides on her pink pony in her pink dress.
Princess Gwen rides on her yellow pony in her yellow dress..."

Pepper telling a pony her secrets

Pepper giggles and fidgets.  She can see it, practically feel the pony's coarse mane in her fingers.  The colors resonate behind her eyes.  Her imagination is never asleep.

"Princess Sophie rides her blue pony in her blue dress.
Princess Beach rides her green pony in her green dress."

"Yes!  And then they JUMP and FLY on their backs!"  Pepper erupts.  She is now sitting up in bed.

"Yes.  They do.  And Prince Max rides on his.....black pony....in his.....black suit."

She loves this.  A new twist.  It's brilliant.
"Ya!"  She trills, "and Prince Dad rides on HIS black pony in HIS black suit!"

Pepper (right) flying with frend "Bluh-blook"

"Yep, and Princess Nennie rides her purple pony in her purple dress.
Princess Chloe rides her rainbow pony in her rainbow dress."

"Rainbow !"  She can't believe it.  The colors are zinging across the screen in front of her.
"And Princess Mom rides her......"

"Can I have an orange dress?"  I ask.

One of many escapades with baby powder.

"Oh, ya.  Sure Mom.  Princess Mom rides her orange pony in her orange dress!"

We play until we have used up all the people and all the colors.  Then I sing to her until I am half asleep and I can't remember the words anymore.

"Mom, I'm hungry."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes Mom, I'm hungry, and I want a pink waffle."

"I'm not making you a pink waffle."

I give her a banana in bed.   Another act which would Not Fly if Dad were home.

In the morning she comes to find me.

"Mom, where were you?  I thought we were snuggling?"
  
"We were snuggling, I just woke up.  I miss Dad."

"Do you wanna kiss him and pray wif him?"

"Ya.  I do."

"Just wait for a little time...he'll come back from his little trip."
\She puts a hand on my cheek.

"Thanks Pep."

Pep and Dad at the Fair.  He lets her ride the same carousel 10 times in a row.

pony t-shirt

 I kept glancing sideways at her and scrunching up eyebrows.  Pepper lay on the couch in a ball with her unicorn under one arm.
"His name is Vowl-entine Fairy,"  she says.
The two of them have been watching t.v. all morning.

I am doing the doctor dance.
Do I take her?  Do we ride it out?
If insurance were not so useless, and it actually paid for things like a sick visit, I would just go.  But it's going to cost me.  At least $50.  Probably more like $100.  If I can ascertain for myself what is going on, then I'd rather keep my money.  I don't need someone to tell me,
"Yep, Pepper is sick. Give her tylenol and let her rest."

Is is strep?  Her face is pale.  Purplish grey shadows line the inside of her eye sockets.  She certainly has a fever, I can see it and feel it, but I don't know how high it is because our thermometer is about as helpful as our health insurance policy.
Once again, I am left with my own intuition.

The night before she couldn't stay asleep for more than 1/2 an hour.
"Mom, my neck is biting me.  I need you to snuggle with me.  Just for a minute, okay?......where is my unicorn?"
I scoop her in tighter and whisper the words to Somewhere Over the Rainbow.  I have heard her in bed, singing this song to herself.   Pepper has always been my most delicate child.


Sophie burns with life.  Nothing keeps her down for long.  Her appetite matches my rugby-playing brother.  When I pick her up, I am stunted by the density of her muscles.  She is so small it seems I could whisk her from the ground, but she is not easily swept up.  Her stature is solid.  Her feet firm in their spot.  She does not doubt her own worth.
I don't tell her.  She tells me.

Beckam's girth speaks for itself.  He may have been born at the same tiny 6 1/2 pound size as his sisters, but he has made up for it fast.  He is a walking cinder block.  He never stays sick for very long.  As a newborn in the winter, he weathered every cold with ease.  The top left corner of his forehead is where the bruise goes.  I have heard his head hit the
ground like a cannon.  He stands up looks around, and walks away.  If other adults are in the room, they all jump up when the cannon goes off.  They are certain we have a casualty.  The only one still sitting is me.   Because I know he is fine.

But Pepper, she is like Beth from Little Women.  She is sweet and whispy and seems to have one foot in another world.
I take one last look in her eyes.  I feel her neck.
I decide to take her.
"Where are we going, Mom?"
"We are going to get you medicine so you can get all better."
"Okay,"  she says and puts her hot head on my shoulder.
She is limp from the fever.

We read  books and wait for the doctor.  She spends time looking at every page.  She asks questions.  "What is that on the tiger's teeth, Mom?"
"That's slobber."
She laughs outloud,
"Slobber?  That crazy tiger!  He's slobbering on the book!"
"Do you see that Dodo bird, just like Alice in Wonderland, Mom?"
We are at the office for an hour and a half.  Each time the doctor comes in for another test she whimpers but tries not to cry.  I know she is being brave.  I tell her so.
When he's done, we go to another book and she is swept up again.
Maybe this is the world for her other foot.  I understand.  I am the same way.  I can go where words take me.  Words create a three dimensional world just as luscious as this one.  They resonate in my chest, in my gut, and behind my forehead.
I understand myself through these children.  They reflect parts of myself back to me, and I am allowed to marvel at us both.  As I hold and comfort Pepper, I am soothing a younger Sarah.

It is strep.
We get the pink medicine.
I explain it all to her and she wants to know.
I explain the bugs in her neck.
Why we need the doctor to stick that thing in her nose and throat to test the bugs.
Why she needs to be brave and let the doctor listen to her heart and look in her ears.
How only the doctor can give us the paper to get the medicine.
How the only way to get medicine is to take the piece of paper to the store.
She believes everything I tell her.  This is her intelligence, and her vulnerability.  She believes me.

At the store, I get her a t-shirt with a pony on it for being so brave.  Her smile is bright and she keeps sticking out her tiny chest to see the ponies on our way to the car.

Falling water

"Why won't he stay asleep?"  My mind hums against the pillow.
It is nearly 2 am, and Beckam has been fussing for 1/2 an hour.
I am so comfortable.  The kind of comfortable where every molucule is humming a tiny song of content.
I do not want to get up.
Then I hear it.
The fimiliar gagging and choking on vomit.
And all of my resistance melts.
I just want to get to him.  He has never had the stomach flu before.  I'll bet he is scared.

The next morning he was subdued but smiling

He is curled into a ball against his blanky.
The fimiliar white chunks and sour odor, I already knew I'd find them.
"Oh, little buddy...it's okay."
I pull off his jammies and wrap him into a blanket.
We go to the rocking chair.  It has been our comfort on so many late nights.
Both his and mine.  It cradles us in the dark living room like a hammock hung from stars.
I press his forehead into my bare chest, skin to skin.
We get about 2 minutes until...

First I hear the diarrhea, then I feel it's warmth spread into my lap.
I bolt up and into the bathroom leaving a trail behind us.
I lay him on the cold tile and start the shower.
He just stares up at me, too tired to cry.
I wash myself off and then reach down for him.
He hasn't done this since he was a tiny baby, taken a shower with Mom.
Usually he gets a bath with his sisters and ends up with 7 cups of water poured onto his head.
Now he is a solid boy.
Because of his thick muscles already growing, he will not be allowed to be this tender for long.
Sometimes it is too much for me to think about.

He gazes up at me with his bottom lip sucked in.
He reaches out to the water and tells it tiny stories in his grumbly voice.
We stay there for a long time.
Him looking from the water to my face and then back to the water again.
It's as if he is doing the same thing I am.
We are trying to create a memory of this moment.
Because even though he is sick, there is nothing better than having the whole world melt away.

He brushed his teeth - looking up at Dad to see how it's done.

how to grow a kid

What is the cure for Cabin Fever?
Ditch the kids, and hightail it to IHOP.

I called Andrew at 6 p.m.
"Hey wanna go on a datee?"
        "Sure, but what are we gonna do?  It's 12 degrees outside and we don't have time for a movie."
"I don't know, but I just want to hang out with you."
         "Ok, I'll meet you at 6:30."
"Better make it 6:45."
          "Why," an irritated grumble and heavy sigh.
"Oh nevermind..."  I wimper.
            "Fine! Ya let's just bag it...."
"No, I'm sorry.  I don't want it to be this way.  Ugh...I'm just frustrated," I acquiese.    
             "Well why will it take you so long?  What do you have to do?"
"Clean the house, get kids dressed, pack the diaper bag - it takes a long time to mobilize the troops."
              "Alright..."  Another heavy sigh, "I'll meet you at 6:45."

a day in the garden with Sophie

I hang up and start the mad dash of throwing toys into bins, laundry into piles, kids into car.
I look in the mirror and realize I haven't brushed my hair in 3 days.
I toss it up into my banana clip and brush my teeth.
At least I still have a good butt.
That's gotta count for something on date night.

Sitting in IHOP the Mom next to us shouts,
"Because we're in a restaurant!  That's why you can't take your pants off!"
We laugh and eyes twinkle with recognition of this feeling.
At least we're not the only ones.

We drink decaf coffee and talk about our life:
the upcoming move to our new house.
our budget.
the fact that I feed the kids crap-food cuz it's cheaper.

They really do love muck

"Kids should eat garbage.  They're growing.  It's like putting shit in your garden," he declares, "Shit makes things grow."

"That's the Best Metaphor you've ever come up with!"  I blast.

He sits back into his seat with a proud grin that says, 'Ya, that was pretty clever, wasn't it?'

And we adore each other all over again.
Amazing what one hour in IHOP can mend.






         

whole little people

 I can't believe I chose today of all days to break my no-writing streak.
My head is an orange helium balloon bobbing 3 feet above my neck.
It doesn't stay focused where I assign, but instead floats and weaves lightly where it wishes.
My nasal passages are swollen hot-dogs along the bridge of my nose.
A small animal is trying to burst through my ear drum.
I am sweating into Andrew's hoody and shivering.
My eyes just want to close and close and sink.  But I can't sleep, because I can't breath.

This is how Beckam felt last week.

Beckam when he isn't sick

Now I am glad I rocked him with his blanky whenever he needed.
I looked into his bleary eyes and smoothed red straws of hair from his forehead.
I wish someone would rock me - distract me - from all of this sickness.

I walk the trail of intuition every day, eyes atuned to signs of what my kids need.
If I am not looking I will miss the broken branch or Cheerio dropped.
Usually they can't tell me either because they don't know or can't talk.
Now that I am feeling Beckam's experience first hand, I am glad I don't punish him for being needy.
Too often I think to whip them into shape.  "Stop Whining!  What's wrong with you!?"
This does not work at all.  The need is not met by my bullying.
But if I am quiet inside, I can watch, and ask questions.  I can be gentle.

This happens to me just as it does them.  I am taunted by needs I don't realize and act childish.
I whine.  I lie.  I lash out.  I get sloppy.  I shout things that aren't true in an attempt to assert my own power.
I take things that aren't mine.  I cry.  I wander around feeling sorry for myself.
I leave Andrew wondering what's the matter instead of being a grown-up and telling him.
I migrate from food to food - eating little - then announcing - I am hungry!
( this one's Sophie's favorite...probably mine too*)

Teaching Beckam how to open
presents - 1 yr. birthday.

Last week my friend said to me,
"I never knew how to deal with kids.  They kind of scared me.  I didn't understand them.
Then you taught me, they are whole people, just smaller."

Children are whole people.  I learned this from my parents.
It is the best thing they taught me.  They displayed it in their actions everyday.
It was not a theory.  It was their reality.
As a child - I never doubted the truth of my own feelings.  I knew exactly who I was.
I did not dismiss myself or my intuition.   I was validated and heard.
I never wondered if I was silly or crazy or over-sensitive.

All of that came later - as a teenager - as an adult.
It came with boyfriends and marriage and college and drugs.
But when I needed to leave all that behind and be Sarah again - I knew exactly what she felt like.
I knew how it felt to see the world through her eyes.
There is a twinkle in the corner of her perception.  It rests right where her temple meets her eyelashes.
 It says, "This is all a delight...kind of funny, incredibly precious, and there is no need to be afraid."

Little people trying to fill big shoes

Ugg Boot Kick

5:42 a.m. the house is quiet. I am sneaking my own thoughts over a cup of coffee.
My eyes feel rested even though I only slept from 12:34 am to 5:19 am
I always do that when I get up in the middle of the night with the kids.
I look at the clock to see how much sleep I am not getting.
It is an exercise in dispelling the myth about how much sleep I actually need.

From 1979-1989 my mom had 6 kids  Then in 1995 she tacked on one more.
She didn't sleep solid from 1979-1999.  20 years.
Now she sleeps whenever she wants, in a massive slab of a bed.
It has at least 8 pillows spread across the top like a thick layer of frosting.
When I get weary of all this I think about her.
If she could trade me places and be 33 again with a house full of tiny kids, she'd do it.
She would pull herself from bed 8 times in one night to taste the top of Beckam's head under her nose.  She would caress his cheek and coo to him in the dark living room surrounded by blue snow light.  She would tell Pepper she is so brave for sleeping without her bottle and run a hand along the back of her fleece jammies until breathing steadied back to dreams.

 Yesterday I took Pepper to the dentist.
Her front tooth is abscessed and I can see the swelling up under her lip morphing her face just a bit.
Here we go again.  5 years ago, Sophie had the same infection.  Except it was both of her front teeth and it exploded over night.  I couldn't stop laughing at her duck lip.

Ruthless Toothless 2009

The dentist pulled her teeth and she was Ruthless Toothless for 2 years.
I feel an odd parental ego flair when thinking about having a toothless child in family photos.
What if people look at her and see only the gap in her teeth?
What if they are not charmed by her anymore?
What if she's ugly?

It is the same ego that barked at Sophie yesterday on our way into the dental office.
"Soph!  You've gotta do something about that hair!  Brush it or put a hat on!  Your hair looks so ratty I'm embarrassed of you!"
She is slumping through the snow ahead of me in Ugg boots, a too-small ski coat, and jogging pants that need to be about 6 inches longer.
She flips her shaggy head around, flashes feisty eyes and a smile at me,
"You're embarrassed?  Mom, you're so funny."

With that one gesture, she puts me in my place.  She reminds me I am not that kind of Mom.  I do not think of my children as accessories, or an extension of myself.  They are individual people.  Yes, they are younger and they are dependent on me.  But they are not me.  I can try to teach them what I know.  But in some moments, they know more than I do.

Sophie climbing fearless and barefoot in Moab 2010
Climb rated 5.10

Sophie will not be crushed.
Yet, I think I assume too much of her.
I assume she is impervious to me.  I assume she has a bullet proof chest and everything I say is deflected.  In my fear,  I hurl too much at her.
But I've pierced her before, and I see the flinch.  I want to scramble up behind my bullet and erase the blow.  This would not help her though.  It is good that I can break through.  I am afraid for the day when I can't.  Once she is cracked then we can talk.
We are open.
Her sweetness trickles out and she finds relief in the rivulet running between us.

When my friends get divorced they say things like,
"She seems totally fine.  She tells me she is fine.  I ask her and she doesn't want to talk about it," and the most absurd, "She doesn't really seem to care."
Of course she cares.  Of course she wants to talk.  She wants to be important.
She just doesn't know how to tell you.  She doesn't know how to demand your attention.
It just so happens that Sophie was born with a fierce sense of personal justice.
She has no trouble finding her voice.
But not all kids have this.
In a way, I am lucky.  I never get to be lazy or diluted about the value of her soul.

Sophie loving me big 2008