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

paper airplane

       "Can I have it all? I'm inclined to believe that the myth of having a successful career and a happy, cemented and well-adjusted family is just that, a myth. I either marry my ambition and don't notice my children until they're grown or sit in poverty while savoring the precious moments that are gone all too soon. But where is the balance? This is where being a "creative type" becomes EXTREMELY tricky."
                 ~ Austism: Another year

I read this in my friend's blog this morning.
I was cursing the kids for waking up too early and robbing me of my writing time, yet again.
After reading her blog, I remembered the fight to keep my soul.
I remembered graduating from college and wondering if it had been a huge waste of money.
Now I had a studio art/teaching degree...for what?
I nearly curled up and let the kids trample, nurse and whine the magic right out of me.
Instead I decided to use all that "thinking outside of the box" stuff I'd learned in school.

Right now I am winning.

The last 2 years of school I was pregnant and had a newborn.  I was not the only one.  I found women in every class who were taking on the same Herculean task that I was.  If they can do it, I  can do it.  It was not a competition, they were an inspiration.  I smiled every time I saw a pregnant woman waddle across campus.  I sent her a tiny paper airplane up and over the bog of intellectual steam.
My classes were juggled between Pepper's nursing schedule.
 Senior practicum.
Advanced studio painting.
 Printmaking.
 Adobe photshop for studio artists.
and the whole time I was thinking...."this is not my real life. My real life is at home."

I broke down and cried to my professor - I don't know how to make honest art and be a mom. I feel like I have to chose, and that one choice would be a lie...I don't even know which life is the lie.

That is the illusion you believe - he told me - you don't have to choose.

He was right.

Then my marriage counselor said - You just need to become a more creative problem solver.

He was right too.

Now I make art inbetween my work.  My work is raising these 3 kids.
Yes, I may enjoy it.  But it is work.
My art is squeezed into the cracks, like right now.
I started writing this yesterday, and haven't found a space to finish until 24 hours later.
Right now both kids are laying in bed drinking bottles.
They woke up at 6 and decided to take a nap at 7:45.
Okay.
So here is my nugget.

My friend's blog also got me thinking about a "successful career."

ca·reer

/kəˈri(ə)r/

Noun An occupation undertaken for a significant period of a person's life and with opportunities for progress. Alright. I've certainly got that in the bag. I've been writing - painting - drawing - creating - since I was 12 years old. The kids don't have to stop this. In fact, they make it more necessary. I started blogging at 4 am when I was up nursing Beckam. I did it because I could feel my mind and soul going to sleep. If I have no soul, no inner-voice, no compass, no dreams.....how can I raise children who matter? "Mother and Child", sculpture by Wilhelm Lehmbruck

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...