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.