Cassidy loves books. She loves to "read." She particularly loves to read "cook book," and even more particular than that, "apple pie."
"Where cook book?" We go on a search for the little yellow spiral bound Edmond's Cookery Book that a friend gave me as a parting gift when I moved back to the states from New Zealand 15 years ago. I don't know that I ever actually used it, and hardly remembered owning it before Cassidy discovered it in my scant collection. She just loves turning the pages of that book and looking at the odd pictures of scones, soup or baby carrots.
I went to the library tonight on a whim. I came home with some cook books, about all I have time to read before passing out in bed, a few recipes to generate some new ideas about putting food together.
It must have been the pictures on the front of the books that gave it away, because Cassidy got all excited: "BIG Cook Book!!"
So this evening we sat together and read recipes.
Some kids love Pooh Bear or Clifford. Mine loves Apple Pie recipes.
The last post was about lack of time and look how much time has passed from this entry from the last. Blah!!! She is a rocket, my little Cassidy. Who says mothering is not a full time job? Not a mother.
She's talking. And I don't mean just talking, but she quantifies everything. Not even two years old, and everything is wet, dry, awake, asleep, hot, cold, in, out... where does she get this stuff? Amazes me just about constantly.
I had no thought and still have none as my fingers fly except to get some words down before she wakes up from her nap. I am enamored by her. I can't get enough of her. I watch her break into spontaneous dance, or listen to her spontaneous song from the back seat of the car, and I burst. Where did she come from?
And, I. I've been waitressing for about 6 months now, and baking a couple times a week for my friend's cafe. The other day when I told a friend "I'm so busy for a stay at home mother!" she said "Colleen. You are not a stay at home mother. You are a working mother." Oh, right. Duh. My schedule is such that I work at night or on the weekends when my husband is home so I don't feel like I'm away from her too much.
Money is tight. It's stressful. I wonder if I should be doing more, or how I could be doing more. We live in a rural community and jobs aren't exactly stacking up in the classified section. Not a job I would want, anyway. I don't mind being a broke but happy momma, though sometimes the seeming monotony of it catches up with me, takes hold, and squeezes.
I am a mother, a wife, a waitress, a baker. But wait a minute. What about the adventurer, the writer? Where did the spontaneous lover go, the rollerblader, the cartwheeler? Where did the hiker go? Where did the thinker, the discusser, the philosopher go? I ask myself this, and sometimes with intensity. The woman who barely squeezes in a shower at times.
And I tell myself this is temporary. Cassidy won't require as much attention one day, and then I'll miss this. I know that. But there are days, one of them just recent, that I grieve my former self, my former life. I look back on it wistfully; sleeping late on the weekends, planning day long hikes, discussing new strategies with fellow teachers... Seeing live music, staying up late, driving around for hours just to see where we might end up...
She is squawking now, my daughter, crying out my primary name: "Mommy!!! Mommy!!! Mommy!!!"
I know I will miss this. And that I will be back. Some days it can't come fast enough, and other days I never want this to end.
