My father, fathering my 19 year old self :)

FATHERING For Whom The Alarm Bell Tolls:[ALL EDITIONS] Ed Lowe. Newsday. (Combined editions). Long Island, N.Y.: Apr 15, 1989. pg. 03

MY BRAIN long ago developed a father's alarm system. It dings, when triggered. It responds to stimuli that appear innocent and non-threatening but actually are foreboding and even terrifying. Certain Sunday morning telephone calls can set it off, for instance, or civil questions posed too sweetly.

"I have a collect call for anyone from Colleen, in Plattsburgh, New York. Will you pay for the call?"

. . . ding . . . "Yes, of course. Hi, Colleen."

"Hi, Dad! How are you . . . ?

. . . ding ding . . .

" . . . and how was your trip to Disney World?"

The mind races. Colleen is asking how I am. When did she last ask that? 1979. Also, this is Sunday morning. Sundays, Colleen rises at the crack of dusk. Also, her voice is sweet and melodious, as if she were rehearsing a television commercial for a breakfast cereal. This is another man's Colleen. How am I, her father? And how was Disney World? What could these questions mean? What is she leading up to? I keep hearing my friend Bill's warnings: Eddie, They're assassins. We are surrounded by assassins. They operate without anesthesia, these kids.

In an attempt to give her the benefit of the doubt, I talk to her over the dinging and the ruminating in my brain. I try not to sound suspicious, skeptical; not to sound fatherly. After all, she will be 20 years old this year. Maybe she has completely passed through the stage she entered when she became a teenager, when she developed a sarcasm gland. She was wonderful at her sister's wedding - happy, ebullient, involved. Perhaps I should reprogram my alarm system, at least until the boys hit their teens.

"Disney World was okay," I tell her. "I mean, you know me. I love to stand on line for forty-five minutes with fifty-thousand other people, sweating. I love to watch twelve-hundred dolls singing, `It's a Small World After All,' over and over and over and over, until I can escape to another long, hot line.

"But, the boys had a great time, and I survived. I made friends with the bus driver from the hotel. He called The Magic Kingdom, `Rat World,' so we got along with each other right away. I must tell you, now that I think of it, I had one sort of nice, nostalgic moment that involved you, directly."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We were sitting at one of the luncheon places, eating our deep-fried plastic, when I looked across the way and saw the exit ramp from the Swiss Family Robinson tree house . . . "

"Oooh!" Colleen squeaked a high-pitched, little-girlish whine of reminiscence. Twelve years ago (which suddenly felt like 12 days ago), I took the girls to Disney World. Puffy-faced with a homicidal sunburn we all had acquired the day before, our first ever in the Florida sun, Colleen fell forward while exiting the Swiss Family Robinson exhibit and belly-flopped on the pavement. We drew a small crowd as we wiped away tears from her burning cheeks and blood from her scraped knees, and hugged her and stroked her hair.

"Oh, I remember that!" she said. Then she abruptly changed the subject. "Dad, want to hear what I did?"

. . . ding ding . . .

"What do you mean, what you did? What did you do?"

"Well, Wednesday, Kate, Michelle and I decided to go to a Grateful Dead Concert . . . "

. . . ding ding ding

The mind resumes its racing. How many concerts is enough, especially Dead concerts, with thousands of 20-year-old Volkswagen vans and 40-year-old bearded guys in tie-dyed shirts?

" . . . in Greensboro, North Carolina."

DING DONG DING DONG

"So, we got in the car . . . "

"YOUR car?" She drives my late father's 1976 Chevy Nova. Faded-maroon, garnished with dents, it seems to be slouching toward automotive senility, sinking into the pavement. People applaud when she returns to the house from 7-Eleven.

" . . . and drove to North Carolina."

"Colleen! I don't believe this."

"We got there in the middle of the concert, so we were bummed; but we knew there was another concert the next night. So, we stayed overnight in a Quality Inn . . . "

"Well, at least . . . "

" . . . parking space. We slept in the car, behind the motel. The next morning, we made signs, like, `Need 3 Tickets!' We walked around town, holding them up."

Billy's right. She's trying to assassinate me.

"Finally, this guy sold us three tickets for forty dollars each, so we were dancing around all day, like, `Yay! We got tickets! We got tickets!' Then we went to the concert. We gave the guy our tickets, and he says, `These are counterfeits.' "

"Oh, Coll!"

"Yeah. We were so bummed, we got right in the car and drove all the way back. But it was fun. We got back last night. For the last two hours, we were cheering the car for making it."

"Colleen."

"Yeah?"

"You're broke, right?"

"Yeah. Well, not completely, but, yeah, close. I got a few more days' worth left.

"It's nice to know you're alive. I love you."

"Love you, too, Dad."

Brave Moments, and Time Itself.

No, seriously, where does the time go?  So cliche, and so true.

6 years old now.  And a few things on my mind I'd love to keep alive in memory in cyberspace as I'm sure I will soon forget, as I have so many things.  Swimming, Gold Shoes, and ah crap, there was something else that I seem to have forgotten already.

So Cassidy's been taking swimming lessons for over a year now, which was miraculous in itself as she was never ever keen on getting in a pool before that.  So across from her gymnastics a new pool opened up, and she adamantly said I am NOT taking swimming lessons.  I said we're just going to look at it.  This place had a gradated pool, like a shoreline.  We looked through the window at all the toys and props and things the teachers there use, the happy splashing children, and Cassidy looked at me and said, "Fine.  I'll do it."  I might have signed her up whether she liked it or not, but boy did this make it easier.  Having grown up on the water, I am adamant about swimming as a life skill; one you don't get to choose like gymnastics or dancing.  But behold, she LOVED it - just not getting her face in the water.  But at level one, you don't have to.  Now we're in level two.
She was getting used to it, a little, last spring, but the whole summer passed and all of soccer season before she got in this pool again.  The first week I watched her teacher dunk her under water, and the shock and horror when she rose back up, and soon after, the tears. My heart watching her through the glass window, oh!  I don't know why that teacher dunked her, and as a teacher I know that we make mistakes all the time so of course I hold no malice, but it was a struggle the next week to go back.  "I'm not going," she said.  And cried big, real, alligator tears.  I called my friend, a swim instructor, and asked for help.  Cassidy got on the phone with her and she gave the best advice: "you have to make scary bubbles.  Wear goggles; you want to see where you are under there, don't you?" etc. like this. (it might have helped that this is a mom she adores, the mom of her "boyfriend," which is a whole other blog for another day...)  It was enough to placate Cassidy, enough to get her in the car to give it another shot.  I spoke to her teacher, and the other kid didn't show up so Cassidy had a solo lesson.  I forgot about the goggles myself, but I watched Cassidy tell her teacher "I need goggles" and she ran off to get them.  And under she went, swimming with a kick board, dunk kick ... dunk kick... dunk kick...
And me!  Cassidy had cried those big tears hours before, and now there I was, pride from my feet to my crown swelling up and bursting out of my own eyes.  Oh my God.  As toddlers we spend so much time assisting, caring, guiding, helping, holding, soothing, etc.  Now in a phase that I'm sure will never end when we ask of and witness our children be brave on their own, having given them tools to handle themselves, and watching these moments unfold where we are helpless to assist, and witness to them breaking through a fear.  OH my heart... I shed some quiet tears knowing I could have fallen on to the floor bawling.  Hooray!  Hooray!  After that, I needed a nap.

And the golden shoes.  These golden sparkly shoes I bought at Marshalls on clearance for ten bucks, ridiculous, shiny, kind of hilarious shoes.  She loves them, of course - and another milestone - now she can tie her own shoes, as of some weeks ago - another one of those raised eyebrow smiling moments, a mothering joy and sorrow of growing independence, and growing independence.  But this one morning, my refrain of "hurry up, come on, we gotta go.  hurry up, let's go!" ... ugh... and the damn shoes weren't tied, and as it still requires a bit of concentration from her, I bent down, let's get this done dammit, we are late ... and there my fingers on these sparkly damn shoes, gold shining on my face and this illuminated moment that screamed STOP!!!!!!  JUST STOP FOR A MINUTE!!! STOP!!!
Do Not Miss this Beautiful Moment of Tying Sparkly Golden Shoes on your Almost Six Year Old.  Do Not Miss This.
I was so thrown back, so amused and sad and wistful and happy and proud and delighted and devastated all at once.  Time goes way too fast.  Tying sparkly shoes, such a pleasure!  Such a delight!  Happy shoes on a happy girl and here I am rushing it, quick, let's go, hurry up, now, god dammit, we're late, get your jacket, come on...  Stop.  Don't miss this.

That said, I can't remember the third thing on my mind, and gonna be late for school if I don't go wake up the girl Right Now...  sigh.  and soon I will probably be saying hurry up, come on, let's go... but I will try so hard not to.

Time, time, time...

What feels most sad about not keeping up this blog is that I don't have a record to read back myself, the deliciousness of these years, my child, her sweetness and grace.  What do I want to remember?  Her songs.  She sings All The Time.  Not just songs from Frozen, but ones she makes up on the spot, mostly having to do with love in her heart, or seeing beauty in something.  Ah, the purity of the young heart!  The other day she sang the refrain "Take me, Take me to the moonlight..." I don't know if it was something she heard, or something she made up.  In the evening she asked me, what was I singing today?  Having heard it half a million times, I recalled it for her.  Other times when she sings these lovely made up lyrics over and over, neither of us can remember what they were even about.  And the writer in me curses, once again, not writing things down.

However there is this moment:  the one where my husband and Cassidy just came in the door from a rainy walk in the wood with the dog.  Cassidy has long needed new rain boots so I took a quick side trip to amazon to check out boots.  Cassidy snuggled next to me and there, alongside the boots I'm looking at, are toys and things.  "I want that," she says.  
"No," I say.  .... "You never get me ANYTHING!"  And now this 4 and a half year old girl sobbing next to me.  "I don't even WANT rain boots."  "Fine," I say.  "Then I won't get them for you."  
Wailing sobs.  Next to me.  Right now.  
Oh, yes.  And then there is that.  Then there are these moments to remember.  And now outstretched, feet tempting to kick me.  "Cassidy, I'm gonna push you off this couch if you kick me."  "But I'm NOT kicking you!"  Kick.
Oh yeah.  Then there are these moments.

The other moments I want to remember are about our trip to New York this past week to visit family and have fun.  I took her to NYC.  A crapshoot, I knew - what if she has to pee?  What if she gets totally overwhelmed?  She was fine, of course, except for the shoes.  Sandals rubbing against her toes, hurting.  "Carry me!"  Oh, Jeez.  Lugging 38 pounds in my arms for blocks at a time, no fun.  Ducked into a Gap and bought her new shoes and socks.  But she was thrilled.  Those buildings.  "Look, mom!  Look at that one!" Pointing up, up, up.  New York City.  We went to Bryant Park and rode the carousel.  We walked back to the train and went home.  "I love New York City!  But can we go home now?"

And the beach.  Nothing like a Long Island beach.  Nothing like the soft sand at Robert Moses, the empty beach devoid of houses to block views or get in the way.  She finally likes the water.  She is finally unafraid of playing in the rolling surf.  We played and frolicked and laughed and laughed.  Heaven.  So much fun.

There was something about that solo time together this week - not that we don't have a ton of time spent together, but vacation time - without any real agenda - relaxed - in no hurry -- "Take me, take me to the moonlight..." 

All treasured time.  Even if I don't write it all down.  But I'm going to try to at least write down more.

Clever Girl

It it embarrassing how long it has been.  I think about writing here and have something to write about, and then I'm just swept up in life and something new happens so quickly I forget what I wanted to say.  

And so on.

But today Cassidy revealed to me this humor and intelligence in a new way that just kind of floored me.
She called from the kitchen table where she was eating these asian noodles:
Mommy! I'm on fire!
"You're on fire?" I say.
"Yeah, I'm on fire.  Somebody quick better come save me."
"I'll save you!"  I go over to her and start fanning with my hands.
"You better get some water," she says.
I wave and spit a raspberry, spraying faint spit spray.
"No!" she says.  "Water from the pipes!"
"Well, I sort of used water.  I sprayed water from my mouth."
"NO!" she says with a little huff.
A few beats go by.
"Mommy! Please! Get me a glass of water!  I'm thirsty!"

Couldn't just say in the beginning Mommy could you please get me a glass of water?

She is such a hoot.  And not quite as easy as in the past.  Something shifted at 4 which is more independent, more self amused, more wheels churning, less affection, less tolerance for affection not on her terms, and lots of big ideas. 
"Let's make our own Candyland on a big piece of paper."
"Let's decorate our whole house for Valemtimes day." (yes.  Val-em-times day.)
"Let's take down all the Christmas decorations." (preceding decorating for Valemtimes)

Sometimes she makes me a little sad, too - Just in a way that makes me unsure how to respond.  If we draw together (which she often wants to) and she sees that my drawings are "better" than hers, she gets discouraged.  Today I counted out 45 crayons (yes it's a big tub, magic markers in there too), and 4 crayons for her and said "this is how much practice I've had drawing.  This (the 4) is how much practice you've had drawing.

Her solution?  To trade drawings and add too mine, and I take hers and add to hers.
"Mommy Cassidy artwork."

What's true is that half of what comes out of her mouth is note worthy.  Either because it's hysterical or hysterically simple but so perceptive or because it's just so perceptive.  And now we've added clever.

Cassidy, when I looked it up, is meant to mean "clever girl" in it's Irish roots.
I think she's living up to her name.

Poofus

"Mommy, you have to let me know when Zuki is going to die."
"Honey I don't know when he's going to die.  Hopefully not for a long time."
"Mommy.  When he dies, he will go POOFUS."  (claps her hands)
"Poofus?  Really?  Tell me about Poofus.  I don't know what that means."
"It means that there will be a bright bright light, it will turn white, and then it will go POOFUS! and then it will disappear."
"Oh?  And that's how we'll know?"
"Yes."
"Alright.  Well I'll keep an eye out for that, Cassidy."

Where does this girl come from. xoxox

What day is it?  Month?  Year?  How do so many days and days go by in this fast forward blur without a stop?  Cassidy is instructing her daddy how to sit on the edge of the rug for group sing, and now he can "get his outdoor shoes on to go outside."  Oh, do I have a Montessori daughter.

Her joy.  Just watching her.  Her joy is just so big.  Her heart is just so big.  When I told her Gramma Phylly was coming for her birthday next weekend, she jumped up and down: "Gramma Phylly! I LOVE Gramma Phylly! And when I see her I am going to thank her for the table!" (she sent an early birthday present).  "And right now I am going to give Zuki a nice big hug and thank him for all of the love that he gives me!"  The cat.  Omg.

My exhaustion.  Exasperation.  That I want to sew a few birds for a craft fair and every day kid myself that I will carve the time out this evening.  Turned into next evening.  Turned into the next.  And write?  I'll get up early tomorrow. (snooze button)  Or maybe the next day.  (but it's so cold) Or maybe the next (but my bed is so damn cozy).  So I'll stay up late (yawn).  Maybe tomorrow I'll stay up late (maybe I'll just read in bed).  Maybe the next night (I haven't played words with friends in days).

She putters past me, "maybe you be the teacher and rub my back, is that okay daddy?" laying on the rug.  "I can be a big girl and you can be a teacher."

"Alright!" My husband says.  "I want everyone to go brush their teeth in the bathroom!"  Ha.  He knows how to play this game.

Lately I look at her face and marvel; it's changed again.  I listen to her babble; it's more sophisticated, albeit still very much childish.  What is happening?  How can all this time be passing without my notice?  WIthout grabbing some of it's pieces and recording them?  What were all those funny things she said yesterday?  Last week?  Last month, or was that over the summer?

And though I'm sure I will keep NOT writing all the things down I think I will remember and then berating myself for not writing down, anything, in months and wondering where all that time has gone, there are some good signs that I am getting things right in this parenting gig.  Cassidy expresses gratitude and appreciation in ways that swell my heart.  She gets my sense of humor and I get hers, and we laugh and laugh and I get that she gets it, and she gets that she gets it.  And she sings Bob Marley songs, not to mention her own songs, made up in the back seat of the car, about what she sees or thinks or what happened yesterday.  

I could go on and on.  I want to go on and on.  But Chris needs to fill the outdoor wood furnace to keep us warm, and I need to get her in bed.  And then I'll want to go to bed.  And we'll do it all over again tomorrow.

My daughter, the menace.

It's been so long since I've blogged on here, but I have to (re) start somewhere.  Too many times I've thought "it's been so long, what's the point..." but so many things go by that are write-worthy.

I started teaching in March, subbing for a teacher in a Montessori toddler community who had a medical emergency.  "Can Cassidy come, too?" was all I needed to know when the job was pitched to me.  We've been there together ever since.  Not the ideal situation, but great to get my foot in the door, and honestly, we were both getting bored being home.

The awesome thing about being a teacher in the class your child is in is that you get a whole different perspective on who your child is in social community situations.  The horrible thing about being a teacher in the class your child is in is that you get a whole different perspective on who your child is in social community situations.  I have witnessed my child paint her face purple, run out of the classroom and book ass down the hallway countless times, pull her slippers and socks off and refuse to put them back on, and scream "I WANT SNACK NOWWWWWW!!!!!"  This past week, the last of school, I happen to know how poorly she has been sleeping.  I happen to know that she's going through some growth spurt, as she complains about her knees and legs hurting.  I wanted to put a sign around her neck saying "please forgive me, I'm very tired."

I mostly have a sense of humor about all of it.  After so many years of teaching preschool, I am practiced in patience and acceptance.  And I have the utmost for children who are not my own.  But today, the third time Cassidy hauled ass through the door and down the hallway, I implored Drew, the lead teacher, to please go after her.  I could not play teacher anymore, I was straight up mom.  I wanted to leash her.

At pick up, parents always ask how the day was.  And what we say is that the days were good, or great, or that the children had "really high energy," which means most likely that we are really glad the day is over.  There are children that grate at us, screaming or running or spinning and creating a vortex for the other children to join in, and things get chaotic.  As it should be: for the most part, this is totally age appropriate behavior, and we are trained and practiced at riding these waves.  One of the children has fierce tantrums, which is no news to her parents, and I am not reactive when she melts down lying down on the floor in a fit.  We let her know we're there if/when she needs us, and let her go.  The other children step around her, totally accepting of it, no big deal.

Most of the time when Cassidy chucks things across the room or puts toys and materials in her mouth, I redirect her, know it's appropriate behavior for her age, and find it all amusing.  Other times I am astonished: this is my kid?  MY kid?  What the hell is she doing?

All of this, and at the same time, I am fiercely proud of my girl.  I am proud of her spirit, her testing, her pushing, her questing.  I suppose if she were just this good girl who followed the rules and pushed no limits, this would all be easier.  But in the process of this self construction, no matter how humbling in front of other parents when she runs away saying "I leaving you, Mommy!" when I tell her it's time to go home, she is who she is, she will be who she will be, and starting in the fall, she will be in her own classroom with her own teachers, and I will be in mine.

happy holy daze

Christmas spirit had taken a nearly twenty year lull, maybe more.  A child of divorce, there were three Christmas's a year:  Eve at my Gramma Bruggners, morning at moms, afternoon at dads.  The presents were awesome, but I do vaguely remember being around ten years old and groaning Christmas night somewhere, at somebody's house, "Another one?"  Somehow the holiday got less exciting in adolescence, getting that coveted walkman and hiding in a corner with cassette tapes.  I think I was about 22 when I came home one year from some western state that my dad and stepmother had separated.  She and my brothers were living in a rental near my Gramma Doe's house.  My father was in a rental someplace else.  I think it was the 23rd when I came home, and I was given a choice: "Well, you can spend Christmas eve with your dad and his friends, or with you sister, her family and your mom, or your stepmother, brothers and Gramma Doe."  I decided to go solo instead, and went to the beach and cried.

The years after that were characterized by flying home from Oregon or Colorado or wherever I was living at the time, my dad picking me up at the airport and taking me out for sushi.  I bounced around from family home to family home, eventually settling on a routine that would last over the next ten years.  It was always nice to be home and see everyone, but it was also always so hectic.  The eve and morning, with my stepmother and brothers, the late morning with my sister's family and mom, the afternoon with my dad and Gramma Doe.  I'd fly home with a bulging suitcase with new hats and sweaters from my three Christmas's.  It was exhausting, and continued like this for years.

Skip ahead another ten seasons or so with boyfriend turned fiance turned husband.  Good stuff.  Always warm and lovely to decorate the tree, fun to give gifts to my stepdaughter and hang out with her before she did the split day and left for her moms, and then quiet with my husband, Annie and Zuki.   In the afternoons we'd play with a new gadget or take a walk.  One year we took the dog to run at a local state park.  When we got there we'd discovered someone had shoveled off a rink on the pond.  We raced home and got our skates, went back and spent the afternoon on the ice, Annie running and sliding between us.  Best. Christmas. Afternoon.

And now, here we are, the third Christmas with our child, the first that she is cognizant of what Christmas might mean, the thrill of the tree, the awareness of all the presents underneath.  This is the first year I've put Christmas music on my ipod, created playlists and intentionally listen to Johnny Mathis, Elvis, Ella Fitzgerald, etc.  My nearly 14 year old stepdaughter came in the other day in the midst of my baking and singing Winter Wonderland and said "Auuugggh... I HATE Christmas music!!!" And I laughed in recognition.  Cassidy in the meantime walks in circles singing, "Frosty the the snowman.  Jolly Happy Soul.  HEY!  Frosty the snowman.  Jolly Happy Soul.  HEY!"  When the music is playing and Ella's Frosty is on, she bellows,"Again! Again! Again!"

The Christmas spirit has been creeping up to me the past few years, and now I think I've got it.  I actually don't think it's ever been this good.

shots

Cassidy turned two, and so follows her two  year check up.  I put off the chicken pox vaccine last time we were there, saying no, too many shots in one visit.  Actually this chicken pox thing I wanted to put off altogether.  I mean, chicken pox was a rite of passage when I was a kid. It's not fatal.  Why a vaccine?  I argued in my head over and over, and relented.  Fine.  We'll get the shot.

I changed her appointment twice.  One legitimately, as we were out of town. The next because it was just more fun to see a friend.  I wanted to cancel again.  I dread shots.  I hate them.  To watch my daughter go through them?  Torture.

We talked about what was coming last night.  "...And the doctor will look at your eyes, and your nose, and your ears... and we'll see how big you're getting when she weighs you and measures you... and then you have to get a little shot."  I poked her arm.  "It's just a little pinch of medicine so you don't get sick.  You'll be really brave, and it will be fine."

And she was so brave.  We looked at a book to distract her, the shot descended on her arm, and my girl didn't even flinch.  "All finished!" the nurse said.  "What?  That's IT?" ... my brave girl.  "Here's your papers for the lab work.  It's for lead testing."

Crap.  Are you kidding me?  Blood work?

I told Cassidy what was coming next as she shuffled proudly with the snowman sticker on her shirt.  "...another shot, Cassidy.  But you'll be brave, and it will be fine.  Mommy has to give blood sometimes, and Daddy has to give blood sometimes..." The whole time in my head just feeling so awful.  Bloodwork is nothing like a shot.  It sucks.  A lot.

We checked in, waited in the laboratory waiting room, we were called.  Two flobotomists went to work strapping her, tapping her, while she sat in my lap, so far, brave.  They poked her left arm, jabbed and searched, and Cassidy screamed.  Cried.  Screamed.  And no blood.
"No blood?" I asked.
"Nope, we're going to have to find a vein in her other arm."
Are you bleeping kidding me?

They finally got it.  I got dizzy watching her blood course through the thin tube, while singing Frosty the Snowman to her, which we'd listened to the Ella Fitzgerald version of nine times on our way to the doctors.  Her new favorite song.  She screamed, she cried, and it was over.  "Would you like a sticker?" the blood man asked.  "Yeah," she sobbed.  And picked out two.

Bandages on both crooks of both arms.  And it was over.  And we could leave and go home.  And we don't have to do this again for a long time.  And she was fine, singing her version of the snowman song to herself as we walked down the hall of the tiny hospital where our doctor's office is.

All that dread for fleeting moment, over so fast.  Nine more rounds of Frosty the Snowman on the way home, a grilled cheese sandwich and some juice, and down for a nap, just another day.

I can't help but feel this certain "hmph!" of realization about time.  The moments, the movement, the dread of one single moment, one that comes and goes so quickly, as they all do.  All that time I spent, all the moments I spent, bracing myself for one, single moment.

Next time I won't cancel.

the progression of love

I'd heard and read all the stories about that overwhelming love I could expect to have as soon as Cassidy was born.  "Nothing like it," and "You won't believe it," and "You'll never love anything so much, so immediately in your life."
Is it weird that that wasn't true for me?
When Cassidy was born nearly two years ago to the day, this baby I had been waiting for all my life, all I could think was "Wow, what a little alien!"  It's true and it's hard to admit.  I loved her, sure, of course I did.  But not as much as I do now, and not as much as I likely will tomorrow.

For me it's been like a slow steady stream turning into a river, approaching the ocean.  I have fallen in love with her more by the day.  Fiercely.

I used to feel a little guilty when she was a tiny infant.  Where was this epiphany that was supposed to overwhelm me?  Well.  I've got it now.

There are also moments, so many of them, that I want to bottle and save.  There is also awareness that this stage of cuteness that is almost crippling (I might fall down one day, more enamored than I can bear).  Sometimes  when we get busy, like when we were stacking wood last weekend and Cassidy was sliding ducky down her little plastic slide, singing songs and picking up ducky to hold and rock and make sure it was okay, I called a time out to my husband.  We stopped stacking and took the next 15 minutes to just play with her and bask in her joy.

I am also very much aware that all this cuteness will turn south one day when it won't be so fun when she's 12 and thinks her momma's an asshole.  Or any of the other altercations to come in her future.  Or worse, how many many strained, awkward and unsatisfying adult mother/daughter relationships that exist that must have been at one time this; this utter cuteness and depth.  What happens?

Maybe we are just gathering our reserves when they are toddlers.  Loving so hard and deeply that one day when that our patience isn't quite as easy to access, we have this whole well we've collected to dip into.  I don't know.  I hate to think that one day I might have rely on resources rather than be perpetually enamored and delighted my whole life.

I do know that she is going to wake up any moment and I can't wait.  And that the journey is different for every mother, every child.  And that I am going to soak up these moments, days and years while they are here in my present time.

big cook book

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.

isn't it ironic...

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.

the end of time as we know it

I'm getting deeper into this lack of time thing.  Cassidy is like a comet, all the time.  If I could bottle up and eighth of her energy and take small doses of it for the next month, I'd be good to go.  It's not that I mind the chasing and maintenance of what this does and means to my mind state, the condition of my house, the lack of words, but I am exhausted. I can't even have a phone call for more than ten minutes without peeling her off the edge of the staircase or saving the cat from her grip.


She learned to walk by hiking in the woods, and now she is a pro at manuevering over and around sticks, stumps and rocks.  She is fast.  We've been picking string beans from the garden to munch on, raspberries, blueberries and blackberries from all over our yard, but there are those bright red berries I have to make sure she doesn't get her hands on.  I love the fact that she is fully aware that food comes from the earth.


I was lamenting to chris yesterday after two full days of waitressing the coming home to the bathroom I still haven't gotten cleaned.  Chris HAD to mow the lawn, it was already sprouting new batches of dandelions, and our lawn is like a football field so this is no easy task.  I can't remember the last time I cleaned my car or even dusted my bedroom.  I asked Chris for a few minutes to sit on the front porch and call a girlfriend, and after ten minutes or so I could hear Cassidy from inside: MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!  Having been gone long days working, I hung up the phone.


"I love Cassidy," I told Chris.  "I just miss having 20 minutes to sit around and do NOTHING."  Chris has a 24 year old, a 13 year old, and a 1.5 year old.  "Colleen," he said, "I haven't had time to do nothing in 24 years, and I'm looking at another fifteen, at least.  I see cars go by, guys my age with bikes strapped to their cars..."
Perspective.  I had twenty years of running around the planet.  I remember freedom.

It's another day.  I can't even finish a ramble on blog post without pause. She's napping now, and I quickly stripped my bed, got laundry started, cleaned two bathrooms and unloaded the dishwasher.  I paid a couple bills .  Now I'll write for a few minutes and maybe vacuum the rugs before she wakes up, if I'm lucky.


We went to Old Sturbridge Village this morning, where we have a membership.  It is a restoration village set in the 1840's, a living history museum.  We go there often.  Today we took a ride on a stagecoach pulled by two thick horses, and then we went on a river boat for a short putter around the lake.  I was armed with a bag of diapers and juice boxes, crackers and her favorite blankie.  There are dirt roads she can safely run around, amidst a village of salt box and cape houses, working tin and blacksmith shops, farms and women dying wool in pots over open fires outside.  I get snippets of history and information which I would eat if I could, but I am too busy  maintaining the safety of my daughter.


Cassidy's language development lately is so delightful.  She rested her head on my shoulder the other day and said "My Mommy."  Melt.  She has yes and no down, so I ask her a lot of questions.  "You wanna go hang out on the front porch?"  "YEAAAAHHH!!!!!" she says back.  Or, "Yeahyeahyeahyeahyeah!!!!"  She cracks me up all the time.  She also gets pissed if I won't let her do something she wants to do.  She screams and runs in the other room and hides, sneaking peeks in my direction to glare.  Of if I'm holding her, she'll pull my hair or squeeze my face.  I put her down immediately and tell her she's hurting me and I don't like it.  And I ignore her until her tantrum subsides.


Oh, what fun it is.


That mango smoothie on some mountain road in the tropics of Captain Cook, Hawaii, sitting at a little table outside listening to birds, the scent of plumeria in the air, alone with my journal and my thoughts... The Trident  Cafe in Boulder sipping a vanilla latte from a pint glass in the cold of winter, snug all alone with my journal in the bustle of a busy coffee shop... Under my favorite tree in Yellowstone National Park over looking the lake in a secluded place sitting on the little quilt my college friend made for me, taking a nap in the warm sun... Walking the beach in my back yard looking out at White Island, the active volcano smoldering away 30 miles off shore from where I lived in New Zealand... Riding my bike through the red clay dirt and rocks in Sedona, Arizona,to the little sandwich shop that made the best pineapple malts ever tasted...


Life sure is different these days.  And I wouldn't trade it for the world.  There are moments, however, when I am wistful for days gone by.  And, as if on cue, I can hear that Cassidy is now awake.  

tick tock tick tock

Where does the time go?


Cassidy still naps in the late morning, at which time I have about an hour and half and a choice to make:  laundry?  shower?  clean the kitchen?  clean the bathroom?  rest?  read a book?  write an e mail?  pay bills?  write a blog? waste it away playing words with friends?


She's napping now and there are remnants I need to attend to: books carried, dragged and scattered on the living room floor, a cookie sheet full of flour that overspilled on the kitchen floor rug (she loved smearing it around with her hands), the open dryer door full of laundry I haven't quite finished folding... and boy could I use a shower.  And the playroom floor needs to be mopped.  And don't even ask about the laundry piled on my grandmother's old cedar hope chest in our bedroom that hasn't been put away.


Cassidy requires much more maintenance these days.  Otherwise she's stuffing her mouth with dog food kibbles, or opening daddy's box of unused checkbooks on the bookshelf by his desk for me to find in a trail to the kitchen, or picking bits of folded laundry off the coffee table that I just spent 15 minutes folding.  Ah, what fun is life with a toddler!


I don't sweat it for the most part.  I'm getting used to living in trails of chaos, constantly picking things up off the floor.  But when she goes down for a nap, I want to rest too.  I don't want to vacuum the pile of flour up left in the kitchen, even though I knew it would be a messy activity.  I don't feel like moving everything around in the playroom and mopping the floor, even though under the rocking chair among the collected dog hair is beginning to look like a good place for mice to live.  I don't feel like sweeping the stairs or cleaning the bathroom.  I don't want to re-fold all that laundry.


Long gone are the blissful days of the tiny infant, sleeping, eating, laying on the floor on a blanket, immobile and perfectly happy.  I am wistful for those days.

Cassidy shares her breakfast

These days are full of wonder and discovery, uttering new words for the first time, testing limits and screaming tears when yes, I am serious that you may not stand up in your high chair and now you may not sit there at all anymore.  And no, you may not have a sip of my coffee, or eat that dog food, or climb the outside of the stairway.   And, oh, that laugh that makes my heart bubble up and spill over!  And yes, that IS the dog, a ball, a boat, a bee!  


I was at work the other day when Cassidy was stung by a bee.  We still re-animate the story in baby language:  bee, zzzzzzz, ow!  Waaah!!!  She cracks up laughing every time she tells the story and pretends to cry, or when I tell the story and pretend to cry.


Even though I am often exhausted, I know that I will look back and be wistful for these days, too.

first baby

Zuki's not doing well.  He is my guy, my friend, my feline.  I got him nearly 12 years ago after he was dumped at a vet's office in Vancouver, Washington where I was living and teaching.  One of the parents of my kids worked at the office and happened to mention it, and I was wanting a pet, though knew it might be a sketchy decision with my kind of wanderlust.  His full name is Godzuki, named by the son of a man I dated.  The seven year old was obsessed with Godzilla at the time, but of course that wasn't gonna fly.  "How about Godzuki?  That's Godzilla's son's name."  Godzuki.  Zuki.  I liked it.

Zuki and I lived in two different apartments in Washington.  When I moved back to New York, my brother flew out to take the cross country trip with Zuki and me.  Zuki has camped in a state forrest in Idaho, Montana, driven by the geysers of Yellowstone, and crossed the Badlands.  He met my college roommate in Minnesota, and my cousin in Michigan.  He didn't like all that traveling, but as my little dude, he had to get used to it.

For a year we lived with my dad in New York.  My dad was not a cat person, but Zuki is a man's man and wanted to be buds.  My dad started calling him "Zuki Up My Ass."  My dad would complain, but I caught him working with Zuki snuggled up on his lap many times.

Zuki and I moved to Vermont and lived in two different apartments over the course of the next few years. Then I met my husband, from Massachusetts, and we made a final move here.  He couldn't be happier about his retirement home.  Zuki has had 6 acres to roam around, cool hiding spaces under barns,  and plenty of birds, mice and chipmunks to hunt.  He adjusted well (though it took some time) when we got a golden retriever puppy, Annie.  Though let's be very clear here: Zuki is definitely the boss.


I thought Annie would be the favored pet for Cassidy, but Zuki has been more patient by far.  As a small baby, Zuki would walk right over her to lay on my stomach while I fed Cassidy a bottle.  He is so patient with her screaming and squealing at him, blowing kisses, laying her head on his body for a snuggle, and sometimes he even stretches his nose out to kiss her.  Cassidy is so happy and excited to see Zuki, like every time is the first time she'd ever seen him before.  She is just crazy nuts about him.


He really is the coolest cat ever.  And my heart is breaking to see him slowing down.  He's on a daily dose of prednesone for asthma and now has a mysterious ailment to his hind legs so that he walks wobbly and can't jump like he used to.  He's 12.  He's a senior.  We nearly lost him a few years ago after he threw a clot.  After he fully recovered from what most cats don't survive, I think I figured he was immortal.


Cassidy probably won't understand when Zuki finally passes.  Because I am her mother, my heart will break twice.

He's still with us for now and who knows?  It could be a few months, it could be five years.  My vet told me it could be a 9-1-1 anytime.  All I know is that he's been my traveling buddy, my companion and witness to my stories for all of these years.  I wish he could stay forever.

ticks while I'm away

I've been working all day on Sundays; Cassidy stays with her dad.  One time I came home in the late afternoon and found Chris pushing her around in a wheel barrow.  I think it was the cutest thing I'd ever seen.  Another late afternoon (this past weekend) she was splashing around a little kiddie pool I'd bought last year and forgot about, a bright colorful beach umbrella tilted against the sun.  He takes her hiking in the kelty backpack we recently scored at a second hand shop, and she helped him plant potatoes with her little plastic gardening tools (a minor mishap or two when she dug up the potatoes he'd just planted, but she sort of got the idea).  I also tutor in the afternoons on Tuesdays and Thursdays; again, she hangs with dad, and takes her second nap of the day (I wish this would last forever) while he works out in the barn, monitor on the workbench.

Today was the first day I'd left her all day with a babysitter.  Not just one babysitter, but when I found out Chris was going to be late home from work, I got a second sitter to relieve the first one.  Fortunately the bakery is a one minute ride up the street, so I came home for the transition.  My sister in law was with her until 230, then our high schooler came after school for the next two hours.  I came home for the in between with my dirty white apron still on, which might have been a mistake because my heart broke as I tried to make a graceful exit, Cassidy chanting Mama! Mama! Mama!


We were up to our ears in whoopie pies, muffins and cupcakes.  I got home a little after five and I could hear Cassidy was just waking up when I got home, Chris coaxing her out of her stupor.  She didn't sleep long and came downstairs whiny and needy.  We had no idea why she was screaming and complaining, whining and crying but when she went into the living room and pointed at the tv, I was right there with her.  We don't let her watch tv every day, in fact, we don't let her watch much of anything aside from the Old School Sesame Street DVD's I bought for her entertainment as much as my own.  Watching them for the first time my memory was so jarred into childhood I had to call my sister: "Remember that one with the two girls and the dollhouse?  The two little dolls, two little beds, two little spoons, two sleepy heads?  And then the cat came and busted in the dollhouse?  Oh my God, do you remember that?"


So I put on a little Sesame street and sat with her on the couch, though she had no interest in snuggling with me.  She pushed me away like "you think I'm gonna snuggle you now after leaving me all day?"   Ouch.   Still, I sat with my hand draped over her head, and played with her hair.  She let me, after all.


And then an unmistakable bump.  I've felt them on Annie about a thousand times and every time, even with the dog, go into a slight panic and call for Chris.  This time I was no different, and yet it was very different.  "CHRIS!!!! she's got a TICK on her HEAD!!!!"


I jumped up and ran into the bathroom for bacitracin and a tweezer.  Chris came over with a magnifying glass.  "It's too big for a deer tick," my husband said.  "Are you sure?  Are you sure?  Should we save it and have it tested?  Oh my God!"


I hate ticks more than anything, except for maybe leeches.  Ticks on my daughters head?  Nothing I could have done, but I still felt like the worst mother that I wasn't here to flick it off immediately.  Not that I would have, or even could have, prevented anything, anything at all.  


I know I can't be with her every single minute of every single day.  I know I can't protect her from every single thing that comes her way.  I know I can't soothe every hurt, cry and whine.  I know I can't stop the bumps and scrapes and falls. 
But Oh My God, do I want to.

Home Momma

A long time ago imagining a future that included having children, I think I remember myself adamantly saying that I would be a working mother; of course I would be a working mother.  I grew up with working role models; my mother with her nine to five job, my stepmother an executive editor.  Women could do it all.  Of course I would work.


Boy did that change.  I worked with children for nearly twenty years before I had my own (not my plan, but so life goes), and who better to raise my own child than me?  I couldn't even imagine going to work and leaving my baby.  And with the cost of day care, who could afford it anyway when half my paycheck would go to someone else?  By the time I had Cassidy, I didn't give a crap about being some kind of wonder woman.  I wanted to stay home and be mommy, full time.


I don't regret one second of this.  The first months were bliss.  Eat, sleep, lay around a coo; what could be better?  I had time to read books, clean the bathroom, gaze at my daughter  and marvel at her tiny toes and eyelashes.  I was there when she smiled, laughed, and rolled over for the first time.  I was there for tummy time and the bewilderment of her first bite of rice cereal.  I witnessed her rock, crawl, pull herself up, take steps.  I have been the primary one to bathe, feed, change, rock, sing, and play with her.  And it has been awesome.


It's a crime that most women don't have the luxury of this choice, and it's a shame that I had to lose a parent in order to have the option.  It's ironic that what's allowed me to be with my daughter on one income is the small inheritance from my dad.  Having just about exhausted this resource, I'm trickling back into the work force slowly, and, I'll admit it, not unhappily.


Being with Cassidy all the time is a full time job, and not.  I dreaded her walking, thinking that I would have to have an eagle eye on her at all times, but that hasn't been the case.  We are reasonably child proofed, so there are definitely times I leave her in her playroom while I clean the kitchen or straighten the living room or fold laundry, etc.  I peek in at her looking at books, or banging on her drum, or making her stuffed animals kiss one another with an enthusiastic "Buh!"  I'll talk on the phone and she'll toddle around, looking out the windows or squealing at the cat who's sleeping on a chair in the dining room.


My sister in law came over the other day.  I left Cassidy with her for awhile and went out to do some errands.  When I got back, she said "My God, how do you get anything done?" and, "Sorry I left you with such a mess!"  There were books and toys all over the floor of the playroom.  It almost made me feel guilty.  I imagined them, full on playing, the hour and a half I was gone.  I could see the trail of what they'd done - read books, built with blocks, shaken maracas, maybe had a few cheerios (or were those from yesterday?).  I do those things with my daughter, but not constantly.  I do those things with my daughter, but oftentimes she does them herself while I am doing other things, myself.


I'm working part time now, doing several different things.  I wait tables all day on Sundays, I tutor a couple times a week for a couple hours, and I've started baking for a friend with a cafe in her old bakery barn up the street.  I'm usually happy to be out in the world, away from the house, being productive in a way that results in cash in my pocket or a beautiful cupcake (and cash in my pocket).  When I get home, I can't wait to be with Cassidy.  I don't mean I can't wait to put away dishes while she hangs out in her playroom, I mean I can't wait to get in her face and sing silly songs, ask her what sound does a lion make?  a rooster?  a pig? and giggle our heads off.


My husband gets the heroes welcome every day.  As soon as he pulls in the driveway, Cassidy is screaming Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!  like she hasn't seen him in weeks.  They have a photo worthy reunion every single day.  Me?  I'm not gone long enough for her to miss me that much, except for the one day a week I waitress all day.  And when Chris told me that last Sunday at his parents house walking in the fields, for twenty minutes Cassidy yelled "Mama! Mama! Mama!" as if I were going to walk out of the woods at any moment, I couldn't help it; it made me feel pretty good.

if I could save time in a bottle

Yesterday I'd heard over the monitor that Cassidy had woken from her nap, so I went in her room to get her.  
"Hey, cookie!! You ready to get up?"
"No!"
"No?  Are you sure you don't want to go downstairs?"
"No!"
Hm.  This was new.  "Alright, then I'll come back in a few minutes."


I went down the stairs, expecting her to protest, but she didn't.  I dawdled in the kitchen for ten minutes, pondering this new word she's recently discovered.  When I went back upstairs, I found her snuggling in her bed, amusing herself with Teddy Spaghetti and a frog bath toy she's been carrying around.
"Heyyyy!!! You ready for some lunch?  You wanna go downstairs with Mommy?"
"No!"
"No?  Are you SURE?"
She made no move to get up.
I sighed.  "Alright then... I'll leave you to it!"


I'd been dreading this, knowing it was coming.  She's been practicing yes's and no's, nodding and shaking her head, testing them out.  I first noticed a couple weeks ago during our bedtime routine when we talk about what we did that day.  "And then we went to the farm and saw the baby goats, remember?"  I watch the wheels turn and she smiles and nods.  Or, "I think it's time to change that diaper!"  Shaking of the head.  "No! No! No!" ... and that damn game of chasing her around the house to get her pants down and wipe her butt, and the fun of her writhing like it's a game while I try to hold her down.


Oh, where has my baby gone?


I went upstairs a third time.  There she was, content as can be.  "You wanna get up and go downstairs now?"
"No!"
"You don't want to come downstairs and have some lunch?  Then you can have a bub?"


That was it.  The bub did it.  My husband's word for bottle.  Her eyes lit and she pulled herself up for me to get her.


Though I did have some grief understanding the change that's coming, I also had a spark of pride when I left the room that first time, and secretly celebrated her growing independence and self construction.


There are worse ways to encounter "no," and believe me, I know they're coming.  And so departs the spirit of my ever agreeable, easily re-directed, sweet little baby girl.  Here come the no's and the tests and the need for firm limits and boundaries.  


Welcome the spirit of my independent, ever growing, funny little girl.  Sorry in advance for all the times I piss you off for not getting what you want.  And I forgive you in advance for your wailing and tantrums.


Somehow I feel like raising my fist and yelling out, "Let the games begin!"
Phew.