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.