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.