Tuesdays Around the World: Loosey Goosey

 

I don't remember losing my teeth, but it seems like it must have been a traumatic experience.  The thought of a dangling nerve or a bloody hole makes me shiver all over.  The thought of pulling a tooth makes me fall a little bit apart.  Could I have actually accomplished such a thing?

 

Mia's baby tooth has been loose for months.  A little bit of a wiggle at first, then a succession of greater mobility leading up to the big day.  I guess that's how these things go, taking so long, but I don't know; I'm new to the falling-out teeth gig.  She's over seven years old and it's a first for us.  For her.  The worrisome bit was the jagged permanent tooth growing in behind the wiggler.  A party crasher, too early for the festivities.  All crooked and sideways in its approach.  Did it mean the baby tooth would have to be pulled?  By an adult?  A dentist?  *shudder*  Maybe the pressure of an upward-bound adult tooth was needed to oust the baby.

 

I kept myself awake over these things.

 

Maybe it's true what they say about first children: the world revolves around them.  (Wait.  Is that what they say?  I never paid too much attention to all of that birth order stuff.)  After all, if a parent thinks and reacts and spends so much energy imagining every step of that child's life...

 

Well, anyway, I worried. 

 

Then she just pulled it out.  A twist and a grimace and out came the baby tooth, bouncing across the carpet, smaller than I remembered it being when it was still attached to her gums.  A baby tooth, missing its baby mouth. 

 

I thought I might cry.  But if she was crowing and spouting her pulled-tooth story to everyone who'd listen, I couldn't justify the tears.  Sure, she's not a baby anymore.  I've known that for a long time.  The hard, calcified evidence, lay before me in her fingertips, presented like a trophy. 

 

Engraved on its enameled surface, smaller than my eyes can make out, was probably something along the lines of

 

Here lies the past.  Lets see what happens next.

 

Or maybe it was something more juvenile.

 

Baby teeth are for babies.

 

Whatever the inscription, you just can't cry over such truth.  So I laughed instead.

 

 

 

Tuesdays around the world are hosted at Communal Global.

A Depressing Dream-Come-True

I jammed my finger on some unknown part of our house's architecture last night.  I should know what caused the injury but because of the circumstances, I'm clueless, and in minor (irritating) pain which causes me to gripe vociferously.  Because it's not just the finger, which would be bad enough -- it's the fingernail. 

Anyway, you know how everything in the middle of the night is transformed into a mega-emergency?  I went from sleeping to waking in the black space between two half-seconds, and dashed down the hall.  (Maybe this was the scene of the fingernail-mangle?)  I slapped on a light switch (maybe this?) and yelled to Justin for help.  He stumbled along behind me, probably cursing parenthood under his breath; it happens.

A midnight exclamation from the upstairs bedrooms almost always means either the house is engulfed in flames or a child is being stolen by a super-tall child-burglar.  So up the stairs we flew.  I didn't even know which child's voice had woken me, but I knew I was on the way to rescue them.  Without my glasses, because certainly I'd be able to see both the flames and the giant kidnapper without the aid of such commonplace helps. 

But it was only a sick little girl.  My five-alarm senses calmed a bit (like, to a mere four alarms) and I could see the situation: vomit.  Of the four-year-old variety.  Well actually I heard the situation, because I could see almost nothing. Have I told you I'm blind-ish?  I rely on my senses of smell and hearing, and my mom-radar (which usually only tells me when there's a hungry baby within a dozen foot radius of my breasts) to prepare myself for battle.  You know this battle: the wrangling of wet pajamas over feverish heads, the stripping of chunked-up sheets, the scrubbing of carpet, the wild hope that this will be a single, isolated incident of vomit in the night. 

I have to tell you, though, when I could finally squint hard enough to dispel the built-up adrenaline, what I saw made me burst into an obscenely huge smile.

Obscene because what good, tender mother smiles at her vomiting child?  Huge because, well, Lauren was kneeling at the toilet.

SHE PUKED INTO THE TOILET.

Feel free to reread that last part -- when you do, you'll understand my momentary pause and lapse upon entering the bathroom.  In this corner was my poor, sick, darling girl, heaving from the bottom of her toes, coughing and choking and horribly upset about the whole thing.  And in this corner was me: almost cheering, kind of bouncing on the balls of my feet, sort of clapping at 3:26AM in the upstairs bathroom. 

This moment will live forever in my heart, friends.  The moment I didn't have to peel soaked-jammies over her face and hair and mouth.  The moment she wiped her own lips with a length of toilet paper.  The moment I held her hair back and realized that our days of gagging while cleaning up last night's dinner are so close to being expired. 

Well, with that child anyway. 

It was all I could do to comfort Lauren while she calmed down, I was so happy.  See?  Obscene.

Justin had her pillow and an unlucky blankie switched out by the time we got back into her bedroom, but other than those small casualties, our job was done.  He had a fresh cup of cold water for her, I tucked her in, and we backed away, slowly.  Because surely, that had been a dream.

And then I got a little bit depressed because my newest idea of a dream-come-true has something to do with vomit and nothing to do with beach vacations.

No matter.  Shake it off.

Because she puked into the toilet. 

If I accidentally slip and call her my favorite child, you'll understand my motivation. 

I Keep Forgetting to Show You This...

Because I'm all chicken-without-a-head chasing this...

Yes, my dears, the boy is walking.  He pushes his legs out with a drunken gait and lifts his arms high with a terrifying lack of balance, and forward he goes. 

Sometimes headfirst.

Usually smiling.

 

You might be expecting me to have a breakdown about babies growing up and walking away and un-snuggling themselves from my greedy arms, but that's not going to happen this time, I promise.

 

I totally got it out of my system earlier this morning during a sleepy nursing session.  I'll survive. 

 

 

But...isn't he the cutest thing on two wheels you've ever seen?!

Landon's Pumpkin Patch Birthday Party

 

 

A pumpkin cake, a pumpkin roll (noooohhmmm....), and a bowl of tiny baby pumpkins in The Great Pumpkin Patch.

 

 

A Happy Birthday song and an enamored listener.

 

 

A babycake and a cakey baby.

 

 

A giver of frosting and a stealer of hearts.

 

A giant, crumbled mess.

 

 

 

A paper ripper and a present finder.

 

 

A digger and a squealer -- an excited peek-a-boo-er.

 

 

A lucky baby rider in a chunky Radio Flyer.

 

 

And finally, at long-last, a birthday boy free-pass into the pots and pans paradise.  A perfect, deafening ending.  A one-year-old beginning.

A Back-to-School Lineup

First, in the up-too-late hours of the night before, a mama stands back from the table, ready to weep.  Maybe it's from exhaustion, or maybe it's from the passage of time.  Probably it's from both.  She looks at her masterpiece, which is actually an afterthought. 

Crud-ola; last year, we had a fancy back-to-school breakfast table.  This year is special, too!  It MUST BE SPECIAL!!

She kicks it into weepy gear. 

I have a first grader.  And my baby girl is in her final year of preschool.  Tomorrow morning, they'll walk away into the arms of teacher-mothers.

She scatters bits of scholastic-like details on the breakfast table, wondering if her sleepy children will even notice.  Because of course they haven't been practicing the early bedtimes/early wake-ups that would facilitate an easy transition. 

No, they've been staying up even later and lounging on the couch even longer each morning.

The first one to awaken (after the grumbling parents) is Mia.  She is bushy-tailed and chatterboxish.  It seems like she might have slept in her first-day outfit, but no: she's merely speedy and READY SO READY for first grade. 

Later, the preschooler flops downstairs.  Lauren is disheveled and disoriented: why are we doing this again?  And where is my blankie?  And I'll only smile if you give me a Swedish Fish as part of my celebratory breakfast.

They pose.  Mama chokes up.

They're so grown.  Daddy chokes up.

The day begins to gallop away.  Like those pesky years.  Mama and Daddy sniffle.

Somebody cries. 

Hint: it ain't the back-to-schoolers. 

I'm Married to a Master

We tried to get there early, so as to get good seats.  Silly.  A few thousand others had the same idea.  We lugged the stroller down the arena staircase, just in case Landon felt like taking a walk in the middle of a long recitation of graduate names.  My sweet mom agreed to take baby-duty so Justin's parents and I could stay for the photo-ops. 

Of which there were few. 

Can you see Justin here?  We could!  I mean, for a second before he was swallowed up by the procession.  I got some prideful chills watching him walk, straight and tall and handsome, up the aisles to his seat.

But here!  We found him again!  He was in the first row -- a million miles away from us.  See? 

So when his name was about to be called, I knew that any photo I could take of him walking forward for his crowning moment would be filled with about five hundred of his matching peers. 

JumboTron (or whatever) to the rescue!  That's him!  Getting his Master's diploma!  About to have his scarf-thing draped over his shoulders!

While the other gadjillion graduates' names were being read, I took a hike around the arena to find a better angle.  Still, he was pretty far away.

But we had ample entertainment otherwise.  This fella was quite distracting.  Until he became quite exhausted.

He was one sad boy on the drive home; I think it was because we had to leave without him getting to have his picture taken with Master-Daddy. He was just too tired to stay any longer.  As it was, he cried for 45 minutes of the drive home, making me cry with him.  That part?  Not so cool.

All the rest?

So cool. 

I could not be more proud of my Justin and all of his hard -- seven years in the making -- work.

After All

Ballet Monkeys

A little bit nervous and a little bit sickly--

A little bit shy and a little bit of waiting--

A little bit of staging and a little bit of lighting--



A little bit of confusion and--

A little bit doubtful--

Some great big leaps and some tiny circle twirls--

And a little bitty, proud and pretty, monkey ballerina.

Between the Both of Them, They'll Lick the Platter Clean

Practicing stage entrances and exits -- my purple-skirted darling leads.

These two daughters of mine are like double-sides of a page torn from the same book.  Their hearts match in so many ways that I sometimes forget they aren't the same age.  Lauren is completely capable of most things Mia can accomplish, and Mia is enamored of the same things Lauren finds wonderful. 

They are so alike. 

But there is something.  (Many things.  But for today, just this one-- )  Lauren loves ballet with every delicate inch of her soul.  She loves ballet so much that she sometimes cries after practice is finished, wanting to do more dancing.  And Mia begs to never do ballet again.  She's sure she'd prefer karate.  Or art class.  Or a hamster.

So there are these two girls, so recognizable to each other, yet harboring such vast preferential differences.  And I'm beside myself: what will happen with recitals in a few days?  Though Lauren adores ballet from the tips of her toes to the smile on her lips, I'm fairly certain she won't adore the attention that comes along with being on stage.  She hides behind my legs very often and cannot find her tongue in group settings.  Her shyness hasn't abated since toddlerhood.  I even wonder if she'll step foot onto the stage, when the moment comes. 

She loves her costume, she loves her routine, she loves her teacher, but she might be too shy to show us on Sunday afternoon. 

Then there's Mia.  Her recital is a few weeks away, but she seems completely ready.  While she professes to hate ballet, I suspect it's the one-hour round trip on practice days that really irks her.  Because in practice, she smiles and laughs and performs.  When she has an audience, she half-forgets what she's doing, but she loves the audience.  I have a feeling she'll thrive on-stage. 

So there's this girl who might want so badly to dance but not have the nerve to actually do so.

And there's this girl who couldn't possibly care less about dancing but might become a spotlight-lover on the night in question.

I've told Lauren how much fun it will be when she gets to dance on stage and how excited I am to watch her and her friends dancing in their costumes.  How else should we prepare her?  How can I encourage her if she gets too nervous?  (I'm not above a bribe...)  Have your kids ever gone through episodes like this?  Have they surprised you in their bravery? 

Friends, tell me your stories because I'm so hoping to see both of my sweet ballerinas in their first performances--

Bye Bye, Baby Curls

When Lauren was barely over two years old, there was one small section of golden brown hair that hung just below the nape of her neck.  A stray curl.  It stood out in stark relief against the rest of her shorter, silky lengths.  Silly and unruly. 

I was fixated on it, constantly sweeping it one way or the other, blending it in.  Or I was twirling it around two fingers, watching it fall into a springy bounce. 

But one day in a flash of what I can only describe as misplaced obsession, I saw that single curl hanging down so out of place, and I cut it off.  I finished brushing her hair, satisfied that it was even along the bottom now, and she ran off into the other room. 

Her curl sat alone on the bathroom counter.  Whatever had come over me suddenly cleared -- a thoughtless fog lifted -- and I stood motionless.  Her baby curl.

Oh, I cried.  Shook my head.  Wondered what had possessed me.  Cursed my need for straight, even rows and perfect stacks.  There had been no temperance before the cut, no consideration of whether or not I actually wanted the curl to be gone forever...I simply saw a low spot and evened it out. 

So that was her very first haircut.  And you might remember her second-first haircut.  The one where she became curious about how much hair she could cut off before her unassuming mother opened the bedroom door.

But this: this is her third-first haircut.  The real deal.  Salon styled and mother-approved (at last!).

--Lauren, do you like your new haircut?

--Yes!  I just CAN'T stop looking in the mirror!

Neither can I, baby.  Neither can I.

A Little More and She Would Have Been a Pixie For Real

This business of bedroom sharing has led to an abundance of stuff all shoved into one small space.  Toy bins are double parked and shelves are overflowed.  The closet is a nightmare.

But the girls seem to love their shared space, so we persist.  Well, okay: they actually have no choice.  It's either bedroom sharing or one girl moves into the bathroom.  Which I understand will happen anyway upon adolescence, so we'll forestall it as long as we can.

So the bedroom is crazy.  And on days like the one in question -- a day that will live in infamy -- when Lauren is having a 'nap' alone while her sister is at Kindergarten, she seems to make a bigger mess than both girls would do together.  I imagine her to be compensating for her sister's non-presence with a bit of toy-overkill. 

This day, I opened the door to 'wake her up' and was met by the single WORST mess I've encountered at this point in my motherhood.  Granted, nothing was oozing or bubbling or bleeding...but the toys.  They blocked the door's swing so I could only peek inside helplessly. 

Immediately, I saw that my sweet darling Lauren was trying to hide something.  She sat crouched over a small object in the midst of the rubble, eyes wary, an excuse ready on her pretty lips.  So I shoved in, worried about the stress on the door's hinges from my super-mom strength (hee), to discover the object of her secrecy.

And that's when I realized that the mess was the least of our problems.

For there, in her perfectly formed and innocently soft hand was a pair of red-handled, preschool scissors.

It's true.  She cannot be trusted with scissors.  Not that I allowed her to have them in the first place, only I wish I knew when and how she'd snuck them into her lair bedroom.

And I'll tell you the sad, sad truth:

It was ALL I could to to keep a straight face while explaining the consequences of her illegal activity. 

My mouth simply would not stay stern. 

This one...

This one is going to keep me on my toes.

And I love her to little bitty bits.



Now, tell me: should we go with bangs?  Or a super short and sassy bob?  Because we lost our time machine in all the mess of the bedroom, so there ain't no goin' back...