My camera is no good

Let's talk about the fact that I need a new camera. These three photos all show how my children's lives are slipping between my fingers as my camera hems and haws with a ridiculous delay. You see Luca in his car seat. What you don't see are his gorgeous blue peepers gazing adoringly up at me with a big smile, because my camera missed it. You see Mia standing in front of the door on her first day of school (notice big sis Bijou anxiously wondering what's going on in the window). You don't see her looking so adorably confident and proud because, you guessed it, my camera was stuck in some weird freeze mode with the already discussed ridiculously long delay. You see both cuties post bath last night in their matching jams. You don't see them making goo goo eyes at each other because, well, no need to beat a dead horse. I kept shouting "HOLD IT. HOLD IT. HOLD IT." like some overzealous stage mom as neither child held it, quite obviously. A new camera is in my future. Not this week. Not next week. But soon folks.

Someone hearts preschool

It was a hit. I knew it would be. What kid doesn't love activity after activity, snacks, other kids, and "a cubby with MY name on it!"? Mia came home and reported every single detail to me, including that Ms. Colleen slipped and fell on the rocks outside. "She was fine Mom. Don't worry."

We played with our cousin Finn today and they were so sweet together. At one point, Finn told Mia she was cutting wrong. She said, "Finn, I'm still learning, but I AM in preschool." Finn ingnored her, as boys will do, and Mia kept talking while her hand slid up to her hip. She rattled on and on about making beaded necklaces and using scissors at her new school. When she finished reporting, she took a big breath, signaling to us that we could chime in. But we were wrong, the details just kept coming. Her pause was only for effect.

V and I actually cried. Yes, we did. Mia carried her big pink lunch bag and said, "I'm so exciting!" as she manuevered her way into her carseat. When I saw V look away, I just about fell over in sobs. V is just as sentimenal as I am, so we are no match for an almost three year old kid trotting off to her first day of preschool.

Preschool

Today is the last day of summer vacation. Mia starts preschool tomorrow. We celebrated by going to the reservoir to play in the sand and swim in the questionable waters.

It was hot. Dessert hot. I applied sunscreen every few minutes it seemed but I could still see tan lines appearing on Mia's smooth little back. It was just the two of us; we sent the boys home because I discovered that Luca is far too little for a reservoir day. I discovered this after V had made three trips to and from the car unloading and fetching my things. "Did you bring my umbrella? For the baby?" Back to the car. "Opps. Forgot to check if I had the sunscreen in my bag. Would you mind?" Back to the car. V trudged willingly in the heat to appease me and see to it that the kids were comfortable. After flipping off his shoes, settling into the idea that he may just get to sit down, I declared, "You need to leave. Now. With the baby." I was hunched under a rain umbrella, desperately trying to shield Luca's perfectly round head from the sun. My swim suit was half off as I tried to nurse, while doing a seated forward bend. Luca's shiny cheeks were aglow like a sweaty cocktail glass left out on a patio table. V dutifully packed up and carried Luca off into the blazing heat, back to the car, as I shouted something about infants not having the same glandular system we adults have. V waved his hand behind him, not turning back to me, giving me the hunch that he was thinking something along the lines of, "I don't really care your reasoning behind sending us packing but we're leaving." Luca bobbled along, hanging onto V's shoulder as they disappeared behind a row of cars.

Then, we ladies were left to play. Mia loved every minute of being in the murky waters, surrounded by other hot kids on their last day of summer. At one point, what appeared to be a paper towel floated by my foot. I was properly disgusted, but kept my emotions hidden. It was after all, refreshing to be submerged in cold water, even if germ infested.

There was sand in our snacks, and toilet paper stuck to Mia's bum after a potty outing. There was sand in my cell phone buttons and melted lotion at the bottom of my bag. And there were those lovely tan lines on her pretty little back.

It just felt like summer.

We came home and I made corn on the cob, despite the fact that none of us really like it. V asked, "Corn?" and I said, "Yes. It's August. This is what people eat in the summer, I guess." We nibbled at it and talked about why it can't be digested.

I gave Mia some strawberry ice cream and asked if she was excited for school. She ate her dessert and told me she was. I'm excited too. For her.

My girl is a preschooler.

Growing Pains

Mia got new sunglasses the other day at the dentist's office. Cute eh? They give the kids cool shades to wear as they lower that sterile bright light into their eager innocent faces. Mia was a champ. She listened to the hygienist and did what she needed to do: put her head back, opened her mouth, closed her mouth, allowed strange tubes that made whizzing sounds to be inserted between her lips, moved her head this way and that. She did it all with her sunglasses snuggly sitting on her face.

As they lowered her back, I could see her legs tense up. She turned her head just slightly, and her little hand slowly moved toward her jaw, waiting protectively to punch out the mask clad hygienist if any funny business occurred. I swiveled in my chair, absentmindedly checking out the equipment in the room, jostling up and down to keep Luca thoroughly sea sick in his chest pouch. At one point, I contemplated putting my hand on Mia's, but I didn't. I didn't want to interrupt the flow of the experience. She knew I was close at hand and I decided not to fix what ain't broken. She appeared to not need me, even though I could read her uneasiness in her fist, her tight jaw, her awkwardly bent knees.

When the light was pushed toward the ceiling, they raised Mia's chair into a sitting position and removed her sunglasses. That's when I saw it. A fat tear clung to the lower lashes on just one eye. She looked at me and wiped it away quickly.

My heart skipped and I regretted not putting my hand on hers. Why hadn't I reached out? Why didn't I offer that simple comfort of my touch?

The hygienist was giddy with the end result - a child who maintained total composure during her cleaning. She handed over a special first timers treat bag full of goodies. Mia gingerly took the bag and slowly pulled herself off of the chair. The chair that suddenly seemed so big, way too big.

As I handed over my payment, I watched Mia laying out her treats on the floor of the waiting room. I felt like we had both just grown up a tad. It happens in small increments you know....this growing up stuff. Gradually. Slowly. There isn't a moment that you can pull out from all the others and definitively state, "Ahhh... NOW I'm a grown up." It's more of a subtle chipping away of an innocence. I watched her pointing to each object from her bag, counting them out loud, and I knew she was still just a girl. But she was now different to me. She had her first moment of being in fear, alone. And I had my first moment of watching it, alone. Neither of us shared the moment with the other. Maybe that's why I found the moment so painful, because I'm aware that growing up is an undertaking that you must take on by yourself. Sure you have support and love and help along the way, but the hard parts must be endured alone.

I regret not putting my hand on hers though. I regret not reaching for her when she needed me. But I don't think she does. Those sunglasses gave her the privacy to begin to grow up by herself. Without me.

God that's hard to say. Without me.

The Date is Set!

September 11th.

Have your goodie cards and packages to me before that date!

Chaos

Thank you for the great response to my humble request for words of support for Emily! Please know that I was only kidding about the cashmere sweaters and other expensive showings of love. This box isn't about that. It's about wrapping our arms around a fellow sister in need.

I'll keep everyone posted about when the surgery will be happening. Sooner rather than later hopefully. Once we know that date, we know when to have cards and goodies collected to put into the box.

Yesterday was a positive day for my sister and I couldn't be happier. It was a positive day for me as well as I babysat my brood and my sister's brood. I only screamed once (loud enough for the neighbor to hear though). I just fed all of them constantly - at one point even opening a box of crackers in the backyard for the older kids (with a neighbor boy thrown in for good measure) as Luca dangled from my body, nursing furiously, his knuckles white as he clung to me. The three huge dogs (yes...three) roamed freely through the house - slobbering, licking, barking, and sitting in the way at all times. There was one precious moment of silence (only one) and I walked next door figuring the kids had gone over there. I poked my head into the house and called out, "Hello?" Bijou, my dog, came bounding out of the woman's kitchen. "Excuse me, my name is Meghan. I'm Emily's sister. Is that...my....dog? What? Are the kids here?" She laughed and explained that they were in the basement playing and that yes, the free loading poodle, was indeed mine. Apparently, in the 30 seconds I had sat down, all of them, animals included, escaped to the house next door.

What's that saying? No harm, no foul? Or no harm, keep playing? Or no harm, don't tell your sister that all the children disappeared and the dogs are gone too? Something like that.

Whatever. It all worked out and it was a day of peace, in a very chaotic kind of way. A little chaos is good for you though. It makes you feel alive. It strengthens your resolve. It sharpens your wit. It flexes your patience and works your humor. Life would be boring if it were quiet all of the time. If it were silent, you would open your eyes, and everyone would be gone. Life would be going on without you somewhere else.

Big Box of Love

If you read my sister's blog, you have heard the news. It sucks doesn't it? It's unfair. It's unbelievable. It's devastating. It's shocking. It's news that brings dread. Fear. Anger. Confusion.

It's breast cancer.

And fate pointed her fickle finger at my sister.

I have so much to say about it all. But I find myself utterly speechless as well. When I heard the news, I just felt so helpless. It's my sister; when she's hurt, I'm hurt. When she's scared. I'm scared.

But now, let's get on with the good stuff. The positive stuff.

I am hereby acting as my one and only sissie's campaign manager. It is my job to bring joy, happiness, delight, and whimsy to our dear "Emmy" on a daily basis. She will have so much of the other aforementioned emotions that she will need some levity.

I am requesting some help from all of you.

I have lots of ideas brewing for how to help my sister and her family through this difficult time. Major surgery will require help with food, chores, kid wrangling, and the managing of a household. For now though, I'm asking all of you to put a little something special in the mail, address it to me, and add your voice to the big box of love that I plan to deliver to my sister in the hospital. Specifically what am I asking for? Here is a list of ideas to get your creative juices flowing:

• cards telling her how pretty she is (we all know that a little ego stroking can go a long long way.)
  
  
• articles from magazines that are funny, inspiring, interesting, or just plain educational. Go ahead and just tear them right out of the magazine you're reading. Some good reading material is essential to a smooth recovery.
  
• Pictures. Funny pictures. Old ones. Ones snapped during good times had. Photos of my dear sissie looking pretty (like I said, the ego, a sensitive thing).
  
• Cds. Good ones please. No need for crappy music. Music makes the heart and soul happy. It's nice to have something to drown out pain or negative thoughts. It's nice to have something to fill long silences. Music makes you dance, cry, laugh, or reflect...things that need to happen for a speedy recovery.
  
• Treats. We like chocolate. Good dark chocolate. Oh wait, did I say "we"? I meant my sister (but I will be with her at times so I think it's important my tastes are satiated too, right?). She likes anything delicious. We trust you. Go ahead. Get to the kitchen.


• Special little packages with things you know might make her smile. A good book. A new lipstick. Some nail polish. Well, since you're pushing so hard, a really beautiful cashmere sweater, a great new robe, a gift certificate for new lingerie, yoga punch card. (Am I going overboard?)

You might be wondering why you can't just mail something to her directly. Well, of course you can, buzzkill, but it would be fun to participate in a communal effort to bring total joy to the one Mrs. Emily Provost. I plan to deliver the big box of love on her surgery date. I thought it would be fun to bring everything together, making it a day not only of pain and fear, but also a day full of magic and wonder.

I would post my address right here but that would be a bit too much exposure for my taste. If you need my address, just shoot me a comment with your e-mail and I'll e-mail you back. I'll get right back to you with where to send your envelope of goodness. (Did you just read that? I figured out how to allow comments again!)

I know all of this will be so greatly appreciated. My sister is brave, hilariously funny, and strong as an ox. But when you are free falling, even the mighty need some reassurance of a cushion beneath them. All of us together can offer the softest spot to land. While we can't make any of this go away, we can make it an experience worth moving through.

Again, get working on your words of love and get thee to the post office!

Birfday and Brains

Mia is getting increasingly excited for her "birfday". She'll be three. Can you believe it? She walks around the house, pointing out where she wants the decorations, the cake, and the presents to go. She holds her hands high on her hips and says things like, "Let's put the cake over there. That will be adorable!" We're keeping the shin-dig quaint this year. Probably just family. It will be small, but mighty. You'll have to wait to see what the event coordinator (Mia) does to take this house down with her rockin' party.

She also keeps asking me, "Mom, are my brains in?" She is referring to her braids. I have been braiding her hair to keep the longer bangs our of her face. She loves them and tells people. "My name is Mia and I have brains."

It's like you want to freeze time, isn't it? Nothing is cuter than hearing her talk about her birfday and her brains.

Off to help her put stickers onto all of her cups. Why do I do this to myself? Guess who will be up peeling off stickers before loading cups into the dishwasher. That's right.

Daddy.

On a positive note...

V came home from work the other day and announced that three good things had happened to him. He began to tell me the three positive notes of the day and I listened attentively, equally excited about his happy encounters.

That's what I find remarkable about V. He always finds the positive in situations. He can make a dark room bright by simply changing his perspective.

Despite having had just a mediocre day at work (which he later told me) , three positive things had still happened. And those are the things he chose to share when he bounded through the door, eager to greet a waiting Mia and a tail wagging Bijou.

I remember early in our relationship, when he would announce that some good things had happened to him, I would jump at the thought of it all. The possibilities were endless. We won the lottery! You found a villa in Provence for us to move to - permanently! You just stumbled across a bag full of fabulous shoes with my name on it! Those things never materialized in his list of positive happenings and we're better for it.

Instead of planning my lottery winnings or redecorating a house in France while clicking around in my new shoes, I learned that life isn't about these big explosions of goodness. It's about small ones. It's about meeting someone funny, or having a barista remember you and make your drink without having to ask. It's about someone telling you they like you. It's about finding five dollars in your coat pocket. These are the things that V comes home to tell me. I can honestly say that I have yet to hear him come through the door with only sour things to say. He always begins with the good. He sees the good first.

When I think about what I want to give to my kids, it's just that. The gift of happiness. How do you teach that though? How do you encourage your child to see the positive side of things? The only thing you can do to try to ensure that they will be happy is to be happy yourself. Model the behavior that you want them to exhibit.

I love V for modeling it for all of us. He just likes his life, and is happy to share that news with those around him.

Sunday at the Park

We brought picnic lunches to the park today with Emily, Peter, and the kids and had a great afternoon. It was chilly this morning, so I eagerly pulled out long sleeves and pants. It ended up being 85. Go figure. The kids rode the train, splashed in the creek, pet the animals in the petting zoo, and exhausted themselves so fully that the house was quiet for about an hour when we got home. I fell asleep nursing Luca and when I woke up, I heard....nothing. Silence. That's a sound I'm learning to appreciate more and more in my old age.

Love to my sissie and her family. It felt good to be with my people. As it always does. How lucky we are to have each other so close at hand.

Shhh....

My boys are fast asleep. Nothing like a quiet house.

Mia and her bestie Maddie

We went to a summer party tonight and the cookies at the dessert table didn't stand a chance against these two ladies.

Mia has been rocking the same skirt now for three days straight. When I told her yesterday that she couldn't wear it again today she asked, "Why?"

I had no good answer.

Therefore, she wore the skirt.

So this is life...

It was a day for twirling and whirling. Running and jumping. Eating sandwiches and then abandoning said sandwiches. Dashing. Dodging. Splashing and sloshing.

Luca dangled.

I enjoyed the picnic and tilted my face to the sun more than a few times and thought, 'Yes. Life is indeed good.'

On a side note: my thoughts are with those that have been dealt a shitty hand. They've been given terrible news but have managed to stand firm in their dignity and grace. I salute you. And stand by you always.

Shift of emotions

Accepting my current position of "Mom extraordinaire and Domestic Diva" comes with so many bonuses. All the food I can shove into my face at any given moment, really cute kids who hang on me and stroke my ever increasingly insecure ego, a big (currently smelly and sandy) dog who needs me to stroke her ever increasingly insecure ego, and time to really connect with the beauty of tending to lives - both big (hi V) and small (hi Mia and Luca).

I'm not going to lie though. Being a mom of two little people, and a temporarily at home wife, also comes with some disadvantages. I am always short on energy and time. (Well, I'm also short on great casual dresses that can be dressed up or down and cute flats but those shortages have nothing to do with my role as a mother and a wife.) My "to-do" list is a mile long and includes things such as: buy new diapers, get some new duds for my guy in size 3-6 months, publish a children's book, publish an adult book, buy more flour, wash my sheets, figure out what I want to do with my life when I get bigger, call my sister, and meditate more. Or start meditating. (One needs to be meditating at all to mediate more). As you can see, my life is full. (Yes, I have time to sit here and blog. Very true. I should dry my tears and stop complaining about the lack of time in my day.)

Harder than the shortage of energy and time is the prospect that even with more energy and time, I still may not get to some of those items on my "to-do" list right away. Like the books. Or the sheet washing but that's out of pure laziness. Devoting the time it takes to create a true work of art, like a book, is just not possible right now for me. And that's perfectly o.k. On most days.

Today, though, was one of those days where I absentmindedly pushed Mia on the swing as Luca dangled from my chest pouch. The dog dug in the sand next to Mia (hence her smelly and sandy state) and I stared off into the distant green of the park and wondered if I really had it in me to BE SOMEBODY. You know...famous, or published, or known. I pushed. Mia squealed. Bijou dug. The thoughts of living up to some kind of potential swarmed around me as the simplicity of the day drummed on. Push. Squeal. Dig. Think. Push. Squeal. Dig. Think.

I know in my heart I'm somebody special. Of course. We all know that. We all repeat the same silly mantra in the morning as we apply our concealer and our foundation (hello "Luminous" from Bobby Brown. The stuff works miracles.) I know I'm worthy. Smart. I know I don't need a fancy house or a fancy title or a big pay check to prove anything to anyone. But sometimes I want it just so that others might know that I have indeed arrived. Where I've arrived? Well, nowhere exactly but that's the point isn't it? Arriving to nowhere apparently is the destination everyone wants to get to. There are days that I too want to be nowhere, which would mean I'm somewhere. Which would mean I'm SOMEBODY, right?

I got home from the park and was feeling wistful. I like that word. Wistful. I wasn't sad. But full of thought. I love my kids. I love my role. But I guess this morning I really wanted to connect with people on some kind of level that I felt I hadn't yet.

And then I opened my e-mail. And there I found the most lovely of surprises, a note from a girl I went to high school with...a very cool girl. (When do I begin to say "woman"? She is indeed a woman but do I say "girl" because we were girls when we knew each other?) The note was so simple. Just a note to say that she liked my blog. That she read it daily. That it was a special time of day for her to have a few minutes of indulgence.

I cried. I bawled more like it. Mia was downstairs playing and Luca was up in his office conducting a very important meeting in his swing (otherwise known as napping). I was bleary eyed as I reread the note and felt suddenly so ridiculous.

Here I was wanting to connect. Wanting people to know the REAL me. To know that I was good for more than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and silly songs. Here I was struggling in a way to reconcile really loving my role as a homemaker and mom with the other part of me that wants to wear those cute clicky heels and that pencil skirt.

And to think I've been connecting all along. And I just didn't know it. I was too busy wanting The Village Voice to call me to do some kind of piece on parenting. I was too busy staring off into space wondering if I had it in me to be more.

Here I was. Already enough. Not needing to be more. I guess that's why I cried. I was grateful to have been heard. My voice was loud enough and strong enough and good enough.

To ADS, I thank you. I thank you for being brave enough to tell me that you actually enjoy my voice for a few minutes every day. Funny how we all just ricochet off each other and really have no idea the impact, the profound impact, we have on one another. I'm so glad I bounced off of you, and in turn you bounced off of me, today.

I'm no longer feeling wistful. But empowered.

Off to search online for those cute casual dresses and flats. Even if they hang in my closet for use some other day. Right now, I'm in a tank top and shorts and I'm feeling pretty good about it all.

Sharp

I'm going to officially change my outgoing message.

This is what it will say.

"Hi. You've reached Meg Pellegrino. I'm not here to take your call and probably won't be able to call you back until 2014. Go ahead and leave your name and number but I can't promise that I'll even remember who you are when that time comes. Thanks!"

Adding a lovable Luca to the mix hasn't made things harder, in fact, he may be the easiest person I come into contact with daily. It's all the other stuff involved in mothering that leaves me breathless and unable to really have long conversations on the phone, let alone shower daily or even have my tea in a timely manner in the morning. That other "stuff" mainly refers to an adorable curly haired 2 year old who demands much of my time. She declared, "But I LOVE you Mom!" when I asked her to give me a few minutes of alone time the other day. What was I supposed to say? "Yes darling. I love you too. But don't you know that fascinating subject matter awaits me behind the screen of my laptop? Articles upon articles that will enlighten me and challenge me and make me...how shall I say this...less pedestrian." I didn't say that. Instead, I dressed Lulu, the bear, while I wore a hand me down witches costume meant for a 5 year old and sipped pretend tea from a polka dot tea cup.

I used to talk on the phone while doing this. My hands looking busy for the sake of Mia, my mouth moving for the sake of my phone friend. Really though, neither were fooled. I was a terrible tea date and even worse conversationalist. We've all talked to those people on the phone who are multi-tasking and there really is nothing more annoying...or alarming. "Yes...just having sex while making a casserole and creating a PowerPoint for work. What are you up to?" No. I had always sworn I would never let myself become that person. So, for now, I have a promise to be present. Present for my children. Present for my husband. Present for my glass of wine. Present for my blog. My sister. Myself.

I am beginning to embark on some feelings of insecurity about my domestic role. Am I boring? Am I edgy? Just a tad? Do I say anything thought provoking? My sister and I had a long conversation just today about being what we feared...being pedestrian. Now I like this word, and the image in conveys so I might just try to write it a few more times in this post. If you look the word up, you might just find me, standing there in practical shoes waving to you as I wander the aisles of Target. So normal. So safe. So not edgy. Not even a tad.

It always circles back to me being really o.k. with this. In the long run, I'd like to be thought of as cool. Really really cool. But I don't need my baby and my toddler thinking I'm super groovy. I need them thinking I'm here. I'm solid. I'm good for drinks and snacks. A hug. A boob for the little one. I'm here for a tea date. A dance fest. These two are in the best stage of their lives - no judgement about my dorky shorts or my pony tail. No feelings of embarrassment about my current lack of civic savvy. They just like me being around.

For now, I'm doing that well. And that's about all I can manage.

That all being said, I am looking forward to the day when I can slip into my pencil skirt with some cute heels and click somewhere for a drink and a good long chat with a friend like the old days. I will talk and talk and talk while feeling sharp - razor sharp. Dare I say edgy?

Heir

Dear Luca,

We are best friends, you and I. We stare at each other for hours on end every day. You tell me things and I laugh and then I tell you things and you laugh. I tell you countless times a day how amazing I think you are, and you really are. I know one day, you'll want more than me. I won't be hurt. I won't be angry. But I can't promise you that I won't ache a bit for your tiny body next to mine. I can't promise you that I won't reach out every once in a while and tossle your hair, even when it's gray, just to remind myself that you were once so little and we were each other's worlds for a short time.

When your dad and I found out we were having a boy, I cried. Your dad looked at me and said, "Happy tears?" I nodded yes, with that jelly on my belly and the ultrasound tech pretending not to hear. I just couldn't believe it. That you were you, and I was going to get to raise you. I had some of those silly gender questions before you came, like what toys do boys play with? And will he like me even if I think spiders are totally useless? Then you arrived, all serene and lovely, and we looked at each other and all of that gender garbage went out the window. We connect on so many things already and I see bright things in our future.

Five boys came over from Italy: Michael (your grandpa), Carmen, Dominick, "Jimmy" (Jerolomo) and Frank. Do you know Luca that you are the only Pellegrino to carry on the name? Yup. All of those boys and no males to keep that fiery Italian torch lit. Who would have thought that an Irish girl would end up having the only male to carry on the name? Not that any of that name business matters to your dad or me, but, I do think it's pretty special. I'm working on a letter to you and Mia about all the things I want to tell you, but for now, on this Saturday night, just know that you and your sister make me feel really important. Of course your dad does, my work does, my family does....but you two make me feel like I'm really doing something good. Thank you for that.

Love,

Mom

Self Portrait.

He can't really operate a camera. But if he could, this would be Luca's self portrait.

I wear him around a lot, like the greatest accessory you could find, and then even cooler than that. He goes with everything. He fits perfectly. He demands just the right amount of attention but always manages to fit in as well. And he makes me look skinny and what better accessory is there really? When you have a small human covering the entire front section of your body, you kind of look like a super model. Well, maybe not a super model, but you certainly don't look fat. And in my book, that's just as good as a super model.

Looking Upward

How do you explain the death of your father to a 2 year old? You start by reading a Bearnstein Bear book to her one night before bedtime.

"Mama, is the "Papa" bear in the book a daddy bear or a grandpa bear?"

"Ah," I said. "Good question."

You see, our beloved "Papa" is a grandpa to us. He's my dad. Mia's grandpa. So, naturally, when Mia sees that this big burly bear in the story is called "Papa", she is confused about who he is to little brother and sister bear. Is he their daddy? Or is he their grandpa?

"He's a daddy bear." There. No more questions now hopefully. We can keep reading and then I can shut out the light and drift upstairs into my den of quiet and begin my own reading. My own nightly ritual of hibernation.

"Mama, where is Papa. Our Papa."

The question took me by surprise and I put the book down and thought for a minute. Mia watched me and waited. I awkwardly gestured toward the ceiling and began searching for words.

"The ceiling?" Mia said.

This was going to be so much more complicated than I had thought. I guess I never really thought I'd have to explain it. She knows my dad's face and points him out in pictures. I talk about him frequently and say things like, "Papa was so funny" or "Papa always thought you were such a good baby." I thought my dad was sort of a known, someone you never have to explain because his presence, and his absence, are so immeasurably felt.

Now, I had just insinuated that this man who meant so much to me, who means so much to me, is somewhere affixed in her ceiling.

"No love. He's not in the ceiling. He's in heaven."

"Where's heaven?"

"It's in the sky. Behind the sky. A special place that's near God."

"How did he get there? By airplane?"

"Nope" I hesitated.

My hesitation intrigued her even more and I think she felt foolish for offering such an explanation. In her thoughtful way, she corrected herself.

"By bus" she said definitively, with an expression of 'please pardon my earlier response...so silly...airplane...'

I delved into the simple explanation of death. That someone leaves. They go to heaven. It's a beautiful place that's peaceful and pretty. They still love us and look out for us. We can talk to them but we just can't go visit them again.

"Why can't we visit?" she asked.

I paused. My heart was heavy.

"Papa said no?" she questioned.

I stopped there, wondering how aghast a child psychologist would be with my explanation. I didn't really care though if what I said was appropriate or en vogue. I was telling her what I honestly believe to be true. While I didn't want to overwhelm her with truths, I didn't want to put a lot of fear and complexity into something that I was raised to understand was inevitable. Dad had said, "You know what a room full of people have in common? They are all going to die someday." Death is something that should be embraced. No one embraced it more fully than my dad. Even to his very last day, he showed such dignity and courage. That is the legacy I want Mia to understand when she's older. I know she'll struggle with the nature of it all, as I do, as everyone I know does. The wheres. The whys. The hows. But, I don't want her to struggle with the very simplistic beauty of it all, that it will happen. I don't want her to struggle with the notion that we live our lives to the fullest of our capabilities, knowing that one day, our lives will end. We will walk to that point of no return and nod our heads in acceptance, just as my dad did. We will walk toward a light and know that we've done well. We've tried hard. We served others. We will walk courageously, without remorse or guilt. We will miss our loved ones terribly but we will keep walking because we know that those moments we stole to say a heartfelt 'I love you', are the moments that are remembered.

"Papa would love to see us all again but that's not the way it works. You talk to people and love them after they die but you just can't see them. We live here and he lives there."

There were no more questions and she seemed totally satisfied with my response. We kept on reading and I wondered what my next explanation would be about. I wondered if I would do the subject justice. I wondered why no one prepares you for these moments when you have a baby that make you ponder your very existence, your very belief system.

There should be a handbook. But then again, that handbook would fall short because there would be no chapter big enough to be called ROGER PADDEN.

Shark Attack

Luca likes to wear his shark towel after his bath. This is him in all of his shark toothy glory.

While I was dressing Luca this morning, Mia stormed into his room and said, "Mom, I want a decaf mocha with skim milk" and then stormed out.

The thing is....I only go to Starbucks once every month or so...as a special treat. Obviously my girl has big ears and remembers EVERYTHING.

She has also been noticing a lot of gender differences lately. She tells me she wants to wear pink because "it is a girls' color" and she doesn't want to wear her baseball hat because "she looks like a boy" in it. I never say a word about gender. These ideas come from somewhere though. Speaking of gender, as we were walking on the path this morning, two older Eastern European women passed us - deep husky voices, that guttural indistinguishable language that can only be described as coming from somewhere East of France, short gray hair, and mismatched sweat suits. Mia whispered loudly after we passed them, "Thems girls or boys?" I told her they were girls - women to be more exact. She asked, "Why those little girls walking on the path?" The fact that she called them "little" was so endearing. She does that you know...calls all girls and women "little girls". I never correct her. Once, she saw an elderly woman being pushed in a wheelchair, her hand veins thick and knotty - her eyes clouded over and distant. Mia said, "Look Mama, that little girl is sitting in a wheel chair." I just thought it was a moment...that in Mia's eyes, she and the older woman had something profoundly in common. It was powerful to think that humanity really is ageless. We're all just people. We're taught and conditioned to believe in aging. Mia hasn't been taught that yet so her judgement of people is so sincere.

Now I'm thinking of iced mochas. I might just need to treat myself tomorrow.

Hugs on Luca's 3 month birthday

Milestones are a big deal around here. We celebrated Luca's three month birthday Pellegrino style.

He is such a good baby - sleeping through the night, smiling all the time, and loving his big sis Mia. I don't know how or why I was given such delightful babies. Mellow. Easily pleased. Sweet. I must have been a saint in a previous life and this is my reward because genetics certainly aren't at play here. We all know that I am the farthest thing from easy going.

I don't question the how or why. I just enjoy.

I'm Three Months Old!

Today it's board books. Tomorrow it's War and Peace.

Our Mexico

Mexico was our best family vacation. Every single moment was pure fun. Apparently, we're a beach family trapped in a land locked state.

The playground near our house, a frequent haunt, is covered in sand. Kind of like Mexico, right? Sort of. Initially, I said no when Mia wanted to run amok without shoes. I saw all of the other kids running around with thick white socks and running shoes and I didn't want to be the parent to allow mine to be shoeless and fancy free. (Even though, I wanted her to be.)

She looked at me and said, "We didn't wear shoes in Mexico. I want to go back there."

That's it. To hear her yearning to just be free made me throw parental caution to the wind. Dirty band-aids in the sand? Who cares. A rock or two that might stub a toe? Oh well. Her heart, and her feet, just wanted to push through that thick white gooey goodness. Just like we all did when we were at the beach.

"Take em' off" I declared and Mia was delighted.

If I can give my girl a taste of Mexico right here near our house, I'm going to. It's now become a part of our routine. She carefully peels off her socks and puts them neatly in her shoes when we arrive at the playground. Then, she tears through the sand shouting, "It's just like Mexico!" (I sometimes want to caution her when she screams this because a lot of Latino and Hispanic kids hang out at the park. Doesn't sound so good when my blonde haired blue eyed girl bounds around yelling things that could be seen as racist.)

When we get home, we wash her dirty feet in the sink and morph back to our sandless reality.

Next year, I tell her. We're going back to Mexico next year. When Luca is big enough, we'll go to the REAL beach. She'll hold us to it too.

We can't wait.

Wonder

This may look like a picture of a baby (a damn cute one at that). But look again. It's actually a photo of a baby evolving right in front of your very eyes. Can't you see it? Doing the amazing. When I saw him doing it, I screamed, "Mia! Come here! Your brother is a genius!"

My Luca is holding his rattle and studying it - passing it from hand to hand. He is pulling it towards his face, going cross eyed trying to keep up with it all, and then pulling it away from his face.

Amazing.

You, Luca. Your rattle passing. Being witness to it all.

Amazing.

Besties

These two can't get enough of each other. Well, Mia can't get enough of Bijou. Usually Bijou is game but there are times that she just endures, you can see it in the look in her eyes. Half pleading. Half tolerating.

Our new routine is to get to the park everyday. We walk there, Mia, Luca, and Bijou in tow, and then we start out by tiring Bijou while throwing the ball. Mia loves to man that part of the trip.

She slowly approaches Bijou.

"Dwop it Bij. D-W-O-P it. If you don't dwop it, I'll take it away from you."

Bijou dutifully drops the ball at her feet and then Mia shouts "see how she listens to me?!"

Rub it in why don't you Mia. The dog listens to a 2 year old but somehow can't hear a word I say to her.

They run, like sisters from another mister. Their curls bobbing and blowing. Bijou stops to nudge something on the ground and then shoots to attention when she senses her girl Mia has darted off. She chases her down and they both collapse, laughing, with rolling tongues and muddy limbs.

I just watch and behold the magic of a girl and her dog.

Then, it's off to the play ground equipment where Mia shouts, "Watch this Bij!" Luca coos and gurgles in his stroller and I, the proud mama to this tribe, know that this routine is one worth keeping.