Curtain Call

Sweet Mia had just had a chocolate chip cookie, as evidenced by her cheeks and mouth in the photo. After I snapped a quick picture, I asked her to wipe her face and she said, "Sure." Then she promptly went over to the curtains and wiped herself spotless.

Nicely done.

The Travel Bug

Something tells me I'm not the only one with wanderlust currently. These two were gazing out of the window today. I said, "Mia, what are you doing?" Mia said, "Oh...just looking at the big wide world Mom."

I want a vacation. In that great big wide world. Somewhere. Anywhere.

I want a trip away from the black marker on the couch downstairs. I want a weekend (or a week) away from the dust just left on the floor from the vacuum that literally just blew up in my face. I want to escape from Bijou and her weak stomach; she threw up again downstairs, and then lazily walked over to me, with her yellow bile stained beard, and went in for a kiss. No thank you.

Just for a few days. I want to sleep in a hotel bed with crisp white sheets. I want to linger in a cafe with a newspaper. I want to buy new shoes, just on an impulse. I know I can do all of these things here, and I do on the ocassion, but it's more fun in a different city.

Doesn't that sound good?

I have to be honest, with poor Haiti in such turmoil, I feel obnoxious writing about any of this. Writing at all really. I saw footage of a 12 year old girl trapped between two cement columns -only her frail face peeking out. Someone was offering her water from a water bottle.

If that doesn't shift one's perspective, I don't know what will.

Calling for me

Mia was "hiding" behind the Lego tower while I took the photo. I didn't have the heart to tell her that her hiding space was really really weak.

Luca dances now while holding onto things. It's more of a wild rocking motion back and forth with some leg lifts if he's really feeling the force. He stands at his table (the one pictured) and gets his groove on. He looks like a little dj at his spinning booth.

He has been saying "Da-Da" a lot now. Now, I know it has no meaning, more of just a vocal exercise than a calling for his dear old dad. But V and I melt every time we hear him chattering. Luca has been almost mocking me lately. I'll beg him to say "Ma-Ma" to no avail. He'll just look back at me and say, "Da-Da."

This morning though, at 5:15 a.m., I heard it. His distinct little voice cooing in his crib..."MA - MA!"

Again, I know the continuum of language development well. I know he is saying these words (Ma-Ma and Da-Da) indiscriminately. But, a piece of my heart broke into waves of love in the dark this morning.

My boy called for me.

MLK DAY

"Life's most persistent and urgent question is, 'What are you doing for others?'”

Martin Luther King, Jr.

My girl

I believe in finding small joys. Apparently, so does Mia. She turned lunch into a reason to smile. After I took the photo, she moved the small grape on the end right next to the strawberry and told me the face had a booger.

We took her bike out and she kept mentioning how perfect this gift from Santa was. She's a good little biker. When I told her that, she gave me a look that said, "Who knew eh?". It was a look of such confidence, but of the surprised sort. She has that look often lately, as she grows "bigger and bigger and bigger." She is capable of so much and often stands in awe of her own accomplishments. I'm finding that I don't just love her - deeply - but I really really like her. I find Mia to be so witty and warm. A beautiful person to be around. She told me she wants to go to college in the living room, and that I can be her teacher. And while I know this is just a phase that will pass all too soon, I was delighted to hear that maybe she would just stay here forever, making faces with her lunch and going on long bike rides out back.

R and R

Sundays are good days. These two know how to do it right; they relax with the best of them.

Brother Bear

I'm bummed the arctic blast has blown over (for now). Only because there is nothing cuter than bear ears on a baby.

Taking Flight

One of my students has stolen my heart. He has long dark lashes that almost skim the tops of his cheeks. He is soft spoken, yet confident. He is respectful but still funny and playful. Engaged but a bit dreamy. From the moment I met him, I just felt a bit of a connection. He didn't speak a word of English when we exchanged our first hellos, but there was something that we understood about one another, even with a language barrier.

His name is fitting.

Angel.

He has since become one of my top students. He is acquiring English at a speed that seems almost unfathomable. He is the first to share out in whole group - his arm shooting into the air when he has something to say. When I call on him he begins with a whisper, usually just a word or two, then his small hand will slip to his mouth and cover up his emerging smile. He still gets embarrassed by the strange words dancing off of his tongue. The foreign language. The language that isn't his.

He is literate in Spanish and when I discovered this, I hugged him. You have no idea how much easier it is to transition a child who is literate in his native language than one who isn't. He knows his letters and sounds. He can blend and segment. He can rhyme, even in a language that isn't his.

He is just one of my many moments of joy everyday.

When I met his mother, or who I assumed was his mother, at conferences, I told her that her boy is special. She seemed quietly pleased, but didn't show the reaction that I thought she would. She didn't seem to own the compliment that I had just paid. There seemed something distant.

I learned that the woman is actually his grandmother. Angel came to this country not too long ago after his father was shot multiple times while the family walked down an open street. Angel's mother stayed behind, pregnant, unable to make the trip here.

He gently poked me the other day and pointed to his tooth. A gray angry hole seemed to be growing deep inside a molar. I sent him to the clinic. The next day, he poked me again, and pulled back his cheek, showing me the large hole where his tooth had once been.

"Oh Angel. Pobrecita. That must have hurt when they pulled it" as I mimed someone pulling my tooth. I then made a sad face and said, "ouch". He nodded, mimicking my sad face. This is the way we communicate. We exchange faces and smiles. We point. I sometimes speak to him in Spanish and he'll try to respond in English.

He wrote about his loss that day. In English. It was the first day he's written a story in English. He usually writes in Spanish and I translate it for him. He wrote, "Mi mami sed run Angel. I run."

I knew what he intended the story to be about, but I couldn't help but picture that busy street somewhere in Mexico. His family walking together.

He was referring to his grandmother telling him to run into the dentist's office. He had a big picture of him running into a clinic. A large tooth hung over his writing, like some kind of looming pain hanging over the scene like a cloud.

I almost cried. For so many reasons.

I pulled him close and told him the story was so good. It was one worth showing everyone.

As a teacher, the kids who sit in my room become mine. Even for those few hours everyday. It is my job to notice holes, both personally and academically. My job to zip coats. My job to dispense band-aids and reclip fallen ponytails. I don't do it because their parents are incapable, certainly not. I do it because I am the guardian for those hours when they are with me. I would expect anyone caring for my Mia and Luca to do the same when I'm not around. I would expect someone to mother them, father them, love them.

To my student with wings, Angel, I'm here to help fill the hole. I'm here to help hone your voice so your story can be heard.

And what a story it is.

Take it to the bathroom

Mia came home the other day and while we were playing she excitedly giggled, "Kiss my bum!" I was cool. Collected. I didn't show much of a reaction. I just casually said, "You know Mia, that's what I call "potty talk." I didn't ask her where she had heard it. Or why she repeated it. "It's not very nice to tell people to do that to you." I then really calmly told her that sometimes my students at school talk "potty talk". I told her I always tell them to go to the bathroom if they feel the need to speak in such a way. I remind them that no one wants to hear that kind of talk. She nodded in agreement and that was that.

Shortly after that conversation, Mia was trying to climb out of the exosaucer, Luca's abandoned toy that now sits in the living room and acts as a coffee table for the under 4 set. Mia struggled to get out and said, "I...can't...get...out...of....this....DAMN THING!"

I stirred and chopped and listened. "Hey Mia? Remember that potty talk business? Damn falls into that category of words and phrases like, "Kiss my bum." Keep that kind of talk to yourself or when you're in the bathroom. It's not a very polite word.

A few days later, I hear the bathroom door shut and I can't hear Mia's girlish chatter from the playroom. I poked my head around the corner and could hear a faint voice leaking from under the bathroom door.

"Kiss my bum. DAMN THING." Her breathy voice was almost a whisper.

"Mia? Are you in there?"

A casual "Yeah Mom" squeaked out in her delightful little voice.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh...just talking potty talk."

Right. I should have guessed as much.

A conclusion

I like vegans. I shouldn't make such a blanket statement, because who knows, perhaps there are specific vegans out there who suck. I should say, I like the idea of vegans. Give me discipline. Give me integrity. Give me a cause. Give me diligence. Routine. An unparalleled respect for the planet, the body, and the connection between the two. That is what I think of when I think of our non animal eating friends. Am I a vegan? Please. While I wholeheartedly applaud the lifestyle, and have adopted aspects of it, I'm a girl of weak will at times, like several times a day.

I'm attracted to short hair. Really. I am. I think it's clean and ready for any kind of action. I dig the boho look of long hair too (because I like to think I'm rocking a varient of that look currently) but I do love a fresh short cut on other women. Think messy short. Do not think Kate Gosselin.

I like jeans. I seriously have some kind of love affair with them. When V and I are getting dressed to go anywhere, he's ready first and left to wait for me (it's the natural order of things...man waits for woman...they all got the memo even though they pretend they didn't). He'll shout up, "What are you wearing tonight?" I'll shout down, "Jeans. I just can't find the right pair." He'll shout, "Jeans? We don't need to be dressier?" And then comes my most famous line, "Hello? It's Colorado. You can wear jeans anywhere." And he mouths it along with me, knowing deep in his heart, it's the truth.

I like black. Brown. Beige. Gray. And white on really hot days. I don't do prints. My color palate is pretty simple. Some say boring but I like to say that my canvas is minimal so people can focus on my astounding breadth of knowledge, an unparalleled wit, and a deep sense of friendship. Really though? I just feel prettier in boring colors. There isn't anything more to it than that.

I like pants (see paragraph about jeans). I feel powerful. Much more powerful in pants than I do in skirts and dresses.

I like funny. Funny people. Funny writing. Funny movies. I'll quote V here, "Only a few people shouldn't be funny - pilots and doctors are on that list."

Vegan. Short hair. Jeans. Basic colors. Pants. Funny

I can only conclude with this information that I think I'm in love with Ellen DeGeneres.

His and Hers

It's cold and snowy days like today that make me appreciate the division of domestic duties.

Let me explain.

While V and I are equal partners, we do have household chores that we both silently fulfill, happily on most days. I do all of the food shopping and cooking. Most of the laundry is mine too. I do all of the surface cleaning while V does the bigger cleaning - the vacuuming and the bathrooms (except showers and tubs - it was written into our contract years ago and I never questioned why.) Our stove is usually spotless because of him and the fridge is always cleaned out on his watch. He feeds Bijou and is her regular running partner. He does trash. I do toy pick up at the end of the day. I load the dishwasher, he starts it and unloads it the next morning. We have this little domestic dance that we have agreed to. A lot of the historically female roles fall to me, which is the way I want it. I do middle of the night feedings, and toe nail clippings. I schedule haircuts and dental appointments. I write the thank you notes and grocery lists. I call the sitter. I schedule dinners with friends, and even remind him that mother's day is approaching, and that he indeed has a mother. Some feminists out there may be clutching their chests in fury that I would willingly, and happily, take on the burden of wifery. My logic though? If I do these things, then there is another list of things that will fall to V. A list of things that seem treacherously boring to me. And cold. And hard.

When we're out and about on cold days, V always starts the car to get the heat going, with me tucked into the passenger seat. It is he who will stand in freezing weather to deice the windows with a scraper while I sit in the car - gazing dreamily outside, and sometimes annoyingly pointing to spots he's missed, with the wind of the heater blowing my hair. It is V who scales the bookshelf to reach the lightbulb that neither of us can figure out why was placed in such an awkward spot. It is V who will follow the sound of the broken smoke detector around the house until I hear, "I found it!" while we both follow his finger pointing to yet, another awkward and seemingly unreachable spot. It is V who tinkers with the broken lock on the front door, or the blinds that seem to be sitting crooked on the window. V who rehangs closet bars and aligns pictures and frames evenly on the walls.

As I look out the window now, I see our Christmas tree, abandoned shortly after the merry holiday, waiting to be dragged to the front of the house for the tree recycling truck to come and pick it up. I just know that tree is out of my jurisdiction. And V knows it is in his. No discussion necessary.

It's 10 degrees with fat flakes falling and as I said, I'm quietly grateful for the roles we've taken on.

I take great satisfaction in tackling a challenge, and succeeding. Don't get me wrong. If V suddenly changes his mind and wants to redivide our duties? Well, I'll do it without looking back.

Truth be told though, I hope he always takes on the cold duties. I like sitting in that passenger seat with the seat warmers on.

Forgive

Remember when I said I'd post more about my resolution?

Here it is.

Forgiveness
A reminder to myself
by: Meg

Forgive yourself for being "appropriate" when you should have been irate. And, vice versa, forgive yourself for being irate when you should have responded calmly.

Forgive yourself for eating 9 cookies in a matter of 3 minutes flat.

Forgive yourself for not being the best. Better than yesterday is just as good as the best. And if you were just terrible? Worse than yesterday? Well, forgive yourself for that too.

Forgive yourself for being misinformed. Mistrustful. Mistaken. Misguided. It's humbling. Otherwise you'd be perfect, right? Loosen up.

Forgive yourself for being short with people. Or just short. Let it go.

Forgive yourself for feeling kind of fat, and then feeling guilt because such vanity is so unbecoming. Fat and guilty? It's just not worth it. Move on.

Forgive yourself for having moments that you're a bitch. They are just moments after all. And if you're a bitch for a solid couple of hours, even a day, that grand total of minutes isn't very many. Relax.

Forgive yourself for failing those around you at times, or feeling that you have failed them. Most likely, you haven't. You have just set yourself up to fail because you expect too much of yourself. Ease up.

So there it is. My big resolution.

Forgiveness.

Busy

Luca is all over the place. So is his sister. Mobility x 2 = 2 tired parents. It's a simple equation, one that you just need to memorize because there is no use trying to really understand it. It's the just way the numbers work.

Mia now dominates her own territory, and his. She'll kick him out of his toys (like the exosaucer) and declare, "This is actually mine Luca because I was little before you were little."

So far, Luca is handling this big sister business with dignity.