Dancing the Blues Away

Mia went to a birthday party at a dance studio today and it was just the amount of adorable I needed to push myself out of my yearly February funk. The end of winter always leaves me restless and anxious. I'm tired of feeling cooped up inside. I'm tired of long sleeves. I'm tired of socks.

The weather was nice today, just nice enough to remind me that I am indeed a lucky cat, with a good life, despite loathing my well worn long sleeves and socks.

I walked around Cherry Creek North with a friend while Mia participated in her FIRST drop off birthday party. I squatted down next to her, with her tutu keeping her at least an arm's length away, and I whispered, "Mia, I'm leaving. Can you come give me a kiss?" She said, "I ALREADY did Mom."

Yes. Right.

She danced. I shopped a bit. (Note to self: don't bring Luca who is the clutches of stranger anxiety shopping. I tried to wrangle myself into a new pair of ski pants in the fitting room while the sales girl helpfully poked her head in to see if I needed a new size. Luca went ballistic and I was left, with one leg hanging out of pants, to explain to the gal that she can't look directly at the baby.)

Enjoy the video of the ladies dancing. Mia is second from the left, standing with some of her besties from school - Sophia and Isabella.

Talking Heads

My kids are talkers. What can I say? The talk gene must run strong up in these parts. Luca now says "Go" and "Uh-Oh". I will put the videos up to prove his verbal prowess. (Note: I do hate my voice but believe fully in preserving even the annoying aspects of myself for the kids when they are older.) Luca not only talks, the kid dances. He now just stands up, starts chanting, "Go" and begins to groove. He also grunts and giggles and guffaws when something really deserves it. He pooped on the carpet diaperless today too. (Hardly can be recognized as oral language development but I just thought I'd put it out there.) Mia, bless her heart, is a talker too. I've already posted about her chatty nature but lately she's been blowing the lid off her talk tea pot. Heard just over the past few days.... In the car driving, she quietly said, "I am scared of something Mom. The blood pressure cuff at the doctor's office. Why do they need to use that?" Upon finding me listless and pale this morning, a mere shell of the mommy mate she's used to, she said, "Ahhh...looks like you have a case of itchyitis of the stomach." I explained that my stomach doesn't itch, it just feels like a tsunami exploded through my entire lower half. She said, "I know you don't itch, I just said that because it sounds like what could be wrong with a stomach. I heard it on TV." While playing, she said, "I really do love Daddy. He thinks of the best things to do." (Indeed he does.) Keep it up little ones. Life would be so quiet without you.

Sick

Be careful what you wish for. I just told Emily yesterday that I wanted to do a cleanse at some point. Something involving lots of detoxifying liquids - steams - tons of yoga. What did I wake up with? A raging stomach bug. I can't keep anything down. So, it appears that the gods heard my pleas but thought it would be funny to cleanse me another way, not involving spa like treatments. Now, I'm on a liquid diet of water, more water, and some Gatorade for when I'm feeling really sorry for myself. In fact, I just went downstairs to freshen my water and I opened the fridge only to go running for the bathroom. The mere SIGHT of food made me physically ill. Here, in no order, is a list of foods I can't eat for awhile: quinoa, salmon, brussel sprouts, almonds, cinnamon raisin bread, and chocolate shakes. Those are the last things I ate before THE BUG took over my life. The recycling bag had to be removed from my sight too. It's very strange but the thought of containers of any kind that used to store food (like jars, etc.) make me feel like throwing up when I'm sick. That poor recycling bag was put outside for the first trimesters of both of my pregnancies.

The only thing good to come of this nasty episode is that V has redeemed himself. Last time I was sick I dubbed him, 'worst care taker ever'. I think I sobbed that into my pillow as I had both kids crawling on me as I was yelling that I was sure it was H1N1. He listened to that horrible insult and has since reformed himself. Today I was greeted with hot water in bed and both kids tended to, and he was folding laundry. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The other thing that the gods thought would be funny to do would be to make me look like an asshole. I always say that we never get sick. Mia and Luca are pictures of health - the kids are rarely down and out. And I equate myself with some old farm wife - sturdy and reliable (except for that little ol' H1N1 bout). But, here we are, all under the weather. Point taken gods. Stop talking about how we never get sick. Understood.

Getting Better

This was Mia four days ago, just before croup came wailing into our home like a vengeful ex. That sweet face, smiling on the swing, tucked inside a mound of fleece quickly morphed into two cheeks burning with fever, buried under blankets. Yes, poor thing. Poor Mama too though. (Remember me? Don't forget about me!) I haven't seen the sky since the day this photo was taken because I've been inside administering sips of liquids through straws. I've been holding cool wet cloths to one unhappy forehead. I've been sitting in steamy bathrooms, with a limp body on my lap and sitting in the doctor's office waiting room with that very same limp body.

We are moving in the right direction and today Mia scrambled around the playroom doing puzzles and shrieking at her brother for pilfering lego pieces and pocketing some of the puzzle pieces. I think we are on the up and up.

She even had the energy to play dress up today and found one of the flower girl dresses from our wedding. Her cousin wore this particular dress and seeing Mia in it just made me realize how life really does keep marching forward. It's a beautiful orange dupioni silk dress with a bright pink sash. Just seeing those juicy vibrant colors made me feel alive again. It reminded me of the sun (it is still there, isn't it?), ripe berries, warm days, and healthier times. It reminded me of Mia's pink fleece coat, which I plan to zip her into in a few days to resume our old ways.

Good bye croup. Hello to everything that's been on hold.

Bright Spot

I like things bright. V will come home from work and say, "Why is this place lit up like a Christmas Tree?" as he walks from light switch to light switch undoing what I have done. Just one of the differences between us. Most of our opposing opinions are somewhat endearing. He likes showers, I prefer baths. He likes beer, I drink wine. He prefers his toast just tanned, while I like mine double browned. He likes a dry poached egg, I like mine runny. This difference though? It falls into the "not so endearing" pile. There aren't many things in that pile, but this is one of them. Along with his impossible insistence on squirting ketchup all over the fries when we split them on the occasion. Why I married a non dipper is beyond me.

This picture spoke to my deep need for light. Lots and lots of light. My boy bathed in sunshine on Valentine's Day, a day you already know is near and dear to my heart, just makes me feel a bit....lighter.

Winter Scent

Winter has a smell. Sometimes it's crisp and heavenly and sometimes it's not. Today, I smelled the stale stink of a dog that needed to be run, a little girl that needed the same thing, and a baby that needed to swing while dreaming of one day being big enough to trail alongside his playmates (sissie and dog).

We went to the park with the slate colored sky just grey enough to keep everyone else away. It was just us. Patches of snow covered the shaded areas of the playground and the chains from the swings clinked against the metal bars. Today was a day I normally would never choose for a romp. But, like I said, we were ripe with the odor of the winter doldrums.

The dog did laps around the play area, only stopping to push her nose through clumps of snow. Mia ran as fast as she could, until she was just a dot of pink fleece waving her arms at me from across the huge field. A part of me wanted to stop her from running so far. I even began to shout her name, but stopped myself mid "M...". I quieted the paranoid mother in me, worried that someone might pop out of nowhere to snatch her. Bijou was close at hand, jogging along with her. No one would mess with a poodle, right? I let her go. Her new tiny bob haircut totally invisible to me now. Just a pink blur. I looked over at Luca, watching his pinkish streak of a sister, and he smiled at me. A slow easy smile. His cheeks were stained pink - a look only the Irish can pull off as mightily. His fleece burka all but buried his sweet face.

It was so quiet and peaceful. This is the way it's supposed to be, I thought to myself. It's supposed to be about digging in the snow with a stick, wiping a drippy nose with the back of mittened hand. It's supposed to be about squirrel watching (for our four legged friends). We all feel "stuck" in the winter. So, I say, let's unstick ourselves.

We're going back tomorrow.

Happy Heart Day (belated)

For those of you that say Valentine's Day is a day for consumers, a day designed to make the lonely feel even lonelier, I disagree.

It's a day when hearts begin to beat. A few days before Valentine's day, several years ago, I snuck into the bathroom - traipsed over cold tile - and peed on a stick. I was pregnant with Mia. I asked V if he wanted an early Valentine gift. He lit up and said, "Did you get me an ipod?" I told him it was even better. I told him a lovely baby was on its way. He still murmured into my ear, after tears of happiness, "Can I still get that ipod this week?" That Valentine's Day was spent holding a special secret between the two of us. Love is saying hello to a new life, even one nestled firmly in the body.

It's a day when hearts stop. One year exactly after the beautiful gift of a heartbeat, Valentine's Day gave us all something else. The nurse from the hospital where my dad lay dying phoned and told me to get to the hospital immediately - Dad had crashed. I stumbled on the phone - in shock - and explained that I couldn't get there. I had an infant. I was in underwear. I had clothes in the dryer. My hair was wet. I begged quietly on the phone for her to fix it. I drove, with wet hair on my back and Mia sitting silently in her seat. Love is in the feeling of desperation you have when someone might be taken away.

It's a day when hearts break. I remember seeing my mom silhouetted against the huge glass window overlooking the mountains that morning as I walked down the hallway with the chaplain carrying Mia's heavy car seat. Love is in the hurt you feel when loss is imminent.

It's a day when hearts swell. I watched Mia carefully pick out her heart sweater this year, and put in on her chair the night before her Valentine party. This is childhood, I thought, as she counted her cards one last time. This. The making of moments - huge memories - from just a day. A day that some deem commercial. Love is knowing that just a day can change a life.

It's a day when hearts ache. Out of loneliness for lost loves. Out of anguish for things unsaid. Out of pain because of empty spaces in our lives for either those that have left us or those that simply haven't found us.

It's a day when hearts are full. For the multiple blessings found each and every single day. For warm socks and hot tea. For funny people and good friends.

No one ever said life was pretty all of the time. No one ever promised that life would be full of red roses, heart boxes filled with chocolates, quiet dinners and candlelight (we can wish though right?). But, I can say that I was promised it would be full of love. And Valentine's Day, for me, is just a quiet day to recognize that another year has gone by with the promise still intact.

To my friends and family out there....love is knowing we have each other. We're lucky aren't we? (That one was for you RMP.)

A Fairy

She had a Valentine party today at school and brought home her decorated paper bag filled with cards. She spread them out all over the floor and excitedly asked me to read each name.

She wore her pink sweater with the red heart.

She danced around all afternoon in her new fairy costume and practiced for a "ballerina birthday party" her friend from school invited her to.

She told me her tortilla chips tasted minty when she meant to say spicy. She told me she just loves the beach. She told me I was her most sweetest mommy, which made me happy - to know that I beat out the other mommies in her life. She took a bath with Luca and rubbed his belly with the washcloth.

These are the days that I savor.

Tuning out the Telly

Mia talks all day. It actually begins even before day technically does. The house is still dark, the sky still gray before the sun rises, and I'll hear her talking in her room. After I tuck her in after a full day of chatter and sit by to type, I know she's sleeping when it's been quiet for more than a minute. Only sleep can silence this child.

She talks about everything. And nothing. She asks me questions like, "Mom, why do foxes hate dogs?" and "Mom, why do we need walls?" She has fixated on certain questions, those included, and asks them repeatedly. Of course, I have over analyzed the thoughts and deemed that my girl is intrigued with fear (of the foxes) and structure (provided by the walls).

She tells stories, really elaborate ones full of all kinds of characters and plot twists. She talks through her make believe scenarios and her skewed realities. Just the other day she told me that she does indeed have a baby in her belly and she will not be having it in a hospital, rather a zoo.

"Great." I said. "I do hate cages though. Thought of Wildlife Preserve? Or even in the wild?"

No. She said she hadn't thought of those things. But she said a barn would do nicely.

"Lovely" I said. "I'll bring you some meals."

So it was settled. Mia would be giving birth in a barn, a lot like another figure with which she is often transfixed, the Virgin Mary.

This talk can be a lot for me - a creature who really does value a good long silence. A woman who lists "alone time" right up there along with food, water and oxygen. A lady who is learning that less is often more.

But I endure through her constant talking because I know that I am the person who will teach her what value truly means. V and I are the one setting the standard for what she should accept in future friends and lovers. And that is that we all deserve to be heard. We all deserve to have someone listening.

Yesterday, we were on the couch, snuggled under a blanket watching a show, and she said to me, "I talk a lot. All day. But I don't talk when the TV is on because the TV is doing the talking. I am quiet when I watch TV. It talks to me."

I turned to this monstrosity of a screen we have. This huge plasma....thing....that in essence was shushing my daughter. I have to say, the silence it offers me sometimes is golden, but I suddenly grew angry.

With Mia's silence watching TV also comes a silence of everything that makes her so special. Her creativity. Her ability to connect. Her innovative thinking. Her deep empathy. That very silence that seemed so golden to me sounded more like a slow death suddenly. It sounded like a child who is being asked to be seen and not heard.

Is there a sound worse than the squelching of a spirit?

In her lifetime, other things may cause her to fall into spells of quiet, but I would like those things to be experiences - with live human beings - not giant rectangles of plastic and hardware hanging from a wall. Not televisions.

I told Mia to turn it off. She happily did so and crawled back to her nook in my arm. She began some story that honestly felt very very long but it was a good one.

Because it was hers.

Walk This Way

I forgot to mention last month that it's official - Luca is walking with the help of his walker. He started early; he had just turned 8 months old and he was off to work everyday with his trusty plastic friend leading the way.

Road Trip

I went to a most perfect brunch today with a gaggle of ladies. Le Central, which always delivers, was a supreme setting for a fun date with some women. One, who is pregnant with her second and due in a month, asked, "How do you do it? I'm getting a bit nervous about having two." I flagged down the waiter for a glass of wine (a must at a brunch no?) while opening my bag to show her two still warm bottles of breast milk, pumped at the salon just an hour before the brunch. (Yes, I sound so fancy don't I? Having an appointment to get my hair done before a brunch date. Hardly my everyday reality.)

"That's how it's done" I said, pointing to the bottles intermixed in with receipts and lip glosses, hair pony tail holders for Mia and myself, a sticky note from work and a stray marker. I said it honestly. With no disdain tightening my lips. No exhaustion dragging out my words. Just pure and simple. To the point.

That is how it's done. Not necessarily with human milk floating in your handbag, because to be quite honest, I usually do not have Luca's lunch readily available to show friends. I just used those bottles as an example of the ingenuity needed to work out the logistics of being a woman AND a mom. Want to get my haircut and go to brunch? I'll pump where I can to make it happen. Raising kids is a combination of flexibility (both physical and emotional) and versatility. Of course, it's a whole bunch of other things but those two rise to the surface of the often murky waters of parenthood. You have to be willing to bend and change. I often thought that somehow the sky would open when it was my time to have a baby; the universe would somehow let me know that everything was aligned and now, life as a mom could begin. While my time did indeed come and the universe played a part in that (I think I've thanked you universe, but in case I haven't done so formally, thank you.) there was no magical halt to the rest of my daily realities.

Life just keeps on going. Except you have a baby on your hip (or two) along the way.

You have haircuts and brunch with friends, but you have to take a pit stop to prepare some lunch by way of pumping for a certain handsome boy. You have work and meetings and phone calls, but you have to build in moments to help a lovely fashion savvy three year old pick out her outfit before you head out the door. You fail. You flounder. You drop a few f-bombs. They are right there with you to experience it all. (I just hope the don't hear the f bombs.) They also witness your great successes, your soulful kisses with your partner, your chats with friends and family.

They are along for the ride. Your ride IS their ride. My time will come when I'm not in the driver's seat all the time. When they take the wheel, I'll be excited to sit back, throw the pump out the window, and close my eyes.

Luca

Go on. Start a fire.

"Education is not the filling of a bucket, but the lighting of a fire."

William Butler Yeats

(Thanks sissie for reminding me of such an inspiring quote!)

Connecting

I just wrote all about make believe and how pretending is a way for our souls to soar into other dimensions. It's an escape. A journey away from the everyday.

But, as people, what do we find most compelling? What stops us in our tracks and causes us to suspend everything else in our lives?

Our own stories do that. Our own truths. Our simple everydays. The human condition. The stories of those next door, down the street, across the country, around the world. While we love to think we are unique creatures destined for some kind of solitary greatness, that couldn't be farther from the truth.

People, all of us, are so interconnected. Our journeys are so similar. We all want to understand ourselves, each other. We all want to figure out a way to live on this planet, and share it. We all want to create order.

Think of when any news hits the airwaves. Haiti, for example. We sat, transfixed. Heartbroken. The people hurt were just reflections of us. We all thought, "What if that was me?" We all knew that it could have been.

I read a book about Rosa Parks to my kids the other day, A Bus Ride That Changed History, and you could have heard a pin drop. I began by asking my students what they already knew about Rosa Parks, the civil rights movement, and the history of our nation's greatest shame - slavery leading through segregation.

A few bits and pieces were thrown out but the understanding was shaky. Richie, one of my boys, said quietly from the back, "I know some black people were whipped with fire hoses."

I was stunned into silence. Our little ones know the truth. Richie, who is usually rolling around in the back of the group during our whole group meetings, was sitting up as straight as a stick. His eyes were boaring holes into me as I spoke.

All of my students are Latinos and Hispanics, mostly from Mexico. Their families are enslaved in their own ways. In poverty. Or stereotypes. Misunderstanding. Absent opportunities.

My students are still babies. All of them. But I know they will understand the power of privilege and what it means soon enough. They already see the effects of it. They just don't have the language or the life experience to articulate it.

I was so proud as my little ones sat around me, quiet as mice, saying, "Read that again Mrs. P. Read that part again." I was so proud when I asked them why Rosa's two black attorneys didn't fight harder for her to win at the local level and my kids explained that they needed to lose at that local level to bring the case to the Supreme Court. I was so proud as the class cheered when I read that the buses of Montgomery were shut down because of a brilliant boycott.

These kids were so engrossed in this story, and any story I tell that speaks to our very deepest cores - our desire to understand humanity. We all struggled after I read the book with why people had to be so mean. Hurtful. Hateful. We all promised that we wouldn't let something like that happen again. They initiated that promise but I put my pinkie in the middle right alongside theirs.

This desire to reach out, to be better, to truly reflect and grapple with the human condition is something I see all day - at work and at home with my own kids. Kids are fearless with their yearning to seek common ground. When Mia tells me, "You must miss your dad because he is in heaven. I would miss Daddy if he went there", I feel such a connection with her. She is beginning to get it. She is beginning to see that none of us are that different. We all fear. Lose. Hope. Gain. Miss. Hurt. Yearn. Love.

She and I were reading last night Mem Fox's lovely, Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes, and we repeated the refrain together...

"And both of these babies, as everyone knows, have ten little fingers and ten little toes." The pictures of babies from around the world, playing together, are a gentle reminder for kids that we are not born with differences, they are imposed upon us.

I have a philosophy about child rearing. Don't hold back. Tell our littlest people the hard truths we want to shy away from. Validate their fears and listen to their solutions. We, as adults, have this beautiful opportunity to change the world by letting our little ones lead the way.

While make believe is fun. Whimsical and magical. It's the realities of everyday that make me feel a part of something much bigger than I can even explain.

Stair Climber

We do this a lot. I would estimate about 100 times a day. Or maybe 400. Luca likes to go up and down. Repeatedly.

Boy in a Bucket

This kid is 9 mos. old now. Big enough to get put into a plastic bucket and dragged around the playroom with all of Mia's toys in with him. Age brings such privileges doesn't it?

Make Believe

I love to take on new identities, even momentarily. It's the adult version of dress up. And I don't mean the "adult" kind of dress up you may be thinking of - the g-string thigh-high kind. I mean the adult version of dress up that involves pretending to be something or someone you really aren't. I've accepted Oscars in my underwear and tried salsa dancing in my room. I've unearthed ridiculously expensive heels that I bought and then abandoned in the closet, because what was I thinking I would be doing in beautiful heels with two small kids underfoot most of the time. I've clicked around the house in those heels, and pajamas, knowing I looked fierce from the ankle down. I've poured my heart and soul into a few blog entries, pretending to be on deadline. I've turned on jazz and lit a candle, pretending the large window near our table is overlooking Grammercy Park and that the special key that gives me access to it is dangling from a cool chain on my neck. (I picture that key to be beautiful, ornate....unique.)

I am not an actress, a dancer, a fashionista, a published writer, or the owner of an outrageous property investment in NYC, but I can pretend to be. I think it's the sense of freedom, of possibility, that we all find so exhilarating. We can all pretend that we have simply not chosen those paths, not that those paths didn't chose us. And sometimes, maybe even most of the time, that's the truth; we truly don't want those identities permanently. Only momentarily. Fleetingly.

I watch Mia all day as she does the very same thing we all do. She goes about her day switching in and out of various costumes, complete with the right accessories and even accents sometimes. She'll move around the living room with a whisk and a bowl while "swirling and twirling" (what she calls stirring) some pretend chocolate. She's a "cooker", you see. Moments later she'll emerge in full witch costume to tell me she is going to haunt a house. But before she has time to create that house, she has moved onto become a ballerina, asking me to put on her "ballet music", which is what she calls a gorgeous classical compilation V put together.

So, last night, as she danced around in her costume, I cooked and looked out our huge window, pretending just for a moment that I was in that apartment overlooking Grammercy. Mia and I were so happy pretending together. That's the beauty of make believe; it isn't an expression of unhappiness in our current states but rather a sign of feeling safe enough to let go and dream.

Our Hours

I have a few hours alone each week with Luca, while Mia's at preschool. This is our time to talk about weighty issues - like health care (am I neglecting your teeth by not brushing them yet?), defense (why are you into biting little man?), social reform (must you squawk so loudly when we're in relatively quiet places? Like the library?), and my personal favorite, issues of the heart, like whether or not true love exists upon first glance (yes, we both decided, it certainly does).

Afloat in a laundry basket

They have begun to really play together. Legos. Little People. Trains. You name it - they're into it. The playing usually consists of Mia shrieking that Luca has "totally ruined" something by putting it in his mouth. Luca then will shriek back in protest when Mia takes said object away. They'll both then laugh. I'm still searching for the humor in all of it because to my adult ears, it just sounds very noisy. They, though, think they are hysterical.

The other night was ride around in the laundry basket night. V and I took turns pushing and pulling them along, with both of them standing at the helm, eager to see what was around every corner. They hung on tight as we pushed them faster and faster around the island in the kitchen. I noticed that the gradually let go of the basket and were just holding on to each other. Clinging tightly.