Stars

On the way home from Hope's dance class last night, in the cool suburban twilight, Hope asks me why we don't live in the country. She asks me why we can't see the stars. Its hard to explain to her about the urban electric glow at night, the ambient light from all the street lights, the stadiums, the homes, how it all glares upward to hide the stars that are really there. Through the marine layer and through the smog, the night sky is truly there in it's deep blackness; the stars are vivid and bright and the planets can be seen. Orion is dressed in his winter brilliance and steadfastness. The stars are there, really, we just can't see them.

It is hard to explain to her that in my own little girl heart, I wish we could see the see the stars too. I wish the city's lights didn't fade the beauty of the night sky, that the dark-brownish sky really isn't how it is meant to be viewed.

Chad and I've grown up here. Our families are here, our business, our established friendships - all of it is here. Grandparents, church, home, history - the life that is familliar, it is in California.

My heart ached when she finally said, I just want to see the stars...

How can I explain to her how the same desire is in my own heart, but that as her parents, we've decided that the relationships she is able to develop with her grandparents and her family is WORTH not being able to see the stars each night?

I know some of her country-desire is fueled by the fact she wants a pasture that has pens for both her unicorn and her pegasus, and then one for her normal horse too. I know that she dreams, as a six-year-old girl, in giant leaps and wide-arching thoughts and consequences are things she is just beginning to understand.

I think she gets it. Her next wish was that we could live in the country, but then all of our friends would come to live too. It seems she understands the importance of relationship and I think she is beginning to learn that sometimes you must choose between two good things; that some choices have drawbacks but that there are worthy benefits.

I say to her, "I know, baby, we all just want to see the stars."

Dropping Things

Yesterday in her play and music class, I watched as Naomi helped in the group's clean-up. She gathered small musical instruments and colored sticks to return to the teacher. When the call for clean-up came, she began to pick up the items, one by one, until her arms were full with about eight different things, too much for her small hands to keep a hold of.

No doubt some would fall. One blue stick tumbled out. She paused, reached down, grasped the blue stick as a small cymbal fell out of her other arm. She walked one step, then stopped to pick up what she had dropped. As she reached for the cymbal, two more items fell. She didn't even blink as she reached for those as well.

The clean-up proceeded like this, with Naomi pausing almost every step to bend down to pick up one more thing that she had dropped. But she didn't become upset. It was as if this was normal: to stop and pick up what she had dropped. Her goal was to fill her arms with as many things as she could carry and then to let them all fall into the bucket.

Apparently she had too many things in her arms.

I smiled as I watched her and I immediately thought that if it was me, I would have either made two trips or would have at very least become frustrated by the third drop.

So, even though in my adult wisdom I am smarter than to try to put too many things in my physical arms, I obviously don't heed my own advice when it comes to juggling events and responsibilities and tasks I must complete.

Apparently, I often have too many things in my own arms.

I metaphorically pick up way too many things for my limited arms and they are destined to tumble out and down. I then must stop and pick up what I've dropped, taking more time than if I had limited what I carried in the first place. I am learning to say no to things and people even before the need arises to stop to pick up what I've dropped.

And if I find myself in a place where I have gathered too many tasks in my arms, too many things that weigh on me and pressure me to a bursting point, I must remember my daughter, who calmly stopped (even if at EACH step) and picked up what she had dropped. She had a goal in mind, and nothing could deter her.

Landscapes

When I was a child, I was fascinated with maps. Road maps, maps of California, you-are-here-maps...anything from a birds' eye view with interstates and rivers and county lines and borders. Anything that planned out the landscape and showed me my proximity to something else.

During our family's occasional trans-continental car trips as a kid, I could waste a good hour or two simply riding in the backseat with the map. I would stare, unfolded map flapping in the wind of the rolled-down window, at the cornfields, the small towns the old trucks as they flashed by. I would look down to see how far we'd come.

The lure of maps has followed me into my adulthood. When we travelled through France in 2001, I faithfully traced our journey on a large-foldable map of the country. Each day, for each leg of our trip, I happily studied the map and marked exactly which road we drove, to which cities and any side trips we took. I observed and labeled any town or city we might return to when we return someday: Biarittz is nice, St. Paul de Vence is quaint, and sense-intoxicating Paris, of course, is exquisite. Located in the central north of France, Paris seems to sit on a throne, looking disdainfully down on the rest of the country, as it to catch the best view.

Maps have layers and levels and unending intricacies. A wide view of the entire country can be focused down int a single tiny town with its rural roads and streams. The open landscape has an infinite number of stories to tell.

The man that I married, I have now known for over fifteen years. His face is the most familiar in the world to me and it carries with it its own intricacies and infinite stories. The face of my husband is its own map worth studying, its landscape is perfect and is complete with layers and levels and depth that are unable to be seen from the surface. His map carries the pains and joys of a life being well-lived, and I seem to be able to measure my proximity to him by looking into his eyes, our closeness is reflected there.

My children, their faces so fresh and unwritten, the landscapes of their lives have yet to be mapped. They are so close to the beginning of the process, their maps are filled with empty and fruitful fields, waiting for life to fill them up with what comes next.

Maps will never lose their charm for me, and especially those of my family, my dear best friend and my daughters - theirs are the maps worth studying for the infinite number of stories and joys they have lived and have yet to write.

New Day

"It might not be the prettiest thing you've ever seen, but its a new day"

I usually don't quote song lyrics, but poetry as they sometimes are, this one always speaks to me.

Every day is remade in the next one, and everyone should be give the chance to start again. Each day IS new but it may not look beautiful to begin with. It may not even end pretty. But it is all new.

It is fiery and difficult, and other people may be angry from the day before. The kids may still be grumpy and I am surely tired from last week. My husband may still be stressed and I might be hurt from last weekend's phone call, but today is new.


It is something to be remade. Remake yourself.

Cherry on Top

The yogurt from the new natural frozen yogurt shop was expensive, far too expensive for a snack. And, it stormed this afternoon, the rain coming across sideways in the wind. I would have rather been home on a Sunday afternoon, in sweats with a warm cup in my hands.

But I took her anyways, to the shop where you can serve yourself. She pulled the lever on the yogurt to fill her cup halfway, and then she moved to the island of toppings. She walked around twice before she took one spoonful of at least 5 different cereals, sprinkles and fruits.

I took her because I knew she would love it; I knew she would talk about it after we left. I might not have: she had a bout of 6-year-old whining and wailing after church today. But, we went regardless. And she did talk about it, all the way home.

This is the coolest ever, Mom. Thanks.

Thank you, honey, for being my reason to do things I may not feel like doing. Thank you for making it worth it. You, are my cherry on top.

Coffee Trader

When I was in college, I worked as a barista before I knew what that was. On weekends, summers and during the holidays, I worked at a coffee bar in our local mall before Southern Californians had even heard of Starbucks. Only the most elitist of coffee drinkers knew what a machiato was, the difference between a latte and a cappuccino and what a long espresso was. Starbucks, and like businesses, would soon invade our county, but at that point, The Coffee Trader was my home.

People still pronounced ESPRESSO with an X (EXPRESSO), and the public, at least around here, were beginning to ride the wave that would be the coffee craze; we were on the cusp of a revolution and we were unaware.

I opened the Coffee Trader early in the mornings for the mall workers and I had my regulars: the woman who would always order the flavored coffee and would get angry if HER donut had already been purchased and consumed by someone else; the three men who owned? managed? worked at? the luggage store who didn't speak very good English and would order 3 short espressos. They'd gulp them in a single throw-back and leave their money on the counter. And of course, was the couple who would refuse to order a "cappuccino", but would ask for a "Cappy" instead. Hmm.

I've never been a huge coffee drinker. But this was also before many of us had heard of Splenda, or there was such a thing as a Soy Latte. I became accustomed to drinking 16 ounce mochas that I would create (sometimes iced in the summer) and would sip on it all afternoon. We had only low-fat or full-fat milk, no blender and no way to heat anything in a microwave. This was also before wireless Internet access was available or needed or expected (Compuserve, anyone?). I guess we were crippled, but we didn't know it and no one else was the wiser either.

So this morning, as I opened a new bag of coffee here at my house, and the sharp scent of the beans hit my nose, I was immediately taken back. It isn't the smell of the actual coffee brewing I mean, but the distinct beautiful smell of the beans.

It was a good and easy time in my life: the espresso dust collecting in the crevices of my shoes and in my hair; pilfering handfuls of chocolate covered espresso beans in the evenings; knowing everyone in the mall (and you know what I mean if you've ever worked in the mall), the wholesome scent of the steamed milk and enduring the occasional burn on my hands. I would soon graduate from college, I would get married and Starbucks would soon take over.

I still don't LOVE Starbucks. Starbucks' coffee tastes burnt to me (so if I am there, I usually order an espresso drink to avoid the old-taste of the brewed coffee). I just now realized that I prefer Peets or Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf because in atmosphere, at least, they are very much like the Coffee Trader. And there is the smell of the beans. The coffee bean smell that I grew to love will always remind me of this time: mornings in the mall, the sun coming through the skylights; the pound, pound, pound of emptying the espresso filter, and perfecting the foam on a cappuccino.

Itch Scratched

It is around this time every January when the rain and the dreary mornings promise that this month will never end, and the excitement of Christmas is only a distant memory that I get an itch., to go. Pack the kids in the car and just go. (We are swearing off planes for awhile post Europe)

When there is a vacation on my calendar however luxurious or humble, it is the point in my future that I can move toward. I can look forward to a week somewhere that is just different than my own city, and know that our lives will be richer and grander because of it. I can look forward to having my husband with us, unencumbered, for a week or so.

It isn't as if taking a trip is the answer for everything. But I know my kids will make new memories in an unexplored place. And my life will now be blanketed between the looking forward to and looking back upon a time together. No doubt this time will be peppered with whines and tantrums, but perhaps the rest of it will be about discovery and laughter.

So, we are going here in June: not as balmy as Hawaii, nor as warm, but the California coastline holds it's own beautiful perfection. We won't be there during whale watching season and the water might not be warm enough for swimming, even in early summer, but there will be sandcastles, and seashells and bicycle rides. There will be, for certain, a trip to the aquarium, and hopefully some naps in the afternoons. There will be cold mornings and breezy evenings, and cups of coffee while watching the Pacific.

There might even be dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant ever.

So, itch scratched; trip planned. A week with the ocean, my family and nothing to do is what I need, even if it isn't for five more months.

Lesson Relearned

My mother observed something at once simple and profound about my toddler. Something that my wiser mother-friends have told me about toddlers. Something that I should have remembered having already endured my oldest daughter's two-year-old woes a few years ago.

Transitions. Transitions are hard for little ones. Last week I lamented that my youngest screamed at the top of her lungs for most of the morning, and then the remainder of the afternoon after her too-short nap.

I complained to my mother (as all good daughters should) and in her unobtrusive manner of giving advice, she reminded me that 2 year olds have difficulty with simple transitions. OH YEAH...

Let her finish brushing her teeth before I whisk her into the bathtub. Explain to her (I really think she is beginning to understand) what our day entails and where we are going next. Give her 10 and 5 minute warnings - this is the only way they learn even long before they understand time concepts.

So, I have begun to warn her before we are getting ready to leave. I tell her what we will be doing each morning. She hasn't been tantruming nearly as much this week as she sings the word, MARKET, when I tell her where we are going. Instead of picking her up and laying her down to change her diaper (from which I received many kicks squared to my chest last week), I am now asking her to get a diaper and lay down in front of me. If she doesn't concede, I gently pick her up and explain to her that she must lie down so I can give her a fresh diaper.

Seems like an easy concept. Even I relish in knowing (at least in general) what is coming up next. I don't like to be rushed. Neither does my baby. She fights the rush with every ounce of energy in her little 3T body. It doesn't mean changing my schedule to fit her - quite the opposite. All it means, is beginning the process of transitions earlier and not allowing myself to get behind so we are all running out the door at the last minute, shoes in hand and coats flying. It means fitting HER into MY schedule in a way that suits her. It means taking the time to watch her.

She is still quickly approaching two. She still screams, loudly and often. But this week has been much more peaceful in this home, and I imagine, in her little heart as well.

Transfer

My kids. They smell like me. Or some version of me.

I pick up my toddler after I've sprayed perfume on my neck. Her skin connects with mine and the scent transfers. I give my oldest daughter a bath and use the same shampoo on her hair that I use on mine. Hours later, when it is still damp, I bury my nose to take in the same scents as follow me daily.

Their own body chemistry mixes with the perfumes and soaps and lotions I choose; their natural smells carry over through the fabric softener and detergents to create their uniqueness. I choose the food to feed my family that I enjoy; I choose the comfort scents of candles to fill my home. I sniff the bottle of baby oil in the market to make sure it is something that agrees with me. I buy it because I like it and then I use it. These things create a family scent, and a child's smell that is almost undetectable to a mother.

It is not faint to others, but imperceptible perhaps to me because it is so like my own. These smells are the familiar, everyday scents of bedsheets and the backs of little arms, of the dolls that live in our home and of the pillows that grace our beds. They are the scents of clean hands and freshly dusted shelves, of lived-in-rooms and comfort-blankeys that can only be washed but once a month.

My girls are part of my genetic makeup. No wonder they are so familiar, their scents indistinguishable to me. I live within this home, and my own sense of smell has possibly become dulled. I help to create the scents and perpetuate them, constantly making my children smell more like the things I enjoy, but doing so out of habit. I don't intend this, it just happens.

I pull one of them over on my lap. I smell her cheek as she looks at a book. She has her own scent, barely different from her sister, but unique. She eats the food I prepare, and uses the soap I provide; she sleeps in the bed I make for her. She is made from me and I take her in. She smells like she's mine.

Black and White

Mama, when you were a little girl, were the TV shows and cameras in black and white?

No, they were in color. But when your Poppa and Mamma were little, the TV shows and movies were in black and white then.

But they were in color, right?

Yes, honey. They were in color.

One More Lesson From the Half

There are people who were born with running shoes on. Just because I wasn't doesn't mean I can't. Yesterday's course is a turn around course. Runners travel 6.55 miles in one direction, make a U-turn and run the return trip back where we began. The starting line becomes the finish. The fastest runners are coming back toward the finish when I feel like I have barely started. The most amazing thing is actually watching the elite runners run. They compete for a cash prize and running is their job. The travel from race to race around the country and world trying to win and running against the same few athletes each time.

It never fails. We are all running, the half-way turn around still a good two miles away and we can hear the opening race motorcycles and the honking horns. Then we hear the crowd that has gathered along the sides begin to swell with aplause. The cheers that had been for us a few seconds previous now turn their attention to the three men gliding over the pavement on the other side of the street. They are already heading back toward the finish and they aren't very far from being done.

These men are born with running shoes on, so to speak. One caucasian runner and two African runners, shoulder to shoulder, their feet barely touching down. Every muscle and fiber on their body is directed toward the run. They are made to do this. If they didn't run, it would be shameful because of their great gift.

They run fast and one of them will win. They are running 5 minute miles and the next runner is only a dozen or so feet behind them. Maybe he will win. Maybe he is reserving a bit of strength for the final sprint. When one of them crosses the finish line, I have barely made my turn around down at then end and begin my way back.

I am trudging along at a much slower pace, giving the race everything I have inside, and I could be discouraged. I might feel unworthy or unfit to even run in a race where these same athletes are registered. But I don't. I feel the same pride and awe swell inside me and I stare, crane my head to get a better view of them.

They pass, and even in my thirst and fatigue I clap, and hoot and yell for them. To them, as they speed by, the sounds of the crowds must seem like blurs as they focus on one thing only: finishing the quickest. But they deserve it. They are supreme in what they do; they are the best and our honor recognizes this.

But I am running. I am going to finish. Just because my body was not born to do this and I must train and struggle with motivation issues and eating issues in order to run; just because my body could be trained to be semi-athletic, but as a mother I don't have the time and energy to devote to such endeavors; just because its hard and I must MAKE my body do this --- all of this doesn't mean that I can't run, or that I shouldn't.

The elite runners, their bodies and minds are trained for the race. Mine isn't. But I run anyways. I run in the rain and the wind, and mostly in the cold and the dark. I run, mostly for my sanity. I run so that I can begin my day with a clean mind, a clear thought, and a calmer spirit.

TIME - 1:56:49
PLACE OVERALL - 1889 out of 6334
WOMEN - 677 out of 3702
MY AGE CATEGORY - 136 out of 622

13.1

Lessons learned from the last 13.1 miles...

Everyone runs a little differently. Some people slouch. Some people wave their arms around. One lady ran with her feet splayed outwards and her elbows cocked as if she was trying to poke someone with every stride. But everyone is running. And everyone will complete the race; we all just arrive at the finish line with our own spin on it.

A mobile community. Running in a race like this amazes me because everyone cheers everyone else. Within the running pack there is ample encouragement, most of the time for those we don't know. We are all trying to do the same thing and we have similar goals. We are a mobile community and we share in the pain and the triumph. One girl tried to stop and walk when we were only a quarter mile from the end, but she couldn't see the line. A fellow runner told her to keep going, we were almost there...she began to run again, and I saw a new energy in her eyes.

Temporal pain. Fatigue fades and pain will flee with a good bath and a couple of Tylenol. Fluids can be replenished, and a good meal out feeds the hunger. But the sense of accomplishment and joy remains.

You can't go back. When the running pack spreads out and the runners stop talking to each other; when our feet begin to swell and our hamstrings tighten; when there is no energy reserve left, there is no other option, still, than to keep going forward. You can't stop, even when the only sounds are other runners breathing hard and your own shoes feeling the pavement. You cannot go back because there is about 4000 other runners behind you, moving forward as well. You must go forward.

Real Living

So often I have lived from one pivotal occasion to the next. Graduation: the end of my formal education. Marriage: I was going to have a partner for the rest of my life. My weight loss: the installation of confidence. My first daughter's birth: the beginning of a new way of living. A marathon run: elation and being able to conquer anything. My youngest daughter's birth: a new heart of tenderness I had never owned before.


Momentous accomplishments and events. They are milestones. My life shown out on a timeline would name these things as peaks and highlights.


But, I'd rather write my own timeline. Not with graduations and births, necessarily. But with molten-chocolate desserts and laughter. With drives at night through the orange groves and runs in the morning through the eucalyptus trees. With small things, little things, that make up all that is today.

It's difficult. Humanity begs us to wait and pine for the next BIG thing, the next meaningful event. The next time I can get dressed up and wear heels. Normal life is just so normal, it seems, and common. I don't want to be common, we scream, I want to be different, to be noticed, to be exciting! I want someone to throw a shower for me, I want to have a birthday party, I want to go on vacation!

Instead, maybe I should nourish a fascination with all things common. I should feed and grow within me a love for the small, most beautiful things. I'm done waiting. Big moments will, in fact, happen. It is the nature of life: happy things and sad things and devastating things. I can't wait, though, to be in the center of it.

Instead of marking my life from event to event, I want to begin to mark real living in terms of blueberry pancakes, sticky toddler hands and groves of eucalyptus.

Old Soul, or Bonding, Part 2

There is something basic, something touchable about my relationship with my oldest daughter. To use common words, she is an old soul.

I don't know if it is the nature of my love for her, or if it is just that she is older and more engaging than my toddler, but there is a give and take between Hope and me that is built-in. It seems to exude from inside each of us seperately, then merges in words, in questions, in laughter. The connection is natural, it rumbles just under the surface of us. It is right.

Bonding, Part 1

I only have two children. So it is easy for my husband and me to divide and conquer.

In a restaurant, I might manage our toddler's crayon-throwing tendencies, while Chad does a word search with our six-year-old. At night, I might put the youngest in bed while he reads stories to our oldest. At a place like an amusement park, we separate sometimes and my husband pushes the toddler in her stroller while I take Hope on a roller coaster. Divide and conquer.

When things aren't as easy, when there are screams and tantrums issuing from both young-feminine mouths, we still segregate them, my husband and I each grabbing whoever is closest. Because I am around her more, I usually attend to the discipline of my oldest daughter, while Chad manages the baby. It has just evolved that way. Chad and Hope clash a little, already, because in my opinion, their personalities are quite similar. For some reason, I am able to be calmer and more even with her.

On our trip to England last November, Chad spent ten days of uninterrupted time with his three girls. He's never been able to spend that long with us without the pressures of work or other responsibilities pushing in on him.

Naomi tantrumed, and she kicked and screamed and because he is stronger than me, he was the one who usually tried to quell her tornadoes. And through all of this, he connected with her. They found a deep, visceral bond that had not been there before. He learned how to speak softly in her ear; she learned how to listen to her Daddy and trust him. He learned how to hold her firmly but gently so that she knew he was in control, and that she didn't need to be scared.

They connected deeply. And now she's Daddy's Girl. Not in a way that makes me jealous, but in a way that I know the two of them need. And children favor their parents in cycles, so I know that someday she'll be partial to me and wonder why her father doesn't understand.

So, for now, when we divide and conquer, Chad usually chases the toddler as she takes off toward the parking lot, and I hold my older daughter's hand as we watch them run.

Finishing Well

My race is in 5 days. I use the term "race" very loosely as I will be in a crowd of a few thousand people running for 13 miles and I will be merely attempting to finish somewhere in the middle. A real race, in my opinion, is something one might have the chance to actually win. It IS a real race for a handful of people. Those guys are about 24 years old and they will be running basically twice as fast as me. Winners of half-marathons finish in under an hour.

Somewhere in the middle. I know I won't be fast. Last year I completed 13.1 miles in 1:52. That, for a 33-year-old, post-pregnancy, amateur-runner, was fast. It was probably my personal best. I know this year will be much slower.

I am realizing that now as I have been "training" by myself, squeaking out 6 or so miles every other day and succumbing to fatigue and measly four mile runs on the days in between. And knowing that my race in '07 might have been my zenith feels a little strange. It makes me feel old, as if I am running down the other side of the hill.

This morning I actually managed 8 miles on the treadmill and I surprised myself. I began telling myself I would just run for 10 minutes, then I thought I could go at least 3 miles. By then I felt warm and good and strong, so I made it all the way.

I won't win. I know that. My body is not made for it and I am not a professional runner. So, on Sunday, I will run my race, not to win, but to finish well. I want to run with as much effort as is possible and push myself farther than I think I can go. I will finish and I will not win. But hopefully, I will have run well.

Stopped

My little one is sick, so my life stops. Sort of.

The baby always gets the leftovers because she must be put in the car to do the Kindergarten drop-off, get pulled out to take the cupcakes to the classroom, and then get put back in the car again to pick up in a couple hours. Then, later in the day comes another lesson for her older sister that she must endure.

This all when her cheeks are flushed from a Motrin-controlled fever, her chest cough sounds like she's been smoking cigarettes for 25 years, and the stuff coming out of her nose constantly gets wiped across her face acting like glue for her hair that wisps down and then is stuck.

This all when she should be home, taking an extra nap and then eating a cup of ice chips in front of Sesame Street. She should be running around in her pajamas and playing with her new Christmas games. I shouldn't have to interrupt her tired play to take hear one more place.

So my life stops, a little. I don't take her to the childcare at my gym. I don't take her to her play and music class. I begin to think of all the errands I could run, but I can't, in good conscience, run her around town more than I already am today.

In a way I feel stuck, stunted, in my list of must-dos for the week. It's only Tuesday, and I am already behind.

I have to stop a little this morning, adjust my expectations, and care for my little one. All she wants is to be held. And, now, all I want to do is hold her, wipe her nose, and make sure her hair doesn't get stuck.

Candid

Right now, in my life, I feel a fluidity in my writing. Many times I write things in my head when I am running or as I am waking up in the morning. After the alarm, before I pull myself up and out, is a time of clarity for me many mornings. And then, I just sit down and all the filler words and the beginnings and the endings, it all just comes.

I looked over at my oldest daughter this weekend as she was enjoying something related to her birthday and something suddenly began to weigh on me. I write with such candidness because she is too young to understand what it is I am communicating. I write openly because I can.

Like all little girls, she is maturing fast and her mind is racing through the paradox of growth that includes both triumphs and pain. She is understanding larger ideas and more comprehensive issues each week, it seems, and she remembers everything.

This weekend I realized that there is a future fear lurking in me that someday, when she can understand it all, I won't be able to be as candid in my writing (especially if she is the subject). Perhaps the writing will cease. I don't know. In ten years, she will be sixteen and completely capable of reading my musings on motherhood and mistakes I've made. She might not accept me or wonder why I wrote about her so much. I won't be able to write about the failures I feel as a mother or a wife, at least not in the same way.

But then, the next thought...

Perhaps my frankness in communication will clear a path for an open relationship during potential difficult years with my daughters. Maybe my openness as a mother might pave the way for future communication. Maybe there won't be the awkwardness that can accompany sentimentality, even among family members. And possibly, just possibly, my daughters will read the things I've written about them and see my humanity with a keener eye.

They might understand that I was once a little girl, that I liked to play with horses, and that I still feel scared sometimes. Maybe future connections can be made because of what I do today.

Leaving

The cousins from England have been here for a couple weeks sharing in late Christmas exchanges, trips to Disneyland and birthday celebrations. They are gone home now, on a flight headed east, away from the warm winds of California.

The leaving is the hardest when there are no trips planned, nothing to look ahead toward. There is nothing to point to to say, THEN, we will see you THEN. There is nothing tangible to place a finger upon. There isn't a future calendar box to hightlight, to circle to show to my six-year-old.

For her, in her six-year-young mind, all is lost. Her cousins are gone, and her aunt and uncle (with whom she has formed special bonds) and for her, it might as well be forever. We have no more trips planned to Europe any time soon and they are not sure when they'll be back to California.

For Naomi, she loves them NOW, but my heart aches because I know a toddler's memory is short. Even if we look at photos of her family, a first meeting sometime in the future will be unfamilliar and uneasy for her. She won't remember them well.

But they were here. And we rode the roller coasters and we went to the park. We had special lunches with just the girls and opened gifts that had been brought from 5000 miles in a suitcase. The adults shared a relaxing dinner by the ocean and we talked and forgot what time it was.

It will be difficult to convice my daughter (and myself) that they are never far away in our hearts.

Happy Six

Happy birthday, dearheart.

I want you to grow up to thrill the world with your laughter.

Use your deep eyes to see the good in others and your ears to hear through hurt to the real words being spoken. Use your hands to comfort others and do good work. Use your heart to love strongly and fiercely. Use your feet to run far and fast and use them also to stand firmly in true soil. Use your words to speak truth.

Learn and study and challenge. Grow and stretch and become stronger. Cry and laugh and think. Be soft, kind and loyal.

Let me guide you in the years you have under my roof. Let me help you make wise choices and learn difficult lessons. Let me walk with you.

Happy Six, Hope. I love you.

Mama

Haircut

My oldest daughter needs a haircut. When she was Naomi's age, her head was full of auburn curls that spun down to lighten at the tips. She has red and blonde and brown wound through the colors of her hair, and when she was a toddler, it curled into wild baby-ringlets.

Which is why I waited so long to get her hair trimmed. I never touched her hair with scissors until she was four (when we only trimmed off 1/2 of an inch). Both the baby curls and the color kept me from cutting it earlier. I was always frightened her curls would be lost forever.

Her hair is long now and thick and the weight of it pulls out any curls she might have. It is wavy and difficult to keep smooth with daily Kindergarten play and old-ponytails.

She's had a few trims since then, each haircut cutting off another inch of original baby-hair, but now bleached and brittle from the sun and last summer's chlorine and saltwater. So, now, 6 months after last August's trim, she needs a haircut. Her ends are dry, uneven and hard to comb.

Beginnings usually signify endings.

Her first hair trim was the last of her baby-curls; the ending of a soft toddler head of ringlets, with no need for conditioner. The beginning of a lifetime of haircuts is the ending of baby-hair.

The beginning of school is the end of lunches at the kitchen table.
The beginning of feeding a baby rice cereal is the ending of her complete dependence on her mother's body for her nutrition.
The first night in a big girl bed comes after the last night in a cozy crib.

The LAST of anything is difficult, especially when you know it the last time. It is almost easier when life turns its own page, and the next thing comes and is welcomed as new and refreshing. But when you are suddenly aware in a panicked way that your children are growing up and the LASTS are happening at lightening speed, it is overwhelming.

Last baby curls. Last ride on Small World. Last push in a stroller. The endings are hard. But the beginnings can be so sweet. First ride on a rollercoaster. First dance class. Sometimes it is time to get out the scissors, even up the breaking ends, and look toward what comes next.

Frog-Speak

The background music to my life now consists primarily of toddler chatterings of all things animal and alphabet related. She loves giraffes, the number "two", and princesses. She babbles endlessly in the car or in the market to herself, to me or to anyone who is lucky enough to pass by. She already engages in imaginative play alone or with her sister, using her mostly intelligible words in her pretending.

The most interesting thing about Naomi's jabber is that she often includes appropriate responses to things.

Hi, Hopey. (without skipping a beat or waiting for a response) ...Hi 'Oh-mee!

Thank you. Welcome.

Peease. Thank oooh.

Hiii (both hands waving), Byeee!

She chatters and talks and fills the silence with little words that are searching for a sentence. Sometimes it is too much for her older sister who asks her impolitely to PLEASE BE QUIET! But then, laughter always cracks the hard surface when the chatter is silly and nonsensical. Naomi says, One, Two, FROG!

I know she is practicing speech and word chunking, even when it isn't actually words spoken. She repeats words with different pronunciations to see what sounds the best and what is the easiest to say. She responds to herself, perhaps because she is rehearsing how language flows in conversation. Or maybe she responds to her own Hi with another Hi so that she can derive the joy from it... Or maybe she does it just because she likes to hear her own little mouth talk, because she can, and because in a toddler's world, this is a momentous accomplishment.

I've gotten used to the chatter. In fact, I am in love with the babble that escapes her lips when she isn't thinking...when she is just playing and talking and saying little things that only she can understand. This frog-speak is the soundtrack to my life.

Delicious

"It is a delicious thing to write, to be no longer yourself but to move in an entire universe of your own creating. Today, for instance...I rode in a forest on an autumn afternoon under the yellow leaves, and I was also the horses, the wind, the words my people uttered." Gustave Flaubert

So perfectly stated and poignant.

I often feel closer to the things I study when I write...the horses and the wind. The words of my children. I feel like I move within them.

But there is one fundamental difference: when I write, I am MORE myself than when I am not writing. I don't lose myself, I seem to find myself.

And it truly is delicious.

Soup

It is difficult to remember my older daughter, about 13 months old and on my hip, her in one arm and me making dinner with the other hand. I turn my body so that she is not near the stove.

She is just over a year and this is our other house - old enough in this memory to walk and play but tired enough at this time of day to want to be held from 4 to 6 in the afternoon. This memory is a little murky and I think it is a composite of many days glued together and becoming one in my mind.

The memory eludes me when I try to pin it down and I fear it is mixed in with my baby-mothering memories of my younger daughter. It was only five years ago that Hope was small, but mothering my toddler has replaced many of my earliest memories of my Kindergartener. Holding my youngest on my left hip, same bicep throbbing while I stir something on the stovetop, this is the sharper memory. This is the one that hasn't faded yet into an orange haze.

I don't want the memories of my babies to be stirred into the same recollection soup, but the older they get, the less distinct their beginnings are becoming.

I hope that my writing will bring into clarity my daughters' young lives and will help me remember. The giggles of a two-year-old will fade as things like soccer and college become a reality.

And in a strange, premature way, I look forward to grandmothering already. I see my mother as she nurtures my daughters. They are bringing to life in her the thirty-year-old memories she has of her own babies and my girls are having a part in this resurrection. I hope someday that when my children decide to have families, that I will be given the gift of becoming a nurturer again. Perhaps my own grandchildren will remind my that my girls used to be small and have tiny hands, that they used to get sleepy in the afternoon and need a nap, that I used to carry them on my hip even when my arm throbbed.

Maybe they will be able to help me distinguish perfect memories from the soup, from all the afternoons glued together. Maybe they will help me to remember the single, small moments I lose everyday.

Clean

Things are beginning again in a blank year.

It is empty, like a page in an unlined journal. White, like the open box of a new blog post. This year is clean; it is fresh like soft sweet-smelling cheek of my daughter, pale without the touch of sun.

It is a blank year.

Like a clean, smooth tablecloth, waiting for the china and crystal. Like a soft, wide bed with cool sheets ready to be piled high with quilts and blankets.

It is a quiet room before the orchestra begins. It is an open stage before the play. It is untouched landscape and virgin snowmelt.

This year is a freely written story.

Motivation and Marathons

A huge amount of what my children learn is by default.

I overheard my almost-six-year old last night upstairs with a horse each hand. The horses were talking to each other: I'm going to run a marathon. The other horse: Well, I run every day. She obviously was playing what she sees in this home.

I stopped. I thought. First of all, my upcoming race is only a HALF marathon. And secondly, I only run about 5 days a week, but I can see how a child can interpret that as every day. I really don't know what she is learning unintentionally by watching the exercise routines of her mother. I hope she is learning that a woman must take care of her body and try very hard to stay healthy. I hope, without pointed instruction, she sees a mother who is balanced in this approach.

To be quite honest, right now I am really bored with running. The precious time I have to devote to exercise is so limited and in order to be in the right shape to finish 13 miles without coughing up a lung, I have to run. I have to run or jog at least 5 days a week and I need to push myself.

So it seems like all I am doing is lacing up my shoes, walking out the front door and turning right at the end of the street to run, once again, up the hill. I'm tired. I want to ride a bike. I want to climb some stairs. I want to lift weights. Anything but run.

But I do. And last night when I heard Hope use my life in her imaginary world of unicorns who aparently run marathons, I felt something. Maybe it was happiness in knowing that she was proud of me and that she is learning something good by watching my actions. And maybe it was satisfaction that my running isn't just for my own fitness, but for that of my family. My life IS spilling over to her in good ways and sometimes I get to catch the glimpses.

Anniversary

Today is an anniversary for me.

It is not my birthday (I just had one). It is not my wedding anniversary (that is in June like most brides). It is not even the birthdays of either of my children.

It is an anniversary for me of decision, of turning. It is a day-marker of choice: the day I decided to leave the past where it was and move toward the bright future ahead. It is, four years ago, when I chose to love my husband with all of my heart, allowing my heart to be enlarged by the One who created it. It is my milestone.

Today marks the switch from many years of self-absorption, self-loathing coupled with a prideful heart and a haughty attitude to a heart that has been won over and over again by Someone who waited patiently for me.

So, today is my marker. It is the day I chose life over death. It is part of my story.

The Way Home

I remember falling asleep in the backseat of my parents' car when I was a little girl. On a long day trip or on the ride home from Disneyland, like most children, I would fall asleep. My feet throbbing from a day of walking and my brain spinning from hundreds of new memories, like most children, my eyes would close knowing that there was someone bigger and smarter driving me home.

That person would know right where to turn, what highway to get on and where to exit. He would know where our house was, and then pulling up to the curb, like a simple miracle, I would open my eyes and instantly be home.

I look at my oldest daughter in my own backseat, resting her head on her lap, waiting to fall asleep. Her own feet are throbbing, probably, and her mind is wheeling madly from a day of sights and people and tastes. She is thinking of horses and doll clothes and little cakes in the shape of hearts. She doesn't worry about the thickening traffic on the freeway under our car's tires; she doesn't worry about the darkening sky foretelling a storm. She closes her eyes, and to her, instantly she is home.

I think about her and then I wonder who gave me the car keys?

When did I become the bigger and smarter person who knew the way home?

I guess I am. I am the mother to whom Someone has entrusted two little lives. I am the 33-year-old woman who runs a home, drives a car and pays a Christian school tuition for my daughter. I am the one who, along with my husband, shoulders the cares and concerns of finances and relationships and meal-planning and child-raising. I am the one who has the car keys now. I guess I know the way home.

I don't remember when that happened. I still feel nineteen and wonder whose house it is when I walk in the door. Certainly not mine. Yet I know that these children, this home, my marriage - all of it- has been given to me. It is under my care and within my stewardship.

I know that for now, it is my responsibility to teach my daughters. It is my responsibility to hold back the cares of the world for them. Someday I will be able to hand them their own keys, when they are ready, knowing that I have taught them the way home.

Creating Space

Today I am dusting, mopping, clearing and organizing. I am in no way attempting all of my half-finished projects, but I am trying to clear space in our living areas.

I am putting into boxes, putting into garbage cans. I am clearing out old cupboards of toys and placing new ones carefully. I am sweeping Christmas-cookie-crumbs, I am wiping scone-baking counters, I am rearranging shelves. I am putting photos into frames with intention to hang before week's end, I am washing laundry and folding it; I am putting together toys.

I am creating space here in this home for the ones I love so dearly. I am trying to allow my girls open areas to dress-up and clomp in plastic-play-shoes across the tile. I want them to have the space, both in this house and in their hearts, to jump and skip and to play pretend-electric-guitars.

I know how easy and calm I feel when my own bedroom is clean; I just sleep better at night when the clutter is gone and the clothes are folded: when there is open space to live. I want to give that to my girls today - I want them to sleep in organized rooms and play in a living area that is clean and free.

I know I won't get it all done and most likely the playroom will be again in shambles tomorrow. But today, tonight, maybe we will sleep better knowing everything and everyone is in their right places under this roof.

Challenge

I adore surprises. I have always loved them: from my unexpected 16th birthday party so many years ago, to a surprise book of letters I received last week. I adore being surprised. Even if I know where a gift is, or if I happen to see a receipt, I will not read it. I want the surprise.

So, today, on the first day of a new year, you will not read any resolutions (although I do have a few), you will not read any recaps of 2007, and I surely won't be writing my expectations for the coming 12 months. Only a request. A challenge, maybe. Not for my readers, however, but I think for this year.

The coming year will have its own, new heartbreaks and laughter, unique only to it. This year will have it's milestones, birthdays, and anniversaries that only belong to this year alone. 2008 will be difficult and challenging, maybe like climbing a perpetual hill over rocks and boulders. 2008 will be freeing and open-ended and filled with new moments to write about. It will have vacations and trips and plane rides and long runs. This year will have new hurts and new things learned, some friendships will be born and some will die.

This year is unique. We will never live it again. Ever. It begins today and ends 1 year from now. My challenge to this year is: surprise me. I don't want to know what will happen tomorrow. That would ruin everything, wouldn't it? In books and films a character always wants to know the day and hour of his death, and then dreads it and focuses on it; tries to change it.

I want to live each day and drink in each moment with my daughters and husband as if it is both the first and last drink. I want to see things for what they are today and not what I carry over from the past. I want to be surprised by the joy I'll find in simple and quiet things, things that are invisible to others.

So, 2008, surprise me! Show me new and exciting things, but also help me to love the familiar and well-worn even more than I did the year before.