Twenty Minute Playmates

I think I am at the apex of my park decade.

I know its a fleeting thing: the simplicity of going to the park. As my summer has settled into the softness of what-do-you-want-to-do-today mornings and shed the hardness of the school year schedule, the spontaneity of taking my girls to the park seems like a viable morning activity.

Early, before the sun hits the high point in the sky and the air seems to stop, we went this morning. Even from 9 - 10 it still is warm enough for the sunscreen-sweat-dirt equation to matter. The girls play and run, sometimes together, sometimes splitting off when other kids come.

As I watch a group of girls just a couple years older than Hope, free from 3rd grade classrooms in their summer vacation, I realize that my park "career" will be coming to a close soon. For as long as I've been a mother, we've gone to the park, even simply to sit outside and enjoy the air. I might just be exactly halfway through a decade of park excursions. I really only have about 4 or 5 more good years before it becomes too boring or silly for my now-two-year-old.

They greet, create and leave behind 20 minute playmates. My girls might see them again, they probably won't. Hope whimpers a little as we head back to the car, picking a flower for her new "friend" and running back to give it to her. Hope says in youthful drama, "Don't lose it. I want you to remember me."

She won't. And Hope will forget her too. But friendships are forged quickly over monkey bars and slides.

I guess reaching the apex of something means that you are coming down the other side and looking toward what is ahead. I don't know yet what comes after parks. They are simple, easy and free. I'm not quite ready for complicated, even though I know it's fast approaching.

Undamaged Hearing

Sometimes I think I'm losing my hearing.

Like an old lady. Like a little girl who'd selectively like to hear things other than her mother's voice. Like I went to too many loud grunge metal shows during the spirit-filled hardcore stage in my life.

Yes, I really do think I experienced a little hearing loss from not wearing earplugs (I would have heard just fine through them) and standing too close to the speakers and the stage (it isn't as if I could have understood what they were saying anyway); and, maybe, just possibly, I got clocked in the side of the head being only one of a couple girls who would brave a mosh pit back in 1991.

Yikes, that got really personal really quick.

But even if my hearing is a little damaged (not so much that it impairs, but enough that sometimes I blame in on Chad and tell him he is mumbling), I seem to have perfect hearing when it comes to my kids.

I can hear a Cheerio drop on the kitchen tile from the third floor of my house. I can distinguish between a squeal of actual pain and the all too similar squeal of frustration from someone taking someone else's scooter in the back yard. I can hear a quiet "Mama" at 1 am from a little-girl bedroom down the hall.

And I can hear every single tiny cheese cracker tumble from the ziplock bag as Naomi turns it over in my (once-a-year) clean car.

And I can hear the pain in her voice when my six-year-old looks tells me about injured feelings. I can hear the hurt in her eyes. It's loud and distinct. I can distinguish the fatigue in my toddler and all she knows how to do at 7:30 at night after a big day is scream at me or her sister. I can hear her tell me she needs to sleep.

I hope that I will still be able to hear them as I grow older. I'll have to listen between the words and mumbles coming from teenaged-mouths someday. There will be much more important things to hear than a request for water in the middle of the night. I want to be there to hear the big things, with my hearing (hopefully) undamaged.

Honesty is Free, Even Though Gas Isn't

Mr. Rogers once said,

The greatest gift you ever give is your honest self.

I believe that. Honesty is easy and free but might be the most valuable thing on the planet. Like time, or integrity, or honor...it doesn't cost much to tell the truth. In this dipping economy, when the price of oil and corn and bread is skyrocketing and our homes are plummeting, something free is refreshing. Honesty.

How hard but how simple.

I had to be painfully honest this morning with an amazing friend. Not painful for her, but for me. The kind of honest that only left me out in the open, exposed and ready to be plundered. But she was beautiful about it and, she said, respects me more for my honesty.

I am hoping that this strengthened our friendship.

And when the price of gas reaches 10 dollars a gallon someday, at least there will still be a few cost-free things, like time and friendship and an "honest self."

Mr. Rogers is simply rewording an overused cliche, "The best things in life are free."

Recognition

Yesterday, Hope got an award.

At Vacation Bible School.

It teetered somewhere between the kind of awards they get in Kindergarten or on the U6 soccer team where everyone gets the same one. No one is singled out. It is the lauding of the mediocre. And between an award actually given for an accomplishment, a rising above the group for something well done.

She got an award for changing her attitude in a situation that wasn't going her way.

The women at my church who run the VBS have known Hope since she was an infant. They know her propensity for emotional outbursts and wily behavior. What Hope did yesterday was not above the norm for a 6 year old, but it was outside of the regular for her. They recognized this. And they awarded her for it.

Hope got a round of applause from the 70-odd people in the room and received a special science kit as a prize. She also got a dose of self-confidence from being singled out for doing a good job.

Recognition.

I think it is seeing someone how they want to be seen.

Hope has been working on her "attitude" for a long time. School, gymnastics, riding lessons - these are all hard work and we've all been trying to find ways to rein in her tendency to let a bad attitude take over. So for her to stop a bad reaction mid-stride is a big deal for her. She doesn't want to be known for having a bad attitude. She wants to be seen as agreeable and friendly.

Recognition is the acknowledgement of something in a person that they want to be known for.

Her award recognized (even if unintentional) all of Hope's hard work and tears over the last year. It might be just enough to push her over the edge of motivation.

I want to recognize the special and unique parts of the personalities of my girls, my husband and what they are trying to accomplish. I want to praise my toddler for staying in her bed during a nap and praise my older daughter for her good attitudes throughout the day. I want to recognize the busy day my husband must leave behind so that he can come home to eat dinner with us.

I want to identify in them the things they want to be known for. I want to really see them.

The Currency of a Two-Year-Old

She's broke.

She has no money at all. Given, she's only two-years-old, but in reality, a child owns nothing of her own.

All of her possessions are at the mercy of her parents: what she recieves, what is taken away for disciplinary measures, the amount of toys or clothes she keeps in her room. There is nothing she owns that hasn't gone through the filter of her parents' hands.

She doesn't make a salary. She doesn't accumulate social security. She's even too young to earn an allowance. She's plain broke.

Even if she had money, she has no means to buy anything. She's two. She can't drive a car to the store and purchase anything. She's too short to see the cash register.

And even though her father and I have created a bank account in her name that will slowly gain financial ground as she grows, she still doesn't own this either. I still hold all the rights to this money.

She's my little girl and has everything a baby could want: a bookshelf overflowing with books, a closet full of clothes and boxes of toys. She has a big girl bed and soft blankets and animals to greet her when she lays down to rest. But she has no money.

I watch her and realize that she does use currency. It just isn't in the form of U.S. dollars.

She grabs my leg and wants to be close when I am cooking. She rubs my arm when we read a book together. She kisses her sister goodnight even when her sister doesn't want a kiss from a slobbery toddler. She cuddles with her daddy before he gets out of bed in the morning. She hugs my shoulders and sighs with love for me. She uses her currency of affection for each one of us because that is the only thing she posesses.

She holds it well, using it when needed and withdrawing her affection when life doesn't seem to suit her. She screams, withholding her "money", when things don't go her way. She stops wailing, and pats-pats-pats my hand and laughs at a silly face I make.

And I've come to realize that her money, her affection, is most evident when her heart is closest to the surface. When she is waking up or falling asleep, when she's in desperate need of a return kiss for a boo-boo on her ankle - this is when she is the most affectionate. Her little toddler "money" is given freely, without worry that it will run out.

She really isn't broke. She's rich, actually, because her heart will continue to expand to carry the love she is learning to show.

Little-Girl Giver

Weeding. Purging. Downsizing. Filtering....

I have stuff. Lots of it. I often have a difficult time knowing what to get rid of and what to keep.

There are complete seminars on what to keep, what to file, what to shred, when to sell something, when to give it away, and I am sure an organizing company would have a blast in my garage.

But I am not talking about old mortgage bills.

What about watercolor paintings,
and dried up flowers picked from the garden;
the crayon scribbles of a 2 year old who is growing quicker than I can bear,
a little dress they both wore too briefly,
first attempts at name-writing,
Kindergarten awards and ribbons,
a sea shell chosen specially for me and presented with sandy fingers,
a world made of construction paper and tape,
and a play-dough horse.

I have piles and boxes of child-created treasures, and non-valuables that have become valuable because of the little-girl giver.

And I've only been a mother for six and a half years.

She runs up to me two days ago as we are packing up to leave from our vacation with a flower in her hand. She's picked it from the bed in front of the house we've made our home for a week. We might never come back here and here she is, this little-girl giver, with a piece of beauty in her hand for me. Her mother. She says something in her full-fledged, child-unfiltered emotion...

You are the best Mama in the world.

I still have this little beach bloom. It is shriveled and dead and it reminds me of the ocean, and my daughter and her open heart.

How long do I keep it before it is dust?

So many memories are tied to physical things, like newborn dresses and tiny shoes, and faded crayon drawings.

So how do I weed through it all, the piles of reminders of my babies, now so tall and big and summer-tanned. My memories fade so quickly and I forget so much.

I'll keep some of it, I imagine, and discard the rest. And someday, when these little-girl givers are women, I'll befriend them as adults and keep the baby-memories that are only mine.

Summer Learning

I am learning that my discipline (or laziness) as a mother profoundly affects my girls.

When I am having a productive day (i.e. clothes are getting folded and finding homes in drawers, dishes are clean and counters are wiped), my girls seem to be more relaxed in their play and they seem more willing to help in their daily chores.

When I am having a less disciplined day, it seems like all hope is lost for each of us. The girls argue over toys in a messy living room, they can't find the floors beneath the piles in their bedrooms and I am simply frustrated. I sit down and read a magazine. Or lock myself in the bathroom to escape the screaming.

Summer by nature breeds a lazier attitude. If it is difficult for me to be focused, I can hardly blame my six-year-old for not wanting to do her vacation workbooks.

I found a Kindergarten-First Grade bridge workbook divided into 8 weeks of activities. If she does two pages each day Monday through Friday, she will finish by the end of the summer. She also must write one sentence every day and learn two spelling words each week. But doing anything every day is difficult for even a mother.

How often do I want to put off unloading the dishwasher, or exercising when I am less than motivated? How often do I let papers pile at the edge of the kitchen, waiting for some child to run by quickly and knock them to the tile?

I've even given her a mid-book incentive as well as a end-of-book reward as well. She doesn't fight me when I ask her to do it; in fact, she is excited to complete something. But, I forget and then she has to make up 2 or 3 days worth of work that I have neglected to remind her to do.

At the age my kids are at, the responsibility falls only on me. I know that they will grow and take more and more ownership of their own work. But right now, any lack of discipline that I might have affects my girls.

I am learning to be consistent and understand (even at my late age of 33) that there are just some things that must be done each day. Make my bed so I don't go crazy. Do the dinner dishes. Run or workout so I don't lose my mind (is insanity a theme here?).

And even though I am so far less than perfect, I am trying to impart that to my girls. It doesn't always work. But I guess we are all learning. Even in the summer.

Last Night

It was one of those things that I hadn't realized that it was a last until a week after it a had happened. So I missed it. I didn't cherish it. I didn't mourn it.

You know, lasts. Some are welcomed (last diaper change, last jar of baby food). Some are regretted (last time I can pick her up, last push in the stroller, last moment of nursing a baby).

This one flew by me without me noticing.

Up until now Naomi has been in her baby crib. She hasn't attempted an escape yet even though she is able, and truly, it has been easier with her in a crib. When we left for vacation nearly 10 days ago, I brought a toddler cot for her. In a room that she shared with her big sister, she slept on this cot in a sleeping bag.

She was free! No crib bars. Nothing keeping her in or caged.

I was sure she'd get up in the middle of the night or have to be forced to take a nap during the day. Not at all. She took her naps willfully and went down most evenings without a peep.

Was it this easy? Transitioning her out of a crib?

Yesterday, when we got home, I begged my exhausted husband to assemble Hope's old toddler bed for Naomi. She'd been successfully out of a crib for over a week; I wasn't going to jump backwards and put her back in. By eight o'clock he had the little bed frame finished and her crib disassembled.

As I made up her "big girl bed", and Chad took the crib out of the room, I realized that I would never lay my baby down in her baby crib again. Never. She was done with the "babyness" of it and she was excited about being a big girl.

Her last night of sleeping safely cocooned in a crib was over and gone and I didn't even know it had happened. A week ago Friday, to be exact.

I was a little sad as I tucked her in, with a new pillow, and her quilts all around her. But she was happy. With the elation of her new bed, she seemed to have forgotten about her binkys as well. She didn't even call out for them last night. That might have been a last too.

She slept all night last night without getting up. And she took a nap this afternoon too. No crib. No binkys.

Maybe I should have been more aware of the lasts as they were happening. Right now her two-year-old life is full of both lasts and firsts. Its hard to keep track of them all.

Or maybe I should just keep pace with her and be as excited as she is about the firsts.

A Bug Flew Up My Nose

Bear with me. I am not Cindy Beall (thanks for upping the ante), or Mandy Thompson (the whiz at amateur film-crafting) or Annie Downs (the funniest girl I know..."I'm Dyin' Here!).

But I did try my first EVER video blog. My last day of vacation and my first video blog.

Watch for it...a bug really did fly up my nose on my first video blog.



Moss Landing from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.


Don't worry. There won't be many more of these. I am really not good at it. I am much better with a keyboard in front of me.

As you are watching this, I will be leaving the coast and driving down the middle of California. Through Salinas (can I get a shout-out for John Steinbeck), then Paso Robles (where I had the best dinner ever with my great friend Lisa), down through San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara and then on to the sprawling city we call home.

Swimming

I am not a born-swimmer. My husband is.

My earliest memories of swimming swirl around the trauma of being forced to jump off of the high dive in summer lessons. Its part of a recurring nightmare I have. I did learn how to swim, however.

Even though my husband really hasn't worked out since 2003, all he has to do is jump in a pool, and it all floats back to him. Like riding a bike. He can swim 20 laps, no labored breathing, perfect kick-turns, and longer arm strokes than you've ever seen. He's got the endurance of an albatross and he doesn't have to work at it.

I haven't swum for exercise in about 5 years (at which time I was going through a brief sprint-triathlon phase) and when I did, it took me several months to build up endurance. For a very short time, I was good (not great) at it, but after nearly drowning in a 1/4 mile swim at the top of a mini-tri at Hermosa Beach, I gave it up (think: murky freezing water, a hundred other people splashing and kicking and a medic on a jet-ski floating nearby so that no one REALLY drowned).

I run almost daily, but swimming is different. It takes vastly different muscle groups and....its just different. The breathing is different, the concentration is different, and the burning in my shoulders is much different. I'm not born for it.

There is a pool here in the condo complex that is heated to about 80 degrees (a must since most of the week the air has been in the 50s). Chad has been taking Hope swimming every morning that we have been here in Monterey. He came back the first day eyes gleaming and proclaiming how he'd begun to swim again. There was no one in the pool so he just did a few laps! His arms and shoulders were tight, but it felt good. He was going to do it again tomorrow.

And he did. Like I said, he hasn't worked out regularly for a long time, but he's swum laps in the pool every day this week. I'm proud of him.

Yesterday, when I decided to brave the pool with the rest of the group, I thought I might swim a few. How hard could it be? I run and lift weights a bit. I haven't been eating that well lately, but really? I could do this.

The form came back instantly, but the endurance didn't. By the end of lap no. 2, I was breathing heavy and my between-breath strokes were becoming more and more difficult. Two laps!! This isn't even a regulation pool with who-knows how many meters between edges. Regardless, I squeezed out 10 more laps with several breaks to catch my breath. I felt like I had just sprinted down the beach in a full-speed run.

I was adequately humbled and at the same time incredibly impressed with my swimmer-husband.

I did another 12 laps again this morning. Just 12. In a pool that isn't laned for lap-swimming, I had to dodge an obstacle course of 4 year olds with water-wings, my own goggle-faced daughter, and the elderly ladies who floated around the pool like buoyant grey-haired Tinkerbells around a fairy ring. Every time I turned around to do another lap, it seemed like everyone had switched places.

Even so, I finished. I wonder if I've gotten too used to running; if swimming once a week wouldn't do me some good.

I do know that I am impressed with my husband, with his ape-length arms built for a freestyle stroke. And I know that if he can work out in the pool (at our gym of course without the hazards of a community pool), then I can jump in once in awhile too.

Easy Joy

She finds simple joys in a wet, cold sand dollar in her hand. And in running (slap, slap, slap) down the morning, low-tide beach after her baby sister.

She splashes in shin-deep, icy water that makes her feet numb after a few minutes. She carries a bright green bucket, almost as neon as the algae that has washed up on the sand. They both squint in the new sun and squeal as the low waves rush at their knees.

She half fills her bucket with intact sand dollars and giant shells that haven't been broken by the surf. She carries them, up back and over the dune, to sit on the back porch facing the water.

Content, she hasn't asked about home, not even once. She hasn't asked about the cat, or about what waits for us when we drive back tomorrow.

This is the easy joy of being a child: being unencumbered by the whole big world; being able to focus on a single sand castle, running full speed slap-slap-slap down the sand, jumping in the waves and collecting shells on the morning beach.

Fire

I've watched the sun set for six evenings in a row.

Or the earth spin. However you want to describe it.

And last night, the simple act of the earth spinning set the sky and the sea on fire.

Beach Smell

I don't smell the beach anymore.

Even sitting down there on the sand I can't distinguish the scent of the sea from any other smell. It just all smells normal to me today.

Its like the wonderful biting scent of the inside of a coffee shop. I sit down to drink (a grande Americano with two Splenda) and after about 5 minutes, I can't smell the coffee anymore. I am used to it. I am inside the Starbucks and everything smells like it. My nose has become desensitized to the aroma of the espresso dust that lands on the floor.

It isn't like we've been here at the beach that long. We just got here on Saturday, but even so, I am already used to the scent of the air, the breezes, the cool, bright sun.

I'm used to it, but I don't want to be desensitized. I always want to be "sensitive" to the crashing of waves, the glittery white water and the joy of a found sand dollar.

I want to smell the beach.

Chad claims that I can't smell it because it is a clean beach, unlike some of the beaches near home. There isn't a lot of leftover seaweed or kelp on the sand or dead vegetation. The sand is gold and course, but clean and soft.

It is clean, but I think I am just becoming used to being here.

And even though I want to smell it, to be open to all that is the ocean, I think its okay that today, I am used to it. I'll be "at home" here until Sunday. Because then, all too soon, I'll have to pack up my car and drive almost 400 miles south again, to a hot, dry hill with a teeny-tiny view of the ocean 20 miles away.

But it's a hill I love and I can't wait to smell the sage when I get home.

Abandon

For a couple days, let's abandon our schedule.

Let's forget about bedtimes, and on-time naps. Let's not worry about if dinner is ready at 5:30; we'll just eat when we are hungry. We'll let the kids get up early, eager to start a new day and then let them fall asleep again for a short snooze at 9 am if they want.

Let's go to the pool even when the air is 25 degrees cooler than the water. Let's take three showers a day and let my hair product be the sea air. Let's kiss the kids more than they want and tickle them before lunch is even on the table.

Let's stay up way too late and watch the stars over the bay, more than we'll ever have at home. Let's discover the planets and constellations again each summer. Let's read a book when there are dinner dishes in the sink.

I want to take my example from my biggest girl who runs up the giant sand hill at the beach and throws her hands up in an I-did-it "ta daaa!" I want to watch my littlest as she plays outside at 7 in the morning, still in her fuzzy foot-pajamas, pedaling a found-tricycle around the patio. They embody abandon.

For a few days, I want to forget about the things I must do, and remember the things I like to do. I think I had almost forgotten.

Sand Dollars

Treasures.

I ran this morning. I took the road to its end and then I cut in across the dunes and ran back to the house along the sand. Not packed hard like a Florida beach, this sand is golden and soft and wet in the morning.

Sea shells. The broken halves of sand dollars and the empty skeletons of little crabs. The sea left its overnight litter for me in my path. Or treasures.

I stopped and picked up a few smooth shells for the girls and tried to put the halves of the broken sand dollars together. I wondered if overnight the tide brought the shells and sand dollars up and left them on the beach, floating in the dark and then landing in silence on land.

Or if the constant pounding of the waves on the sand and the high tide revealed the shells buried in the layers below my feet...

Did they float up softly and stop to rest, or were they exposed by the rough water. These treasures.

My heart and its buried sea shells and sand dollars. Does it take God's pounding of waves and high tides to reveal the treasures that he has buried deep inside of me? Maybe it is God's hard work in me that reveals the beauty that He has already created. Or is it His soft and gentle hand that brings to life new treasures and gifts every morning?

I don't know how shells find their way to the sand for my morning run. I don't know if they float up and rest on the shore, or if the waves wash the sand away to surface what lives below.

But I do know that it is both the hard waves of the Lord and his gentle gifts that make up who I am. He both pounds away the roughness in me and he lets sweet treasures float my way as well.

Settled

Settling.

It means the kitchen counter in this vacation house is now cluttered with bags of bagels and boxes of crackers and cereal. It means the girls' beds have been slept in and are unmade. Settling means toys litter the family room floor in front of the TV and kids have been on a NickJr binge because we don't have cable at home.

Settling means that my husband has begun to set down his computer and pick up a book. It means that new, temporary habits are being made already (Daddy, can we go to the pool again this morning??). It means that I feel comfortable knowing that a wide ocean lies behind me as I sit at the kitchen table writing.

Settled.

It is contentment with family. It is knowing that the sand dunes will still be there this afternoon and if we don't get to make a sandcastle this morning, we can later. Settled is quiet, inside my heart, and outside late at night when even the birds sleep. Settled is only hearing the rumble of the ocean.

(Thankfully the sun came out yesterday afternoon and we got a few misty hours of sunshine, and a blurry, hazy western sunset. It was worth it to brave the cold morning in order to experience the sharp, breezy Sunday afternoon. And, thankfully also, the Lakers won.)

Waiting for the Sun

The sun might never come out.

We've been here for 18 hours and haven't seen the sun once. It is day time and the sun is up somewhere high above the thick marine layer, and the pilots can see it. And inland only a few miles, no doubt, it is sunny this morning and people are enjoying a bright brunch at their favorite restaurant or driving to church. But here, on the coast, touching the dunes that touch the water, it is foggy, dreary and cold.

Downright cold.

But from where I sit right now I can see the deep waters of the bay swaying and I can see pelicans skimming the surface. Earlier I saw a group of lazy sea lions floating in the waves waiting for....

They didn't seem cold.

We knew it would be chilly. We have our sweatshirts and sweaters. We only brought minimal amounts of sunscreen and pool attire. And the cool air hasn't kept us inside. I've already been out for a (short) jog and the girls have already dug in the sand and made use of the enclosed outdoor patio we have. And then we come in. Our feet and hands (the coldest outside) warm immediately when we walk in the door. We brush off the sand and the kids play up and down the stairs, still exploring this house, and we feel cozy.

I am still going to wait for the sun. I know what this bay looks like with the summer or autumn sun on the water and it's beautiful. But even if the sun never shows up here (elsewhere, I am sure it is hot and steamy), I've already made a home here for the week and am content watching the sea lions in the fog.

Linda is a Star

If you want a glimpse of my friend Linda as the star and me and Hope as supporting actors in Annie's videos from her trip to visit us, click here and here.

Moonstone

We stopped for a leg stretch, but ended up searching for smooth stones on the beach and picking up bleached driftwood.

The girls ran far ahead and because the beach was close to empty, it was safe. We followed them holding their shoes for them as they wiggled their toes in the dark brown sand.

After 45 minutes, we tumbled back into the car, brushed off our feet from the beach and made our way north again.

On The Road

I never read Keroac's book. But I should. It was on the 12th grade optional reading list. But, really, who reads the "optional?"

Regardless, today my family and I are on the road. North. From Southern California.

We'll be passing LA, Ventura, Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo and environs, Big Sur, Carmel, and then Monterey.

Six plus hours in the car with two little girls sounds much better than 11 hours on a plane to London. I am thanking God that I am not packing for a plane trip. I have loaded up my trunk with everything we'll need for a week in a beach condo. I won't be using little quart sized ziplocs to meet the TSA regulations for sub-three-ounce bottles. Instead I will be taking an ice chest full of food, full sized shampoo bottles, a few suitcases, some sleeping bags, pillows, a few sand chairs, an umbrella, lots of books and crayons, both computers and hopefully the girls will still fit.

We plan to take it slow, stop a few times, maybe have lunch on a beach on the way up. Hopefully we will get there before dinner tonight. And hopefully,on the road today, between the whines and the arguments in the backseat, there will be new adventures to be found.

Drips

I'm sorry I yelled.

I'm sorry I allowed my adult-worries and fatigue and frustrations to spill out and puddle at your feet. They are my drips. I shouldn't make you stand in them.

I'm really sorry I yelled.

I am replaying your pained face in my mind. All is well between us now, but I hate it that I broke down and cried in frustration. You cried too. I think you felt responsible for my tears. They were all mine and had nothing to do with you.

I'm sorry I put my all my stress on your little shoulders. I am still learning.

I'm trying not to drip so much.

Worth Fighting For

Sometimes thing are really hard. They take time, tears and sometimes even money.

Like losing weight. Giving birth. Or making my girls listen to me. Keeping my laundry from piling up in my bedroom like a mini Tower of Pisa. Avoiding the billions of tiny toys that seem to gather in corners of my living room and send shooting pains and visions of curse words when I step on them in the dark. Like training to run a race.

Like marriage.

Hard does not make them wrong. Just worth fighting for.

Every once in awhile, something gets handed to me. Just set right in front of me ready for me to take. Like a reward. A blessing.

Do I deserve this? I look around to make sure it is really me and not someone else whose getting waved at from across the plaza. Behind me? No... I wave back...

I am thankful for beautiful ease in some new(ish) friendships. Not difficult, just simple like it was meant to be.

But if I ever needed to fight for them, I would.

Zenith

My biggest little girl isn't scared looking up at the giant Ferris wheel that towers over us.

She runs toward it and then waits patiently in line at the entrance. Even Annie and I joke about how we are usually scared of things like this, but this will be fun. Hey, who knows when she'll be in California again.

The three of us climb into our bucket and we start make the arc upward. Up and over the shopping mall. Up and over the freeways, and the hills and if it were clear we could see the ocean.

Annie and I are rethinking the whole-not-being-scared thing.

We stop at the zenith and wait as people pile into the cars at the bottom of the wheel. And we are stuck. Exposed, far above the frozen yogurt shop and the ATM machine and the ticket booth. And the people really do look like ants.

And Hope loves it. She plays scared for about 2 minutes and gives a silly frightened face for Annie's camera. But really, she is elated. Her hair blows a little in the wind and she smiles in the sun.

She is happy. And I am scared. I am more than 5 times her age and I hate Ferris wheels because of the stuck-time at the top. The exposure, the gentle swing as the wheel comes to a stop at the zenith really frightens me.

But my daughter is braver than me. She hasn't learned to be scared of life like I have. She hasn't been scarred by fear, the kind that freezes you to the back of the seat. At the top, she isn't still like I am. Instead, the top frees her.

I ask her to pose for me as I take a picture. Her smile is genuine and followed by a giggle. And it infects me with a little of her six-year-old freedom.

All Grown Up

Sometime between baby and now, she's learned to hold a pencil. I didn't teach her.

Somehow, she's gained the tolerance to sit in front of me so I can work her baby thick hair into a blonde french braid. Her face looks so much older when it's framed by a braid.

She's learned to make-believe and wear princess shoes to bed. She's gained an affection for ballet skirts and sunglasses. She puts her dolls to sleep in their cribs.

Somewhere, in the last two years, she's learned to run fast on little legs to catch her sister and pick up heavy grocery bags to help me after the market. She's learned to take her plate to the sink, sometimes spilling leftover dinner on the tile.

I know I'm losing the baby in her. It is something that can't be gripped by my two mama-hands. I think I began to lose it the moment she was born.

Preoccupied

Today I thought it was Friday.

I walked into the gym right before nine o'clock and noticed a class was beginning. I looked on the schedule board, assumed that it was Friday (I am not sure why) and looked for the 9am slot - the 24 SET class. Perfect. I joined the 15 or so other women in the aerobics room (in front of the fat mirror) and set up my "station." It was the wrong class. I had looked at the wrong day on the board. It wasn't SET, but a different (thankfully similar) class. My arms still feel like rubber.

They guy in the checkout line at Trader Joe's asked me how my weekend was. I told him that I was so crazy right now that it still felt like Friday to me. He looked at me through 22ish year old eyes with a hint of disgust no doubt wondering how boring my mom life must be that the whole weekend passed me by without remembering it.

I even forgot that I had planned a Monday running date with a friend (tentatively) but I never called her back. That would have been this morning. I remembered sometime around 10 am (four hours after we would have met).

I don't know what is on my mind that I forget about my friends and fail to realize that it is, in fact, Monday and not Friday.

Oh wait.

Kindergarten programs, dress rehearsals, activity days and awards ceremonies.

Getting ready to go on our trip on Saturday, and remembering to charge the DVD player, buy snacks and gather books and games for the car, and start to pack four people for a week away.

And, one of the my very best writer/ blogger friends is coming to visit and stay TODAY! So I am trying to erase evidences that my two year old rubs string cheese on the inside of her car window; I am sweeping for a second and third time because the breakfast eggs have hardened under the table and I am running after the kids and husband picking up dirty socks and food wrappers.

I guess I am a little preoccupied.

I have to figure out to live in Monday and not last Friday. Being preoccupied implies that there is something else taking over my now thoughts, that I can't rest in the Monday afternoon peace of a clean(ish) house and a toddler napping. It implies that I am thinking so intently (and worrying) about things that are going to be happening in the near future that I have forgotten to ask my daughter how her morning at school was. Preoccupation means that I am firing requests for household jobs at my husband like bullets rather than slow down and sit with him on the sofa.

Preoccupation, in this way, means that I am being selfish.

I realize now that it is Monday and that I am being a bit self-absorbed. Sorry, Hope. Sorry, Chad. Sorry, guy at Trader Joe's. I will try to be a little less preoccupied for the rest of the afternoon.

Can't Stop Laughing

Twelve years ago today I married this guy.

He's crazy and tells jokes at the most inopportune times. I tend toward the serious and he basically can't stop laughing. We are a perfect match. Any funny I have, I owe to him. He taught me how to tell a joke.

He's a forgiver and a hugger. In fact, he hugs the people who don't want to be hugged. He's 6'3" so you really can't do anything about it.

He's a teacher of men, a thinker and an amateur philosopher.

He makes me want to be a better mother and a thoughtful wife. He is a care-taker and a provider. He allows me to be home with the daughters he's given me.

Happy Anniversary, baby. I know that until the day we die, we won't stop laughing.

Flipflops and Applesauce

When I was in college, I met Lisa and Chrissie. Identical twins. Big reddish-brown curly hair. Both of them.

They took me into their "circle" right away. I ended up sharing a room with Lisa for two years which produced one of the closest friendships of my life.

However, Chrissie and I have always had a special relationship too.

I met her first, actually, in a tennis class. In my non-athletic, overweight university days, tennis (and golf - another blog post for sure) was one of the only P.E. classes I could get away with without looking like a total idiot.

After a semester of lobbing a tennis ball over the nets at the college courts (and getting yelled at by the masculine female tennis coach), we became friends. She knew I was looking for a roommate and her sister needed one. Thus my lifelong friendships with Lisa and Chrissie began. From the first time I met them, I have never gotten them mixed up. I get people who have no relationship with each other confused, but for some unknown reason, I have never mistaken one for the other.

To beat the housing system and secure a room in a newer dorm, we did a roommate flipflop. That in itself is a story that is much too long to share in a Saturday blog post, but I ended up temporarily living with Chrissie for two weeks until we could switch back.

For the next two years I lived with Lisa (my blogging inspiration) and next door to Chrissie. Within their friendship, I always felt accepted and loved and bonded.

Chrissie has a way of asking deep, perfect questions and is a truth-speaker. She is creative, beautiful and kind, and has had an exciting journey over the past year trying to adopt two amazing little girls, twins themselves!

She's been blogging about her adoption journey here, and has recently started a new blog about ideas for family togetherness called Flipflops and Applesauce.

Go visit her, you won't be disappointed!

Rise & Fall

Before I had my babies my life always rose and fell with they rhythm of the school year. I was a teacher. And before that, I was a student. I lived and breathed the September through June routine.

Then there were a few sweet years in between after I had my daughter. They were laced with morning naps and park picnics. My days were not at the mercy of the educational carousel.

And now, with Hope finishing Kindergarten, I find myself feeling the familiar ease of a school year ended. The happy and satisfied release of something done and something accomplished.

She, however, doesn't see it that way.

She sees it as a collection of "lasts." The last music class. The final birthday party. The last park day with her friends. The last time she will share a classroom with her little friend who will go to a new school in the fall.

Its hard to explain it to a six-year-old: that endings mean beginnings....that the last day of Kindergarten means the first day of summer. First grade in September will never come if she stays here in June. Her innocent nostalgia, however underdeveloped, is still strong and she is already missing the things that are fleeing.

As am I. I can't explain that I am beginning to miss the baby-ness of her hands as they get longer and her fingers begin to slender. I am missing the fact that next year I can't feed her lunch at the kitchen table; she will go to school until 3 in the afternoon. I am already missing her toothless smile as her grown-up teeth are taking over her face.

My nostalgia isn't naive and I know that once things pass, they usually don't return.

So today, I am fighting with missing the past and looking forward to the future. To their futures, full of soccer games and dance recitals and homework in the evening. To our future that will rise and fall with the school calendar for what seems like forever.

And even though it feels like a good thing, to move on, that is, I still often wish for easier days: the napping mornings and baby rice cereal days with nothing else on the daily schedule except for making sure the dishes get washed and the summer lemonade gets mixed.

A Jesus Sandwich

Not Chick-fil-A again....

Hope's dance class on Wednesdays runs until 5:30, so out of habit, the only time of the week my kids eat fast food is on Wednesday nights. After dance. In the car. So that by the time we get home, they've eaten and there is nothing to clean up (except perhaps rogue waffle fries that get wedged in Naomi's car seat).

I don't want chicken tonight. I want a cheeseburger.

Ungrateful, I know. However, in the need to assuage my feelings of nonhealthy-eating guilt I steer clear from McDonalds and head to Chick-fil-A (which only seems more healthy, but probably isn't.)

Me: We are going to Chick-fil-A. Please be grateful that I am getting you fast food.

Of course, then, there is an entire discussion devoted to what "fast food" actually means. She asks me for a cheeseburger after we have already pulled up to the drive-thru ordering window. I ask the high school girl behind the ordering booth to give me a few minutes. By this time, Hope is in a full whine about cheeseburgers after I've told her that Chick-fil-A has no burgers or beef of any kind. At all. Just chicken. She makes me ask the girl if they have cheeseburgers. So that I don't sound like a complete idiot underneath the ginormous sign that reads, EAT MORE CHICKEN, I say to her...

Me: My daughter wants me to ask you if you have cheeseburgers.

High school girl: No, but I can put cheese on a chicken sandwich.

In the back seat, Hope's eyes light up. We order the sandwich with the cheese. After paying at the next window, we pull away and Hope begins in on her sandwich. I'm relieved when she overflows with exaggerated complements,

This is the BEST sandwich I've ever had!

I'm so glad. She expounds with her mouth full of white bread and crispy goodness...

Mom, this sandwich is like my heart. With God, it tastes soooo good. Without God and Jesus, its like the chicken without the bread. It's not even a sandwich!

I'm laughing and my mind is bouncing full of ideas about a Jesus-sandwich and how he makes our hearts "taste" soooo good. Thanks, baby, for the dinnertime theology lesson.

Signs

Yesterday's checkout line at Target was taking far too long. Maybe it was a sign that I was spending far too much. Or trying to cram too many things into too short of a time. Either way, I was beginning to get stressed.

I was going to be late to pick up Hope from Kindergarten if the lady in front of me didn't hurry up. I didn't think it was possible to fill your cart fuller than I had (although I had the wiggly body of a two year old trying to climb out of my basket taking up half of the potential shopping space).

It was one of those "of course" mornings. If everything else was going badly, of course the checkout line would take forever. Of course a different woman who seemed like she spoke only another language other than English would cut in front of me in line because she only was purchasing one item. Of course Naomi would spill her popcorn all over the ground through the bottom of the shopping cart.

When I finally had my turn and I had signed over my firstborn's college tuition to Visa, I jogged (as much as I can pushing a full shopping cart) through the parking lot toward my car.

I pulled out my keys and hit the unlock button (about 3 times because for some reason it never works the first time). I pushed the cart a foot past the back end of my SUV and opened the hatchback trunk.

I stared. A pack and play, a green stroller, two cardboard boxes, a lunch pail and some Target bags, already stowed away. These are things I MIGHT have in my car, but not today. And I've never owned a green stroller.

I hear a woman's voice..."It's okay."

It's not my car.

My car is two spaces down. This is the make and model and same year as mine, but not mine. At all. Not with a green stroller and a woman trying to pull out of her parking space when some maniac mother is opening her trunk.

"I'm sorry"...stupidly. Now I am muttering to myself about how much of an idiot I am. I close her trunk and push my cart 20 feet further to my own car, already unlocked. I open my own trunk and trying to hide. I haven't been this embarrassed in a long time.

Of course I would open a stranger's car. While she was in it.

She was nice. I might have yelled if it had been me in the driver's seat.

Maybe this was a sign in itself. I should slow down, pay better attention and not open the trunks of strangers.

Known. Understood. Loved.

Knowing.

Sharing rooms and bathrooms and chocolate chip cookies, my sister and I had ample time to learn each other's quirks and successes. She knows me. Even now, where our lives have turned and sometimes twisted, she still knows me better than I am willing to admit. There is no better contentment than being known.

Understanding.

Sisters grow up with long skinny little-girl legs that walk and run beside one another in the park. They learn how to ride their bikes on the same sidewalks and skin their knees at the same time. Sometimes they don't have to talk to remember silly stories of daddys who tickle them or sad stories of pets who run away: these are a part of the family fabric, they are simply understood.

Loving.

In my family, we said "I love you." We hugged and created affection in the best ways possible: casual and easy, yet intended. But the sweetest of words were whispered in ears and written on handmade cards: "You are loved." As if almost stronger than "I love you", being "loved" implied a trait, a state of being, a way of life. And I know that by my sister, I am loved.

Lisa has allowed me to help design a June necklace. Visit Lisa's blog to purchase this tribute to sisters. Click here for her online store.

Quick Sleep

It is amazing how fast children can fall as