Unadulterated

Perhaps this fall season is more vivid and stunning than those past, or perhaps it is my child’s excitement that allows me to more rapidly recognize the beauty surrounding me.  

“Look at that red, Momma!” she points and calls from the back seat of the car, “It’s soooo pretty!” I can’t see her beautiful face, her nose and cheeks patterned with delicate little angel kisses, but I can hear the genuine excitement in her youthful voice.

Because I have been commanded to do so, I now call my own attention to the picturesque trees along the side of the road, changing colors and catching my daughter’s eye with sincere, unadulterated delight.

Unadulterated. Adjective. 1. Not diluted or made impure by adulterating.  2. Utter; absolute. 

Though the dictionary would provide a somewhat different definition, I consider that word now. Unadulterated. Un – adult: free of adult perspectives.  To see the world as we did when children. To recognize beauty and joy without the challenges and contests of adulthood.  To take authentic delight in daily occurrences.

We all need to more often be unadulterated – to remove the fouled filters of age and see the world through fresh, fledgling eyes.  To see that all the splendor and happiness in the entire world is evident in one single newly altered, radiant red leaf.  We allow beauty to fall before our very eyes and go unnoticed.  Worse yet, we complain about the cold weather to come or the chores to be done. We need to stop and watch the world with an unadulterated lens.  We need to smile and call out to others, “Look! Look at all the magnificence that surrounds you! Do you even see? Do you even realize?” 

Unadulterated.  To allow happiness into your life.  To examine the world with a vista of joy.  To truly live.

My Little Lucy Pevensie: A Celebration of International Children's Book Day

When I was young, my mother bought me a beautiful leather bound illustrated edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination.  I suppose such works might be considered rather dark for an eight-year-old girl, but I devoured and adored those tales.  It was probably this book, more than any other, which made me fall in love with the world of fiction and all its wonderment.  Actually, she bought this book for my brother, and gave me the Arabian Nights, but I preferred Poe, just as I too prefer to tell this story slant.  Regardless of who was truly the recipient of that book, it remains a treasure of mine, and now sits on my bookshelves. 

My brother and I were both avid readers in our youth, sharing all the childhood classics like J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis.  She also bought us annotated versions of classic tales such as Moby Dick, Treasure Island, A Tale of Two Cities, Pride and Prejudice, and the like.  It was a charming and appropriately age adapted collection that I was so sad to learn she had donated to Goodwill years ago.  I would have been positively delighted if my children were now able to read those very same editions.  Despite this one disappointment, I cannot possibly thank my mother enough for instilling a love of reading in me.

What was your favorite childhood book?

I believe it is incredibly important that we read to our children, and I have most certainly made this a priority in our household.  As today celebrates International Children’s Book Day, it is an appropriate occasion to reflect upon my own memories with the written word, as I now continue to build a strong adoration of literature in my own two children. 

Although she is only age three, I have already introduced Emily to Tolkien and Lewis.  She was a very attentive audience as I read The Hobbit aloud to her, asking quite insightful questions about the dragon, and continually requesting, “You let me see that map again, Momma,” turning to the front of the book and analyzing the illustrated cover pages, “So this where that dragon live, Momma?”  Only once did she bore of the story and wish to retire to bed early, stating, “No more this Bilbo story!” 

Currently, Emily and I have been reading The Chronicles of Narnia together.  We are on book five of the seven book series.  She will race into bed with me at night and ask, “Can we read some more about Shasta and the horsy, Momma?”  During books two and three, this question was, “Momma, you ready to read to me about Reepicheep?”  Her excitement and enthusiasm over these tales gives me immense delight.

Emily is my little Lucy Pevensie, with a heart and mind full of the wonder of youth and the wisdom of age.  She constantly amazes me, and I wish I could capture her innocent wonder and trust, just as C.S. Lewis captured the valiant traits of Lucy on the pages of his beloved fictional books.  

As you are likely aware, the world of Narnia was also captured on film with the 2005 release of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, starring Tilda Swinton.  It was this past weekend that I first viewed this film.  My parents had a copy of it among their DVDs and my daughter noticed it and requested to watch “the Aslan movie.”  The film has slightly more exposition than the novel, beginning with scenes of the Second World War, and the Blitz bombings which led to the children’s evacuation to the countryside.  As the scenes rolled across the television screen, Emily informed her grandfather, “Grandpa, I think this the wrong movie.  Where is the magic?  Where is Aslan?”  We told her to be patient, and her beloved Aslan did soon appear, much to her great excitement.  “It’s Aslan!” she squealed in delight, “There he is!”  When the youngest Pevensie first appeared on screen, she eagerly asked, “Is that Lucy?  Lucy is my favorite!” 

Lucy is my favorite too.

As the film closed and the credits began to roll, my daughter looked to my spouse to question, “That’s it, Daddy?  I don’t want this movie done.  Where is Reepicheep? I want to see Reepicheep!”  Reepicheep, the mighty mouse, does not appear until the tales of Prince Caspian in the second book of the series.  However, I found it extremely clever and so deeply endearing that my daughter remembered these characters and made such comments during the film.

While my daughter rules my world and melts my heart on the daily, I did not compose this post merely to brag about what a kick-ass mommy I am and what a “totes-adorb” toddler I have (she is so damn cute, though, you guys). I do not believe or mean to propose that she is a child genius or savant.  I do strongly believe, however, that reading has enhanced her imagination, her academic aptitude, and her whole life.  I know reading has imparted unto me such rich rewards.   A beautiful, bold imagination and a curious, sharp mind are not unattainable skills bestowed only upon the most genetically brilliant.  A child need only to be provided with the offering of reading and he or she can too possess a daring imagination and tireless thirst for knowledge.  Therefore, this post serves as a public service announcement requesting that all parents bequest onto their children the vision, creativity, and ingenuity that are yielded from a love of reading.

 

Go forth and read, my friends!

 

My Toddler has Mad Talent

In yesterday’s post, I listed off a number of responsibilities and difficulties I confronted last week.  In that list, I failed to mention that I have also been busy helping my three-year-old daughter compose and illustrate her own books.  Emily loves to tell stories, so we have been recording them and making them into small books for her friends and family.  She’s quite demanding with my time as I serve as her transcriptionist and illustrator.  Emily’s “published” books include such titles as “Puppy Time with Grandma” and “I Love My Daddy.”  Yesterday, we just finished a book she made for her cousin called “Dolphin Adventures with Emily and Paris.”  I record the contents of that book here: 

The proud author, Emily Jane

Once upon a time, Emily and Paris went to have many adventures today.  They went to see a dolphin at the swimming pool.

Emily and Paris played with the dolphin and swam with the dolphin.  They swam a lot and the dolphin was so big.

Emily and Paris met a baby dolphin and it was so cute.  Paris loves just dolphins, and puppies want to swim in the pool too.

Then the baby dolphin swam away.  A big eagle came by and troubled everybody in the whole water.  Another eagle hopped on the raft and drank from a teapot.  Then a bee buzzed by.

Emily and Paris call the dolphin back and it jumps.  Then a big lion comes by and stops everybody.  The lion says, “Stop! I need some teapots!”  But the lion leaves because that’s what I want.

Now there is just one dolphin and one puppy and the puppy sings, “I love my Mommy!” Paris chases the eagle and says, “Sing! Sing! Give me the teapot!”  So the eagle drops the teapot and goes away.

A whale comes by.  The whale played with Paris some more.  The whale had a magic cylinder and the train went by.  The puppy barked at the train.

Emily and Paris went home in the car.  Emily told Paris, “I had fun, my friend.”  Emily and Paris give each other hugs and hop around and that is the end.

Celebrated artwork "Eagle on Raft with Teapot" by Angela Ryan

I feel fairly certain that Emily will become an accomplished author far before I ever do.  At least I’ll have my kid to take care of me.  She can financially support me, change my diapers, wax my mustache, and refill my wineglass.  If I never succeed myself, I figure I’ll be set anyway given the talent of my offspring.  I would note that the only editorial assistance I gave Emily in creating the above story was to question, “And then what happened?” and comment “Do we really need to write about more teapots?  What’s the deal with teapots, kid?” 

Momma Dreams

I woke last night from another one of my nightmares.  I screamed so loudly that I woke my spouse and toddler daughter, who had once again made her way into our bed. My husband gently rubbed my back and reassured me I was safe.

 

My daughter then brought her tiny hand to my cheek and softly embraced me, stating, “It okay, Momma.  I had sweet dreams of kitties and puppies.”

 

As she regularly reports having such sweet dreams, her father asked, “Can you send Momma some of your sweet dreams?  Can she dream of kitties and puppies instead of the bad things?”

 

“No,” my daughter adamantly shook her head, “She no dream of kitties and puppies.  She has to have Momma dreams.”

 

“Momma dreams?” her father asked, “What do Mommas dream about?”

 

 

“Mommas need to dream about cooking and cleaning,” she merrily replied.  

 

While there was amusement in my daughter’s naïve response, those words also brought forth anger. This anger was not directed at my adorable, comforting child, but at our culture and my own role in our skewed society.  At only three years old, has my daughter already become conditioned to believe that women’s roles are as mothers only, to raise the children, cook the meals, and clean the home?  Does she believe she must spend the remainder of her life subservient and smiling?  Does she believe that she can be defined only in relation to a man?

 

If so, those are not my dreams for her.  In addition to those delightful dreams of soft, cuddly puppies that she currently reports, I have far superior, more significant dreams for my daughter.  I dream that my daughter may never find herself in so many of the unfortunate positions I have discovered myself in.

 

I dream that my daughter may never work in an environment where sexism is so commonplace that a complaint is scoffed at.  May she never sit in an employee lounge where copies of FHM and Maxim are spread across the tabletops, with the images of barely clad women smeared with greasy fingerprints.

 

I dream that my daughter will never be in an occupation where she works more skillfully and competently than her male coworker, yet earns $2.00 an hour less despite his lack of experience. 

 

I dream that my daughter will never date a man who requests she step on a scale to verify his belief that she isn’t trying hard enough to stay pretty for him.  I don’t want her to doubt her self-worth so greatly that she would remain in this relationship.  

 

I dream that my daughter may never believe that intelligence is shameful in women.  I never want to hear her say, “I didn’t want to do well on the test because my friends would just call me a geek for being too smart.”

 

My greatest aspiration for my daughter, though, is that she pursue her own dreams – whatever those may be, with disregard to common gender roles. Should she achieve her goals, I aspire to a world where she is respected and rewarded consistent to her male counterpart. I want her to know that some mommas may cook and clean, but they also do, build, think, teach, inspire, plan, shape, and lead.  My dream is that she believes in herself enough to recognize she can do any or all of these things. 

 

I know that my nighttime terrors may not vanish should these dreams be achieved.  However, such dreams would make growing up a girl less frightening for all young females.  So, have sweet dreams and big dreams, my bright, growing young woman.

 

 

 

 

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Potty Time with Trouble Kitty

I don’t feel like writing tonight, but I’m not depressed or uninspired.  In fact, I began two posts today.  So, I suppose it’s editing that I’m actually avoiding.  Besides, you’re probably all getting real sick of me with National Blog Post Month.  Therefore, I am instead choosing to post the Christmas letter I just transcribed for my two year old daughter.

 

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good girl all year.  I learned to go poop, and I sleep in my big girl bed. It’s right over there.  I got a blow up bed too.  I read books that are special to you.  I go to school and I play with my friends.  I been learning Christmas songs at school and all the puppies love to go see you.  I sing “Santa Coming to Town.”  I sing Frosty too, yeah.  Frosty is a snowman blub blub.  Santa bring me a kitty.  I will name my kitty Trouble Kitty.  I also want another kitty that I gotta name Charlie.  Can I get that Charlie now?  I want a castle and a camera.  Isaac is my little brother.  Please bring Isaac a choo-choo train.  I like Isaac because he loves puppy books.  Isaac drinks bottles.  Momma lives in my house and two one eight nine.  Two times.  What’s in this box, Momma? Momma, what in here?  There’s nothing in here.  I can’t see nothing in here, Momma.  Oh no.  Open this.  Open! Open! My favorite movie is Madagascar and my favorite book is a puzzle book.  Puzzle book, Momma.  I like to draw on there and Dora loves me.  I’m sitting in my home right now.  I’m sitting in my home.  Hi.  Daddy goes to work.  How does this box open, Momma? This making me crazy! Two, one, one, two.  Uhm … uhm … I need to go pee!

 

 

OKAY. END OF TRANSCRIPTION.  TO THE POTTY WE MUST GO!!

 

 

Trouble Kitty? Could be.

 

No More Writing in the Nude

I have been challenged to write today.  I have a handful of ideas scribbled down in a journal, but none of them are inspiring me at the moment.  I have very little energy, and just feel completely clouded in a heavy depression.

I’ve attempted to start a few projects around the home, but find myself getting distracted and pulled by a heavy desire to crawl back into bed. 

Often, when I ‘m feeling like this, I cope by retreating into the bathtub with a book.  I did just that today, but it didn’t relax or renew me as it normally did.  I wanted to transport myself onto the pages of the piece of fiction I held in my damp hands.  And when I let the water out of the tub, I somewhat wished I too could disappear down the drain. 

Despite such damning emotions, I still possess a determination to fully complete National Blog Post Month. I just need to know that I can do it, even when I’m in such a miserable state.  If I can do this, no matter how insignificant the success may seem, perhaps it’s demonstrative of all the other demons I can defeat and dreams I can achieve with a little will – and a whole lot of fight. 

So, I’m trying.  I sat down at my lap top immediately after getting out of the bath.  I quite literally mean immediately – anxious to accomplish something for fear of falling back into the bed and failing.  Because I felt such an urgent need to get something on the page and posted, I took a seat on my stool while wrapped in only a towel.  

I sat staring at a blank Word document for quite some time, then announcing to my husband, “I don’t know what to write.” 

 “Yep, I got nothing either,” he mumbled, as he remained slumped on the couch watching football.

When my daughter realized I was out of the tub, she happily announced, “Oh, my Mommy's up!” and stopped snuggling her father on the couch in order to approach me.   As she neared, she realized my lack of apparel.  She then stopped dead in her tracks, and yelled, “Aaah! Momma, you naked! You got to go get some clothes on!”

So, for today, I suppose I leave you with that, having so been instructed that next time I try to write I must be fully attired.  Hopefully, with clothing on, I’m also more inspired.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

I feel like a freak admitting this.  This revelation may be worse than my spilling secrets post, but it’s true.  Yes, I admit it: I am over 75% done with my holiday shopping, and the Christmas presents are already wrapped and hidden.  I must be a freak of nature.  However, there are no decorations up at my house as I do believe Thanksgiving deserves its own honor prior to tossing up the fir tree.  As I was wrapping gifts tonight, my daughter began to tell me what her closest family members want for Christmas.  So, family, here is your holiday wish list, according to Emily Jane:

Grandpa John  – You want a puppy.  This makes sense to me.  You already have three dogs, and are still showing my daughter adorable, heart-melting pictures of tea cup terriers and getting her all worked up about a new dog in the house.  Shit, Grandpa, you know we already had to replace two bedroom carpets with wood flooring due to the damn dachshund’s bad habits.  We can’t afford another puppy right now, so quit getting my girl worked up!

Grandma Cindy – You want a mirror.  I find this highly ironic given that you may be the least vain woman I know.  I mean, seriously Mom, it’s okay to buy yourself a new pair of jeans more than once every five years.  And you don’t have to wear jackets that the bartender at your local hang-out gave to you just because it sat in the Lost & Found for so damn long.  You are beautiful, Mom! Emily and I both see this. She must want you to see it too, thus a mirror is actually the perfect gift for you.

Grandpa Joe's Lamp -- with a Light Bulb Too!

Grandpa Joe – You want a lamp.  Yeah, I wish I had something clever or deeply moving to say about this, but sometimes my daughter is just a damn goofball.  I don’t get it.  In her generosity, however, she did say you could also have a light bulb in your stocking.

Grandma Terri – You want movies.  She knows you, Grandma.  This response made perfect sense to me as you often fall asleep in that old comfortable recliner of yours while watching movies.  Also, as you are always so kind and generous to us, you did just give us all about five different movies for a Halloween package. 

Little Brother Isaac – You want a choo-choo train.  I think this response is so sweet, and also demonstrates knowledge of her young sibling.  Isaac loves Thomas the Tank Engine, as does his big sister.  We were able to ride on Thomas the Tank Engine this summer, and the whole family had a wonderful time.  I think this is a thoughtful and endearing gift.

Mommy – I want a wheel. Yeah, WTF kid? Okay, you’re two years old, so not everything you say is going to make sense.  Actually, though, I’ve been reminding my husband lately to take my car in and get new tires before the severe winter weather strikes.  Perhaps this is just an example of how highly observant my little girl is.

Daddy – Daddy wants a chew bone.  Yeah, she’s a funny little girl. She knows she’s funny too.  She laughed her little butt off after announcing Daddy wanted a chew bone.  Apparently, my husband is a real dog (cheesy joke intended).

Emily – Emily said she wants a Dora the Explorer kitchen.  She already owns a Dora the Explorer kitchen.  I guess that’s a good deal for me, though.  I can just put a bow on that bitch and proclaim Merry Christmas.  Sure saves me some money this holiday season.

And a few other mentions …

Cousin Paris wants a telephone.

Aunt Kelly wants some new pants.

Uncle Jared wants some paintbrushes.

Uncle Josh wants a pen.

Uncle Pete wants wine.

Uncle Luke wants a hat.

Darcy, the dog, wants a new ball.

And Aunt Sandy wants a snowflake ornament.

 

Happy Early Holidays, all!

But ...

I sat in the ER with my two-year-old daughter awaiting the doctor’s arrival.  The nurse had just been in to do a basic check.  Emily had a fever of 102.5, even after fever reducer.  Her hair was matted to her head, clinging to her forehead due to her profuse sweating out of her fever.   Her eyes were red and glazed over.  Her skin was pale and blotchy. She lacked the same emanating beauty and happy enthusiasm that she usually possessed.  Despite her miserable state, she listened wonderfully to the nurse’s instructions, and interacted with grace and intelligence. 

The nurse was so impressed with her behavior that he commented, “She’s only two years old, right? Wow, she is really a bright little girl.  Whatever you’re doing with her, keep it up.  We need more smart young people in this world.”  I firmly agreed with him, and was very pleased with his abundant praise of my daughter and my parenting skills.  PS – We read … A LOT. 

Then the doctor arrived.  “Well, Miss Emily,” he announced, “You’re not feeling too well, are you?”  Emily slowly nodded her head, completely devoid of energy.  I held her tiny hand as he inspected her to confirm the source of her fever. 

“I’ve never met Emily before,” he then spoke to me, “But I’m assuming she usually looks a lot better than this.”

I nodded in agreement.  My daughter was indeed a special little beauty – bright smile, lovely blue eyes, and silken blonde hair.  She’s a gorgeous girl – my beautiful and intelligent young girl.

The doctor, like the nurse, also commented on Emily’s bright nature.  However, there was something in the way he delivered it that disturbed me.  “You may not look very good now Emily, but you sure are a smart girl.” 

BUT.  He said BUT.  He said BUT as though his compliment was some kind of condolence for her current lack of beauty.  It felt like those “but she has a real great personality” comments you make to your male friend when you’re trying to set him up with someone you know he won’t find physically attractive.  It was like being intelligent was runner-up to being beautiful. 

Doesn’t society prioritize women’s worth that way?  Was it really something I should be judging this man for?  It was a compliment of my daughter all the same.  Yet, his BUT reminded me that women are valued first for their bodies and brains only become valued, almost necessary, where beauty is lacked.

It was determined that Emily had an ear infection, and she was prescribed medication that will help her get better.  What prescription should we give to society to help us be better?  We need to stop placing so much emphasis on beauty and start prioritizing intelligence, imagination, and creativity in young girls.  One simple word spoken in a hospital room helped remind me of this, and I hope my words help to now remind each of you to make intellect the highest measure of a woman’s worth – and not simply a “but” behind attractiveness.



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Break-Down at Barnes & Noble

“We need to buy diapers,” I informed my spouse, “And Emily still needs pull-ups for overnights.”

“Alright, hmm…” he sighed and suggested, “Well, then let’s go to Wal-Mart.”

“Oh, honey, no,” I protested, “I am not in the mood for that today.  You know I’ll end up losing my shit with those people.”  You know the people I’m talking about – the people of Wal-Mart.  The thin, strung-out man who reeks of tobacco and is mumbling to himself in the cat food aisle.  The peculiarly cheerful middle-aged woman wearing a Looney Toons sweatshirt and still sporting the same hair style she had in 1983.  I had no patience for such people today.

Shuddering at the thought of shopping at Wal-Mart, I offered another suggestion, “Will you just go then?  You can drop Emily and me off at Barnes and Noble.”

“No, that won’t work,” he replied, “You don’t have a cell phone.”

“What does that matter?  I don’t need to call you.  Just come back to the bookstore when you’re done.”

He agreed, and I felt triumphant in the fact that he would be purchasing the diapers we desperately needed while I was joyfully allowed to browse the books I desired.

Emily and I first perused the bargain priced books, where she selected a large Doc McStuffins seek and find book.  She insisted on carrying it herself, even though it’s 14 X 10 size made it somewhat awkward and challenging for her small two-year-old frame.  “No, I do it myself, Momma,” she demanded, “Thank you. I love this book.” 

We then visited the children’s section, where she was allowed to make one more selection for herself.  She was now proudly carrying two books when we then went to the toy section.  I was behaving as such a good mother would, first attending to my child’s happiness before seeking out my own interests. 

She sat down on one of the plush children’s seats provided by the store and began paging through her brand-new books.  I scanned the near-by shelves while she read, eventually asking, “Okay, Emily, are you ready?  Momma wants to look at her books now.” 

“No, I just resting here,” she informed me. “I’m good here.” 

I gave her a bit more time, and then she finally agreed to look at the literature and fiction section with me.  I began walking, with her following slightly behind, a bit slowly as she still demanded the books remain in her arms as opposed to the basket. 

“Momma, wait,” she then yelled.  I turned around to find her running towards me, then tripping, her books falling from her arms and crashing to the floor, her shoe being flung off with the fall, and my young daughter now on the ground in tears.

I attended to her immediately, but I also had an immediate fear that everyone in the store was staring at me – the bad mom.   I wasn’t a bad mom simply because my daughter had fallen.  I was a bad mom because her lost shoe revealed that she was without socks in November – without socks because she had an earlier accident at lunch.  She had been in underwear for a little over a week, doing quite well, but of course she had pissed herself while we were away from home, and urinated so excessively that she soaked her socks.  This bad mom had failed to pack another pair in the diaper bag.  If a sockless, sobbing toddler were not proof enough I was a disaster mommy, what I then sniffed confirmed my current sense of failure.  Apparently, when Emily informed me she just wanted to rest, she was actually taking a bowel movement in the middle of Barnes and Noble.  I had forgot to pack socks in the diaper bag that morning, but what was worse is that I didn’t even have the diaper bag now as I left it with my spouse, not expecting to be separated that long, or for my daughter to have another accident. 

Upon getting her shoe back on and wiping the tears from her face, I promptly ushered her back to the toy section.  I sat her down next to the large Lego table and tried my best to keep her occupied and happy, desperately hoping that all other customers stay away as the smell of what sat in her pants only seemed to grow stronger with every panicked, passing second.

I started to talk rapidly and cheerily to disguise my own concerns. “Look, Emily, Momma’s making a house with the Legos.  Oh look, Momma’s making a garage now.  Should we make a dog house too? Yes, yes, let’s make a Lego dog house.  Won’t that be lovely?  Oh look, here’s a Hello Kitty doll. Let’s put Hello Kitty in the garage.  Hello Kitty is so happy in the garage.”   

I kept on maniacally rambling on, trying to ward off my own tears and pretend that my daughter didn’t reek of shit.  I imagined that another customer must most assuredly be spying on me from behind the display of thick David Shield’s Salinger biographies.   In my mind, social services had most assuredly already been contacted for the Mommy who was talking to herself when it was clear her daughter ought to be taken to the bathroom.  But, what was I to do with no wipes or panties?  And, damn, why wasn’t my husband here yet?  Where the fuck was he?  Did he get attacked at Wal-Mart by the mumbling man in the cat food aisle? Oh fuck. Fuck, she smells so damn bad.  Oh Christ, they’re going to quarantine the book store soon.  

I started crying then, no longer able to force back forthcoming tears.  “What’s the matter, Momma?” my daughter asked.  Something had to happen soon.  I decided to make a bold move and try to run toward the door.  No, I wasn’t abandoning my daughter.  I just had to check to see if my husband was waiting in the parking lot.  I couldn’t call him as I had no cell phone (although I had dismissed his earlier concern about this lack) and we hadn’t really been clear about the expectations for meeting one another. 

“Emily, Momma needs you to stay right here.  Stay right here, okay sweetheart?  Can you do that for Momma?”  She nodded yes, and I then told her, “If you get scared, I want you to yell ‘I need my Momma!’ really, really loud.  Okay?  Let’s practice.”

I don’t know why I had decided it was a wise idea to draw even more attention to myself, the hysterical mother whose daughter was emitting a royal stench from her underpants.  For whatever reason, though, I had her practice yelling.  She screamed, “I need my Momma!” and I told her it was a good job, also courteously nodding to the one woman who looked in our direction to ensure her my daughter had her Momma and all was seemingly fine.  She awkwardly smiled back at me, and I repeated to my daughter to remain at the Lego table.

I then dashed toward the door to see if my husband was waiting in the parking lot.  Just as I opened the door to scan for his presence outside, I saw him open the car door and approach the store.  I yelled, “I need you NOW!  Get the diaper bag!”  I then promptly returned to my daughter, who was thankfully obedient and undisturbed, still sitting aside the Lego table and smelling to high heavens.

My husband soon reached us with the diaper bag, and the day was saved.  I had avoided Wal-Mart for my fear of losing control, and yet it happened anyway in a store that I considered to be a safe haven.  All should have gone well in a place filled with my beloved books, but life is always full of little surprises.  Sometimes those surprises are regrettably located in your daughter’s underpants.

 

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As many of you are aware, I made an earlier resolution to read at least fifty books in 2013.  You can check out some of my recent reads and reviews here.  No new books were purchased for myself during this shopping trip.

 

 

I

A Flawed Understanding

I like to maintain that the reason I remain overweight is a service to my children, who like to rest their tiny little heads on Momma’s soft belly.  I was once told by my now nine-year-old niece that I make a better pillow than her own Mommy, so I guess I have that going for me. 

Last night, my two-year-old daughter was resting her sleepy head on my stomach when she asked, “Mommy, did I live in your belly?”

I most certainly did not expect my two-year-old to already have questions about the reproductive process, but I answered her none the less, “Yes you did, honey.  You lived in Mommy’s belly once.”

“Isaac too?” she then asked sweetly.  Yes, I confirmed, her younger brother had also lived inside Mommy’s belly.

“Can I go back in?” she asked.  I’m not precisely sure how such a process would happen, but I am certain it’s not a procedure I wish to explore the possibility of. 

“No, silly girl,” I told my daughter, who was smiling and giggling at me, “You’re too big now.”

“Oh, okay, I too big now,” she said, and gave me a hug before placing her hands on my belly and asking, “Well, what in there now?”

I’ve been mistaken as pregnant before, and it is never a fun occurrence.  This was just an innocent question and I’m sure she didn’t mean to imply anything, but I was still offended.  Apparently my stomach looked some kind of storage locker to my young daughter.

“Nothing,” I explained, “nothing’s in Mommy’s belly right now.” 

“Yeah, there’s something,” she disagreed with me.  “There’s a Jeep in your belly!”

A Jeep in my belly? What the fuck?  I’m overweight, it’s true, but I sure as hell hope it doesn’t look like I can transport fucking automobiles around in my muffin top.  Also, should I be concerned about the mental health of my daughter?  Do I need to contact some services? A Jeep in my belly?!?

I disguised these thoughts from my daughter, and then joked, “Well, won’t your Grandpa be so very happy to know I can now birth Jeeps.”  He often spends hours looking at Jeeps and SUVs on Craigslist, and now he needn’t spend the money as apparently he could expect a new off road vehicle in about three to nine months (my daughter didn’t clarify an expected due date, so I was unsure if I was in my first or third trimester).

“Yay! A Jeep!” she exclaimed, and bounced up and down on the bed.  “Let’s call Grandpa!” 

I did her bidding then and dialed the phone.  When my father picked up, she said, in her little pip-squeak voice, which can often be hard to understand over the phone, “Hi Grandpa! Momma got a Jeep in her belly!” 

“What? Huh?” he replied.

When I translated, and then explained the nature of her bizarre phone call, he said, “Hmmm. Okay. Well, you two are weirdoes.  See you later.” 

In addition to being a little weirdo, as so cited by her grandfather, I do believe my daughter also has a rather flawed understanding of human physiology.

As for me, I must now consider a name for my expectant Jeep.  I’m assuming that Jeeps are male by nature, so I’m considering Michael.  Any other suggestions for a boy’s name?  And, if you birth it yourself, do you think it’s moral to then sell your newborn automobile?  I could really use the money.  Hmmmm ….

Sing, Momma, Sing

I lay in my bed, ready for rest at the end of another day.  My daughter lies next to me in her striped cotton pajamas.  I look at her and immediately feel warm and whole.  I feel as though I could be stripped of my clothing and robbed of my possessions and yet I would be complete and joyous as long as I were still called mother.

She looks up at me with her beautiful blue eyes, so bright and radiant they are as welcome sunshine breaking through layers of thick, grey clouds.  She smiles the most tender, genuine smile; her upturned lips speak of love with no necessary vocal accompaniment.  All I need do is look at her to know I am adored and admired, and in my return gaze I know she is assured the same.  She knows, without any fancy words needing to traipse off my tongue, that she is safe and secure, and, above all, deeply loved.

She takes her tiny hand and places it in mine; the soft tips of her fingers gently stroke my palm while that wide smile of hers yet remains. It is an irrefutable truth to say I have never known love like this before.  Nothing in this world – not the gentle ocean breeze or a soft, amber sunset – compares with the love between mother and daughter.

Through the silence that now holds us together – two beings forever united though the umbilical cord has been broken – she softly speaks to me.  Her smile grows a little wider before she requests, “Sing, momma, sing.”

I know the song she is now requesting; I know exactly the tune she desires to hear.  Just as the depth of our love need not be vocalized to be acknowledged, I simply know the melody she now seeks. It is a familiar tune I have softly sung to her time and time again. I continue to hold her tiny hand quite appropriately as the lyrics fall from my lips: Your little hand’s wrapped around my finger, and it’s so quiet in the world tonight. This moment – her smile, her touch, her joy, her abundant love – is perfect, and I want to know if I can trap it.  Can I keep this moment forever? Can I somehow bring it to permanence and make it concrete?  I want to seal my daughter’s love in a jar with a heavy lid.  I want to place it on a high kitchen shelf to be brought down when she’s age fifteen and yells that she hates me because she has an earlier curfew than her best friend.

I know, however, that I will never be able to hold these precious moments down – pinning each smile like butterflies in a collection.  If I could, I would label her laughter, her songs, her happiness in this moment like monarchs and mourning cloaks.  As a substitute, I will collect these moments in my heart and hold them there forever, each memory remaining alive.  As I take a snapshot of her smile in my mind, I continue singing the tune I know my daughter yearns to hear: To you, everything’s funny – you got nothing to regret – I’d give all I have, honey, if you could stay like that.

I now come to the chorus and sing louder, feeling every single line and chord to my very core – truly sharing the lyricist’s desire.  Tiny tears form in the corners of my tired, smiling eyes. These tears appear every single time despite the frequency of such words being sung to my delighted daughter, who also seems to hear my heart beating with love as I string each word together in this beautiful and true tune.   

Oh darling, don't you ever grow up
Don't you ever grow up, just stay this little
Oh darling, don't you ever grow up
Don't you ever grow up, it could stay this simple
I won't let nobody hurt you, won't let no one break your heart
And no one will desert you
Just try to never grow up, never grow up

As I tunefully sing my daughter to sleep with such sweet words, I wish I could protect her as the lyrics promise.  However, my heart, which is exceedingly full of love for this beautiful gift of a girl, also aches with another knowing.  I know, despite my deepest desires, that she will grow up, she will be hurt, she will be deserted, and her heart will be broken.  I will never desert her, but I may even regrettably be the one to hurt her. 

For now, though, I wipe those future fears and worries away and hold on to this moment, hold on to my daughter’s hand, and hold on to her tiny body as she gently falls to sleep to this happy, hopeful harmony.  I will sing for you whenever you want, dear daughter, whether you be sweet, simple age two as you now are, or a troubled, angst-filled teen of fifteen.  I will sing for you at age twenty-two and I hope to sing to your daughter too.  I want you to sing for yourself when you are feeling sad and low, and hear my voice through a whisper even if we are miles apart. 

I know you will grow up dear daughter, but I never, ever want us to grow apart. So you now sleep as I dream of all the love you have brought to my life and lock this memory forever in my heart.  Just try to never lose this joy, never lose this joy.   You are loved.