A day away

In just over one month, Loaf will be 6.

A few months after that, Peanut turns 8.

Six? Eight?

These ages, especially 8, are starting to resemble big-kid ages. Granted, it was a different world, but at 8 or 9, I was walking home – a full half mile – from the bus stop by myself. I wore a house key around my neck and unlocked the front door by myself and entered a home that would be empty for another two hours.

A very different world, indeed, but still . . . I did that when I was just a year or so older than Peanut.

My daughters are growing up at a remarkable rate. Their ages seem impossible because they were born, like, yesterday and there is just NO WAY they can be (almost) 6 and 8.

Yet they are.

The princess dresses go largely unworn these days, replaced by Harry Potter capes and magic wands. Picture books sit collecting dust in favor of chapter books.

* * *
Recently, a friend sent me a scanned picture of our preschool class – a group of four-year-olds dressed in their Sunday finest captured in black-and-white. I e-mailed it to my mom.

“I remember like yesterday,” she wrote back.

Yesterday.

I wonder if a mother’s yesterday ever gets any farther away. Not the actual yesterday – the one where you got up, made breakfast, went to work, etc., but the yesterday that exists forever in your mind recalling the day when you rocked a tiny child to sleep, stroking her hair and murmuring lullabies in her ear. The day you put your child in her best dress and sent her to school for a class picture.

I hope not, because facing these big-kid ages, followed by the tough middle and high school years, then college and finally, adulthood, seems a lot more palatable knowing I can always close my eyes and bring back the past – recalling those precious baby coos, feeling that soft hair under my fingertips and taking in that sweet baby smell.

Like yesterday.

Four years ago

The girls sitting in a pile of leaves in our yard in November 2006:



How time flies. Peanut was 3 and Loaf about 1.5. It doesn't seem possible that they were ever this little. And it doesn't seem possible that they can be as big, vocal, smart and funny as they are now. There are gifts every day. Find them. Grab them. Hold onto them tightly.

For my dad, my veteran. For all veterans.

I'm sad today.

I always called my father on Veteran's Day to say hi and tell him I was thinking of him.



Today there is no one to call.

The last few months have been a bit like a roller coaster ride. Waiting for his death to come (since we knew it was) was like that initial slow ride up to the top when you know that any second the bottom is going to drop out and you're going to start free-falling. Then of course, the week or two following his death: Lurching down, down, down . . . .

Since then, there have been ups and down - not as dramatic as the initial one, but enough sometimes to take my breath away.

Lately, it's been more steady and calm. Sometimes, I think the ride is ending, but then I realize it probably never does. Every now and then out of the blue, I drop again. It is shocking and cruel, but I've realized this is life after the death of a parent. You never quite get used to it.

Since I have no one to call in person, I will simply wish all the Veteran's out there - past and present - my gratitude. You have given so much.



We are thankful.

Raw

Three weeks (and a day).

For three weeks (and a day) I have been struggling with grief. Grief that still feels like a throbbing, open wound. Grief that stalks me.

I try to push it down and bury it, but it finds me. It sneaks up on me at unexpected moments, like the middle of spin class or during a phone call or right after a shower.

It follows me to work and rides with me in the car. It swooshes about my head while I swim. It wakes me in the middle of the night like the poke of cold fingers on my back.

He is gone. Remember? Did you do enough? Did you say it all? Did you?

I don’t think I did.

And that is what haunts me.

I have become adept at choking back tears, but sometimes they race out of control, like last night. Last night, I wept uncontrollably, face pressed against my husband’s chest, hands like claws clutching his shirt, eyes shut so tight in the dark in that when I finally opened them I was surprised to see moonlight streaming through the cracks between the curtains, lighting the contents of my bedroom in gentle contrast to my shaking sobs.

I thought it would get easier, and in some ways it has.

But in most it has not.

The world goes on.

Work makes demands. Huge ones.

Children need tending. Lots.

There is housework. And cooking.

Errands. Luncheons. Volunteer work.

Commitments of all kinds.

It all spins around me. Engulfing me.

I show up. I participate. I push through it because I have to. Because it is what's expected.

But under it all, I am turned inside out. Partly numb.

And partly raw.

Eulogy

One week ago today, my father died. Ever since I've been sitting at this computer watching my cursor flash on off on off off on off, unable to commit anything meaningful about his death to this blog.

My feelings about my father resemble a game of pick-up sticks: there are jaggedy, pointy things buried at the bottom of the pile and as soon as you disturb one, several others come unloose as well.

My father was a brave man. He was paralyzed in Vietnam at the age of 21 when a bullet tore through his left shoulder and exited via his spine. He spoke many times about the men he served with - men of grit and valor who sacrificed for their country and each other.

In the early years of my life, he was often depressed and bitter. I don't blame him for this. I cannot even begin to imagine how he felt losing use of his legs - and with that, the ability to dance, walk, run, jump and make love - at such a young age. He comforted himself with substances both legal and illegal. His choices weren't always the best, and they sometimes got him into trouble.

Worse than any of that, it was sometimes difficult to connect with a man whose body had been so unfairly broken – whose emotions and spirit had been turned inside out. Our relationship was complicated and not always easy.

But he was my father and I loved him. He was a man who chased me and a friend around the house in his wheelchair howling like a wolf. He taught me how to take pictures and develop them in the darkroom he had in his home. He visited Ireland and sent me postcards every other day detailing his adventures. He took me to see The Rolling Stones. Twice. He paid for my college education because he knew it was my ticket to a better life and I have always been so very grateful for that.

I know he loved me and I know he knows I loved him, but that does not make up for years of other things never said. Missed opportunities. Chances not taken. I am full of grief and regret this week, and probably will be for a long time.

On Friday, we held his funeral; a mass and burial with full military honors - taps, color guard, a 21-gun salute and a flag folding ceremony. I spoke at the mass, delivering a short eulogy at the end. It was a send off that I hope made him proud. I will leave you with those words:

* * *

I am a writer. I write to process, to record and to destress. My father was a writer too. I like to think that my love of writing is a gift from him, one of many he gave me throughout my life.

My father was a war veteran. A hero. He was a philosopher and an historian. He loved politics. He was an avid reader and a painter. He always had a good story to tell. He was a genealogist who researched our family tree back hundreds of years.

He also loved astronomy. With his telescope, he could identify all of the planets. When I was a young girl, he would wake me in the middle of the night sometimes so that he share an eclipse or meteor shower with me. I remember standing on the back step of our house in Clarksburg in my pajamas looking up at the sky with him one night as a comet blazed overhead.

“See Kim, see?” he said. “Isn’t that beautiful? You won’t see that again in your lifetime.”

I saw.

And even back then – at only about 7 years old - I knew why that moment was so spectacularly awesome in so many ways.

Thank you, Dad, for many, many things. You will be missed; you will be remembered. Because for the rest of my life, I will look up into the night sky and imagine you out there somewhere – chasing that comet.



Michael Gorman
1947 - 2010

Connected

It is early. I open one eye and squint at the clock.

6:38 a.m.

Loaf is nestled in the bed next to me breathing deeply.

For anyone keeping track, she is still not sleeping in her own bed.

This is just as much our fault as hers. We are too tired, some may even say lazy, to change the situation, so we live with it.

In the words of a parenting expert whose workshop I attended last fall, “Why make a bad situation worse?”

I close my eyes and try to grab just a few more minutes of sleep, but I already know it is a lost cause. My mind is racing with to-dos and plans. Still, I lie there. Enjoying the dark and the silence broken only by my sleeping daughter’s rhythmic breathing.

Minutes pass and Loaf begins to stir. She stretches and sighs. She turns over, then over again. She places her hand on my forearm and I turn toward her, placing my hand over hers.

I slowly open my eyes. We are face-to-face, inches apart. She is looking directly at me. I lift my hand in the air and she places hers against mine – palm to palm.

Bits of daylight are just beginning to stream through cracks in the curtains giving the room only the slightest hint of definition. Our hands look like silhouettes – black cut outs from a preschool art class – pressed against each other.

I fold my fingers on top of hers, then straighten them again. She moves her hand slightly so our fingers are staggered, then curls them around my hand, before returning to the flat palm-on-palm position.

We don’t speak.
We don’t even look at each other.
But we are undoubtedly, totally, connected.

You're my home*

When you look into my eyes
and you see the crazy gypsy in my soul
it always comes as a surprise
when I feel my withered roots begin to grow.



Well I never had a place
that I could call my very own
but that's all right my love
cuz you're my home.



When you touch my weary head
and you tell me everything will be all right.
You say, "Use my body for your bed
and my love will keep you warm throughout the night."



Well I'll never be a stranger
and I'll never be alone
wherever we're together
that's my home.


Home could be the Pennsylvania turnpike.
Indiana's early morning dew.
High up in the hills of California.
Home is just another word for you.



Well I never had a place that I could call my very own
but that's all right my love
cuz you're my home.



If I travel all my life
and I never get stop and settle down.
Long as I have you by my side
there's a roof above and good walls all around.
You're my castle, you're my cabin
and my instant pleasure dome.
I need you in my house
cuz you're my home.



Happy 10th Anniversary to my most awesome husband!

I am awed by the love we have - love that has carried us through two decades, two homes and two children. Love that is not always easy, but is always true and always present. Love that still takes my breath away, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. Love that seems as fresh and alive as it did on day one. Love that will be with us for many more years to come.

*And thanks to Billy Joel, for writing one of the most beautiful love songs ever.

Sentimental value

My daughter lost her second tooth today.

Last night while brushing her teeth, it hung at an odd angle - askew from the rest of her teeth - and I knew it would not be long. I told her, "You will lose that tooth before you go to school on Tuesday."

It fell out of her mouth - literally, with no effort from her - before breakfast this morning. She wrapped it carefully in a bright pink drawstring pouch and put it under her pillow, anxious for tonight's visit from The Tooth Fairy.

Tonight, I slipped my hand under her pillow, thankful that she sleeps like a log, and exchanged the tooth for a crisp dollar bill and a note reading, "Nice tooth! Keep brushing! Love, The Tooth Fairy." Then I retreated into the kitchen, tiny tooth in hand.

What now? I pondered.

I know from talking to my friends that there are some moms who are not so sentimental about these matters and who would have tossed the tooth into the garbage without another thought. But for better or worse, I have a hard time releasing "things" that mean something to me, or did at some point in my life. Just last night I poured through my attic in search of old college relics in preparation for an upcoming reunion and was shocked to find what I'd saved from elementary school, high school and college.

So I stood there in my kitchen rolling the small tooth in my palm, thinking.

Not so many years ago, she fought for that tooth. Always a slow teether, I recalled the weeks and weeks of drooling and chewing. The many nights of restless sleep. The cold washcloths and Ambesol given to her to bring relief until it finally broke the surface.

We stared in wonder and awe when this tooth - the bottom center, one of her two first - made its appearance. It transferred her smile from a gummy one to a toothed one. We marveled at this. Beamed about it. We ran our fingers over it's pearly top and cooed, "Such a big girl, you are."

It marked a new phase for her: More solid foods. Crawling. A sliver of independence.

When she lost her first tooth, I dropped it into a small plastic bag and placed it carefully in the back of my top drawer. It was, after all, her first lost tooth. A big one. No question there.

But does every tooth need to be saved? There is something a bit strange and perhaps even morbid, even for a sentimental sap like me, to keep a bag of teeth in my drawer for the next 18 years. I mean, to what end? To give them to her someday? I can just picture the look on her face.

"Um, gee, thanks? Mom?" followed by her promptly tossing them into the trash herself as soon as I'm out of sight.

Yet, I recall the day I found some of my own baby teeth wrapped in tissue in the back of my mom's jewelry box. I don't know how old I was, but when I found them I recall taking them out and rolling them between my fingers, fascinated by how small they were compared to my adult teeth.

I remember the mix of feelings. Horror: Oh. My. God. She saved . . . my teeth!? And love: But she saved them. Because they are mine. Because she is my mother and I'm her daughter and she wanted to hold onto them. Because she wanted to stay connected to them somehow. Because she loves me.

Even then, I was a sap.

Now, once again, this tooth and the change it brings to her smile marks a new phase: Kindergarten.

On Tuesday, she will get on a bus at the end of our driveway - alone - and go away from us to a new school with many corridors and big kids. It is a momentous step toward independence.

So with that in mind, I walked down the hall to my bedroom, and plunked this tooth, this symbol of babyhood, into the bag next to its twin. I do not know at what point I will stop saving them.

But not tonight.



Out of curiosity, what do YOU do with your children's lost teeth?

From 6 pounds to 6 years in about 66 seconds

My daughter turns 6 today. Despite me strictly forbidding her to do so, she growing up.

Fast.

* * *

It was only yesterday or so it seems, that you were born. A small, red wrinkled thing that cried a lot and never wanted to be put down.

The weeks after we first brought you home were difficult. I had read numerous baby-care books cover-to-cover but none had prepared me for the physical, mental and emotional toil known as motherhood.

The moment I laid eyes on you, I was completely in love. It was so overwhelming and unexpected. I never dreamed such a thing could be possible. Though I had loved, intensely, for many years, I had no idea my heart was capable of even more. So much more. Limitless, boundless love. Love that I know I would lay down my life to protect without a second thought.


August 17, 2003

I remember in the beginning counting your age first in days, then weeks, then eventually months. Even after your first birthday, you were “15-months-old” or “21-months-old.”


October 2004

Years didn’t really seem to matter. Years were a far-off milestone. Distant. Too far away to worry about.

Until you were two.

And then you started to do all kinds of amazing things: go down the slide all alone and go to school and get dressed by yourself.


February 2006

Years, oddly, seemed to pass even more rapidly than months. Suddenly, you were three.


July 2006

Then four.


September 2007

Now, six years later – you are so very, very different from that crying, red, wrinkled baby we brought home from the hospital. You are a girl who writes her name and reads. Who loves horses and dolls. Who plays nicely with your sister (most of the time). A girl who likes to help me weed the garden and can name most of the plants in it. A girl who knows what partially-hyrdogenated oil is and asks if something has trans fat in it before eating it.

You, my love, are a full-fledged big girl. You are:

A silly girl . . .


May 2008

A happy girl . . .


August 2009

A clever girl . . .


June 2009

A beauty . . .


August 2009

There are moments when I look at you and I still see the baby you were six years ago today. It is often a fleeting thing, like the flash of a firefly. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’ve seen it. Most times, I’ve probably only wished I did.

When I do, it is both a gift and a hardship: A gift to view such a clear path to the past. A hardship to know it is gone.

I need to remind myself that you still have a long way to go. Your small feet still slide and clunk around when you play dress up with my shoes. You still need to stand on a step stool to brush your teeth and you still have trouble buckling your own booster seat sometimes.

But soon, before I know it, six more years will have gone by and you’ll be 12, then 18, then 24. And while I have no doubt that each passing year will bring new joys and experiences to treasure, a piece of me will always long, always pine, always yearn for the baby you once were.

Just yesterday.


August 17, 2009

Happy birthday, baby girl!

Over the hills and far away

The plane rises off the runway and the ground rapidly falls away. I look out the window of the smallish, propeller plane bound for Buffalo and look down at urban New Jersey below me.

There’s the NJ Turnpike, and the “1 and 9.” I see the junkyards and the vast lots of now-empty shipping containers brought here from China.

Up, up we go until the cars below look like fleas racing on strands of black shoestring licorice.

My eyes move west – to the rural mountains that roll gently to the horizon. Somewhere out there is my home.

I think of my daughters, both so sad to see me leave – neither happy about the disruption in their weekly routine. I think of my husband and his soft kiss goodbye.

It is a short trip. I will be gone only about 56 hours.

Yet I already miss them.

I close my eyes and picture the girls. I see rosy cheeks and mile-long lashes. I think of their giggles and the silly jokes they tell that make no sense. I see them running toward me, arms outstretched, dresses bouncing around their knees, smiles across their faces.

I think of my husband’s thick hair and gray-blue eyes, his strong limbs and tender ways.

The plane has turned west – toward those mountains - and I sit forward in my seat, nose pressed against the plane’s tiny window trying to decipher any familiar landmark from the terrain below, but there is none.

Finally, I realize, we’ve been flying too long and are long past my hometown. I sit back and exhale.

Fifty-six hours. Or so.

I’m coming home. And I can’t wait.

I’m home now. I arrived Tuesday night to a cavalcade of hugs and kisses as if they were all trying to make up for all the missed ones while I was gone. I wrote this partly in the hotel but didn't get to finish it until just tonight. I've been busy catching up with my family, so forgive me for being offline these last few days.

And away she goes

"Mommy! Hang on to me! Don't let me go!"

Her voice shook and she grasped at me frantically, her little feet slipping in every direction on the rented ice skates I laced up just moments before. She looked like a cartoon character about to take off running.

I grasped her right hand tightly with my left. On the other side, I held firmly onto Loaf, who was struggling even harder to stay upright on the slick ice.

We inched along the edge of the rink, Peanut clinging to me and the wall for support, me serving as the anchor, the girls twisting and flopping and occasionally falling on either side of me. Every now and then I'd catch a glimpse of one of their faces - eyes wide, cheeks and noses pink from the cold, an expression mixed with wonder, fear and thrill.

I have no idea how long it took us to complete one loop around the rink - but it was a long time. Faster, more experienced skaters whizzed by us multiple times - boys in hockey skates, girls in skating skirts and almost every other child on the rink wearing a helmet (it never even occurred to me to bring their helmets; I haven't been in an ice rink for over 20 years and no one wore helmets then. Anyway . . . just one more reason why I won't get Mother of the Year again this year).

We moved slowly, me giving as much coaching as possible, trying to watch their feet, hold them up and not get pulled down myself. We finally reached the door from which we entered the ice and unanimously agreed to take a break. We sat on the bench and watched the other skaters circle for several minutes.

"See how they push with their skates?" I offered. "See how they go?"

Soon, they were both eager to give it another go. We stepped out onto the ice, me gripping them on either side.

"Let go, Mom," said Peanut. "I want to try it myself."

I hesitated.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes, let go, Mom."

Slowly - carefully - I loosened my grip. She wobbled - both arms sticking out searching for balance, helicoptering wildly. She nearly fell, but held herself upright. And then, she pushed. Just a small push - a step, really, but enough to propel her forward a few inches.

Loaf was still struggling horribly, so I held tightly to her, all the while keeping an eye on Peanut. I kept my left hand at the ready to catch her if she went down and every so often she did. But she recovered quickly - regaining her balance and restarting the slow shuffle that moved her along the rink's edge.

Then, something happened with Loaf. She turned suddenly and I lost my grip on her. She slid onto her side and lay there, unhurt, but looking up at me helplessly. Somewhat stunned, I pulled her back to her feet and brushed her off. By the time I looked up, Peanut was several feet ahead of us. Gliding forward a bit unsteadily, but nonetheless completely on her own. I watched the back of her pink coat moving farther away from me - her legs shaking like those of a newborn foal learning to stand for the first time - shaking and quivering with uncertainty, not yet knowing those legs were born to trot and pull and gallop.

It took my breath away, watching her like that. She turned just then and smiled at me, so very, very proud of herself, and something in my chest popped - a combination of delight and loss so sudden and strong it felt like an electric shock.

I grasped Loaf under her arms and held her in front of me, skating quickly to catch up with Peanut.

To catch up with her. The girl who couldn't even stand on this ice an hour ago.

We circled one more time - still slow, but a bit faster than our inaugural lap. Peanut on her own and Loaf and I following in tandem. Mother supporting the younger child, while the older gingerly, but assuredly, finds her own footing in this world.

And so it goes.

Heartbeat

Loaf is a big, open heart. Beating, beating, she is a constant barrage of “I love you’s” and hugs and kisses. She will grasp my face with both hands and place a loud, smacking kiss right on my lips. She will rush to me and grab hold, pulling me close and tight. She has a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Throughout the day, I am blessed with Loaf’s outpouring of affection. She rushes to me announcing she has “something special, just for you, Mom,” then gives me a giant bear hug.

“Don’t lose it,” she orders, and showing my hand clenched around an imaginary ball that I tuck against my heart, I promise not to.

Peanut is more reserved and contemplative. She snuggles only on her own terms. When she decides she needs it, usually at the end of the day when she’s most tired, she’ll curl against me like a giant kitten – feet tucked under her, head pressed against my chest, hands gently splayed across each shoulder. She brushes my hair from my face and whispers her affections in my ear.

“Just for you, Mommy,” she says. “Don’t tell anyone else.”

She resettles and I look down to see a satisfied Mona Lisa smile on her flawless face and know she is comforted.

In the course of my busy day, they are just moments on the clock. Mere things that happen in between checking e-mail and folding laundry.

In reality, they are so much more. They are what matters most. They are treasures in a day that could otherwise border on monotony. They pass in a heartbeat, but will sustain for a lifetime – a child-to-mother life support system.

Someday, when they have left our home and the hugs and kisses only come a few times a year, when the “I love you’s” are mostly heard on the phone, I will think back on them. I’ll remember a secret sweet nothing whispered in my ear as I lift that imaginary ball once again to my heart.

“Still here,” I will say.

Something borrowed

"Mommy, can I see your wedding dress?"

The question caught me by surprise. She never asked before.

Shrugging, I pulled the huge box that holds my wedding gown out from the bottom of Mark's closet. The box is crushed a bit at the top. I wondered if the dress inside was still in decent condition.

Carefully prying the lid off of it and gingerly removing the acid-free paper from the top, I turned the box toward her.

"Wow," she sighed, catching her breath. "It's beautiful."

She crouched down to get a closer look.

"You can't touch it," I told her.

"Why?"

"Well, you might have dirt or oils on your fingers that could stain it and someday maybe you or your sister will want to wear it for your own wedding, so I want to keep it in good shape."

She sat gazing at it for a few seconds.

"It has glitter," she remarked, referring to the beads on the bodice.

I studied the gown with her - remembering snippets of that wonderful day nearly 10 years ago and trying to wrap my head around the idea of either of my daughters someday being big enough to wear it, never mind old enough to marry.

What will they be like? I mused. I hope they are happy and free and loved and safe. I hope they are independent and strong and kind and wise and fulfilled.

She stood suddenly and hugged me hard around the neck. "I love you, Mommy. Thank you for showing that to me. Someday when I'm big I will wear it."

I don't know if either will ever want to wear it. It will be their choice. But I'm happy to save it for them. Just in case.

I carefully replaced the paper and the lid and returned the box to its spot in the closet where until yesterday it was nothing more but an old dress with some beautiful memories woven into its satin and lace. Now it is something more: Promises, hopes, wishes and dreams that I hold for my daughters - expectations made on borrowed time.

Topped off with a little glitter for good measure.

Gratitude

Today, in the midst of the hustle and bustle, the preparations, the cleaning, the cooking, the eating and the socializing, they came to me.

One rushes to me from the end of the hall – arms outstretched, a wide smile, feet racing, hair flying back from her face. I bend and scoop her up and up, tossing and catching her. I bring her close to me. She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes. I walk with her and she whispers in my ear. She pats my cheek with her hand, then plants a smooshy kiss on my cheek.

The other stands before me, arms reaching up. Enormous eyes and an air of desperation. She says nothing, but stands before me – a ballerina balancing on her toes. Her expression pleads, “pick me up, pick me up,” so I do and I sway with her on my hip. She rests her head on my shoulder. I hold her close.

Similar scenes repeat throughout the day. One races to me and curls into my lap while I sit at the table. The other takes my hand and places it, gently, against her cheek, looking up at me with pure adoration.

My God, I am so blessed. So loved. So thankful.

Spellbound

I sit on her bed with her. She is nuzzled against me – back pressed against my ribs. My arm wraps around her, holding a book in front of us. Her tiny hand rests on my forearm. I read the words to her bedtime story. Glancing at her profile, I can see her eyelids growing heavy, each blink slowing to half time.

At the end of the story, I close the book and place a kiss on top of her head.

“Time for bed,” I say, and she turns away from me and places her head on her pillow.

“You get your book?” she asks, her code for “stay with me until I fall asleep.”

I tell her I left my book in the car, but that I’ll sit with her until she falls asleep. She wraps her petite fingers around my index finger and pulls it close to her face. Before closing her eyes, she looks into mine and flashes me a huge ear-to-ear smile, clearly thrilled to have me close to her.

My heart soars.

“Good night, Mama,” she says, closing her eyes and stroking her cheek with my finger.

Within minutes, she is asleep. Her chest rises and falls softly.

There is nothing keeping me here in this room now. I could get up any time. Work that I have to do beckons from the other room. There are still dishes to do, a blog post to write, my lunch to make. E-mails to return. Toys to pick up.

But I sit – transfixed – at the edge of her bed. There is no sound other than the slow rhythm of her breathing.

There is only her. And me.

I study her features. The endless lashes. The pink flush of her cheeks. The curls. Her rosebud lips. The blue web of veins that run under porcelain skin. The tiny fingernails. Each part is so miniscule, so perfect.

I continue to sit and watch. Spellbound. Amazed by how someone so small could cause such huge, endless love. And so, so thankful to be the recipient of it.

Under each other's skin

Tonight while trying to wrestle Loaf’s feet into her shoes, she sat in my lap kicking and flailing, alternating between going boneless and twisting her body into knots – making a simple task incredibly challenging. She did not want to put them on - did not want to go, and she was letting me know in every way possible. Suddenly, she lifted her body up, turned her head toward mine and placed her lips on my cheek. I thought she was going to kiss me, or maybe even lick me dog- or cat-like, but instead, she bit me.

Not hard. Her teeth barely closed on the soft of my cheek before I reacted – swatting her face away with my hand. It was completely involuntary – a reaction to the sensation of teeth closing on sensitive skin - but I hit her (lightly) on the face.

I also let out a pretty loud yelp. The combination of the swat and the yelp startled her and finally she sat still in my lap while I put her shoes on all the while lecturing her about why we Do. Not. Bite. Ever.

But she didn’t cry. Not even a tear.

Until I roughly stood her up on her own feet and stood up myself. Meanwhile, Mark, standing nearby admonished her, “you really should apologize to Mommy right now.”

And the combination of that, along with my abrupt abandonment, did it. She dissolved into a fit of deep, sobbing tears. Her whole body shook with sadness.

“I’m s-s-s-soooo so-wwww-yyy, M-M-Mommy. S-s-s-sooooo sowwwwwy.”

It struck me then that the act of pushing her way – of physically rejecting her - had been far more upsetting to her than my swatting and scolding her.

Loaf is much more physical than Peanut. She longs for closeness and human contact, particularly from me. She’ll sometimes follow me around the house like a lost puppy dog and “help” me clean or fold laundry. She sits on my lap and hugs my leg and asks to be carried or picked up even if we’re just moving to the next room.

Before bed, she wraps her tiny arms around my neck and squeezes tightly before begging me not to go, to stay, to get my book and sit in her room and read until she’s asleep. Then, sometime in the night, she’ll crawl into our bed and snuggle close to me, burrowing her head against my shoulder.

I have a confession.

I don’t really mind any of this.

I love both my daughters with such intensity it causes me to ache physically from the inside out.

But Loaf. I can’t explain it. She is wrapped extra tightly around my core. She’s woven a little more deeply into my soul. Maybe because she’s my last baby? Her milestones trail Peanuts by a couple of years, and I know that once they pass there won’t be any more first steps or first words or first days of preschool.

It took about .0003 seconds of her standing before me weeping and apologizing before I scooped her into my arms and stroked her face and told her it was OK. She clung desperately to my shirt, sobbing, while I rubbed her back and whispered assurances in her ear that Mommy was mad, but despite that, I still love her so very much and always will.

My heart broke listening to her sobs. I wrapped my arms around her and we squeezed each other tightly. Mother and child. The 3-year-old and the 39-year-old. Both taking away a deeper understanding of love thanks to the other. Neither wanting to let go of the lessons of the day.

To have and to hold

I’ve always been a big fan of weddings. The promise of true love, the vows of faith and devotion, always strike a chord with me.

I have shed more than my share of sentimental tears at weddings all over the country.

This weekend we went to a lovely wedding – beautiful bride, happy groom. A perfect fall day. A breathtaking setting on the Long Island Sound in Connecticut. We sat at our table adorned with fall flowers and painted pumpkins watching the bride and groom glide across the floor to a Michael Bouble song. They looked into each other’s eyes and a hitch caught in my throat.

As the song ended and they parted, the DJ announced that the bride would now dance with her father.

As I watched this man (who I’d never met), take his daughter (who I’d also not yet met) into his arms, my body froze. I turned to Mark.

That will be you someday.

He nodded, silently.

I turned back, watching them. Studying the emotion on the father’s face – a mix of joy and pride rimmed with the sad acceptance that his Little Girl had officially slipped away and had somehow been replaced by this Woman in a white wedding gown. His inability to comprehend that just yesterday this Woman with flowing waves and a sparkly tiara was a curly-haired toddler snuggled in his lap in her footie pajamas was as plain as day.

I had to fight to keep the tears from pouring down my face. I certainly couldn’t look at Mark and after a few seconds, couldn’t look at the figures on the dance floor.

Instead I stared up at the ceiling – trying to avoid the glimpse of our future spinning gracefully on the dance floor a few feet in front of us. It’s a happy future, no doubt, but one that I know will be here all too quickly.

Everyday blessings

This afternoon I sat in the house clicking away on my laptop working. A client document. Due tomorrow.

My fingers fly over the keyboard. I am lost in my thoughts. The house is silent.

My girls are outside playing in the yard on the first rain-free day we’ve had since the middle of last week. I am grateful for the silence. I need to focus. I need them to entertain themselves for a while.

Every so often I get up and peek out the window. The yard is fenced and private, but I need to make sure they are safe, happy and unhurt. They are playing in the front. They are happy and engaged.

I return to my seat, relieved that I have a few more minutes to focus on my work.

The next time I check, they’re no longer in the front. I step outside and walk down the path that runs along the front of the house. When I reach the driveway, I spy them. They are in the far end of the yard, near the barn.

They are holding hands and running. They are barefoot – galloping in unison through the grass. Their dresses swirl around their legs. Their hair flies back from their faces. They stop by the pond, momentarily pause, then spin and run back toward the house.

Now that they face me, I can see they are smiling – huge smiles that force their eyes wide. I watch. I feel the sudden sting of tears in my eyes.

I look at my daughters in their (unplanned) coordinated purple and fuschia dresses, running in the grass and laughing and my heart swells with love, family and grace. I thank God silently for the gifts I have, the joy I feel. The incredible life I’ve been granted.

The love I feel watching them is palatable – physical. I can taste it on my lips and feel it in my chest. It courses through my blood, tingles the nerves in my arms. My chest is heavy with it - a block of wood.

I could cry with it. Or laugh maniacally with it. Or both.

It fills me head to toe. I watch them – my children. My life. The love I have for them fills me head to toe. I feel it swell from top to bottom. My heart feels like it could burst. Never did I ever dream of a love like this.

I look up at the steel gray sky and whisper a prayer of thanks. For this moment. This day. This life.

I take a deep breath. A tear rolls down my cheek. I exhale.

And then I run to them.

Warts and all

Sitting on the coffee table, I face both my daughters, who are plopped haphazardly on the couch.

"I love you," I say, voice trembling. "I love you both so much. No one in this world is as important to me as you two are."

Earlier, we had a run of bad behavior, lying and talking back (them), along with yelling and screaming (me). It was late and I was tired and they were in the tub. While I walked down the hall to get Peanut's nightgown, they managed to throw what looked like eight gallons of water onto the bathroom floor. I stepped back into the room and slipped, ramming my shin - hard - against the vanity.

"What the . . . ?" I asked, rubbing my leg and looking around to assess the scene. Sudsy water - a lot of it - everywhere. Water dripping down the walls. Towels soaked. Bath mat saturated. Loaf's jammies sopping. Her clean bedtime pull-up plump with water and ruined.

I was gone less than 30 seconds.

"How did this happen?" I asked incredulously.

"Loaf did it," Peanut shrieked with a wise-ass grin on her face.

"No it was Peanut," said her sister, unable to hold back a giggle.

"Someone is lying," I said, feeling the anger swell inside me. They both looked at me, smirking. Their unmitigated joy over being naughty - knowingly and willingly breaking the "no water outside the tub rule" - fueled the fire.

"YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?"

From there, things quickly went downhill. I will spare you the messy details, but suffice it to say in the end, Loaf was wailing that I'd "hurt her feelings," and Peanut said I was mean and she wanted to send me "to charity to someone who doesn't have a mom."

And I? Was feeling like total, complete, utter crapola.

I so rarely lose my cool, but when I do, it can get ugly. And sometimes, acting like a screaming banshee might be warranted, but for this? Water on the bathroom floor? Come on, Kimberly, get a grip.

::Sigh::

After five years, why is this stuff still so hard sometimes?

Later, after all the water had been mopped and the toys in the bedrooms picked up (by all three of us), I sat them on the couch. The calm had been restored, sheepish guilt beginning its slow march on my soul.

"I know you're sorry for throwing all that water, and I'm sorry I got so mad. I overreacted," I began. They sat watching me with their huge eyes. "You know, even when I'm angry, I still love you. I love you both so much."

We ended with hugs and kisses and promises to be better to each other in the future. I will certainly try to hold up my end of the bargain.

Lost in a storm

Watching my children grow is an ongoing contradiction where perceptions shift suddenly and endlessly like sand in a windstorm.

At times, they seem incredibly small. When Loaf undresses, I study the delicate curve of her shoulders, the way her back feeds into a tiny waistline. Her face still holds a measure of babyness; her round cheeks fold around rosebud lips.

Peanut is bigger, but not by much. Her legs get more coltish by the month, but she stands at roughly half my height. Her voice is soft and pure, sometimes barely audible above the whir of the engine in the truck.

They are both small, delicately boned and at times seem achingly vulnerable.

I watched them today in the pool at the YMCA – their last swimming lesson of the summer. Loaf is easily the smallest child taking lessons in the Monday-Wednesday 3:30 timeslot. She dogpaddles (sort of) around the pool with just her nose and eyes visible above the glassy surface. If the instructor were to let her go, she would sink to the bottom – no part of her visible in the four-foot water even if she stood straight and tall.

Peanut clung to her instructor as she moved her out to a five-foot depth – not confident enough to let go and try swimming – really swimming - on her own. I could hear her pleading, “Don’t let me go! Don’t let me go!”

They are so tiny, I thought watching them in the Y’s enormous pool – two teeny fish in a very big pond.

Less than an hour later, my perception shifted.

We left the Y and went to a local playground – one Mark has taken them to, but I’ve not. They love this park with its castle theme. They head straight for the side of the playground labeled “Designed for 5 to 12 year-olds. Play with caution.”

And within minutes they are climbing up rock walls to landings high above my head. They scale a fake boulder then fearlessly leap off to the ground below – even sticking the landing.

Most remarkable of all, they slide down a tall “fireman’s pole.” The entry point requires a daring step off the platform of at least a foot. There is a moment – a long moment – when they are suspended in space with one hand clutching the pole, the toes of one foot wrapped around it, while the other two remain planted safely on the platform. In that moment, I stand below, breathless, arms stretched high, face turned up, wondering if I could really catch them if they slip.

And then they go for it – a fantastic leap that results in both hands grasping the pole, each foot twisting around it - and down they come, slowly at first and then gaining momentum and speed. I finally exhale when both their feet meet the ground again.

My God, I think. Look at all they can do. Look at how big and brave they are.

And so it goes as I navigate their childhood. At times their growth catches me off guard. One moment, they are pushing me away with a firm declaration of, ”I can do myself!”

The next they rush toward me, arms outstretched, fearful and small, needing to be lifted up and comforted.

The constant shifting from independence to reliance leaves me breathless. The continual change keeps me on edge – standing motionless in the midst of a twisting storm, never knowing what’s next. Never quite finding solid ground of my own.