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.

A new day

Today had some rough spots, or more accurately, one really big rough spot.

Peanut is in camp from 9 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. and while she LOVES it, it tires her out. Despite that, I promised Loaf we'd go to the playground this afternoon so around 4 p.m., I packed them up and off we went.

Big. Mistake. Kimberly.

Things got off on the wrong foot immediately when Peanut learned we were going to the "small" rather than the "big" park. She grumbled and complained, so I told her we'd go to the "big" park tomorrow, but that I'd already promised Loaf a visit to the "small" park today.

She whined all the way there - which was all of five minutes, but might as well have been five HOURS from my perspective. Whining is one of those things that drives me completely insane.

Things did not improve much when we got the park. She continued to whine. She refused to come to me. She stomped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest when I spoke to her. And worse of all, she was being mean to Loaf - chasing her and threatening to push her down. Now, I need to say, this is highly uncharacteristic of Peanut. She and Loaf usually play beautifully together, so I know she was acting out of pure exhaustion.

But regardless, we had to leave after only half an hour.

When we got home, I sent her straight to her room telling her to stay there until she was feeling more in control. She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. I started dinner and about 20 minutes later, she peeked her head out of her room - smiling. My usual good-natured Peanut was back.

After dinner, we sat on her bed reading from a vintage Sesame Street book. She leaned against me, hand resting lightly on my arm. I kissed the top of her head and watched as her eyelids drooped, then finally closed for good.

I lay her back gently on her pillow and brushed the hair off of her forehead. Her cheeks were pink and there was just a hint of a smile on her lips. She looked like an angel.

"Good night," I cooed to her. "Tomorrow we start fresh."

She sighed deeply-peacefully-in her sleep, as if to agree.

Tiny dancer

Sunday was the big day. Peanut's dance recital.

Despite concerns that she would do little more than stare at the ceiling, she did great. She knew all the steps and, most importantly, had the biggest, widest, most proud smile on her face the whole time she was on stage.





In my biased opinion, she was tutu cute (sorry, could not resist).

Believe

I don’t know where it came from but there it was – the small, red bud of a tulip popping up from a patch of pachysandra outside the kitchen.

I’ve never planted tulips and in all the years we’ve lived in this house, I’ve never seen one in the yard. I have to assume it’s always been there, but was probably eaten by deer or rabbit or some other critter every year past.

The girls noticed it immediately.

“Mommy! Look! Look!” Peanut exclaimed. “A tulip! Do you think Thumbelina is in there?”

I immediately opened my mouth to say no, of course not. But I caught myself and pulled the negativity back before it could spill out and spoil the spring morning.

“Maybe,” I said instead. “What do you think?”

“Oh yes! Yes! I’m sure of it,” she cried. “I just know it.”

“Thumbelina is in there, Mommy!” added Loaf definitively. “She is in dat tulip.”

I considered this as we drove off to school, not sure really what to think of it all.

Thumbelina? Tulips?

When I was pregnant, friends who were mothers tried to explain to me the unlimited love I would give and receive from my children. Sure, they talked about the frustrations, but also the joys – too many to count. Yes, they mentioned the horrible, gripping fear that would take over sometimes, but also the little moments that would be so full of love.

But no one really talked about the magic that would be reintroduced into my world. The typical stuff of course: A large man in a red suit who comes down the chimney to deliver gifts. Fairies. A giant rabbit delivering candy and hiding eggs. Leprechauns. Unicorns. Witches and wizards.

But there’s much more. Children find magic every single day.

A subway ride is captivating, bringing about sparkling eyes and lasting smiles.

Skyscrapers towering into the sky require stopping on the sidewalk and craning your neck waaaay back to try and see the top.

A drive over a bridge is an utterly fascinating experience.

Tadpoles in a pond are the most awesome things in the world.

A fistful of dandelions presented to you becomes a bouquet of the finest flowers.

A simple summer day becomes a grand vacation.

Tulips hold sleeping girls no bigger than my thumb.

They believe all of these things are equally wondrous. They see them all through a lens unjaded by time and adult cynicism. They are not yet world-weary. It is all new and enchanting.

They believe, simply, that the world is magic.

And when I am with them, so do I.

Sweet sleep

I woke last night with a soft weight on my chest. Thinking one of the cats had settled there for a snooze, I removed my hand from under the covers to stroke whichever feline was there. I was surprised to feel Loaf's wiry curls and the hard curve of her skull instead of a soft coat of fur.

I moved my hand along her body. She slept with her head on my chest and her body curled between me and Mark. She was on top of the covers. I shifted slightly and pulled the blanket over her body. She sighed deeply and coiled more tightly to me.

To the best of my knowledge, she's never slept like this before - head on my chest, squeezed against me like a big cat.

I lay there in the dark, arm around her, thinking how small and light she is. Running my hand along her back, I mentally measured her stem to stern, nose to toes. I listened to her breathing - deep and rhythmic. We have such a bond, she and I. She seeks me out day and night, rushing to press herself into me as much as possible.

I lay awake in the dark, my mind wandering around the details of my life, for a long time before sleep finally found me again.

Hours later, I woke to see Loaf's head on the pillow. At some point, she separated from me and once again we slept parallel - side by side. Then I felt her tiny hand resting on my forearm, still seeking the comfort of touch. I threw an arm over her and closed my eyes and this time fell instantly back into a deep sleep, equally comforted. Equally content.

* * * * *

Oh, and in case you were wondering where my annual Academy Awards fashion review is, I'm taking the year off.

To be honest, I just wasn't feeling it this year. It seemed every gown was just sort of "meh." Not great. Not awful. Not worth blogging about (because who wants to read review after review of, "It was fine, not great, not awful. Just fine.") And it didn't help that a slew of stars skipped the red carpet and slipped in the back door. (Seriously, what the hell? Hardly anyone cares about the awards - we want to see the fashion!) Hopefully next year we'll have more WOWS! and even more OMG, WHAT WAS SHE THINKINGS so that we can resume our usual snark.

What did you think? Anyone stand out (either good or bad) in your opinion?

Evidence of growth

Two years ago, I opened an envelope full my daughter's school pictures and was moved to tears.

Last week, I picked up two more envelopes - one for each daughter, and while the tears didn't flow this time around (I think I'm just more prepared for it now), the shock was still the same, especially when it comes to Peanut. She is transforming bit by bit into a bonafide Little Girl, slowly migrating away from her previous labels of "Baby," "Toddler," and "Preschooler."

And then there's Loaf. She is so petite, practically slight, and I can't help still think of her as my baby, but she's obviously growing, changing and maturing all the time. I know someday soon, before I can believe it, I'll open an envelope and there will be a tween looking back at me, followed soon thereafter by a teenager.

I dread it, and not simply because those years are virtually guaranteed to bring about eye-rolling, sighing and backtalking of epic proportions. I main reason I dread it is because I know the midday snuggles on the couch, the bedtime stories, the gigantic bear hugs around my neck, will be gone - found only in memory boxes and the dusty corners of my own brain. And, of course, envelopes of old pictures kept safely tucked away.

Peanut 3s:



Peanut 4s:



Peanut Pre-K:



Loaf 2s:



Loaf 3s:

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.

Reflections

This is the time of year when people focus on what they’ve done, what they want to do, what they should be doing and what they must do next.

Ruminations on the past, resolutions for the future. Meanwhile, the present is nearly forgotten.

It is so easy to get caught up the would haves, could haves and should haves, along with the “need to nexts,” the “I’d be happier if only I coulds,” and the “I wishes,” that appreciation for the here and now can be lost.

It seems like focusing on the present is a bit passé. Perhaps a quaint pastime lost in today’s hustle and bustle. There are certainly a fair number of people eager to put 2008 behind them, and many more eagerly looking forward to 2009.

But taking a moment to appreciate life’s gifts as they occur is simple, and worth it, for the world offers up a bounty of things to be thankful for every day.

They are found in the smallest of moments, the briefest of glimpses, the faintest of sounds and the most subtle of touches.

There is your child’s hand wrapped around your index finger as you navigate a busy parking lot. Or her crawling into your lap for a snuggle in the middle of the day.

There’s your lover’s hand on the small of your back, and a soft kiss by candlelight.

There’s the sparkle of bubbles filling the tub, followed by the smell of freshly scrubbed skin and strands of hair heavily scented with shampoo.

There is the purr of a cat.

The tingle of cold air on your face.

Sunlight in your child’s hair.

Fireflies in summer. The explosion of color in autumn. Moonlight on snow. The first flowers of spring. And the knowledge that as each season passes, the next brings completely routine, but wonderful, joys.

There is the smell of a meal cooking in your kitchen.

There is sun. And snow. And rain. And wind.

There is music and dance. And art – whatever that means to you.

Life is enjoyed in mushy, noisy kisses from three-year-olds and small arms wrapped tightly – so tightly - around your neck.

It is realized in meals shared with friends, or sometimes a peaceful meal alone. It is chocolate, and cheese, and fruit and wine.

Appreciation is found in the quiet moments (the rhythmic breathing next to you in bed) and the boisterous ones (a room full of laughing family the day after Christmas).

It is watching children play boisterously on the playground, and sitting by their bedside as they sleep in complete peace.

It is a heart beating. Lungs expanding and contracting. Eyes focusing. Ears pulling it all in. The brain piecing it all together.

It is the here. It is the now.

It is life and love and laughter.

It is real. So take it in. Grab it. Experience it.

Make that your resolution.

It’s the easiest one to keep.

The Gav girls' guide to holiday greatness

1. Pick out a tree



2. Then decorate it





3. Bake cookies





4. Then eat them





5. Visit Santa



6. Play in the snow



7. Build a snowman





8. Get dressed up



9. Snuggle up on the couch and read a book



10. Leave cookies for Santa



11. Wear warm jammies



12. Sit next to the tree and take it all in



13. Hug someone you love



Merry, merry Christmas, everyone!

A new day dawns (at dawn)

5:38 a.m.

Footsteps coming up the hall.

I roll over to face the doorway to my bedroom and Loaf appears there.

She wobbles over to the bed and climbs up next to me.

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer to the center of the bed.

We lie there – silent. My thoughts fade and I drift toward sleep again.

What seems like mere minutes later, she is on her knees, bouncing up and down near the pillow.

“Loaf,” I hiss. “It is still very early and I would like to sleep. If you want to, you can go down to your sister's room (she’s been up for at least 30 minutes) and play with her. But if you want to stay here, you have to lie down and be quiet.”

“OK, Mommy,” she says, flattening against the mattress and becoming still again.

Again, I drift.

Minutes later – or so it seems - she is jerking her head from side to side and neighing like a horse.

“LOAF!”

I repeat – more succinctly this time – my diatribe.

“Sorry, Mommy,” she says, rolling toward me. “I be quiet now.”

I am beyond irritated. I’ve been up late all weekend long and Just. Want. To. Sleep. I open my mouth to order her down the hall when she does it: She rolls over and plants a loud kiss on my cheek.

“Mommy, I love you sooooo much.”

My anger instantly melts away. I keep my eyes closed, but a huge smile crosses my face. I reach for her and pull her to me.

“I love you too,” I murmur.

We lounge like that, wrapped around each other, for a short while more. This time, when she starts flopping around, I open my eyes and ask if she’d like to get up and have breakfast. She throws her arms around my neck and happily declares, “Oh yes! I so hungry.”

It is 6:17 a.m. and I am up for the day. Exhausted, but happy. Sleep deprived, but so full of love I am practically floating.

And then there was silence

Soft skin. Deep breathes.
Chest rises and falls slowly.
Lashes curl. Cheeks rosy pink.
Hair falls gently into eyes.
Total, complete peace.

I think there may be nothing as beautiful as a sleeping child.*





*Especially if you are her parents. Shhhhhh.

Happiness is a box of old plastic horses

They have sat in a box for more than 20 years: a collection of vintage Breyer model horses.

Some of them are well over 30 years old - remnants of my girlhood love of horses. In the heyday of my horse infatuation, my bedroom shelves were filled with dozens of them. But over time there were casualties: broken legs and severed tails. I gave some away to friends and others to charity. Some time after I went away to college, my mom packed what was left into a box, which sat in the bedroom closet of my old house for several years. One day when I was home visiting, she handed the box over to me.

"Your horses," she said. "Do you want them or do you want me to get rid of them?"

I stared into the box. What was I supposed to do with them? I wasn't exactly going to display them in my apartment. And I didn't really think I wanted children. So why keep them? But as I picked through the box, examining them, memory after memory came back. The names I'd given them (Movie Star, Lightning, Princess, Faithful). The games I'd played with them. The hours I spent arranging and rearranging them in my room.

I decided to take them. I wasn't really sure why, but the box went into the trunk of my car and then straight into another closet. The box moved with me from one apartment to another and then finally to this house - the home where we started our family. With every move, I questioned my rationale for keeping them, but in the end could never quite bring myself to let them go.

Recently, my daughters - like many girls - have fallen head over heels in love with horses. They gallop around and whinny like horses, sleep with their horse-heads-on-a-stick and take their My Little Ponies into the bathtub with them. Watching them gallop around the kitchen today, I started thinking about my own long-ago love of horses and suddenly remembered the box in the attic.

In a flash, I was upstairs, looking for it. It took a little digging, but squealing, I found it and carried it down to the kitchen. The looks on my girls' faces - the pure, unfiltered joy - when I started stacking the horses on the table, along with the rush of hugs and "thank you Mommys!" made the many moves and years of storage unquestionably worthwhile.

Many years ago, I brought home a box of plastic horses wondering why I was saving them. Now I know.

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.

Things remembered

I wish I had a camera, I thought yesterday as I watched the girls run through the yard. Every now and then they’d come running back to me to check in, arms outstretched, Grand-Canyon wide smiles stretched across their face, the sun hitting their hair and lighting it up around their faces.

I’d lift them by the armpits one at a time and swing them around in a wide circle, their feet swinging straight out from my body, their squeals of joy mixing with my laughter.

Then I’d set them down again and off they’d go – galloping around the yard pretending to be horses playing in a vast apple orchard. A few minutes later they’d race back to me and we’d repeat the ritual of lift-spin-giggle again.

It was late in the day – after 6 p.m. and the sun was low in the sky casting long shadows across the yard, giving everything the hazy orange glow that only comes on summer afternoons.

I’d gone out for most of the afternoon – a brief Mommy hiatus taken at Mark’s insistence. I browsed through Barnes & Noble leafing through books and enjoying a few hours of quiet time.

Upon returning home, my daughters rushed out of the house, barefoot with flowery sundresses bouncing around their legs. I received a huge hug from both of them and then off they ran into the yard neighing like horses. The few hours out of the house did me a world of good. My mind clicked along, happy to have been away, but even happier to be home again with them.

I wish I had a camera, I thought again, watching them go. I wish I could freeze this moment, this gorgeous day on film to remember always.

Now I realize I’ll never forget it.

Nature's fireworks

There is a magic time of year here - a sweet spot at the end of June when thousands of flickering fireflies light up our yard. We have no street lights and our home is surrounded by dark woods on three sides. The lack of manmade light enhances that of the fireflies into something extraordinary and for several nights at the end of June, our yard is transformed into a light show unparalleled in beauty.

There is no way to describe it in a way that does it justice. Everywhere you look - up, down, left, right - your eyes are dazzled by hundreds of pops of bioluminescence that rival even the most elegant of Christmas displays. Last night in a fit of insomnia, I sat in the chair by my bedroom window and watched, transfixed, marveling the beauty before me.

This is the seventh year that I've lived here. The seventh year that I've seen this incredible spectacle and I've come to anticipate it, eagerly counting down the days starting in early spring when the show returns. This year, I was especially anxious to share it with the girls.



The fireflies are just about at their peak this week. Soon, they'll be gone, so tonight before bed, I took both girls by the hand and lead them out into the inky night. They are afraid of the dark and were skeptical, but I gently insisted. They gripped my hand tightly as we crossed the threshold, but within seconds all was forgotten.

Even in the dark I could see the wonder in their eyes. I could hear the awe in their voices as they oohed and aahed. They squeezed my hands tighter, not of fear but in fits of excited joy. They squealed and laughed and hopped with glee. We walked carefully through the yard. At one point, Peanut even forgot her fear and let go of my hand, chasing a nearby firefly through the grass.

They did not want to come in. They were hooked, mesmerized, fascinated, spellbound. "Five more minutes?" they begged.

When we got inside, they both wanted to leave their blinds open so they could stare out the window for a bit longer. How could I, the woman who sat in her own window gazing at the firefly dance just last night, refuse?

I'm not sure if we'll be in this house next summer. We constantly question if it's the right one for us, and there is always a chance that we'll move at some point. I only hope that where ever we end up, we can enjoy the same spectacle. If not, I won't be the only disappointed member of this household.

(Edit: I can't take credit for the picture. I've tried many times to photograph the fireflies in my yard, but clearly don't have the right photographic equipment or skills. This photo was taken by rougewriter3 and posted on Photobucket. There are others - go check them out!)

Memories in the making

As a young girl, some of my best summer memories were the simplest ones.

Playing ring-around-the-rosy





Lying in the grass





Spinning and spinning and spinning . . .







. . . until you fell over





Dancing with the sun on your shoulders







Running like the wind with nowhere to go



Getting the most out of life without even realizing you were doing it





Hope you get to enjoy some of these things this summer too!

Words alone

“The Berenstain Bears and Too Much Junk Food!”

That will go down as the first phrase Peanut read.

Yes, that’s right, read.

Last week before our trip to Massachusetts, I bought them each two new books to occupy them in the car. But they were angels the whole way up and the new books remained zipped in my bag. At my mom’s house on Friday, I found them there and dug them out.

“Here,” I said, handing them to Peanut. “Some new books for you. Give me two minutes and I’ll read them to you.”

Peanut sat on the couch studying the covers of each one. When I returned to the room she proudly held one up and said excitedly, “MOMMY! I know what the title is to this one: “The Berenstain Bears and Too Much Junk Food.”

While I am constantly impressed with her vocabulary and knew full well she was quickly catching on to spelling and reading random site words, this revelation shocked me. To the best of my knowledge, I’d never reviewed any of those words with her. Berenstain? Really?

“Have you read that book at school?” I asked somewhat skeptically.

“No, Mommy.”

“Have you ever seen that book before, anywhere?”

“No.”

“How did you know what it said then?”

“I just looked at the words. See?” And then she proceeded to sound out each one for me. She also proceeded to sound out the words on the covers of the next three books: The Little Lamb, What is a Princess? and The Monster at the End of this Book.

I’m amazed – constantly – by the strides my children make. Not because they’re so exceptional or amazing, but because it’s unfathomable to me that they were babies only yesterday.

Now, they read and count and know a bunch of Spanish words. They run and leap and tell jokes that make no sense, but that are hilarious to them. They laugh and defy and pretend. They imagine and worry and throw giant hugs around my neck. They love and cry and do cartwheels (sort of) in the grass.

Come to think of it, they are exceptional and amazing, at least to me. I can’t wait until they come home from school, so I can tell them that.

Reason 873 why I am blessed

From the Mother's Day Tea at Peanut's school.

Disclaimer: Sorry for the poor quality. This was taken with our regular digital camera and not a true video camera.