Birthday, Take 2

So this post being the actual account of the party itself. I was fully prepared, table set, doing great at 3 in the afternoon. I had a few calls from a mom who had decided to keep her twins home because they were running fevers (the entire class had coughs and runny noses, but fevers are the maternal line in the sand - you can't in good conscience send your child to an event with a fever. You can't be "that mom"). She told me they had gone from "Party party party!" to glassy-eyed and passed-out asleep in a matter of hours. I had another call asking for directions since her kids had "played the invitation to death" (they were tiny toadstools). It was 3:45 and I was searching the house high and low for my husband. I even looked in the garage. Lilah was trailing behind me saying, "Mama. Mama. Mother. Mother. MOTHER!" I spun around.

"What?!"
"Daddy isn't here."
"Of course he is."
"No he isn't. He went with Rob to buy beer." I stared at her, probably mouth gaping. "To drink." No words. "At my party." I was going to kill him. Brutally. I called him to confirm that Lilah had gotten it wrong.
"It wasn't supposed to take very long! Rob is taking forever!" I unleashed a barrage of words and hung up. There were people knocking at my door. Lilah took my hand in her small one.
"Why are you taking yoga breaths, Mama?" I smiled at her and slowed my breathing to a pace that wouldn't lead me to hyperventilate.

Dano got home mere moments before anyone arrived and helped me take coats and boots and hand out wings and hats to the merry partygoers. The children were led to the snack table where they cast cursory glances about the items, poked at the hard boiled eggs I had painstakingly fashioned into owls ("Hey look! Egg-monsters!") and dumped out the one toy box I had left out for that very purpose.

One little winged girl stayed with me at the craft table to make a birdhouse. We had 9 little houses painted with green chalkboard paint and piles of moss, river rocks, ribbons, and leaves to decorate their fairy houses to take home.

The fathers accompanying their children had faces that went from (what I perceived to be) mild dejection at spending a Sunday afternoon at a 4 year old's party to surprised delight when handed a beer and ushered to a table heavy-laden with snacks. I did have to shoo the birthday girl away from the bowl of tortilla chips after I caught her dipping them in hummus, taking a bite, and replacing the chip in the bowl. The kids tore up to Lilah's room where they saw the corner "Forest area" and immediately pounced. I almost stopped them. Lilah had been so enchanted with it when I set it up that she had just wanted to sit there in silent awe. These kids were armed with fairy wings and gnome hats and had been escorted into a corner of Wonderland. They were taking full advantage. They clambered for turns to sit on the mushroom under the foliage. They lined up preschool-style and each had an apparent internal clock that began ticking once the small bottom of the child ahead of them touched the toadstool and was up approximately 60 seconds afterwards. Then the next in line announced that it was their turn. The carefully laid out fabric strips were soon cast aside. They devised an assembly line that took the need for an adult completely out of the picture. With 4 bodies and one step-stool, they could scale the mushroom, wriggle about, and then leap off and run to the back of the line. I asked one little boy, "Why not just sit quietly on the mushroom?" I wasn't trying to change them. I was just honestly curious what was different in their minds than in Lilah's. He looked at me and actually raised an eyebrow.

"Because fairies don't just sit. They run and fly. Oh! Can I have wings too?" I babbled something about girls having fairy wings and boys having gnome hats, remembering a conversation where I'd recently scoffed at Dano for suggesting the children be allowed to choose which woodland creature they wanted to dress as. I recalled Dr Kolin's fondness for a certain phrase, something about "eating crow", and made a note to tell Dano later.
"Well, you have a gnome hat don't you?" He sneered.
"Gnomes don't fly."
"Aren't fairies girls?"
"There are boy fairies too, you know." He scowled with such indignation, I took a step backward and immediately handed him a pair of green wings. Another example of how we as adults impose our gender ideas on our children. When left to their own devices, they're completely devoid of notions of sexuality aside from knowing their own gender. I went downstairs, allowing the children to destroy Lilah's room and take turns launching themselves off the mushroom, hoping against hope each time that they'd fly.

The kids wandered down one by one for a drink or snack and to make their fairy houses, which all turned out beautifully. I felt a tug on my skirt and knelt down to a little girl's level.
"This is a birthday party. Shouldn't we eat cake?" I laughed and tapped her nose.
"You were all so busy playing I was waiting for you to be done. Why don't you go tell everyone it's cake time." She was off in a heartbeat and led a parade of woodland creatures downstairs. They arranged themselves in an arc on the floor (refer to the aforementioned lack of chairs) with plates and cups. I gave each one a glass jar of homemade chocolate pudding with crushed oreos and a gummy worm inside. Lilah clutched the fairy dolls that had adorned the cake and blew out her candles with some effort but, for the first year, all on her own. They all ate cake, which I was told was very tasty. I somehow wrangled them all into the living room for presents. I put Lilah on a chair and her cousins and friends took turns handing her gifts. Per usual, she had a hard time not stopping to play with each new item as she opened it. She received so many varied and wonderful things. A book about a dog named Lila, crayons, clothes, a beautiful handmade diorama with tree bark and dried flowers (as well as birds and caterpillars to move about in their home), fun new toys, a painting of cherry blossoms, an embroidered purse, necklaces, an Etch-a-Sketch, and too much more to list. The other kids were very eager to try out all the new toys. At one point, a little girl had Lilah backed into a corner asking for a turn with a toy still in its package. Lilah was politely refusing and the girl kept advancing her into the corner, trying to snatch it. I diffused the situation by picking the girl up under her arms and placing her 10 paces away, allowing Lilah to make her escape. The girl shrugged and walked off.

After a couple of hours, the parents gathered their children to take them home. They took their dress-up gear, fairy house, and wooden picture frame favors in the shape of bugs, butterflies, and snails. The dads shook our hands and genuinely thanked us for a great party. I raised an eyebrow at my kitchen counter lined with beer bottles and replied that I was happy they'd enjoyed themselves. One father carried his daughter in his arms, her eyes already closed and her thumb in her mouth. The mother of the boy in fairy wings attempted to remove them from him, finally accepting it was a losing battle with a sigh of resignation. Lilah was sugar-crazed and happy, finally settling in to play with all her toys. She was wearing about 4 layers over her birthday dress, all items she'd received that day. I congratulated myself on not being overbearing, obsessed with the appearance of the house (which was now more or less a war-zone), and for allowing the children to destroy the woodland corner. I laughed at myself for thinking they would agree to sit quietly for a photo-op in the first place. These weren't preteens taking duck-lipped pictures of themselves in the bathroom mirror to use as profile pictures for the Facebook account they shouldn't be allowed to have in the first place. They were 9 children who were still in that magic stage of limitless possibilities and innocent faith. Even Lilah who scoffs at Santa and Jesus alike would run off blindly into the night if she heard the familiar "whoosh" of the Tardis or jump from any height if it were suggested someone had sprinkled her with pixie dust. For all the sassiness and limit-testing, 4 seemed like an amazing age. They were old enough to converse and reason, but young enough to believe in magic. This will be a beautiful year.

White Wine in the Sun

I'll be honest. This year stressed me out. Lilah of course wanted to invite her entire preschool class. Being sensible, I limited her to 4 boys and 4 girls (cousins included). I had heard that you should allow the same number of child guests as the child's age, plus one (so, 5 for her this year). I figured if we invited 8, only 4-6 would actually be able to make it. There were just a few flaws in my plan. One, all could possibly attend. Two, at 4 years, most children would feel uneasy without a parent present. Both of these possibilities turned into actualities. Including the adults who love her and wouldn't miss her birthday for anything, the family members who hold first place in her heart, and the school crowd who all RSVP'd "Yes!", the total was nearly 30. My math skills are not the strongest, but when I divided 850 square feet of house by 30 people (9 of them children), I surmised that some of them might have to hang out in the laundry room or the occasional closet. By Thursday afternoon, I was literally short of breath with stress.

By Friday afternoon, something terrible happened at work. I'd spent most of my week coordinating many, many tests, procedures, and appointments for a mother and we all had our fingers crossed for the best possible outcome for her son. Every time I spoke with her she was calm, matter-of-fact. Her voice never broke, never wavered. The little things about my job, the runny noses, the school forms, fell by the wayside and piled up. Normally that would make me anxious, but I was so focused on getting the good news I was sure would come, I didn't even care. I optimistically worked with the boy's doctor and tried to ignore the mother's fear that was so powerful despite her strong voice, it seemed to seep through the phone and grip my heart. I'd seen her face when she left the office earlier in the week and her eyes clearly betrayed two conflicting emotions - the paralyzing fear that her worst nightmare would come true, and the wild animal that would claw and fight for her child. Friday afternoon, her doctor had called me crying. My optimism drained away, feeling like it had been a charade all along and I was just now realizing it.

My "stress" over Lilah's birthday party felt hollow. Even if 50 people showed up at my house, they were there because they represented a community of people who loved her, a community she could rely on if she needed anything. They would share her joys and griefs, laugh with her, cry with her, pray for her, hold her in their hearts. I felt a bond with the mother at work. She was drawing from a well that was ancient. I had always assumed that as a mother, you did what you'd been taught, what the examples in your life had set into motion. The moment my baby was born, I knew that was wrong. To be a mother, you had to be inducted into an order. The price was blood, tears, and inexplicable joy. You had to make peace with placing your whole heart in a tiny, fragile body and sending it out into the world. When you were exhausted, impatient, frustrated, there was this place inside you could draw upon that you always forgot about until you needed it. I've heard it called the Goddess, intuition, or just motherhood. It's how mothers lift cars off their kids and go months without sleeping. It's unconditional love and self-sacrifice and still feeling like you're not giving nearly enough. A new study showed that mothers who nursed sons made fattier milk so the babies could go longer between feedings, but nursed daughters more frequently. Yet the calorie content of the milk was almost identical. The evolutionary purpose was that sons had to go out into the community, while daughters were kept close and nursed often. This astounded me. Even while feeding our children, our bodies are preparing them for the life ahead. Empowering sons, cherishing daughters, creating a new generations of amazing little people on the foundation of our hearts, souls, and bodies.

I'll post about her party another day. It'll be a post of fun and happiness and possibly some people eating cake in a laundry room. But at 8:55 on March 24th of 2009, my heart left my body and is getting bigger every year. The song "White Wine in the Sun" (even though it's technically a Christmas song) summed up how I was feeling as I rolled out a  "Delphinian Blue" fondant mushroom cap last night, and I put some lines from it up on Facebook. "And you my baby girl...you'll be handed round the room like a puppy at a primary school. And you won't understand, but you will learn someday that wherever you are and whatever you face, these are the people who make you feel safe in this world, my sweet blue-eyed girl. And if, my baby girl, you're 21 or 31 and you find yourself 9000 miles from home, you'll know whatever comes...your aunties and uncles, grandparents, cousins, and me and your mum will be waiting for you in the sun." Let 100 people come to her party. Let her know that the whole world loves her and she's never alone. As she grows, let her draw from the strength and beauty of all those people who love her and let her blossom into the little woman she's already becoming.

"Will you be my goose?"

It was my workday in preschool again today. I was dreading it a little because March is Art Month at DACP. Last week on Tuesday they learned about Michelangelo and the Sistine Chapel. The teachers had taped a canvasy-looking paper to the underside of a table and the kids had to lie on their backs to paint it.  Thursday they painted pottery at a studio and toured a kiln. Today they learned who Jackson Pollock was, as well as the art style for which he is most famous.

In the classroom, Mrs Wilson supervised the children dipping makeup brushes in watercolor paints and hitting them against a screen, splashing soft colors onto their white papers. However, in the Big Room (where Gross Motor play usually takes place), Mrs Fuller had set up the main event. Two giant blue tarps covered the floor. I was to be her assistant (hooray!), so I set up a basin of warm, soapy water on a fluffy towel. The children were ushered into the room in groups of 3. I rolled up pant legs and sleeves and smocked them up while Mrs Fuller arranged them each on the tarp in front of black sheets of paper. Each were handed a paintbrush dripping with brightly colored paints and instructed on technique. A few of them stared confusedly at Mrs Fuller and bent down to paint directly on the paper. They were gently corrected.

"Hold it like it's a magic wand and you're casting a spell." How amazing is this teacher at tapping in to the mind of a child to get them to understand? This caught on quickly. One little boy lit up like a sun when he realized he was allowed to throw paint and slung bright orange in a wide arc, getting some on his paper in the process. A little girl realized with joy that there were puddles of paint on the tarp and splashed and stomped like it was a rainy day until Mrs Fuller caught her eye. All of these kids respond well to "the look". I was assigned the cleaning up task. One girl was so hopelessly splattered that she took one look at herself and merrily sat down in the basin. Another one tapped on my head while I was scrubbing her.

"Yes?"
"Please stop cleaning my pants."
"But honey, you've got lots of pink spots on you." She leaned down and whispered.
"Those are sparkles on my pants." And so they were. She was sent on her way. The next little boy had blue and green freckles. I had to dunk a pigtail in the basin. Lilah's turn won't come until Thursday but I was told she made a lovely watercolor splatter in the classroom while I was out.

I assisted in the hand-washing line before snack when Mrs Fuller noticed something odd. "The bathroom stall is locked. And there's a pink pull-up on the floor. But no one is in there." My heart sank to my toes and I called for my child. She scampered up to me happily. It was pointed out to me by another parent that her pants were falling down and there was nothing underneath them, so she was more than likely the culprit. Yes, thank you.
"Sweetheart, did you go potty in there?" Her head bobbed and she grinned at me. "Did you take off your pull-up?" More vigorous nods.
"Then I was stuck. So I got out." I'm pretty sure I audibly groaned. "But I patted and washed my hands!" Small miracles. Not only because my daughter was the culprit, but also because it was pointed out that I was the smallest so it fell to me to maneuver into the locked stall and open it.

For Gross Motor time they played Duck, Duck, Goose. Whenever Lilah Rose's friends were chosen, she tried to hop up and chase them out of turn. Mrs Fuller kept trying to explain the game to her, but she just wanted to jump up and run with her friends. Her eyes welled up with tears and she put the back of her hand dramatically over the back of her mouth and gave a couple of gaspy sobs for good measure. Mrs Fuller smiled at her and I had every faith she knew it was a ruse. She called me over to sit with her. With her in my lap and the game continuing, I felt a tug on my hoodie and the little one next to me motioned for me to bring my head closer to her.
"Scuse me," she whispered. I raised my eyebrows expectantly. "Will you be my goose?" Silence. "Please? Will you please be my goose? I want you to be my goose."
"Uhhhm..." She pointed to the other kids taking their turn running.
"Please, Lilah's mom. Please be my goose." I tried not to burst out laughing. I let her down gently by saying only kids could be geese. She pursed her lips at me and tossed her hair.
"Mrs Fuller was the goose."
"Yeah, but she's the teacher so it's different. Only kids and teachers. But if we weren't in school, if we were someplace else, I'd love to be your goose." She thought about this as she examined her boots. I went for a diversionary tactic. "I really like your boots." She looked at me like she knew exactly what I was doing (and she probably did).
"Thank you. I spotted them at Kohl's and my mama got them for me."

Among the other incredible quotes of the day were a little girl's response to Mrs Fuller inquiring about her wriggling and tugging her skirt up. "Oh, ya know. Just a little too much crack goin' on in here."

So there you have it. Splatter paint, an abundance of crack, and for the first time in my life, someone wanted me to be their goose. Oh, and even though I swear I cleaned and scrubbed every exposed inch of me, it was still pointed out at work that just a few of my freckles were a lovely shade of blue.

No sunlight

I keep despondently singing the Death Cab song in my head. It feels like daylight will never return in the capacity my body needs it to. Apparently my Vitamin D level is "critically low" and I need to take some or something. Or the sun could just hurry it up already.

The closer we creep to Lilah turning 4, the more sweet and fun she grows. But she also grows more defiant and independent as well. It's such a hard balance to strike, and her moods swing hard for no apparent reason. In the same day she can help me with baking or crafts, and end up tear-streaked and angry because some small thing was denied her. I started to realize last week that we might have gone to far with her. We have so many celebrations and special things during the year that she's grown accustomed to them. I like to bake, so there's nearly always a cake or a few dozen sweet treats lying around. So many people love her that it's almost weekly someone is bringing her a rose (she asks the gardeners around town for roses, since she's "a Rose". She feels she has some right to them) or toy or small thing that made them think of her. Her Auntie takes her on special dates, she has skype dates with friends and grandparents, and people at local businesses know her by name and regard her kindly when they see her. The ladies at the farmer's market always pinch her cheeks and let her choose the "best" parsnips - her favorite vegetable. But for as much as Lilah charms everyone she meets into submission to her whims, we have so far been lucky that her will has fallen in step with ours for the most part. We have had to do very little but gently steer her in the direction we'd like her to go and she has happily complied. Bad days aside, we have had an easy road for the most part.

I'm pretty sure it's normal for her age, but I feel like she's set herself against us just to see what will happen. Even when it means we're both exhausted with the sheer effort of battling wills with a tiny, loud, irrational person, we haven't budged. We've cut back on the sweet treats to weekends only. I still bake frequently, but the snacks get saved for after she goes to bed so we set a good example, or during the weekends. Special occasions like birthdays and holidays don't count, of course. I set up a chore chart with nickels attached to each task (soon to be pennies. She doesn't need $1.50/day at 4 years old). She has started doing the little things like folding washcloths, disinfecting door handles, dusting surfaces, setting and clearing the table. For the most part, she enjoys having "jobs" and earning money to buy things (she just discovered dollhouses and is fascinated). Tonight, she was in a mood while I made dinner.

"Mother, can I have a healthy snack?"
"No. We're having dinner in 20 minutes."
"Fine. Then can I play piano?"
"That's up to your dad. Ask him." Seconds later, I hear the piano despite Dano being upstairs. I went over and quietly removed her from the piano. She shrieked in anger.
"I WAS PLAYING THAT!"
"You didn't ask Daddy. You're a little girl. You don't just get to do whatever you want when you want to." She turned into a jellyfish and slid out of my arms. I removed her dress up gown and fairy wings and put them up. More shrieks.
"WHY DID YOU TAKE AWAY MY THINGS?"
"You can have them back later. You're acting like you need a break." I handed her the plates. "Chore time. Set the table please." She flung them back at me.
"No." I told her she had one more chance to do them like a big girl before she had to do them like a baby. She stomped up the stairs. "No. I'm going to go play in my room." Slammed door. She ended up with her door handle removed, led down the stairs, and walked to and from the table with me. After a couple trips, she shrugged my hand off her shoulder. "I can do it."

After that, as in all battles of wills lately, she was angelic. These little tempests are short-lived. As much as my blood boils beneath the surface and as nasty as she can get when she's mad, the calmer I stay, the more deliberately she's shown she can't win, the faster it's over and she's back to herself. The days are certainly more good than bad. She had the Show and Tell bag at school and was thrilled to take her small doll Caroline, all snug in her box in the bag. I was told that when Mrs Fuller asked "What do you have there?",
Lilah replied, "A box."
"Well okay. What's in the box?"
"A doll."
"Does the doll have a name?"
"It's Caroline."
"How long have you had Caroline?"
"Oh, about 30 years." Typical Lilah-edits.

Well, her birthday creeps closer. I'm preparing a little every week. I still can't believe my baby girl will be 4. Her last year of preschool. Her last year before "real" school. The fact that no babies are coming after her is slowly sinking in. It doesn't make me want another one. It just makes each moment feel so precious. And it makes me feel terrifically old.