A hard week

The goal: to complete this entry without crying. This past week has been...trying. I'm only going to recount the ending of it, since some of the beginning is more personal in nature. Suffice it to say that my nerves were worn to a thread by about...Wednesday. I was just taking it one hour at a time until 5pm Friday rolled around. The office is undergoing some major renovations, the nurses moving from one part of the suite into the new space. I was excited about the change (especially because I got my very own space, not shared with a soul) but it also meant upheval. No phones, lots of dust and workers, confused or inconvenienced patients, and at one point I even threw my computer mouse into a bin in frustration, only to have to retrieve it again when I couldn't find another (and falling into the bin in the process).

Thursday afternoon seemed to crawl. I arranged and rearranged my new desk, trying to find which position I liked best for my computer monitor. That was difficult since it powered down every time I moved it slightly. I got a text from Dano around 3pm that threw my entire afternoon into disarray.

"Lilah wrecked two of the library books you got." Rewind two weeks. After a nap she'd been reluctant to take, I went to wake her only to find a pile of confetti where a book Max gave her had been, and a daughter in bed with an uneasy smile on her face. Of course I was horrified. Whatever look was on my face said something to her, since the smirk faded and tears filled her eyes.

"Lilah! What have you done?" She started sobbing that she'd torn up the book. I could not even fathom why. I was more stern then I ever have been. This wasn't talking back, or striking out in impulse. This was destroying a book. I honestly couldn't think of anything worse she could do. It wasn't in her to be malicious or destructive. I couldn't understand. I marched her out of bed and made her call her uncle and tell him what she'd done. She barely could, choking on her own tears. I heard him say through the phone that it was all right. I knew he was being nice to her, but I wished he'd been a little harsher. She hung up the phone and cried in my arms. We talked about how special books were, how important they were, even ones we didn't like, even ones we didn't agree with. Books deserved respect and care, and she promised she'd never hurt another book again.

"Lilah wrecked two of the library books you got." After getting the entire story, Lilah had torn the pages out of two of the gardening books we'd gotten. We spent awhile every night looking through them and making plans for Spring. She hadn't colored in them or torn a favorite page out to take to bed with her (that's happened before). She shredded them. Her reasoning was that the cat had been scratching at her things again. She'd been furious at the cat all day, and had apparently reached her limit while she'd been perusing the books in the basement (the cat has been unusually mischievous lately). We asked her a hundred different ways and her story was the same. Dano had been afraid of how mad he felt. He'd sent her to her room because he couldn't even look at her. When I got home, she tentatively peeked around the corner. I saw the look on her face: shame and curiosity. I started to cry. I sat on the couch and just cried and cried. I couldn't wrap my head around it. My daughter had destroyed someone else's property, a library book, ones she and I had spent hours cuddling and reading together. It wasn't because she'd been screamed at or beaten. It was because she was frustrated with the cat. Lilah cried, I cried, Dano just fumed and went to work.

Her punishments were harsh. Every book was removed from her room while she cried over them. She took all the money from her piggy bank (she'd been working extra hard lately for a family of pigs for her doll house) and put it in a bag. She had a meeting with the Head of Circulation at the library the next day. She would have to tell her what she'd done and pay for the books. She wasn't allowed in the playroom unsupervised (this for a child who values independent play) and she wasn't allowed to be behind any closed doors. She played listlessly when at all. She spent the hour it took me to prepare dinner sitting at the kitchen table placing the pages, including the tiny pieces, back in the book covers. She did it without complaining, only remarked a few times how hard it was. I fed her dinner and pushed mine around my plate. I felt sick, disappointed, angry. Lilah tried to make gentle conversation and I responded in a monotone. I couldn't even look at her. When I did, she'd smile. When I couldn't smile back, worry flickered across her face and she'd drop her gaze to her food again.

"I wish you'd smile, Mama."
"Baby, I can't smile. I just feel so sick."
"You could eat your noodles. You could take medicine to feel better."
"Medicine won't help this time. I'm just so sad about those books, and so confused why you'd hurt them. It'll take time for me to feel better again." She sighed and replied in barely a whisper.
"I understand." After dinner, she asked to watch Peppa Pig. I told her absolutely not. She asked to read a book. I told her she'd lost her books. She asked to play in her kitchen. I told her I had to clean up after dinner and I didn't trust her on her own downstairs. She sighed again and sat down on the kitchen floor, comforting her doll. After I cleaned up dinner, I put her in the bath. It was a pretty quiet bath. Body and teeth cleaned, hair brushed, in pajamas, and wrapped up in her blanket, she tentatively approached me on the couch. Tears still slipped out of my eyes. She patted my cheek and climbed into my lap. She asked me to tell her a story instead. I told her the first one that came to mind - the Japanese folktale of the Crane Wife. She liked it, but not the ending. I sang her the Crane Wife 1, 2, and 3 by Colin Meloy. She got sleepy and I put her to bed.

Desperate for some guidance, I'd asked one of the doctors to call me. She did, even though I had totally forgotten it was Yom Kippur. She still took the time, which I appreciated more than she knew. I poured out the whole story, asking after I'd finished, "Is she a sociopath? Who destroys books?" She scoffed at me and hushed me, saying she was testing us and pushing for control. She'd wanted drama, and had gotten drama. "We didn't scream at her or hit her or anything. I'm just so unbelievably disappointed."
"That's good. It can actually have a harder hitting effect if they see your disappointment rather than hearing a bunch of yelling. They just tune that out after awhile. It sounds like you handled it perfectly, and she is not a sociopath. She's a 4 year old. She's seeing lots of new situations and personalities at school. She'll try some out, or some will just confuse her and she'll act out. Who knows the real reason she did it. But don't draw it out. After the library tomorrow, let it be done. If you keep on punishing her, it will lose it's effect. I tell parents to start a ticket jar. Either tickets for every bad thing, or tickets for every good one. You make it very visible, and you could make each ticket equal a book. Every time she does something good, she gets a ticket back. Make her earn them back and work hard for them. She'll value them more that way. And my son's kindergarten teacher is teaching them all about books. Not about content, but how to take care of them, why to respect them. That will come, and this is a lesson that will stick with her. Trust me, she's not a sociopath. Actually, I'm glad this is your problem. You had me worried. Your problem is just that you have a perfect kid. When our amazing, well-behaved firstborns act out, it's devastating. If my younger one did the same thing, I'd shrug it off. So relax. Have a glass of wine. Have two. She's going to be all right."

I slipped into Lilah's room before going to bed as I often do, to kiss her forehead and arrange her covers. Only this time, her sheets were in an angry tangle over her head (they never had been before). I uncovered her and her eyes were wide open underneath.
"What are you doing, little bird?" She wouldn't look at me.
"Hiding." I pulled her sheets down. "Mama, I'm cold." I pulled her knitted blankets and comforter off the floor and tucked her in. "Mama, will you smile tomorrow?" I kissed her.
"Maybe tomorrow, love. Goodnight."

I had a glass of wine. I had two. It didn't stop the tears that night. I couldn't help but feel if I'd had some more guidance, some more training, a better example, this wouldn't have happened. There was this incredible ache and empty feeling in my chest. I had my phone in my hand, poised to dial a number I didn't have. I needed to lay my head in someone's lap and cry my heart out while they stroked my hair, the way I'd stroked Lilah's that night. But there wasn't anybody. And that aching feeling throbbed until I fell asleep. That feeling didn't come often. During labor was the last time I remembered feeling it that strongly. But I felt it then, and I felt it hard. Still, it didn't matter how painful or insistent the feeling. I fell asleep and woke up with it still there, although it's lessened every day, like it always does.

Lilah went to the library the next day with Dano. Kelly, the Head of Circulation, solemnly took her money the way she'd promised me she would, then sneaked it back into Dano's backpack without her seeing. Dano slipped her a check, since the cost of the books was far greater than the contents of a small pink piggy bank. Lilah thinks she paid for them, and that's all that mattered. Kelly told Lilah about the importance of taking care of books and protecting them, and thanked Lilah for taking responsibility for what she did. Lilah recounted the trip back to me that night at dinner, and I told her I was proud of her as well. She said she'd never hurt another book. I hope she won't. We've had nothing but sunshiny days since then. Lilah's earned back five or so books, and she's been overjoyed about each one. She keeps the tickets under her pillow and arranges each book carefully on her naked shelf. The head nurse at work assures me these are the lessons that stick and we did the right thing. I'm sure that's true. It just doesn't make it any easier.

Kingsblood, Jeanne d'Arc, War Chief, and other friends

The past weeks we have kept busy here at the Bird Nest. The interior being free of major projects, I've been spending my time in the many gardens and knitting things for winter. Lilah Rose has kept busy as well, checking gardening books out from the library and plotting out all the beds she'd like to see in the yard. She's had multiple playdates and picnics. School starts Tuesday. I'm not at all nervous this year since she did so well last year. She missed her little friends and teachers desperately all summer and can't wait to get back in the swing of things.

With the beginnings of the 4 year preschool class looming, I'm swallowing my kindergarten fears for now and focussing on all the lovely things happening at the moment.

The housewarming was successful and wonderful. I got to spend the afternoon with some of my favorite people in the world. It was nice to show off our hard work to people who haven't been there every step of the way. All the effort is worth it now that we have a house and yard to enjoy.

This weekend, our goal was to put in our fire pit. We went to Home Depot before Dano had to work and looked at the bricks and pavers we plan to use. The most expensive pieces happened to be half off, so that was a plus. Husband fussed over the weight of the items in the Versa and went on about snapped axels, so we only got some of the materials and will pick up the rest when he's done with his shift.

After we left him, Lilah and I went over to Old Navy. I'd promised Lilah a new dress for her first day of school. They were having some sort of safety awareness day, so there were police cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance outside. Lilah spotted balloons inside and asked for one. I told her it would depend on if she were a good listener and well behaved while shopping (we've had a few fits and bad listening episodes while shopping lately). She promised she would be both (she always does). We went immediately to the little girl dress section and I pulled a few styles out and held them up to her, debating between 4T and 5T. She looked from dress to dress and heaved a sigh.

"What's wrong?"
"Well, those aren't my choice." She's very into choices right now.
"I didn't say you had to choose these dresses. I'm just looking at sizes. But you honestly don't like either one of these?" I'd thought they were both very cute. One was magenta and one was navy, both polka dotted with little belts at the waist.
"No thank you." I put them back. She darted over to another section, and I pulled down a few more to hold up. "Um, no, no, and no." Oh, shopping with opinions. We moved on and I pulled down one dress absent-mindedly, then reached for a few more. Lilah grabbed the one I was holding and held it up to herself. "Yes, this is the one. This is my choice."
"Well, it is very nice. I like the colors and the flowers. But don't you want to keep that as a maybe and look at more dresses? This one is very nice." I held up a pink one with eyelet lace.
"That one is, well..."
"What? I think it's lovely."
"It's a bit boring." A catchphrase learned from Peppa Pig, may she be roasted in a pan with an apple in her mouth. The dress was simple, but it was pretty. The one she was holding was silky and deep purple with splashy bright flowers in pink and orange. She had snatched up a pair of shiny gold sandals to match. The outfit was very stylish. Nothing I'd have ever chosen, but all the colors worked well together.
"Okay, sweetheart. You can choose that dress." After a few ill-fated attempts at tempting her with dresses I liked better, we checked out with the dress and the shoes.
"May I have a balloon? I was a good listener." I asked the cashier for a balloon. She laughed.
"Yes of course. Orange or purple?"
"Purple, please." She was handed a purple balloon. "Thank you very much." Someone commented about her polite behavior and she beamed.
"Would you like your receipt with you, or in the bag?" The question was directed at me, but Lilah answered for me.
"Bag please. May I hold my new dress?"
"Of course. What lovely manners."
"Thank you very much." I could see the fear of having her balloon taken away etched between the lines of her good behavior. Being safety awareness day, she also left with a sticker and a Reese's cup. She was very happy.

We moved on to English Gardens to buy our Spring bulbs. We'd gotten a gift card for our housewarming and someone was itching to spend it. We traipsed through the rain, me pausing in the deluge to gaze wistfully at pricey hydrangeas while Lilah tugged at me and said those weren't for us, and that she didn't love shrubs.

We made our way to the bulb section, and everything was labeled with large pictures. There were bags of multiple bulbs as well as bins of individual bulbs. Lilah insisted we get a basket and started asking the names of things she liked the look of. She spotted something before I did.
"ALLIUM!!!" She snatched a bag of Allium bulbs, each one as big as a softball. Nearly 3 feet high when full grown, I tried to talk her out of them. Just like the school dress, she had her own opinions about this garden. She had a gift card in her purse and she was doing it her way. She wavered between white and yellow Narcissus, finally choosing a delicate yellow variety. She asked to see all the different crocus colors, having trouble deciding. She found one that was tricolor - yellow, white, and purple. Problem solved. I offered a few suggestions but Lilah Rose Marie had garden visions I couldn't interfere with.

She popped in some different colored single bulbs, then chose some tall, blood-red bearded irises called War Chiefs and a variety of tulips in matching color called Kingsblood. Looking at the photos on the packages, she worried there wasn't enough white in the tricolor crocuses, so chose a bright white called Jeanne d'Arc. Last, she swooned over delicate, frilly pink tulips called Angelique. I looked over the names of all the bulbs, laughing to myself that it sounded like a a war between fine French ladies and Game of Thrones villains. But again, just like the dress, together they made a unique blend of colors, heights, and textures in the best taste imaginable.

We stopped Sonic for hotdogs and slushes on the way home and I let Lilah sit up front with me. We chatted about all sorts of things, and I reveled in this sweet time of our lives where we could shop, talk, work, and laugh. On the way home (and safely back in her booster), she chattered happily about how we'd plant the flowers when we got home. I told her that if the rain had turned the soil too muddy, it would be a bad idea. I could see her start to fuss, but she swallowed a protest and nodded.

"I wouldn't want to hurt my bulbs. We should wait until the soil is better." She was growing up so much every day, maturing before my eyes into such a little lady. At home, the soil was in great shape after all. Loose and moist, but not muddy. I was looking at the packages and arranging them in my head. Lilah tore open the packages and dumped them into a large wicker basket. Even then, I started to sort the large bulbs from the small crocuses and Narcissus. Lilah gently took them out of my hands and shook the basket up, taking one at a time, hopping to a random place in the garden, and digging a hole for the bulb. I consoled myself with the fact that the entire front yard was full-sun, and that I had taught her to place them the right way in the hole, cover them with soil, and that she was digging deeper holes for the larger bulbs (I had to do the Allium). She talked to the bulbs as she planted them, making sure each was comfortable before burying it and singing sweetly,
"See you in the Springtime!" We went inside covered in mud, but happy. After a warm shower and some tequila lime chicken, we snuggled and watched some TV. I even conceded an episode of Peppa after the great day we'd had.

Just taking a breather

I don't have anything too earth-shattering to report lately. Since my last post (as most people know) we bought a cute little house in Ferndale. We've spent the better part of the last two months on our sweet little abode. I haven't been the most hands-on mother this summer. I'm sure Lilah's watched more than one movie or show a day some days, and we ate out way more than we normally do. I let guilt eat at me at first, before realizing how huge it was that we were trying to make our first family home together. It took sacrifices from everyone. Lilah didn't get as much playtime with us. I didn't get relaxing evenings to knit and watch Downton Abbey reruns. Dano didn't get quiet hours to write. There was always one more wall to paint, one more light fixture to put up, one more surface to caulk.

Slowly it's coming together. Our bedroom still isn't painted because this wretched heat wave set in while the beadboard in the bathroom was only half done and our bedroom was still in the baby planning stages of choosing colors (peacock blue). One major revelation during this time was the discovery and inevitable renouncement of Pinterest. Some girls at work turned me on to the site. During the long weeks of waiting and hoping during the home-buying process, I would spend long hours at night on Pinterest, keeping my anxieties at bay by designing the perfect space using photos I had of the home and pins I found. I was super organized, one board for each room of the house. I couldn't wait to get keys. I had grand fantasies of a house that looked like it had been featured on an episode of Extreme Home Makeover. Getting into the house was another story entirely.

I went pin by pin, pulling up things I'd pinned for later, never having really looked too closely at them. Just pinning and moving on to more domestic porn. Slowly I found that, pin by pin, none of them were working out the way I wanted. Dano and I painted and detailed the bones of the house from waking to sleeping between jobs. Barely resting, hardly eating some days. When the time came to activate a pin into reality, pin by pin they failed me. The beautiful birch wall pin I'd swooned over? One click took me to a site where I could purchase the decals for over 70 dollars a tree. The trees you see on my wall now were angrily painted on by hand, me cursing Pinterest all the while. The rolling hills and jaunty tree in Lilah's room - same story. No instructions, no tips for the actual execution. Just a pin and hundreds of comments about how adorable the picture was. I was left to wing it, and while I have quite the eye for the details of life, I am no artist. At times, the process was so frustrating to me I would just sit down and cry. Lilah would cry next to me (out of sympathy, or maybe just jealousy someone else was getting attention), and Dano would about lose his damn mind calming the two of us down (he usually just went out and bought us ice cream or chocolate. Wise man). The pegboard wall I'd fallen in love with had no instructions for putting it up, so Dano had to buy it, build and mount a frame for it, and spend almost a week finding the right hooks for the thing. My beautiful Pinterest kitchen fell into ruin and from the proverbial ashes rose my adorable kitchen in its place. The bathroom pins proved to be a disaster as well. None of the pins worked for the space and the ones that did didn't have instructions. We took to winging it. I would go to work with plans for a certain room for the evening and come home to find that Dano had worked off a different vision and finished the room another way entirely. The plastic rain-gutter bookshelves for Lilah's bedroom were supposed to be one of the easiest projects on my list. 4 days of effort and frustration had them mounted to the wall, but so flimsy even a single book fell out of them as soon as it was placed inside. I was heartbroken but I took them down and chose a sturdy blue bookcase that used to belong to Uncle Max instead. While not as adorable as books in a rain-gutter, much more practical and easy to bring to fruition.

All our mistakes and modifications made 700 Farmdale into our home. Our sweet little Bird's Nest isn't a Pinterest House or an Extreme Home Makeover House. It's ours. I can point out every flaw, but with the same affection I'd point out a freckle on Lilah's cheek. The flaws ended up making the home. I'm still bitter with Pinterest. American mothers have enough competition and judgement to deal with these days. Breast or bottle fed? Natural childbirth or C-section? Organic or not? Homemade or takeout? Whose kid learned their letters and numbers the fastest? Tiger parenting or attachment? Cry it out or not? Maybe it's like this everywhere, but anywhere I go as a mother, I feel the eyes of the other mothers judging me. I'm winging it the best I know how, but raising Lilah has been exactly like every Pinterest fail I've tried. What makes sense on paper proves to be wildly ineffective in practice. I never anticipated loving a little girl so much who would sit on my lap for half an hour stroking my cheek and telling me how happy she was that I was her mom, and how she thought I was wonderful. That same child says things like, "I'll always be your child, you know," and helps me pick herbs from outside for dinner. She asks for triple helpings of baba ghanoush. She might be color blind from the lack of interest she's shown in flashcards. She quotes entire monologues from books or films; she knows the Doctor Who canon by heart and puts off bedtime for an hour asking me how a tesseract works. There wasn't a book or website or parenting "style" in the world that could have prepared me for how much I'd actually love her, or how hard it would be to raise her. The house is like that too, and it just makes me love it more for all that.

Even hard ones

So this weekend marked the asking of the question I've been dreading since the day I gave birth. Dano and I had talked, argued, and cried (well, I did anyway) over the right way to answer it. I mostly lived in denial it would even occur before Lilah was at least 5 or 6. True to form, she did it at her own pace.

Lilah's been fascinated with her origin lately. Asking hundreds of questions and cross-examining every answer. She was being funny while grocery shopping the other day and I said, "Where did you come from?"
"Oh, my daddy made me. He did something with his wife and made me." I let it go at that. If she wasn't asking for details, I wasn't offering. She knows it takes a mommy and a daddy to make a new baby, and that they come home from the hospital with it.

One evening this weekend while Dano was at work, she was grilling me on past generations. She had asked my father-in-law the previous weekend about who his parents were and where they were now (both dead). She grasps only that when something or someone dies, it goes away and never comes back. She asked me about my mother-in-law's parents while we were having dinner on the porch.

"Who is my Grannie's daddy?"
"His name was Leo. He was a chef. He died before you were born, when Daddy was just a little boy."
"And Grannie's mother?"
"It's Grandma Shirley. Auntie Kate's mother."
"Married to Grandpa Rodger. Grandpa Rodger's wife." I nodded. She fretted. "But is Grandpa Rodger Grannie's daddy now?" I groaned inwardly.
"He is her step-daddy." She was confused. "He acts like her daddy and loves her like a daddy, but he wasn't the one who made her. You only get one mother and one daddy." She nodded slowly.
"So Grandpa Rodger is her pretend daddy."
"Well, he loves her. Love isn't pretend."
"But she's not his real daughter."
"No, love, she isn't." Silence. Tiny wheels turning in her mind and more questions written on her face.
"Her real daddy died. That's why he's gone." I nodded. "Did your mommy die?" I felt color drain out of my cheeks and I dropped my eyes. I couldn't meet her clear, innocent blue ones. She'd just touched a raw nerve.
"Look, Lilah." I pointed out some bird in the yard (we had been bird-watching before the conversation had turned existential). I pitied Queen Esther at the feet of Xerxes, courage failing her, inviting him to a banquet rather than begging for her life and the life of her people. I blinked and my mind traveled back to Christmas. Tia had emailed asking permission to purchase Christmas gifts for Lilah, telling me we could just give them to her without telling her where they came from. I had taken a long time to contemplate my response, and had chosen to reply to the email candidly.

"It isn't appropriate to leapfrog over broken relationships in order to attempt a good one." It was difficult for me to be open and vulnerable when speaking to someone who specialized in hiding her own emotions, never showing weakness and coveting control. Shame was a tool used to achieve that control. By openly and proudly displaying how I felt, it was control I took back. "I was terrified when I found out I was having a daughter. I was terrified I wouldn't be able to love her, be there for her, or be the mother she needed me to be...It makes me sad for you that you might be feeling the weight of what you're missing. Even if you gave her things anonymously, I'd have to lie to her about where they came from and I won't do that. She's too clever and I have a responsibility to always tell her the truth, even hard ones. I know I'll yell at her, say things I don't mean, make big mistakes, and mess up. But I know that at the root of our relationship is healthy, unconditional love. I want better for her than I had. I want her to be better, prettier, more successful, more confident than me. I want you to be happy too....I'm not angry or bitter. I want you to be as healthy and happy as I am and I hope you can be."

"Did she die?" I swallowed hard.
"No. No, she didn't die."
"Then where is she?" Tell the truth. You have to tell the truth.
"She...when I was younger...she decided she didn't want to be my mother anymore." She sidled up to me and put her hand on my knee. "Some parents have children they don't know how to take care of. They don't know how to love them. Sometimes, parents leave and decide not to be parents anymore."
"She left you? She stopped being your mother?"
"Yes, she did stop. She stopped a long time ago, little one."
"And you left?" I nodded. "Where did you go?"
"Out into the world. I went looking for people who did want me, and did love me. And I found a new family who will never stop loving me."
"Me and Daddy?" She went from sober to cheerful. I tapped her nose.
"Yes, my love. You and Daddy. And Grannie and Grandpa, Auntie Kim and Uncle Adam, your cousins, Uncle Max, Uncle Nick, our friends. They won't leave. They'll never stop being family."
"Did you find another mother?" I smiled sadly at her.
"No, sweetheart. You only get one mother in this life. And only one daddy. The important part, love, is that I will never leave. I will never stop loving you. I will never stop being your mother. I'll never leave you alone." She kissed me and moved on to questions about how boys pee if they don't have vaginas.

I thought it was done. But every day since then, Lilah has gotten up 5-10 minutes before my alarm. I wake up to the familiar thud-swish-thud of her coming down the stairs, dragging her blanket behind her. She crawls over her dad and into my arms. She covers her body and part of mine with her blanket and snuggles close. When she's right up next to my ear, she whispers some version of the same thing, every morning.
"You'll never stop loving me. You'll never leave me alone." When I get home from work. Same thing. "Your mother didn't want to be your mama anymore. But you'll never leave me alone." This morning I was getting dressed and trying to get out the door. "Wait, wait! I need to tell you something!" I tried not to feel impatient but she's an expert at stalling me.
"Okay sweetheart. One more thing."
"I have to tell you a story."
"Only if it's a fast one."
"Okay, okay. Once, there was a little bird. The little bird's mother bird didn't know how to be a good mama. So the little bird left and went out to find another mother. And the little bird was happy, but the mother bird was sad. Because the little bird was gone. The end." I just stared at her. "The end."

The preoccupation seems cruel and unhealthy to me. I've second-guessed myself every day since I told her. I introduced into her universe a concept that, if it were up to me, I'd have hidden from her forever - sometimes people we love leave. Sometimes the people you want to love you more than anyone else aren't capable of giving you the love you need. Dano says that if nothing else, my relationship with Lilah will be stronger because she'll see that I chose to stay and I chose to love her, no matter what. She'll know that I told her the truth, even hard ones. Sometimes little birds do have to go out into the world to find someone to love them. Just not my little bird. She'll always find love at home. She might not always want it. She might not even always need it. But it will be here, nonetheless. Always.

Rocky Road

Life has been ambling along. Mostly good, sometime not so good. Lots of stressful things we've been trying to take in stride. Lilah wavers between angel and demon on any given day. I could go on about her good points for days. Her bad points are few and far between; it's just hard to remember that when they're happening. Those times, it seems like her personal mission is to drive us to early graves. She can wake up feeling crabby "just because" and swat our hands away when we stroke her hair or snap at us when we say good morning. I try to remind myself that there are days I wake up mad at Dano for things he did in a dream, or days of the month where my attitude is way out of line, and I shouldn't hold Lilah to a higher standard than I hold myself.

I have noticed two things though. One, she reacts strongly to the emotional atmosphere of the house. Two, she always has a reason (in her mind) for the way she feels. Today was no exception.

Dano had left the house upset over something last night. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Lilah ran to me and burst into tears, burying her head in my lap. He hadn't left shouting or breaking dishes against the wall. He was just clearly frustrated and had a lot of restrained anger in his voice when he said good-bye. There was nothing particularly dramatic going on. It didn't stop Lilah from wailing for a full ten minutes, asking what was wrong with her daddy and when he would be back. We always try to explain things to her as best we can in terms she can understand.

"Sweetheart, sometimes the hardest things for grown-ups to do is to talk about how they feel and tell the truth. It's especially hard for Daddy to just say what's bothering him instead of keeping it inside his body. If he keeps it inside, it hurts him and he gets angry."

"He should just say that he's feeling upset. He should take yoga breaths."

"Yoga breaths don't help everyone, little bird."

"They help me."

Today we were still sorting out the leftovers from the night before. By no means are Dano and I the ideal couple, and we get in plenty of fights where one or both of us don't play fair. I can say, though, that for the most part our disagreements are pretty civil and above-board. Those types we sort out in front of Lilah. I want her to see adults fight, hash it out, disagree, and still love each other at the end of the day. There are too many conflicts that go on loudly behind closed doors. There are too many "No, there's nothing wrong," conversations. I want her to learn to be frank and open, not sneaky and passive aggressive. It's a tall order in a house full of sarcasm and a world full of backbiting. 

We were at Panera eating lunch before Dano went to work, still discussing things from last night. Emotions were escalating (as much as they can in Panera). He was saying something and I was tuning out, looking around at a 2 year old slapping his mother because she took her Pepsi away from him (she promptly gave it back when he slapped her). There was an enormous black man having lunch with a petite woman that could have been his daughter (by enormous, I mean towering, broad-shouldered, and wearing a beret. Somehow that made him seem even larger. Or maybe it was the fact he was hunched comically over a tiny bowl of salad). I looked back at Dano as he scowled and accused me of not listening to what he was saying.

"No, I was too," I lied. We got more heated until hushed comments were coming out more like hisses. Dano got up from the table and grabbed his coat. I tried to stop him. "Don't go to work mad. I'll feel awful all day." He shook his head.

"You might deserve it." The room swam and my eyes filled with tears. I took deep breaths to avoid the mortification of crying in public. Lilah had been involved in the discussion the entire time, asking questions about why we were feeling a certain way or another. He came back over and looked contrite. He finished the conversation with a kinder tone and didn't once glance at his phone to check the time even though I knew it was getting late. I admitted I hadn't been listening as well as I should have, and had messed things up the night before but had only been trying to help. He conceded that he would try harder to make me feel like he was on my side and that he knew my heart had been in the right place. The tense lines around Lilah's face relaxed and she smiled calmly. Dano kissed me and went to work. He left and Lilah recited one of her favorite lines from Spirited Away.

"Aww, that's love for you." I laughed and we talked about other things for a moment. The man in the beret took his tray to the garbage, then came over to me, looming there. 

"I was going to come say something, but I was waiting for him to leave." A hundred thoughts ran through my head. Maybe he was going to say we shouldn't have argued (however quietly) in public. Maybe he thought we were awful for disagreeing in front of a child. Maybe he'd overheard our earlier conversation where Dano had described how Lilah had spent the whole morning bawling because she thought I hadn't said goodbye to her before going to work (I had, she just didn't hear) and thought we were bad parents for talking about her in front of her. Maybe (thought the vindictive part of me) he was going to tell me he'd been eavesdropping and he thought I was totally in the right and Dano should have been much sweeter to me. My whole body tensed up to brace myself for whatever this massive man had to say, fully aware he was easily 3 times my size and if he admonished me in any way, I would probably cry. "I teach middle school, and my sister here teaches kindergarten.We see a lot of kids come through the schools and can always tell what kind of parents they have based on how they behave." Here it comes, I thought. He's going to criticize our parenting and I'm going to have to lose my shit at him. Maybe I should direct him toward the slapping 2 year old. "The parents who were involved from the time the kids were tiny, those are always the best, smartest, happiest kids by the time they get to me. We can always tell the parents that don't care. Just...keep doing everything you're doing." All the tension had melted from my body, the critique I had braced for had never come. "She looks like she's got a lot of fight in her, and I can tell she gets that from you." I laughed, maybe a little bitterly.

"Poor her. But thank you so much." He laughed and tipped his beret at me. They packed up and left.

I had to recount his every word to Lilah Rose, with a line-by-line breakdown of what everything meant. Only when she had received an explanation to her liking and had digested everything, she let me wash her hands and face and get ready to leave. I left feeling like we were on the right track. Our foundation was solid, no matter what bumps we hit.

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.