Not fair

I’ve been thinking about writing to you for the last two months, but circumstances kept getting in the way, and I wanted to wait until I could share your response to some big, good news. But then life conspired, and since it did, you’ve started dreaming about the Ugliss monster again (your name for him, but seems to fit most monsters) and have wet the bed a few nights. It’s totally understandable, given the givens.

Instead, now I want to write about how much it’s meant to me to spend alone time with you. The last few days in particular have meant the world to me, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is because you’ve provided me some shelter from several different kinds of pain. You, Finley, have shown me that family doesn’t have to dance a triumphant jig upon your heart while it is breaking, and it most certainly doesn’t have to take joy in kicking you while you’re down. No indeed, why, family can hold your hand, look deeply into your eyes and say in a quiet voice when no one else is around—and for absolutely no reason other than Super Why! is on television—“Don’t worry, Mama, I will take care of you.”

I didn’t tell you I was pregnant early on because I wanted to spare you the pain if the worst happened. But when it did, and I could feel your confusion at the unexplained undercurrents in our house turning into stress, I had to tell you about your sibling’s death anyway. So you never had the joy, only the pain. And for that I’m very sorry. But I’m not sorry for telling you that your sibling died, because you have processed it the best way you could, listening intently when it was first shared and then asking me questions every time one occurred to you (and often in such a way that it was obvious you’d forgotten we’d already discussed it). Your thoughtful response to every conversation supported me better than anyone else could have, and I was reminded again what a gift God gave both of us when he decided we’d work well together.

It sounds strange to say that I have a ‘favorite’ conversation about the topic of your sibling’s death, but this one really touched me:
F: Mama, can we go on vacation this year?

M: [Distracted while driving] Well, I guess since we’re not having a baby now, we can…

F: [Confused about what I'm saying] But I don’t want you to leave me behind! … Wait, why aren’t we having a baby now?

M: Because God took the baby home to live with Him.

F: Mama, why did God take my brother or sister away?

M: I don’t know. Maybe because He thought that we weren’t ready. Or maybe because He wanted the baby to live with Him instead.

F: … Well, I don’t like that. I’m mad at Him and I’m going to yell at Him, “HEY! Why did you take our baby? -I- wanted that baby for my brother or sister. You’re not being FAIR!”

M: … I know exactly what you mean. You’re very sad now, aren’t you?

F: YES, I am. … I don’t like God very much for doing that mean thing.

M: You’re within your rights to feel that way, baby girl.

You have been nothing but loving and supportive to me, holding my hand, saying sweet things without coaxing, and just generally being a 3-year-old sweetheart. I’m glad that I don’t have to go far to find a silver lining or the hugs that I need. Bonus: I don’t have to ask you for the hugs either. And for that, I thank you.

Mama, You So Silly!

Finley: Did you know my friends, Ned, Ted, Fred and Ed, the mice, came to visit and it’s their birthday today?

Me: No, I had no idea.

Finley: Yeah, and I made them a cheesecake.

She has never had cheesecake and had no idea it existed. When I told her it did, she laughed and said I was so silly for trying to trick her.

Mama’s Got a Brand New Bag

Fortune abounds here: we have our health, we have each other, and we have a girl who loves herself some buddies (aka, UglyDolls). Problem is, she cannot be without Ox for a second, and the list of treasures.which.must.come.with.us is growing longer every day. We were on the verge of trying to wean Finn from her personal Fort Knox when Mama won a spectacular new bag from EllieBellieKids.

Finley immediately filled her bag to the brim with buddies, intuitively putting her favorite buddies inside the yoga mat straps on the side. She got two full sized Uglies into the pouch, and two on the side the first time out of the gate.

After that, the bag went everywhere with us—except school. The only reason I don’t send it there is because I was forewarned that sometimes the artwork comes home wet, and I didn’t want to ruin the bag. Not that I couldn’t have just washed it since the bag is WASHABLE, Mamas!

We do use the bag for other things besides buddies—like going to toddler dance class. I’m telling you, amongst the 3-year-old fashionistas, Finn’s bag is hands down the cutest one there. And it carries two pairs of shoes, a change of clothes and a tu-tu.

So, as a mom, what do I like best about the bag? It’s not only cute and functional, it also allows Finley to begin to get a sense of what it’s like to carry her own stuff hither, thither and yon (answer: tough). Sized smaller for younger kids, it’s not dragging on the ground when she walks or otherwise tripping her, and the strap doesn’t dig into her shoulder. When we took it with us on a long hike this past weekend, she carried her own stuff much longer than she ever has (adding a few rocks and acorns along the way). I’m fairly certain that had she gotten her nap she’d have carried the bag the entire time. Once she declared she was too tired to carry it any longer, I was able to throw it over my shoulder and carry it easily—leaving my hands and pockets free of toys and trinkets.

I’d recommend this bag to anyone with a toddler—especially one who must travel with their treasures. Your hands and pockets will thank you.

Sickly

Last Friday Finn went to the dr to get some vaccinations and has wound up being sick. We’re not sure what it is yet (dr visit this afternoon), but the dr has guessed either croup or pneumonia over the phone. Will keep all posted, but the spiking fevers don’t fill Mama with much confidence given the febrile seizure she had back in July. Yes, I know febrile seizures are often just a one-off, but it’s a repeat performance I’d like to avoid if possible. More later.

Third Birthday Party for Ox (and Finley)

When you were 6 months old, your father got you something which changed our world: an Ox Ugly Doll. Ox became your ‘transition’ object, and you held him while sucking your thumb to sleep. It was shortly after you transitioned to chewing his arm (and simultaneously refusing to be separated from him) that we realized we needed to get a second Ox, so that we could always have one on deck while the other was washed. In time, you picked off number one’s mouth (which I replaced), and—shortly after that—finally chewed through his right arm. I bought some fleece in the same color and sewed a new arm on; you proceeded to chew the left arm off…on both dolls. I have now replaced both arms on both Oxen at least eight times a piece, and you show no signs of discontinuing the chewing. [We keep the pristine number three in the closet; you know nothing of him.] When you eventually realized that you had TWO Oxen, you refused to be without either (you actually prefer the stench of Oxes’ arms!).

When you were somewhere around 9 months of age, Grandma though it would be cute to buy you Mr. Kasoogie (whom you renamed Soogie). This trio has been both the blessing and the bane to us, your parents. Woe be unto the parent who tries to get you to bed without all THREE of your buddies. Or to the parent who heeds your cries in the middle of the night, when you have woken up without one of them in your clutch. OY, the screaming. We have thus learned to respect your relationship with the ones you call “my buddies”.

When I decided to throw you a (“real”) birthday party this year, the theme I settled on wasn’t a big surprise. Daddy and I talked about how we could bring your buddies to life, and many ideas were discarded along the way (I’m SO glad I decided not to try to hand make buddies for your friends; I’d have truly lost my mind), but the best were kept: buddy-faced cupcakes, buddy cutouts, buddy favors, and my favorite, Pin-the-Arm-on-the-Oxie game.

Much of the party planning was done while you were sleeping because we wanted it to be as much of a surprise for you as possible, but I have to say that I enjoyed seeing you do double takes each time you went to the refrigerator the morning of the party and there were cupcakes with different colored frosting setting up in there. Oh, to be inside your head!

Your party started at the front door, where Ox greeted your guests…

and continued with wayfinding which started just inside the front door (Hi, Soogie!) at three-year-old height. I can’t tell you how many of your guests squealed, “BUDDIES!” when they walked in; the fact that they knew to call them ‘buddies’ definitely says a lot about you!

Yes, of course we had hundreds of balloons to battle the 3 weeks straight of rain we’d had leading up to your party. Even the adults were giddy over them—it looked like a jellyfish hideout with all the strings hanging down.

And we also had a ridiculous number of from-scratch home made cupcakes, slaved over by yours truly. Thanks to Daddy’s sure hand for cutting out the Ox and Soogie cake toppers I’d “designed”.

I think this says everything about how you felt about the party up until the cupcakes:

When you get older and wonder how these cupcakes were received, if the amount of frosting on your guests’ faces was any indicator, they were delicious.

One of my most inspired moments was the Pin-the-arm-on-the-Ox game. I wasn’t sure how it was going to go over with the other 3s at the party, but everyone took a turn or two and laughed at where the arms ended up. Nearly everyone wound up on the board from the beginning (peeking? maybe.) but you, ever the child to go off the beaten path, were the only one to wind up in the curtains in need of a redirect. I couldn’t love you more for being the one to break that ice—well, maybe a little more because you also loved that everyone laughed.

As the party wound down, we began to hand out the favors. We started with 15 bags which would’ve been nice to shoot as proof of the hard work Daddy and I did, but we were so busy with the party that we forgot to stage and shoot them all beforehand. As you can see, we didn’t remember until half of the party buddies were already dispersed and traveling to their new homes. Inside each of these bags was a buddy, a bag of buddy food (that’s what you call jelly belly jelly beans) and a small set of watercolors to paint their new buddy, just like you paint Ox.

Overall, I think it was a fabulous party, everyone (even the adults) had a wonderful time, and you will have the buddies laminated and hanging in your bedroom just as soon as I can get them there!

Happy Third Birthday, Doodle

Dear Finley,

Yesterday you started your first day of Mama-free school, and while you’ve had some experience with being with other adults who aren’t your parents, you were still slightly nervous about going.

“Will Mattie be there?”

This took me a few seconds to process, because Mattie was at your sitter’s house until she had to tell his mama that, after trying to care for him on two separate 3 month trials, she couldn’t take care of him any longer. She decided this the day you looked at him and said, “Mattie, you need to stop crying now. We all miss our mamas, and when you sit and cry all day, it makes me miss MY mama. So stop!” I can’t tell you how much this broke my heart (more on that later). Given this knowledge, I did the demanded emotional calculus to understand that you were asking if the two boys who screamed the entire time of your orientation were going to be there.

“Maybe, Finn, and if they are, if you walk up to them and ask them to play with you, you’ll be able to distract them from their crying.” I could see you think about this, and having seen you engage other upset children in the past by asking them why they were crying and patting their arms, I knew you’d try this tactic out on the crying boys. While you are just as likely as any other three-year-old to cause distress in other children, it’s the moments where I can see you actively empathizing that I cherish.

You have asked me many, many questions about death, and how people feel about it. You asked me what I liked best about my own mother (whom we lovingly refer to as Monica Rose). When Geneva died and I told you that she went to be with Monica Rose, you told me that you wanted Monica Rose to send her back. Once, when I was looking frantically for something, you told me that Monica Rose took it (you won’t know until you’re much older why this made me laugh so hard). Yesterday you told me that you wanted Monica Rose to take off her wings and come to your birthday party.

Recently I told you to stop doing something and you responded, “GAAAAAHHH! You told me not to do it and now it’s ALL I want to do!”

For Halloween you want to be Geneva. Or Batman.

This morning you finally laid on me one of the more mundane, yet still hurtful, things I have dreaded for you because, like your mama before you, you are bigger all the way around than other girls: you told me I was fat. It took me a second to get over my shock and I sat there in silence. Then you said it again, with more vehemence. Then, a third time, adding that my tummy was really fat. Of course I tried to act nonchalant—because I certainly don’t want you to continue to tell me this or scar you in some way if someone had said it to you—I asked where you’d heard it. Predictably you said nowhere, and when pressed said that a girl from your class called you that yesterday. My heart seethed with anger for this poor girl until it dawned on me that, yes, you are in story telling mode, and maybe this was just ‘play’. Obviously you heard this somewhere and were just repeating it for effect, to see how it might land with Mama. Mama told you it wasn’t nice to say that to people and that I hoped you wouldn’t hurt people’s feelings that way. You said, “Yeah, and that hurt my feelings. Do I get to see Annika’s crushed down house now?”

Speaking of Annika, you have so missed your time with a true peer that going to Annika’s has been such a blessing for you. As much as it might pain her mama to hear it, you are so titillated by going to The Yellow House and seeing the crushed porch (thank you Irene). This often prompts many wild stories about how you were on the porch and Teller was scared so he wanted to fly up in the sky to get away and did I know that we were all almost blown away in the hurrican (you never pronounce the ‘e’, almost like you’re a 111-year-old survivor of the Galveston horror). Every time we walk past it there are new tales to be told, and I love every single one.

You have your mama’s gift for gab, and your father’s desire to please. When you start telling stories, you act them out with your entire face, emphasizing certain words over other ones, and playing the straight man from time to time. You dance around the living room so much that I’m taking you to your first tap/ballet class this Saturday morning (before the party). I hope that you enjoy it as much as I think you will. If I had to pick one over the other, I’d guess that tap will be more your friend than ballet, but time will tell. You just seem to have so much rhythm that it’s going to be something to see, whatever you choose to do.

I watch you with other kids your age and wonder who you will be in the next year. While they line up quietly for school, you are hyperactively jumping up and down and running in circles. While they sit quietly at story time at the library, you are the one yelling out answers and jumping up to talk to the librarians. I’m doing my best not to worry that you have ADD (gene pool, anyone?), and trying to believe that these things show you are marked for greatness. Or for getting your tuckas kicked at school, God forbid.

This Saturday we are hosting an Ugly Doll party for you. Mama is full of trepidation because she wants the party to be perfect. Here again, you have brought me close to Monica Rose, who stressed over making a canopy, a quilt, curtains, decorations, and a pinafored dress of Raggedy Ann and Andy for my third birthday. Maybe that’s why this is so important to me to do for you? And I promise you—I won’t get mad if you get gum on your dress.

Mainly because I know better than to give you gum in the first place.

Happy birthday to the best gift I have ever received!

So little time, so much to share

I’ve been grieving the time to update this blog more regularly for some time. A few months back I added a blog to my work site and I’ve not been very good about updating that either. Mainly because I’ve been busting my ass to make enough money so that I can justify spending every other waking moment of the week with Finn. She is without a doubt the joy of my life.

This year has had its ups and downs. Earlier in the spring we went to a funeral of one of Bill’s uncles and it reminded me of how fleeting life is, and how much most of us enjoy having small children around during sad times like those. I saw how Bill’s cousins came from far and wide, and realized how quickly I, too, said that of course we’d uproot the baby—routines be damned. But then it occurred to me that Finn had yet to spend time with my family, and that I didn’t want to wait until there was a sad reason to interact with them. It was for that reason that I began to rethink the ‘cost’ of taking her out of her schedule to visit my family this past weekend for a family reunion. Sure, she’d be miserable on the drive, and she’d definitely be hell on wheels once we got back, but the price was one I was willing to pay, even if she wasn’t.

This decision was cemented after Finley recovered from a seizure during her bout with roseola. (I always knew I’d be cool in the face of a crisis when it came to her; I never wanted to have that tested. Still, it’s good to know that when everyone around you is freaking out and wanting to call an ambulance that your mother’s instinct is the right one and that cooler heads sometimes do prevail.) What better way to celebrate your child’s survival than with a 12 hour car ride into the—beautiful, gorgeous, but still they are—boonies?

The drive down was ok until the point where she realized that all she had to do was say that she needed to pee or poo and Mama would careen the car off the road in a hurry. At that point she’d be released from her seat and she’d take off running, laughing at how stupid Mama was to fall for that trick AGAIN.

Sleeping with her was mostly divine, until the night she couldn’t be still. That was the night I moved into the other double bed; it was also the night she woke up crying because she peed. I reassured her that everything was fine, that it happened sometimes, and after changing her into dry clothes, welcomed her into my arms and my bed. She went immediately to sleep; I stayed awake, relishing the opportunity to have her all to myself.

She was definitely the belle of the visit, hamming it up for all the cousins who’d never met her before. During the big family photo, she waited until just before the shutter clicked, threw up her hands, and made a silent ta-da face. I was the only one who saw it, started laughing immediately, gave her the thumbs up and squealed, “You’re the coolest thing EVER!” I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so proud, or a room of people look so confused. I hope we get to have a lot more moments like that as she gets older.

Also, I need to get this girl into dance class. She has got RHthym. Two separate men have played drums for her the last two weeks, changing up the beat every so often, and it’s like she anticipates when the beat is going to change, and changes her dance to match seamlessly. I swear, she’s got the moves.

What I love best is her little conversations with me about things that make me finally feel like I’m not a nut. Ok, maybe I am a nut but at least I’m not the only nut any more. For instance, at brunch Monday morning, she was watching the busboy and quietly mumbled, “Why are you so mad?” I told her he wasn’t mad, he was just working. My sister opined that she was talking about Grand, but no, it was the busboy of furrowed Neanderthal brow, rushing all around the crowded diner. I feel blessed to understand Finley that well.

Mama doesn’t even want to think about this

Me [walking from bathroom to bedroom naked]: This is my po-po.

Mama: Yes, it is, except it has a fancy name. Everyone’s parts have fancy names. Boy parts are called penises and girl parts are called vaginas.

Me: …

Mama: Can you say ‘vagina’?

Me: Yes, but mine is called a fiesta.

And…scene!

Scene: Tea party, this morning, our house.

Mama: Mmmm, Finley, this tea is delicious! Where did you get it?

Me: At the pet store.

I’m so emotional, baby

Lately I’ve been flexing my emotional muscles. The last few weeks I’ve tried out several phrases I am totally going to keep in my back pocket and pull out about ten years from now. I’ve been racking up some gems:

Mama: I love you more than anything in the world.
Me: I know. I don’t care.

Mama: Finley, stop yelling at me and let me drive the car so we don’t have an accident.
Me [muttered under breath]: You don’t care about me.
Mama [aggravated now, turns off radio and rolls up windows in 90 degree heat because that's what I was screaming for]: Don’t you tell me I don’t care about you—I care about you more than anything in the whole world.
Me: No, you don’t care. I have sun and wind in my eyes and I could be blind. You don’t care.
Mama:  You have no idea…
Me: HMPH!

Mama to Daddy about a diet: Well, you wouldn’t be able to have milk any more—
Me [chopping hand through the air for emphasis]: NO, no more milk for YOU, Mama and Daddy. Now, how ’bout some juice? (Mama starts laughing hard) I’m serious. NO, I’m serious. Listen!