Doubt Digit Joy

Our little girl woke up this morning with a wide grin, ready to embrace her double-digit birthday with open arms. She proudly flashed the crisp $20.00 bill left under her pillow by the tooth fairy, informing me with unrestrained glee, that “she usually gets $5.00” and “she must have left me extra because she knew it was my birthday!”   She then proceeded to get dressed in her school uniform, humming loudly all the while and taking frequent breaks to gush over Lola who watched her with equally unrestrained adoration. 

Her mood might have been elated but mine felt far more subdued. This birthday feels different. I do not feel ready to embrace the double digits, the doorway to all thing’s “tween”.  I am not ready for her to begin a new journey that may have her leaving behind the childish trappings of her youth. I ache with the bittersweet notions of those coming losses, those casualties of her growing up…not far off now it seems to me as she marks this milestone.  After depositing her, and her birthday donuts, at the classroom door this morning, I found myself fighting back tears on the way back to my car. As much as I want to share in her enthusiasm, I feel so much like a mother on the brink of something I am not prepared for and it has left me feeling uncharacteristically unmoored. 

These days I am struck by all the small things that mark her changing.  While she still prefers to clamber into our bed at night, she has begun going to sleep in her own room. She has taken to wearing a sleep mask she got for Christmas. It has a wild, purple zebra pattern that looks at odds with her little girl sleep smile.  I check on her to find that, even in sleep, she has begun to straddle some invisible line between the child and the young girl.  One of her arms is wrapped tightly around her stuffed horse Roo and the other is draped loosely around her dog Lola and that flashy eye mask is firmly in place. 

This week she asked me to paint her nails. She has managed to grow them at last, in spite of barn chores and piano lessons. The nail polish I had at hand was a perhaps a shade too dark for her, but she still brandished them proudly. As far as I can tell, they are her only real vanity in the otherwise athletic and unadorned style that she’s adopted as her own.  

Last night at the barn she went about her chores as usual, taking a break when a song came on she liked to “dance with Roo”. I had to laugh at her antics, her silly made-up moves that garnered only the most casual glances from her munching horse. Roo is growing used to his child, the one who covers his soft nose with constant kisses and prattles about his stall, talking about her day even though he is far more interested in his hay. Still, I see him turn to watch her with his large brown eyes, his curiosity as clearly evident as his affection for her. At times he seems to have this expression that says, “yup, that’s my kid…that weird, wonderful, chatty little being right there”, and I find myself in a complete and kindred agreement with our gentle gelding. 

Watching her this morning, I found myself thinking, “Yup, that’s my child…that’s my silly, kind, smart, crazy, loveable, “on the verge of something wonderful” …little being right there.”

I don’t know how much longer she will believe in the tooth fairy.  I don’t know when she will retire her stuffed animals or when I will stop finding her wrapped around me like a koala in the night.  I do not know how much longer she will break into those random fits of wild dancing.  For now, I celebrate those things and I feverishly document them…leave my testimonies in electronic ink so I will have them always.  While I might not be 100% ready for double digits, I know I am more than grateful, more than blessed for the opportunity to be part of it all.

The Irreplaceable Truth

Once upon a time I wandered a bit farther than I should have from my hotel in Bogota, Colombia and found myself in a tiny makeshift shop of an old woman who worked with clay. 

I was instantly enchanted by her creations, the intricate details of her tiny donkeys and saints scattered across the folding table.  The woman looked to be in her nineties, her fingers were terribly snarled and crooked with age.  In my tentative Spanish I asked her if she made them all, gesturing to the figures strew about her.  She nodded vigorously, then as if to prove it, she produced a tiny burro from her pocket.  I could see the clay was still damp and dark. She began to carve and smooth it, holding it up to show me how she worked the clay with one of her thumbnails.  She watched me looking over her wares as I tried to decide what I should take, calculating how many of the delicate pieces I could realistically cart back safety.   

I had a tiny donkey in each hand when I noticed the nativity behind her.  I was immediately struck by the serene expressions on the faces of Mary and Joseph and on the tiny baby Jesus in his crib of straw. It was rustically beautiful.  The lines of Mary’s flowing robes and the magical tilt of her face were peaceful and perfectly wrought. In her sweet face one could see all the wonder and mystery of her faith.  The touches of white paint on the trim of her hood and the delicate features of her infant were almost magical in their artistry. It was at once both simple and intricate. This nativity had been clearly made, not just by an artist, but by a woman of deep faith and love.  It moved me, touched something in spiritual inside me.  

I put down the donkeys and pointed to the nativity. The woman broke into toothy smile. Without thinking about how I would manage to get such a fragile thing home in one piece, I handed her a twenty dollar bill – almost twice the price she had told me.  She produced a roll of bubble wrap and some crumpled newspaper and proceeded to wrap each of the figures with deliberate care.

My holy family made it home with me unscathed. Every year since, I have gently unwrapped it and set it out during the Christmas season in a place of honor. Over the years, edges have chipped and some clay has crumbled in places.  I am dismayed each year to find more clay dust in the wrappings whenever I unpack the figures.  I am the only one who handles it and each year I try my very best to minimize any damage. It has become one of my most treasured heirlooms. It is one of the only things I own that is truly irreplaceable. That is why when I came home that first afternoon and saw the anguish on my mother-in-law’s sweet face, I knew. I knew she had broken something. As much as I silently prayed it wasn’t my beautiful nativity, in my broken heart I knew it was.  

She had accidently bumped the table and sent Joseph tumbling to the floor.  He had been efficiently decapitated, the clay fragments turning to dust on the hardwood floor.  She was devastated, asking me over and over if it had been expensive. I assured it that it hadn’t been valuable, and it hadn’t been, at least not in the monetary sense.  My daughter’s eyes were like saucers having learned from a very early age that my nativity was never to be touched.  She reached for Joseph’s tiny clay head, visibly preparing for the rage she expected was coming. I looked at my mother-in-law in tears and took one very long deep breathe before dismissing her apologies and telling her reassuringly that it was “no problem Mom.”   

After, I fled to the driveway to shed my private tears and call my husband. 

He listened, understanding at once the gravity of it all. I believe he must have instantly began combing the internet looking for a replacement sending me pic after pic of nativities that were nothing at all like mine. I told him that was pointless. I knew would never find another like it.  I told him how awful she felt. We agreed that he would not to say anything more. The damage was done, it had been an accident and there was no sense in making her feel any worse.  I reasoned that at least I still had my beautiful Mary and baby Jesus was still safely stowed away until Christmas Eve.  I admitted that we could probably try to reattach Joseph’s head, sans his neck of course, and conceded that perhaps no one would notice his missing hands or nose in dim light.  I reasoned, I reassured, I conceded…and I cried. 

 Standing in the driveway in the bitter cold, tears running down my face, I managed to find a surprising element of humor in the event. Suddenly laughing, I told him that how nativity had survived the trek home from South America, three moves, 14 years of being packed and unpacked, life with two dogs and a toddler and yet it could not make it through the first 24 hours of his mother’s visit. If that wasn’t ironic, I didn’t know what was. The laughter made my heart hurt less as laughter often does. 

By the time I went back inside, my mother-in-law and I had both recovered from our grief. I thought the most important thing was that my daughter had her grandmother here for the holidays. I thought about how much that meant and how much more meaningful that was than any Christmas decoration, regardless of how much it might have meant to me.  

I looked over to the solitary Mary in her corner and saw that the soft glow of the Christmas lights were casting bands of light and shadow over her serene features.  She looked as peaceful as always. 

I love my mother-in-law. Sometimes she is a virtual tornado that knows no bounds…but…I love her.  I love that she loves me and my daughter with the same fierceness that she loves her own children.  She treats my daughter like the treasure she is and lives every moment of her life to better the lives of her children and grandchildren and asks nothing in return.  I am completely and utterly certain this will not be the last thing she breaks, but regardless,  I am blessed to call her mother and to share my home and life with her. I welcome the peace of forgiveness and the humility of realizing that in the end, things are still just things.  It is our people and our moments with them that are irreplaceable.  

A Daughter, A Gift

Tomorrow my daughter turns six. In the quiet corners of the day I have found myself marveling over how rapidly we have both reached this milestone, my baby girl and I.

The last year has brought a host of new adventures and challenges and each one Jaden has embraced with a fearlessness that has both surprised and delighted me. She has blazed through kindergarten so far, adapting to life in her sprawling, bustling urban school better than we could have hoped. She has begun making friends, all the right kinds, and has set herself apart in the eyes of her teachers as a kind and contentious student who works hard and has the desire to participate and always do her best. Her father and I are very proud of how she is learning and maturing.

She is not always sunshine and smiles however, for with her independence, there has come defiance and rebellion. Jaden is coming to understand that as an only child she wields a fair amount of control over our daily routine, something she is learning to exploit for her own advantage at times. Challenges come, and we all do our best to navigate the lessons that life gives us with minimal frustration and fewer screaming fits.

So, on the eve of her 6th birthday, what can I preserve about my daughter at this stage in her life? What testimony can I leave in this electronic ink for her one day?

Jaden, at nearly six, is still our cuddle bug. She loves to park herself between us on the couch or lever herself in between us in bed. She prefers to fall asleep next to us, wrapped protectively around one parent or another. She is a fitful sleeper and I often wake with one of her legs thrown casually over one of mine or her elbows pressing into my ribs. She loves to sleep in when she can, snuggling up against us or inviting the dog to burrow under the blanket with her. I have to drag her from the bed on school days, often carrying her into the bathroom, still groggy and grouchy. She's discovered the joy of slipping on her toasty uniform after its sat warming on the bedroom radiator. She would eat Nutella and toast for breakfast every day if we let her. By the time I get her to the school, she's rushing from the car too soon, shrugging her backpack on and heading toward the doors. She never looks back anymore. She's making new friends but still prefers the company of her preschool crew, eager to reconnect when she can. The affection she shows them is testament for me of how sincerely she forms bonds and treasures friendships even at this young age.

Jaden loves art and music, constants from when she was very young. She is serene when she's working, connected to the creative part inside her. I watch her with my grandmother, the artistic force in our family, and I know they are kindred spirits and nothing makes me happier. She also loves science and math. She is interested in experimentation and I can see she responds to the rules and form of mathematics. Her favorite new show is Project MC2...a show about tween girl science geeks and inventors who's motto is #smartisthenewcool. This also makes me very happy, as I continue to shamelessly promote and plug the STEM agenda in our household. She is also reading, falling in love with the library as I did myself at her age. We read each night and I love listening to her sounding the words out under her breath.

Jaden loves being outside with her Dad. In the wave of unseasonably warm winter weather, she has spent long days kicking around in the yard and walking in the woods with him. She misses the boating and the ocean as much as he does even though she's eagerly awaiting snow angels and building snowmen in the yard. She is a child of the seasons, finding reasons to delight them all.

Jaden, at nearly six, loves her family most of all...her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, her cousins, her parents. She loves with abandon, drawing pictures and giving colorful, vibrant life to the stick figure representations of all the people she loves. She is affectionate and caring. She has an amazing sense of her place in our family. She's her cousin Kyra's biggest fan, the little sister to her beloved Desi, she is Tyler's devoted audience, never failing to deliver laughter at his antics...she is something unique to each of her cousins, older and younger, learning with them and from them at every opportunity.

Tomorrow we will celebrate another birthday with our growing girl. Despite all the changes and challenges to come, I hope all the things that are true about her nearly-six self are always part of her personal landscape because they are lovely and wonderful. She is lovely and wonderful.

"A daughter is the happy memories of the past, the joyful moments of the present, and the hope and promise of the future." ~Author Unknown

All the Difference in the World

I am not always good at juggling life. Some days I do better than others. Some days, not so much. For whatever reason, this morning I had a breakdown.

Jaden and I were running behind schedule. I was struggling to get her into tights, the same tights she wears every day, and she was fighting me. Her squirming gave way to outright protests and she broke away, running off after she banshee wailed, directly in my face. The epic headache bloomed behind my eye sockets.

I'm trying to yell less, trying to be more patient. I started to race after her. I tried, for a moment, to find the parental humor in her dashing around the house with her little butt hanging out and her navy tights pooled around her ankles like elephant skin. Rather than laughing, I surprised myself by starting to sob.

I think I was worn out from worry, from frustration, from not being enough - having enough time to be enough. I think my reserves had been driven too low from dealing with chronic pain over the last few weeks and the constant concern about what those aches and pains might mean. Whatever the reasons, I just snapped. I heard myself crying, and they were ugly, raw sobs, the kind that hurt when they finally break free. I left my daughter, hiding half-dressed, in the bedroom closet and ran downstairs.

I sat myself down in the kitchen. I tried taking deep breaths, tried to calm myself down. Breathe, the voice in my head commanded.

I looked up through tears to see Jaden standing in the kitchen in her stocking feet. She walked over and put her arms around me.

"Sorry Mom," she said, and hugged me as tight as her little limbs could manage.

And I hugged her back.

After a few minutes, we wordlessly went back upstairs, hand in hand. We finished getting dressed without any further trauma and even made it to school on time.

Maybe its not a bad thing to show a little weakness now and then. The people who love us best know how to best bring us out of the darkness. Sometimes all it takes is a heartfelt hug from the right person or a kind word of encouragement to spell away a bad moment. A little love in the right places in life makes all the difference in the world sometimes.