Wannabe Hippie

Recently, Mark got on me about being too quick to anger with our kids.  And I had been; totally.  Things had been stressful, I wasn't eating well (as clearly evidenced when Lily had to tell me to eat the other day when I was considerably more cranky than I should have been), I'd been sick, was having trouble sleeping... I was not being an awesome parent.  At all.  Still, I felt a wee bit of redemption when the following occurred:

Dropping off the kids at Grandma's house, Lily marched up to my mom and with a look of glee on her face announced, "This morning Anya asked for a banana and so Daddy got her one and she took one bite and then said, 'I want cereal! I want cheese! I want yogurt! I want bread! I want milk!' and Daddy yelled, 'JUST EAT YOUR FREAKING BANANA!'" Then she grinned at Grandma like it was the best thing that ever happened to her.

My mom's reply was ever so kind with, "Sounds like things were stressful at your house this morning."

Indeed.

But it does make me laugh that in the few hours he gets to spend with them each day they can drive him to yell and yet I'm the one who gets called on it after days and days of just this craziness.  I'm not saying he's wrong; I need him to call me on it when I'm getting so frustrated with the rest of the world that I let the kids get me to the crazy place.  But when I told this same story to a very dear friend of mine she replied, "Sometimes we call others on the things we are most ashamed of about ourselves."

Word.

And so we try to do better.  We try to remember that a child's work is to push and push and push until the boundaries are so clearly defined, they won't step over them in the wide world without understanding there could be consequences.  We try to remember that it is not so easy being three or five or even thirty-three or forty.  We try to remember that each day is a chance to start over, clear the slate and not allow yesterdays frustrations to make today so much harder to handle.  We try to remember to count to ten and speak calmly, especially when we don't want to.  We try to remember that the most powerful people in the world have achieved the unthinkable by simply sitting down and being quiet.  

Not that it's easy.  I know.  Trust me, I know. 

But I'm starting to think that this is my life's work: learning to sit down and shut up when all I want to do is rage like an idiot.  If only I didn't feel like I had such a long way to go.

What's your life work?

As I listened to the little girl scream from the bedroom where I had stuck her when she hit the big one, held the big one clutched to me as she bawled, all while making sure dinner didn't burn and unpacking the full dishwasher I had a moment where I thought: maybe it's time to reread Siblings Without Rivalry: How to Help Your Children Live Together So You Can Live Too.

Until then, anyone have any suggestions for handling the intense rivalry that has developed betwixt my girls?  I'm about thisclose to pulling all my hair out and running off to join a commune.  Even the idea of silence is intoxicating right now.

And here's the finished product, all glazed and fired and ready to caffeinate my husband:

And here's the husband getting caffeinated:

 Thanks to Ani for making it for him!

With Lily spending the week at Princess Camp, Anya and I finally got the chance to spend some one-on-one time just hanging out together. 

It was weird.

On Monday, with Lily showing a bit of resistance to me leaving, we decided to stay close to the rec center and headed over to the mall a couple miles down the road.  I tossed Anya out of the car and told her to run free, wanting her to finally have a chance to lead the way instead of being routinely shoved behind her sister who constantly yells, "I NEED TO BE IN FRONT!"  Most of the shops didn't open for another 45 minutes so we grabbed a Jamba Juice - Anya enjoyed picking her regular without Lily complaining that she didn't like strawberry best and Anya always picked strawberry and why couldn't she pick ALL THE TIME! - and then marched up and down the finery at Cost Plus.  Anya marched me into a WalMart but quickly felt the evil seeping into our bones and so marched us back out.  We spent a good ten minutes watching an extremely adorable window washer clean the windows at the shoe store, Anya fascinated by the rhythmic motion of his squeegee and me... well, fascinated by the rhythmic motion of his squeegee, of course.  We went and dropped imaginary pennies into the fountain and then delighted when Anya's wish for "a girl" was granted moments later when we walked past a dress shop and she spotted the "girls" in the window.  Inside the Target we spotted another Jamba Juice, which was promptly declared to be "crazy talk".

It was pure fun on three-year-old feet.

By the time the mall was really getting shaking I was feeling confident I wouldn't be called back to collect my princess from camp and so we decided to find a couple of low mileage pit woofies and help 'em build a memory.  Wait, no.  That wasn't it.  Instead we marched into one of those places where you pay someone to let you paint knick-knacks.  I was able to steer her clear of the tchotskis and we settled on a mug that Mark could take to work. 

And paint it we did.  I was allowed to paint the inside while Anya had free range on the exterior.  She had a blast, singing as she worked, using more paint than you would ever think a mug would be and shooing me off anytime I tried to help.  And now Mark has a mug that he thinks is wickedly cool.  I'll get a photo of the finished product soon but for now, check out a couple of Anya creating it:

Methinks we'll have to go back, if only so that I can paint a little too.  Personally, I'm hoping to go with Bethany as she makes the best stuff.  And she might know what a pit woofie is, which would make the whole experience even better.

So despite my minor in Women's Studies and the fact that I'm a card carrying tomboy, we signed Lily up for Princess Camp this year. Seriously, it exists.  When I pointed out the class to Mark in the rec center schedule, it was in jest.  Didn't he think this was ridiculous?  He looked at me, pointed to our eldest as she pranced around it a bit of fabric for a veil and a big poofy dress and said, "Look at your daughter.  Sign her up."  Coupled with the fact that she's starting Kindergarten in a few weeks and has never been to preschool, therefore had no concept that I could drop her off with a teacher and would actually come back later, and it was only natural that we would find ourselves with a princess in training.

The first day she cried as I left her with the teacher, who luckily turned out to be her dance teacher, Ms. K.  The tears, I later was informed, were short lived.  The next day she cried sometime towards the end of class, wanting me to come back.  The third day I got there early for pick-up, said hello and then sat in another room with Anya waiting for her class to be over.  She thought I had left without her and so cried some more.  The fourth day there was not a tear in the room.  The fifth and final?  There were a few tears, but they had to do with her dress being too hot.  So she took it off and performed for the mommies and daddies with a huge grin plastered across her face.  It was awesome.  Seriously, look*:

I feel like Kindergarten will be a wee bit easier, now that we've had this little trail run.  And look at the pride on my girls face?  I may have to give up my tomboy card, but for her, it's totally worth it.

* Sorry about the camera quality.  I suck.  And when she saw these videos she giggled and said, "I kept having to pick my nose and scratch my ear!" like it was the best thing EVER!  That's my girl.

Lollipop provided by her sister, who got it from Princess Camp.  Yes, I said "Princess Camp".  My tomboy card has officially been revoked.

Since Sunday's loss I've been finding myself in hundreds of little moments of, "this is when...". 

This is when Millie would come curl up on my lap and steal a few moments of love.
This is when Anya would wave "HI KITTY" and then jump away when Millie batted at her.
This is when Millie would be getting under my feet and yelling at me for food.
This is when I would be giving this bit of salmon juice to the cat, instead of giving Maya a double dose.

There are so many ways that cat fit into my life, some of them wonderful and some less so.  You don't realize how deeply someone has become part of your everyday until they are suddenly gone.  My lap is so freaking empty at night and my bed too quiet without her motor running at the end of it.  And Mark is firmly in the "no new pets" phase, insisting that the next animal we get will produce eggs.  I'm OK with that, most of the time.  Then I feel the silence in my bedroom and vacuum up nothing but flat stands of dog hair, rather than the rolling bits of fluff that used to annoy me and yet where so perfectly Millie.  Those rolling bits of fluff were all that Maya and I found of her Sunday morning, really and when I find one hiding under the bed I am almost loath to let the vacuum anywhere near it.

I gave away what was left of her food and gathered up her bowls to clean.  I laundered the bedspread.  I dug up photos of her when she was tiny and set them by the scanner, but haven't had the time or emotional energy to actually scan them. 

Yesterday when we went to Grandma's house Anya went up my mom and with a huge grin on her face said, "My kitty got eaten!"  My mom hadn't caught up with this blog in a week or so and was shocked to hear the news of Millie's death. 

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard." She told a still grinning Anya.  Then looked over at me with sorrow in her eyes, knowing how deeply I must be hurting.  Nothing like mother-love to heal a bit of a broken heart.  And it is healing.  As the freshness of her loss wears off, I find myself approaching normal.  Abet, a "normal" with big empty spots where a large orange cat used to sit.  

How long will I be grieving her loss, I wonder?  And when will it be OK to pull down the metaphorical black curtain?  What is too soon and what is crazy-cat-lady?  I guess I just have to ride this bit of the river and see where it takes me.  

Last year when we were in Mexico visiting Milton and Susu I had an opportunity to ask Susu if they had plans to adopt another baby.  "Yeah," she said, "but every time we start moving in that direction, something gets in the way.  I think it has to be like when we found Michelle; God has to be speaking to us." 

Even an agnostic like me can accept that God was speaking to them when they adopted Michelle.  They had been attending a church in Florida whenever the boat was docked there and gotten to know the paster and some of the congregating fairly well.  When they knew that adopting a baby was what they wanted more than anything, they stopped by to see the paster after service, putting it out there that they were ready to adopt.  His eyes grew wide and he took their hands; just that day a woman had come to him asking for a family to raise the baby growing steadily in her belly. That day, our friends were on the road to becoming parents.

When Mark came home the other day and told me that someone very close to us was pregnant, someone who we love deeply and yet know should not raise a child, we were rocked into the world of what comes next.  Was God speaking to us about welcoming another child into our home?  We're happy with our two and have taken permanent steps to keep it to just two, and yet we knew that with certain things, you step up. Period.  We promised each other to find the best possible solution for this child, even if that meant adjusting our future.

Later that day while getting the mail, Mark pulled out some catalogs for Milton and the light went off in my head. "THAT'S IT!" I yelled through the car window, "God is speaking!"
"What?" He looked at me as though I had gone mad.
"Milton and Susu!" I watched as the light flicked on in his head as well.  He made some phone calls to see if Milton and Susu would be considered for adoption by the family and when they responded with enthusiasm, he called Milton.

And just like that, God spoke.  Our friends will likely become parents again, sometime around February.  And we will still get to see this baby, be part of his or her life and know that this is the best possible outcome anyone involved could ever ask for.  Just to top it all off, my midwife told me about another wonderful family that would be interested if for some reason Milton and Susu didn't work out.  And the biological mom is thrilled to know that this surprise baby is wanted, deeply and totally, by multiple families who are or would be amazing parents.

Of course, seven months is a long time and things may change.  But just knowing that there are options out there, that this child would never go without loving parents, it means everything to me. 

And hearing God speak? That was a lovely surprise, too.  Especially for someone who hasn't heard word one from God for a very long time.

3:38pm text to Mark: My sore throat has just morphed into a full blown sick. Do you have to work late? If so, can you kill me? Please?

3:40pm reply: Sorry I do have to stay late. POW.

6:12pm text to Mark: I'll pay you ten million dollars if you're home by the kids bedtime.
6:40pm text to Mark: 11 million if you bring home treats. For me. Not for the kids.  AND all before bedtime.

Maybe he's not replying because he thinks I'm dead?  After all, he did POW me with a text message.