Happy Crunchbar to Ava.

Ava's birthday. She is 8 remarkable years old. She is the sort of kind and gentle that will bring her both joy and sadness. She is wise beyond her years and SO funny. If you hurt someone she loves, she is a force to be reckoned with. Otherwise, she treads peacefully. People ask us if the girls ever fight because they rarely, if ever, do so in public. The answer is, of course they fight. But they love each other so completely also. Ava loves being the big sister when Phia relents and admits there might be an age difference. Ava is patient with Sophia to a point of almost being passive. Almost. She too has her moments when anger and frustration win over and Ava ditches her rational, compassionate self. It's almost as though someone has flipped a switch and then come Phia's crocodile tears. And just as quickly, the switch flipper, the switch, the circuitry, and the wall within Ava all realize Sophia is crying because of something she said, did, or eluded to and she too begins crying. Frequently, Ava's tears last long after Phia's have stopped. She can't stand that she was the cause of Phia being sad or hurt. As a little, tiny girl back in Madison she would come crying to me that the other kids were stepping on ants. Last week she cried about a diseased tree we had to have taken down. A few hours later she announced she was going to be a green developer when she grew up. She would build the homes and buildings people needed, but she would build them around the trees. No trees would be removed or hurt, no animals left homeless. This is my baby girl, my monkey. When I found out I was pregnant, I left my office to meet Jeff at our [too quiet without kids] home. I walked into our kitchen and he was standing there, exhausted and elated. It had been a long, painful journey. I walked into his arms and cried in a way that cleansed my soul. All of the hurt and anger washed away and right then I was ready to move on. I was ready to grow a baby and to love it completely. And I loved every amazing miraculous moment of this, my first, pregnancy. And though it may seem redundant to you, it is imperative to me that I keep alive the memory of Ava's brother. "Ava's brother" is a phrase she isn't familiar with just yet. At eight years old, I fear she already feels too much. Every year, we talk about if this is the year we tell her. And every year we get our yes's and our no's for all the same reasons. She knows part of her is missing, I believe that in my heart. When she was much younger she talked about the little boy who played with her when, in my eyes, she was sitting alone. I want her to find out when she can make as much sense of it as any of the rest of us, which to be honest on a lot of days isn't much at all. I don't think I'll ever understand. I don't think I'll ever be okay with it. I will continue to trust that God has a plan though. He told me my baby was there when everyone else said there was only one. I left the ultrasound calm and at peace. I knew. We went back two weeks later and there were my babies, side by side, little hearts flashing like beacons of hope and joy and comfort just below my heart. He let us be together. And then when we had shared what was to be shared and we three existed together as we were meant to, God brought him home. And on May 29th when it hurts and I get angry, because I do every year, I look at Ava and know that I'm witnessing a direct line to Heaven. This eight year old beauty of mine is more than I had ever imagined a child could be. Her sister two and a half years in tow proving that to me also; I'm a mourning Mama who is blessed in spades. Happy birthday to my Ava Lili, the baby girl that gave me back hope and joy and comfort IN my heart.

So much blog, so little focus.

This weekend my sister and I were to join together for a long weekend full of such girlish things as tea parties and crumpets, perfected knitting skills, and reading favorite passages from Little Women. But then I stepped off the plane and she slowed her car to a gentle roll so I could jump in without much harm and it only got grittier from there out.

I won't divulge many of the details, but I'm told that's typical of a pending case. My bucket list took a huge hit this weekend. I shot not just one gun, but two. Two. Guns. And on one of them, I just missed the bullseye twice. The other gun I'm not certain I was hitting anything in the same general direction as I shot. But, no worries! I only made my gun range compadres scatter one time when I forgot to not aim the gun at them. I think we can all agree I did quite well.

We shared favorite shows and watched them until the wee hours of the morning on a gigantic screen. We ate seriously amazing food. A lot of seriously amazing food. I was introduced to new friends and a new card game that shall go nameless as I'm not totally certain of my readers age range and offendability. Suffice it to say, I won lots and I shouldn't be bragging about that.

This weekend felt a bit like an adult version of spring break minus the typical spring break shared STDs and/or vomiting in your friend's hair while you hold it so she doesn't throw up in it.

Its good to be home, but, last night when the girls asked, "What happens when a clown blows his line?", the answer I uncontrollably shouted at them was clearly unacceptable in my regular surrounding.

For those of you in the know, I didn't even need Michael Jackson for that round.

Total success.

Change

Today Sophia graduated from preschool. She is now officially a kindergartner. Ava will be a third grader. And I am officially at a loss. I have one last summer to pretend (with myself) that I stay home during the day with my kids. Next fall my house is going to feel quieter, larger, and more lonely than ever before. I made the decision to be a stay at home mom after Ava was born. It was exactly one week before I was due back to my pre-mom career that I had an epiphany. I couldn't do it. I sat on the couch and cried while holding this perfect tiny human. And in that moment, Jeff and I both realized there was possibility where we had assumed would be none. Jeff is an amazing man who has always dedicated himself to giving all he can to his family while making sure to not trade time with him for whatever other 'goods' we thought we needed. So, with his dedication to his work and his keen financial decision-making, and my complete lack of needing to be a woman in the workforce proving we (as women) can do it (cause I think we kind of already proved that), I became a stay at home mom. I've never felt I had to prove anything to anyone in the world of careers. And maybe that's because I have friends who have blazed that trail already. I have friends who have become doctors, engineers, pastors, lawyers, sales gurus, and project managers that would leave any man shaking in his boots. They are brilliant, kind, funny, and beautiful. They are also in possession of drive I left on the high school soccer field. In sports I'm competitive. On E-bay I'm competitive. In motherhood, I'm not competitive. I can't be. I know both of my girls have baby books, but I only know where one is and I'm not sure which of the girls it belongs to. I kept a journal of Ava's every waking and sleeping minute until she was about 4 months old. I took a billion photos and wrote down the adorable things that were said and done. But, I hit a point where I was missing everything because I was trying to document it all. And I've learned that for me it isn't necessarily worth it. I want to be IN the moment with my girls. I don't want to write it down and remember years later only the words on the paper. I want to remember the moment because I was part of it. I will never be that mom that has everything organized even with only two kids. I never have a dinner plan until its 6:30 and I realize I have no dinner plan. I lose things and find them when I no longer need them. My girls go to sleep later than they should and they eat too much sugar for breakfast. My laundry piles up until finding clean towels becomes a competitive event of sorts. And I have NO idea whats going on with the IRS that has everyone up in arms. But I won't feel guilty about any of that anymore because I built my girls a ladybug roller coaster in the backyard. I filled a 6'x10' inflatable pool inside the trampoline. I hang rope swings and take sidewalk chalk requests. I have a snack pantry that would leave any kid glassy-eyed. My girls have more books than fit on the shelves and they can recite almost all of them with their eyes closed. My girls have never gone without a hug when it was needed or simply just wanted. Most importantly, my girls know that if I say I'll be there, I will be there. My physical health has made that last one tricky at times, but seeing their eyes light up when they realize I've come is motivation enough. They aren't ashamed of the bags under my eyes or my occasional less than trendy appearance. My girls have taught me more about living and being happy than I'll ever be able to teach them. My girls come from love and they take that with them where ever they go. There are going to be lots of 'moments' coming up where I'll wish the girls were with me to enjoy them. But, I can't stop them from growing and moving on in life. I, as the adult, will make the adjustments. I will meet them on their new levels. We will continue to have our moments together walking to and from school. And maybe with my new free time, I'll get the laundry done. But, probably not.

Follow Up

So, this morning, in preparation for the much anticipated beginning of the fencing in process, I headed out to the backyard to finish (yep. didn't get it all done in one shot) the poop pick up. As I launched into my task with a goal of completion in mind, ever so confidently, I learned a few lessons I'd like to share with you.

Lesson 1. Its all about getting in "The Zone". Head down, focus on the pile you are currently chiseling out of the frozen ground. When your eyes trail from the current pile to one of the many, many, *sigh* many remaining piles you've yet to tackle, overwhelmed is the last of what you'll feel. You must develop a poop pickup tunnel vision. I'm certain Darwin mentioned this somewhere.

Lesson 2. You don't need help. I'll clarify. You don't need help in the way of a 1 year old yellow lab named Murphy. Here's why. To get the frozen poop dislodged from the frozen ground, you'll need to wedge the scooper under the tip of the frozen poop pile. Next, elevate the scooper and using your worst judgement ever, kick the scooper with your boot. What this will do is loosen the frozen pile from the ground keeping some of it attached by mere strands of grass while simultaneously sending delicious frozen poop nuggets straight toward your waiting assailant. He will love this part, you won't. Now, using the same boot you kicked the scooper with and also managed to find the only fresh pile of poop in the yard with nudge your helper firmly enough to smear fresh poop into his soft, yellow fur but gently enough to not move him at all. This is an effort to move him away from the poop nugget on the ground; forget the one in his mouth. Lost cause. No kisses. You'll notice we've achieved nothing but the poop smear. Lets move on.

Lesson 3. We've mastered the poop smear, now lets entertain the neighbors. The next thing we'll learn is how to send the frozen poop snack flying AWAY from your helper. First, you'll need to make certain the tie down reaches just far enough that in an effort to get to the frozen turd your helper will take out your knees from behind. Where you knew he was. But didn't. The important thing to focus on here is that you bend your ankles at the right angle such that the poop that spills out of the scooper spills into your wide open, untied boots. Don't worry. This is much easier than it sounds. You're going to feel like screaming. You are also going to feel like reaching down with your frozen, ungloved hand and giving the nylon coated steel tie down cable a hearty yank. But, before you do that try to remember that the nylon broke in the freezing cold and now there's a jagged edge right where you're grabbing. And what is that on the, oh. poop. its poop. There's poop on jagged edge you've now driven into the palm of your hand. This is a good time to set the scooper down like you're in control. Don't worry, the poop won't spill. Its mostly in your boots, remember? You're going to want to tend to the searing, now actively infected wound on your hand. But, you aren't going inside without your helper and you need to get that poop in his fur cleaned up. Remember the nudge? Now that you've set the scooper down and are trudging toward the house, you've given the clear universal sign that its time to play. Oh! Its a race! He's going to beat you to the door! Bad news, you lost the race. Good news, he wiped most of the poop from his fur onto your pants! One step done. And now, OH! ITS A GAME! He's got your coat! He's got your coat! He's got your coat in his poop mouth! Your helper is now ready for a nap and you? Well, thank God for wine.

Lesson 4. Sometimes poop pickup tunnel vision does jack shit.

Ava's First Communion

This Saturday, Ava will receive her first holy communion. This is a big deal in our family; we're Catholic. But, we also love puppies and Gene Wilder movies so don't go getting all judgey. My dad actually converted to Catholicism just recently, but he has always a been a fervent supporter in the Sunday morning ritual of 'waking' the 'sleeping' children who on this one day of the week when sleeping in and being seen as resting so beautifully with so much mercy would be an absolute Godsend except that of course you can't physically oversleep on a church day. You can't. Like you will not fall asleep as you lay in your bed staring at the clock knowing you are the only one in this hemisphere still awake even though if you don't fall asleep soon you're going to fall asleep in chemistry, miss the one vital key to understanding anything ever and drooling on your desk in front of cute, smart boys. Life is so unfair. Anyhow, we would be rousted from the beds we truly didn't want to be in anymore but you don't ever show your cards that soon. You never know when your parents might be hit by an errant puff of euphoria and nostalgia and maybe they'll want you to spend your Sunday morning in a sunny spot eating toast instead of standing, sitting, standing, kneeling, sitting, standing, singing, kneeling, audibly digesting your own empty, empty stomach, and then finally kneeling on a small, pointy rock. But, no. Here you are squished into the car on the way to church. Mom and dad are all cologne and perfume and breath mints in the front seat while in the back seat it's all pissy and tired, someone else's socks, not a damn thing to eat, and then out of nowhere, "HOLY JES**!! Someone is spraying perfume in my eyes!!! Why would you DO" "get out of the car! We're late!" "But my eyes!" "Stop yelling! We're late! We're almost inside, lower your voice!" And when it seemed it couldn't get any worse, dad would whisper in your ear as you slid into your seat "And when we get home, you need to clean the litter box. There was cat crap in the laundry this morning! (Pause) Where'd you find that shirt?" And then the priest starts in, "Good morning my friends. (I'm already losing consciousness) On this beautiful, faithful morning, we find ourselves giving of our time freely to The Lord. Today's mass is the longest in our season as we have much to discuss..." So, I was saying, we're Catholic. First communion is a big deal. To this point in our family, the girls have all worn the same traditional dress starting with Grandma Shirley. It is beautiful and delicate and I am terrified to put it on Ava. Probably just for pictures. We purchased a new first communion dress for Ava because the traditional one is so fragile. I would like to have photos of her in it. Tragically, the photos of me in this dress were lost due to a really bad perm and two front teeth that refused to stop growing. My train of thought may be derailing. Last night, I was telling Jeff about my first communion party. My grandpa and grandma, uncles and aunts, cousins a plenty; it was great. And I began to realize how things change over time. Uncle Tom won't be there force feeding me Teddy Grahams. We won't have a solid 45% of the state's cowboy boots and belt buckles on site. Probably no garbage can lid shields and sticks and HUGE VHS recorders. What will there be? There will be Georgetown Cupcakes. Lots of them. These are serious cupcakes. In flavors like salted caramel and Irish cream. And there will be family. Not all of us, but enough of us to cause some sort of issue for someone unrelated to our group. It's what we do. So, on Saturday Ava will wear her new dress and the traditional one, she will receive her first communion, we will eat cupcakes, and so help me God, no one will get perfume in their eyes. Should be a pretty nice day.

Spring

Its finally the time of year when everyone starts quoting poets and musicians recounting how they've survived the dark times and now realize that it is the season of rebirth. Baby bunnies, chicks, pregnant moms at church, etc. I'm going somewhere kind of different so...hang on. Spring, to me, is not about the rebirth of almost everything. It is about the sudden, unavoidable realization that Jeff and I are not nearly as great at rounding up the winter turds in the back yard as we thought. I just spent an hour of quality time with the poop scooper and a 15 gallon pail. The sun felt warm, the outside noises weren't the screaming of the wind across frozen chunks of land meant only for slipping on and awkwardly making your way across. But the poop. Oh the poop. We try to stay ahead of it but for right now and not much longer we are not only combating the build up of our own dogs' collective deposits, we are also wealthy in that of our neighborhood's dogs' poop. Not cool. We NEVER, and I do mean NEVER, let our dogs out of our yard to potty. We go on walks, we take bags for cleaning up after them. They need to go out, we put them on the tie down. But in our self-proclaimed dog friendly neighborhood, we are the minority and it makes me CRAZY. When I'm cleaning up dog poop that there is no physically possible way it was our dogs I get a little bit cranky. I know exactly which dogs are doing it too. It isn't worth going to the neighbors and saying, "Hey. I know we're all friends here but when your dog craps in my yard it makes me feel unstable" and I care too much about my own dogs' safety to accidentally intentionally let them wander directedly into the neighbor's yard for a good ol' poo full of legos and stuffed animal filling. But, I just really need to not know that the neighbors share table food with their dogs, that their dogs have a penchant for eating brightly colored something or other, and that their dogs have too little time to stop and poop so they must poop while walking thereby spreading out their gift to the maximum. Very, very, extremely soon our yard will be fenced. That makes me happy in the dark places of my soul. I'm mildly interested to know how the neighborhood dogs will survive without their (clearly) top choice dumping ground. I imagine the unfenced front yard will be extraordinary this time next year. But I will deal with it as I point and laugh from our fenced back yard. As I think about this all, I realize things about myself. First, I never thought there would be an internally developed dog poop ranking system by which I would find myself living. Example: I would rather use the corner of the poop spade to scrape the soft, water-logged poop out of the grass and onto my scooper than to fish the floaters out of the thawed pockets of ice where the sun hasn't yet melted the ice completely. I would MUCH rather, to an almost dinner table conversation worthy level, scoop hot, fly-covered summer poop than anything produced in the winter or spring. Also, scooping poop midwinter is NOT easy. Even if the snow is soft. You either end up with half your poop slurry being water depending on temperature or you have to chisel the poop out of the ice and you can absolutely expect to get a sudden sensation of something small and cold and mysterious right next to your mouth in the process. Was it a big snowflake? Could have been. But, you know that isn't what you're going to settle on. Nope. It was a bit of chiseled poop ice that flew up and landed right by your pie hole. You can be certain. And there is no way there was only one single tiny piece that came careening through the air toward your face. Is there something on my tongue? Was it there before? How come when I scream I smell dog poop? This is all possible. Getting back to spring, birds are chirping and guys in jacked up trucks with no money to fix the muffler AND feed their family (I tell myself) are frequenting the streets. They have their windows down and no matter what kind of mind-expanding music I'm certain they're listening to, it all gets washed out by other noise which leaves them sounding like a poorly maintained ice cream truck to me. And I would very much like to tell them that. I would also like to give them a bullet point list of the keen and correct observations my 5 and 7 year olds have made while sitting next to them in traffic briefly. But not right now because clearly by the way they just peeled out they're late for their Mensa meeting. So, like I was saying, YAY SPRING!!

Being Mama

This morning when I was going to get ready for work Sophia asked if we could do something together. I asked what she had in mind. "maybe, Mama, you could draw me another ballerina and I could paint her?" I love drawing for the girls and their friends. I've gotten proficient enough that if we all knew what it was I was supposed to draw we can all see the resemblance on the paper. But the girls make me feel like I'm a full blown artist. They are wowed by my ballerinas and horses and unicorns. I can also crank out a pretty serious sidewalk chalk dinosaur. The girls frequently bemoan their own drawings wondering why am I "so good" and they aren't. But, I love everything they draw. Everything. I love Sophia's people and I love Ava's three dimensional shapes. Our attic is packed with boxes of art, projects, hand prints, scratches of pencil on the notepad from the hotel, first signatures, and foot tracings. And it is gathering more all the time. I keep every sheet that comes home from school. Why? Because when they have a hard day somewhere down the line, I'm going to show them the attic and I'm going to tell them I read every word because in some way it had to do with them, I took in every detail of every piece of art because it came from inside their minds, I kept every finger print because someday I won't know if those are their fingers or mine but I can come back to these boxes and put my hand to their tiny hand and almost remember what that felt like. I keep everything because my girls are my world and they need to know they are important to someone. Regardless of age or size or title (I know Phia won't always want to be a horse). I want to show them these boxes and make them understand that I may have seemed to miss moments when I was sick and couldn't be there for first times on the beach or first times at a picnic. But in my soul, I was there and for every other moment I was there in person. They are important. Ava is fiercely independent, but when she asked me to eat lunch with her at school a week ago I knew it really meant a lot to her. I, of course, was just barely into what would be a week of relentless kidney pain. I took my meds and slept through almost three days. I cried at night because those days I wasn't a mom. I didn't play games or draw. I couldn't stay awake for one episode of anything. I told Ava, no. I couldn't join her for lunch because of my back. She said "ok. It's just that ever since I told you all that I wasn't afraid to eat hot lunch anymore, you all stopped coming". I hugged her, the bell rang, she went into the school stopping once to blow kisses to me. Before I'd made it home, I called my mom who immediately agreed I needed to go. Ava is seven years old and already, like I said, fiercely independent. How much longer will she ask me to eat lunch with her? So, I surprised her. I stood in the hall waiting for her class. When she saw me, it took a minute for her to react. She could not figure out why I'd come. I showed her my lunch and she smiled huge, her cheeks turned bright red, and she said "mama! You came!" The way she said it sounded like I'd been gone for years and had just now come home. She held my hand tightly as we walked. We sat side by side, but it didn't take her long to be under my arm and as much on my lap as she could get. I helped her get ready for recess and then we said goodbye. And that was all it took for her to be the happiest girl around. So, this morning when Sophia asked if we could do something, I hesitated at first and the realized that no one I work with is going to judge me for choosing time with my child over showering and dressing up. She asked if I would draw and then said, "no. How about this. How about if I hold the pencil in my little hand and you put your big hand over my little hand and we draw together?" So, we did. Best ballerina yet. And that one goes in the box that on my bad days reminds me I'm important to someone. It's a pretty great collection. I hope you have one too.

Observations Part 1

My girls have recently discovered their love for music. The kind of love that makes you belt out a tune like no one can hear you, dance in front of the mirror and LOVE what you see, or scramble for a piece of paper to PLAY-furiously write lyrics (as you understand them) then STOP-SKIP BACK-REPEAT AS NECESSARY. I love that the girls love music. When I was pregnant with Ava, she would start kicking up a storm in utero whenever I played Jeff Buckley (anything) or Pink Floyd (Dark Side of the Moon). Of course, I got the same reaction from eating bananas while I was pregnant with her and that resulted in her vomiting up and adamantly refusing bananas as a toddler. So, draw your own conclusion there. But, in Madison she was happiest running around naked to Bob Marley, or Tim Penn, or any local peacenik making music. Again, draw your own conclusion. She was decidedly NOT part of the minority in any of that behavior. In our house though, you are far more likely to find music as opposed to the TV. In Madison, we had a family dance party every single solitary night after dinner. With everything we've gotten involved in since moving back to Bismarck, though, dance parties have been hard to come by. On the weekends still it is a near constant onslaught of music. Old and new. I've gotten a bit off track. The girls have found their own voice in music. By way of Kidzbop. Here's the thing, it is a form of music, sure. But what you don't know about Kidzbop, "Music for kids by kids", is that their selection process for finding these kids who "sing" is relatively simple. Or, perhaps, nonexistent. They are not good. Someone dressed these children up like rock stars and said "You are amazing! Sing it as loud as you can and dance at the same time! You're a STAR!". Well, my girls have been bit by the Kidzbop bug. We bought the girls their very own noise-cancelling earphones a while back for flights. They have been miraculous investments until now. Now what happens is my girls plug the earphones into their Leappads and rock out to the PURCHASED Kidzbop. It seemed like such a great idea. As Jeff said, "there is musical talent flowing on both sides of the family, we cannot stifle that". This man is so patient. I, however, was changing the sheets on the girls' bunk beds (a process which under the best conditions is painful and frustrating) while I was first indoctrinated into this new musical world of theirs. The girls have large mirrored closet doors in their room. So, here they are, noise-cancelling earphones on, 5 wardrobe changes past, and they are singing their perfect little hearts out. Just belting it out. And dancing. Sophia yells "I don't even know what Spanish they're talking about!" Ava answers with "We should start a band!" Sophia looks like Ava just proposed sacrificing all the snugglies to honor some questionable Greek god. They have no idea what the other one is saying, but neither one knows this. Ava's soothes Sophia's worried glance by saying "Don't worry! I'll be in charge of singing! You just dance!" Ava decides at this point she needs to begin writing her own lyrics. As she's taking her earphones off, Sophia repeats in her most loving this moment screaming voice "I don't even know what Spanish they're talking about!". Ava now sees she's started a band with someone who may not be the asset she'd assumed and says in a regular human conversational level voice "That's kind of the point. They aren't singing in Spanish." Cue Sophia "I don't know!! But I love it!"

So, this is what we hear now when the girls have down time. The screaming of Kidzbop. But, my girls are good girls, kind and sensitive and smart as a whip. So, it makes me smile because I know someday when they're older and finally telling their aging parents live concert stories from college in hopes to entertain, but not kill, we will break this one out. And remind them that "its not about the bunny, bunny, bunny. Its not about the bunny, bunny, bunny. We juss hmnanana ba ba..."