It's a Wonderful Life

One week ago today, Alex had a snow day. It was really more of an ice day, but a few inches of snow topped it off. We did the things one does on a snow day shortly before Christmas - we glittered and glued, we cut snowflakes from paper. We baked. Around noon, the kids headed out to play while I waited for a loaf of banana bread to come out of the oven. As they dashed out to the deck, I celebrated their independence. They can both get their own snow clothes on. They can put their boots on. They can play alone without a lot of worry. At least that is what I thought

We have a walk out basement. Therefore, our deck, which is off the kitchen, is second story. As Alex and Cate set about building a snowman, I watched out the sliding glass door, gathering my own snowpants and boots as I waited to take the bread from the oven. I was about two minutes from heading out when I watched Alex climb the railing of the deck like a ladder, stand on the top and jump, yes jump, from the side. A moment later, Cate was pounding on the door screaming, "Alex is crying." In my mind, this scene plays in slow motion, although I know it happened in a split second. Why didn't I stop him? Why didn't I run? Why did Cate have to scream for me? Only a second had passed.

I sprinted out the door and down the sixteen or so icy, snow covered stairs to a small, crumpled boy screaming that his legs hurt as blood poured from his mouth and nose. With the super strength and calm that comes only in these moments, I carried him to the house. The story could go on, but the ending is that he is fine. Nothing was broken. The bleeding stopped. The swelling went down. He's the same crazy, loving, boy he was, hopefully a bit wiser.

The moment was one of terror, but it was the hours and days after that were worse. He jumped about 15 feet. The possible "what if" scenarios are too horrid to follow. "He has an angel on his shoulder," a friend said. With all of my being, I hope that it is true. And I hope that angel stays firmly in place, whatever craziness lies ahead.

I don't think he will try that particular trick again. When asked why he did it (and he has been asked many, many times by many, many people,) he will not answer. He is self conscious and obviously more than a little embarrassed. I just think it is something he always wanted to try. I think he really thought that maybe, just maybe, he could fly (a thought confirmed when he asked me if I thought it would have worked had he been wearing a parachute). I think he thought the snow would be soft. I think he thought a lot of things we all would like to think.

Which brings me to this year's visit with Santa. Anyone who lives here knows that Santa frequents Cooperstown. Anyone who doesn't believe in Santa should visit Cooperstown and stop by his cottage. Your doubts will quickly be cast aside.

We visited Santa last Friday night. As luck would have it, Mrs. Claus was with him that night too. The kids were crazy at the thought of seeing him. We waited in the cold as they tingled with anticipation. We entered his cottage, and a silence fell over them - a silence reserved for the presence of greatness. Santa and Mrs. Claus took a few minutes to catch up with them. Of course, the Clauses know their names, their ages, even their years at school and how many Christmases we have celebrated together as a family. They know it all without any cues, as only the Clauses would. They each presented Santa and Mrs. Claus with a drawing they had made. The Clauses "oohed" and "ahhed" and studied each picture carefully. Cate tentatively approached and told Santa she wanted a flashlight. Santa described his workshop and the flashlights the elves are making. Alex approached. They talked about school. Alex wants a metal detector. They chit chatted about beaches and treasures as Alex sat on his lap, until Cate, from my lap said, "Alex jumped from the deck. He got hurt. He was bloody and his legs hurt."

The Clauses fell silent. We reminded them our deck is about 15 feet in the air. Alex looked like someone who would like to disappear. Santa and Mrs. Claus were dismayed. "Alex, Alex, you must cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye that you will never, never, never do that again," Mrs. Claus said solemnly. With wide eyes, Alex nodded his head and made the sacred promise. The visit moved on to Rudolph and presents and what Alex likes about being a big brother and all the other things that Santa likes to know.

But I was hardly listening. I was silently thanking the tattle-tale little sister and the motherly Mrs. Claus for making Alex take his solemn vow. I am merely his mother. I know the things I throw caution to, he will throw to the wind. But Mrs. Claus and Santa... what they say has weight.

As for me, and my Christmas wish, this all served as a reminder that I already have everything I could ever need. As much as I would like to, I know I can't ask that it always stay just this way. But if I could ask for one thing more, it would be this - I hope that angel earns his wings. Living on Alex' shoulder, I'm afraid he is going to need them.

And as his mother, I need to believe that he is there.

December 4, 2009

Dear Cate's Birthmother,

Your daughter turns four tomorrow. She is beautiful and strong and funny and smart. She loves to sing and act and shake her hips when she dances. She is curious and mischievous. She doesn't like cats, but she is trying. She loves to build forts and play house with her brother. She talks nonstop and says when she isn't talking, she can't breathe. She hates vegetables and loves candy. She sleeps all night in her bed and crawls out in the morning wearing only a diaper and her skunk slippers. She is the star of her swimming class. She is growing tall and lean. She won't wear anything with buttons and would rather be a pirate than a princess. She loves preschool and cozy things - her fleece top, her furry blankets, her pink monkey. She is passionate and stubborn. She is loved and healthy and thriving. She is my daughter too.

I think of you on this night, in these coming weeks, and I know with a mother's heart that you think of me too. Chances are great that we will never meet, never know each other in this lifetime, we two women who share a daughter. As she grows, she will beg to know about you. My heart breaks knowing I will never be able to tell her the answers to her questions - at least not in the way she will hope. Yet, in some ways, I will know you. I will know you from the way she flips her hair or holds her hand when she talks. I will know you in the all-encompassing smile that spreads from her lips and swallows her eyes. I will know you from her angry put or her love of acting. These things, I will tell her, just might be reflections of you.

And so I write this letter, in case we should ever meet. And in my heart, I send out this message to you - Your daughter is cherished and loved beyond belief. Tonight, she decorated our Christmas tree with her brother, her father and me. She ate gingerbread men and drank milk and asked is we could do this again and again. I read her a book and tucked her in bed. She is asleep, anxiously awaiting her birthday tomorrow. The house will fill with family and friends and we will celebrate her with great joy.

Thank you for this beautiful gift.

Jeannine

Happy Birthday, Cate!

Stinky Feet?


The Four-Year-Old Wakes Up!

She wanted her prettiest dress.

Presents!

Cate with her great, great aunt and uncle.

Too much party!

This is Cate

Without warning, Cate decided last summer that napping was just not her thing. Without warning, she just stopped, unsuspecting of the joy that predictable three hour window brought her mother each day. It was the three hour window that let me write for the local newspaper. It was the three hour window that let me run out and do a few errands or schedule an appointment on the days that Steve was working from home. It was the three hour window that let me prep for dinner, put away the laundry, catch up on my email, and occasionally even sit down with a cup of tea and a book.

But she stopped.

I have tried to keep the routine alive - tucking her in with a bag of raisins and a few books. It worked like a charm for about one day. After that, the tucking in was quickly followed by the sound of feet stomping around upstairs as she moved from room to room, stopping to spy on me from the heating grate that looks from the upstairs hallway into the kitchen below. So I tried another approach. I told her she didn't have to nap if she would lay on the couch and watch Sesame Street, not moving from beneath the covers until it was over.

It worked for a day. Then came demands... not Sesame Street, Curious George. No, no, I said, trying to maintain some control. And so we went back to resting quietly in the bedroom.

Gradually, things went from not so great to worse. After an hour of foot stomping silence from the upstairs, I would discover everything from my nightstand scattered about my bed or Alex's rock collection spilled on the floor. The hour had become a chance for uninhibited exploration.

Yesterday, it reached its peak when Cate emerged from her "nap" decorated with war paint.

"It's just cream for my face," she insisted as I examined the muddled browns and beiges and cranberries of eye shadow gone wrong, smeared, not on her eyes, but across her cheeks in a dark, bruised-looking earthtone rainbow. She carried the look well when we went out to play in the leaves and she strode across the yard, hair covered in brittle leaves, a giant stick in her hand.

But when I went to tuck her in for bed, I discovered the toilet jammed full of paper. The plunger didn't do the trick and while I will spare the gruesome details, suffice it to say that underneath the wads of paper, I discovered the cardboard roll. In my bedroom, I found a mountain of cotton balls and the remains of the eyesh adow, now deeply gouged and beyond repair.

So we had a chat. You must stay in your room, I said. She could not, she insisted, promise that she would stay in her room. And so enacted Plan III. "You must stay on the couch, no TV, under a blanket for one hour."

"Books?" she asked.

"You can have books."

"Raisins?"

"You can have raisins. But no talking and no getting up until I say you can."

A deal had been made. She went dutifully to the couch with a small box of raisins and a pile of new library books. All fell silent in the house. No feet pattered across the floor. No small voice rang out. I applauded my own ingenious victory.

And then I smelled it.

I walked quickly into the room. Cate's face flashed the undeniable look of one caught in the act as her hands flew under the blanket.

Ten nails and the surrounding fingertips, freshly painted (to her credit, not a drop on the furniture). The small, sparkly, "Hello Kitty" nailpolsih hidden beneath the blankets folds.

"I tried to sleep, but my nails weren't pretty."

And really, there just is no answer for that - just some womanly advice about the dangers of freshly painted nails and fuzzy blankets.

Today's Great Highlight

For the first time, Alex read Cate's bedtime story to her. They sat side-by-side on the furry blue blanket on her bed. She listened, still and patient while he read, with great pride and humor in his voice, "Hop on Pop" by Dr. Seuss.

I hid in the hallway watching the beautiful scene.

It ended with Cate giving Alex a big goodnight hug and telling him that she loved him and Alex's beaming face.

Sometimes it feels like we might be getting it right afterall.

Soggy Halloween

On Why Motherhood Must Come with a Sense of Humor

It has not escaped the notice of anyone with children that Halloween is right around the corner. And in a house where one child declares Halloween to be "better than my birthday" the days are an all out frenzy.

Alex has stood by this Halloween love since the age of two. At three, when he fully realized the wonder of knocking on the doors of perfect strangers and being handed candy, it became an all out love affair. That year, when Day of the Dead rolled around, he felt the deep knife-cutting agony of a love affair's end. At the age of four, he was angry when Christmas lights started going up. No amount of Santa chatter would lead him to betray his true love.

I have loved his costume every year, and made them most, my favorite being the carrot he insisted on at the age of three. Although he now denies ever having paraded (literally) around town as a vegetable, I beg to differ. How proud I felt that year, my adorable three year old in his orange carrot cap and dyed orange pillow case walking up to doors. How implecible his manners. How the neighbors "oohed" and "ahhed" over my orange-clad, blue-eyed carrot.

This year, his costume is from Walmart. Worse yet, his only dream is to dress as Super Mario. And there is no greater joy to a first grade boy than chanting, "Trick or treat. Smell my feet. Give me something good to eat. If you don't. I don't care. I'll pull down your underwear." I mean seriously, what could be more fun than saying, "underwear"?

A friend gave us a subscription to Family Fun magazine. Alex has poured over the Halloween edition every day for a month. Such wonders! Decorations! Costumes! Treats! Games! Crafts! He has begged for a graveyard made of green hummus and crackers. Broccoli and celery trees. I made it for his friends today and it was a hit. But for school, he has longed for, begged for, the eyeballs on a fork.

And what kind of mother wants to disappoint a son that loves Halloween more than Christmas?

It seemed easy enough. Buy donut holes. Stick a plastic fork in them. Dip them in white chocolate. Run some red frosting along the edges to give them a bloodshot look and stick a chocolate chip in the center for the pupil. For one who shies away from actually baking, it seemed a dream. So I went to the store this morning and got the ingredients. But there were no donut holes to be found. A sensible mother would have stopped there, accepted her defeat, realized the value of her time, bought a bag of candy that would fit easily into a backpack, and moved on with her day. But not this one. Oh no. No, no. Much better to go to three, maybe four stores looking for donut holes only to be defeated. A sensible mother would have stopped there. Baked a pan of brownies. Logically purchased some baby carrots or cheese sticks or some other thing she actually wants her kid to eat. But not this one. Oh no. This one called her friend's cell phone, hoping he is in a bigger place than Cooperstown (he is) and asks him to look for donut holes.

Fast forward... four hours later, this good friend calls to report that despite having visited three large grocery stores, there are no donut holes. How about coconut macaroons? Oreos? Plain old donuts? "A bag of carrots," this mother should have replied, but no.

Near her breaking point, exasperated by her children, and still without donut holes, this mother calls her husband (who is in town) and begs him please to search the two remaining long shot possibilities. He hears the desperation in her voice and does not question the task before him. He comes home with the goods... covered in white powder and cinnamon, not ideal, but he has them. At this point, the mother has just gotten her kids to bed. The house is an explosion of homework papers and markers and dishes and laundry. She wants only to sleep. But she goes downstairs to make the eyeballs. (She must first find the counter).

Things seem to be looking up. But the white chocolate never melts. It gets crusty and crumbly but it does not melt. She burns her hand on the steam from the makeshift double boiler and in the end, stabs the powdered white donut holes with a plastic fork, sticks in the chocolate chip and attempts to draw jagged, bloody lines with red gel frosting across the powdery surface. She sticks them on a plate and hopes not all the kids want one, because of course, there are not 19 white donut holes, just 13. She throws in some of the cinnamon. Digs out a bag of gummi worms intended for another weird treat from the same anti-parent magazine and tries to make it look as though worms are crawling out from the eyes.

In the end she has produced a cheap looking treat that she wouldn't actually want to feed her children. But, instead, she gets to send it to school to be judged by 19 sweet looking but harsh critics who criticize everything from hair that sticks up to pants that look like pajama bottoms. She hopes they will be forgiving. Her hours-long effort looks like last minute desperation, because in fact, that is what it has become...

The story should end there, but of course, it does not. It does not because how does one transport a plateful of eyeballs on forks? Not in a backpack, that is for sure. So, the same mother, who once thought herself sensible, but now finds herself with a son longing to be Super Mario and a plateful of high-fructose corn syrup eye balls, spends another ten minutes constructing a tent out of foil to enclose the creations and keep them fresh.

I am sure the first mouse of the season will find its way to them tonight.

And that is the end of the tale. Judge not the mother who sends in orange creme filled Oreos, for she is in bed. Her house is clean. And her treat is waiting in her kid's backpack ready to go.