Living in a small New England town, there's a lot of faces you see every day. Eleven years and many children have brought us a big circle of faces and names that we know. Some, I have gotten very good at avoiding. But sometimes, avoidance isn't an option.
At a school open house I got out of my truck and walked literally face to face with one of those I usually avoid. My stomach sank and I felt like I wanted to get sick. How I long for the feeling of palm to skin and the satisfying sting that follows. So many words to say, and nothing to say. Sometimes the only closure we can get is silence.
I'm mad at myself now for walking around a bank of cars parked along the sidewalk and not falling into step behind. For not allowing my daughter to greet the first person she saw. Soon, I will no longer have control over who she picks as friends. She has lessons to learn, just like her father and I.
I need to stop allowing myself to take all the blame, as there is another set of eyes that played a role, that should look down to the ground.
My daughter and I were greeted in the parking lot by friends and hugs. We were hugged again on the sidewalk up to the main entrance. And again at the door to the school. All along the hallways and into the school classroom, my daughter and I embraced friend after friend in greeting and well wishes, some we haven't seen since the end of June. Blessed, beautiful, wonderful people, some who know where we've been and have left judgement at the door.
My daughter grinned her trademark beautiful smile all through the school. A smile I hear about from so many in our town as one of the highlights of their days. We were in the building for the entire hour of the open house. Victory was ours. And even more hugs were received as we left the school for home.
There are days that I am happy that we have not yet left our small town for the safety and distance of a different locale. Yesterday was one of those days.
Saturday, August 24
Thursday, August 22
In the Matter of a Day
Overnight, it happened.
Or rather, while I was out for a run. It happened.
My baby grew up. He decided he wasn't a baby anymore. He was a big boy.
Gone was the baby who would choke on a little baby food poofie. Gone was the baby who pushed away noodles. Gone was the baby who was content to cuddle with mommy and nurse to sleep. Here to stay was the baby who wanted a cup full of milk. Here to stay was the baby who wanted to eat the same food as his big sisters.
Mommy wasn't ready. Mommy looked forward to those quiet moments holding her son and caressing his chubby cheeks as he fell asleep. Mommy took far longer than needed most evenings to nurse her baby and rock him to sleep.
I tried. Oh, I tried, to convince him every day, not to give up on Mommy. But, he's simply just ready. Ready to be a big boy.
Thankfully, I've clued in to a lullaby to sing to him at bedtimes so I can get his little cuddly body to snuggle in to me a few more times. I will cling to that song for as long as I can. For as much as Mommy is ready, Mommy isn't ready.
Or rather, while I was out for a run. It happened.
My baby grew up. He decided he wasn't a baby anymore. He was a big boy.
Gone was the baby who would choke on a little baby food poofie. Gone was the baby who pushed away noodles. Gone was the baby who was content to cuddle with mommy and nurse to sleep. Here to stay was the baby who wanted a cup full of milk. Here to stay was the baby who wanted to eat the same food as his big sisters.
Mommy wasn't ready. Mommy looked forward to those quiet moments holding her son and caressing his chubby cheeks as he fell asleep. Mommy took far longer than needed most evenings to nurse her baby and rock him to sleep.
I tried. Oh, I tried, to convince him every day, not to give up on Mommy. But, he's simply just ready. Ready to be a big boy.
Thankfully, I've clued in to a lullaby to sing to him at bedtimes so I can get his little cuddly body to snuggle in to me a few more times. I will cling to that song for as long as I can. For as much as Mommy is ready, Mommy isn't ready.
Wednesday, August 7
Roller Coasters
Roller coasters are entirely different when your baby girl is sitting in the seat next to you.
That thought didn't hit me until we were seated in the car, getting ready to ride the fast and long wooden roller coaster.
On our walk over to the ride, I held her hand. We talked and were silly, excited that it was just the two of us. There was no wait for the ride. She was excited. So was I.
Settled in our seats I turned to look at her. The ride started moving. And then, the thrill was gone, replaced with concern for my baby. Would she get hurt? Be too scared? My gaze was intent not on the twists and turns, but her beautiful face.
She was quiet for the ride. Not a single scream from her. Her face was tightly clenched as I tried to alert her of each dip, turn and hill. At the end of the ride was a booth of photos taken during the ride. We laughed at the face of the man in front of us.
"Mommy," she said as the ride slowed down, "I do not want to do that ride again."
It was too much for my dare devil little girl. And, I have to say, it might have just ended up being too much for me.
That thought didn't hit me until we were seated in the car, getting ready to ride the fast and long wooden roller coaster.
On our walk over to the ride, I held her hand. We talked and were silly, excited that it was just the two of us. There was no wait for the ride. She was excited. So was I.
Settled in our seats I turned to look at her. The ride started moving. And then, the thrill was gone, replaced with concern for my baby. Would she get hurt? Be too scared? My gaze was intent not on the twists and turns, but her beautiful face.
She was quiet for the ride. Not a single scream from her. Her face was tightly clenched as I tried to alert her of each dip, turn and hill. At the end of the ride was a booth of photos taken during the ride. We laughed at the face of the man in front of us.
"Mommy," she said as the ride slowed down, "I do not want to do that ride again."
It was too much for my dare devil little girl. And, I have to say, it might have just ended up being too much for me.
Thursday, July 25
Monday, July 22
Five Minute Nightmare
We went through the worst nightmare. For five minutes, we could not find our little girl.
There are a few gut wrenching memories that will never leave me. This will be one.
As we ran through the park screaming her name and looking for her platinum blonde head riding her bike around the loop, my mind went so many places. None of them good.
A family playing soccer offered help as I ran past, some directing my husband to one location in the park, others joining up behind me. I kept running toward the exit, thinking she would pedal her little legs all that way. I ran past a murky pond, thinking that I wouldn't know, I just couldn't see her bike wheels in the pond. The water seemed calm and undisturbed. I kept running.
I reached a crest in a hill and saw a distance away another pavilion and party going on. Then I saw a woman in a teal shirt, walking with my blonde little girl, holding her hand and carrying her bike. I kicked off my sandals. I never ran so fast in my life.
"I got lost!" Our baby was crying big deep sobs. She thought we'd left her, too. The woman offered her cell phone to call my husband. I took it, looked at the phone, and handed it back. I couldn't focus on what to do but just hold my girl.
My husband came up, followed by my father. Hugs and tears and we made our way back to our cars. I carried my daughter for a bit, reluctantly putting her down when she simply became too heavy to carry. "Mommy, you're squeezing my fingers." It was a struggle to loosen my grasp.
Later, as we were leaving the park, we passed the woman walking down the park road to the entrance and a larger parking lot. We stopped to express our gratitude again. She emotionally relayed a similar story with her own children years ago. It is then when I cried. Two women who had never met, bonded over emotions and words not said, both woken from a nightmare that's hard to forget.
There are a few gut wrenching memories that will never leave me. This will be one.
As we ran through the park screaming her name and looking for her platinum blonde head riding her bike around the loop, my mind went so many places. None of them good.
A family playing soccer offered help as I ran past, some directing my husband to one location in the park, others joining up behind me. I kept running toward the exit, thinking she would pedal her little legs all that way. I ran past a murky pond, thinking that I wouldn't know, I just couldn't see her bike wheels in the pond. The water seemed calm and undisturbed. I kept running.
I reached a crest in a hill and saw a distance away another pavilion and party going on. Then I saw a woman in a teal shirt, walking with my blonde little girl, holding her hand and carrying her bike. I kicked off my sandals. I never ran so fast in my life.
"I got lost!" Our baby was crying big deep sobs. She thought we'd left her, too. The woman offered her cell phone to call my husband. I took it, looked at the phone, and handed it back. I couldn't focus on what to do but just hold my girl.
My husband came up, followed by my father. Hugs and tears and we made our way back to our cars. I carried my daughter for a bit, reluctantly putting her down when she simply became too heavy to carry. "Mommy, you're squeezing my fingers." It was a struggle to loosen my grasp.
Later, as we were leaving the park, we passed the woman walking down the park road to the entrance and a larger parking lot. We stopped to express our gratitude again. She emotionally relayed a similar story with her own children years ago. It is then when I cried. Two women who had never met, bonded over emotions and words not said, both woken from a nightmare that's hard to forget.
Friday, July 19
Sometimes, You Just Gotta...
Breakfast of Champions...
Times four, yesterday.
Because, sometimes, you just gotta...
Times four, yesterday.
Because, sometimes, you just gotta...
Friday, July 5
Written Proof
Often I will go through the pages of journals and notebooks that my girls leave lying around. They write some funny stuff. Maybe they take after mom?
I found this a few weeks ago in a notebook. It's now hanging on the fridge. It may be two years old, but now I have written proof. Someday it may even be true!
I found this a few weeks ago in a notebook. It's now hanging on the fridge. It may be two years old, but now I have written proof. Someday it may even be true!
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