"...and they lived happily ever after."
Tonight Little A and I are going to kindergarten round-up. I have no idea why it needs to be so soon; so early; why it's arrived so fast.
While filling out all of the required forms, I couldn't help but keep thinking of the day that she and I left the hospital together. The nurse rolled us out to the door and I stood up, her in my arms, terrified to leave the hospital, and yet, off we went, she and I, to the car together and out into the world.
She was so little for so long; always the tiniest one, the frailest one, the one that everyone coddled and hovered over; her little frame belied her strong spirit.
And now, oh now. She is the Queen of Everything and Everyone. She has a sense of humor that has people laughing constantly. She has a mind that forgets nothing. She has the ability to make sunshine out of rain.
I don't want this to end. I don't want her to go to school. I don't want to have her grow, and yet, of course, I do. I'm not ungrateful for this magic life, but if I had an opportunity to stop time, it would be now.
I don't want her to know of insecurity or think twice before she bursts out into song. I don't want her to feel like she has to dress a certain way or talk a certain way or stop the way that she uses "w" instead of "l" and "r".
I want her to always believe that she is magic, that she can turn the song on the radio by willing it so, that she can open doors by pointing her finger, for in many ways, I think when she realizes that isn't so, it will be the last of my magic as well.
Knowing my body will never bear another child, knowing that this is the last of the firsts, knowing that she is on the cusp of so many things, all of them pulling her further out into the world and from me; I can't describe this ache.
I believe that ee cummings said it best:
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)
Dear Big A,
I wish I had words to tell you what this day does to me, but I do not.
I wish I had something to give you, something beyond my love, that was certain, but I don't. I know all too well that even my love doesn't feel like love most days, Big A. Angst is not lost on this adoring mother, though I know you believe otherwise.
I struggle now, more than ever. I want to give you the world, but I want you to know what it means to seek out your own place.
I want to teach you the importance of loving yourself while making sure you learn how to put others before you and the value of that; of recognizing more than yourself.
I want to be your compass, and yet, more than ever, it is you and Little A that are mine. "What would I want them to do?" "What would I want them to know?" "What if that were my child; how would I want someone to fight for them?"
So how does this work, you ask?
And all I can tell you after these twelve years of being a mother is that possibly, today more than ever, I don't know. I say possibly because I'm not sure. It doesn't go away, but I wish it did.
I see your insecurities, and they gnaw at me.
I see your strengths and they inspire me.
I see your frustration and your anger and your desire for this part of you to end, already, eyes to the finish line when you've just yet started the race. You are my child, after all.
I know you cringe when I speak of the moment ago that I was cradling you to my chest, so I try not to speak of it. I don't tell you to embarrass you, I tell you so that you know; to try to teach you that it does pass, love, so fast, so quick, so certainly.
The etches in the doorway; the three inches that you've grown, the three shoe sizes that you've gained--in just a year? I cannot keep up with you and for that I am ever so grateful and eternally sad. And that makes not one bit of sense to me, either.
It is not just you, though I tell you it is; I do hold you a bit longer when I hug you at night now. "Will it be tonight?", I wonder, "Will it be tonight that she goes to bed a tad shorter and awakens taller than I? Will this be the last time I know of my child being just so below my eye level?" I'm the tallest in my family, you know, so I have no idea how to look up at you, and yet, it seems I've been doing so forever.
I know that you believe if you hear once more of the day I discovered the last of your baby fat was gone that you will die of boredom. I do know this. I do hear you. I do listen.
It's just the shock of that; the pain of that; the keen awareness and foreshadowing of what was yet to come--it hasn't left me yet, Big A. I don't believe it ever shall. And I believe that is how it should be.
There is no stopping this thing called time; perhaps these are the longest years. I cannot be your friend. I cannot grasp you to my chest. I cannot shelter you from this world. I cannot follow you to be certain that you've donned your hat and zipped your coat and protected your lips with the chapstick that I seem to buy you daily.
I will never rock you again in the old creaky chair; never fall asleep again with you on my chest; never make you believe that I am magic anymore.
Santa is gone, the Tooth Fairy is gone, the Easter Bunny is gone; on some days, I know, even God is gone. I can't make you believe. I can't explain well enough. And I must be alright with that. And I will tell you that even now, that is hard, despite knowing it is how it must be.
There is no love beyond this love.
There is no breath that I take without you on my mind.
There is no thought not marked by your presence.
There is no beauty that does not remind me of you.
Twelve years. It might have been twelve hours and I still would not know where the time has gone.
Happy Birthday, Big A.
If you look closely you'll be able to see Milo the wonder-cat hidden within the confines behind my washer and dryer. Trust me, he's there, backed up against the wall as far as possible, plotting his escape. Seriously, he told me so:
ME: Milo, come out, Mr. Man. Kitty, kitty, kitty.
MILO: I am ignoring you. I've just survived a fire and the trauma of hiding in a small confined space there, and now, I'm here?
ME: Milo, it's me, Jenn, you remember me? All those nights you'd tap on my door with your come hither ways....all those nights we sat on the couch cuddling and typing resumes?
MILO: I remember you, Jenn. It's just that I'm a tad worried that you've gotten the wrong impressions from our time together.
ME: What?!
MILO: Look, I'm a free bird, I got lots-a girls. I thought we were cool until somehow I woke up here in your house. I don't know what you told my parents to convince them that I should stay with you, but just wait until I talk to them. And don't be goin' all Kathy Bates on me and trying to tie me to a bed and break my ankles with an axe.
ME: Milo, honey, it worked before, we can make this work again. Look, I made you your favorite dinner....albacore tuna fiesta. I even put it in this little dish for you.
MILO: Day-um, I am hungry. Saunters out, eats meal.
ME: Feel better now buddy?
MILO: Purring, well, I guess I could get in bed with you-but I gotta be clear--I'm a playa, this don't mean nothing to me besides having someone to get through the night with. You cool with that?
ME: Um, Milo, you're not allowed to leave the house, ever, so I'd think that would really impede upon your playa status.
MILO: That's only cause you don't know the skilz I have. Stray Cat Strut? They wrote it for me.
ME: I get it, Milo, I get it. You're the coolest cat ever.
MILO: Yeah, baby, you do got it. Now if you play your cards right, I'll let ya rub my back.
MILO: Don't be alarmed by the sinister swishing of my tail or the look in my eyes. Really. You're the favorite of my kitty calls honey. Just come over, pick me up and take me to the bedroom where we can snuggle like the old times. And when I'm gone in the morning baby, don't cry. Just smile when you think of me.
ME: Oh, Milo, anything for you.
(We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow, let's make it last, let's find a way.....)
About 99.9 percent of the time, I'm ready to give up and cash it in. I look at all of our things, take cold showers and dig through possessions and I feel mostly like it's impossible, what has to happen next.
Like it cannot be done. Like I just don't have it in me to do this.
But that's just how I feel, not the truth.
Because the truth is, we do it all over again every day, right? In one way or another, we do. It's all small steps.
I sat down yesterday and pulled up a news page; I had no idea there were more earthquakes. Looking at those photos of devastation, I felt ridiculously petty and small. What if everyone just sat down and cried and kicked doors and didn't do jack about what was around them?
I'm looking at this like I look at a run. The first minute thinking there's no way I'll make it today, I hate running, why do I run? Then by the second time I hear, "When all ya gotta keep is strong, move along, move along," I remember why I run. And by the "face down in the dirt, she said 'this doesn't hurt,' " I have it in me to laugh and remember that I'm glad to be alive.
A few posts back, I wrote that I believed this year would be better than the last one. I wrote something along the lines of, "I'm a runner, it's my turn to run."
I still believe that.
And I've resorted to child labor, because I think, hey, if Apple and Nike make it work, I can too:
Yeah, that's Little A, running a shredder. Thank Bank of America for that one since they feel at liberty to keep making withdrawals from my checking account and giving it to random strangers, thereby forcing me to close my damn account and do all the shit that you have to do when closing an account. I know it looks bad, but she has a high tolerance for pain and I think fingers are mostly over-rated anyway.
We've taken to walking on floors that are littered with nails no matter how many times I sweep, or state: "Wear shoes at all times." No one listens to me and now I have the awesome comeback line of, "If only you'd listened to me, you wouldn't have lost your foot to tetanus." Which is pretty much the ultimate "I told you so," of parenting.
So there's that. And I'll take it.
Now move along.
I quit writing.
I quit writing on paper; I know; this isn't paper, but I quit putting it here. I was writing, always in my head, but time--time to write--if I'd have started writing, I may not have stopped.
So instead of not stopping, I never began.
What I was telling you in my head was that last year had been the worst of my life; that I'd lived through it.
I wanted to tell you that I awoke and found myself and then found my voice.
And that life can come and get me, and that I will be running right into it, as fast as I can.
There will be no more weeping in showers. I shall weep, make no mistake, but to hide and cower; no.
I don't remember the order, but I recall the crumbling.
I have to tell you, I might not remember much from what I write here tonight. I think the Ambien is kicking in; who knows; the post so long in the writing may never make it to post.
My house fell apart? Did I tell you that?
A sewer cap broke under the home and drained, for months, under the crawl space. The crawl space above my office.
The whole house had to be emptied out and many possessions parted with, replaced, of course, those that could be. Mourned, always, those that couldn't. The bacteria wasn't something you could just wipe away. The house had to be gutted.
While going through all of my belongings, I decided to make "The Box". The box you would grab after your children, the box with pictures of childhood you'd stolen from your mothers albums and lied about, the pictures of your children, worn and torn and faded yellow.
The letters from those that you loved, the letters from your grandparents and the amazingly life-reinforcing cards created by your soul sister Beth. The box of things that you would keep, if you could only keep one. I kept thinking, if I had to grab one thing....
But I didn't.
It happened so fast.
I'd just gotten home from work; I'd worked late that night and I didn't have the girls; I was still in my boots and coat. I was reading a planner page and donning an eye patch and laughing, looking forward to Friday, the day I was going to see some of my dearest friends from childhood and help with their move; we'd made a joke about pirates and Orlando Bloom. I was laughing out loud.
The dog whined. I ignored her. She always whines. I began to cough. Not too odd; I cough a lot lately.
I began to smell smoke. I began to ignore the smoke that I smelled. "Could. Not. Be."
Within one minute, I heard the owners above me scrambling, yelling, calling for their pets. I ran to my door and as I opened it, C was standing there, yelling, "The house is on fire."
He was looking for their cat, their beautiful cat. I started to help him look, but after a minute it became impossible with the smoke. He ran back upstairs and I walked, calmly, through my apartment, grabbed my purse and walked outside.
I stood for five minutes when I began shaking, thinking about the box. Thinking what I'd been thinking as I packed it: "If I had to put my life in one box...."
I began to shake and weep as I thought of what I'd wanted to keep, on the floor in a closet; a cardboard box. I became sick. I tried to comfort the owners, but they too were in shock, murmuring about the wood fire and the fan and how quickly it started.
At some point, I called my sister. That is almost the last thing I remember. I remember the fireman that had seen me weeping under a tree carrying out a box, cardboard, wet and walk to me. "I can carry this to your car."
The driveway is long; there were ten, fifteen fire trucks? I assume that I walked it. I remember laughing about something and then crying and laughing and crying.
"I don't have underwear," I laughed and cried. I left that on my insurance agents voice mail.
I tried calling the owners to find out about Milo, to find out where they are, to find out about the next step. I laid here and cried; thankful for the lives spared, terrified of what remains and what doesn't, a box, in my car, of what I would take with me if I had to put my life into a box and run.
And I'm running. Running right into it. Not crying in the shower; I'll just stand and weep openly. Life, you'll have to take this one kicking and screaming. Come hell or high water; so far, I survived them both.
"...and they lived happily ever after."
