tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133359082024-03-07T15:19:37.294-05:00Tumble DryAmandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.comBlogger731125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-84960926349454988512010-01-14T22:17:00.002-05:002010-01-14T22:19:57.502-05:00Taking the plungeNot the Polar Plunge or whatever the January-jumping-in-a-frozen-lake nonsense is, but the blog plunge. I have moved everything including the archives over to a new version of: <a href="http://www.amandamagee.com">The Wink</a><br /><br />I'd love it if you came with me. It's as easy as my name: http://www.amandamagee.com<br /><br />Bear with em as I work out the formatting kinks.<br /><br />:)<br />-AmandaAmandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-66949992152212097772010-01-08T10:46:00.000-05:002010-01-08T10:46:00.146-05:00When Dad is away...We watch Say Yes to the Dress and do each other's hair. <br /><br />It's an indescribable kind of bliss.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtusTXthuXxiolzZL8lbl1ooiBj_ZRVmjbUlI0S66Yidt1mA5ZBW7-OP30qlT6wcGoCcpc1FWgjtjqCaiwpuwBsRIOj-LYNuQf-WaNvbfFib5J4Dxl6Z2GjRwMd8bKqnfNPORz/s1600-h/Photo+113.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtusTXthuXxiolzZL8lbl1ooiBj_ZRVmjbUlI0S66Yidt1mA5ZBW7-OP30qlT6wcGoCcpc1FWgjtjqCaiwpuwBsRIOj-LYNuQf-WaNvbfFib5J4Dxl6Z2GjRwMd8bKqnfNPORz/s400/Photo+113.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424210426447533122" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnjplpGKW1MV7Ff9SjzZjQ68AAh7zIflunbqKrl1AANC4631uB88mwxiZZ6aZISWmGVGDjIbZ4Pevljt2jhR02doofiqrRsP0Co_lXJy84EODRDpeQDVJYN1gNo_3JLjsKpQ48/s1600-h/Photo+112.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnjplpGKW1MV7Ff9SjzZjQ68AAh7zIflunbqKrl1AANC4631uB88mwxiZZ6aZISWmGVGDjIbZ4Pevljt2jhR02doofiqrRsP0Co_lXJy84EODRDpeQDVJYN1gNo_3JLjsKpQ48/s400/Photo+112.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424210421664230722" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYsStVe1tEJCTedcHFBazA-fy3GOnmwYjTmS-mRk66N_aC1iyFB1eSHf7pqyfH497J38HTrsHlXXeXu0RdK1MBDGLdN5FKivwASIJHAJkRDljAlAOWNWhH_hQxBwXEd9ikRk89/s1600-h/Photo+111.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYsStVe1tEJCTedcHFBazA-fy3GOnmwYjTmS-mRk66N_aC1iyFB1eSHf7pqyfH497J38HTrsHlXXeXu0RdK1MBDGLdN5FKivwASIJHAJkRDljAlAOWNWhH_hQxBwXEd9ikRk89/s400/Photo+111.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424210416755972194" /></a><br /><br />Thanking my lucky stars for these girls and the daddy that gave them to me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-24206754932053536942010-01-07T10:32:00.002-05:002010-01-07T10:44:36.970-05:00Fearing the JinxI've not written in far too long, but there was a thought process involved in the absence. Our house went on the market in July. It has been an ordeal to keep it show-ready and free of thick disillusionment as we've been battered by a dead market and insulting offers. <br /><br />Toys, clothes and dishes have all been kept in their places. We've made our beds, wiped down the shower and hidden any semblance of a personality. The girls have been stoic as box after box of things have been shuttled to dark corners of the attic. Trips to a storage unit, walk-thrus of other houses, not to mention the innumerable showings of our house have led to Briar say things like, "Mom, can we go and live in a hotel for 100 days? And then can we just eat at restaurants and that way every night there won't be dishes and some can make the beds for you." My little worrier, be still my heart.<br /><br />Emails from friends and BlogHer have me all too aware of how long it's been since I've written. So here I am.<br /><br />I never thought it would happen. We've worked so hard, dreamed for so long...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Our house has sold.</span><br /><br />They are lovely people. It is everything we could have hoped for and more.<br /><br />They want to close on January 29th.<br /><br />Grandma and Papa arrive on January 28th.<br /><br />We have decided to rent for 6 months.<br /><br />We have yet to secure that place to rent.<br /><br />Work is insane.<br /><br />The girls are magnificent. Everything is perfectly on track, yet feels perilously close to out of control. <br /><br />Looking at a place at 1. If you'd do me a favor, cross your fingers that it works. <br /><br />xo<br /><br />-AmandaAmandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-22339206203537251352009-12-13T17:25:00.003-05:002009-12-14T10:31:46.726-05:00If you only listenStrange how conditioned we are to create patterns and routines, to transform doing to repeating, rather than experiencing or living. Between the rigors of work, inconsistencies of schedules for parties and open houses, and technical hurdles, I've not been writing. I could, but I let myself slip into this step 1, step 2, step 3 and repeat sort of monotony.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />Finley is singing, literally if she is awake she is either singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or the Alphabet Song. She is the echo of every child that has gone before her, suspended for this brief moment in slurred words, skipped letters and uninhibited and tireless repetition. Don't get me wrong, the way she does it, the curve of her jawline as she lifts her head to sing louder and the way she sets one foot in front of the other while cocking her head, these are pure Fin. <br /><br />I am more aware today, as I hoss myself out of the unforgivable morass of apathy, that tomorrow, or soon thereafter, this will be over. My third daughter, my only Fin, my final performance of this chapter. Twinkle Twinkle into ABCs into "I wuh-ya mommy." It is the tattered page I'll turn to years ahead when she no longer wakes to sing to me. <br /><br />I am listening, and knowing that I will not always remember unguided, I am writing. I am chronicling these moments of Christmas magic.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />I realize unforgivable seems a harsh word, but here it is, whether it's lifting another spoonful of food you know you shouldn't be eating, taking another monstrous drag off the cigarette you swore you wouldn't smoke, or uttering aloud the criticism of your spouse you swore you'd keep quiet, at some point it is indeed unforgivable. <br /><br /><i>Happiness is a choice</i> is more than a line on a tshirt. It's just this one life we get. There isn't a day in it that ever gets experienced in exactly the same way. We must remember to do what we hope, to stay true to aiming for the life that we want, the love, the memories whatever it is. <br /><br />It is our choice.<br /><br />It is our price to pay if we don't.<br /><br />Who is trying to sing to you right now?<br /><br />Whose arms did you wiggle out of to do the dishes?<br /><br />Go listen, kiss and live.<br /><br />It's just this one time, make it count.<br /><br />*****<br /><br /><center><b>Believe</b></Center><br /><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-87791564630812669052009-12-10T08:56:00.000-05:002009-12-10T08:56:00.512-05:002 + 2When I saw this: <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDnfW6FNmxwkfPcmWUEWCScwk-axp5HYVejykkkJahzmVt0AVU6BE36SJhLG8WilKQjSVltC8AYxxKa2rpoMBNjf4z13d8ShuAcV6u4SnIQ64G7x-VA0EqvYNro8quhbGQl5q/s1600-h/P1040699.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDnfW6FNmxwkfPcmWUEWCScwk-axp5HYVejykkkJahzmVt0AVU6BE36SJhLG8WilKQjSVltC8AYxxKa2rpoMBNjf4z13d8ShuAcV6u4SnIQ64G7x-VA0EqvYNro8quhbGQl5q/s400/P1040699.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413421233602801138" /></a><br /><br />This suddenly made much more sense: <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWeh-hLLcbLIProYNhhvtowg3Kg_6whEeZmaWWP6uJwrzlYhSZXdc8ZIUzFZ6Jl9imZFQzaFIba_Iyjpiq-dX1p15NY0FKTOivdpCD8FOz_IlKaEAdctYzBLCg3D-yNdj3MYu0/s1600-h/P1040700.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWeh-hLLcbLIProYNhhvtowg3Kg_6whEeZmaWWP6uJwrzlYhSZXdc8ZIUzFZ6Jl9imZFQzaFIba_Iyjpiq-dX1p15NY0FKTOivdpCD8FOz_IlKaEAdctYzBLCg3D-yNdj3MYu0/s400/P1040700.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413421246087046898" /></a>Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-85813499286153023752009-11-27T16:18:00.003-05:002009-11-27T16:24:54.010-05:00Rhythm is a Dancer (or a daughter)When it's just us, we rock the house costume drawer style.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3oLLrsPCnqzUO3OQFkHeUXJn5o-vUqKQa49UxFmTQ2ouZJdvPS8L_c90N9rhmRZV7n-brw4fMg46ixKubSVwrGTMfK1Do9DTdrGp1V4XtYbgPA2tIOploJlnOIKj7shUrOUQ/s1600/WitchyBug.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3oLLrsPCnqzUO3OQFkHeUXJn5o-vUqKQa49UxFmTQ2ouZJdvPS8L_c90N9rhmRZV7n-brw4fMg46ixKubSVwrGTMfK1Do9DTdrGp1V4XtYbgPA2tIOploJlnOIKj7shUrOUQ/s400/WitchyBug.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408896893640990066" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQO_VBiyJbtXHOFIL4XwO3Y0auye5LhLlzj3lZNG-2uz3FzfXDIkedT-MhFfXYIkgzDBqGI5YY2BwxMfx9LBP8xB3kBsZMvDGQ1mKmT28x44VuV6UQ5BLEU2qFfJc3ZH2fhuK/s1600/PerfectlyOpposite.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQO_VBiyJbtXHOFIL4XwO3Y0auye5LhLlzj3lZNG-2uz3FzfXDIkedT-MhFfXYIkgzDBqGI5YY2BwxMfx9LBP8xB3kBsZMvDGQ1mKmT28x44VuV6UQ5BLEU2qFfJc3ZH2fhuK/s400/PerfectlyOpposite.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408896903179629538" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQaMjuJ4OJtxPi9N5M4THnJS9SFJz6kP_DwNDqf1Pb8IYV6BO8BrZyPPLt70aBjkR4G1Ab4hJ0zh6M1rpRk1rvUdz5ldYK_Wh2jL6F2snp6nhgI6ALyMKCAqDbsW4zjLeMjI3T/s1600/NeckDown.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQaMjuJ4OJtxPi9N5M4THnJS9SFJz6kP_DwNDqf1Pb8IYV6BO8BrZyPPLt70aBjkR4G1Ab4hJ0zh6M1rpRk1rvUdz5ldYK_Wh2jL6F2snp6nhgI6ALyMKCAqDbsW4zjLeMjI3T/s400/NeckDown.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408896886993034226" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAQZmANFtIkLP6xkOKpNRo4WCy2LUFLEEecaxGTzNC_YFIBpvtfBWmEaOvZRz2-EubvI0Du5nspLOSn1mTtRgSoTIB2FpPkQfqf7YYy9_K5P413cy_oQIMs44_LSDFOO3rHLXe/s1600/OverTheTop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAQZmANFtIkLP6xkOKpNRo4WCy2LUFLEEecaxGTzNC_YFIBpvtfBWmEaOvZRz2-EubvI0Du5nspLOSn1mTtRgSoTIB2FpPkQfqf7YYy9_K5P413cy_oQIMs44_LSDFOO3rHLXe/s400/OverTheTop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408896906064781730" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvmTGZV2epg50i5mAEWHsY8KAa6cWiScxm9jkBRYrZzdWY89GVk_d_rRBg6LZs5d1cpkXGu6t5tHf-qItfuuTrTWw4QUlIWNZZghHdvKzOdPhn18QAVPHnVVKIKN3YX7MpmXgk/s1600/ThePinkLadies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvmTGZV2epg50i5mAEWHsY8KAa6cWiScxm9jkBRYrZzdWY89GVk_d_rRBg6LZs5d1cpkXGu6t5tHf-qItfuuTrTWw4QUlIWNZZghHdvKzOdPhn18QAVPHnVVKIKN3YX7MpmXgk/s400/ThePinkLadies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408896900136857474" /></a><br /><br /><br />Giving thanks for all that I've got and all that I love.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-72649827446053980492009-11-17T22:43:00.003-05:002009-11-23T21:58:26.421-05:00There but for the grace of God go I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTh-vpULhJzfVhV7Dvmlsor28ENgOcWyUEiZB0D-iP9ldDcTRcywhd1wrVyjji51KzxQTWjPFC7eO0VokdjUzDFaFLkYdVwsLBTxkDXfW-gy4HNU5ln6VkwcYos_2BOLLpE68q/s1600/Photo+106.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTh-vpULhJzfVhV7Dvmlsor28ENgOcWyUEiZB0D-iP9ldDcTRcywhd1wrVyjji51KzxQTWjPFC7eO0VokdjUzDFaFLkYdVwsLBTxkDXfW-gy4HNU5ln6VkwcYos_2BOLLpE68q/s400/Photo+106.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405285773666541810" /></a><br /><br />I played with Fin this morning, walked Briar to school, sang to Ave. I didn't fully understand the depth of my blessings.<br /><br />::::<br /><br /><br />You say it, but as a parent, when you hear the story, for a moment you go there. <br />You imagine the scenario.<br />The kids.<br />The challenges.<br />The marriage.<br />The beauty.<br />The life.<br /><br />The stroke.<br /><br />Kids waiting at home while your husband holds your hand praying for you to pull through. "We need you. We all need you, honey."<br /><br />It is inconceivable, and yet, it is real.<br /><br />Anissa is at the ICU. Peter is with her. The circle around them grows larger with each tweet and post, but at the center, it is still a woman fighting for her life. <br /><br />Pray for Anissa. Imagine for a moment, that it's you. Or your spouse. Live this moment and every moment after that you can, making good on the time you are given. <a href="http://toddlywinks.blogspot.com/2009/11/for-anissa.html">To help Anissa</a>: Think of her and her family.<br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-32433673300937108432009-11-16T09:45:00.000-05:002009-11-23T22:05:08.034-05:00Larger than lifeThe girls are getting bigger. Bigger in the sense of oh-my-god-are-their-feet-growing-by-the-minute and getting bigger with regard to how very much they understand. Disagreeing sparks unfamiliar nuance, a furrowed brow a trembling lip or a sudden scrambling for attention. WE are paying heed, but just as we think we get it, something new emerges.<br /><br />"Mom..."<br /><br />"Yes, baby?" I say as I examine an eyebrow.<br /><br />"Are you almost done, I'd like a little private time for potty." Blue eyes as pure as the summer sky await my response.<br /><br />Shocked, I nod and scurry out of the room.<br /><br />There is role playing with, "I now declare thee husband and wife," and "well, I'd like to, but I have to work."<br /><br /><i>Hey there, cat's in the cradle.</i><br /><br />I am trying to grasp how three burgeoning bumps have manifested into three gangly girls, all opinion and puppy dog eyes. I see how quickly they are gaining us, their speed, questing and size all threatening to eclipse us as we struggle to manage the details, emotions and appointments.<br /><br />I try not to superimpose the idea of pregnancy, but I realize how little they'll still be as they fall in love, move away and start families. My greatest fear is that for each inch and ability they grow, so does their space in my heart. I cannot fathom how, when they finally fledge, I'll survive it upright.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-40727656278776169792009-11-11T15:49:00.002-05:002009-11-23T21:09:21.659-05:00Today and alwaysThere aren't words enough, to satisfy the gratitude for the life that I enjoy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9csItoHVElVKpEWdS7A99lSVUeSVC6AMAzleJKtF1zRriLByAWGl9qbPuK1jrC6a4McY8M6K0m-mfW_2Q-Yu6zNtEN6dhlGqdMLKTYhVGG6BHdpczzviKmW_bRkLx4rZEmh5t/s1600-h/P1030446.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9csItoHVElVKpEWdS7A99lSVUeSVC6AMAzleJKtF1zRriLByAWGl9qbPuK1jrC6a4McY8M6K0m-mfW_2Q-Yu6zNtEN6dhlGqdMLKTYhVGG6BHdpczzviKmW_bRkLx4rZEmh5t/s400/P1030446.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402951182051269458" /></a><br /><br />To veterans yesterday, today, tomorrow and every minute between— thank you.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-63833643240857960532009-11-06T16:09:00.002-05:002009-11-23T21:19:47.483-05:00Open to InterpretationThere is direction, there is interpretation and then there is Fin.<br /><center><br /><br />"Give me a thumbs up, Ave."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YuEd6mtAO9vUJ21Gc1KuyugnrsCxeCUNGLs2ZQnn9BEi7skZtJrnllnxEHXfT4DZxhXRQY1Sh3ik5CL3UMSvcRoAQbDNzTYnAqpZvrVPpz8wiGVwlY1UDnZPom0vQq9iZs8g/s1600-h/avethumb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YuEd6mtAO9vUJ21Gc1KuyugnrsCxeCUNGLs2ZQnn9BEi7skZtJrnllnxEHXfT4DZxhXRQY1Sh3ik5CL3UMSvcRoAQbDNzTYnAqpZvrVPpz8wiGVwlY1UDnZPom0vQq9iZs8g/s400/avethumb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401102951374562482" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />"Now you, Fin."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0osUuhXYfHb0Pm1H_SR6lri4CcBhsQwUH1i4nHtirF6HOw4ccXdCbE8BI7PhBmYDiRLAtZq_CzHa7OdI4P9T2SfCiU3QXnGzqGqVKLVGmlZLhkwZgCiBAhJNXOCG9PQCkEZPV/s1600-h/finfinger.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0osUuhXYfHb0Pm1H_SR6lri4CcBhsQwUH1i4nHtirF6HOw4ccXdCbE8BI7PhBmYDiRLAtZq_CzHa7OdI4P9T2SfCiU3QXnGzqGqVKLVGmlZLhkwZgCiBAhJNXOCG9PQCkEZPV/s400/finfinger.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401102955094512290" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />And, scene.<br /><br /></center><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-28793968032506228212009-11-04T14:31:00.003-05:002009-11-23T21:20:43.944-05:00EndingsI am not ashamed to admit that for every five books I read, I turn ahead to the last part in at least 4. I like knowing, somehow if I know that the hero is triumphant, the love is requited or that the child is saved, I can more easily enjoy the story. I suppose to some this may mean that I am not getting the full effect of the book, I will comfortably say, it's my choice.<br /><br />More and more I am learning how little a say I have in life. I can impact journeys, shape beginnings, but, when it comes down to it, I cannot change endings. The layers between loss have become more slender, the stretches of time between one passing and the next seem uncomfortably close. Actually, I think it is just the predictability, the knowing that no matter whether I could turn the to the pages ahead or not, there are more. Always, there will be more.<br /><br />Yesterday a man died. A father. A husband. A cousin. A son. An uncle. A friend. A teacher. A soul. One minute he was here, as potent and unstoppable as John Wayne, and the next, he simply was no more. I am reeling, wondering how I could so completely have missed the possibility of this twist. This loss.<br /><br />It has been said before, but it feels as if something greater should have precipitated this. After the news settled, there was more. Relaying and narrating. Bearing witness to the realization of loss is a page that, given the choice, I would not read. Naked shock. Years whizzing before glassy eyes, a nearly imperceptible whoosh of air. <br /><br />I am so very sorry that Ted has gone. He had a twinkle and a ferocity of hug that always made me squeeze back in the way you only do for some people. I am perching softly as those who loved him longer reminisce. There is laughter, but more then that there is a kind of stillness in the silence of reflection. <br /><br />It is between those layers, when there is no speaking, when his spirit seems most present.<br /><br />May you sail peacefully, dear friend.<br /><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-21246544078713655012009-10-26T10:38:00.002-04:002009-11-23T21:09:35.493-05:00BurnShe usually points at the stained glass window and breathes a reverent, "Ah winnow, mama. Ah winnow," stretching out a pink finger and staring wide-eyed. This morning, going down a less travelled staircase, she was drawn to first the Choir Room and second the Sanctuary. <br /><br />We looked at the pictures of choir directors in robes and standing beside pianos, then at the faces of singing congregation members. "Ah singin' singers sing," she nodded. I smiled, taking her hand and leading her toward the door. She held her arms out and said, "Mama, 'old me?" She settled in my arms and we slipped down the stairs, admiring the window and the shapes the light cast through it onto the floor. <br /><br />When we got down the stairs she craned her neck, the honeyed light through the bank of windows in the Sanctuary was too great a pull. Her body leaned away from my own and I slid my hand behind her to keep her from falling. <br /><br />"Look d'at, mama. S'dat?" She turned to me, waiting for me to say something that would explain the halos of light. I began to give a dismissive and vague explanation as I went toward the door, but something pulled me back. We walked to the door of the Sanctuary and stood at the threshold for a moment. She didn't push or pull, or even say anything, her head just scanned the room.<br /><br />I stepped on foot in as my nose began to burn. The landscape of gently fraying tapestries shining under beams of gold and green light held me. Our heads turned together and looked toward the back wall, nondescript dark wood paneling and cabinets open to reveal inexpensive canisters of coffee and the various paper accouterments necessary for large coffee service. Finley put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Mama, ember."<br /><br />I looked at her, my eyes burning as tears raced to the surface and cascaded down my cheeks. "What, honey?"<br /><br />She touched her forehead to mine and then leaned back as she said, "Mama, member?"<br /><br />I nodded and said, "I do, honey. Mama does remember."<br /><br />I have no idea if Finley was really saying what I heard, but standing there bathed in the light of so many Sunday School memories, the smells of old tomes, standing coffee and aged rooms, I remembered my grandfather and his love. For me, for my grandmother, for my mom, for life.<br /><br />He loved so much. I remember now. <br /><br />Here's to loving and remembering.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-15200607207927731972009-10-04T14:29:00.002-04:002009-11-23T22:00:21.470-05:00And, go!I am all too aware of the inevitabilities of aging. I'm not talking about the lines that are at first paper thin and then later, like grooves in the yard, revealing the preferred trudging path. Or the shift in color, my morning, pre-shower and make-up face erring on the side of sallow as opposed to pale. Those passages I am, if not entirely at peace with, at least prepared for and managing. <br /><br />The inevitabilities that are currently weighing heaviest on my heart are of a different measure of time. My memories are laced with mint scented walks to school, little hand-written notes accompanying snacks waiting for the latch-key Amanda and elaborate shrubbery fortresses for Star Wars figures. There were t-ball games and vacations, birthday parties and bus rides downtown. They all merge in my mind to create one sort of meandering, yet cohesive sense of a childhood.<br /><br />I do not remember the orchestration of events or the balance of wanting and getting, needing and yearning. Now, as I live those same years on the other side of the reflection, I am daunted. It occurred to me that there is no <i>when</i>, no when there is enough time, when we have the money, when we get the swing of it.<br /><br />There is simply now, followed excruciatingly swiftly by what they remember. As I wince from the near-misses and barely-there's I am in the midst of the creation of their memories. Three little girls collating and cataloging the entirety of their youth in each of these days. <br /><br />We are month past the first day of kindergarten, one field trip down, a first invitation just received and school pictures ushering in potlucks and PTA. This is not even touching on the songs being learned and the lush toddler dimples and folds that are growing ever more distant. <br /><br />I had been thinking that I would know, that like the grace I thought I'd acquire as a woman and the growing out of breakouts and moodiness, there would be this discovery of lightness and ease that would guide me into enrolling the girls in dance, conquering the play date code of conduct. I would slip free of the cloak of less-thanness. <br /><br />I would feel comfortable, proud and accomplished. I wouldn't walk away from tucking the girls in and fight a lump in my throat as they whispered, "And soon, I'll do the ballerina class? Right, mama?" and "Tomorrow night will you be able to cuddle with me?" Instead I still end each day thinking I have not measured up, whether for time, money or attention.<br /><br />I know it isn't the classes or the perfect packed lunches that will be their memory, it will be unpredictable threads in between, the time we drove a little longer just to hear the last song, or the way we let them hold the ketchup themselves in a restaurant. I risk, each time I strive for perfection, missing that thing that is perfect to them. <br /><br />For Avery.<br /><br />For Finley.<br /><br />For Briar.<br /><br />For Sean.<br /><br />For myself.<br /><br />I get now, that it is this moment, this very moment that is the most important. I may never get them into dance or to the circus, but what I can do, and what I absolutely must do, is give them this moment in the truest most present way that I can, because it's not my idea of perfect that matters.<br /><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-71554948074129471342009-09-27T21:52:00.003-04:002009-09-27T22:21:31.632-04:00LayersNot more than a couple of weeks ago I was marveling over my survival of kindergarten. I had thought it would be like the first day back to work after having Briar, keening and begging. I remember trying to unearth what had to be a different reality, it couldn't be possible that I was supposed to leave my perfect, vulnerable first-born with someone else. All day.<br /><br />Five years later I can still see myself sobbing in a chair with my mom on the other end of the line. I was pleading with her to make it ok. I am not sure if I wanted permission to stay home or something else, but I sought an answer and solace that no one had. Now I find myself in a similar situation, this time it is bigger, the scope of my wishes.<br /><br />Avery has been speeding right alongside Briar, with new mannerisms and preferences bubbling to the surface each day. Whether it's her arms crossed, eyes wide, "That's very inner-tresting," or "Mom, can you just stop touching my hair now? I can kiss you to make you not sad," I am in awe of her unstoppable self-discovery.<br /><br />Finley is equally immersed in a full-throttle development, hers being both physical and intellectual. She longs to be as big and capable as her sisters, but protests vehemently is she feels at all displaced from her roost as the baby. She runs, jumps, claps and exclaims, but lingers with cuddles, "ode me's" and "I wuh yuh's."<br /><br />I am frozen by the way time is hurtling forward, lines blossoming across my face, all the while the girls' faces become more chiseled and their flirtations and interests explode in waves away from me. Farther with each experience. We were in Connecticut a couple of weeks ago to visit family. We stole away to tool around New Haven. I hadn't realized that visiting a place so dear to my grandfather would affect me so deeply.<br /><br />It was a beautiful day, the girls were content and adorable sitting in the back seat with all manner of toy, snack and sleep prop imaginable. Sean and I were next to each other in the front seat, each of us entranced by the new sights and the overall beauty of the day— no deadlines, no chores, just the open road. I stuck my head out the window and made the girls laugh as I closed my eyes and drank in the timeless feeling of sun on my face and wind in my hair.<br /><br />At one point I snapped a picture, and it is the looking at that picture that tortures me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPRL6WT-hY0nEOgKzQhRb7q3qMT4B9Dg7sOQCJ5MMhfKzoJ0v9AdSnavMi3VTKs0TOOs-wZbdjec4XXda15oTiTHNjXF34b5rnyTtKR5OsyojiTX6tNKyz-AB7t7y7n0myU0g8/s1600-h/P1040450.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPRL6WT-hY0nEOgKzQhRb7q3qMT4B9Dg7sOQCJ5MMhfKzoJ0v9AdSnavMi3VTKs0TOOs-wZbdjec4XXda15oTiTHNjXF34b5rnyTtKR5OsyojiTX6tNKyz-AB7t7y7n0myU0g8/s400/P1040450.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386335024005375122" /></a><br /><br />I know we don't live forever. I know we have the <span style="font-style:italic;">best days of our lives</span> and more. What I am having trouble managing is the idea that he is gone, that I will be gone, that time is marching on and that I don't get freebie minutes to figure it out. No sooner have I made a mistake or forgotten something than I am forced to consider the next thing. Move on.<br /><br />What if I move on after the wrong thing? How do I manage 3 perfectly distinct daughters? Control the fear when someone singles out one, or when I am frustrated with another? I am rambling here, I know. Rusty from too much time away. <br /><br />It really comes down to this— I am a mom. A daughter. A wife. A sister. A writer. A runner. A goof. A sentimental. I fear being too misshapen by trying to do certain things well and allowing others to slide. I cannot be perfect, but sometimes, it feels like if I don't try I am failing.<br /><br />+++++<br /><br />October will be here soon. It will be the month I try to focus more on living than dying. Come November I'll give El Dia de Los Muertos its due, but for now it is on la vida. Mi vida.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-78515127844536874072009-09-15T23:28:00.004-04:002009-11-23T21:12:59.340-05:00Predictably soThere isn't a parent in the world who hasn't reached this milestone and exclaimed, "Five year old, hardly seems possible!"<br /><br />And even knowing this I find myself watching Sean putting the training wheels on the birthday bike and marveling, "Five years, it doesn't seem possible."<br /><br />Truth be told I've been saying it since she woke up, "Briar! Tomorrow you'll be five years old. Five. Years. Old." At first she looked at me with excitement, but as the day wore on the look become a gently withering sort of, "C'mon, mom, it's been coming all year. Are you really surprised? I expected more of you?"<br /><br />****<br /><br />I can say that it is one of those perfect examples of time's treachery and mockery. Here today, gone tomorrow, and yet, yesterday is still so perfectly here. The smell of newborn skin, the burn in my lung and legs on that first family walk to the park, the ache of learning to nurse, the first day back at work. <br /><br />I had no idea how much I would love being a mom and as I enter this new phase of being a mom to a student, I realize I am as unprepared as ever. The thing is, I didn't know you could shine brighter. I didn't know that you could sparkle brighter than when you took your first step. The triumph of your first bite delivered by your own hand with a big girl spoon. Your first play date. First big girl bed. First you were right and I was wrong.<br /><br />But there you are, radiant as the day I first laid eyes on you. You are breathless with excitement, torn between sharing and replaying the events for yourself. I am hungry to take as much as you'll give me for as long as you're willing. You are, even with the addition of two sisters, my baby.<br /><br />I wanted you more than I have ever wanted anything. I wished for you, worked for you, and wept when I thought you weren't coming. And then you were real. On the way. I pored over all the books I could find, weighed every decision, imagined every possibility, and counted the minutes until I'd hold you in my arms.<br /><br />I know that tomorrow as we celebrate your fifth, we are entering a new era. I will do my best to be what you want and who you want in the way that you want. I can't promise I'll be perfect, but I can promise that I will try my best and love you in the wide, open way that you have taught me.<br /><br />****<br /><br />Mrs. Kowalski talked about how you found more sparkles than any student she had ever known. Not surprising when you consider that your are, in the purest sense, a sparkle yourself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSHAZcTqiVEyh5YV233w3QdBbX-xJWphMWaK7DyoeyTcN4Dx_IqwVD4DtpqAUwBhTmlrl7fZvwf6viiWyPZ_jnWH1VEpDY3jzueVU29VV-hnKynPRmXMaqG7RfTbwd8GrdbEe/s1600-h/P1040341.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSHAZcTqiVEyh5YV233w3QdBbX-xJWphMWaK7DyoeyTcN4Dx_IqwVD4DtpqAUwBhTmlrl7fZvwf6viiWyPZ_jnWH1VEpDY3jzueVU29VV-hnKynPRmXMaqG7RfTbwd8GrdbEe/s400/P1040341.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381907395913321442" /></a><br /><br />I adore you, sweet Briar Davie.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-25595098639771213692009-09-08T12:37:00.006-04:002009-09-08T13:13:12.342-04:00Is that you?I have been feeling it for some time now, but like the unwanted stare of a stranger, I have turned away, denying it. I have felt the gentle, yet persistent tug, but have been unwilling to face it. This hand that beckons grips me without touching, it is pointing rather than pulling. <br /><br />I move forward with the days concentrating on keeping pace, not getting ahead or anticipating. It seems enough to offer just enough resistance to keep from speeding, so fast have these last few years been. No one seems to be bothering me with this uncharacteristic slowness, no one is asking me to hurry.<br /><br />Today it hit me that they are unworried because they are not here. No one is watching or judging. I've fallen behind of my own will. I can stay here, but it is no more a victory than the runner who does not lose for never entering the race. <br /><br />And there it is again, that feeling, small and familiar, but stronger than before. This time it's pulling me and I know I cannot recoil. This is love and life. Briar is asking me to go with her, to celebrate and join her in today. Now.<br /><br />My perfect, little, baby Briar is ready and if I am to keep from missing it, I have to go. It's time for school. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGObESrqHolLFP33_aM69HkyRfucLgXh37e6_aK_iphk1OsWcWynw-swPB6x2f6O7nmDGPcvaAV9Z6BeCiy6uLqekO3QeCCaID1TWUlA_9ktd5-er4UPVpZmHkJDxVxpJjcjNW/s1600-h/DSC02822.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGObESrqHolLFP33_aM69HkyRfucLgXh37e6_aK_iphk1OsWcWynw-swPB6x2f6O7nmDGPcvaAV9Z6BeCiy6uLqekO3QeCCaID1TWUlA_9ktd5-er4UPVpZmHkJDxVxpJjcjNW/s400/DSC02822.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379143844405367058" /></a><br /><br /><br />She is ready because of me, not in spite of me. I wish this success didn't make me feel as if I were splitting down the middle. I am so proud of her.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0q0vYYcRwpPEMJXVgDxc5kwU4i_32zvaT7nS2l8Dap47-022KxoMZ3BhCsvLG4dtbyDHOW_xlbuug0n8d8tlvdFztxV_GmRQZENuJSJPn1FiPBHK1_4B6UMNPTQDWpnuuWE_E/s1600-h/P1040206.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0q0vYYcRwpPEMJXVgDxc5kwU4i_32zvaT7nS2l8Dap47-022KxoMZ3BhCsvLG4dtbyDHOW_xlbuug0n8d8tlvdFztxV_GmRQZENuJSJPn1FiPBHK1_4B6UMNPTQDWpnuuWE_E/s400/P1040206.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379144934546304450" /></a><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-41722463009342640282009-08-30T21:31:00.002-04:002009-08-30T21:54:45.804-04:00Ah-moI suppose it might get old, this writing out the phonetic spelling of little kid words, or more specifically the reading of it. I've gone back through my archives and read some of my old posts. There are many I'd rather have gone, the style, the content or the absence of editing all making me blush. I don't strike them from the record, knowing that in the same way that there will be memories I'd rather didn't exist, so too will there be less than perfect blog entries.<br /><br />My legacy for the girls, part memories we created together and part my retelling of moments they may not recall, is something I hope will be as rich as it is authentic. There have been starts and stops, pictures and blanks, but there is a thread. A gossamer line of our life together that will carry on after our paths spider and carry us to different stages.<br /><br />[Enter a bit of maudlin here] I hope when they read entries like this, they'll no how from the moment I began typing the sentence about our paths, rather than "our path," I felt the hot prick of tears stinging my eyes and an intense ache rose in my throat. I want them also to know that just as I felt I might dissolve into a fit of tears that would surely last for days, the phone rang. Their dad. They;ll likely remember us working. Working during the day. Working at night. Working on the weekend. They may not remember my time at home with them, may not know how often I crept into their room to press my lips against the soft indent where their jaw lines met their ears, careful not to wake them, yet all the while wishing they would stir. We do work hard, probably always will, but even in the thick of it, there is a connection that sees him calling me just as I feel as if my heart may break.<br /><br />We share smiles and tears over the things they say. Avery, hard at work in the bathroom, "Know why I do it this way mom?" she asked through clenched teeth. "No," I say, "Why?" And she nods and says, "It's just what humans do." I replay the interactions at the park. "So she held this clover out to the ducks and the ducks looked at her like, 'um, yeah, at least toss me a crouton, kid." I explain, "And then all the duck toddle toward her and she starts whispering 'I love you duckies. I'm so sorry, but I don't have food this time, but I promise you that maybe next time I could bring you some,' and I'll be damned if they don't listen to her."<br /><br />We are busy and driven, but there is always the axis, the role of parents to three spectacular girls. Each day I become more aware of how frightening a gift this really is. How ever will I sustain the distance that becomes necessary? How will I manage not getting to witness every moment? To not always be where you start and end your days?<br /><br /><i>Ah-mo</i><br /><br />Finley has become so verbal, such an incredible vocabulary and desire to communicate. I marvel at the new words each day, celebrating and mourning. I was thinking the other day that between the teeth, the sprinting and the counting, baby days were over. She gave me her look, this shoulder hitched up into her chin, lips pursed, eyes dancing, nose wrinkled look followed by wide eyes, a nod and, "Ah-mo?"<br /><br />Milk. Mom. Still.<br /><br />I break as I say yes and she explodes in a laugh and then leaps into my arms or flops onto the floor to nurse beside me. I won't deny the intensity of my completion in her still needing and wanting this from me. She wraps her arms around me and sighs contentedly, "Ah-mo," as she snakes a hand between my elbow and side. I kiss her hair and she looks up at me.<br /><br />Flecks and sparkles from a life, fusing to create the terrain of my journey. I will revisit these precious grooves. My girls and my life.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-47928405448969894652009-08-25T10:30:00.003-04:002009-11-23T22:05:35.356-05:00Still HereEver hear the one about the mom who finally had a health hiccup and proceeded to completely lose her sh*t? <br /><br />No?<br /><br /><a href="http://toddlywinks.blogspot.com/2009/08/blocked.html">Check it out.</a><br /><br />Sorry to have been absent, somewhere between Chicago and normal I lost my way. Been burying my head in babies and daydreams. I suppose there are worse things to do. I've missed this though, this place where I wax euphoric on my family. <br /><br />If I'd had my head on straight I'd have shared with you the way Finley almost broke her leg and how through the experience she reminded us how to carry on and be present in all that you have, rather than adrift in the not having.<br /><br />I would have told you that Avery says, "I am feeling really a'frushrade and I am so angry," instead of screaming or stomping.<br /><br />You'd know that Briar brings lumps to our throats as she quests for new words and valiantly tries to keep up with the pace of her emerging girl. The highs and lows and irrepressible passion of life at almost-five.<br /><br />Then, quieter, I'd let you know how Sean has been, how he has stayed right beside me, unerring in his assurances that everything will be fine. Until last night. I'd tell you that the fear I have been searching for in his face finally came and at that moment I was overcome with gratitude for the way he had been hiding it.<br /><br />I am still here, loving and living. I see calmer waters just ahead and I'm shooting straight for them, if it takes me a while to reach them, just know I'll be back.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1Mn2fKfRwUCyk0mey4HmjB8QzUEfnFgy8FDJSDbCqMoPArq1H_HUoCa6f6pK0jlgbCdUgBoBRdTAPeHsM0vsg1tdtTMtPybR0WMqAmin564BGtPQoC_BzXmStF9GaaUYMD-t/s1600-h/P1040190.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1Mn2fKfRwUCyk0mey4HmjB8QzUEfnFgy8FDJSDbCqMoPArq1H_HUoCa6f6pK0jlgbCdUgBoBRdTAPeHsM0vsg1tdtTMtPybR0WMqAmin564BGtPQoC_BzXmStF9GaaUYMD-t/s400/P1040190.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373911297434022754" /></a><br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-28410164539053810212009-08-13T10:59:00.002-04:002009-08-13T11:21:36.957-04:00LoopsI find the moments lately to be like tiny pulls in a sweater, as the even surface of my life shifts. The girls are growing faster than my heart and mind can bear— first days of school, thank you's from a baby and the burgeoning countenance of a young woman. I trace my finger over the pulls, the once taut weave of helpless and able now loosened, ability mounting and futility rising.<br /><br />I want to hold things back, keep the teeth from springing, the strides from lengthening. It's hard not to feel them pulling ever closer to the day when they'll parent their own children, turn doting eyes upon lovers rather than parents. I watch the lines upon my face, the smudges of age on my hands and the unwelcome sensation of wanting to rest and I know that it is beyond me/<br /><br />They are my babies, that will not change, but my chest aches with how everything else is destined to end. <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2008/01/mama-doesnt-have-anymore-baby.html">Nursing</a>, <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2008/04/you-manda.html">holding</a>, <a href="http://toddlywinks.blogspot.com/2007/11/ever-feel-terror.html">fixing</a>.<br /><br />I've made no secret of choosing to see joy in this blessing of life with three girls. I find myself clasping Sean's hand, laying my head on his shoulder and whispering, "They're beginnings, right? Not endings?"<br /><br />These pulls in my sweater are new stories, new loves, new ways, but at their start, they are my babies. My life.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-28676703270898180562009-08-01T06:14:00.000-04:002009-11-23T21:20:43.945-05:00H2FunYesterday was my birthday, I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a bit dubious about the idea of spending a good deal of it on a raft in the Hudson. The <a href="http://designtramp.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Tramps</a> were shooting a commercial for <a href="http://4soc.com" target="_blank">SOC</a> during a white water rafting trip. Ever game, I went along, biting back a bit of whining about the weather. Because, seriously, it was chilly. And wet.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizR3mMmz17S42xXqoceGuMGZsNA1qBwWxo-yLUAp4jxXEDHIh_Q3_X_jKx4IJM47dFy-ZZQ-cCyFPmssqeCkPbOlEdT2gfxM89fOEvhpwA9bOqMloJORVnWtqQJREX3g6I9DKE/s1600-h/chilly.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizR3mMmz17S42xXqoceGuMGZsNA1qBwWxo-yLUAp4jxXEDHIh_Q3_X_jKx4IJM47dFy-ZZQ-cCyFPmssqeCkPbOlEdT2gfxM89fOEvhpwA9bOqMloJORVnWtqQJREX3g6I9DKE/s400/chilly.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364967097071106002" /></a><br /><br />I chatted up the guide as we waited for the bus. Yes, a bus. We go high glamour for birthdays 'round these parts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SZ9LKx8cC2FNdEmK82uSSY3n9MTurzlI8RKcBxLxJ8xhxjh_ZDIeM91IcisO0qNUi3zDbq9WZF0Zo4xrqVazRA71smaPeCKabDFwkOZKnNaAYe2ne3B-HfckU4IlT9NGQDXg/s1600-h/chatting+with+guide.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SZ9LKx8cC2FNdEmK82uSSY3n9MTurzlI8RKcBxLxJ8xhxjh_ZDIeM91IcisO0qNUi3zDbq9WZF0Zo4xrqVazRA71smaPeCKabDFwkOZKnNaAYe2ne3B-HfckU4IlT9NGQDXg/s400/chatting+with+guide.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364751934608477122" /></a><br /><br />We paddled, floated and then swam. The water, as it turns out, was perfect. I slipped out of the raft and into the river, my pfd tightly cinched and doing its job I bobbed about in the water. Every so often I'd turn and stroke into the current, sending water sluicing over my body and the delicious burn of exertion running through my legs. <br /><br />At one point I joked that I felt like a navy seal as the charcoal sleeves of my shirt blended into the water. "Did you say navy seal?" the guide asked. "Did you know there is a navy seal approach to getting back in the raft? Wanna try?" I looked at him and asked how as the rest of the group watched. I imagined the number of ways a woman could embarrass herself by "putting your back to the raft and then lifting yourself in a backward somersault up and into the raft." <br /><br />They waited. I hemmed and hawed. And then I thought, "What the hell?"<br /><center><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/k7Uh0_usRZQ&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/k7Uh0_usRZQ&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></center><br /><br />I may not get high marks for grace, but it was the most fun I can remember having in a long time. Empowering, invigorating and unforgettable.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Bo3KcOTzenRlp9lUQtwFkNGgn53vxzMSTM_iaXjqXDy9fl3PiW6BWGKFirkv0Eg30EQyqb4PgC4Z79vCHETgxWbLZGQui5pCuVAMq-9VFZBTIerAaGOdwlUmiPAjyJN_Asup/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Bo3KcOTzenRlp9lUQtwFkNGgn53vxzMSTM_iaXjqXDy9fl3PiW6BWGKFirkv0Eg30EQyqb4PgC4Z79vCHETgxWbLZGQui5pCuVAMq-9VFZBTIerAaGOdwlUmiPAjyJN_Asup/s400/Picture+4.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364973538199452578" /></a><br /><br />I couldn't have asked for anything more than the chance to feel strong, alive and loved.<br /><br />Thanks, you know who you are!Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-55206475347604294292009-07-29T16:13:00.004-04:002009-11-23T22:00:21.471-05:00InevitableYou hear about it all the time, people's blogs being found out. A family member, a co-worker, a friend. I'd never really considered what I might do, and really, I imagined that it was unlikely to happen to me.<br /><br />Enter frosty stares, chilly glares and angry mares<span style="font-style:italic;"> (self-indulgent rhyming seems appropriate in a post addressing people being mad at me for what I write.)</span><br /><br />I don't quite know how to handle it— do I apologize? defend myself? justify? carry on as if nothing has happened?<br /><br />I'm really not sure. <br /><br />I feel fairly grounded in my right to write about my experiences, but I can cop to crossing a line.<span style="font-style:italic;"> (Abba-dabba-doodler, you were heard, considered, and I hope honored.) </span>I really don't want to strike this blog and begin anew without names and using veiled locations etcetera. <br /><br />I think perhaps what may be more appropriate is to understand that people are going to think what they are going to think. If I write it I need to have stones enough to handle it when they stare and point or look askance at me and my family.<br /><br />I think I've addressed the offending posts, not that this particular person would admit to being here reading and judging, spreading her take. I know she's here. I know how she feels. I don't begrudge her those feelings.<br /><br />I am, however, not going to stop being who I am or carry the burden of her ire. I am sorry if she felt slighted by what I considered to be a true account of my experience. I won't write about it again.<br /><br />I am getting back to what is most important, which is what I can participate in and contribute to— my family, my home, and my community.<br /><br />Here's to peace, even if it is just promising to not be rude. I can do it, can you?Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-16292258234574228742009-07-25T10:25:00.003-04:002009-11-23T22:05:35.357-05:00Wistful CityI have loved Chicago, I really have. As far as cities go it is beautiful with soaring buildings and architectural triumphs that delight the eye. The gardens are magnificent and for as large as it is, what I have seen has been clean and inviting. All of that being said, I find myself wishing I was with my family. <br /><br />The moose, oh how Avery would have squealed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLe-nVg0Ys_NwBkSg9e3oj4shkFQBARlm01d_Fac5vfjiP62uVpvy4Mr80KinBvjHiIEXaE9mhanjihccSxZ9eGfbPUySNXNlN375oWyRIwAYJdhWBcIG64FZjphpBCNGdXFA/s1600-h/P1030990.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLe-nVg0Ys_NwBkSg9e3oj4shkFQBARlm01d_Fac5vfjiP62uVpvy4Mr80KinBvjHiIEXaE9mhanjihccSxZ9eGfbPUySNXNlN375oWyRIwAYJdhWBcIG64FZjphpBCNGdXFA/s400/P1030990.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362406380372198066" /></a><br /><br />The mermaid, "like a sea princess" Briar would have gushed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmU_kUcX4fdmxMNGka5ujAYleYWOAfvoD6Acw482ZAJzDqzegD3zsojdH0_ziknfvy3FTFy7Lg1_Os5Cvs7Dc2uKv2F0zqN7TzCBOE9B0XifiTXAl7lse_semujjqnATJiEjj/s1600-h/P1030966.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmU_kUcX4fdmxMNGka5ujAYleYWOAfvoD6Acw482ZAJzDqzegD3zsojdH0_ziknfvy3FTFy7Lg1_Os5Cvs7Dc2uKv2F0zqN7TzCBOE9B0XifiTXAl7lse_semujjqnATJiEjj/s400/P1030966.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362406391645272002" /></a><br /><br />A street performer in head-to-toe-silver next to larger than life statues? Would have stopped them in their tracks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmcb5R_UPSaS_CeF6K-_h39Fdtngn8gunNadJnA5ZLzaJC5czpfWE9b-FO1ihnKjP9WNwoPFddL0uCe7xveF9AJ5-2uu-CGt2eHn0dWO5_8Ykv4ef1rZJmDTO4b6luHokpcTJo/s1600-h/P1030991.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmcb5R_UPSaS_CeF6K-_h39Fdtngn8gunNadJnA5ZLzaJC5czpfWE9b-FO1ihnKjP9WNwoPFddL0uCe7xveF9AJ5-2uu-CGt2eHn0dWO5_8Ykv4ef1rZJmDTO4b6luHokpcTJo/s400/P1030991.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362406386431968898" /></a><br /><br />The funky mirror thing? Three daughters— mirrors...'nuf said.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_rOMynAMWHTXxAWvnqr5qLv-4coO88edXN12__XWxeUVf9D_mly_AjRXWlurief5U4rTIXX_NZWjGktJcI9D2CCoKxV8TzxKVNSDduB899VkvDI5aI0OfWBiQ7eX_M-A3LGi/s1600-h/P1030979.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_rOMynAMWHTXxAWvnqr5qLv-4coO88edXN12__XWxeUVf9D_mly_AjRXWlurief5U4rTIXX_NZWjGktJcI9D2CCoKxV8TzxKVNSDduB899VkvDI5aI0OfWBiQ7eX_M-A3LGi/s400/P1030979.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362406397850750274" /></a><br /><br />And Sean, I find him around every corner, in beautiful signage and umbrellas, in couples holding hands and dads lifting their daughters.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2YrQqzcq5s48pz0RZ_Pym3BlO93mZH7XHMNfpwEeqB6Sl3ZebrnXtGVTuRn3BEDh8TmQlGW0x-dEF1Rh7OnCRpAbW9YqJ6-pi1aJQpo4DA_HzRnJuVzTQuuZr3pmwyEKnEDf/s1600-h/P1030984.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2YrQqzcq5s48pz0RZ_Pym3BlO93mZH7XHMNfpwEeqB6Sl3ZebrnXtGVTuRn3BEDh8TmQlGW0x-dEF1Rh7OnCRpAbW9YqJ6-pi1aJQpo4DA_HzRnJuVzTQuuZr3pmwyEKnEDf/s400/P1030984.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362406393767590482" /></a><br /><br />I miss them, I adore them and I thank them for helping me see so much magic in Chicago. I'll be home soon.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-16693138990025388362009-07-21T22:17:00.009-04:002009-11-23T22:00:21.472-05:00FinlessI've been struggling with how to describe the ache, it is as intense and consuming as anything I've ever felt, from mourning to puppy love. I suppose, in a sense, it's both. Finley is nearly fifteen months old and in less than 30 hours I will leave for 3 days for <a href="http://blogher.com/">BlogHer 2009</a>. I did it last year, but she came with me. She was on my chest the entire time. She nursed happily, cooed contentedly through sessions and gave me something upon which I could legitimately focus if, say, I got terrified by a phalanx of bloggers I admired in the hotel hallway. It was also sinfully decadent time alone with her, as her older sisters stayed back at home with Sean.<br /><br /><center><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/j-YxnjWCEB8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/j-YxnjWCEB8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object></center><br /><br />This time she'll stay home with her sisters and Sean. I cannot expect her to stay engaged, rested or quiet during the round the clock activities. I also don't know that I can expect her to want to nurse when I get home or trust that my body will still be capable. She is, and I say this with the full understanding that I am belaboring the point, <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2009/03/shell-be-coming-round.html">my last baby</a>. This is the last baby I will nurse, the last full summer of diapering,the last summer before having a school age daughter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghs_vPNUz-sZrBF_BRkTPLLRa_56QHSMzFaPHlJBu-5R5o0sXmuMJTm7C_RclJ_pkoUdjB28Fp-96MO5AzBY2zl1eW1kItqtWamXJgc5HY0ZGkly5a9kRIYANNpzAOFKpgtnhl/s1600-h/Blogher.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 106px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghs_vPNUz-sZrBF_BRkTPLLRa_56QHSMzFaPHlJBu-5R5o0sXmuMJTm7C_RclJ_pkoUdjB28Fp-96MO5AzBY2zl1eW1kItqtWamXJgc5HY0ZGkly5a9kRIYANNpzAOFKpgtnhl/s400/Blogher.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361135242291626258" /></a><br /><br />It's inevitable that these things will happen, but I can't help feel that in some way I am hurrying time along and that is simply not my intention. I hope <span style="font-style:italic;">(feel free to chime in here please!</span>) that this is a lesson.<br /><br />That it's ok to go to a <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2008/07/this-babys-got-legs.html">conference</a> about something that has helped you to discover who you are.<br /><br />That if you are lucky enough to have two parents, you should have <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2008/02/excuse-me-you-there-trying-to-do-it-all.html">one-on-one time</a>.<br /><br />That we must <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2008/04/essence-of-time.html">live </a> in each moment.<br /><br />That <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2007/06/fast-woman.html">mom</a> is strong.<br /><br />That you <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2009/03/tiny-dancer.html">can do it</a>.<br /><br />And so like Fin's first dip in the ocean.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNNge92FwGMkXuJq8xG6yqcVTbHVnjvnODycZo0SzCOEe8V1X2WNr_AQZj4kxE_ogxuLEEnBBH5xsHk1zTAs4eBJlZ9_HOtaDoaN0iMugOX-qiPGDAf7Aj6lTy10g0liZq9bk/s1600-h/P1030875.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNNge92FwGMkXuJq8xG6yqcVTbHVnjvnODycZo0SzCOEe8V1X2WNr_AQZj4kxE_ogxuLEEnBBH5xsHk1zTAs4eBJlZ9_HOtaDoaN0iMugOX-qiPGDAf7Aj6lTy10g0liZq9bk/s400/P1030875.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361103651477679506" /></a><br /><br />And her immediate impulse to leap to me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkPRS-6Mh5e8o_bOv1_ezT81xsDNcjW7cyGPBCAyH_92h9edFHmqJ2Mn2s-92c6gQywV3lSjWP0Ea2wijVGk8TyrjWkDjVVqFAXh0kCxf6CbJUtYteqfaBsIV0ex84N3qUHRy/s1600-h/P1030876.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkPRS-6Mh5e8o_bOv1_ezT81xsDNcjW7cyGPBCAyH_92h9edFHmqJ2Mn2s-92c6gQywV3lSjWP0Ea2wijVGk8TyrjWkDjVVqFAXh0kCxf6CbJUtYteqfaBsIV0ex84N3qUHRy/s400/P1030876.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361103652702755010" /></a><br /><br />I am going to remember the squeals of delight and splashing laughter. Despite wanting to cling to my girls, I'm going to chase the surf rather than run from it, swim away from shore, so that I can be reminded once again, how sweet standing upon it can be.<br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-27118476369296969142009-07-13T15:23:00.003-04:002009-11-23T21:19:47.483-05:00TidesIt's been more than a year since I wrote about the heartache of <a href="http://lifewithbriar.blogspot.com/2008/03/reckoning-heartbreak.html" target="_blank">life's demands</a>. It's actually the heartache of my own desires, but that is so hard to admit, isn't it? Whether you are a mom or a wife, a civil servant or a student, to admit when you desire to have something or do something that has nothing to do with altruism or good will, but really just comes down to <i>this is what I want</i>.<br /><br />Sean and I have gone round after round about time, whether it's time for ourselves to work on projects unencumbered or to simply be together. He can say it without guilt or hesitation, "I miss my wife" or "I want some non-kid time." I can barely utter those words for fear of some imaginary rod coming down and branding me an irresponsible mom.<br /><br />I've been trying to do better at things, a hair appointment here and a date there. The introduction of toddler Tuesday has been lifesaving as it gives me a kind of license to revel without overtly demanding something. Overall I think it's good and that I have things figured out and then something happens.<br /><br />It came like a shot of lightning through a clear sky. <br /><br />September.<br /><br />Kindergarten.<br /><br />Weaning.<br /><br />No more babies.<br /><br />It's July and come fall I'll have one daughter in kindergarten, one daughter in preschool and another experimenting with sentences and pedals. My perfect place as the axis of their world is shifting and, in an act of futile desperation, I am seizing a last wisp of ruffled nightgown and baby tendril.<br /><br />Today was a blur of green sparkles and Elmer's glue, pear-juice laced kisses and laughter. I sidled along casting dollhouse shadows with faeries and scarves. With any luck I'll turn these last hours of now into days and as we hurtle into the first autumn of school days, I'll have left a trail of seeds that will be perennials, bright and showy. Forever.<br /><br /><br />.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335908.post-13566494599769248682009-07-09T16:53:00.003-04:002009-07-09T17:21:43.517-04:00You'll Never KnowWe were swaying to the lullabye, our reflection keeping time in the hazy mirror. I watched us, her hand on my arm sliding to and fro, her face drawn in a lazy smile, an expression of utter contentment on both our faces. I imagined her standing beside me, long limbs and taut muscles electric with ability and a life thick with things that have nothing to do with me. I squeeze her as I crane my face into press against her cheek.<br /><br /><I>Remember this baby, hold this squeeze for later.</i><br /><br />She smiles and points, "Bay-bee. Uh bay-bee a mama!" I grin and point back. I step closer to the mirror and sharpen our reflection, my attempt to fill more of this sliver in time. Minutes being choked by days that turn into night and then morning before I know it. Longer necks, brighter eyes and the cruel slash of a perfectly pronounced word, "Ummmm, juice."<br /><br />I felt myself deny the laptop and the emails it held, deciding instead to define this afternoon as more memory than accomplishment. We danced there before the mirror for a while. My hands cupped her body, the entire length of my arms at work cradling her long torso and legs. Her belly pressed into mine as she cocked her head to look back and forth between reflection and real.<br /><br />"It's me. I am right here and right there. Right here holding you."<br /><br />She softly shuffled her feet and shimmied her body closer into my arms. Tinier and closer.<br /><br />"I'm always going to be your mama, sweet Fin. And you know what? You know what my littlest you?"<br /><br />She extended her neck and waited, a grin upon her face as I pointed to the mirror.<br /><br />"You will always, always, always be my baby, even when you are the biggest of all."<br /><br />We smiled at each other and ourselves and I tried to imagine how this memory would taste years and years later. Like the traces of sugar on a wrapper, I think I'll find sweetness and dust and the tiniest sensation that i beat the system and got a little more.<br /><br />I waited a while longer before laying her in the crib, though her eyes were drowsy and she was ready to go. I traced the dimples on her elbows and touched my lips to hers until I felt her start to giggle. Then I put her tenderly into her crib, whispering how much I loved her because you never know when it will be the last time.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06785403140233495009noreply@blogger.com13