If you only listen

Strange 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.

*****

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.

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.

I am listening, and knowing that I will not always remember unguided, I am writing. I am chronicling these moments of Christmas magic.

*****

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.

Happiness is a choice 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.

It is our choice.

It is our price to pay if we don't.

Who is trying to sing to you right now?

Whose arms did you wiggle out of to do the dishes?

Go listen, kiss and live.

It's just this one time, make it count.

*****

Believe



.

And, 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.

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.

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 when, no when there is enough time, when we have the money, when we get the swing of it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For Avery.

For Finley.

For Briar.

For Sean.

For myself.

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.



.

Still got it, jack ass

Hey tall guy at the grocery store,

I want to thank you. I didn't expect much more from my frantic lunch hour grocery store trip than milk with dinner. Your dramatic, rubber necking turn out of the peanut aisle and over to the dairy section where I was standing was unexpected. It was really kind of awesome to know with absolute certainty that I was being checked out.

You were no good ole boy toting Milwaukee's Best and cheese doodles either, you actually had real food in your basket and wore clothes clearly purchased in this decade. You weren't my type, but I'm not embarrassed to say that I had a spring in my step as I crossed to my cart. You smiled at me when you saw that my cart was actually 8 feet of bright red and yellow truck steered by two little girls clutching character toothbrushes. You went your way as I went mine. It was a perfect exchange, nothing untoward, just a dose of grocery store flattery.

What was seriously not cool was the look you gave me when you saw me at the check out. You were clearly working your mojo to great effect on the sample girl hocking ham roll ups. I was cooing at the girls as I loaded the items from the cart onto the conveyor belt. All was good, then, as I reached for the organic red peppers in the bottom of my cart my red top lifted to reveal the hint of a pregnant belly. I'll give you the fact that you managed not to choke on the ham roll up that was clearly fighting its way back up your esophagus at the urging of your brain. The sudden realization that you'd ogled a pregnant chick was more than you could handle. I think you might have actually shuddered.

Not cool, not cool at all.

-The pregnant chick with the-still-fine-ass

Fast Woman

The route is familiar, stone walls blending into manicured shrubs into wide expanses of impossibly green lawn and back to stone walls. My feet pound against the pavement in rhythm with music I don't yet know. The sounds a melange of voices and beats from Sean's iTunes library, muted snares and a soulful wail, digital pulses and angry raps. I pump my arms, breathing in and out, my mouth hardening and blurring between smile and wince.

Traveling in this way I am in tune with my body, every tensed muscle and each jiggle are automatically cataloged in my mind. There is no judgment, it is unapologetically zen for me, this motion of self. I've had two children, girls. My self, my voice, two of the greatest factors in how my girls will see themselves, they are my charges on this journey. The miles I log, the sweat I release are investments in their future. I will not fail, I won't give in, as I do for me, I do for them.

"Mommy's runnin' fast," a sweet whisper in my ear, an echo from another time.

I am. The beautiful houses whiz by, and they do so because of me, my power and my endurance. A ferocious burn builds in my lungs and I am awed. The younger me, the pre-baby me would have stopped, tied a shoe or some such thing. The Amanda today soldiers on, wincing no longer, she beams.

"I am runnin' fast!"

The song changes and the pulse of an angry sounding song comes on, it is irresistible. I tear into the sidewalk, my feet digging harder, pushing off and lifting me into the next lunge. The scenery shifts, the houses are smaller, the yards less groomed. The air moves against my face, cool as it hits the perspiration above my eyes and beneath my nose. Branches whip against my legs, the sting a welcome nip, fueling me on. I am as lost in the music and motion as can be and then I feel it, eyes upon my form.

I turn, suddenly aware of the lyrics to the song. They are harsh, but perfect for running. The eyes upon me: a lacrosse team. The players standing against the cyclone fence, massive hands holding sticks and metal railing, their coach has his back to me. There is no ambivalence, they check me out. Sensing distraction the coach turns and meets my eye, his mouth slips into a slow approving smile and I blush. My mind falters, the music pulls me back.

I lower my head and run faster, past the boys and into the setting sun. I can feel them watching and it makes me smile. I deserve this and I feel no shame.

I am mom. I am woman. I am fast.