Sugar and Spice

  My dear Pumpkin,   Today is your birthday.   I have decided that one of my gifts to you each year will be to write you a letter saying all the things I want to say but don’t or can’t, or that I need to but haven’t yet.   I know this “gift” won’t mean much now, other than to myself, but I need to know you have these letters when I’m gone, whether that be next year or in 50 years.   I want you to be able to hear my voice and know how very much you were loved.   And even when it doesn’t feel like it, I want you know that I understand you.   I want you to know that you are the most amazing little girl in the world. Today you are three.   Some moments I find myself looking at you and barely recognizing the little girl standing where my tiny baby once was.   I hear words out of your mouth that are beyond profound.   I see flashes of understanding in your eyes that lets me know you get things that you are not even able to fully pr...

Certainly if the judges were out this weekend, after the failed parenting experiment that it was, I would be have been eliminated from any possiblity of Mother of the Year. With Hubby out of town and my parents headed to New Orleans to meet up with family and friends for JazzFest, I had a choice - stay home alone all weekend with the two girls or load them up and head them out to NOLA.  It wasn't really much of a choice - we were road-tripping it!  I talked myself into by reminding myself that Pumpkin is very musical, loves live music and loves to dance.  She also loves hotels.  Bug, on the other hand, is just as laid back as a Sunday morning, so there was really no reason NOT to go.  Right? The car ride there was fabulous - no major meltdowns, mostly naps, and we made half-decent time despite three pit stops in as many hours.  The hotel room was big enough that we weren't going to suffocate (which is a big PLUS in NOLA) and the weather seem...

As my last post may have hinted at, I've been feeling very existential about motherhood. I feel very much that being a mother is the most complicated, intense, profound and deeply rewarding experience I have ever had.  From the moment that you feel the first flutter, there truly are no words to describe the constant roller coaster of overwhelming emotion.  This is ironic since I am writing a blog about motherhood that I am always finding myself at a loss for a word big enough or powerful enough to truly capture my emotion. I am now a part of a long line of mothers near and far, old and young, who want the same exact thing for their children that I want for mine. I want their basic needs met.  I want them to experience joy, love, success, pride, and peace.  I never want them to want.  I never want them to hurt.  In whatever language, on whatever continent, we are all mothers.  We are connected by our love.  We hurt for...

There are no words. I have nothing profound or eloquent to say. A child was among the victims. What kind of world are we living in? I don't want my children to know this fear that is choking me. I used to ache for the mothers in those other places who were afraid their children would be shot when they walked outside... Those mothers who worried about roadside bombs... But that was their concern, those countries were over there.  Far away. I once only ached for them.  Now I am one of them. Bug was up sick last night.  Two long hours.  I held her the entire time. I let Pumpkin fall asleep in  my bed.  I missed her as soon as her eyes closed. I finally laid my own tear-stained cheeks on my pillow and frantically whispered fervent prayers into the cold dark night. Waking, I hoped it was all a bad dream. It wasn't. But neither was the beauty in those little girls' eyes as they peered over their warm comforters this mornin...

We had Pumpkin’s annual parent-teacher conference last week.   When scheduling, the teacher indicated that the class was “pass/fail,” and the old feelings of angst and competitiveness rose in my chest as though I were back in law school.   Pass/Fail?   Really?   2-year olds?   I was as nervous walking in as if I were refreshing my browser screen over and over the day grades or bar exam results were due. Of course, we had nothing to worry about – our girl’s a genius.   I mean, that isn’t exactly what the teacher said but I’m certain that is what she meant.   While Pumpkin can’t pedal a bike forward (she has backwards down) or hop on one leg (honestly, who can), she is excelling and amazing as always.   And let’s be honest, I still can’t skip and, while it took an intervention in the principal’s office by the ‘rents for me to pass kindergarten, the inability to skip has not impeded my educational or professional pursuits in any way.   ...

I must say, I never truly understood the difficulty with "hustlin'" that all these rappers have been carrying on about for years.  I mean, to be honest, I am not entirely sure that I know what "hustlin'" really means, but I have something of an idea of how difficult it is after this weekend.  And, as all of the gangsters would have us know, it really is a hard job. See, over the course of this weekend I may have hit REM sleep once.  On the couch.  At 1 PM.  And even then my head only stayed on the pillow for about 20 minutes.  I, like many hustlers I imagine, spent most of the weekend nights awake.  I saw midnight, I saw 2 AM, I saw 3 AM, I saw it all.  The quietest part of my "nights" this weekend was the hour between 5 AM and 6 AM.  Even hustlers need to re-up. What was I doing during those waking hours?  Well, what is any hustler doing during the wee hours of the morning?  Dealing with beautifu...

I feel like I got hit on the head with a large board that reads: THIS IS YOUR LIFE.   If my life were a cartoon, little animated stars would have swirled around for a few seconds and then I would have shaken myself straight and seen clearly.   For the first time.   Ever.   What I mean is this, as much as I’ve written about how much I cherish my sweet girls and love being a mother (mostly), I still haven’t actually started living my life. Let me try to explain it again. My entire existence from the time I can remember has been about accomplishments.   And I have to say, this isn’t because my parents were those crazy-competitive-ballpark parents.   They totally weren’t.   This is something innate.   Before I could do much of anything, I already forced my mother to make me a schedule to follow so I could be sure I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.   Anyone who knows my mom knows for certain the scheduling wasn’t her idea. ...