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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
 I was a boat kid growing up. My father introduced us to the world of boating from a very early age and it seemed we always had one boat or another - boats which progressed in size and capability through the years. Our summer weekends were peppered with boat trips and excursions. On the rare occasion, we would sometimes meet up with other families and tie up, bow to stern, rafting together out at Block Island or Montauk. As boat kids we quickly learned how to maneuver across the decks of conjoined boats and the world became smaller and wetter, graced with more sun, fun and freedom than we ever thought possible. The fireworks displays viewed from the deck of the boat were unrivaled in their brilliance and the nights spent slumbered in the cabin of a once-upon-a-time, old cabin cruiser were uncomfortable but unparalleled in our childhood memories. This past weekend, my daughter got a chance to experience some of this rare fun herself on a boat trip out to Three Mile Harbor. While my Dad's current boat is more luxurious and comfortable than anything I remembered from my younger days, the rest of the weekend was a fabulous flashback for me and a wondrous new experience for Jaden. I was so delighted watching her open up with the other kids - wanting to be on whatever boat they happened to be on at the time. She easily took to life on the boat, waking up with a smile, snagging her breakfast, donning her life jacket and taking off to be with her new friends. In the course of the weekend, she spent only the nights on the boat with us and the rest of the time, in the pack of kids fishing, playing and just hanging out. When we were joined by the big three story cabin cruiser the night of the fireworks, she was soon hanging out on the top deck, the youngest in a group of kids there, feeling like a big girl and coming out of her shell in a beautiful way. The first night, watching her catch snapper blues in the lights of the boats, was a real treat. The other kids and adults taught her how to hold her rod, bouncing the lure in the glow until she caught her first fish. Later when she cut her foot on some barnacles off the swim platform, the kids came to the rescue with bandaids and lollipops, shoulder to shoulder with me in the cabin trying to stem her tears and make her smile. On firework night, the families huddled together with their glow sticks and red drink cups and the skies lit up with the fantastic display that seemed closer and more intensely beautiful than any I remembered. The colors and exhilaration clearly reflected in the upturned faces of children and adults alike. The mornings were stunningly peaceful and Jaden always woke up with a smile. The second and last morning in the harbor, she woke up early and stumbled out to join Grampa on the stern, plopping down aside of him for a few minutes before jumping into bed to cuddle with Joy in the berth. This was a kid loving the time and attention, loving her family and completely comfortable in her element. Watching her, I knew she was creating powerful and treasured memories all her own. Boat kids are special. In my experience, they are tolerant, welcoming and eager to share and teach. Boat kids look out for each other and boating parents treasure the time with their families and become surrogates for whatever group of children end up hanging out in their sterns. It is a unique and wonderful world and I'm very touched and thrilled that my daughter got to experience it for herself. I see she is quickly becoming a boat kid, courtesy of her Grampa Art and Joy - enjoying her time on the water in whatever form it takes. |
| If something feels hard, really hard to do, then the odds are it is something that should be attempted. This stage of my life, that loosely framed "almost turning 40" period, it feels nearly impossible to write that novel embedded in my soul. It feels like there are not enough hours in the day and that the demands on my personal time are at an all time high. It feels tremendously hard, which is why I think its entirely the right time for me. I have a character who is delicate and flawed but fierce and full of righteous rage. She walks a path forged as much by the sins committed against her as those she has committed herself. I feel as if I have been writing her story in some form for many years. There are echos of me in almost all of her failures and victories and her demons and desires are entwined with my own. It feels like the right time to introduce my dark sister to the world, to finally and completely tell her story. |
| Last night I strong-armed my daughter through her shower a full hour behind schedule. She was uncooperative and wholly unappreciative of the fact that we were running pretty late with our preparations for bedtime. It had been a lovely day lorded over by a cloudless blue sky. We had lingered on the porch until dusk, taking in the first really perfect day in about two months, hoping in our hearts that weather was a hint of things finally to come. It was nice and also bittersweet because we were missing someone important, someone for who those nights of relaxation together on the porch were some of his very favorite times. Ricky would have parked his big body on the loveseat out there next to us, he would have been as content as we felt watching the evening dim down around us. Jaden stomped into her room, ensconced in a yellow towel, her wet hair plastered to her forehead. She was sullen and I knew a tantrum loomed dangerously close. Then, she surprised me. "Mommy, I miss Ricky", and she looked up at me with those sea-change eyes brimming with tears. Immediately, I dropped and pulled her in tightly, my throat constricting with my own grief. "I know Honey. I miss him too." I had felt Ricky absence so acutely myself only a few hours ago. Then, we talked about doggy heaven and how he wasn't sick anymore and he was happy and that while we miss him, he was in a better place. She said she didn't really remember what he looked like and she wanted me to describe him for her. I did, as tears rolled down my cheeks and I watch her nod with agreement as I ticked off all his best features on my fingers. Within a few minutes, she had moved past the moment, her active mind taking her to another distraction. I was left feeling the residual affects of remembering the loss. I am still struck by how strongly I grieve for our dog, how much I wish will all my heart that we could have saved him. In six years, he became such a part of our family that he is missed, even in our most quiet moments. I've yet to bake the paw print impressions they made us, I've no idea why. Its like I'm avoiding the act for some reason, as if I'm afraid of its finality in some strange way even though I know he's gone. |
| Why a rescue? ..For Ricky Bobby This week we lost our 6yr old dog Ricky Bobby to a rare and aggressive mouth cancer. The decision to put him down was agonizing but we knew it was the right thing to do for our beloved family member. Ricky was a rescue, and his story, like that of so many rescues, is a story about turning a second chance into a life with a loving family for however long that life lasts, be it 6 years or 16. It was actually my husband that found Ricky. We had made the decision to adopt a companion dog for our little red Min Pin named Turk. After missing out on several nice dogs, my husband sent me a picture of a dog named Rick. He was twelve months old and had recently arrived to a local foster home from his native Tennessee. His back-story was that he had been abandoned in a cemetery with his littermates and the kind woman who had taken in the entire pack, had managed to find homes for all of them but Rick. She was about to lose her home and fearing Rick would end up in a kill-shelter in the South, found a rescue group that agreed to bring him to the Northeast for placement. Rick was listed as a short-haired Terrier-Sheppard mix. He reportedly had a gentle disposition, was house-broken and good with other dogs. He was younger than we had planned but we made the call and arranged to meet him at his foster home, over an hour away in Berlin. The foster home was bustling with dogs of all shapes and sizes. The pack swirled around our feet until Ramona scuttled them all away and let Rick in. He raced around the corner and right into my heart. Rick was tall and honey-colored, a shade lighter and browner than our Turk. He was tall and had sickle-shaped tail that beat the air happily. You could almost make out the distinct breeds that might have been part of his genetic landscape, coming together in the most appealing of ways…the strong lines and large feet reminiscent of a Ridgeback and the perky, jaunting ears and face of a Collie and the soulful dark eyes of a Beagle, trimmed in black liner, that tracked our every move. We would soon come to recognize the other traits that made Rick that once in a lifetime dog…the protective instinct of a Sheppard, the loyalty of a Pit, the gentle grace of a Greyhound. Turk and Rick hit it off immediately; they even looked like a matching set! We left that foster home with a peculiar ache in our hearts, leaving him behind after just now finding him. After a series of meetings and home visits, we received that call that we were hoping for. Through grateful tears I listened to Ramona explain that she had chosen our family as the best fit for Rick and that we could pick him up as soon as we were ready. The next day, my grandmother and I made the trek back up to get him. We brought Rick home that afternoon, making it official by immediately amending his name to Ricky, which seemed to suit his playful, goofy demeanor much better than his more formal moniker. A few days later, while watching Talladega Nights together, I spontaneously called out “Ricky Bobby” in a really bad French accent and Ricky practically bounded across the room and into my lap. The nickname and the bad accent stuck. Ricky Bobby, we often joked, was big on looks but not too brainy. He was often distracted by his own enthusiasm. He was prone to wild, happy spinning fits when excited, something my sister lovingly dubbed his “willies”. He adored the snow, bounding in and out of the drifts like a gazelle and snatching snowflakes out of the sky with his snapping jaws. He loved chasing the squirrels and jumping, surprising us with his athleticism by easily launching his big body three or four feet strait up off the ground. He loved to cuddle, leaning against you while you watched TV, casually throwing one of his large legs over your lap. He always snuck into bed after he thought we were safely asleep, curling his body up like a cat at our feet or boldly sneaking under the covers to lie against us in the cold nights. He also counter surfed, something we had been warned about, and occasionally ate shoes (he preferred the most expensive ones). He dolphin-poked strangers, once even nipped a particularly undesirable one in the butt. He snored, loudly at times and snatched food from our daughter’s unattended plates and occasionally from between her fingers. He also never had an accident in the house, never showed an ounce of aggression toward our daughter, even in those intrusive toddler years and never failed to make us smile or laugh. The vet said the cancer was probably there all along. Given that he was a rescue and his history was unknown, he could have even had a genetic failing in his line and we would have never known. Regardless, we were devastated to learn that we would only have six short years with this amazing, loving dog who’d barely made it to mid-life. We expected much more for him, for us. I started this out by asking, “Why a rescue?” Why take the chance of taking in a dog with an unknown history, questionable breeding and their own unique set of challenges? I can tell you simply and without hesitation that the answer is, because that dog will love you with everyone inch of their grateful hearts. They will love you and love you with the most unconditional, graceful love you can imagine. They will make you better people, over and over again. The right rescue will fit with your family like they were born into it. There may never be another Ricky Bobby, but as long as we are able, our home will always be open to another rescue, our hearts will always be open to that special connection with a dog looking for that second chance. We all miss Ricky. It hurts every time we come home to not have him at the door, grinning and bouncing up and down on his big feet. We will miss you always, our big goof, our enforcer, our protector, our love bug and silly whirling dervish. RIP Ricky Bobby and know that you were our good boy and we loved you like crazy.  |
| “She breathed deeply of the scent of decaying fiction, disintegrating history, and forgotten verse, and she observed for the first time that a room full of books smelled like dessert: a sweet snack made of figs, vanilla, glue, and cleverness.” ― Joe Hill, NOS4A2 I recently was given tickets to a Great Book Weekend when it was hosted in my region. I eagerly planned my day, noting which talks with authors and workshops I wanted to participate in. I browsed the tables with all the shiny new books on display and gazed at the authors in their panel discussions with the anticipated mix of jealousy and admiration. All the while, something begged my attention like a pesky gnat buzzing in and out of the range of my swinging hand. It wasn't until I was making my last pass through the author's tables that I realized what it was...most of the people in attendance fell into the "Over the age of 60" range. Once I noticed, it became painfully obviously that there were very few young people and only a smattering of middle-agers like myself. What was happening out there in Bookland? I had to wonder, again, if the technology of e-readers and ipads was making actual printed books so obsolete that we were losing the connection with the medium completely. I recognize that e-readers have had a wonderful affect on new and unrepresented writers achieving greater publication success with many firms specializing in delivering works directly to kindle-type devices. I know that I myself have benefited from having my work accepted by various ezines and websites. I'm grateful for the exposure but I've also resisted the lure of the devices themselves. There is, in my opinion, just no substitute for the tactile feel, smell, heft of a book. It is part of the experience, part of the passion of the pursuit of a good read, to wander through the aisles in bookstores or libraries, browsing the titles, the cover art, flipping it over to read the author's bio. It's part of the ritual for me to climb in bed with a good book, crack it open to where I've likely dog-earred the page where I left off the night before, my fingers automatically smoothing the fold line flush again as I submerge myself in the printed words. E-readers don't give me the same thrill, electronic ink does not stir me in the same way. It feels too sanitized in some way, too sterile. I get that its easier to travel without one or two books crammed in your purse everywhere you go. I understand that those slim devices hold mini libraries and take up far less room. I may be a silly hold-out but I don't mind leaving room for Wally Lamb's latest three pound masterpiece in my carry-on. I don't mind brushing the sand off my page before I turn it, or balancing it on my lap on the train. I would be missing something essential if I were to give up the book, give up print. Likewise, I'm far prouder of my pieces that have made it into print anthologies and actual magazines than those that have enjoyed a limited life in electronic ink. They seem somehow more credible, more tangible for me. There is also this,...In our recent history, we have lived through several decades in times when books have been banned and even burned. Anyone who's glimpsed those burning pires of literary gems and rebels can't help but understand the importance of preserving them. Men and women have been driven to write with the same voracious appetite and insatiable passion that the masses have yearned to read. Books have been smuggled, hidden, preserved, banned, scandalized, destroyed, revered and protected all over the world since the beginning of time when scribes first put ink to scroll by candlelight. Books are symbols of our human journey. So maybe I am one of the few left that still prefers my fiction without the technological bells and whistles...well, me and most of the female population over the age of 56....but that's okay. I let my daughter read her ipad stories as her friends do, but I also take her to the library. I let her roam the aisles, browse the books and pick out the ones that catch her eye. I tell her stories but I also read to her from books. Whenever possible, I order from her scholastic book flyer to give her personal library a boost and I hope she gets the same rush I did when her new books come in. When she gets old enough, I'll get her a library card and hope it becomes her passport to wonderful and amazing worlds like I did for me. |
| This morning I took my daughter to her four year checkup at the doctor’s office. We were waiting for the doctor while she played with some brain teaser toy. She was sitting up on the table, twisted away so her back was toward me. Her thick brown braids were running down her shoulders and her skin looked almost caramel-colored against her pink strawberry shortcake undies. She had tucked one of her legs under her and was swinging her free leg, with its bubblegum pink sock, back and forth like a pendulum as she concentrated on moving the colored wooden beads of the puzzle. I realized with some real alarm that my daughter had somehow, seemingly overnight, grown into this beautiful little girl and that all those tender earmarks of toddlerhood were completely gone. She had sailed gracefully through those milestones and I thought, not for the first time, how does it go so quickly? Then all at once the doctor knocks and the sound sends her barreling back into my lap. She looks up at me with wide eyes that are a shade of green that falls somewhere between jade and aquamarine. She leans into me as the doctor starts his exam, watches me as I answer the questions about her development. She complies with his requests, though silently and with as little eye contact as she can manage. Later when the nurse gives her the vaccinations, she goes rigid in my arms and sobs into my shirt, a heartbreaking sound that even turns the stoic nurse teary-eyed and apologetic. Then it’s over. I get her dressed and she is picking out her stickers and chatting all the way to the parking lot, holding my hand and politely reminding me that I promised we would stop for munchkins before school. Another annual exam over, another year gone, memorialized in the updated vaccination records and percentile scaling. One of my friends from college is expecting now with her first child, another has a little girl who just passed the five month mark…new parents just embarking on this journey. Soon they will realize how much slower life seemed to move before they begin to measure it by the rate that their children grown and mature before their eyes. Time moved at such a different pace for me before my daughter and now it races forward. This motherhood thing, it’s really something. It’s amazing and challenging. It’s wondrous and joyful and frightening all at the same time. It humbles me, completes me and defines me in all new ways. Mostly though, it makes me conscious of the way time passes, of how fleeting some moments are and of how truly precious each and every day is. |
| There is a dark sister in my soul, a black goddess that stretches out under my skin. My anxiety is her pounding heartbeat against my spine and my doubt is her seething voice in my ear. My rage is her flexing talons, razor-sharp...and all my strength is born on her obsidian shoulders. I am, she is, we are...twins conjoined in the messy business of being. |
| October 25th was the date of my last blog entry...my efforts to write with more regularity are not working out obviously. There just never seems to be enough time, which must certainly be the lament of every working mom everywhere. These days when I find I can take a long enough shower, long enough to do more than a passing job at shaving, or do a grocery shopping trip alone in under an hour - those feel like days of unparalleled victory. Most days though, I'm doing a passing job at keeping the laundry up and the house clean, spending marginally enough time playing with my daughter and exactly zero time working on my craft. Writing is just about my only natural ability. I have a pretty good submission to publication rate for fiction under 3000 words. If I had time to write longer pieces, the time to work with a real editor on a marketable manuscript, who knows...I might be one of the lucky few amateurs to get a book deal I would, at least, have a fighting chance. Making the transition from published short story author to published novelist however takes, and this is a very simplified list, time, dedication, commitment and most of all..time. And time, my time, is in very short supply right now. One can't, I've recently discovered, attempt to write a novel over one's lunch break. Instead, I'm reading book jackets with envy as another writer makes another successful debut. It's probably just as well. What story would I tell anyway? These days I'm consumed with not screwing up raising my daughter and developing more effective couponing abilities. I worry sometimes that the creative pulse in my brain is dying out. I tell myself I should be happy I can still produce flash fiction with any degree of success. I tell myself that I should be pleased that I have followers and fans that appreciate my pieces and forgive my inconsistency in producing them on a regular basis. I do appreciate every kind word, every encouraging review...every person who clicks "follow" for me. I feel that support and it keeps me reaching. Writing after all is about more than the NY Times best seller list or awards and accolades. Writing is about the experience, the catharsis, the cheap therapy. Writing is about keeping myself honest and real. I save everything I write about my daughter so that one day I can compile the blogs and prose into a book for her, to show her, this was what I felt and thought about while raising you. I am confident she will read my words and know what it was to love her, to be loved by her and she will understand that it was simply...everything. So, I write...whatever and whenever. And I dream about my own book jacket...and just maybe one day I will find just enough time to tell just the right story... |
| CNN debuted Blackfish last night and I watched it. I also watched a few of the post-viewing panel shows immediately following the broadcast. I'm still digesting everything this morning. First and foremost, I admit, without any real shame, that I am a child of Seaworld. My parents took us there as children, at least a few times. For me, it only took that first visit to convince me that my true calling was to be a Seaworld trainer. My siblings became brilliant surrogates for orcas and dolphins as I practiced what I believed to be, the skill set of my destined career. The fact is, I fell in love at Seaworld. I fell in love with the sounds, the smells, those shiny multi-toned wetsuits, the animals and in particular, those Killer whales. I believed along with the millions of other people, that this place was magical. I raised my hand as high as I could, praying along with every other child, that I would be the one selected to go up and meet Shamu. The experiences I had at Seaworld were the foundation for a lifelong fascination with the ocean and the inspiration for my pursuit of marine biology for at least a large part of my educational life. My attraction to the Killer whales in particular fueled a field focus on apex predators in general and instilled in my a passion to understand and learn more about their important roles in the ocean's complex ecosystem. Seaworld was responsible in many real ways for the wonderful and enriching opportunities and experiences I had during my years of study: my stint as a High School aquanaut, my trips to Australia and New Zealand as part of youth science exchange, my Semester at Sea on a beautiful schooner and floating science lab, my semester of study in Hawaii on the big Island and so much more. While my friends were asking for cars for graduation, I was pleading for permission to do cage dives with Great Whites off the coast of California or camp out with the Orca pods in British Columbia. In summation, Seaworld turned on something inside me that may have forever lain dormant and unexplored. I can not help but think about that truth when I see the posts and hear the calls to boycott Seaworld as Blackfish is released to the world. I am, as a now more educated adult, seriously conflicted. What Blackfish gets so right in this film are the basic facts about these magnificent animals...they are highly intelligent beings, capable of emotion connections and a sense of self-awareness virtually unparallelled in the animal kingdom. They are very social animals that maintain family bonds so strong that individual pods are really family groups that extend into multi generational communities, which researchers have discovered, develop their own habits, language and behaviors over time. These are animals that are known to regularly traverse great distances, hunt in highly evolved pack units and display remarkable problem-solving abilities. In the wild, they routinely react to humans with curiosity and remarkable amenability, never with aggression. It is my belief there is no marine mammal more ill-suited for captivity with the isolation, the lack of adequate space and the obvious restrictions to pursue their natural instincts to hunt, to communicate and socialize or to breed. I saw in Blackfish, that while Seaworld is profiting from these animals, they are also providing a vehicle for exposure for generations like mine to see, and in some cases, touch these amazing animals. Without Seaworld, would we even know how much we could deeply care for Killer Whales? Without Seaworld, would we even be able to know or care why their captivity is so inherently wrong? I don't believe so. The trainers and animal custodians that participated in this film were clearly moved by the animals in their care, driven to protect them and form relationships, meaningful ones with them. I believe the vast majority of their peers feel exactly the same. Seaworld is not simply the corporate giant, the money-machine...it is also a collection of people brought together by their love for these animals. When accidents happen, they are heartbroken both for the loss of human life as well as for the impact on the animals. When they talked about separating the mothers from their babies, there was guilt and anger as well as sorrow and a very common grief. If you took a cross-section of people at Seaworld at all levels, you would find far more good, caring and concerned people than bad. I have to believe that. So what's the answer? Boycotting Seaworld? Releasing the all captive Killer whales and their biological cousins around the world? I'm not sure I could answer today with any certainty. However, there are some things I support very strongly in the wake of viewing this film. #1. Seaworld should cease any and all captive breeding practices. These animals are not breeding spontaneously. They are being farmed, artificially inseminated. Worse, Seaworld is introducing the bond and then routinely severing it by removing the calves from their mothers. Anyway you look at this, given the maternal and familial bonds these animals form, this is moral and ethically wrong. The Killer whale population, as far as I know, is not threatened by extinction. There is no reason, outside of sheer profitablity, to make these animals reproduce. Most states have banned puppy mills, isn't this not the same evil on a much grander scale? At the moment, this is by far the biggest problem I have with Seaworld. #2. Seaworld should take a cue from some of the most respected zoological facilities in the world...develop actual habitats designed around the animal's care and comfort - not pools and tanks largely not updated over the last 30 years. Animals should be showcased for their natural beauties and abilities...don't ride them, don't make them do ridiculous tricks and behaviors that would never been seen in the wild. Wouldn't people be awed to see them up close, just being? - do we really need the music, the fanfare and spectacle to be impressed? No. I tell you this, just being on the other side of a viewing pane when an 11000lb Orca cruises by and locks eyes with yours...that's enough for most human beings to be awed, to fall in love. Seaworld recently responded that the concept of sea pens, ocean corrals were not suited for long-term care without stating any reasoning at all for that determination. So why not? Release at this point is not realistic nor in the best interest for many of these whales, so why not move them to a place that is more reminiscent of their habitat? Give them real seawater, the chance to catch their own food. The chance to live out their lives as close to naturally as they can. #3. There a many ocean parks and aquariums around the world, perhaps none with the same resources available to Seaworld. Why not make the switch more toward actual education and conservation? Engagement is key here so ask the public to be involved as more than simply spectators. Educate first, starting with the staff. One of the most startling revelations for me in the film is when a senior trainer admits that once she left Seaworld and begin to seek knowledge about the whales, she realized that she really knew nothing about the animals she had trained. She knew how to train them, but not anything about them. Seaworld is missing an opportunity to be an innovator in change and conservation, they need only restructure, reassess, reapply talents and resources. #4. The current population of captive orcas is a disadvantage. I'm not sure even the most respected marine biologist in the field could predict the changes these animals would have released back into the wild. Would their natural instincts find a way to the surface after their long years of captivity? Would they find adoptive pods that would welcome them as long-lost and distance relatives? Or would they be bullied, isolated, starved? I only know that these parks have created this situation and have the responsiblity to care for them in the best way possible for the animals. Stop breeding them, stop propagating Tilikum's bloodline, - become the moral caretakers of these magnificent animals and do right by them to the extent all the resources allow. If the young ones can be released and tracked, do it. Their survival may hold the key to other Killer whales gaining freedom. I'm not sure if releasing Tilikum is the answer for him...I only know his fate is one that makes me incredible sad. The image of him floating nearly lifeless for hours in his small tank, is tragic. Tilikum was not born with his aggression, it was not his nature. Aggression was nurtured in him, even if it was unintentional. Will I boycott Seaworld? Would I support a worldwide effort to seek the boycotting of Seaworld? I still can't answer that. I will tell you that on a recent trip through Orlando airport while shopping for a gift for my daughter, I eyed the beautiful Seaworld store for a few minutes before passing it by. I can tell you that today, I would not take my daughter there. Ultimately, Seaworld's refusal to participate or respond to Blackfish in any substantial and appropriate manner, has left a bad taste in my mouth. Today I would not buy a ticket or purchase their products. Seaworld is not a zoo, not research facility...its a themepark. I have come to understand that. I believe however that they can change. I believe they have the resources to change for the better. I reserve the right to not condemn them, yet. If I had not be able to walk through those gates, I would have not been fundamentally changed in such a positive way myself. I'm really afraid that closing those gates forever may prove to be a bigger injustice to the future generations into who's hands we will leave this planet and its oceans. |
| Every day there is more and more evidence that Jaden is maturing at an astounding rate. Just a few days ago I realized, with a odd sense of loss, that she had discovered that the color "wello" was really pronounced "yellow". She stood in the door way, grinning from ear to ear saying it over and over again, showing off her now perfect pronunciation. This achievement was followed closely by playing the musical alphabet with all the correct notes and by repeated proper use of the word, "actually". It seems to me that each day she either learns something new or masters one ability or another that she has been fine-tuning. We are rapidly approaching age 4 when she will officially, with all the Disney princess fanfare I can muster, become a little girl and the toddler years will become a collection of memories. This business of being a Mom is funny. More often than you can imagine, I have felt those bittersweet tugs on my heart watching my daughter grow. Like her word "wello" so many of her behaviors are fleeting, here one day and gone the next - memorialized in my random blog entries or preserved in photographs - and for me, that's a bit sad. And still, there are all these new things happening, new things she's learning, new talents and passions emerging. There is always something new to delight me, to amaze me. She is writing her own name now, everywhere, and I see that she has adopted the habit of ending it with a tiny smiley face, her own special punctuation. Her father and I think its completely adorable. Her taste in music is becoming more and more refined. She gravitates more to the jazzier selections available on my ipad, seems less apt to listen to those kid tunes and silly songs. She plays teacher a lot now too and I can hear her in there, giving instruction and doling out stern "talkings-to's" to those animals that misbehave. The other morning we ran late because she insisted on cleaning up her room...an entirely new and wholly welcomed behavior! Jaden is a marvel to me every day. This business of being a Mom is funny stuff indeed, funny and pretty damn wonderful too. |
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