Trick or Treat!

The afternoon started with a party at your school with Daddy dressed as a nun. Honey, I can tell you, your Daddy is just not like other people. Someday I'll tell you the story of how we met on Halloween five years ago today and he was dressed as a woodland fairy.

We got home and had about an hour before his class would start so he got to work carving the pumpkin I'd scraped out the day before. After 30 minutes, there was a bat carved into the face of the pumpkin. Then he was racing out the door to class.


I thought for sure that my computer class homework would take me all night and we were stuck at home watching Pixar movies. But no, all it took was for the duration of Bug's Life for me to get it done "good enough" and prompting from you even though you had no idea what was in store if we left the house!

So it was your first real trick or treating Halloween. All the lights were off in our 'hood so we headed over to St. Mary's Park, the area known for being easy to walk and trick or treater friendly. Last year we tried this, but started at our friends' house, got invited inside for a drink, and never left! This year with Daddy in class, you and I headed out to see how long our enthusiasm and energy would hold.

We started with one house, you excited, no doubt, and I prepped you to say "Trick or Treat" to get candy. We got up the steps, rang the bell, and a boy about ten answered the door. Stage fright struck and the practiced words wouldn't come out. He thought you looked so cute he gave you four or five mini candy bars anyway!

We went to two more houses, this time you did squeak out the candy getting phrase and everyone thought you were cute beyond words. One house was "too spooky" for you decorated with orange lights, tombstones, and dry ice, so we wrapped up the evening with a visit to Amy and Jack's house. We hung out for a minute and after that I asked if you wanted to go to more houses or home. "I want to go home." Fair enough.

Now you're in the bath tub, I'm typing this blog, and I just need to format my homework and start packing for my cruise in two days!

Happy Halloween, my little Tinker Bell fairy. I love you.

Falling

It's funny to me, little one, as you're learning more words, how to use the words, how to combine words into new exciting ways, that there are two seasons that are verbs, and two that are nouns.

I've thought about writing to you so much over the last couple months, feeling guilty about not writing, telling myself not to feel guilty, feeling momentarily inspired but nowhere near a computer, feeling uninspired when I am.

Computers are work to me; for many they're a fun tool to learn many things, connect with others, but me, in my line of work, they're work. It's hard sometimes to do more work when I've done work all day.

Your Nana was playing with you all weekend as I escaped with my two wonderful friends down to the Santa Cruz mountains. When you're older, my love, and escape seems impossible, it will be then I'll call you and say "go!" I was reaching a breaking point, where I was so stressed out at the end of the day after giving everything at work, more than I had, and all that was left when I got home was stress and upset at you and Daddy for doing nothing, and this is when there is the need for escape. Perhaps you will become a caretaker like me, I can't say I do or don't wish that on you. It's good taking care of others, but the forgotten one is usually wearing my shoes. I don't know what I'd wish really, except that you remember you. That you put yourself before your manager, your job, your mate, your children, your mother. Your Daddy is pretty good at this, but I get upset because who's taking care of me? Ah wait, that's my job.

Anyway....

You are delightfully, completely, intoxicatingly three. You love the movie Cars and if we let you, it would be on every night. In fact, it was on every night while your Daddy and Nana were watching you. For me, I need a break sometimes. I need days and nights without TV, where you play in your room while I clean up, or you say "we could play peek a boo and hide and seek and stop and go" as if they're all one big sequential game.

You love hide and seek... I count, you hide, and when I get to "ready or not" then you reveal your magnificent hiding space.

You're becoming a bit less shy. The manager at Hobee's still scares you but not like before. Someday you may actually tell her goodbye when we leave, or as you do to others, make the psssbbbttt sound like a hippo.

You love wearing your schooldresses to school. Given your choice your preference is first school dress, second skirt, third and only as an absolute last resort, pants. I suspect it's because you're a ballerina and you know ballerinas don't wear pants onstage.

You have learned how to take your room from clean to disaster in 2.5 minutes. This isn't a good thing. The good thing is that you're pretty good at taking your coat and shoes into your room and not leaving them in the kitchen when we get home. My many requests are paying off!

You love things "like Mommy." Your toenails are painted purple right now, "like Mommy" and you point this out every time your toes are uncovered. Sometimes you want a ponytail "like Mommy" you remember and say aloud frequently that Mommy and Ava are "big girls" and Daddy is a "big boy."

Your favorite plush animals are little rabbit and purple bear. Purple bear loves little rabbit because she's a baby. They each have their own blankets and chaos reigns when we can't find them. One of them always accompanies you to school, and it's usually little rabbit. There are also sister rabbit and mommy rabbit, when little rabbit needs more love.

Your friends at school are Tatiana and Inwoo. When I asked what you did at school each day, you predictably say you played with one of them or both. If I pick you up from school, you're with them playing ballerinas and wearing tulle tutus.

You love to take pictures with your camera, or lacking a camera, build one out of legos and take pictures. I asked once, of a green tower of connected legos, whether it was a castle or a car? "ITS A CAMERA!" you replied, implying, how could I not know that?

I adore you, I love you, more than there is air in the sky, more than there is water in the ocean, more than there is earth on this planet. I love you.

Mommy

Little Einsteins makes kids smarter

Hi little one,

Yesterday you were watching your latest favorite movie, the Little Einstein's HUGE Adventure, and when the little caterpillar climbed up the tree and made his cocoon I said, "Look, he's in a sleeping bag!"

You replied, with the wisdom of a three year old,

"No, it's not a sleeping bag, it's a metamorphosis!"

I stand, stunned, corrected.

love,
your mommy
who's intelligence pales in comparison to yours

Time

Hi my little love,

I just noticed that it was two years ago this month that I started this blog for us, and as I began reading the first posting July 2005, I was deeply grateful that I wrote those words, so much so, that I want to write more words now.

You are such a big girl, so big that when Daddy teases you and says you're a baby, you object, saying "NO I'm a BIG GIRL!" Even recently you've abandoned our traditional naked baby dance/naked jumping dance before taking a bath for the one legged yoga dancer/flamingo pose.

You love bath time, to be sure, and sometimes you convince me to join you so I can add more hot water and make it go in circles to warm up the cooler water. You like to do things, like wash, "all by yourself" and I do wonder where you learned that phrase.

You know all of your numbers up to twenty in English and Spanish, you can recognize all of them up to 9 (the 1 and 0 together still don't make ten). You know all your letters by sight although occasionally trip over G and Q. You know all your colors in English and some in Spanish. You say "ayudame" for help and "mariposa" for butterfly. You understood your teachers at your Spanish school with "no problemo" after a month.

You love your plush animals...Doggie is your predictable favorite, and even has his own blanket - the white one with yellow ducks. Last night he couldn't go to bed, or you either, until we found his blanket. Little rabbit had to have her blanket too, and you had to have yours. Then we laid down in "Mommy and Daddy's bed" because Daddy was away and you said I could sleep with Rabbit and you would sleep with Doggie.

Sometimes I'll ask you do do something, like put your coat on your bed, and to my shock you do it! Other times you throw your shoes on the ground and tell me to pick them up. This is only predictable because you're three.

You love Mater from the movie Cars, and love it when Daddy "does like Mater" and winks, saying "I'm keeping my eye on you."

And on the fourth of July when we were swimming at our friends' house in San Jose, you decided you wanted to jump in the pool. You had the super-cool water wings on your arms and you walked past the side of the pool right onto the diving board. Yep, your first jump into the great big swimming pool was from there, into Daddy's waiting arm (the other was holding onto the side - you were in the deep end!).

But it's time for me to go...for now.

I love you,
more than there is water in the ocean,
more than there is blue in the sky.

Mommy

Thank you notes

It says:
Thanks Grandma Bear!
I love my school dresses and
wear them all the time.

Love,
Ava

Picture speaks for itself

A great compliment

A few days ago Daddy, you, and I were watching "The Lakehouse" on video and in one scene you looked at Sandra Bullock and said "Look! Mommy is on TV!"

Thanks honey!

Happy

Conversation, from two minutes ago:

Me: We have to go to bed early tonight because tomorrow we're going to go see a woman who hugs people and makes them happy.

You: Mommy, can I hug you?

Me: Yes, of course, yes.
(My heart melting into a sloppy puddle.)

You: So you can be happy.

Tears come into my eyes and I know I'm the luckiest mommy in the world.

A bit about life and sadness

Hi honey,

You may know this already, but there are days where running and hiding seem like a really good idea. Today is one of those days for me.

Yesterday I found out that the man who founded and funded my small start-up like company has a terminal brain disease. I find irony in writing 'terminal,' because life by nature is terminal, it always has an ending, the question is always, when, never if. The harder part to swallow is that he is believed to have less than a year remaining of his life sentence, if you will, and during the next year he will likely suffer from some really bad symptoms including big time memory loss, dementia, and hallucinations. Then to top that off he has a wife and three young children, ages 8, 6, and almost 3. The good side, if there can be one, is that he has a good amount of money and access to the best health care money can buy.

When I first heard, my response was "I'm in shock, and I'm sad." I mean, I know him. I've talked to him a number of times and even helped with the computers in his home. I've met his kids, talked to his wife, and when I start thinking what do you do, what do you say to those precious young kids to say that Daddy is not going to be around much longer, and in the meantime, he's going to be hard to be around. How do you package up and deliver that message? There aren't enough roses in the world to make that message smell good.

Being a dabbler in Indian religion this has me thinking about karma and this life he's living now. I wonder what arrangement he had with those in charge upstairs that he would stockpile a good amount of money, start a family late in life, and then possibly die, leaving them much earlier than intended. Did he really agree to that? What was his mission for this incarnation and did he succeed? More on this another day, it's too big of a tangent for me to take on right now.

But I also believe in miracles. I believe in the gigantic kind of miracles, like somehow a cure will be discovered or that a switch will flip from off to on and he'll be okay. Those are wonderful kind of miracles, but I also believe in smaller, more obscure miracles. Like this morning when I walked outside to see if blue sky meant warm temperature (it didn't, really) and right at that exact moment a beautiful "V" of Canadian geese flew overhead, honking. Geese flying over my San Francisco house is a miracle in my book. Or when sunlight hits the edge of the diamond on my new ring and sends rainbow spots all over the wall. Sure, I love big miracles, but it's the little ones that I count on to get me through sadness, remorse, and just plain bad days.

I believe that is why, when I knew I would send this family a card but had no idea what to say, I called my friend Becky who is so good at sending cards at all times, good and bad, she said "why don't you say a prayer and then write the answer?" I did, and the answer came this next morning as I was steaming the wrinkles out of my linen shirt. Miracles, what I want to pray for is miracles.

So I wrote on the inside of the card:

Dear _____ and _____,

Thinking of you
&
Praying for miracles large and small.

kindly,
Julie

I dropped the card into the wide mouth of the big blue mailbox, but the sadness remains. I came home early and curled into restorative child's pose, and the sadness remains. I made a blackberry turnover and gobbled it down, and the sadness remains. I picked you up from school, and the sadness remains. I want to run and hide from the sadness, but I can't outrun sadness. Perhaps that's why I wrote before that running and hiding seem like a good idea, but they aren't. The reason is that it's impossible to outrun and hide from sadness, it knows all the good hiding spots already. All I can do is sit still with the sadness, let it come as it will, as an ache in my shoulders, a lump in my throat, and a tear in the corner of my eye. I won't swallow it down and create my own dis-ease. I will breathe the life I have in deep, hungry, greedy gulps and dance with you madly on the hardwood floor.

Someday I trust this will make sense; someday these words will have meaning for you. As for now, know I love you, and you will always feel my presence when you wish. Perhaps that is the answer to my karma question. Perhaps it's about trusting that those we love are always accessible, whether they have bodies or not.

Yucky chicken for the piggies

This quote, direct from your cute three year old mouth, deserves to be blogged immediately:

"Mommy! I'm making yucky chicken for the piggies!"

Me: "Why?"

"Because he's old!"

You said this while watching Johnny and the Sprites, so I don't know if there's a connection, but nonetheless, if I had any idea of the relevance, I bet I could solve all the mysteries of the universe.

My big little girl

Three

My little one, you are now three years old. We hosted a wonderful birthday party for you on Sunday with forty people - half of them kids - and you shared all of your toys easily. There were times during the three hour fiesta where you wanted me to hide out with you in an empty room and I understood, all too well, that sometimes you just want a break from the people.

What passes through my mind over and over is that three years ago I was resting in a hospital room with you in a hospital bassinet by my side. We were both healthy, both resting after a birth that wasn't too bad, everything considered, but what was so amazing was that after 41 -1/2 weeks of being on the inside, you were suddenly on the outside.

The first thing to figure out was nursing, which was easy enough after my milk supply arrived, and since then we've figured out so many things together that I easily loose track. You've taught me so much, my little love, about how to be a good mom, how to care for you, and that when I don't care for myself caring for you becomes challenging. You've taught me about love, not the fairy tail romance kind that new lovers project, but the lasting unconditional kind. I love you at all times, not just when you behave in a way that pleases me and not just when I'm in a good mood and have slept enough. I love you in all the crabby times, in all the moody times, in all the tantrum times. I love you for being so gosh darn smart it astounds me and I love you for those moments when you say "I'm the baby girl" and you want me to hold you like an infant.

I love you when you have delightfully appropriate funny responses to normal questions, like at your party when Papa asked you what time it was since you were wearing a watch and you responded, "It's time for my birthday party!"

I love you when it's time to go to bed and I say we'll read one book and you say "two books," and I acquiesce. I love you when you play quietly in your room and I love you when you jump high on your new birthday trampoline. I love you even when you draw on the walls, which fortunately hasn't happened in a while, and I love you when you cry to try and get your way.

I love when you say that I'm going to yoga because the babies are on the inside because somehow you know I teach prenatal yoga. I love when you spontaneously jump into Ava-warrior pose or downward dog. I love your virasana and your baddha konasana and may my own poses be someday as open as yours!

I love when you have to give me a "hug and a kissie" before you leave with Daddy for school and I love you when you cry at the door because you don't want to leave me.

I love you so much, my little one, that it makes it that much easier to love others more than before.

I loved you when you were a baby on the inside, and even more now that you have three years on the outside.

Love, forever,
your mommy

Thirty-five months

Wow. You are one month away from being three years old. Already when I ask, "Ava, how old are you?" you respond "Three." Close enough for horse shoes and birthdays.

I was thinking such a strange thought a moment ago, after I wondered what I was going to do with the next seven minutes before I leave to teach a prenatal yoga class. I thought, what if today is the day. I mean the day, my last day in this body. Such a strange thought, but I then realized what I would want to do is write to you again in this blog, so that if by chance this was the day, my words to you would be saved.

It's probably not the day, for my friends and family members to restrain their panic and such, it's just a thought, really, that what if today was the day, what would you want to do?

But back to you, my little love, little miss, growing up into a big little girl!

You're on the road to toilet training. On Saturday we were diaper-free all day, although I should have followed my instincts and put one on you before your nap. Instead I washed sheets, but no worries. Then you were sick Sunday and Monday with a pesky virus that zapped your energy so those were diaper days too. But soon we'll go back to the big girl underwear adventure. You picked out more big girl underwear at the store the other day, ones with Curious George. I thought how funny it is that there really are monkeys on your butt and that it's perfectly acceptable, because you're three.

Speaking of clothes, you regularly pick out your own pajamas and clothes for the day at my prompting. The pajamas are always matching, the clothes nearly always. You love hats. You love hoods. You love hoods on sweatshirts so much that you won't let me leave the house without a hood on my head, even when it's sunny. You won't let Daddy leave the house unless he's wearing a jacket. "You forgot a jacket, Daddy," you'll say, and he'll tell you he didn't forget one, that he's warm enough, but then he'll capitulate to your demands and go get one.

But now, some words from you:

"Hey! That's a moon right there!" you exclaimed the other evening, and I wondered if there was a future for you at NASA.

"Stay right there; I'll be right back!"
I dared not move a muscle for fear I'd be banished for a time out.

"The grasshoppers are coming! The grasshoppers are not going to drink my tea."
Maybe you've watched Bug's Life one too many times.

"Please and yes."
Politeness, followed by the required response, works like a charm.

"Daddy, it's pancake time."
You've become my town crier and breakfast announcer, and Daddy always responds to you.

But now, my seven minutes are up, and it's time to teach yoga to mommys with babies inside.

I love you, now and forever,
Mommy
p.s. to Grandma Bear, I'll post pictures soon!

My big little girl

When you have a child, time passes uniquely. The minutes and hours can stretch out like afternoon shadows on autumn days but the months and years speed like a rocket heading for space.

So go my postings, and intentions to post.

You have so much to say these days, so many words, so many ideas. You have opinions, strong opinions of what you want to do when. You remember if I promised earlier we'd go to the aquarium to see the fish. You know how to use "you" and "me" appropriately so I no longer need to speak of myself in third person as in "Mommy wants more tea."

You love to pretend. You pretend to have tea, you pretend your plush animals are sleeping. You like to make sure they are covered in blankets to keep warm, I suppose like I do to you. You like to do things "like mommy." The other day you were very upset that you were wearing overalls and I was wearing yoga pants. You wanted to wear yoga pants "like mommy" so Daddy came up with a fabulous idea - that Mommy would wear overalls too (which you say as "o-vey-alls"). You love to do things and be like mommy or daddy. You love it even more when we do things "like Ava." If the highest form of flattery is imitation, I am abundantly flattered.

You don't like so much to sit in your booster seat at the dinner table and want to sit in your own chair. You love oatmeal best of all for breakfast, and often other times in the day if you can get away with it. I figure if you always ask for oatmeal, but don't ask for cheetos or ice cream, I'm doing something right.

You often announce that you're "going to the store to get food" or "going to Trader Joe's." We ask you "what kind of food?" and you respond (usually) with "oatmeal and cranberries and walnuts" - our typical accompaniment.

You mostly listen when I ask you to stay close to Mommy in traffic, you mostly listen when it's time to go to bed, you mostly listen when I want kissies and hugs because I'm leaving to go to work or you to school. I figure since you're nearly three years old that mostly is good enough. I'd get spoiled by perfection anyway.

You don't mind the nose plunger (aka booger puller) to clear your congested nostrils, and often request the "nose thingy" and want to do it yourself. I have to admit I was afraid to use this on you when you were a baby, but had I known I would have tried it first!

You are somewhat toilet trained, partly because of my laziness and partly your willingness. I'm getting better about asking you if you need to "go pee-pee" and you're getting better about going on your own to the "big toilet" while I sing the household famous "waiting for the pee-pee" song.

You raise your cup of milk and say "cheers;" you are learning to assemble puzzles; you love to sing the Buenos Dias song from your Spanish School. You've finished at your old school and are immersed in your new one. It was a bittersweet transition, for me, not really for you, as I realized my little girl is getting big and going to school that is not a co-op, that I'm not such a big part of anymore.

I can understand why siblings are conceived and born around the time a firstborn is three. You don't need me so much but want me as a playmate. You're entertained by kids your own age as much as me, if not more. I teach a mom and baby yoga class once a week and I'm astounded when I hold an infant of six weeks and how beautiful, dependent, and fragile they are. You were that small, I was that mom, and that was nearly three years ago.

But no siblings for you, Daddy and I believe one is enough, which means there's enough of Mommy and Daddy so that you know you're loved. Mommy is busy with her new yoga business, Daddy is busy studying, and we have enough time and love right now. We are a triad, complete.