A random Friday in October 2023

 Dear Jay,

For a school assignment recently you wrote about this blog, and how you'd found it randomly searching your name.

I forgot, actually, that you were always the intended audience for this blog.  In a lot of ways I was writing it for me, so I would remember.

Right now I'm home, finishing my workday before I drive downtown to pickup Grandma Bear, who is taking the train from where she lives, to San Francisco to visit this weekend.

Where you are, of course, is in the middle of the United States, attending college, where you've been for two months already.

Your bedroom is exactly how you left it. In some ways it feels like you've just gone out for the day, and will be back later tonight.  I'll peek into your room in the morning and you'll be asleep. But no, you're not here.  Sometimes one or both of the cats sleeps on your bed, and sometimes when I need a change of scenery I lay down on your bed and gaze out the window at the big trees.

I don't really have a point to this. Does there need to be one?  It's hard to believe that the time we had together every day, was so fleeting.  Even those tremendously long pandemic days, where we navigated around each other, maintaining a fragile sanity.  Even those days, in retrospect, flew.

So many memories arise when I'm writing in the morning in the dining room, and see photos on the automated picture frame.  When a photo of you appears, often I'll send it off to you with a heading like "that time when we had fancy drinks in a bar in London" or "that time when we zip-lined in Puerto Vallarta", or recently I told someone about my approach to taking a big test - if you well, we get ice cream.  If you don't do well, we get ice cream.  Love is not at risk.  Love is never at risk.

Let's lower the stakes about 50%, and see if that helps.

I've got to dash to pick up grandma. 

I love you.

A million plus infinity.

Mom

Nineteen, April 2023

 Dear Jay,

So many things have shifted, spiraled, reset, righted, wronged, and happened since I last posted here.  I have aspirations of filling in the gaps between "Ten", my last post, written seven years after you turned ten, but sometimes it's easiest to start from where I am, not from where I hope to be, or someday plan to do.

I was thinking about something that arose the other day, in the chaos that is the financial separation between your father and me.  Which sucks, in five hundred different ways, but I wouldn't trade all the suckage for you, while also feeling so many feels that you're in this mess too.

But that's not where I'm going, not today.  What I want to write is about 2014, when I changed jobs from the small company with the "park" and stage in the middle of the warehouse-style office,  for the fancy, well funded startup near Union Square.

And the question you asked me, the one posed to you, is did I take that second job for less pay, with the understanding I would work less time, but then not actually take the time off?

Yeah.  

There are a dozen reasons why, but the truth is simple.  

I did work more than I had agreed to, even if the communication was fuzzy, and my super-sized sense of responsibility was so fierce that I continued to work at my last job, while also working at my new one, but I realized that I did take off early one day every week for something that was really important to me:

You.

I wrote about it here, and I'm pasting it below, so it doesn't get lost.  What you may not know is that I also posted this on my company's internal blog platform, to make it abundantly clear that I was leaving early every Tuesday, and why.

I love you, my brilliant and brave teenager.

Mom

💜

The Sweetest Day of the Week 🍦

On Tuesdays, I hang out with my daughter.

I have a commitment.

It’s the kind of promise that is easy to break, and sometimes I think it’s not worth it because the pull of work is so strong.

Except when my daughter reminds me:
“It’s Mommy and Ava day today!”

We started “Mommy and Ava Day” three years back, when I transitioned from flexible contract work to a full time job. Ava requested one afternoon where I picked her up when school ended so we had time together.

Caring for my daughter is fleeting and transient. Each year she ages she needs me less for what I do for her (she can bathe, clothe, and make lunch herself), but she still needs me. I’m reminded of this every Tuesday afternoon, when I show up at her school, wait outside the doors as school lets out, chat idly with other parents.

She grins when she sees me. Even though she’s a big fifth grader now, I still get hugs in front of friends. “How was your day, Mommy?” she asks.

I always answer honestly. “Today was rough because of (this problem or that problem)” or “Today was great, I figured out a problem I’ve been struggling with for a week!”

On our brief drive home, I’ll ask about her day.

“My day was horrible,” she said today, “I am so glad it’s Tuesday.” She tells me how volleyball was horrible, because she’s the smallest in her class, and missed the ball. She tells me how she was disappointed because her class didn’t have a math quiz today and how she loves math. (I try not to be obviously excited.)

When we get home from school, we have a ritual.

We put away all electronics, even my phone. Ava’s father does his best to stay away until after 6pm, to give us this time together.

Then Ava grabs a stool & pulls out all of the ice cream from the freezer while I grab the chocolate sauce from a high shelf. One of us grabs the whipped cream and cherries. Maybe I toast & chop some almonds. We make a colossal yummy concoction of ice cream that we jokingly call a “Tuesdae.”

We dive into one bowl with two spoons and chat about everything.

I’m not going to give up specifics on our Mom-and-daughter chats, but you were ten once, so think crushes, friend drama, bras, human anatomy, etc. Ava’s said to me at least twice, “I know you were my age once, and you have probably been through this before.”

I hide my glee at her comment, not wanting to ruin the moment.

Every Tuesday we discuss some topic that makes me infinitely grateful I took off early.

🍦

Quality conversations don’t happen frequently other days after school, when I’m rushing to pick her up by 6pm from her after school program, hoping I’m not the last to pick up, again. Or when I’m staring at the inside of the refrigerator at 6:30, hunger irritation building and no clue what to cook.

Exhaustion and hunger are not ingredients for meaningful conversation.

Sometimes these poignant chats happen with our family of three over dinner, but more often than not, our modern busy trio eats while doing something else, close to 8pm, before I’m rushing Ava to make her lunch for tomorrow, then get ready for bed, has she finished her homework yet, and please put away the iPad or Chromebook, even though I’m checking email on my phone.

Which is why I love Tuesdays.

🍦

At some point Ava will be a teenager, the coin may flip, and instead of Ava reminding me that it’s Ava and Mommy Day, I may be reminding her. I imagine the teenage angsty-groan that I hope will never come.

But perhaps the ritual will override her possible resistance, and our conversation will continue.

Ten, April 2014

 Dear Ava,

In May 2013, I wrote a post about how I'd rather you play Minecraft and watch YT videos of others playing Minecraft, than watch the horrid tween sitcoms on allegedly major kid-friendly networks.  I ended up working for the platform where I published the post, and I remember I intended to move this blog over to that platform, and write there. 

But what happened instead was that I wrote a few times, and slowly the writing petered off.  Also I started writing novels. 

Recently you told me in an offhand pretending to be casual way that you like reading this, and seemed sentimental I didn't keep it up.

So here's my attempt to play catch up, aided by photos taken the year before you turned ten, a whole freaking decade old.

July 2013: you love water, you love your cousins, but you aren't particularly crazy about the central valley heat. 

Toes are more fun when they aren't all the same color.

Also in July, we took the train from the SF Bay Area to Los Angeles.

Little Rabbit and Fluffy Bun Bun came too.

We went to my dear friend's wedding, where mom and dad wore sombreros

and you wore a lovely dress and a big grin.

This may have been the age you got the task of matching your socks in the laundry, 

and instead you put the whole pile in your drawer and picked out socks at random.

I didn't care, as long as you were wearing socks.

Someone left a Scooby-Do sized mystery on our front porch.

We later found out it was our neighbor around the corner.

These are some kind of Minecraft portal thingy. 

When you read this you can let me know what they're actually called

and I might even correct it.

I wasn't kidding about the socks. It became your thing.

This was the year our sweet cat Magi got sick, and left her cat suit behind.

You loved purple, and didn't like pink, 

and tolerated just the edge of pink on these fancy new sneakers.

Somehow a rainbow ended up on your nose.  I think it washed off later.

Your best friend was "K"... who is still your good friend seven years later.

You won a couple goldfish at our friend's school carnival.

Their housing got upgraded pretty quickly, and I learned equally quickly

that goldfish muck up their water faster than other fish.

After that, we were done with fish.  Two cats and one dog were enough.

We made marshmallow Minecraft things. Creepers? Creeper snowmen? 

 ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

We went on a whale watching trip with your papa and cousins.

In October, we went to our family cabin in Tahoe and ice skated with "K".

It was fall, and the salmon were swimming upstream.

You did a science fair exhibit on blowing balloons from household chemicals 

mixed in a water bottle created gas. 

And played cards with some of the rabbits.

I think they let you win.

Inspired by Dinovember, I convinced some of your stuffies to steal your Halloween candy.

There was some play where you were a mouse, 

and I made a half-decent mouse costume.

We went sailing on the San Francisco Bay with some people Daddy knew.

We loved making cutout cookies, and then "painting" them with icing.

Your friend and you, hula hooping at Ocean Beach.

And always, skiing. 

I wrote about how you learned to play the recorder, and I tried to learn how to play soccer.

Then you turned 10. Happy birthday, my fantastic, precocious, lovable kid.

love, 

Mommy <3

 

Decisions, October 26, 2012

Hi Sweet Girl,

Well, we sit at a cross roads of whether we catapult you into possible fame, or gently lead you down the path, both of which, I might add, are a gamble.

You've completed 5 weeks of training in acting, modeling, and the like.  You've auditioned, and been accepted into a really large audition-like event in January where something like a kazillion agents will be present to witness you (and a kazillion other kids) act, model, dance, and sing.

Daddy and I have included you in this decision, asking the question a dozen different ways, to ascertain how important this is to you, given that you were the one who asked to start this process which lead us to your first audition for the school.  Yep, they loved you, one of ten picked out of a group of over 100 kids.  They looked at you, at me, at Daddy, talked to us, and said yes, you're in (because along with a talented kid, they want smart, savvy parents who aren't desperate).

So that's the decision, headshots and a bit of training under all of our belts, whether we take the catapult (and spend a big chunk of money) or the slow road.

The kind folks at the school see your big talent as acting - being cute, precocious, of nationalities so mixed your skin color is a golden tawny brown.  You are also at a huge advantage, pun intended, because you are 8, but in the petite frame of a girl two years younger.

When Daddy and I started this adventure, inspired and motivated by you, we thought local.  A lot of catalog and photo work happens in our lovely bay area, and requires no travel to the south end of our State.  But TV?  Film?  Eh gads, how many airplanes would we board to audition?  How does that impact our quality of life?  How much does that cut into our precious idle time where we get to stay in PJ's all day because we can?

So I asked you this morning, en route to school, another variation on my same theme of "how important is this to you, love?" ... this time it was phrased "Of taking pictures or doing commercials, how often would you want this to happen?  How many times a week or a month?"

"Once a week," you replied.

So I take this bit of info, file it along with the commercial you practiced this morning, just because, along with the 5 all-day classes on Sundays that you never once complained about, never once resisted getting up and driving 45 minutes to the east bay, to your enthusiasm when you announced your slate (or whatever you do with your slate, acting isn't a language I speak!), and stood on your mark, and charmed the heck out of three judges.

And I think, oh man, I just don't want Hollywood to suck the life out of you.  I know it's my job, and Daddy's job to keep your feet on the ground, to remind you of what is essentially Ava, the core of abundance and goodness and 8-year-old-ness.  To make sure that school comes first, and this is just an after school activity, not a full time career.

So today, I've asked the Universe to make the answer abundantly clear - catapult or  saunter? 

And I hope, whatever the decision, you understand it in a dozen years when you ask.

Love,
Always,
Mommy

Nine

Ava,

Nine.  I can't believe you're nine.  I've asked you a couple times this week, joking, sort of, if you would go back to six?  Six was fun!   I tell you, with amusement.  You smirk, head tilted, nope, you are taking the fast train right into nine, and even Mommy can't stop you.

Last night, I peeked in on you sleeping, four plush bunnies in a row, then Ava.  Pink Peep Bunny, then White with purple striped inside ear bunny, then your treasured companions, white now gray after years of love: Fluffy Bun-Bun and Little Rabbit.  Sometimes you tuck a blanket just around them, which makes my heart smile.

Halfway through another school year, at our third school, which you love.  We showed up at 11, as requested, for your Birthday Circle.  It started out with you sitting with your classmates on a circular rug, and everyone asked you questions about ... everything:

What was your first word?  Ma! Ma!
What is your favorite iPad application?  YouTube
What is your favorite thing?  The iPad
Favorite movie?  Pause, then, Monsters Inc.
Favorite summer camp?  Silver Tree  (good thing, you're signed up for four weeks already)
Favorite TV show?  Dog With A Blog (lots of heart connections on that one)
Favorite place you've been?  Thailand
Which do you like better: Disneyland or LegoLand?  Disneyland (you haven't been to LegoLand)
Do you love cats or dogs more?  Dogs  (I won't tell Magi and Unagi, they'll be heartbroken, maybe)
Favorite books?  Ivy & Bean
Favorite subject?  Science
What do you want to be when you grow up?  A vet ... "and something else I can't remember"
Favorite color?  Black and purple
What do you want for your birthday?  American Girl doll clothes
What's your favorite animal?  Bunny
If you could meet one famous person, who would it be?  Sky Does Minecraft  (LOTS of heart connections from your classmates on that one, the guy who authors many YouTube videos of his play-by-play of Minecraft games)

Then many of your classmates shared wishes or gave appreciations for you.  Both of your teachers appreciated your "sparkle" and how your energy lights up the room.

We had our parent/teacher conference a couple weeks back, and the few things that I remember are that they've discovered "Nellie" ... who didn't have a formal name, but Ms. LeAnne calls your "sour face" as opposed to your "sparkle face."  You love science, and were super-motivated to make your flashlight, coming up with ways to make it bigger and brighter (paper towel tube instead of toilet paper, and more batteries).  You're good at math, getting better at multiplication along with the rest of the class.  We've been playing games since then, you, Daddy, and I, making math multiplication sentences while in the car or sitting on the table.  This week you came home with all correct answers for 2's, 3's and 4's.  You said the 3's were easy, since I reminded you about the School House Rock song "3 is a magic number," and did I have a trick to remembering 12's?  We mapped them out, those pesky 12's, to see the pattern.  "Okay, I got it!"

Your asst. teacher, who takes recess yard duty on occasion, said you also have your first crush ... you'd think someone sucker-punched Daddy in the stomach the way his face flushed.  Turns out that boy ... looks a heck of a lot like Daddy, as I teased him.  "No," Daddy said, "he's darker than me."  But he's the only Latin kid in class, my love, he's the closest Ava could get ...

We have a sneaky suspicion, though, that there's more than one boy that has a crush on you, however, by the way they were hanging on your every word during the Birthday Circle, and the stories we hear second hand of the one who pulls your hair, the one who wants to make sure nobody forgets your birthday, the one who was worried your April Fool's joke of moving to New York was real, and the one who was really concerned you were hurt when you and Daddy fell off the scooter a month back.  Not to mention the one who picks his boogers and tries to put them on you (Young boys are strange in their affections, older boys as well.)  See what I mean?


You started playing the recorder in January, in an after school class called "Recorder Karate" ... the idea being for each song you learned and played for your teacher, you get a different colored string "belt" to tie on the end of your recorder.

Onlookers would have thought the first song was Beethoven or Bach, for all the drama that ensued.  But no, it was "Hot Cross Buns," a sweet little two line ditty, that you came home, that first day, and squeaked your way through a half dozen notes, nearly in tears, insisting you would "NEVER" learn how to play.  Never!

So we took a break.  We ate dinner.  We did your homework.  And a bit before bedtime you asked if I could play the song on the keyboard.  Sure!  Then you picked up the recorder and tried again.  Can you guess what happened?  Yep, you played it perfectly.   I smiled, proud, then laughing said, "Hey, my love, is that what never sounds like?"

We use that joke a lot, when something seems impossibly, inconceivably hard.

You're also rocking Gymnastics Level 2 class.  Your cartwheels are spot-on, your round-offs are rounding off, and you're perfecting the backbend from standing, then flip over onto the red sofa (in the living room, not at gymnastics).  You are motivated and excited, and have such coordination and agility, I see it as a perfect match.  I just remind you that you know your body much better than anyone else, and to listen to your body first, especially before a substitute gymnastics teacher who is encouraging you to do something that hurts.

We've also been practicing what I like to call the Utah Phillips' Moose Turd Pie approach to dinner, wherein, the person who complains about dinner is responsible for making the next dinner.  Because I'm done with the complaints, the eye rolls, the "I don't like this," and the faces of chagrin, disgust at something you used to like a couple months ago, but now don't.  Then we took it a step further, Daddy and I, thinking that before we have a really spoiled kid (which is possible), the way to curb that is with more responsibility.  So you, my big-little girl, are now responsible for dinner one night a week.  Last weekend you made planned and made a salad, with only a bit of help from me as your sous chef.  Of course I was amused when Daddy sat down, rolled his eyes and said "eeewwww!"  and "I don't like this!"

But then he smiled, ate his salad, took a second helping, and declared it was the best salad he'd ever eaten.

And now, it's time for me to stop typing, and you to stop watching YouTube videos featuring Sky Does Minecraft, and make those snowball cupcakes for your birthday.

I love you big girl.  You are growing up ... and I'm proud.
Mommy

Culinary Tales: Broth out of anything & chicken pot pie

Hi sweetie,

You're in the other room watching cartoons, and I'm filling the fifteen minutes before I pull the chicken pot pie out of the oven.  The chicken pot pie (CPP) that you say, is The Best, as in "Mommy, you make The Best Chicken Pot Pie."

Really, as a Mom, that is such a symphony to my ears, to hear that something I make is the best, and it's also in the healthy food category.

I think today's may top the charts, even in my own biased opinion, and it's time to fill you in on a couple secrets.

First, it starts with the leftover meat on a Beer Can Chicken cooked (by me) 5 days ago, and the anticipation, of you and Daddy, who both clamored for CPP when you knew leftover chicken was hanging out in the refrigerator.

The Beer Can Chicken adventures started as a happy accident, meaning warm weather in San Francisco, my desire to roast a whole chicken and not heat up the kitchen, and the presence of a cheap can of beer in the fridge.  Turned out to be the most moist chicken I've ever, EVER made. 

So I had made a beer can chicken last Sunday, during the third game of the world series, where the Giants beat the Lions (and won the series in game four, hello, goodnight!), which again turned out marvelously, and the leftovers found their way into more than one quesadilla, until today when the fate of the chicken was sealed, as I even had, by another happy accident, made a double recipe of gluten free pie crust when I made a homemade pumpkin pie earlier in the week.

Got all those tricks so far?  There are more, because one of the real secret ingredients in the CPP is the broth, which was homemade from the bones of said BCC plus the vegetables ready for broth but beyond table consumption.  Usually it's the normal cast of characters; onion, celery, carrots, and whatever else seems appropriate.  Today was most unusual, to astonishing yummy results:

Most of a sprouting onion, sprouting top omitted, plus the quarter of an onion hanging out in the fridge
Beet greens, from yellow beets roasted last weekend
Chunks of a large yam
About a teaspoon of poultry seasoning
Half a teaspoon of sea salt
And of course, the bones of said BCC, skin omitted, and meat removed

No joke, I truly believe that broth can be made out of anything.  I've been known to throw golden beets in as well (red would probably taste okay, but the color would be suspicious!), stalks of broccoli, and occasionally a bell pepper or two, but something about the yams that sweetened the broth ... total yum!

So there's the big secret, I type as the timer goes off for the masterpiece in the oven.  

Back again, as the CPP is resting on top of the stove...

As for the CPP recipe, I start with the Better Homes & Gardens cookbook recipe, changing a few things up so it looks like this:

1/2 cup or so of chopped onion ... a little more is fine
1/2 c small dice mushrooms if you've got them, this time my mushrooms were beyond even broth stage so I 4 Tb Butter, not margarine (because I have a fondness for real butter, thank you)
Saute all of the above until the onions & mushrooms are soft, then add:

3 Tb of cornstarch for 1/3 cup flour (to make it GF, of course)
1/2 teaspoon of poultry seasoning
1/2 teaspoon salt (a bit more if you used unsalted butter)
Stir until mixed well, then add

2 cups of the chicken broth you made earlier
3/4 cup milk

Heat until bubbly and a bit thicker than when you started.  While you're waiting, cook the veggies:

I simmer these in a small amount of water for 3-ish minutes until tender but not mushy
1 large carrot diced (not frozen - ack!)
2 medium yellow potatoes, same size dice as the carrots
Some amount of frozen peas (which are better frozen, unless super-fresh from the backyard)


When the onion/broth mixture is bubbly and the veggies are cooked, add the veggies, to the broth mix and add:
2 cups torn or chopped chicken

Heat on the stove until it's bubbly again, pour into a pie dish, cover with the pie crust, and cook for 15 min @450 degrees. 

I know I'm leaving out the pie crust recipe ... I follow the one in this phenomenal GF cookbook:
Gluten-Free Baking Classics by Annalise G. Roberts

There you have it ... The Best, according to you and Daddy, Chicken Pot Pie!

love,
always,
Mommy

Third grade evaluation

To my fabulous kid,

Although your teachers could not come right out and say it, my motherly instincts are telling me they have joined the Ava Fan Club.

I swear I think they had to look long and hard to find things that could remotely be construed as constructive criticism. 

Here's what they said, paraphrased:

+ You are an enormous bundle of energy in a tiny frame.  I shared with them my Aladdin analogy:
"Enormous colossal power; itty-bitty lamp."   They agreed and wrote that down to remember.

+ You're great at starting a task and focusing on it through completion.

+ Your math skills are great, not only do you grasp concepts quickly and correctly, you adapt one concept to another example.

+ You ask really good, thought-provoking questions in class and have become less shy about speaking up.

+ You help other kids.  You were paired up with another girl for Writer's Workshop and helped her come up with a story to write. 

+ You're not worried or obsessed with if you're liked by the other kids, and consequently, play with whoever wants to play, or just play by yourself.  Case in point - at recess you started hula-hooping by yourself. Another girl joined you after a while.  A couple weeks pass and now all of the third grade girls (5 of you) have formed with your asst. teacher a "Hula Hoop Club" that is girls-only, except once a month boys can join.

+ You're creative, inventive, eager, and enthusiastic. 

+ Here's the fun constructive bits.  Sometimes you get so convinced that you are right, that you have a hard time letting go to see the correct method.  Daddy and I suggested that your teachers try negotiating with you, showing you their way along side yours and compare.  They liked that, I'm grateful to say.  They also said that sometimes you are so motivated to do a science experiment that you aren't willing to outline your method for scientific testing.  Daddy and I got the message - slow down!    So we are taking that to heart and we're going to try slowing down too.

+ Reading.  Here's the funny part.  What they said is that the books you like to read (Ivy & Bean & the Fairies Series) is actually one step below your actual reading level.  You also "read" the books quickly, but miss many details by going too fast.  There's that slow down theme again!  I read a lot, and I read fast, and I thought about how many details I miss because I want to get to the action.  I'm learning to read slower as I'm writing my book because thinking of the right adjective for a sentence gives me appreciation for the painstaking effort of other authors finding the write adjective or verb. 

We're so thrilled you love school again, love reading again, and have no reluctance getting out the door in the morning.  Sure, the public school price tag was nice, and even the parochial school price tag was less than our independent school now, but stoking the fire of your desire to learn for likely the rest of your life will be a gift, I'm sure, that yields dividends greater than my shares of Apple stock.

I love you.  You make me proud, every single day.

Mommy  

Eight

Oh my sweet girl, my precocious, temperamental, wonderful, emotional, everything girl. You are eight today.

If I can take a swim in nostalgia for a moment, eight years ago today I was resting in a hospital room, which unlike my birthing room, did not have bridge to bridge views of San Francisco, but it did, however, have you, swaddled in a hospital blanket, wearing a precious pink, white, and blue striped cap, sleeping next to me in a hospital crib. Or maybe you were laying with me. Hard to remember 8 years ago what happened at 8:05PM.

Over the past eight years I have fragments of memories, delicious moments in time some for their delight, some for their weight. My memory thrives on the photographs I've taken, many in your first couple years, fewer as the years go on. Then there is the tangible evidence, like the two holes above the door way to the bedrooms, where Daddy once drilled support for your bouncer. You loved that thing! I remember some of your words for their uniqueness, like Bodelee for blueberry, badeedalee for strawberry. I think your first word was Mama, but I don't remember the first time you said it. Now you have so much to say, sometimes thoughts and ideas so poignant I wish I'd wrote them down, but it's usually while I'm driving.

I remember your monkey scoot, when I worried briefly you'd have a speech impediment if you didn't crawl - but then you did, briefly, before walking, those steps I remember well because I captured them on video. So often I'll see kids at that barely walking stage with this wild look on their face, as if to say "Look what these can do!" Now, you ride a razor scooter as if you were born to it; but not a bike without training wheels, there's a price we pay for hills in the city!

I don't remember when I stopped being the one you always ran to who could solve all problems, to the one you get mad at so easily (along with Daddy), when you run from us into your room, and yell with wet eyes, "Go Away!" The transition from ally to intermittent enemy is heart breaking.

The rate you're learning is astounding, leaping into cursive writing, multiplication, and with just a bit of studying getting 20/20 correct on weekly spelling tests. I'm a bit sad that reading got demoted from pleasure to chore, perhaps with the requisite weekly reading log (aka 1 page book report). Sometimes though, on the nights you lay down with me first, you'll ask me to read my book to you, which is often a YA fantasy. I read until my mouth is parched and I'm tired, or you're asleep.

You still like school, but you don't love school, the way you loved your last school. I hope it's just your age, as there's more work to do and focus and concentration required. It's so hard sometimes as a parent to trust I've made the right choices for you, but to Daddy and I, it's not safe at your old school yet.

For these few days though, you're at Disneyland with our friends and their daughter; not your first trip away from us, but your first that didn't include family. We measured you on your growth chart behind the door: 44 1/2 inches, tall enough for nearly all the rides. I remember going to the amusement park in Vallejo with you, where you met the requirement only for the kids rides. Or even on our last trip to Disneyland, on your 4th birthday, we were limited to Dumbo, Teacups, and Mr. Toad. Now I can only imagine what you're riding.

Along with your birthday, Daddy and I are pondering what new responsibilities you may be ready for to balance your growth and sometimes sullen attitude. It's such a fragile line to walk between giving in to your requests and forcing our decisions on you, but Daddy and I both believe we're not doing you any favors if we do everything you want.

Mostly though, the house is quiet tonight with you and Daddy gone. Almost lonely quiet.

I love you, big girl, you are my favorite second grader in this universe, and all of the others that exist.

Mommy
p.s. within a month of your birthday, you abandoned your bike's training wheels!

Christian-ish, Christian-lite

Hi sweet girl,

Since I last wrote, the world has shifted, rotated, and shifted again resulting in:

• A new school for you (public charter to private Catholic)
• A new job for me (from consulting the past year to full time for one great place)
• Daddy's 40th birthday is tomorrow
• Well, that's about it, but perhaps it's enough.

First, in January, we changed your school. We loved the families and community at previous school, your teacher was wonderful, but ... of course there's a "but," right? We hit our tolerance level for chaos in December when the residential buildings adjacent to the school caught on fire, buildings that happened to be built in the early 1900s, when, as you may/may not know, asbestos was applied liberally during construction. Daddy wasn't convinced the grounds would be clean enough, and although I thought he was blowing the problem out of proportion at first, I later came to agree. Add to that retrofit construction, a parent-run board, a 30-40 minute commute to your school (one way!), and we hit our boiling point.

We showed up at your old school on the first day after winter break, skeptical, and although the inside had been cleaned, the playground was dusted with ashes. Tests were done, asbestos wasn't found in the air, but Daddy said "not good enough" and back home we went, for two. long. looooonnnngggg. weeks of independent study. After the first week, more tests were run at the school, we went back to visit, but still no, we weren't convinced, and began the search for a new school. Public? We pondered. We could chance an opening at a public school, but the lottery system tweaks public school normalcy, and there wasn't anywhere we thought ideal. One we liked, but had a start time of 7:30. We're early risers, but not that early, and that had a 20 minute commute, at least.

We thought of places where you had friends, and eventually agreed, although I swore I'd never want you in a private school, to go visit the school where you already knew 4 or 5 kids. Private. Catholic. School.

We did like it, even the uniforms, the smallness (<300 K-8), the organization. We were surprised we liked it. We came at PE time (another plus, a real, live PE teacher twice a week!), and as soon as they could, three of your friends ran up and hugged you. The classroom layout was typical for my generation - rows of short desks, storage area under the seat. The desks were likely built in the 1960s - when metal and wood were standard materials. At the charter, you didn't have desks, you had seating around tables and "morning meetings" in a circle, sitting with your legs crossed.

It wasn't an easy choice, especially when it came time to fill out the application and I had to write in what religion you, Daddy, and I are.

I haven't tried to summarize my religion in a long time. I don't claim residency in any one religion, but pick and choose my favorite entree's from the smorgasbord. I've kept one foot in the faith healing tradition I gleaned from Christian Science as a child, but liberally apply nutrition and listening to my body (i.e. if I have a headache, I may ask for help from the Divine, but also drink a lot of water, rest in darkness, and take ibuprofen as a last resort). I've also kept the belief in a kind, loving, wonderful Mother/Father God, also thanks to CS.

But I've also practiced yoga for over a dozen years now, and have said often that I find the divine in a yoga class, when all voices are joined in "Om" - the single syllable encompassing all that exists. I find my faith in my breathing, in meditation, and to quote Anne Lamott (hopefully correctly), my favorite prayers are "please help" and "thank you."

When I feel like a problem is bigger than me, my prayers go out to "Those On Duty," meaning any Divine being listening and waiting for my call. Is it irreverent to think there's a call bank up in the sky, with Angels and other dieties poised to answer my silent call? Or is it faith? Sometimes my prayers go loud and emotional, right to God-with-a-capital-G.

And there's Jesus. Yes, I think Jesus is a child of God, but I also think I am. The miracles he did were miraculous, but I've studied enough yogis to know he's not the first. Maybe he's on that call bank sometimes too, and for that I'm grateful.

So I stared at that box, where I had to summarize my religion. I asked Daddy, who gave his standard answer "I am God." I wanted to put something that gave us a decent chance of acceptance, without compromising my all-encompassing beliefs. Christian-ish? Christian-light? I seriously pondered these answers, but finally seceded with a simple "Christian," because trying to put my real answer, as you can see above, won't fit on a line half the length of an 8 1/2 by 11 size page.

We haven't felt the weight, so much, of the Catholicism in your school. You and I, minus Daddy (who was skiing) went to mass at the adjacent church a few weeks back, and after the sit down, stand up, kneel, repeat "Y" after the priest says "X" -- which I didn't know, obviously, you asked me, with more patience than I thought possible, "Mommy, how long do we have to do this?"

"I don't know..." I said, with a glimmer of amusement. I looked up at that big sculpture of Jesus half-dead on the cross, and thought, Really? This is supposed to inspire me? I was reminded of something I read, pardon me for forgetting the source (maybe Chopra?), of wondering why Jesus was portrayed often at his death. Why not sitting peacefully, communing with the Divine? I looked up at him on the cross and felt sad, but perhaps that's the point. I thought, unless Ava really wants to, I don't have a big desire to return. I can love God, Jesus, and everyone else on the rotation as I'm walking the dog through soaring Eucalyptus and evergreen trees in the park, breathing in the smell of fertile, rich earth.

More recently, Daddy and I were shocked as you started reciting a prayer, likely the one you were agonizing about failing to remember for school earlier in the week, the words almost joyfully flowing from your mouth about asking God's forgiveness for your sins, for choosing to do wrong, failing to do good, failing to love God, who you should love most . Daddy and I looked at each other, and I know I was thinking "Holy Shit!" I think it's the prayer for first communion, which if you want to do, it's up to you, in like another 6 years. Mostly Daddy and I were concerned that if you repeated this prayer over and over, you would come to believe you had done something wrong, which in my Smorgasbord Faith, you haven't.

After the shock wore off, and I listened to my meditation the next morning, where the topic was the mantra "Satcitananda" (Short version: sat=truth, cit=knowledge, ananda=bliss), knowing I didn't want to raise a fuss in our chosen Catholic school, but also wanted to imbue your prayer with my truth, that you haven't sinned, and you do love God enough, and you are the perfect, beautiful child of God. In the middle of this meditation, repeating "satcitananda" I thought - that's it!

So you and I chatted. I gave you my view - that just because you are reciting a prayer, does not mean it is the truth, but, I suggested, I want you to think of something that has meaning to you, to add at the end. You can say it silently in your mind, or out loud, whatever you choose.

I suggested, wearing my biases on my sleeve, "namaste" -- or later, even "I love you, God, thank you for loving me." But today you told me what you decided on.

Om.

For now, that's perfect. As you get older, I'll introduce you into other religions, to infuse Catholicism with Hindu, Buddhist, and Judaism, and yes, likely Christian Science with a side of nutrition.

I love you sweet girl, you always make me proud.
Mommy

One Sticker

Hi sweet girl,

Someday you may remember this story, when perchance reading this blog, or maybe when you have a son or daughter someday.

Today we were driving to Target, early, to beat the Holiday Chaos Shopping, and as we turned the corner near the parking lot, you asked me to roll down your window and then roll it back up. I looked back and saw you toss something very small out the window.

"Did you just litter?" I asked, borderline angry.

Your sheepish, rather surprised look was the answer.

"What did you throw out the window?" I asked a couple times, but you didn't answer. The shock of what you did started to register, in a flushed face that looked near tears.

I said a couple other things that I don't remember now, probably about a thousand dollar fine for littering, slathered with guilt, as to why littering is bad. Then I stopped, and I put the question to you. "Tell me, Ava, three reasons why litter is bad."

You gave me a couple good answers - it makes the Earth look bad. It hurts the Earth. It could hurt dogs who could eat the litter.

I parked the car and we sat for a second. You admitted it was a sticker you threw out the window. I said, calmly at this point, "Here's the thing. You think it doesn't matter about one little sticker, right? But here's the thing. You start with one small sticker. Someone else sees that sticker, and tosses their gum wrapper, because there is already a sticker. Then someone else sees the sticker and the gum wrapper, and tosses their fast food wrapper or coffee cup, because there is already litter. Suddenly that one sticker has attracted more and more litter, and the street looks horrible.

"That's why Daddy is cleaning the streets around our neighborhood. Daddy is doing such a great job of cleaning up, putting out trash cans, and our whole neighborhood looks better. There is less graffiti, less dumping of old mattresses and broken furniture. It all starts with cleaning up litter ... which all starts with one gum wrapper or one sticker or one coffee cup that someone drops on the ground and is too lazy to pick up.

"Pinky promise me," I asked you, "that you'll never litter again."

And you did, both of us smiling as we shook pinky fingers.

Almost 7

Hi my sweetie,

The house is empty tonight - you and Daddy are still in Tahoe, likely resting or playing after skiing today. You asked Daddy to call me this morning, on your way to Sierra, and after asking me where the water pack is, you said someone wanted to say "Hi" to me. Turned out it was Rocco, your Zhu Zhu pet that looks like a raccoon wanted to chirp 'hello' and a bit later, goodbye.


You are such a big girl, such an amazing kid. We had our regularly semi-annual parent-teacher conference with Brooke, your first grade teacher a couple weeks back, and she was positively glowing about you. Your reading level is equivalent to a beginning third grader, your math skills have become strong and confident over the past couple months, and overall you are one incredible kid. I think your teacher was proud, but probably not as proud as Daddy and me.

Then there's skiing. This week you skied your 16th, 17th, and possibly 18th days of the year, and you are barreling down the mountain like a maniac. A reasonably in control maniac, albeit. You're sort of working on turns, but your confidence is good, and you follow Daddy or I with no problem, and I don't have to slow down for you, much! Today in fact, Daddy said you were going off small jumps and following him through trees ... watch out, here comes Ava!


You had your regular visit to the "tooth doctor" last week, where we saw that you have six grown up teeth (bottom two front, and front and back molars), with four more teeth on their way. You're so good at the dentist, and you like the special toothbrush that polishes your teeth because it tickles. This time as your prize you got a red thin "fortune fish" that tells if you're in love, jealous, fickle, and the like. Once it said you were in love, so I questioned who you were in love with ... you adamantly deny you're in love with any boy in your class. So we agreed, you and I, that we're both in love with Daddy.

You are talkative, animated, and incredibly imaginative. You're excited that the cherry tree out back is blossoming, as it does every year around your birthday. A few years back Daddy threatened to cut down that tree, as it was pruned badly by previous owners, but I refused. Even if it's not perfectly shaped, it's beautiful, and you appreciate it as much as I do, like a present to celebrate your birth.

We've come a long way - you, Daddy, and me. Seven years the three of us have been a family, time that has bonded us further, strengthening communication. Sometimes you ask me if we can have a baby, you think you'd like a baby sister, but no, it's not going to happen. Our tripod family is perfect, to me anyway. For you, we'll make do with your fourteen first cousins, and dozens of friends.

We still have Mommy and Ava days, the two of us. Sometimes we run errands, and sometimes we plan something different. I hope we can always have a slice of time that is just for us where we talk about everything and nothing.

You still call the remote control to the TV the "me-rote," which is so cute so I don't correct you. You're less cautious around adults you know, but still don't like talking to new people. You started in a weekly French class, and we have a new ritual of getting a 'croissant au chocolate' and steamed milk from the French bakery the morning after, before heading to school. You think it's funny that kids and adults see the paper cup and ask if you're drinking coffee.

You are an absolute monkey on the playground, swinging between metal rings, and climbing with absolute confidence. You stretch my limits of comfort to see you.

We're not sure yet, what we're doing for your birthday. You want a sleepover with girls from your class, which I'm limiting to three plus you, but then we're also talking about a big party, like we do on alternate years, where Daddy and I celebrate that we've made it this long as parents, and you are turning out okay.

Recently I sang to you the song I altered and sang in the hospital, at three in the morning, when you were wide awake with those luscious dark eyes, "just call me angel, I'm your three AM angel, just pat my back so I can burp, Mommy..." And now you request it, my song to you, at one day old, where I knew you had my heart and my love, completely. I think you know it too, especially now when I make up new words.

But most of all, I love you, constantly. You will always be my three AM angel, and I will rub your back so you can sleep.

Love,
Forever,
Mommy

End of Kindergarten

Hi sweet girl,

Kindergarten is complete, graduation ceremony was Thursday and yesterday was the last day of the school year.

During the year you had your sixth birthday, and now you frequently ask when will you be seven. Like so many kids before you, myself likely included, the next age seems better, bolder, brighter. You couldn't wait to finish kindergarten and be a BIG FIRST GRADER. As Mommy, I just want to hold onto this precious age of innocent delight and pleasure with uncensored self-expression.

During your graduation ceremony, when it was your turn to receive your certificate and take the microphone, you shared that your favorite part of Kindergarten wasn't the butterflies, or dress-up, or anything reasonably predictable, nope, not you. Your favorite part, you told the audience of nearly a hundred people, your favorite part was clean-up. Clean up!? A few parents asked if I knew this would be your answer, I didn't have words to hide my surprise. This doesn't necessarily transition from school to home, unfortunately, although you do like vacuuming, sometimes.

Then later in the park, during the picnic, your wish for first grade as you released your butterfly that you watched metamorphosis from caterpillar to chrysalis to the winged "Painted Lady," wonderfully named "Banana," was that everyone would do a good job.

Whether these expressions were truly yours, or influenced by what you thought we would want to hear, I'm not sure. I think though, they were yours.

You play with nearly everyone in your class (boys are still pretty stinky), but your BFF's are still, always, the P and the S. Right now S is in England with her family, but we've already sent her a letter. I held you up to the big wall map downstairs and showed you where England is, and how S took a plane that went all the way across the US and then jumped the Pond. Your eyes grew big, somehow comprehending and not the distance. I enjoy thinking of the day you will cross the US, cross the pond, and visit a land so far to find people are the same everywhere and the world is a big, yet small place.

You still love sleeping with Mommy and/or Daddy. Even if you start the night in your own bed, by 4 or 5AM you make the short trek from your room to ours and climb in, snuggling up to me. "Are you my Snuggle Bug?" I ask you sometimes. "Yes!" you say in words, or nods, or smiles.

You are learning so much, from me, from Daddy, from your teacher, whom you adore, and friends. Each of us teaches you a tiny bit, contributing to the whole that is you. From me, you have a love of books, interest in reading. You've come a long way, little one, and can read many words out of many books, especially those by Dr. Seuss. I am so proud, so emotional, feeling your delight when you correctly read a word. We read at bedtime nearly every night, sometimes you read, sometimes I read. I have to thank Borders as well, for starting their book reading game, because it's inspired you to read 10 books mostly by yourself to get the free book from the bookstore. I made you a deal, as you would say, that if you don't like the free book (as they're for a little older age group), I would buy you another book you do like. You just asked me not half an hour ago, looking at the page of books we've read, when, Mommy, when are we going to the bookstore to get your free book? Today, love, you and I are going today.

After we completed reading book 8, in your anticipation of completing you grabbed a short book from your room, and insisted to Daddy and I that you had read it in your room. Nice try, but Daddy and I agreed you had to read it out loud, in front of us. You weren't willing to read it again, but ran up with a crayon to write the title on the page. It took a few days of coaxing to say that book didn't count, love, and by the way, now's a good time to learn that short-cutting doesn't pay. The whole point is to learn how to read, the free book is just a bonus.

From Daddy, you are learning to love sports. Daddy has been coaching the "big kids" at school - the fifth through eighth graders in basketball and futsal (indoor soccer), which inspired your request, I'm sure, for a basketball hoop for your birthday. I'm delighted you are getting this from him, because organized sports aren't something I can give you.

One thing Daddy and I both want for you is a good college. We have slightly different ideas on what "good" is, but after a impassioned debate on the way to Grandma's last weekend, agreed that what we both want is somewhere that is good for you. Daddy would prefer it *not* be his school - SF State. I would be fine with UC Davis. Daddy would prefer a school that is strong academically and competitive within college sports. Although Davis does have sports teams, he's thinking more along the lines of Berkeley or Stanford. I saw dollar signs flash before my eyes and started a 529 for you this week!

What we finally agreed was that we would wait and see what school suited you. We would give you all the information we could to see what setting would suit you. Davis was good for me, but Santa Barbara may have been as well. SF State got Daddy out of So Cal to the bay area, which he has finally come to enjoy after a decade and a half!

Last week, when you said you don't want to go to college, do you have to? You want to stay in this house with Daddy and me forever. (Forever!) I said, wanting to ease this into your head, knowing that force and pressure never inspire. Honey, you can go to college now like you go to Kindergarten. There are good schools close by (Berkeley, and even Stanford is reasonable with a car), and you can go during the day and come home at night. You were pretty relieved, I can imagine that it's a pretty scary thought at six years old to think of leaving us now. This was a good enough answer for you, and I gave you full permission to change your mind.

The balance is shifting, I know, to where you want more time with your friends, and a bit less time with me. But for now, I treasure our Mommy and Ava days, hours, and moments, where sometimes it is making muffins, and sometimes it's that book before bed.

I'm so proud of you, my sweet girl, and as much as you frustrate me some days with the attitude I want to put in a box, I know it's important in becoming uniquely, you.

Do you know I love you?
One million,
plus infinity.
Mommy