Lightning bugs

There's a memory I have been meaning to jot down, and as usual, life's crazy current almost carried it away. Weekend before last, we spend @ Allan's Dad's house. After Jack has gone to bed, we went outside with Maya, onto that lazy quiet tree-lined street I hope I'll always remember. Beautiful evening at dusk.

After  a couple of fake-monster chases, which I still regret not photographing, we saw fireflies starting to come out. So we caught a few, and every time handed one off to Maya - who gingerly stretched her stiff palm to accept the bug, and then watch with hesitation and joy for it to fly off.

You won't remember this, Fairy, but I will.

Dad's days

Allan had both kids for most of the week while I was in Oregon. In the past 24 hours, he's attempted to inflate an outdoor pool through a drain hole; came in from chess club @ 1am head-first through a bedroom window (true story not involving inebriation); and showed up this morning with his shirt inside out. HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, DEAR! :)

Funny ha-ha

Maya's first now-recorded brazen adventure into amateur stand-up act. Last night at story time (she insists on re-reading the book herself, which I have just read to her, every night) we were going through her Potty Book (a slight step backwards in choice of reading material, I admit, but it was her pick).

As she opens up each page of the story of a baby navigating complex and often unpredictable, filled with peril world of Potty, she rephrases every sentence with "MAMA used diapers..." followed by uprorious laughter, then "MAMA tries the potty...", more guffaw, then "MAMA wets her pants..."

Applause in the studio, please. Can someone send David Letterman a resignation letter for him to sign?

No wings yet...

Maya, having a lengthy conversation in the car on the way home today: "Mama, Buzz is my best friend."

Me: "Really?"

Maya: "Yeah. He can fly!"

Me: "Can you fly with him?"

Maya, sad: "No, Mama. I can't fly."

Me: "Is it because you don't have wings?"

Maya, still sad: "Yes. I don't have my wings yet, Mama."

...

I hope you don't get your wings for a very, very, very, VERY long time, dear Fairy. I'm selfish like that.

Somehow, as my kids slowly-but-really-fast get older, my love and emotion for them only increases. With every small milestone, there's this seemingly endless expansion of my affection for them; my solid awareness of my responsibility for them; now-growing concerns of raising them well and setting an example of faith and fairness and discipline.

I'm more aware than before that they notice every facial expression, every variation of tone, every hint of impatience they didn't deserve but were served anyway. Consequently, I'm actively aware of my outward reaction to them at nearly all times. They do not need to carry my troubles, my physical state, my emotional load, my lack of sleep, my financial concerns. It's their childhood and my influence should be optimal - they should always know I'm 'safe', I'm 'fair', I'm 'kind', with (mostly) unfailing consistency.

That may not be humanly possible at ALL times. But I can make it a superimposed priority MOST of the time. And apologize sincerely for the rest.

My small healer

Today, as I'm loading Maya in the car at daycare on the way home, I'm hassled, stressed, super-hot, tired, drained. "Baby," I say, "please get in your seat. I'm not feeling so good." Maya, from her seat, looking at me very seriously, puts her cool hand on my forehead and holds it there, quietly. I swear all the pain went away right then and there. "There, Mama," she says. "It's all better now."

Tissue, please?

There are times I think that, as a general preference, I could have more children. When I think that, I'm really projecting into an idealistic version of a future with grown children (three? four?). Then during days like this, I know that another pregnancy and another infant period will most likely do me in.