how it begins.

I originally wrote this post last July on a pity party day. I never published it because at the time, it was for me. Today, I feel the need to make it yours.

I don't remember the name of my 3rd grade teacher. Or the kids in my class. I don't really remember my classrooms or my bus stop.

But what I do remember was my best friend in the world, Heather, who lived two doors down. She was blond and beautiful and every one loved her. She had a queen size bed and a chocolate poodle named Coco. She had a piano and her mother let her eat spray cheese.

My mother scoffed at such requests. I thought I was neglected. No poodle! No over sized bed! NO CHEESE??

Heather and I used to collect gypsy moth caterpillars and make "homes" for them in her sandbox. We would crawl into the thicket in the woods and watch the sun filter through the leaves. We would put her Holly Hobbie dolls into her play baby carriage and walk them around on her drive way.


Heather was always the mommy and I was always the baby sitter. She said it had to be that way beacause she was older.

I have no memories of Heather ever being at my house.

One of my only young childhood school memories is from Kindergarten. I remember hiding underneath a table with my fingers plugging my ears. I remember belting out "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" to drown out the teasing chants of my fellow classmates. I remember Heather leading the pack. I have foggy recollections of sitting alone at recess while the other kids, following Heather, played "keep away" from me.

I never told my mother and I always went to Heather's house after school to play.


I clearly remember being in her basement with her puppy. I picked him up and spun really fast in a circle. When I put the dog down it wavered while walking. I felt awful. I still do. My adult self knows why I did it, but still I can not reconcile myself with it, to me it was cruel even then. I feel it speaks of my character but at the time I felt trapped inside myself with my feelings and I had no one to talk to.


I didn't know I was supposed to talk to someone. I thought I was supposed to just feel that way. That was how things were.



Heather moved that year. I only saw her once after. I went to her new house to play. I remember her new room and her things. I remember sitting in the back of her fathers car with her singing Johnny 'B' Goode. She made fun of me because I didn't know all of the words and told me I couldn't sing with her anymore.


My mother always said "I was delightful until I entered school". She thought it was the structure, she thought it was the curriculum. She said maybe I was bored, maybe I needed something more tailor made to the way my mind worked.


I was sent to private school in the 4th grade. My problems with other kids, teachers and discipline continued until I was in high school.


Had I been raised in today's society I believe I would have been 'labeled' and most likely medicated.



I've never really talked about this to anyone. I certainly have never breathed a word to anyone about the puppy. It shames me.


I am terrified for my daughter. I am so afraid of what her future may hold for her. The cruelty of children. The harsh and cold things that mold us into who we are just as much as the beautiful things. I see her compliance, her patience and how she yields to other babies and I'm afraid for her; she is so timid.


This story is only the beginning. For all of the wonder my childhood held there were dark secrets that I never speak of. Memories deep inside. I know the ugliness that can exist for a little girl and I have a fierce need to protect mine.


I just don't know how.

stimulus.

Spouse and I are doing our part to stimulate the economy.

We are buying new couches. (Totally hated the denim ones. Its amazing how things look more comfortable on the internet then in real life). As a direct result of the new couch purchase (still to be made) we are rearranging our entire house. I assure you before/after pictures will follow.

I bought new bras! Of the non-nursing variety!! I can not express how thrilling it is to lean over to pick up a squirming tantrum throwing toddler something and not have my bra pop open....and oh the comfort of having my boobs reside somewhere above my elbows!

And the best part of stimulating the economy?

This:

This baby replaces my 2001 desktop with 0% capacity. So bad that I can't even update the virus protection, I have to wait 20 minutes for a website to load and if I win a game of Scrabble the whole system crashes.

And I win a lot.

8 more days until delivery.....

flawless.

The day after my mother passed away my father wanted to bring all of her jewelry to the safe deposit box.

I was assigned the task of sifting through the tower of jewelry boxes to separate the costume from the sentimental from the genuine articles.

When I was done I was a sobbing mess curled in the middle of my parents king sized bed.

I lay clutching a red leather box in one hand....and in the other my mother's engagement ring.

From the time I was very small I was always fascinated by it. She didn't wear it often but when she did oh how I was drawn to it! "Sparkle plenty" she would say, waving her fingers so the diamond would catch the light. She wore it when they went out, or for a special occasion with a matched diamond wedding band. It was dazzling.

A far cry from the plain gold braided band that adorned her finger on most days.

When my sobs began to subside I held it up to the winter sun streaming through the window. It's prisms danced across the bed spread as I turned it this way and that. I examined it from all sides and tried to memorize it's every facet while picturing it on her hand.

It left an imprint in my palm from how tightly I squeezed it. Blood from a stone; tears from a diamond; I felt like I was letting the last little bit of her go when I returned it to it's box. I brought the humble pile of jewelry to my father and fell so deep into depression that there was no light. There were no prisms for longer then I can even remember.

Eventually, I healed. Slowly. I forgot the rings size, it's sparkle, it's details. I reached a point where if asked I could only assure its existence but nothing else.

That was until I found myself sitting on a piece of driftwood on the northern California coast. I felt Then Future Spouse shift beside me and I looked over to see him perched on one knee.

He held a red leather box in his outstretched hand; nestled in it was the most beautiful ring I had ever seen. My mothers ring. My ring.

He said wonderful things. I said yes and cried. It was more then I ever thought that moment could have been.

Unlike my mother I wear it everyday. Even filthy from soap scum and lotion it still flashes in the sun. Clean; it could blind you. It still dazzles me.

Riley loves to finger it, she says "prewwy" and tries to pull it from my hand. I tell her how much her grandmother would have loved her, that the "pretty" is a piece of her. I tell her to have patience. Someday...a day further away from today then either of us could ever imagine it will be hers.


Because that is how I want it passed on. From mother to daughter. Sparkle plenty.

ugh.

I'm waiting for my in laws to descend upon me this weekend.

Lord give me strength....

...and a laptop so I could disappear into a bathroom or something to blog about them when it all becomes too much.

In the meantime. I give you this.

How toddlers help clean.

You see the ugly couch? What you don't see is the black industrial photography studio (thank you RIT) tape holding it all together. And the ugly rug? Well that I will spare you the close up of. Just ewwwww.

So here is where you come in. Help me spend my tax return.

This....

and this (with ottoman) ala 'Cindy Crawfords Collection' at Raymour and Flanigan...


Or should I stick with a sectional? If you were coming over for a gathering** lets say...where would you want to sit? Would you find a 3 seat sofa (remember someone must park it on the crack because there are only 2 pillows) and chair/ottoman enough seating?

Would you want to put your footsies on this?

There is a little blue in there right?

Just pretend you see it, its on sale and its Pottery Barn.

**Where a gathering indicates 6-8 people for informal food and company.

***Edited to add that I don't like the throw pillows so much. Cause in now way do those things go with that rug.

the cheese wears me.

I'm under the suspicion that I'm depressed.

After another failed attempt at socialization today for me and Riley at the park, I went to Target and bought 7 different types of cheese.

If thats not depression I don't know what is.

sing it loud so I can hear you.

Our wedding song was Better Together by Jack Johnson.

The Wood Song by the Indigo Girls ties my Blanket Girls...my best friends and me together.

I was listening to Bob Marley's Acoustical Medley the moment when my mother slipped away.

These are the songs I hear in my head everyday of my life. They are the songs I always come back to; the ones I am always humming.

When I am not humming "Give me back that fillet of fish, give me that fish..." Seriously, someone help me!

My point.

From the moment I knew Riley was growing inside me I began to sing to her. Everyday of my pregnancy and every day of the last 15 months. They are varied fun tunes, theme songs or the aforementioned commercial.

Give me back that smelly dipe, give me that dipe....

The first night in the hospital I held her sleeping body close to me. I found the words to a song I have always known, and knew in that moment that it would always be hers. That night, and every night after I have sung her The Beatles, I Will.

I nursed her and rocked her. I would sing it and then hum it before finally settling her peacefully in her crib.

While I am no longer nursing her I am still singing to her...its our bedtime ritual.

But I wonder for how long. She grows restless for more books or for her bed. It is crystal clear to me in these moments how quickly she is growing and changing. How fast she makes up her own mind.

Sometimes I worry that this song will fall away one day to be one I only sing to myself.

But them I remember the times she has heard it on the radio and has raced towards me. "Mamamamamamama..." Shes climbed into my lap and snuggled for a minute before racing back away.

I know little moments like that will be a fleeting gift as she grows. But she will always be mine, I will always remember and I promise I will always sing for her and to her.

I will.

because babies...

...babies turn into toddlers.

And toddlers are busy. And very, very strange.

How many Elmos do you see?