Little m Long a

I stepped on a moonbeam at the top of the stairs last night.  The damn thing nearly tripped me.  Funny thing, moonbeams.

That actually has nothing to do with anything but for some reason I felt it needed sharing.  My world seems to be spinning at an alarmingly fast pace as of late.  Not out of control, mind you, just faster.   I’m struggling to keep pace fearful that I’m going to miss something important or at the very least fail to recognize that something significant is happening.

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Zoë:  Dad, what’s for dinner?

Me:  You’re sitting right next to it.  I told you that you’d see it again.

I made a nod towards the bag from Panera.  The bag from Panera containing the uneaten portions of sandwiches and soup that were left over from lunch.  The kids had begged for something to eat and were beside themselves with excitement when we stopped to pick up the soup and sandwiches.

They ate practically nothing.

Zia, whom I thought was sleeping, chimed up from the back seat:  Well, in my world again means tomorrow!

(We had spaghetti.)

The van had a button.  Things were pretty easy.  You want the back lift-gate open?  Press a button.  You want the back lift-gate shut?  Press the button again.  Easy.

We don’t have the van anymore.

In all honesty, that is the only feature I miss about that van when compared to our new vehicle.  Well, new is kind of stretching it.  It was new to us in June.  New to us I have to say because the actual newness of the vehicle wore off some two years earlier when it was in fact at that time a new vehicle.

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As I pulled to the intersection I made sure to leave plenty of room at the crosswalk before me.  I had seen the girl from nearly a block away yet was certain she did not see me.  She had a spotter, though he seemed to be doing very little. Read the rest of this entry →

“Could I have another zwer-wink, please?”

“Zander.  It’s a D.  Say it.  Dah  Dah  Dah.  Dah-Rink.”

“Zwer–”

“No!  Dah.  Dah.  D.  Say the D.”

Zander has problems with diction.  Certain letters and words he is just unable to articulate correctly.  I blame his fingers.  Namely the fact that he continues to suck them and essentially has learned to speak with his fingers in his mouth.  His tongue is so used to forming words around the fingers that even when he takes them out–you can’t tell the difference.

It drives me nuts!

And so went our little lesson this evening during dinner.  He wanted another drink and I wanted him to pronounce the word correctly.  We tried.

And tried.

“Dah—-rink.  Dah–rink.  Dah-rink.”  I tried to get him to repeat it with me.

“Dih Dih Dih,” he forced from his lips.

Zoë chimed in, an attempt to help. “You could say  der—rink!.  Der.  Der.  Der.  Der—rink.”

“Or you could just say——drink!”  Zia offered clearly fed up with the whole exercise.  “Just give him some more milk, Dad.”

From the bench I watched as the kids played, excited to be in a new park.  The thrill of unexplored slides, swings and ladders fueling their excitement.  I watched as they played, proud for their confidence.

I watched from the bench and I saw Zella take the little girl’s hand and, smiling, walk with her toward the slide.  The innocence of a child so willing and so accepting.  I could feel myself smiling, too.

And almost as quickly I could feel the smile fade.  I began to notice that the little girl, probably five, maybe six, was no longer helping Zella, but dragging her.  She spoke harshly without consideration.  Zella’s face had in a moment turned from happiness to one of fear and apprehension.

Calmly, I walked to where the girls stood on the steps leading up the slide and I called Zella to me.  And then I leaned just a bit closer to the little girl.  Closer so that I could speak emphatically without raising my voice.

“Tell you what, kid.  I think it best that you find someone else to play with while you are here at the park.  Do no talk to my daughter.  And certainly do not touch her, again.”

The little girl did not say a word but looked at Zella and then back at me in a manner that almost asked, “Or what?”

So I leaned in just a bit closer and almost whispered.

“You think I’m kidding?  If I see you touch my daughter one more time, I will rip your tiny little arms off and bash your fucking skull.  Do not touch my kid!”

The girl said nothing, but turned and ran toward her mother on the other side of the playground.  I smiled at the woman and waved as I mouthed the words, “Your daughter is a bully.”

Clueless, she waved back.

I returned to my bench and resumed a conversation I was having with another mom.

“That little girl is not very nice,” she said when I sat back down.  “I’ve been watching her.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to have any more trouble with her.”

So what did you do in school today, Zia?

We started numbers.  Today was Zero (0).  Then we’ll do 1, then we’ll do 2, then we’ll do 3….. It’s a review.

(For the record, Zia’s pre-K class has been working on the letters of the alphabet all year long.  A different letter each week.  Last week they completed the alphabet and have now moved on to numbers for the remaining two weeks of the school year.)

Zia, that’s great.  But you already know your numbers, don’t you?

Yes, Dad.  (In a totally frustrated tone that only a just turned five year old little girl can make.)  That’s why its called a review!

Watching my kids grow up sometimes hurts.  Watching them have fun doing it though makes it all worth it.

We capped off Zia’s Day of Fun just as we did last year, at the Easton Fountains.  It never gets old!

It’s happened before–and probably will again. I’ve been blanked in the past but tonight was quite the opposite.  My head just too full to organize a rational or coherent thought.  So I turned to the most rational, coherent person I know and asked for help.  “I need a guest post.”  Begrudgingly, she acquiesced in a fantastic way. Thanks, Maura.  I owe you big.  I give you—Zoë’s Mom and her very first blog post.

This started about 2 years ago.  We were planning my son’s 5th birthday party and my husband and I had no idea for THE BIRTHDAY GIFT.  I had been becoming progressively more soured on the vast amount of gifts that I had been seeing kids get for their birthdays.  By the time  some school friends, Aunts and Uncle and Grandparents threw in their presents, it was hard to distinguish one from another.  By the time the child got around to your gift,  they were in major gift fatigue mode.  So I suggested the idea to my husband – what if we got Zane no gifts at all?   What if the gift was a day with his parents, all by himself?

You have to understand that I come from a family of ten.  The first five births were all fourteen months apart and I was one of a set of twins (yes, Catholic).  We had working parents and we were raised mainly by my grandparents.  In those days, my grandma would go to the grocery once a week on a Wednesday and take one (or two) of us with her.  Those days were absolute highlights of my youth.  Don’t get me wrong, I loved growing up in a large family, but occasionally it was nice to be singled out and be treated like an only child.  My grandma would get the lucky kid a piece of candy at the check out counter and maybe lunch at Friendly’s afterward.  During that day, you  had the chance to be seen just for yourself, to be heard without shouting. These days would come along once every 3 or 4 months and we fought for them tooth and nail.  My grandma just wanted help getting her 3 to 4 carts of groceries but she gave us in return an afternoon of feeling singularly loved.

I was a little hesitant to suggest this to my husband.  But I must of caught him in just the right mood because he said yes immediately. Then we launched the idea to Zane and he, quite to my surprise, couldnot have been more enthusiastic.   Since then we have not bought a single present for our children’s birthdays.  They get a day of fun and in that day they may get an outfit and a stop at Build a Bear,  maybe a book at the Barnes and Noble.  But the focus of the day is on spending time over the course of day one on one with us.  And we get a chance to show how singularly loved each of our children are.

Today was Zia’s Day of Fun (the evolved name for the event).   She turned 5 on April 28th.  If ever there was a child who could break your heart just by smiling, it would be Zia.  I have found in the planning of these days that less is more.  It is better to be able to walk around an art museum or through a city park than to go to a place with lots of noise and games for kids (an amateur mistake on our first outing).  The highlight of the day comes when you actually get to hold a conversation with your child about flowers or art or your memories of growing up.

Today we started out at the Columbus Zoo because they just had a baby elephant born there one month ago.  As soon as we got in the 30 minute line to wait to file quickly by this newest zoo arrival, I thought to myself, “We have got to get out of here as soon as possible”.  Too many people, too much chaos, not enough quiet to get a chance to talk to my daughter.  We saw the elephant and a few other zoo sights but then we took off to this lovely city park on a beautiful sunny spring day.

And it was there, over the course of the next hour and a half that Ed and I had a chance to talk to Zia, watch her chase butterflies, see her run up and down the walking paths of the gardens, and revel in the beauty that is my third child.  And it is for these moments that the idea came to be.  Zia got a chance to shine today for her parents and a chance to see in our smiles and laughter the deep love we have for her.  It is always on these days that I take a moment to tell my child about the moment they were born.  (That tradition actually started with my mother, who, despite giving birth 9 times, remembers the day we were born very precisely).   So I told Zia today about the perfect spring day she was born on.  The first time that year that there was a day that showed summer would again come to Ohio.

On that beautiful day, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who has come to personify for me Spring and its promise of joy and beauty.  It was a day very much like today.  And so it continues, the joy of being Zia’s mommy.

Zia:  “Hey, Dad.  Whatcha doin?”

Me:  “I’m just cleaning the kitchen.”

Zia:  “Oh…..(short pause to catch her breath)……I’m running around.”

And with that she turned and raced from the room, screaming as she ran.

It’s a good life!

Without a doubt, the best Red Velvet Cake I’ve ever had!  Maura found a recipe and we whipped it up yesterday afternoon for Zia’s birthday.  The kids gave it OK marks.  I cried a little when I realized it was gone.  That cake was GOOD!!

(OK—so before you ask, no we did not eat the entire cake last night.  But—–there’s not enough left for everyone to get a piece this morning.  And I don’t feel bad about admitting that either!)

My littlegirl.

My Curly Sue.

When Zia arrived home from preschool yesterday morning it took her all of two minutes to notice the empty mugs and half-filled marshmallow bag still lying on the counter.  Probably not that long.

“What the…they got hot chocolate?” she asked incredulously, clearly stunned that she had not been invited.

“Well, yes, Zia.  The twins wanted to play outside this morning and it was pretty cold.  So we had hot chocolate after they came back inside.”

“I want hot chocolate!” she exclaimed.

“Zia, they got it because they played outside.”

“OK……(pause)….(pause)….Can I go outside?”

“Sure.”

So over the next ten minutes Zia gathered her boots, her gloves, her snow pants, hat, coat, scarf…(Did I mention it was cold outside?)  Carefully, she assembled herself and made ready to go outside and play.

“OK, Zia.  Have fun,” I called to her as she headed out of the door.

3…

2…

1…

Seriously, it was less than a minute.

Zia walked back into the house and proclaimed, “Whew!  It’s cold out there.  Now can I have some hot chocolate!!”

Nice try, little girl.

Zia:  Dad, you’re funny.

Me:  Funny–ha, ha??

Zia:  No, Dad.  Funny–CRAZY!

From the mouths of babes….  And she looks so innocent.

As the temperature drops and bare feet yield to socks or even warmer, I go on alert.  A constant vigil, ears ever perked for that spine tingling, gut wrenching sound.  It rarely comes, thank God.  But when it does, as it did last night, it is unmistakable.  It resonated throughout the halls and into the kitchen where I stood washing up from the evenings dinner.

John Henry Bonham scarcely had as much rhythm.

Zia took a spill coming down the steps, not more than four–five tops–from the syncopated sounds she made as she bounced downward.  I caught her near the bottom and was happy to note that most of her tumble had been on hers.  I looked down at her warmly covered feet and asked her as calmly as possible to please remember to take those things off when she’s going up and down the stairs.  Just so such a thing doesn’t happen.

She looked up at me and through her tears and muffled cries, trying to be brave she said…..

“I guess that’s why they call them slippers.”