I keep my photograph albums in my cedar chest. Dozens and dozens of albums, all crammed full of pictures. Beautiful pictures of my beautiful children. . . pictures I loved. . . pictures that were calendar-quality!!!!! Pictures of my babies, and of my toddlers, and of my preschoolers, and of the first day of kindergarten. . . pictures of birthday parties and skating parties and picnics, and playgrounds.

Mostly, pictures I hadn't seen in years. Some of them? I'd forgotten they even existed.

That's why I was so excited when I got my wireless digital picture frame last Christmas. I'd wanted one desperately ever since I first saw one on display at Sam's Club.

As soon as it arrived, I opened that cedar chest, got out all of those wonderful pictures, started scanning them, and then I put them all on my FrameChannel account.

I took the frame out of the box, wrote down the serial number, and typed that in on FrameChannel. Bingo.

I've got over eight thousand pictures of my beautiful children in a random, looping slideshow, on my wireless picture frame.

It's the showcase of the living room. Nobody can walk past it without stopping and watching for ages. The frame even plays my Mp3's, so I've got a soundtrack to the memories of my life running 24/7 on the back of my piano.

This isn't an advertisement or anything. It's just a statement about the most awesome material object in my house.

When I stand and watch my wireless frame, I am watching my children grow up before my very eyes. I also see my parents, my siblings, our vacations, our pets, and, and, and. . . you name it. If it was precious to me, there's a picture of it on my wireless frame.

The sensation is indescribable. When I look at all of those pictures that had lain hidden for so many years, the sensation is just simply, well, indescribable.

My kids are in their twenties, but not on the back of the piano. There, any time I want, I can see my babies.

My parents. My brother. My sisters. All ages of them.

Any time I want.

If you are looking for a gift for someone you love, you might consider a wireless or digital picture frame. Seriously, if my house caught fire and all the humans and cats were safe, I'd run back inside for that frame. It's like another family member, because it's ALL my family members.

I love it. Sometimes, late at night when nobody's watching, I look at it and cry. Not the bad kind.

Posted by Mamacita at 5:54 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

When my son was in kindergarten, he gave me a pair of earrings for Christmas. He picked them out himself, and he chose 'the most beautifullest earrings in the whole store' for me.

Every morning, I put them on and wore them to school. Both of my children came to school with me (from K-8!) so I wore the earrings until they went down to their classrooms at 7:50 each morning.

As soon as the coast was clear, I took off the pearl earrings and replaced them with another pair that I kept in my desk. He never knew. He still doesn't know.

As soon as my own students left, I hurriedly put my little boy's earrings on again. As far as he knew, I'd been wearing them all day. In my heart, I had.

He used to brag about how those beautiful earrings Momy always wore had been chosen by him and him alone, and purchased with his saved-up allowance. (He got fifty cents a week once he started school. A man has needs.)

I was young, and insecure, and my job was fairly new. I wanted to make a good impression. Otherwise, I would have worn those earrings all day, and either held my head high and said nothing, or explained why they were so precious to me. Some of the other teachers would have understood. Some would not have. I was young, and insecure.

When he was in the fourth grade, he bought me another pair of earrings down at the school's 'Santa's Workshop' store. They were a little less 'elegant' than the original pair, and I was able to wear them in public.

No pirate chest or Tiffany's window ever held such precious jewels.

When I cleaned out my desk, the summer of '04, that first pair of earrings was still in my pencil tray.

I do not remember the last time I wore them. I do not remember the last time I took them off and put them in the tray. I do not remember being asked where they were. I do not remember feeling different because I was now putting on 'normal' earrings in the mornings. I do not remember if he asked about them at all.

For four and a half years, I wore these earrings every morning and every evening. Purty, huh.

They are pearls beyond price. Close to three inches of pearls.

When he was in the 8th grade, I showed him the earrings in my desk drawer. He looked stunned, and said, "Mom, you've got to be kidding!"

I wasn't kidding. And when I told him how beautiful they were to me, and always would be, he looked incredulous. And then he grinned and said "Mom, you are so WEIRD."

Well, there's that.

If I had it all to do over again, I'd wear the dangly pearls the whole day.

When you get old, you get braver. And less concerned with what "people" think.

You tend to tell is like it is, when you get older. And let me tell you all: those earrings are the most beautiful jewels I own.

Advice? From MOI? Sure. Here's some advice for you all: when your children make or buy what is, to them, beautiful things for Mommy, wear them. Oh, mothers, wear these dreadful conglomerations of fake pearls and shiny things. Wear them over your heart, and touch them often and smile. Think of the thought that went into the making or selecting of these genuinely hideous "things," because the day will come when you'll look back and wish you had. Don't be too cowardly to walk proudly into the room wearing three-inch-long pearl net earrings, or broaches the size and shape of a baboon's fist, or a ring won from a bubble gum machine. Nothing a jewelry store could possibly offer will ever be worth even half as much as these gifts from the heart of a little boy or girl, chosen for their sparkle and size, because Mommy deserves the prettiest jewelry in the world.

Posted by Mamacita at 8:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

I am often lost in the past. I'm often lost on the freeway, too, but that's another post.

Lost in the past. Mostly, lost in memories of when my children were small and needed me.

I have been extremely fortunate in that neither of my children was frequently ill. They both had migraines which were often severe, and they both had the usual measles and chickenpox. Belle had walking pneumonia a few times but it never got her down. But when it came to the usual list of childhood ailments, such as earaches, vomiting, diarrhea, bad colds, flu, etc, we were really lucky. It just hardly ever happened.

Which meant, of course, that the very few times it DID happen, it was scarier than it would have been for most kids. My kids were not used to it. They still aren't.

When they were sick, I would lie with them on the sofa or bed and rub their hands and arms, and mess with their hair, and run my fingers lightly over their faces. I would sing and hum and breathe deeply and slowly to calm them down. (That breathing thing really works!) And I would love on them all night long.

Last night I was sitting here remembering that. And trying to remember when it all stopped; when did my kids stop needing me to make the bad sickness go away?

And then the phone rang.

My daughter was sick; she was terribly sick, and she called me sobbing to ask me what to do.

So I got into the car and drove up there and brought her back home. I put her in her old bed and got in with her, and rubbed her hands and arms, and messed with her hair, and ran my fingers lightly over her face. I sang and hummed and breathed deeply to calm her down, and I loved on her all night long.

The next morning she was shaky but better. She rode back up to the city with me and I dropped her off at her apartment on my way to the college. She was going to nap a little more and try to go to work by noon.

And now I am sitting here again, lost in the past, but I'm putting a footnote (1) on it.

(1) They will always need us; the old methods will always work; they're never too old to want Momy*; we never forget how to comfort them; and baby, we've still GOT it.

*There's a reason I spell it that way. Stay tuned and you'll find out.

(Parts of this post were published on Scheiss Weekly in March of 2005)

Posted by Mamacita at 2:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

We took our son back to his apartment in his new home town which is not where we live, tonight. Before we dropped him off, though, we fed him. And tonight, I tried to observe him as if I did not know him.

Usually when I'm visiting with my son, I perceive him as the little boy he once was. When we drop him off at his apartment, I'm always amazed that he isn't going back home with us. Tonight, I tried to see him as the adult he actually is now.

I was able to see a VERY tall, very red-headed, very good-looking, very cool, very intelligent, very funny, very grown-up man who held his own in the conversations, ate his own weight in pizza and stromboli sandwiches, and made us all laugh.

But adult? Sorry. All those things in the previous paragraph, plus 'my little boy.'

He'll never escape from my far-seeing eyes; and by 'far-seeing' I mean far-seeing-into-the-past.

Oh, ok. He knows how to pay his bills, cook, manage his time, and wipe his own ass.

But I will always remember when he didn't.

He might be 27 years old, but in my heart he'll never be much older than five.

I remember every detail of his little baby-boy body. I remember all kinds of first-times with him. First step. First tooth. First words. First visit to the emergency room.

I remember all the little rituals. The picture-books at night. The story-books at night. The to-be-continued novels at night. The afternoon nap routine. His first real haircut. All the little things in his room that were sacred to him. First this, first that. To-be-continued this, to-be-continued that. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. The little rituals that would never change. . . .I remember all of the first times, and I remember all of the continuing times.

What I can't remember are the last times.

When was the last time I ran a soapy washcloth down his tiny back? When was the last time we sat on the fluffy blue rug by his bed and read? When was the last time I took him to the barbershop? When was the last time he sat on Santa's lap at K-Mart? When was the last time I actually saw that little baby-boy body? When?

When did it happen, that he took care of his own body and didn't need me to even check behind his ears? When did he start reading in bed all by himself and not need me to sit on the floor leaning against his bed reading aloud TO him?

When did he start brushing - and FLOSSING - and not need me to check the corners?

Firsts: I remember all of the firsts. The firsts are recorded in a book.

I remember every first time. What I can't remember are the last times.

I can't remember any last times.

Do mothers deliberately erase the last times from their minds? What's the deal?

Perhaps it's because the first times are recorded for all eternity, in our hearts and in little blue baby books.

Whereas the last times come upon us covertly; the last times come, and we never know. So often the last time comes, and we don't know.

This is probably a good thing. Our children grow up so terribly fast, and until a certain age, there are 'first times' for so many things. Those 'firsts' become routine, and we don't even notice when they are done. And then, they are not done any more, and we don't even know it till we force ourselves to think about it. And it's too painful to think about, so we try not to.

Sometimes, we are in such a hurry to get our children to the point where they can do everything for themselves that we forget to think about how very much we love to do these things for them.

Wash them. Brush their hair. Rub lotion all over their beautiful little bodies. Make everything better with a kiss or hug.

And then, before we know it, they're washing themselves. Brushing their own hair. And we haven't seen their bodies since. . . . well, we can't REMEMBER the last time.

If we knew that any gesture, word, deed, or ritual would be the last time, our hearts could not bear it.

That is probably why we don't know.

Posted by Mamacita at 7:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Carmen of Mom to the Screaming Masses recently posted some quotes. One of them in particular stood out for me.

I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

Now, as an adult I have learned this lesson well and often. It doesn't always matter what lip service someone gives you. Whether or not they tell you that they admire you, respect you or want the best for you, do their actions show it? Because those particular words will probably fade from your memory. If they offered you something 'out of the goodness of their heart' but it later backfired, you may not remember the circumstances around the event in the same way later, but you will remember how someone made you feel. Good or bad.

No matter what is said or done for you, it is how someone makes you feel that will stay with you for a much longer time. Words and actions are important, but the way they make someone feel is an altogether different story, it has an impact that lasts a much longer time.

This is especially true for our children.

How do you make your children feel? Do you tell them that they are responsible and trust worthy yet not give them any responsibility around the house or not trust them in the most basic of ways? How do you think it will make them feel? Will the words matter or the feelings created be what shapes them.

Or on the flip side, when you child has done something praise worthy, do you remember to tell them how proud you are? When you catch them in some random act of kindness, do you remember to praise them for their actions? It isn't in the words. It isn't in the rewards. It is in the way your actions and words make your children feel.

As an adult I have learned how important it is to ensure your words and actions are not hollow.

As a parent I realized that it is not only important, but vital to your child's emotional and behavioral health.

I will admit there are days when my kids make me nuts. I can scream. I can rant. But when it moves to a level where I make them feel badly about themselves separate from an action, then I have some real work to do with them.

Our words. Our actions. They impact our children. How we make them feel about themselves is one of our top jobs as parents. So, next time that snarky comment or unwarranted insult is about to pop, stop and think. Even after an apology, how will they feel? If you are not okay with it, re-examine your communication.

Just this week I watched as my three children played nicely and respectfully together. I watched and smiled and then went back to what I was doing. I almost missed the chance to tell them how it warmed my heart to see it. So, I stopped, went back and let them know how special it was for me to watch them and that I was proud of them. Each one of them (even the teen) smiled. It made them feel good to know they were doing something positive together. Maybe the next time one of them wants to play with the other two, they will stop and remember how good it felt to get along and see Mom so proud.

Or not.

Ten minutes later they were fighting.

In any case, remember how powerful you are to your children. How they feel makes all the difference in who they are and who they become.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Living in Northern California, we are rarely subjected to hot, muggy days. While I'd hardly call 80 degrees hot, the humidity has been very high, resulting in wild hair for me, and cranky attitudes for everyone around me. Since I am a sainted mother, I was not the least bit cranky, not me. No way. Never.

Despite the heat and the damp, for some reason all three kids made their way into our king-sized bed last night. I clung to the outer 12 inches on one side, my husband claimed his 18 inches, and in between, we had a mass of squirming kids. I woke at 5 am to a chorus of snores. Aside from the occasional kick to the kidneys, or my three-year-old's determination to suck her thumb and hold onto my ear, it was a fine night of sleep. Really, it was. And I wasn't the least bit cranky. Stop laughing.

We've always welcomed the kids to our bed, for the most part. As nursing babes, it was easier. As we added kids to our family, the babies often slept in a bassinette right next to my pillow, but it has never been uncommon for the kids to appear in the wee hours of the night for a snuggle. Since my husband sleeps as though he's been clubbed unconcious, it is usually up to me to see the kids back to bed. When I'm on my A-game, everyone goes back. But often, like last night, I don't even notice when they arrive, and I wake up surprised by the sheer number of critters in my bed.

Now that my kids are seven, five (almost six) and three, their soft baby limbs have been replaced by rock hard muscles and feet almost as large as mine. The crown of my seven-year-old's head rises to my shoulder. It is a far cry from co-sleeping with a mushy, sweet-smelling infant.

And yet...we still enjoy it. Not all the time, of course. There are many nights when our bed remains blissfully empty of stragglers. Sometimes we get a solitary visitor. Sometimes, like last night, we get them all. They sweat, grunt, snore and burrow themselves under the covers. They put their feet on the pillow, and press their faces into my neck, creating a feverish swelter in the room.

I love that they still need snuggles and crave the comfort of our embraces. My dreams are peaceful when my children are kicking and drooling all over each other like a pack of puppies in my bed. As the morning light creeps into my bedroom, I can count my blessings and admire their softly rounded cheeks and splayed limbs without hearing "Moooooom! Stop looking at me!" I know that someday, this too will fade, like the breastfeeding years, like the desire to hear Backyard Bedtime and Goodnight Moon, over and over and over again.

My husband feels the same way. In the daylight hours, it seems that we are always on guard, always teaching and correcting. At night, it is effortless to pull them close and hold them like the babies they once were. The frustrations we struggle with during the day melt away, and all is forgiven.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Ah, Saturday. Truly, the one day of the week where I can stay snuggled into bed until I drift awake, rested and at peace.

*screeeeeeeeech*

When my first kid popped awake at 5:15 am, I pulled her into my bed, hoping to snuggle her into submission. Her happy cries of "Up! Mama! Get up get up get up!" woke the other two, and by 5:20 am, I had all three kids jockeying for position in my bed.

My husband did the sensible thing, and got up to make coffee. I stayed in bed, dodging the knees and elbows of three gangly kids, wishing for a magic cloud of sleeping dust to appear overhead. After feigning sleep for another few minutes, I tried shooing the kids out of my room.

"Hey! Everybody out! Go on now! This is a sleeping place!"

No dice. My son gave me a baleful glance and said "Wah wah wah I can't hee-uh you." Elmer Fudd the smart-aleck. The kids wrestled like puppies, giggling and occasionally yelping.

If I couldn't get them to stop, I figured I'd leave them to it. I slipped out from under the warmth of my blankets and shuffled out to the kitchen for my own cup of coffee. The kids trailed behind, peppering my back with a hail of questions. We made quite a ragtag parade, me in my shlumpy sweats, my oldest already bedecked in extra scarves and jewelry over her pajamas, my son muttering random dinosaur facts, clad in only his pajama top and a pair of underpants, and my youngest, hair like a lion's mane, chirping "Yay! Mommy! Yay! You got up!"

Yay. Yay, indeed.

While the kids twittered around the house, tra la la la la-ing about the joy of being awake early on a Saturday morning, I sat glaring into my mug, longing for a few more hours of sleep. I slapped my cup down on the counter and stalked back to my bed. I threw my body back down, pulled the covers up to my chin, and laid very still, eyes squinted shut. Hah! I was a parody of my children at bedtime.

Opening one eye, I looked over at the clock. 5:35 am. Oy. I snapped my eyelid closed, and willed my brain to relax. Muffled outside my bedroom, I could hear the kids engaged in some sort of drama. Unable to relax, I stood back up, marched back to the kitchen in a major snit. I grabbed at my coffee cup and sloshed the lukewarm brew down the front of my sweatshirt.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I stomped across the kitchen to let the dog out. As the door slid open, the cold morning air slapped me in the face, causing me to inhale sharply. My lungs burned from the temperature difference, but my brain cleared. My foul mood evaporated as I noticed the first light creeping over my back fence, turning the dew on my deck to a silvery sheen. The dog slipped past my legs into the warmth of the kitchen, but I stood there, dragon-breath billowing into the still-dark yard.

In the next room, I could hear my children. Their voices fell to stage whispers, and rose to shouts as they acted out a story about a Queen, an Animal Researcher and a Baby Jaguar. I continued to gulp lungfuls of bracing air, feeling the tension leaving my body. I slid the door closed, and felt a small hand on my back.

"Mommy? Whatcha doing?" My three year old beamed up at me from behind her unruly hair.

"I'm breathing, baby." She thrust her arms up at me, and I settled her on my hip. We stood together, our foreheads resting on the cool glass of the sliding door.

"Mommy?" She whispered near my cheek. "I breathing, too."

"Do you see that the sun is almost awake?" I turned my body so that her chubby face pointed in the direction of the sunrise.

"Up came the sun and dried up all the rain..." she sang to me.

She read my mind.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 9:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (40) | TrackBacks (0)

I forgot to wear my sash and tiara, but believe me when I say that I went forth and represented Mothers Everywhere like a true ambassador.

First, I picked up my oldest at kindergarten. I had showered and primped to moderate cuteness. Both the little'uns are sick, but I dressed them in *gasp* coordinated outfits and made sure they were shiny, adorable Representative Children of An Exceptional Mother. Like, they even had shoes on for a change.

The occasion? We were heading to Target. Wahoo! I had to buy some plastic containers so I could pack away more of the toys in the garage.

You know, I used to read about the Puritans, and felt so, so sad for those children. It used to rend my heart to hear about how they passed their entire childhoods with a single doll, or a toy carved from a solid block of wood by a skilled relative. How unstimulating. How tragic. How...wait a minute! How brilliant! How happy I would be to never pick up another Lego disaster area! I can keep these kids busy embroidering and making candles. Yes! Take THAT, Leapfrog. Oh, wait. I don't know how to do either of those things. Hmm. Arming my children with sharp instruments and hot wax sounds like a mutiny waiting to happen. Forget I even mentioned this.

Back to the Target trip. So, we pick up the big girl, and off we go! Kids are fed and rested. I'm looking cute. We arrive, and disembark from the van with delighted exclamations. Whee! Target! I fetch a cart, and all three children clamber aboard. The baby in the front seat, the two big kids in the basket. And we're off!

As I lean down to stow my purse on the bottom, I notice I have two long, green trails of snot down one pants leg. A baby wipe is furiously applied, and now I have a giant wet spot and white lint balls, but no snot. I adjust my head to a regal tilt, and march through the double doors towards Rubbermaid Mecca.

"Mommy, can I get a Pretty Pony?"

"No, we're not here for toys, honey. La la la!"

"Mommy, can I get..."

"No toys, sweetiepie. La la la."

"Mooooom! I want..."

"Nope nope nope. La-di-la-di-laaaaaa!"

I was kind of like Dr. Evil meets Snow White. I was creeping myself out. "Zip it! Tralalalalala!"

I need some serious containers. Although I flirted with the idea of putting both big kids out of the cart, they were both "so tiiiii-yerd" that I had to get creative. Why my creativity didn't extend to fetching one of the multi-child carts of ginormous proportions I do not remember.

Four nested containers would fit on the bottom of the cart. I needed four more. I made both big kids stand in the cart, stood four nested containers on their end and wedged them into the narrow side of the basket. Both my cracker-assed kids could wedge into the container, with their feet extended out under the baby's seat in the front. It was like a canopy. They were well pleased. A stack of lids was wedged upright behind the baby's seat, and we headed for the register.

There was much giggling and wiggling. The youngest took it upon herself to greet each and every person we passed. "Hey-yo! Hey-yo!" She had already ripped her ponytail elastic out, leaving her hair standing out in wild waves like a lion's main. A green snot bubble was expelled and noticed after it had begun to be wiped on a pudgy arm. The two in the basket were saying "Mommy, if we're bad, do we have to stay in this box?" and "Mommy, why are you going to take away all our toys?"

In the aisle next to us stood a darling pregnant woman and her obviously delighted husband. They cooed to her belly, and had a cart full of baby goodies. As we passed out of the aisle on our way out of the store, our carts were neck and neck. My children were making fart noises on the side of the plastic containers. Their faces went from content to alarm in a hilarious few seconds that I wish I had a camera to capture.

As we reached our respective vehicles, I said, "Congratulations!" and the Mom gave me a smile and wave, and then hurried into her car.

She'll remember me in a few years, and laugh.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on October 13, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been manic the last couple of days - and my kids are starting to lose patience with my sorry self. I've told them "No. Not now. Mommy's busy. I can't. I don't. Later. Wait."

I know I've been expecting a lot, and giving the bare minimum. I have a lot of catch up work to do, and while I sit in front of the computer trying to deliver some of the work I've promised to other people, my children have been repeatedly pushed away. Chubby hands reach for the mouse in frustration, and I have found myself snarling at the owner of those delicious dimples "don't touch."

My youngest is going through a big indentifying phase. Everything gets a label, and she usually prefaces the label with "My." My shoes. My toy. My house.

She managed to clamber up into my lap while I tried in vain to continue typing. She sucked her thumb and rested her cheek against my chest as I tried to work around her. After a minute or two of that, I began to gather her up into my arms so that I could once again find another place to put her, away from my working zone.

She grabbed both my ears in her tiny talons and put her nose to my nose and said "My. Mommy." I couldn't help it. I just started to cry. I don't know how work (on jobs other than parenting and housekeeping) at home parents do it. I settled myself on the couch with my baby clinging to me, with a ferociousness that let me know I've put her down and walked away one too many times in the last couple of days.

We sat there, just leaning on each other, breathing in tandem. My son approached, and quietly sat next to me and pulled my arm around his shoulders. He melted into my side and we just sat quietly together. Both kids gave me gentle, almost subconcious kisses on my arms, my shoulders, whatever they could reach. It was a benediction, full of the promise of forgiveness for the lack of care I sometimes take with the precious gifts I have been given.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on January 11, 2005

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

My darling girl,

Tomorrow is your sixth birthday, as you are well aware. You have been counting down the days for a year, imagining the New and Wonderful Things that your sixth year will bring.

As for me, I can't say I'm as thrilled. I mean, I am excited, but wistful in a way that is all too familiar over these last few years.

From the moment I knew you were on your way into this world, I was consumed with that precious knowledge. I held my banner high, letting the world know that I was ready to be a mother. I spent impatient months waiting to 'show' - jealous of other moms-to-be whose glorious round bellies collided with displays of baby paraphenalia at Target.

With my characteristic bravado, I assumed that I already had all the tools and faculties to birth and raise a child. I read a few books, took a birth class (which was more for the hubs, frankly) but overall, I was brimming with confidence. Instead of pouring over books on babies, I spent my time shopping for baby gear.

Oh yes. The SHOPPING. We had every gadget and bauble that I could lay hands on. My husband shook his head as every corner of our apartment took on the appearance of a display aisle at Babies R Us. Months before your birth, we had enough clothes stockpiled to dress you in a different outfit every day of your first three years.

At my 40 week checkup, the day before your due date, I bent to tie my shoes after the doctor left the exam room and felt my membranes rupture. I decided not to tell Daddy just yet, and we returned home. Within an hour, I was contracting away, and several hours later, we headed to the hospital.

When you were born in the wee hours of the next morning, it was a magical moment in time. As the exhaustion gave way to elation, I was confident and proud. In other words, I was a delusional rookie.

You received the dubious benefit of my overzealous parenting. Before your brother and sister came along, I turned my mother high-beams on you, and documented every wiggle, every sigh. It was very important to me that I have a ready, understandable reason for everything that happened. If you cried, I wanted an explanation, and I wanted to share it with the world, to prove that I had mothering chops.

Along the way, you taught me that although we may be housemates, we were destined to butt heads. You are adventurous, creative, determined and sensitive. Your laugh never fails to make my toes curl, and your 'angry' face is the best I've ever seen. When you cry those giant crocodile tears and I can hear the hurt radiating from your very core, I open my arms and you crawl up into my lap and rest your firm, wet cheek against mine. Somehow, that makes it better, and honestly, it's as close to holy as I can imagine, feeling the energy change as your tears dry and your breathing slows. I'm not worthy of the power you give me.

Your face is more familiar than my own. You are my own flesh and blood, and yet you are surprising and wonderous. When you sleep with your butt in the air, knees curled underneath your body and arms thrown overhead in an exaggerated Child's Pose, I can glimpse the tiny baby I brought home six years ago. When you give me that look, the one that so often is accompanied by "Mo-om!" I can see the baby on the changing table who was so sure that all the other babies got the smart parents, and she alone was sent home with the half-wits.

You, more than anything else, have made me, well, ME. I used to credit my strengths and blame my weaknesses on my years as a stubborn child, my experiences as a young woman, my travels, my loving and traumatic relationships. Being your mother has brought me to my knees in thanks and in shame. I have been humbled like never before and have been filled with an exhiliration so great I wanted to shout my joy in giant swooping phrases, maybe while twirling a baton. Ooh! Or one of those rhythmic gymnastic ribbons. Yes, tumbling about shouting with one in each hand.

Over these six years, I discovered a raw heart beating inside my armadillo-like exterior. Mothering makes me FEEL in a very physical way. I used to pride myself on being able to detach emotionally, on letting the little indignities roll off my back. Now I well up and spill over at parades. And fireworks. And while talking about you. I'm so very proud of you.

I will always hold the baby-you close to my heart. My eyes seek her out, finding her at unexpected times as you continue to amaze me with all the growing and learning and challenging and adventuring you do. You've got a zest for life, a spring in your step and a song in your heart. You have always had it, and I feel charged to protect and nurture that spark. Except at certain times, like waiting in line and at formal dinners. Then you can tone it down a bit.

With every passing year, I find myself saying "This is my favorite age!" and it's true. I just keep loving you more. Happiness and health to you, my darling girl. All my love.

originally published on Three Kid Circus March 24, 2005

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)