How do you really want to spend your time? Do you want to be angry and walking with clenched fists and a chip? Do you want to be living in fear of what’s to come and resentment of what has already passed? Or maybe, just maybe do you want to try and apply some measure of wisdom from things like the Purpose Fairy and begin to reclaim your moments? Sunday Sean, the girls and I did a little reclaiming. We’d spent an ambitious Saturday working out, visiting the market and exploring the lake and islands. Sunday morning we didn’t go to the school to do the Fun Run. We didn’t dash to the lake. We didn’t do project after project.

We hooked up a sprinkler.

We had a tea party.

We rolled around on the grass with our dog.

We napped.

We made dinner together.

We danced.

We talked.

We remembered.

We dreamed.

We forgave.

We let go.

And then we found ourselves with more space in our arms to embrace all that it is we have.

Choices. Love. Friendship. Family. Support.

Sweet, precious time.

How are you spending yours?

Never quite in step.

Last night, after a flurry of cookie baking so that Avery would have cookies to take to school today, her 6th birthday, I was heading up to bed. I walked quietly upstairs with no intention other than to kiss the brow of each daughter. Ave’s room is at the top of the stairs, so I slipped in there first. I scanned the bed for her form, lately she has been a dark-tressed tangle of limbs and eyelashes. That coltish thing that happens in the instant you realize that the little girl fullness has somehow melted away is everywhere. Her eyes have come to the fore and whether they are filling with tears, flashing with anger, or sparkling with laughter, they bore into me.

I perched on the side of her bed looking at the way her dark lashes curl away from her ivory skin. The unexpected enormity of this next birthday hit me. Six. She is reading without a hitch, throwing a softball, and pulling the garbage cans up our long driveway. She is pushing back and demanding her way, all the while demonstrating an extraordinary capacity to empathize. Then there are the quirks—she wears her headbands in a way that pushes her hair up in huge bubble, no matter how I adjust it, back it goes. I used to twitch, until it settled over me that it simply feels right to her. Her favorite pair of shoes are dark brown, faux leather, fleece lined boots with gold laces and zippers up the back. They are, in a word, hideous. She picked them out herself and has literally worn them into the ground. When I pick her up at school I watch the feet, so many little feet, saltwater sandals, patent leather wedges, neon Mary Janes, pink tennis shoes, she parts the predictable sea with her scuffed, misshapen brown boots. I crack up every time.

Today, likely sporting her boots, she’ll take a basket of blue and yellow sprinkle covered moustache cookies into school. Tonight we’ll celebrate her birthday in a restaurant/brewery. Rather than a traditional party, the five of us will play hookey on Thursday in order to go and see a matinee of the theatrical production of Beaty & the Beast at Proctors Theatre. There is a part of me feeling guilty that she won’t have the traditional party at the germ-ridden, but beloved-by-children place that so many classmates hold their parties. I suspect that in the birthdays to come, we’ll move closer to what the other kids do, but on this birthday, with her quirky brown boots still her shoe of choice in 80 degree weather, I am grateful for what we have.

Still cuddly.

Undeniably herself.

Gently rebellious.

Eminently capable.

Happy birthday VaVa.

]]> http://amandamagee.com/2012/05/boots-of-a-different-color/feed/ 4 http://amandamagee.com/2012/05/go-get-your-tap-shoes/ http://amandamagee.com/2012/05/go-get-your-tap-shoes/#comments Thu, 10 May 2012 15:21:27 +0000 amandamagee http://amandamagee.com/?p=3399 We were standing in the kitchen with the girls running laps and shrieking at the top of their lungs, the dog in hot pursuit, when I realized that if dinner wasn’t done in 30 minutes, the catastrophic domino effect would begin—bedtime would be so late that it would box out story time, which would squelch the chance of making lunches ahead of time unless I pushed my own bedtime later. Then just as I burned my hand on the edge of the burner another request came in. I couldn’t understand it so much as I felt it pelting against me as she repeated it. It was with a strident note in my voice that I spat that I had to make dinner.

Murphy’s Law Parental edition states that it is in this moment, that someone gets thirsty, someone gets hurt, someone has to pee and “THERE’S NO TOILET PAPER!” and the dog grabs a precious something or other and trots past the bathroom smugly as a dripping heiny fidgets indignantly. Nothing you can do about it.

I tried to bite back the tears until after bedtime.

Sean said to Avery, “Honey, go grab your tap shoes.”

She looked at him quizzically, “Tap shoes?”

He smiled, “Yes, tap shoes, so you can tap on mommy’s last nerve.” I didn’t think I was wearing it quite so plainly, I felt immediately and entirely naked.

Did what he said to Avery hurt her? Did she think I was mad? How would I fix it? I looked toward her with physical pain.

She was laughing. She literally skipped off giggling, “Tap shoes,” snort, “Daddy!” I shook my head and dropped the panic and overwhelming sense of failure. Of course, any parent worth their salt knows that on a night like this, with dinner yet to be made and kids already fussing, the cloak comes back like a face-diving black fly. After dinner, Sean headed back into work and I began bath time. It was complicated, Finley wanted alone time in the bath, Avery wanted a shower and Briar wanted to not be alone. We worked it out, but it involved 7 or 8 trips up and down the stairs, a complete soaking of my pants and resigning myself to the fact that no one would be in bed before 9pm. Resentment and failure swirled, I tried to keep it out of my voice.

I tucked each girl in, performing the distinct ministrations required by each to sleep, and immediately upon reaching the foot of the stairs, fielded the first of many requests for “just one more thing.” Eventually they tired and drifted off to sleep. I tidied up the kitchen, contemplated dealing with the lunches or folding the laundry or finishing the writing projects I had. I did none of them. I sat for a long while just listening to the wind.

I replayed moments in the day and tallied the things I accomplished and the things that I hadn’t. I waited for the sediment of the day to stop feeling like a massive rock in my gut, I leaned back into the couch. I heard a cry. I waited, when another came I dashed upstairs. Finley was the foot of her bed, crouched and confused, her tear stained face locked on my own. “Are you ok, honey? What happened?” I climbed into her bed and took her in my arms.

She was inconsolable and completely disoriented. I shushed and murmured with my lips pressed against the skin beside her ear. Her body started to relax and we burrowed into the covers and each other. My eyes were scratchy and my body was completely ready for the day to end. She stirred and I pressed my cheek against the crown of her head. Her hair was a soft tangle of still-damp, lavender scented ringlets. I cuddled up against my last baby, the vestiges of a bath done exactly as she’d hoped and a nightmare removed, and the quiet of her sisters sleeping. It might have been with whisper thin margins, but there in the soft glow of the nightlight, I held a shimmering wisp of that elusive finish line.

Watching the girls now, I wonder what their secret scars might be. What are the things that they roll around in their minds, or absentmindedly trace fingers along as they sit alone. Does Briar turn her back in the mirror and look at the constellation of three freckles that dance from arm, to torso to underarm when she stands just so? Or does she see something else, is it the way one finger tilts inward? Does Avery tense her legs and watch the way her musculature flexes, snapping to attention and burning with a strength that has always belied her age? And Fin, does she ponder how with just the wrinkle of her nose or tilt of her head she can play each one of us?

These past months I’ve been growing increasingly aware of the shift in what we share. The echoes of my own childhood, whether I listen to them with the sentimental ears of an adult child or the yearning-for-knowledge searching of a mom on ever more unfamiliar terrain, I recognize they are my own. Clues about how I was parented or how I interpreted things as a kid—they are a part of where I come from and an important part of who I am, but they are not my daughters’ childhood.

If I listen, really listen, my girls don’t want what I had, they aren’t licking the wounds of what may have hurt me, they just want me. They will not point out the things that they wonder about in private, that is theirs, and for it to be truly theirs, I have to allow that everything about them is not mine to discover.

My scar today, as faint as it was then, still soft to my fingers and still completely without concrete explanation. It is a precious, potent memory of my mind then. It speaks to me of imagination and confidence. Looking up from my scar I think about my life with these amazing girls and I allow my imagination run with the whispers they will hear so many years from now as they think back to when they were little girls.

*This post was written in response to Momalom’s Five for Five topic: Listening.

There were plenty of days (weeks and months actually) when no one came. I kept writing. Then people did come and one person in particular, at first I knew her as Flutter. She would leave tender sighs and sweet murmurs about the life I was chronicling. Then, as time passed, she would talk about the girls by name, recalling traits of theirs and, in a way, creating a family-like sense of familiarity with Sean and my girls. It was one of my early blogging friendships, and I treasure it. Treasure her.

Flutter, as many of you know, is Christine. Passionate, bitingly sarcastic, wickedly funny and brutally honest. I remember clicking over to her blog and reading her stories, so different from my own. Often times she would write about the past or about a future she hoped to reach. I always seemed to comment with something related to flight, thinking of her moniker, delicate though it was, in terms of strength and possibility.

When I met her face to face I remember thinking that she was the kind of woman who swishes. Stop rolling your eyes Christine, I get to think of you what I will. Her eyes were so wide, and her lashes curled out at the sides as her perfectly painted lips cracked in a wide smile and then her strong voice came out. She gently pushed her hair over her shoulder and the hem of her dress swirled as we walked across the large room. I felt at once protected and emboldened. Also a little intimidated. She was so much more in person that I expected and yet exactly, perfectly Flutter.

Over time her comments on my blog(s) and her posts on her own shifted. Sorrow, fear and anger began to give way to humor and love. She had talked about Clay before, but usually it was in a way to suggest that he supported her. When the beams of comedy came through, I got to know couple of smart asses goofing off and genuinely reveling in each other. It felt so good thinking of Christine in this light-filled life, laughter bouncing off the walls, eventually a sweet hound careening through the house.

Now the day is fast approaching when Christine and Clay will marry. I have no doubt that there will be laughter and tears, golden hues and midnight tones. I won’t be there to tear up as she walks toward him, but I will be here wishing them both the deepest, most contented sighs as they meet their first dawn as a married couple.

Love to you both.

See more love here.

Pausing briefly to allow certain snarky friends to mutter, “It’s you, not the cameras.”

Anyway, I love Instagram because I (almost) always have my phone. I can snap pictures and despite poor lighting, clumsy composition or general carelessness, I can usually snap something that with a wee bit of filter love can become something that reaches inside of me and reignites a moment.

I can feel the coolness of the slide as I lean in to take her photo;
feel the wind behind me and hear her squeals.

I can hear the sound of Cabin 3 playing and feel the heavily lacquered table
beneath me as I feel the warmth from her beaming face at doing a grown up thing
and enjoying chocolate milk past bedtime, and those early potent hints
of little girl slipping away to reveal who she’ll become.

Removing the color strips the memory down to snow and smiles,
the burning in my legs from run after run down the sledding hill
and the relief of having said yes.

I love knowing that revelations I’ve had about the strength that lies beneath pig tails
and missing teeth will stay with me in little wisps of now that are preserved.

Yesterday I took a picture as I raced to make a conference call to a cross country client. I was worried, doubting my preparation and embarrassed and frustrated not to have child care in place. I was setting Finley up with an activity, she till had the satisfaction of a trip to the library and reading stories from our perch on a sun drenched love seat. There is no guilt or longing, it was a moment that embodies the challenge I face every day in playing the roles of mom and business owner. Outside the frame there is chaos, but in the frame and all that matters to me, there is a beautiful, happy, healthy little girl in an environment that I know she’ll remember fondly.

Thank you Instagram, for helping me filter and sort the beauty and mayhem of my life
into a moments I can shuffle and revisit with the gentle swipe of a finger.

We believe in the history that still rings in the architecture in Glens Falls, we believe in the future that shines from the kids scampering up the library stairs, we believe in giving back, putting in and doing everything we can to create even more to love. I share these old links as a way of personifying what we are doing. Losing a grandparent, gaining a friend, taking a stand, it’s all part and parcel of building a life and loving a place.

I hope you love where you live and anytime you want, I invite you to experience where I live and all the things that are becoming a backdrop for the stories I tell.

Love is working at seeing eye to eye.

Love is taking the time to surprise.

Love is getting tangled up in each other.

Love is remembering to touch.

Love is knowing and adoring every part of a person.

Love is weathering what may come.

Love is sharing.

Love is fostering hope.

Love is telling the truth.

Love is confidence.

Love is diving in.

Love is working hard at a kiss.

Types of kisses with Finley(video)

Love is…

I was wrong.

As is almost always the case when I leap to conclusions about how something in parenting is going to be, Finley proved me completely wrong. Since the first time she donned pjs instead of a nightgown she has insisted on buttoning the shirt herself. These little girl pajamas do not come with buttons made for little fingers. Tiny, fragile and often to too small to stay fastened within the button holes, the buttons wiggle out from between her pink little digits. So often I’ve waited, expecting frustration and defeat.

Instead she pops her little face up, the sheen of bath time still present, and she says, “I can do it.” Her tone is calming, reassuring and matter-of-fact. I sit back and watch, beyond impressed that she has chosen this thing to do herself and grateful that I haven’t steamrolled past her willingness to keep going and just done it myself. The buttons don’t all come easy, sometimes she realizes that she has gotten off course and that the top is gaping, other times she decides she’d like to start at the top and not the bottom. Her ability to reset and begin anew with undiluted focus and optimism can make my cheeks burn.

How many times a day do I puff up my cheeks and expel a massive whoosh of disappointed, annoyed breath? How often do I let the naysaying in my own mind prevent me from conquering that which only seems impossible? Lately I’ve taken to using this buttoning time to reflect on how much I can do if I just harness a little bit of Fin’s attitude of “I can’t not do this.” I think that as I store memories of her like this, I’d like to try and offer her a few of her own where she sees me smiling and working through until I get it right.

I’ve always been a dreamer, prone to joy or weeping depending upon my mood. The other day a mist was sitting low all over town. It kept pulling my attention until finally I gave into it and pulled over. Where I stopped was right next to the office I went for my prenatal visits with Briar, now converted to an office of some sort. My eyes misted as I traveled back to those weeks and months anticipating becoming a mom.

I find myself suspended between then and one day a lot lately. I don’t discourage these flights of imagination, but I am understanding as I experience more and more loss, that it is in this space with mist on either side that I must make my way. The present, steeped in anticipation and hope and dusted with just enough regret to keep me honest, is my place.

It’s strange feeling tethered just out of reach of dreaming, but then I am reminded how quickly now becomes before—how close sorrow and bliss truly are. Today, as we pause to give thanks, I am embracing each of my worlds and revering the short time between hope and memory.

Peace to you and yours.