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.

Avery falls asleep first each night, her dark hair swims around her, while her body stays in the position it was when she first drifted off to sleep. When I lean in to kiss her she is still, but as I push up from the bed she always turns into her pillow and murmurs, “I love you mama.” I tap the feet of the fairy that hangs in the window and whisper, “Thank you for watching my girls.”

This space is magic, steeped in the wonder of little girlness, with pieces of memories; from sparkles to skipping stones, that are handled with reverence and purpose in unpredictable cycles. For me they wink with accomplishment—a walk we took, a headband we gussied up at the dining room table with hot glue and jewels, a keepsake of mine that made it across the country and through the years to be tended to by three doting girls. Remnants of a younger me come to nestle on my shoulder as I sway between them.

Near Finley I smile, as I kneel her face turns toward me and her lips meet mine and her arms slip around me, it is her default position and it undoes me. Tendrils of her hair brush against my skin and the still-baby-soft plushness of her cheeks presses on my face, filling the hollow contours of my face and everything but the intoxication of holding my last baby flutters away.

Briar sleeps the thickest, her pale skin glows and strands of sandy blonde hair and dark lashes cast shadows. It’s in these moments, when the rivalry of being the oldest, not being the baby and her needing to lead are quieted, that our relationship pierces me. The echoes of my own personality that resonate in her sometimes make us clash.

“Don’t worry so much.”

“B, don’t try so hard.”

“Be still, my love, you are enough.”

The soft dawn light seeps through the shutters and as the last vestiges of sleep cling to my senses, she is the only one, before sisters and before knowing how excruciating it is to tend to school yard hurts or acknowledge that I can’t do it all. We hover in first-born infatuation, all buoyed with promise and bliss.

I trace her lips with my finger, I can hear the husky sound of her voice, the inimitable lilt and the way she would use her whole body to say things. I lower my head to tickle her brow with a butterfly kiss, knowing that she won’t wake up. She turns away and I watch, trying not to mourn the absence of puffy cheeks and dimpled, chunky thighs. This turning away will grow, our clashing will build, it is a part of the choreography of our destiny, awkward though I’m sure I’ll make it. I find a measure of grace in knowing that I can tiptoe through to this place, my eyes slow with sleep, and my baby still at hand.

Tears threaten and she turns, rosy lips purse, bangs flutter and then, “Morning mama. I felt you loving me.”

And we smile.

Pocket fulls of sunlight and a heart of gratitude.

I slid into the seat next to her and smiled as she said, “Well, you begin with the a circle, but wait, there isn’t just one circle, there are two.” Her little hands worked together, one holding the paper steady, the other deliberately holding the pencil as it scratched and slid over the heavy, white stock. “Then the circle gets confused and gets long and sideways.” I stifled a gasp as the Mo Willems’ Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus pigeon came to life on the page.

“Ave, honey that is exactly the pigeon from the book!” Her sisters scampered over to look. Briar, the unimpressable, older sister did an Oscar worthy double take and clapped her sister on the shoulder. “That is!” while Finley prattled on about the bossiness and funny ways of the pigeon in the book. After the first pigeon came another and then another. She drew them in varying sizes and eventually began altering their stance ever so slightly.

I sat rapt, nearly unable to comprehend that Avery was using her hand and memory to create this image. Someone had, without my knowledge, given Avery tools I didn’t have. She shared them with me with such casualness, I struggled not to change the tone of what was happening, but then I realized it wasn’t happening to her. This was my milestone. The shape of a time when my daughters will manifest entirely new things, more permanent than a sweet turn of phrase, rose before me. The pigeon was a dissertation; a travel itinerary for places I’ve never been. Yesterday afternoon as I sat in the waning afternoon light watching my child, my axis tipped and I went from imagining she could do anything, to realizing she already has.

This year though, this year I ache to start a new season. I’ve made peace with the spirits I will lay to rest so that they may decompose and find new life in the spring. Some are hopes, others are hurts. I feel the tide pulling them toward a different place and in doing so they liberate my heart. Understanding myself and my family in this deeper sense allows me to see our weaknesses, but more than that I see our strengths. Perhaps the one I feel the most keenly is accepting what is real.

The things I’ve chased, from wanting to make it all work to getting to the other side of something have been futile. This new season I crane my being towards is living in the understanding that it’s this moment. It’s the beautiful halo of sunshine around Finley, ignoring the dust, seeing past the crusted cream cheese behind her ear. It’s laughing at the toothpaste that has found its way to the toilet seat, doorknob and back pocket of my jeans. It’s swatting Sean’s hands from my chest in the kitchen and then melting into post-bedtime embrace that takes me back to our earliest days. It’s dropping the rake and planting a wet kiss on Sean and having him pull leaves from my hair as he looks at me with tender eyes.

There isn’t a perfect time, there isn’t a mess-free way and then there it is:

The perfect is in the mess.

Don’t fear the snow or letting go, dive headfirst into right now and all its dusty, brilliant glory.

Home sick

It floats down from their room often; the voice behind it is always Briar’s. It’s never Avery, for her sleep comes like breathing. Sometimes Finley chimes in that she can’t sleep either, but she doesn’t mean it. Finley chooses not to sleep. She squeezes a bit more out of the day and then sleeps. Our Briar, though, she really can’t sleep. The nightly ministrations of lotion and brow stroking, storytelling and singing only deflect from the eventual struggle to sleep.

Last night when she called, “Mom and Dad, I just can’t sleep,” we looked at each other and knew. It was 9:05, they’d been in bed for an hour and half.

“Come here, Briar,” Sean called.

“What?” she asked.

“Come down here, Briar.”

We heard a sigh and then some shuffling. We waited thinking that Finley might wake up, but the house was silent but for the soft thump of Briar’s feet on the stairs. She slowed before coming around the corner. First a toe, then a knobby knee atop a tight, muscular calf with a pink tie-dyed nightgown swishing softly came into the room. Her face was soft, sleepy, but eyes incredibly alert. I know how she feels, her whole body ready to sleep but her mind unable to be quieted.

“Come over here,” I said. She was on the couch in an instant. She looked back and forth between us; Sean and I smiled at each other through her. I leaned into her, put my face in her hair and whispered, ‘I love you, B.” She took my hand in hers and beamed. Sean scooted over next to us and we leaned into the couch as the X Factor came on. She asked what the show was and we explained the premise to her. She watched, rapt, commenting on their clothes and voices.

Sitting there just the three of us, I remembered the year we had with just Briar in our first house. The wonder and enormity of it all came back in a rush, I traced my finger down her arm, so different, but still reminiscent of the baby she was. Her profile is so delicate, as perfect and impossible to believe as in those first hours I held her to my chest. The new shoots of young person that are appearing with each day can be traced back in the stillness of post-bedtime conversations. It is as if the absence of the rigors of our day-to-day routine unlocks in each of us a simplicity of being. I remember the early days of parenting being less about mom/dad/child ties than they were about all-consuming love.

We sat there, just the three of us, eating peanuts and watching a glitzy, boisterous reality show for an hour. Our hands brushed against one another as we scooped from the bowl, and our bodies pressed into one another. There was no tension, no worry and absolutely no bubbling-over-with need. As the credits rolled Briar’s eyes were droopy and her slim shoulders were slack, she happily rode in my arms and drifted off to sleep even as I lay her head upon the pillow. I kissed her still downy brow and we were as we started. This morning arrived with a new calm, sisters playing quietly, less roles clashing and more love softening the edges of the day.

I hope as you go into the weekend, you let a rule or two slip and discover that in letting down your guard you let in something incredibly beautiful.

I woke to the hissing that is little girls attempting to whisper. “Here, right heeeer. Psst, Ave, like this you can do it.” Followed by rustling, clanging and thundering tiptoes. “Briar? Here, for youuuuuuuu. A shirt!” I tried to roll over and sleep it away, but a quick bit of arithmetic prompted me to lurch from bed so that I could deal with two, rather than try to sleep away three.

I wrangled on some clothes as the cool air had snuck through the upstairs and made my tank top laughable as cover. Before I’d set foot in the hallway they were upon me. They coiled around my, legs and torso all hands and breathless declarations and questions.

“I’m wearing this shirt, but can I have another under it in case I get hot?”

“I want my hair a certain way. Your way mom, will you do it your way please. Oh, please?!”

“Do you know where the flashlight is, I want to find a headband.”

“I am taking this and this in my backpack. Do teachers like ribbons or do you think they like snacks?”

By the time I got downstairs and put on the water for coffee, I was inspired, if not completely in synch with the emotional enormity the day would bring. “You girls want pancakes?” They chirped, I beamed, and whole wheat pancakes and eggs were had by all. Then it was on to packing the backpacks and lunches, choosing shoes for the puddley weather and prepping to leave.

The bus stop was sweet and without drama. Avery has been ready for this day for a while now, Briar showed no bossiness and so it was that they hopped about in similar jean jackets and cooed at Fin as they waited for the bus. Watching that big yellow thing pull away, our girls sitting endless rows apart, I felt none of the relief I’d begun to anticipate after a long summer, nor did I feel achey tugs at my heart…those came ten minutes later.

We raced to the bus, like sentimental storm chasers, Sean’s words from last year echoed in my head, and I kept my sudden tears at bay. The cacophony of new starts overwhelmed me. Not the noise, not the energy, it was the unmistakable crank of a wheel I know will build a momentum for which I have no gauge. This ascent is meteoric and hard earned. Avery came down off the bus, beamed, and then came to me for a hug, but I knew in my core it was done for me, so for her I giggled and cheered her on. Briar’s high five and wink shooed away the urge to sob, and Fin’s demands for attention brought me back to now.

A second grader and a kindergartener.

And a mere 4 hours later, a bike rider.

“Mom, can we ride bikes? I mean, my real bike without the training wheels?” I admit, I didn’t want to. It’s tedious, she struggles, Finley gets needy, my back screams. I started to say that we would in a while, but something about it rubbed me wrong and I said, “Ok, let’s go.” Her eyes bugged out, she started to ask if I was serious and thought better of it. She was downstairs with shoes and a helmet on in 2 minutes. Five minutes later I let go.

I realized as I stood in the street watching her make increasingly tight turns and pedaling more purposefully and elegantly, that the game had changed.

Riding a Two Wheeler (Video*)

She is on her way and the best I can do is sprint beside her and dare to dive into the new things that call to her to explore. I did not count the days to this milestone, but as I put this day to bed, I understand that as our children grow our musings about their lives tend to move beyond what’s in sight.

I need to slow down my imagination and strengthen my let’s go. Because by saying yes to bike riding, I found us side-by-side in a living, breathing milestone.

*Video taken, iPhone in mouth, then hand, panting created naturally via sprinting alongside the newly minted biker in muggy air.

I remember poring over photo albums and sifting through boxes of photos as a kid. We have a few albums along with the annual iPhoto albums Sean creates each Christmas now, but our history lives mostly on our phones, laptops and my blog. The girls will often ask to look at the pictures. I usually relinquish my phone or computer and then slip away to fold a hamper of laundry. The other day I let myself get lost in the images—frame after frame stared back at me with wide, blue eyes, towering evergreens and expansive Adirondack skies.

The pictures sit unedited, there are bad hair day pictures, pasty-face pictures and plenty of, “Really, you had to take the picture at that angle?” shots. The thing is, there isn’t a single image that made me feel regret. I didn’t shake my head and wished I’d done more. I marveled at the things we’ve done together, the full-bodied history of living done with play and love.

I can see school just around the corner. I find myself nesting, trying to prepare for the slickers and boots that will need hanging and stowing, the space we’ll need for projects. It’s something I do each year with increasing agility, but this year there is something new, a layer that hasn’t existed before. I’ve been trying to put my finger on it and this morning it came to me.

I had crept down the hallway to look at the girls. After a summer’s worth of, “Please mom, can we sleep together?” I’d relented and disassembled three rooms to make one suite. They watched me work, growing quiet when I’d curse at a too-narrow doorway or whimper as a board slammed my bare foot. I gave them assignments to tidy this or organize that. After we were done they played for hours, together. They slept late in the sun-drenched coziness of sister-company.

The emotion I was feeling was calm. We understand what we need and we find comfort in each other. We are living a life that echoes I love you in each frame.

*

This post was inspired by a beautiful essay Alli Worthington wrote on the messiness of life. I am grateful for the prompt to see things through this light.

The other night I was retrieving snack bowls and sippy cups from the bench beneath an olive tree in our backyard. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a box, not just any box, one of my Birchbox boxes. My mom had gifted me with a subscription after I heard about them through Cool Mom Picks.

The boxes have brought such delight.

The girls gather.

They croon with rapture.

LoveBirchBoxinthesummer (tiny movie)

And then? Then they break my heart and prove my point.

The box.

Behind the box.

The explanation?

Me: Hey Bri, what’s with the Birchbox in the backyard?

Bri: Oh, that’s our faerie catcher. They love jewels.

Me: And tomatoes?

Bri: We want them to eat healthy too!

We enjoyed a week of “take-out” coffee, but this morning as Sean tried to deliver coffee in bed, he was hampered by the fact that I’d moved the lighters and that when he decided to deliver the coffee cake sans lit candle, Briar balked.

“Dad, no! We need the candle to be lighted! And my card, my card! My card isn’t done yet!” she shrieked with an alarmingly panicked tone.

“Briar, come on. It’s fine.” Sean said as he made his way up the stairs.

She was gasping and sputtering in a way I know in my core. Flashback 30 years and I was upset over missing something, of having it go down in a way that wasn’t just-right. It was unnecessary and dramatic, but it was real. That’s the thing about emotions, to people on the outside they may seem spectacular or even absurd, but inside you in that moment, they are debilitatingly real.

I shooed away the fog and shushed everyone. “It’s perfect, I love it. I think the lighters are by the candles in the tall cabinet. Go, I don’t even have my glasses, I haven’t seen a thing.” I leaned back into the pillows as the wave of frustrated, but well-intentioned love went back downstairs to start anew.

As Sean rattled around the kitchen, I luxuriated in the torpedo-sized gift he’d left (ahem, a Starbucks gift). Finley tiptoed in, curtsied at my bedside and presented me with a card she’d made. It was filled with broad strokes of blue colored-pencil which surrounded a purple flourish.

“Do you love it, mom” she asked with an impossibly endearing blush to her cheeks.

“Of course I love it! What is this purple? Is this me in the water? Is this the lake?” I asked grinning from ear to ear.

“Yes, that is you in the water. That part is your hair and those are your eyes, but they aren’t green in the picture, they are blue because the water is over them. Do you really love it?” her cheeks were rosy and her eyes flashed with pride.

“The only thing I love more than this card is you. Thank you, Finley. It’s perfect. The best birthday gift ever.”

We hugged and she skipped out of the room singing a pastiche of lyrics from songs from the movie Annie. Then it was Avery’s turn.

“Mama, here’s my card. It’s you and me and we are holding balloons for the celebration of your day, your birthday. You are the one with the green eyes. I made it.” She beamed.

“Honey, I love it. I love the way you drew us holding balloons. And we are holding hands!” We grinned at one another.

“When are the people coming?” she asked. I smiled at her and patted my lap. “Come here,” she scampered up onto the bed and rested her head on my shoulder and ran her hand along my arm until she found her favorite freckle. “Today I want to spend the day just with you. I want to be with you girls and daddy for my special day.”

“So you won’t have a party?” her impossibly large blue eyes gazed up at me, worried. “No, it’s more like I’ll have a small party with just the right number of people. Our family is exactly right for my party, after all, there are five of us. That’s a lot!” We cuddled there for a minute before she scooted away.

I heard Sean padding up the stairs, my heart gave a now-familiar tug that signals a hurt from joy; a keen understanding of something happening simply because I wanted it so. He was whispering to Briar, “Come on, B. You can show her the card in a minute.” His voice was soft, a little too gentle, as he overrode his impulse to snap her out of it. “Here we go, let’s sing, the candle is lit.”

They stepped into the room, Ave and Fin at the head, Briar tucked behind Sean. The force of my birth hit me,  always a believer, drawn to light and joy, I discovered new layers upon the births I witnessed in action. My daughters, slivers of me from which so much more has sprung.

As they sang my eyes devoured their faces, the muted light filled the contours of their faces. This summer of sprinting through trails cut through forests, of leaping into choppy water and of exploring the lives of toads and caterpillars has changed them, inside and out. I squinted my eyes as Briar came more into my line of vision. She is so tall, a delicate reed beside Sean with eyes filled with hope laced with flight. She perches here with us, but is one foot toward running to something else. Her card had us holding hands, again, my eyes were green. On the inside she’d made a garden from the word ‘mommy.’ She is growing into her handwriting, traces of this hand will be there when she dashes notes on papers during visits home. I’ll keep them…

Avery bounces, bumping her hip on the bed and touching Sean’s leg. Lately she is as unpredictable as she is true. So quick to help and fix things, quicker still to surprise us with a new skill. She sings now, her lyrics always framed in success. Comedic at times, but more keenly hopeful. An impulse to protect her threatens, but I hesitate for fear of marring her confidence in good. Steady and with her, ready I ‘ll be.

Then Fin. She spins like a top, dazzling, upending and then repairing. She gifts me tastes of the stages I’ve forgotten in her sisters and just as I get caught up in the reverie of what was, she shows how very different she is doing things. She is her own, but fervently committed to belonging to us, to morning cuddles and “right on your front” time. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though I know that’s coming.

“Happy birthday, babe.”

We looked at each other over the girls, our bodies weary and our eyes still not quite ready to be open. We smiled. It’s simple, cliché and absolutely true that the births of our daughters have sweetened* every day since. Today we celebrated the days since birth, beautiful every one.

*And by sweeten, I mean also enliven.

Peace

And sass!