Me: What would you like to have for dinner tonight?

Hannah: Appletizers

Mama, when I’m a dog can I eat grass?

Mama, when I’m a bird can I eat seeds?

When I’m a plant can I be a flower?

When I’m an apple tree can I be the center of the apple tree?

When I’m a bike can I have wheels?

When I grow up can I be a light?

When I’m an apple tree girl, am I going to grow plants and cereal?

I was hamming around this afternoon and out of the blue, Rachel said, “If you weren’t my mommy I would still love you.”

We don’t need to talk about all the whining in the car this morning. Whooosh, all whooshed away by 10 golden words.

Conversation during dinner.

Rachel: Every time I want to say delicious I almost say disgusting by mistake, so I don’t say anything.

Me: Oh.

Hannah: Every time I want to say belicious, I say bisgusting, and I do……But then I need to say No, Thank you, so nobody gets huwt. And then I twy to eat it and my tummy doesn’t huwt anymore.

(Last night at dinner)

Rachel pokes at the chicken and asks, “Is this chicken still alive?”

I answer, “No.”

A few minutes later she asks me, “Do you think it hurts the chicken when we bite it?”

I answer, “No.”

Rachel says thoughtfully, “I think it does.”

As I was putting Hannah to sleep tonight she asked me, “Can you juggle?”

I looked at her and said, “No. Not really. Can you?”

“No,” she said.

“Who can juggle? Clowns?” I wondered out loud.

“And dinosaurs…” she added, thoughtfully.

Rachel (to me): Why do you love me?

Me: First of all, because you are my daughter. And also because you’re interesting, and fun, and you make me think…

Rachel: And I have a lot of good points?

Rachel: I think when mom grows up she’s going to be a teacher.

++++++++++

Hannah: (as we were driving past an area we used to lived). When I lived here I was in Daddy’s tummy.

Rachel: How do teachers know how to teach?

Me: They go to school to learn.

Rachel: But who taught the first teacher?

This morning, 6:30 A.M.

Sound of my kids happily playing.

Two minutes later, Hannah is in my room and telling me that Rachel is slamming the door on her and not letting her in.

I call Rachel in and talk to her. I call Hannah in and talk to her.

They return to their rooms.

A minute later, more fighting.

I call them in again.

Process repeats at least two more times.

Hannah goes into her own room. She starts singing a song about not letting Rachel in her room. The song morphs into Jingle Bells.

Rachel starts singing along and adds a twist.

“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way, Oh what fun it is to ride on a two-sisters-love-each-other sleigh.”

She starts laughing and singing it louder. They both start singing it.

They finish. Rachel says, “I love you, Hannah.” Hannah says, “I love you, too.”

They play together happily.

Five minutes later, another fight begins.

I get out of bed.

Rachel: When I grow up I want to celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah. (pause) And then if I marry someone that celebrates Kwanza I’ll get to celebrate all three.

Overheard in the last ten minutes.

++++++++++

Hannah to Rachel: You’re not my best friend anymore.

Rachel to Hannah: (In a not-so-nice tone) Well, you’re always going to HAVE to be my best friend.

+++++++++

Hannah: (starts suddenly singing Let it Shine) This little light of mine….I’m going to let it shine. (Stops singing) I don’t WANT to let it shine.

We are driving home from school.

Rachel: Why did you move into that lane and then this lane?

Me: Well, I know that this lane is going to stay clear and the other one is going to slow down.

Rachel: How do you know that?

Me: (I go into long lecture about how many times I’ve driven this route. Out loud, I try to roughly calculate the number of times I’ve driven the route.)
….so I’ve probably driven this route between 1000 to 2000 times.

Rachel: Or maybe 5000 times!!

Me: Well, maybe….

Rachel: No, wait. It can’t be 5000 times because tea was invented 5000 years ago.

*You know that the joke is not about homeschooling, but about the communication between me and my daughter, right? Good.

Hannah: I’m in charge?

Rachel: No, Hannah you are NOT in charge. When you get married you’ll be in charge.

We are listening to an NPR program where a rep from an eco-friendly non-profit organization is being interviewed. The rep is saying that they are a “hip” organization, rather than a “hippie” organization. He then says something like, “Not that there is anything wrong with Hippies, it’s just that the word Hippie has negative connotations…”

Rachel pipes up: “What does negative mean?”

Me: “not good”

Rachel: “At school we have the negative number chart.”

Me: “Oh. Well in math negative has another meaning” (I give a long-winded example) “Let’s say you want to buy something that’s $2, but you have $0. You ask if you can borrow $2 until your next allowance. You get the $2, buy the item. Now you have negative $2, until you can pay me back. Then you will have $0 again.

(pause)

Rachel: (In sort of a dreamy state) “Mom? I have something to tell you. Can I have two dollars?

Rachel and Hannah are in the middle of a pretend game involving numerous items, including my yoga mat and bag.

Rachel to Hannah: (pretending to scold) “Now you can’t use your yoga mat when you travel. Do you want to be able to use your yoga mat when you travel?”

(Silence).

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Yes.”

Hannah (upset after looking out the window):

“Mama! The clouds melted!”

We are at my sister’s house. Earlier this evening I hadn’t seen Hannah in a while, so I headed upstairs to the third floor (renovated attic) where have been sleeping. I called up to her and she called back down that she was resting. I went upstairs and she was laying down on her mattress with her blanket, resting. She asked me to lay down next to her, I did and she put her face three inches away from mine and told me that she loved me. This caused her to giggle contagiously for a minute until she settled down and very seriously told me, “Fish do not have teeth.”

John (Six-year-old-cousin to Rachel and Hannah):

Some people HATE pie. That’s because they don’t know how good it is.

(Five minutes later while getting a second plate of pie)

I didn’t used to like pie. I liked cake, but not pie.

Me: You must not have known how good it is.

John: Yeah.

(We are driving in the car on our way to Trader Joe’s.)

Hannah: I am in the world. Is Africa at my house?

Me: No, Africa is far away.

Hannah: Are there people in Africa.

Me: Yes.

Hannah: Mama, WHO is in Africa?!!

Me: Well, uhmmmm….ummmm….Well, uhmmmmm

Rachel: Mom, it’s okay if you say “I don’t know.”

My dear Hannah,

I am writing this letter, from the bottom of your bed, watching you sleep. Your blanket, with the “wet side,” the corner that you’ve chewed and sucked to shreds, is wrapped around you and is rising and falling with each breath of yours. Your hair is damp against the side of your face. I can see the whiteness of your teeth through your parted lips. It is afternoon and you are napping.

“Stay with me.” you whispered to me before you fell asleep. You had just been crying. I rubbed my face against yours and saw the small bruise on your arm from the flu shot you had this morning at the doctors.

“Stay with me.”

And so I stayed.

The truth is Hannah, I would stay with you here forever at this very spot, watching the beautiful rose in your cheeks and the damp in your long eyelashes. I would admire the round firmness of your limbs, the highlights in your hair. I would nestle up against you to feel the wetness of your breath. I would wake to hear you whispering sweet phrases to me. “You’re beautiful,” you sometimes whisper in my ear. “I am proud of you,” you whisper again.

I would stay here, forever, my love, with you.

But I don’t want to be like Mrs. Darling in Peter Pan, who upon seeing Wendy at two years old put her hand to her heart and cried, “Oh, why can’t you remain like this for ever!” I don’t want you to have to hear my sighs.

I know how proud you are to be a big girl now. And I am so proud of you, too.

Why, you literally turned overnight into a big girl four months ago. We talked to you about getting a “big girl bed.” We set it up for you. You slept in it for the first night, and upon awaking sat underneath your covers and said “I don’t want anyone to take my big bed away.”

And no, I wouldn’t take your bed away and I wouldn’t wish my big girl back to a little girl. What a joy it is to watch you march ahead.

And literally, I watch. I watch your curve of hair fall towards your eyes as you cock your head with such seriousness and engage in important conversations that are randomly interspersed with sudden thoughts like “You are a girl” or “Daddy is a boy” or “I’m a big girl.”

I watch the way you pull your dresses down, so proud of wearing “down dresses,” dresses you insist on wearing that are two sizes two big for you and make you look like a lovely flower girl.

I watch you sharing so easily, so effortlessly. It is so graceful. It is surprising.

I watch you coloring and drawing with such concentration and precision. I watch you create the beautiful watercolors that you are so proud of.

I watch you doing your ballet move. The one where your right foot lifts back and bends upward as you put you hand on the couch to balance. “Beautiful,” I say, and you twirl around with pride.

I watch your posture, how your walk is suddenly so upright and intent, so determined, so proud.

I watch you do more than your motor skills will allow. I watch you and I silently cheer you on as I watch your silent frustration mingled with the firm belief that you are a “big girl.”

I watch the alarm on your face when an unknowing stranger calls you a “little girl.”

I watch your passion, your enthusiasm, and earthiness. You are so in tune with your the sensual world.

I listen, too.

I listen to your little vibrato as you sing “Goodnight, My Someone” to me.

I listen to your voice as you tell me about your mornings on the way home from school.

I feel.

I feel the rush of excitement as you leap into my arms after a morning of school.

I feel your little, smooth hand in mine.

I feel your tears, as I wipe them.

I feel your hair as I brush it from your eyes.

And I want to take that smooth hand in mine again and march upright with you, wherever you are heading.

And I want to meet that young woman that will one day be reading this letter. And I want to tell her that I love her….more than ever. And with each step forward, each inch grown, I only loved her more.

I come here, and I write you, dear Hannah. I write you into my Neverland. Not so you will never grow up, but so I can let you grow up. And every once in a while, I hope to open the windows and fly off to my Neverland. You can take my hand, and come with me, and we will sit in this big girl bed and hear me whisper back, “You are beautiful. I am so proud of you.”

Love, Mama

I was trying to get Hannah down for a nap this afternoon before picking Rachel up. She was tired, but fidgety. She keep chewing on her raggedy security blanket, and then whispering to herself. I was lying down with her. She made her way down to my side of the bed. I had my head on the bottom of the bed. She smiled. I opened my mouth to tell her to put her head back down on her pillow. Then she put her face so close to mine I could feel the wetness of her breath, and she whispered, “I’m proud of you. I love you very much.”

After picking Rachel up from school this afternoon, I took the girls to the car deler to do a test drive with the mechanic so he could do an analysis of a sound we’ve been hearing. Rachel was a bit grumpy before the drive, and when we were done I turned to her, looked over at her sleeping sister. I told her we’d drive home and let Hannah finish her nap in the car. I told her we could hang out and get a rest because I knew that she (Rachel) was tired.

Rachel said, “Do you know why I’m tired? I have two things things that are making me tired. One is that yogurt raisens keep falling out of my lunch box. The second thing that’s making me tired is this dirty old car.”

Every night at about 11:00, before I head to bed, I go into Hannah’s bedroom, gather her sleeping body into my arms, and sit her semi-conscious body on the potty, so she can get through the night without wetting her pull-up. She’s usually sleeping as I carry her limp, long body in my arms and I wonder, as we pass the bathroom mirror, how much longer I have of this. How much longer will I have her in my arms at 11:00.

Loving her is such a physical experience. She is a sensual soul, and loving her is something for the senses. I find it hard to write about.

But there’s a piece of it.

Okay, this is how I see it. This blog is my place to write about my kids with passion and intensity. I won’t leave comments open here because I have the other blog for comments and I am very obsessive about checking for comments. I don’t need another blog to obsess over. The posts from this blog will feed onto the sidebar of the other blog so you can see when I’ve updated. You can also subscribe to this and emails will be sent to tell you when I’ve updated.

Thanks Leanne!!!

Silly me! Another blog.

Testing.

I am supposed to be writing an annotated bibliography, but instead here I am writing…..to whom? To me? To you? Does it matter? If a woman writes and nobody reads what she writes, is she voicing anything at all? I haven’t decided.

After putting the daughters to bed—the very sleepy, weepy, yet somehow luscious daughters—I sat at my computer, took notes on a website and then wandered downstairs to be with my husband, my very best friend, with whom at that moment I was peeved. I went downstairs hoping that by making my presence known, I would set off the sparks again so we could resolve a heated “conversation” we had had about my plans to work on the garden in the front yard. And you know what? We resolved it and had a good time in the end. Isn’t it funny how that happens sometimes? Not always. Just sometimes. Funny, I was thinking earlier today about how if we parents look at ourselves and our spouses/loves as children, how much easier it would be to treat ourselves and our partner in a nurturing way. Do you know what I mean? We are all so beautiful, as beautiful as children, but it is so much easier to see beauty in a child than an adult. I think I better move on. This is getting lame.

But my point is/was….I am now back upstairs, attempting to work on this bibliography and I have a cup of decaffeinated coffee and a glass of wine from the bottle my husband opened in what I like to think was a sweet, conciliatory move (since I’m the wine drinker in the family). I knew not choose the wine, having this paper I’m working on, but I rebelled.

So here I am after only half a glass of some mighty fine wine not wanting to write about mold in archives. Wanting instead to write about how I am very fulfilled and happy and joyful, but at the same time so tightly compartmentalized. Is it just me? In an academic setting, it’s acceptable to mention one’s children in passing, in chit-chat, but one must not seem too worried about them…too much a like a mother. My friends who I met through my kids, who truly have been a sweet refuge for me these past years, are happy to hear about my intellectual life to a point, but our conversations are usually very light. Because really, who wants to hear about an archives class or my fears about the war when there is Wife Swap or Grey’s Anatomy to talk about, and I say this with real respect. Seriously, if I didn’t compartmentalize at least a little bit I would be a bit too intense on a normal day. (For the record, I enjoy Wife Swap immensely, but think Grey’s Anatomy is a fine guilty pleasure, but overrated. I prefer The Office, but that doesn’t mean I don’t watch both. Did I mention not blogging has led to a rebirth of my tv habit? Yikes.)

I know that compartmentalization is not all bad. I do have dual, even multiple personalities, I think. A very good Gemini I am. It’s gotten to a point, though, where I feel like something in me wants to explode. Like it’s not okay to be so tightly compartmentalized. Like I need to unscrew the boundaries a bit and burst out.

This is actually a really good, exciting feeling.

But I don’t know what the hell it means. Seriously, maybe its’ all just hormones, or a case a really scintillating case of indigestion.

I don’t really understand how to play this exploding out in my real life. I can’t help think that in real life the explosion will be simply a matter of pointing myself in a familiar direction and walking steadily. And maybe I’m already facing it, looking at it, and all I need to do is just go there…like greeting an old friend. So that maybe it’s really in the end a settling….but still quietly an explosion of sorts.

I just don’t know.

Do you get it? Do you know what I’m talking about? Or am I just plain old too intense for my own good?

Do you still want to be friends with me? : )

Oh, and I can tell you how really giddishly excited I am about a ballet party I am working on for Hannah. Ah—girls at three. Isn’t it just the best? The BEST?!

Back to that bibliography.

Our deepest fear is not that we’re inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we’re powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkest fear that most frightens us.

We say, who am I to be brilliant and gorgeous?

Well, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing good with shrinking small so that other people don’t feel intimidated by you.

Your presence automatically liberates others and helps them feel that they can do the same.

–Marianne Williamson

“I told [my teacher] that we were late because you couldn’t find your keys,” Rachel told me nonchalantly yesterday. Really?, I thought. “What did she say?” I asked, curious to know what impact that piece of news might have on Rachel’s teacher’s impression of me. “Nothing.” Rachel answered.

But really, I wonder what else seeps into the classroom from our quirky home life. Does anybody know about the game, “Mommy, Mommy, Pants on Fire?” The game that I made up to amuse myself during a late afternoon of a looooog day in the last stretch of summer? A simple game really. Someone holds up a handful of cards. Someone else pulls out a card from the hand and says, “Mommy.” They thoughtfully pull out another card, look at it and say (what do you know) “Mommy.” Then, at the very right moment, they pull a last one out and shout, “PANTS ON FIRE!!!!”

Do they know about that? (Blush)

Do they know that I sometimes give a stern look and say, “You are headed in the right direction for a smack on the bottom” and then grab the daughter in question, put her over my knee, and playfully pat her on the bottom until her tummy hurts from laughter? Or worse yet, have they only heard half of the story? Do they think I just outright smack my girls on the bottom?

(Blush)

Do they know that my daughters are working patiently with me, trying to help me break my addiction to saying “HELL-o” like Mike Myers in “I Married An Axe Murderer.” I say it every time something happens that’s little offbeat. Rachel always smiles, shakes her head and says, “You’ve got to stop saying that” and I nod my head and say, “I know. You got a point there.”

Do they know about that?

And Hannah. At school, does she spout off Music Man references like she does at home? Does she run through the schoolyard holding her finger in the air and shouting, “But he doesn’t know the territory!!” Does she suddenly break into song, singing “Goodnight My Someone” with an exaggerated falsetto? Does she say “Eee gads?” or “Waddya talk?” Does she sing “She-boo-pee?” Does she tell people that she’s Marion, and that they can be the librarian?

Last week while getting Hannah ready for nap, she said “HELL-o” in the Mike Meyer way and I asked her quietly if she ever said that at school.

“No.” she answered, looking a little puzzled. “They don’t know “hello.”

Oh yeah.

I guess that settles that.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

(Hannah this morning) “I don’t want to die like a baddie or a sister. I want to die like a ballerina.”

Why does watching the very beautiful (there is one scene when Charlotte is dying that just takes my breath away) Charlotte’s Web always spark a loss of innocence in my children.

Damn spider.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

A very sad fact: I just spent a half hour searching for a post I wrote more than six months ago. On the post I asked for advice. One thing I asked for was recommendations on bras. I found it again, and am finally sitting down to order a good bra.

(Blush)

++++++++++++++++++++++++

I have no explanation for the fact that I am blogging when I am officially not a blogger anymore.

(Blush)

I’ve tried to write one, but am just not getting excited about sending updates via e-mail. The format just doesn’t do it for me. I have to figure this one out. Maybe monthly or quarterly updates here? Maybe a whole other blog? I just don’t know.

All is well. Really well. Just checking in.

+++++++
(Tonight, while I was putting Hannah to bed.)
Hannah: “Rachel is my favorite kind of sister. She is too special. I don’t want her to turn into a toy.”

In case you missed my earlier post, let me update you and tell you that I’ve decided to quit blogging for a long while. I tried to explain why in this earlier post. My plan was to spend one last week writing here before closing down shop, but drawing it out that long is a little dramatic, I think. I don’t want to look like a big drama queen, even if I am one. I think I need to just go.

I wanted this last post to sum things up. I’m not quite sure how to do that. This blog is only a year and a half old, but I feel it has taken me so far personally. I have been so touched by all of you. Thank you. My life is forever changed because of you, your inspiring spirits, your friendship and your acceptance of me. I am proud of us! I am proud of this blog.

Rachel seems to have grown miles, too, since I started here. She is now such a person. I don’t know what else to say about her. I’ve said so much already. I am in awe of the person she is and wish I could have done a better job bringing her to life here. What I never told you was how much of an arts and crafts enthusiast she’s become. This girl who ate the tips off of her markers the first three years of her life and used to hide under the table eating play-doh is really starting to impress me with her creations. And still, she looks at me, the art flunkie, coloring in a coloring book and exclaims, “Mom, how did you get so good at that?!”

Hannah is so proud of being a big girl. Her toddler tummy is starting to disappear along with her diapers. I delight in staring at the dimples in her broad beautiful cheecks when she’s talking to me. She is so much cuter than I can describe. The other night she requested “Seventy-BIX Trombones” for her “lullaby” and then started cackling like crazy because I didn’t get the words right. She is just full of life and kindness and laughter and seriousness. I imagine we will have to grant her her wish this Fall and let go of her Dorothy Hamill hair-cuts so she can “get long hair” for her birthday.

Mr. Raehan–and let me tell you how I’ve struggled with what to call him. I so wish I could have called him by his real name instead of all these silly names—was very shaken up to hear that I’m quitting my blog. I gave him no warning. He told me my blog had helped him grow. The reason why I love this man so much is because he is continually growing. Now that we’re expecting our piano (Ha. You thought I was going to say baby, didn’t you? Why does that give me pleasure?), he’s thinking about taking piano lessons with Rachel and me this fall.

And me, well, I plan to keep writing about my family, though in a more private way. I’m not closing down shop here so I can become “a writer.” I’m leaving so I can listen to myself a little better. It’s not just on my blog that I have boundaries. I have boundaries within myself that I want to push past. I think I’ll start my process by doing a lot of experimental writing about me. Oh, the ego! But seriously, I think I want the space to take some risks and get messy. Some of you can do that out in public. I’m just not built that way. There is something powerful pushing up against my insides. I hope she’s pretty. If not, who cares, I just need to let her rip.

I’m worried I’ll try it for like an hour and be wanting to rush back here immediately. I’m hoping my pride will keep me from doing that. Maybe I’ll just stare at my navel and eat bon-bons instead while you have all the fun. A depressing scenario, but frightenly possible. If things are looking bad, I’ll kick myself in the butt and finish up my gardening.

The “me” I’ve shown here on this blog, represents my heart more fully than any other me I’ve shown to anyone but family. Thank you for listening to my heart. It meant more than you know.

I will be sharing some of the writing I’m doing with friends via e-mail. If you are interested in getting on that list and haven’t told me already, please don’t be shy about telling me. I’ll be too shy to put you on the list if you don’t tell me to. I also plan to keep visiting you and commenting when I can. Please don’t think you’ve lost me there.

I am closing the museum now. The key is under the mat, though. Please continue to browse old exhibits. I won’t be destroying the building. It means too much to me.

Thank you for your warm patronage.

Hugs and love from the curator. (I guess we’re just that kind of community where even the curator gets all touchy feely.)

I used to wake up to Rachel’s voice two inches from my face as she stood beside my bed wishing me good morning. Before that, I woke to her toddler kisses and wet breath on my face when she climbed into our bed at six in the morning. Now more often I wake to the sound of sisters, connecting happily before making that first connection with Mom or Dad. “There were bells, In the air………” I heard Hannah singing sweetly this morning while she played with her sister. The other morning I heard Rachel explaining the gag reflex to Hannah, “You see, Hannah, when you smell throw up it makes you want to throw up.” This is a fact I had pointed out to Rachel a day earlier after Rachel vomited on my bedroom carpet. She saw me gag when I was cleaning it up and said, “Gee, Mom, I think you’re getting sick, too.” Now here they were, the next morning, playing throw-up together with a yellow salad bowl. Hannah kneeling in front of the yellow salad bowl, not quite getting what throw-up really is, which is ironic, I might add, since she was quite the barf queen when she was a baby.

Late this morning, Hannah watched as I sat on the bathroom floor with Rachel, rubbing her back and holding her belly (the only thing that seemed to soothe her). She didn’t actually throw up, but we spent a good intense hour getting through a wave of what I assume was nausea. Later this afternoon, Hannah quietly beckoned me into the bathroom. “I’m going to throw up,” she announced cheerfully. “Does your tummy hurt?” I asked skeptically. “No.” she responded, patting the tiles of the bathroom, showing me she wanted me to sit in the same position she saw me in with Rachel. She leaned over the toilet bowl and said, “After I’m done, I’m going to get a biiiiiiiiig treat. Like going poo-poo.” We sat for a few seconds. “Are you done?” I asked. She nodded. We got up and went back in the kitchen. “Did you throw up?” her Dad asked. “Yup.” She answered importantly.

Somehow, the stomach flu has not flattened us to the floor today. Rachel’s stomach virus seems to hit about once every 24 hours without a whole lot of trauma in between. (I literally knocked on wood after I wrote that.) Mr. R and I managed to finish cleaning the garage. A BIG deal, considering we haven’t been able to park our cars in the garage since we had our house painted last Christmas. A very long stretch—even for us. As I sat working in the garage it struck me how much easier things have gotten, even on a barfing day. Hannah was sitting at the table in the art room we set up in the garage. Rachel was inside watching Music Man, the garage door propped open so we could hear if anything went wrong. No toddler grabbing things from the shelves. No baby screeching for me with arms stretched out. Six hours out of ten the girls play beautifully together. If I play a part in their pretend games, I only need to play a supporting role, if anything. I’m usually assigned the role of “Grandma,” who occasionally baby-sits while “Mom” goes out. Feeling a little frumpy about playing Grandma once again (No offense to the grandmas our there. If anyone is frumpy, it’s me.), I asked if I could be a Princess Grandma. Rachel thought, no. A Queen Grandma would be more appropriate. I protested at first, but then gave myself the role of Queen of England, which amused me greatly. I tried to get the girls to act out nursery rhymes for me, while I recited them in a posh accent, but that fizzled quickly. I just may be losing my touch.

A day earlier, I was feeling playful and put a book on my head, beginning to walk around the room. It reminded me of my sister’s best friend in grade school, who used to run away from her Catholic school to our house, where she’d end up hanging out with me, while my Mom waited for her parents to pick her up. My sisters, who were going to public school, were at school when she’d come. She’d usually teach me lessons that the nuns had taught her, like how to act like a “lady.” How to do a sort of curtsey when you pick up your handkerchief. And how to walk with a book on your head. So I was amusing myself the this day thinking of Sis’s friend as I placed a book on my head, “Look, I am walking like a…..” I paused. Did I really want to say lady? Thinking, thinking. What I really was feeling was powerful. Yoga has made me feel strong and well balanced, able to hold a book on my head. So I stood there, looking for the right word. Hannah finished the sentence for me: “like a skunk!”

At the same time life seems to be getting easier, other things are shifting, keeping things challenging. Rachel doesn’t nap, so my down time is limited. Right now, she is supposed to be taking a quiet time. Instead she has made her way into this office. I told her if she wanted to stay with me, she had to remember that it was my quiet time, too. She drew, and then made her way back to my desk, picking items up and asking me very sweet questions about them. I began to remind her that quiet time required actual quiet. Finally, I looked at her and smiled. “Are you wanting attention?” She smiled. I held her in my arms, we talked, and then I gave her a project. She is sorting my cards. The girt loves a project, I tell you.

I had a revelation the other day. I realized that I could actually set official rules in the house. I know. I am a slow learner. (Okay, okay, I watched Super Nanny the other night. Joe is a sweetheart). After dinner, I made an announcement. I wrote six rules on a piece of construction paper as I dictated them. One of the rules made Rachel’s eyes light up. Rule #6: Clean Up Messes Before Watching TV. Rachel interpreted this to mean: When you want to watch TV, clean up and your wish shall be granted. When I explained to her yesterday that was not what the rule meant, she actually went to the rule list, read it out loud, and argued her point, as if the list was the Constitution. I made some faces at her and we laughed. This is where “I’m in charge” comes in handy.

Oh, what a lengthy wandering post. What I am really DYING to shout to the world about is this. A new purchase. An extravagant purchase. A new baby really. A Baby Grand. The old Raehan probably wouldn’t have told you about it, but I’m feeling bold in my last week here. I’m throwing my privacy issues to the wind. THIS is what is on my mind while I’m rubbing my daughters back in front of the toilet. This baby.

And my Minnesota roots tell me not to tell you this without apologizing in some way, like to mention that my car is old. Because, well, it is, but also because that’s how I was brought up, feeling apologetic for owning nice things. Tell me you like my sandals, and I’ll tell you I got them half off at a sale. My Dad studied in a monastery and dedicated himself to having a non-materialistic life. That commitment was always part of him. I’ve got all that baggage—good or bad—locked in me.* And really, buying a new piano WAS a very extravagant thing to do, considering not a single one of is a piano virtuoso. But every time I’ve had access to a piano in recent years I’m all over it. I’m thirsting for it. And I have this dream of turning our front room into a music room. The piano hasn’t arrived yet, and my fingers are itching. ITCHING I tell you. The very worrying thing is that as well as my girls play together and often without me, whenever I sit down to play our electric piano, they are all over me and the piano.

Worrisome indeed.

Rule #7: When Mama’s playing, let her play.

Oh man. I need a lawyer.

*(I re-read this and am realizing that the reason I probably want a music room is because my Dad had one growing up. They had a family band and I used to be fascinated by their music parlor and the lore surrounding it. How odd of me not to see this connection. I wish he could be here to play the piano, his clarinet, or even his accordian. I think move his photo to the piano when we’re all set up.)

It started with my post about boundaries. Writing that post left me feeling so unsettled and uncomfortable that I knew something was up inside of me. Last night I figured it out, and then I cried myself to sleep.

You see, there’s been this force moving around inside of me, first like a loose lump of knotted thread and now sometimes like an ocean rolling deep into the night. Last night I recognized it for what it is. It’s a voice inside of me, but I can’t hear what it’s saying. I need to write and find it, but it’s not the kind of writing that I want to do here. I am embarassed to write about this because I don’t mean to sound all “artsy fartsy” and “I am a writer”-ish. It’s just that no matter how much I love you all, this blog will never be a place without boundaries for me and I really want to understand this voice of mine.

So last night, I imagined my life without my blog, a life where I would have time for more private writing, writing just for me, with no boundaries. I saw it and realized I wanted it. I REALLY wanted it.

And then I cried.

For you. For Raehan. For this space. For all these loves of mine.
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I am going to leave this post up top as a sticky post, but I’m going to spend another week or so here on this blog, writing my heart out about my girls, like I did when I started this gig. You’ll find new posts cropping up below this post. I want to capture my girls, bottle them up, in this glorious summer that we’re having together. And then on my last day (and you’ll know when it comes cause I’ll say good-bye), I will write my heart out about me. And I will close the museum, for a long time, perhaps forever. But I’ll still be hanging around the neighborhood. And I will send periodic updates for those who leave e-mail addresses.

Thank you, friends. If love is touching souls, then I love you.

Tears. I have tears, as Rachel used to say.

(And what do you know, I have no idea how to do a sticky post on blogger and my browser isn’t letting me fiddle with the time-stamp.)

Catherine Newman is leaving ParentCenter, but she will have a weekly column at Wondertime.com in addition to her newish monthly column there. It looks like the weekly column will stay true to the down and gritty Catherine that we love. However, I also love her monthly column, which is more fully in tune with the compassionate person she is. Her montly column also seems to reflect the tone of Wondertime, which strives to help moms “see the world through the eyes of their children.” It’s very refreshing.

The one thing that makes me sad about her move to Wondertime is the loss of the bulletin boards. I love the group of women (well, ahem, most of them) who comment there. Gosh, we should just have a big Ben and Birdy bash. Like BlogHer, but so much better. (I have every right to make this assessment because I wasn’t at BlogHer. Ha-ha-ha-ha. I crack myself up.) All of the non-Ben and Birdy groupies that I love need to come, too.

Gosh, before learning about her new column, I was all ready to write a farewell post describing my feelings for this woman. I think most of her fans feel that there is a division in their lives, pre-Catherine and post-Catherine.

I never wrote about this here, but I met her at a book signing last year. I was a speechless idiot in her presence, but I loved meeting her and watching her interact with people (I was near the end of the line). She is as funny in person as in her book and columns. The thing she doesn’t lilke to admit in her columns is that she is extremely kind. I started loving Catherine because her columns made me giggle like a schoolgirl when I was 8 months pregnant and NOTHING else could make me laugh. Then her writing inspired me to start writing, first in a private journal, then later here.

What I love about Catherine now, is that more than making me want to be a better writer, she has made me want to be a better person, a better parent. To be honest, I arrogantly thought I was doing okay in that department. Reading about Catherine struggling to be a better parent in her humble, self-depreciating way, has made me realize that I can be better, too.

That’s about all I’ll say about that.

Mr. Raehan was out of town for five days last week…but who’s counting.

To keep the girls from crying “I miss Daddy” every time they didn’t like what I had to say, I suggested we create a journal documenting what we did when he was away.

We started on day two.

DAY TWO

Dear Daddy, I really miss you. We went to _____’s party. Hannah had a cute little pony tail sticking up. She had a pink barrette and a yellow barrette that were shaped like flowers. The scientist couldn’t come. We don’t know why. Love, Rachel

DAY THREE

Dear Daddy, Mommy looked on the computer about spiders. Me and Hannah went under the sprinkler while Mama was putting water in the fountain. What was it like to be on your trip. Hannah went poo-poo in the potty. Love, Rachel

Dear Daddy, I love her [you]. I didn’t went to school and I went poop in the potty. I want to play with my toys in my bed. It’s not morning time. Love, Hannah

DAY FOUR

Dear Dad, On day four we went to swimming lessons. Then we went to the sprinkler park. I really miss you. Love, Rachel

Dear Daddy, I so much love her [you]. Go poop in the potty. There’s no more. Love Hannah

Dear Dad, Go poo-poo in the potty. I went pee-pee in the potty and poop. Love, Hannah

Dear Rachel, Dear Daddy, Know what to do. Anyway, I love Daddy.

DAY FIVE

Dear Dad, We did ring around the rosie in the pool and Rachel did swimming lessons. Love, Rachel

Dear Dad, Dear Mom, Dear Rachel, Dear me, I went to school. Swimming school. The swimming teacher is good. (Hannah)

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The thing about poop–the dirty little secret–is that it truly is a very big deal.

Ask not why mothers who blog write about poop, ask yourself where we find such restraint. If I gave you a realistic representation of the average day poop would be a main character.

I might tell you that when I told Hannah that she shouldn’t use the word “yucky” at the dinner table, she answered solemnly, “Yes. And not poopyhead.” Or when Rachel’s Dad gave Rachel a stern warning in the car to not say Poop one more time, she said quietly, “Pooh……..bear.”

I might talk about how Hannah’s breakthrough to pooping on the potty involved a vivid battle in the hallway between her refusal to put a diaper on and a fear of pooping without a diaper. It involved intense squatting, and sweating, and panic, and finally a surrender and throwing up of arms to let me grab her and put her on the potty. It ended with cheers and ice-cream. It reminded me of giving birth to Rachel, except nobody gave me ice-cream…and Hannah repeated the process about three times in that hallway that afternoon, so I suppose she had metaphoric poop triplets, or something like that.

I might tell you my many, many stories of using public restrooms with the girls. How anytime I try to sneak away to use a public loo, Rachel says, “I have to go, too” and Hannah follows. I might tell you how I never get to go first. I might tell you about the many times Rachel has requested that I face the toilet stall door while she poops. I might tell you how hard it is to keep Hannah’s hands off those sanitary napkin containers. I might tell you how when I can finally sit down and let loose, the girls start trying to unlock the stall door, and there have been times, when they have, yes, left me sitting there.

I might tell you what a scarring experience an automatic flushing toilet can be for a two year old, and about the time in the airport when Rachel was two and she kept wanting me to give her privacy, so I’d try to get out of the stall, but then the toilet would flush, and she’d scream and call me back in. And how this cycle repeated about ten times before the madness ended. I might tell you how this made her wary of public toilets for the next ten months.

I might tell you how, when I finally get some alone time in the bathroom, my dog pushes the door wide open with her nose, and walks away.

I might tell you how my quintessential worst moment as a parent involved a flu-ridden me and a constipated baby on a changing table.

I might tell you how Hannah poops EVERY SINGLE time she sits on the potty now (which is about eight times a day. We all should be that lucky.) and that this is a source of joy and pride to her.

You see, Ms. Poop would be this complicated, wonderful character if I let her be who she really is here. Instead, on most days, I write her out of our lives. She only gets to play bit parts now and then. The thing is, people can only tolerate so much poop talk. I’m not that stupid. I GET it.

So pooh……….bear.

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I have been married to my husband for fifteen years. I got married at 23, he was 26. Looking back, it was the best and wildest decision I/we ever made.

We got married with no money, had an interfaith service, flew to Scotland a month later to live off student loans and part-time jobs and pursue graduate degrees. We were Dr. Laura’s worst nightmare, considering she frowns on marrying young, with no money, and she does not believe in interfaith marriages.

Nothing ever came easily to us, though I think it sometimes has looked that way to people, because we have loved our lives. Our relationship is not smooth. We fight, we make up, we learn, we grow. We are happy. We remember who we were and appreciate who we are. We are truly partners in life. Our relationship is our foundation.

I still only wear a thin plain wedding band. Mr. Raehan occasionally asks me about buying a new ring, but I’d like to buy a good piano instead. (In fact we went piano shopping on the way home today). And my thin band has a lot of sentimental value to me. If I ever get a new ring, it will not be a “keeping up with the Jones” ring. It will probably be a gemstone ring with symbolic meaning. I haven’t figured out what I want that meaning to be. And I DO want that piano….and to finish my garden. The ring will have to wait. Something tells me there will always be something else that I want more. And besides, I destroy rings. I wouldn’t want to do that to a ring that’s worth a lot of money.

On our first anniversary we went to the western isles of Scotland. On our second anniversary, we went dinner in the Jewish quarter of East Berlin and to a movie. On our third anniversary we had fish and chips on the eastern coast of Scotland. And then we lose track. We don’t have clear memories of what we did on other anniversaries.

But for this annivesary (this week), we spent our first night away as a couple from the kids (last night). We hired a babysitter and went up into the mountains for 24 hours. We hiked; we dined; we slept in a room with a wood fireplace and the first sight I saw when I opened my eyes this morning was the sun rising over the hills and pines. I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed twenty-four hours so much.

I was talking to a friend a few weeks ago who was visiting from out of town. She was thousands of miles away from her kids. I asked her if she missed them and she said no. I felt so jealous of her because I was in the middle of taking my intense course and at the end of a long day was always completely stressed from missing and worrying about the kids. I wanted to be more like her. Ahhhh….to let go. I wanted that.

But you know what? This weekend I didn’t miss the kids.

And they didn’t miss us. They had a blast and we (the big kids) were who we were again.

Only we were better.

And the two of us became enamored with our mountain. Each mountain is a life force of its own. It has a personality and depth and richness. Some people climb mountains. I want to have a relationship with mine.

(This is where I was supposed to post beautiful photos, except the battery on my camera was not charged. I’m borrowign one that looks a lot like a spot that we hiked in.)

See you next Monday, folks. I’m going to be playing around with my sidebar this week. I want to get my blogroll off of there and put up a few features like “Recent Conversation,” with little interesting snippets. Keep your eye out.