Homecoming...

Mike was in Napa Valley working for the last 11 days. It was the first time he was away from Riley, and come to think of it, me, for as long. It was hard on all of us. But I know it was especially difficult for Mike. So as a homecomimg gift, we made him this movie...

16 months... well almost anyway

Blue...

The air is blue. Soft breathing, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, warmth, gently rhythmic, back and forth… safe. This is my very first memory. I don’t know exactly how old I was but my mom told me when I was a baby, my dad used to rock me in the early morning, in our living room in front of the big window with blue drapes. Whenever I rock Riley in his room to comfort him or to help ease him into sleep, I think of blue. And of that feeling. Of being safe and cared for and completely fulfilled. I think of that and I hope Riley retains a similar memory. If not the details, then the knowledge - Somewhere deep down on an unconscious level. I imagine these positive experiences as bricks in a foundation – The essential infrastructure that holds him up. That which, if all else is torn down, is the solid ground on which he can always rebuild. My parents weren’t perfect and their brickwork wasn’t perfect but so far my foundation has been strong enough to weather some damage and subsequent remodeling. I know that Riley does not have perfect parents either but I hope we are able to do a good enough job. And I hope the missing bricks are few because it is incredibly painful and nearly impossible to fill those holes later in life.

**************************************

The day is waning. We are settled into the big green rocking chair and Riley is lying across my lap from left breast to right knee. He is sleepily suckling his bottle and I am kissing his forehead and inhaling his freshly bathed scent. My thoughts return to blue. I begin to sing, softly in almost a whisper, a song I used to sing to him, but haven’t sung in a while because bedtime has become too busy. Because he has become busy, and unable to sit still for a song. So until a few days ago, for the previous couple of months, we have put him straight to bed with his bottle. He preferred it that way. But now he protests when we put him to bed so we are here again, cuddling and rocking… easing into sleep.

“Down in the valley, the valley so low, hang your head over, and hear the wind blow…” He looks at me, his eyes pained and pleading… inexplicably… he begins to cry. I am quiet and he abruptly stops crying and goes back to his bottle. Disbelieving, I try a new song, “Summertime and the livin is easy… fish are jumpin and the cotton is…” He cries out in protest, louder this time, and his face is all scrunched-up like my voice is physically assaulting him. I fully expect from his reaction, that if I were to look into his ears I would see blood. So I am quiet and he, in turn, is quiet.

Now instead of blue I am thinking of red. Of red bricks that are misshapen and jagged and ill-fitting… broken by a terrible first memory involving a dark menacing room and creepy, ominous singing. Like those scary, pigtailed ghost children in so many horror movies, “la-la, la-la, la… la...”

Trying not to take his emphatic reaction to my singing personally (but taking it totally personally), I wait until he has finished his bottle and I place him, screaming, into his crib. This has been our routine. I close the door and he cries earnestly for about three minutes until he resigns himself to sleep. My mind is racing. Had I inadvertently traumatized my child and possibly scarred him for life? Could he be experiencing some sort of hyper sensory sensitivity - A manifestation of some insidious developmental issue? And what in the Simon Cowell could be so terrible about my singing??? I recount the incident to Mike who, completely unconcerned, says, “He probably just associates your singing with bedtime and right now he hates bedtime.” Hmmm…

So to test this theory I wait until the morning and while changing his diaper I start to sing, softly at first and then louder, “Down in the valley, the valley so low, hang your head over, and hear the wind blow…” He looks up at me smiling. So I try the other cursed tune, “Summertime and the livin is easy… fish are jumpin and the cotton is high.” He turns the red ball over in his hand to carefully inspect its smooth plastic surface … and is totally unaffected. His ears are also conspicuously free of blood.

Mike, it seems, was right. So for now, I resolve to leave the singing for the daytime hours. And bedtime will hopefully return to blue… and to perfectly laid bricks.

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The moral of the story: Never underestimate the associative abilities of a toddler and never overestimate the reasonableness of a mommy’s neurotic conclusions. Oh… and sometimes, inexplicably, daddies are right.

15 Months... or, Holy crap, what happened to my calm, sweet baby???

Another working title might be, “Is 15 months too young for Prozac???” As you may be able to derive from the title, 15 months is tough. It’s tough on Riley, tough on Mike especially, because he is home with him all day during the week, tough on me and tough on the neighbors… And any other poor unsuspecting soul who dare cross paths with a belligerent badger, I mean curious toddler.

Case in point… Last Saturday we were invited to what promised to be a lovely birthday party for a coworker’s 2 year old – Complete with petting zoo and pony rides. And setting aside the awesome kid-ertainment factor and my own obsession with cute, furry animals, it had the other prerequisite condition for any family outing these days – Desirable proximity. It was only 6 miles away from the sanctuary of home. So as soon as Riley woke-up from his afternoon nap, off we went looking forward to a great day of docile petting and obedient merriment… and flying unicorns and world peace.

Upon arrival we were greeted by our gracious hosts and given a tour of the party site/gorgeous estate – Petting zoo and pony rides set-up in the front for the kids, and an open bar in the back for the adults. Oh yeah! Fast forward 2 minutes to Riley completely beside himself with over stimulation. He was literally running from petting zoo to pony rides and then out the gate and down the sidewalk with Mommy, painfully sans drink mind you, trailing uselessly behind. Every time I tried to pick him up or redirect him to a safer trajectory, say out of oncoming traffic or away from the business end of an understandably annoyed pony, he would stiffen, arch his back, kick, and SCREAM a blood curdling howl that went in my ear and directly to the part of the brain that hasn’t been used since high school – The OH MY FREAKING GOD I could not be more humiliated if I was standing in the quad completely naked during a pep rally, lobe. The terrible reality washed over me like a urine shower (and yes, that was Riley too). It was official, in one horrifying instant we turned into – THOSE PARENTS. You know the ones… who can’t control their tantruming kid and stand helplessly by, bribing the rabid demon with candy or a present or a human sacrifice or ANYTHING that will shut its scream hole just long enough to quickly exit to the car with some modicum of dignity. But no dignity was to be had that day.

Of course, as soon as Riley was in his car seat he was fine again. And back at the house he toddled happily around playing with toys as if nothing had happened. So that’s how it has been as of late. One minute happy as a lark, the next minute possessed by Beelzebub. I hear from other people that this unbalanced behavior - behavior that when observed in adults would suggest a mental defect, substance abuse problem, severe hormonal imbalance, or advanced syphilis - is completely normal at his age. Not our parents of course, who say things like, “You didn’t dare act that way!” Which makes me constantly question my parenting. There has to be some healthy medium between a spoiled rotten brat and a kid too terrified of punishment to explore and blossom, right? Seriously, if you know where that medium is, please tell me now! Or at least have the decency to suggest a good exorcist…

Epilogue

Good things about 15 months: 100 mile an hour full body hugs, kisses on request, energy, excitement and enthusiasm that is contagious no matter how tired you are, unsolicited cuddles, incredible feats of acrobatic ability, surprisingly advanced comprehension, the beginnings of real words (“doggie” is “dadum”), head butts, high fives, “The Face,” independent play, a highly developed sense of humor and premeditated comedy, an adventurous palate, an actual non-teething interest in books, slam dunks, knowing where his ears, nose, bellybutton and "Mr. Pee Pee" are, and still being Mommy’s boy… no matter how many times his head spins completely around.

See Riley run!


Happy (temporarily) on my pony



















Still Mommy's boy

The Cabin...

Shhhhhhhh… The soft steady sound of the monitor reassures me that a baby sleeps soundly upstairs. I am surprised at how easily he has napped in this unfamiliar place. I worried it would be difficult for him to adjust. Because sleep has become an inconvenience; a hold-up that distracts from his very important business as a collector. Everything is new here and he eagerly gulps it in, all senses drinking in concert. He charges forward in a wide, unbalanced, stomp-y gait and grabs a hold with pudgy fingers that prod and pinch and poke. He touches and climbs and licks and bites. He devours everything in his path with wide darting eyes. His excitement is palpable – He electrifies the air with his insatiable need for more, more, more! The feathery layers of dense emerald forest, the burnt sugary smell of marshmallows roasting over some nearby campfire, sweet meadow grass and lavender wild flowers, the crisp fresh aroma of pine and vanilla, the sharp clear echo of bird calls and boat motors and quiet conversations that bounce off of ancient granite and slip between puzzle-barked trunks. This is my most favorite place in all of the world, and I am so grateful to be able to share it with my son.

My Papa and Nani and family built this summer cabin in Huntington Lake over 40 years ago; Two stories of pale pine planks and a tall aluminum roof, steep enough to dissuade the amassing of snow. Until recently, the roof was shingled in wood. Now, by order by the US Forest Service, most cabins here have flame retardant metal roofs – Almost too severe in this idyllic setting. A wooden deck, that has been blackened and roughened by sitting snow, surrounds the Cabin on two sides. Every few seasons pieces of the railing have to be replaced because of snow damage. And inevitably, each summer, someone forgets to wear shoes and takes a tiny, sharp, wooden souvenir home with them in their foot.

The interior is a mid-century mishmash of donated hand-me-downs; often creatively re engineered for the sake of utility - The coffee table was a door in a previous life and the loud teal cabinet doors in the kitchen are old plantation shutters. My grandfather was a teacher and supported a family of six on one modest salary. So most things were acquired second-hand, and nothing went to waste - Even old bent nails were straitened and reused. The carpet is original, indoor-outdoor synthetic, burnt orange in color, pitted by fallen embers from so many chilly nights of fires in the black, iron fireplace. The GE refrigerator is from mid 50's and has, incredibly, never needed repair. Over the years my mom and her siblings have made their own contributions to the Cabin as well – A mattress, a chair, a love seat, a DVD player and small television, to name a few. The stairs to the second floor are narrow and steep and tumbling down them has become a rite of passage in our family – I myself careened head over heels to the bottom after tripping on my nighty when I was a little girl. The upstairs consists of one master bedroom with a bathroom and an open dorm area with four beds. There is also a sleeping loft that is accessed by a wooden ladder. The ceiling is open and uninsulated and the unfinished beams and plywood are still faintly marked by red paint from the lumberyard.

I have been vacationing here almost every summer since I was just a baby and this is where my childhood still survives. While the world changes and I change, this place stands the same… smells the same – Like smoky old wood and dusty mountain musk; In spite of hard winters and family disagreements, it remains. This is where I am recharged, where I am at peace, where am inspired, where I can tap into me. The me without all of the pretense and clutter and reality that has accumulated over the years. The me I was back then… like him.

I hear him now over the soft white noise; quietly cooing to himself in his secret baby language. He is only 14 months old so I wonder how much of this time he will retain. Will he remember tearing up the stairs on winged hands and knees and climbing the loft ladder, impossibly, all by himself? Will he recall the warm, dappled sun on his skin as he sat in the dirt under a canopy of pine, while happily chewing on twigs and rocks? Will he remember how he waded ankle deep in the ice cold lake without recoil and how he gleefully squealed and soaked his pants, oblivious to the chill? Or his first boat ride to the cove – How he clung to me, pensive and adorably neckless in his life vest. Daddy let him “drive” and he did so with great intensity and trepidation – But he didn’t cry. Will he be haunted by Buick sized black ants with fierce mandibles that bite tender young fingertips? Will he dream of horizonless vistas and mushroom shaped rock formations at the top of the world? And will he be able to feel the love that surrounded him this week from Mommy and Daddy and his family?

He reaches for me, smirking a knowing, toothy grin - His golden hair clumpy and feral with sleep. As I hold him close I breathe deeply at the nape of his neck and revel for a few seconds in his sweet baby scent – It is indescribable, as it belongs to him alone. Like his smell, which is forever recorded in my heart, I will remember every moment of his first trip to the Cabin. I will keep it all for him.

Gift...

You are my world
Creamy cherub faced and honey-milk scented
My entire universe
A trillion winking stars that gleam in deep blue-green eyes
Stretched out so much farther than the mind can dare to imagine
You overwhelm me
With your weighty company
You suffocate me
I greedily gulp too much, too fast
So I gasp and choke
And I willingly submit everything
To the desperate understanding
That without you I would not survive
How could I?
I fear I have too much
Way more than my share
I tempt jealous fates with my love for you
And I am quietly raw and splintered and sting-y with worry
But I am grateful for every single second you are mine
I take nothing for granted
That is your gift to me
And I devote the rest of my life to thanking you

A tale of three fathers...

I have been very fortunate in my life to have had two great fathers. My parents divorced when I was four and my mom married Russ. Throughout our childhood my younger brother and I spent weekends with Dad and weekdays with Mom and Russ. I don’t think either of us ever felt disadvantaged in any way – In our minds, two dads were better than one. Because both Russ and Dad, though very different people, were incredible fathers and role models.

Russ was the solid foundation on which our blissfully secure life was built. He loved us unconditionally and was always a resounding voice of compassion and reason and integrity and loyalty. I owe much of my belief system to his passionate convictions and sense of fairness and right. He has always been a shining example of what non-material rewards hard work and focus can achieve. And over the years I have strived to make him proud – Not because he demanded it, but because it was my way to honor him. To acknowledge the sacrifices he made for our family. Russ never had any of his “own” biological children and from the beginning, he accepted us completely, without bias, condition or regret. And he willingly and so generously shared us with another father; No easy feat for a stepfather.

Dad was a dreamer. Through his eyes the world was a myriad of endless possibilities and adventures just waiting to be had. He gave the BEST hugs and always told us that we were special and important and loved – And we believed him to our very bones. I remember hiking trips where he would educate us about the flora and fauna along the trail. We learned what things were dangerous and what plants we could eat if we ever found ourselves hungry and without food. Because of Dad, I’m pretty sure I could survive being lost in the woods… or desert… or mining shaft… or unmarked well. I fondly remember hunting for rocks in river beds and horseback riding over miles of dusty trails and repelling off of impossibly huge boulders. I owe my great love of nature and animals to my Dad. He was grateful for the simple things and I credit my joy and passion to his inspiring example. When I was around 10 years old, Dad gave me a framed plaque – The kind of modest treasure one might find at a gas station or convenience store. It was a photograph of an orange and yellow sunrise and the inscription read, “Each new day brings a world of beautiful things.” Whenever I think of Dad, I think of that plaque.

In two incredible fathers, I had the very best of everything.

Tragically, Dad passed away when I was just 17. Over the years, his absence in our lives has been profoundly felt on so many levels. I have often wondered what he would think about me if he knew me “now.” I missed him most at my wedding (I think he would really like my husband Mike) and when Riley was born. And I miss him now almost daily with every amazing milestone that Riley too speedily conqures. I am angry at the unfairness of it all because there is so much he is missing. And there is so much Riley will miss without him as his grandfather.

But Riley is fortunate to have his own amazing father. Mike and my Dad were cut from the same cloth as it were, which is probably what attracted me to him in the first place. He is endlessly kind and generous with his love and has that same amazing gift of being able to view the world through an adventurer’s eyes. Mike is passionate and joyous and silly and he gives the BEST hugs. Riley adores his Dadada.

Mike is an incredible dad and Russy is a wonderful grandfather. And inside me the gifts from my Dad live on. Because of these three amazing fathers, I know Riley’s life will be filled with love and joy and security and adventure... The very best of everything.

Happy Fathers Day!