Euphoria

Today- July 31, 2007. My last day in this ‘suck-you-in-till-the-memory-of-who-you-were-before-banking-is-just-a-vague-memory’ job.  I feel like an innocent convict escaping from Alcatraz. 

Freedom. 

At last.

An Endless Horizon

Being a parent is damn cool.  Sure, there are the oh-my-god-I-want-to-rip-my-hair-out days when Mira sets about testing her vocal cords.  Yeah, she’s young but she can warp window panes with those screams and with continued practice I’m sure she’ll shatter a glass by the time she’s a teenager.  But the rest of the days are truly amazing.  It’s a simple concept I know- watching someone learn and grow.  One day she finds her feet and her fascination with them knows no bounds, and even though it’s her feet and her moment- I’m finding my own feet all over again.  Since then her little brain has developed exponentially and is now tackling bigger feats (sorry for the pun), and the world is new and shiny and ripe for the learning. Being there with her, witnessing her take it all in, is truly godlike. 

I suppose being a parent might be the closest human beings can come to understanding the mind of god.  Witnessing first hand the life you have created: nurturing the infant, protecting the curious toddler, and literally –awestruck- watching a little person flourish.

Yesterday I took Mira to the beach with my sister Kelly.  I have taken Mira there once or twice before, but that was prior to her bipedal evolution and therefore probably not too memorable for her.  This time she was completely aware.  Aware of the sand between her toes and the smell of the salt water in the air.  Aware of the throngs of tourists awaiting the spectacular Sarasota sunset.  Aware of the abundant billowy mass of clouds dancing overhead.

 

She ran with her arms held high above her head like, WOW HERE I AM!  She squealed and giggled and ran circles around us poor less-energized adults.

When I took her hand and walked her to the shoreline I relived my own childhood captivation with the sand and surf.  When I saw her become aware of the rush of the warm Gulf waves lapping her feet, I suddenly remembered just how cool the beach is.  She eventually turned her gaze outward from her feet.  Her eyeballs grew wide with the sight of the infinite horizon.  Her mouth grew slack and formed a perfect little ‘O’ and she looked back to me and pointed to it as if she were asking me to describe this strange phenomenon.  But what can you say about the scope of this small planet of ours?  I just smiled at her and pointed right back to the horizon. 

No words needed. 

       

Enrolling in Hogwarts – an online apology

For the record I was never a Harry Potter fan. I ridiculed my friends for caving into the cult phenomenon that is Harry’s world- for waiting in line outside Barnes and Noble hours before midnight on the day of a new release; I chuckled for those hapless souls sporting the iconic black, round rimmed glasses and swooning over the mere mention of the name Potter. Can we say pass the grape KoolAid?

My ignorance about Harry Potter had one scapegoat- Es. Es has been working on me for years. She’s been an avid PotterFreak- errr, fan since day one, and therefore the butt of numerous ‘cult-crazed-hippie’ jokes. Es took the bantering in stride and never wavered in her loyalty to her goddess Rowling. She attempted to sway me to the Potter-side but eventually gave me up as a lost cause.

Es and I did a two week volunteer stint in Sri Lanka together shortly after the ’04 tsunami. Unfortunately this period coincided with the release of yet another Potter book. I think it was the fifth or maybe the sixth, but in any event, to me it felt like 302^nd. I would roll my eyes whenever she whipped that book out.

“Why don’t you read a grown-up book?” I would ask in my bookish arrogance. For my reading pleasure I had packed Dostoevsky’s, The Idiot (appropriately enough). Yet Es would just sigh in a knowing way and reiterate how powerful the series was and how innately good.

We were in our quaint hotel room, unwinding from a long day volunteering at the camps. We were reading side by side, Es with Rowling me with Dostoevsky. After a short period of time I came upon a particularly moving paragraph. For the life of me now, I can’t remember what it was about; but it was one of those moments with a book that every reader longs for and every writer lives to convey. I literally read it- paused- reread it, sighed and laid the book flat on my chest to ponder over the awesome power of the eloquently-written word. The power to so accurately convey a thought- a feeling- that a connection is made right through to the very core of the reader.

I turned to Es. “You’ve got to listen to this.” I read the section out loud.

“Wow.” Es put her book down and we laid there together simmering in the power of that single paragraph. There wasn’t a need to sit and discuss it. The paragraph literally spoke for itself. There was nothing left to do but bask in the inherent profoundness of it.

Eventually we picked up our books again and continued reading. A short time later Es with her mouth agape, turned to me. “Oh my god! You won’t believe this. Listen-.” She proceeded to read a short section from Harry Potter. And would you believe that what she read so mirrored the sentiment of my profound paragraph of Dostoevsky that even I sat there slack jawed? Granted, it wasn’t as thick or meaty as Dostoevsky’s prose. It was didn’t carry the eloquence or grandeur, but there was no mistaking the emotion and meaning were one in the same.

She smirked at my speechlessness. “Not bad for a kid’s book, huh?”

It was my first taste at the deeper meaning of the Harry Potter books. Maybe it’s not all wizards and wands and broomsticks. If J.K Rowling can convey such intrinsically human thoughts to such a wide-range of children and people, who am I to argue? If children are more willing today to break away from their Playstations and computer games to sit down with a book- then she should be lauded as a savior. If Rowling has convinced even a handful of her readers, out of the faction of thousands and thousands, that there is more to books than homework assignments and tests, then she deserves praise. If her books shape minds today then these same minds tomorrow may be more open to sitting with Dostoevsky or Hugo, Tolstoy or Miller, Faulkner or Joyce. The possibilities are limitless. She has created a generation of avid readers.

With the release of the newest and final Harry Potter book, along with Es’ continuous and steadfast defenses of the scrawny protagonist, I have given in. I will be reading the Potter series. In hindsight, I probably would have read it after our insightful incident in Sri Lanka if it wasn’t for the fact that sometimes it’s just fun to rile and be contrary to Es.

So I send this out as an apology to J.K. Rowling and Es. In Rowling’s defense, I never gave her a fair chance. I didn’t have anything personal against her writing style or characters or even the story line itself; I just grew aggravated at the mass hysteria that infected the general population. I suppose I should have trusted the judgment of my fellow man. But after such mindless mishaps as Pogs, Pokemon, and beanie babies can you really blame me?

Yet another reason why I love Howard

In the midst of a phone conversation with Howard, he announces that he’s dizzy. 

“Why are you dizzy?”

Howard has one of those jobs where he’s just as likely to be hanging out on some rooftop or wriggling through some crawlspace as he is to be at his desk.  He had mentioned earlier in the conversation that he was writing something so I assumed he was at the office, but maybe he was off precariously dangling somewhere which would explain the vertigo.  

“I was just spinning myself around on my chair,” he announced matter-of-factly. 

And I have to laugh at the thought of him, a 39 year old man, spinning round-and-round on his chair; and laugh even more heartily because I myself have surprised more than one coworker by childishly swirling myself dizzy inside of my little cubicle to break the mundane monotony of my job.   

“Argh, I just did it again,” he stated a few minutes later. 

I love that he’s still a big kid at heart.       

One Year Later

Who knew that planning a birthday party for a one year old could be so time consuming and hectic?  Luckily the event was a major success and I had more guests show up than anticipated- which just goes to show you can’t estimate a number of attendees by the RSVPs you get.    

The house was literally packed with people, and Mira was spoiled with gifts beyond belief.  She walked around in amazement at the mass of family and friends and multitude of toys.  I was a bit nervous at first- I thought she might get freaked out by all the faces staring at her and picking her up; but she was a little trooper.  She showed off her sign language skills and graciously “allowed” herself to be held without too much of a fuss.   

I think the real secret to her acceptance of all the chaotic changes from her normal setting were actually due to other children.  There were nine children there ranging in ages from six months to 13 years old- and one in the making with an expected arrival time in January.  Mira spent most of her time examining these other “little people” with a curious intensity.  If it weren’t for the other kids I doubt she would have been so lenient with us boring adults!      

And even with all these little ones running under foot, we didn’t have any major spills or accidents.  The house was filled with the sounds of laughter and cheer.  There were so many people – and I want to thank each and every one of them for helping make Mira’s first birthday such a memorable one.  

As everyone was huddled around singing “Happy Birthday”, I gazed at Howard and Mira and thought back upon the last twelve months.  We’ve come far together.  It really has been a nonstop whirlwind since Mira’s been born.  (I won’t go so far back to include the pregnancy because that was a hellishly long period on its own.)  The fears and doubts I had in the beginning, wondering how I would ever get this parenting thing down, have been replaced with a comfortable assurance.  I no longer worry about how I’ll teach her to walk, talk, eat, and in all things be human.  I’m following Mira’s lead.  Like her, I have to take everything one step at a time.   

The other day I was watching Mira play in the living room.  She was literally running from one toy to the next.  There is a naturalness to parenting.  When you actually calm down enough after being ejected from the hospital with a tiny infant that you are solely responsible for, you’ll realize it’s not constant thought or struggling so much as letting your heart lead.  You know a lot more than you think.  As I watched Mira play I realized we have hit a good balance.  She must think so to because she walked over to me and grabbed my hand.  We walked together into her room; as I felt her little hand grasping mine, and heard her chubby feet slapping the tile floor with each step, I felt such complete contentment.  My girl and I will be just fine. 

KaBAAAAMMM ! ! !

Aside from the stifling boil your eyeballs heat of Florida summers, you have to love them for the awesome lightning shows they produce. Summer nights here are filled with heavy clouds that are equally likely to produce or not produce rain; and even on nights when you aren’t graced with showers the skies above perform electrifying displays that put Disney Light Parades to shame. It’s a mix between the BOLTS of traditional lightning and the slightly mellower but equally awesome heat lightning that illuminates an entire cloud or portion of the sky without any noticeable boundaries.

I am fond of both: the traditional for its flashy dark and distinguishably frazzled looking lines of electricity darting across the sky and the heat kind for its humble grace of vast limitless energy.

How can one not be amazed and utterly enthralled by nature?

Howard and I took turns standing in our backyard trying to catch lightning. It proved to be a bit difficult with our digital camera. There is that distinct lag time between pressing the shutter button and the camera actually responding. Then you have to wait that annoying fraction of a second when the image you took is displayed on the LCD screen before you can take another picture. And did I mention the mosquitoes? Howard and I took turns trying to fan each other off while the other took pictures. We must have been quite a sight out there swatting giant blood suckers from each other’s feet and arms while the other diligently aimed the lens at the sky.

We were just shy of 100 pictures when the intense itching and incessant buzzing finally got to us. Out of these hundred pictures there were surprisingly few with actual bolts of lighting and unfortunately heat lightning isn’t photogenic; it ends up looking like a daytime shot of a cloud. But no worry- this only fuels us with a new summertime passion.

We’ll catch lightning yet.

What not to do to your significant other on Friday the 13th

Yesterday rocked.  I spent the whole day alone with my daughter.  Both Howard and Bob are out of town so we had the house to ourselves.  We took advantage of the solitude to do silly mommy-baby stuff.  We danced and sang, took an extra long bath, ran circles in the living room, and thoroughly played with ALL the toys in her toybox- and all this came after our special morning outing.  I’ve decided that I want to make more of an effort to open Mira up to new experiences, sights, and people.  So after Mira finished her breakfast I packed a diaper bag and we headed out to Ringling Museum.  I was a bit hesitant at first- I wondered how we would be received at such a quiet tranquil setting.  

You can imagine how overjoyed I was when every attendant and volunteer, along with a majority of the other visitors on the grounds, stopped to ogle Mira.  She was quite the little ham.  It happened to be a field trip day and there were lots of older children around.  When a pack of young Girl Scouts swarmed us like mosquitoes at dusk, Mira amazed them by conducting the circus music at the miniature three-ring exhibit.  As soon as the music started Mira sat upright in her stroller and waved her hand in time with the music.  As the throng of giggling girls squealed with delight my daughter orchestrated with renewed gusto.  My little Maestro.   

The trip was a huge success. My night on the other hand was a different story; although not in any part Mira’s doing.  I had put her to bed at her normal bedtime of 7:30.  I emptied out the dishwasher and tried to straighten up a few things knowing that Howard would probably be getting home Friday night or Saturday morning.  At 9:30 I was bored.  Mira was sleeping, nothing was on TV, and I didn’t feel energized enough to do anything productive like reading or writing.  I did the next best thing- I decided I’d enjoy a king-size bed all to myself and hit the sheets early.   

At 3:00 in the morning I awoke with a start. Did I just hear the front door?  No- it couldn’t be, I distinctly remembered locking it.  I leaned up slightly from my pillow and looked out into the living room.  When Howard is home we always sleep with our bedroom door closed; but having both him and Bob out of town left me with the freedom to sleep not only with my door open, but also in a tee shirt and my underwear.  The living room was dark but my eyes were adjusted to the lack of lighting and I could immediately see the shadow of someone walk into the direction of the kitchen.  My heart’s rhythmic beating increased so infinitely that I’m sure, if one had access to look upon it, it would have looked like it was at a standstill.  My heart beat so rapidly it froze, I had my own tiny pulsar in my chest.  

My first thought was Mira.  She seemed so far away on the other side of the house.  How would I get to her without being seen by this guy?  He stood between us.  I heard him out in the kitchen- stuff rattling around on the counter.  My brain tried to come up with a normal reason why someone would walk into my house at 3:00 in the morning.  Maybe it’s Howard- but no, I had spoken to him and he didn’t say anything about coming home early.  My parents? No, they would have definitely called.  Bob home early maybe, or a friend?  No and no.  Again, it was 3:00 in the morning, not the most acceptable time for social calls. 

I had systematically ruled out any scenario in which I should not be alarmed.  The shuffling in the kitchen continued as my anxiety increased.  I remembered when I was a little girl in my parents house, how whenever I was frightened I would pull my thick blue and white crotched blanket that grandma Ellie made me around my head.  The heaviness of the blanket gave me a small sense of security.  But I knew that I wasn’t a little girl anymore- my little girl was sleeping innocently in her crib.  This stranger was in MY house! Adrenaline coursed through body and every muscle clenched tightly.  In the fraction of a second that had passed since I saw the figure, I had accessed that there WAS immediate danger.  I knew that I would only have a mere fraction of a second to decide what to do.   I glanced to the corner of the room where Howard keeps the Japanese sword that Mike gave him.  It stood in clean view of the door.  I could be easily seen from there if the intruder was still in the kitchen.  I debated on making a dash for it – but then had another thought.  If I could call 911 they would at least be on route.  Didn’t I hear a statistic somewhere that said most emergency calls are responded to in 6 minutes?  I should call them first and whisper to them that there is a baby in the house.  Then I could make a lunge for the sword and if worse comes to worse I’d struggle with the guy for 6 minutes or so.  But what if he has a gun and shoots me right away.  And why the hell am I sleeping in my underwear.  Should I get a pair of pants on first? NO! What am I crazy?  I can’t waste precious time with silly modesty when my daughter’s safety is at stake. I grabbed my cell phone from my night stand and flipped it open.  I never realized how ridiculously bright the screen is on my phone.  I felt like the girl in Jurassic Park wildly flinging a flashlight around in front of the T-Rex.  I immediately hid the phone under my sheets and tried to hold my hand over the speaker so the sound of the buttons wouldn’t give me away.  I opened a small sliver of an opening in my sheet so I could see my phone.  I had just enough time to dial a 9 when I heard footsteps at the door- my ears were ringing loudly and I tried to feel my way to the 1 without taking my eyes off the door.  The silhouette entered and started making his way to my side of the bed.  I held tightly on the phone and decided I would have to dart to the sword and dial as I went.  I had no time for error.  As I started to rise from the mattress, I felt something familiar about the person hovering near me.  As I focused my breathing I realized I knew that bald head. “Boo.” Howard exclaimed at I sat up fully.  I can not begin to describe to you how happy and angry I was at the exact same time.  My body ached from clenching it so hard, my finger still hung over the 1 on my phone, and the adrenaline was still coursing through my body.  I knew I was safe and it was just Howard; but all I could do was cry.  Sob actually.  I balled more than my daughter does when you try to take food out of her hands.  I don’t think I was ever so afraid in all my life because this time I felt like my daughter was threatened.   In hindsight, Howard is extremely lucky I grabbed the phone before the sword because had it been the other way around- and even if I knew it was him, I would have been tempted to run him through just out of sheer anger.   

Living

You can’t make room for the future when you are full of the past.

To Tina, April, and pregnant women everywhere . . .

. . . you have no idea how good it will get!

May 22, 2007

Dear Mira,

At ten months old you have officially been out in the world longer than you were in my belly. You seem to like it out here. You’ve taken an active interest in the going-ons around you; you are an observant little girl. And somewhere within the past couple of weeks, your father and I have become not only the care-givers, but disciplinarians as well. Why the additional role so early in your life?

YOUR WILL. You are mastering the art of making your wants and desires known- and like your father you can be pretty stubborn about it (but don’t tell him I said that).

A scenario: The other day you were playfully crawling around the living room. Your father and I have been a bit slack about baby proofing the house, so we try to keep you corralled into one section of the living room, and even this section isn’t completely baby proofed but it does allow us to sit on the couch and oversee your progress. One minute you were happily playing with your Fisher Price piano, bouncing up and down in time with the music, making us explain how musically talented you are how Mozart himself must have had a similar start- only Mozart couldn’t have possibly been anywhere near as cute and precious to look upon. From across the room something called to you. Hidden from the casual observer, in the concaves of the entertainment center, was the PlayStation. Its tiny blinking green light must have hypnotized you like sirens of Odysseus because you determinedly crawled right to it and pulled yourself up the shelves in the blink of an eye. Your father grunted some sort of warning, a sound that must be bred inherently into all dads; it conveys disapproval without requiring the effort of any movement. You turned ever so coyly and looked to where we were sitting on the couch as if to say, “who, moi?” in a phony French accent.

“Mira, no!” your father commanded. And normally- this works. Usually you take this command to mean that whatever your activity is its time to return to daddy and mommy. Up to this point you would normally crawl ever so cutely back to where you started from, no worse for the wear.

Not this time. You made eye contact with him and from my point observing I was amazed at how similar it was to old western movies. I could hear the clichéd music and see the close-ups of your eyes, the setting sun in the distance, a tumbleweed blowing haphazardly nearby. This was a duel. You weren’t backing down. I can’t be a hundred percent certain, but I’m almost positive that I saw a slight smirk play across your face; a knowing smirk that seemed to say, I can handle this, and without breaking eye contact with your father, your little chubby hand rose and pushed the blinking power button on the Playstation.

“MIRA, No!” Your father stood up and walked over to you.

“Mira, that’s not a toy,” I interjected.

Your father picked you up to move you back towards your piano. The whole time you never took your eyes off him. As he picked you up I could see the rise of your chest as your inhaled deeply, and before your father had a chance to put you down you screamed- but it wasn’t just the scream itself that caught us off guard. It was the arching of your back as your flung your head back and forth. It was a full-grown temper tantrum.

I guess your father and I assumed we would have at least a year or two before temper tantrums came into play. I mean, I heard they were a staple of the terrible twos. But this young?

Since then we’ve talked to other parents. I’m reading more about it online and I guess you’re right on schedule. We’re still not to sure how to handle this weapon you wield so naturally. For now, we just set you down and ignore you. You’ve done it to me numerous times since, and all I can do is set you down on the floor and pretend the high pitched screaming doesn’t affect me. But oh how horribly grating of a scream it is, and the fact that it comes from the cute little mouth of my daughter only pains me more. I take stock in the fact that other parents say this is normal, but I secretly pray in my pillow at night you won’t grow up to be a whining little kid.

There are good parts too, Mirababy, there are. You make my heart sing when you smile so big it crinkles your nose. It makes me laugh because it’s not just your mouth or even your eyes that light up, but your whole big head! Every atom in your face becomes electrified and how can the world not be happier place with you in it? You and your father have invented a game. It reminds me of a game I used to play with my dad. We called it Monster. My dad would lie on the floor and my siblings and I would run circles around him. He would lie there very still while we endlessly circled around him, and then- WHAM! He would reach out and grab one of us and drag us down into a tight bear hug. The prisoner would squeal and scream and the rest of the siblings would pounce on “the monster” and attempt to rescue our captive brethren. Dad would wrestle with us for a bit before allowing us to escape. Then we would start circling him again and our game would start anew. It could last for hours- or at least in my memory it lasted for hours; whether in reality it was mere minutes or days, the fact was we would be breathless and incredibly happy. Sure, inevitably somebody would end up getting hurt. But that only made us tough.

The game you seem to have fallen into with your dad is similar in the regard that you wait for him to “attack”. You sit there and give him a look that just screams, “GET ME, I DARE YOU!” So he throws up his arms in a classic monster pose and with a guttural GGGGRRRR lunges at you. You squeal loudly and attempt to get to me. I guess I must be your “base” because if I’m in the room the only safe spot is to burrow your body into me. If I’m not accessible, then the couch is your lifeline. You scoot your way to the sofa, giggling hysterically as your dad growls closely behind you, and ram your face into it. Then you turn, a smile beaming off your lips, and you give your dad that look again. You guys can do that for hours- or at least it seems like hours. But the fact is you end up breathless and incredibly happy. I’m sure when you’re a bit older your father will figure out a way to incorporate some level of risk and pain. You know, just enough to make you tough.

And one of my all-time favorite moments with you is at night. You hug me when I carry you to your crib at night. At first it was just a desperate clinging as the crib came into view and you realized the dreaded night-night time had arrived. I would use your frantic scurrying to snuggle you closer to me and inhale your scent. But even then, as soon as I placed you in your crib and pulled grandma’s quilt near you, you would stroke it lovingly and suck your thumb and, 9 times out of 10, blissfully nod off to sleep. It was just the walk to the crib that you rebelled against. Nowadays you don’t revolt against getting near the crib at all. You seem to realize this time in your crib is your time. It’s not uncommon that I hear you, often up to half an hour or so after I put you in there, playing happily and contentedly. Sometimes, I swear you’re singing in there. It’s as if this time, before naps and bed, is yours alone. Luckily for me, the habit of scurrying into me before bed has become less of a struggle and more a full-out hug. We snuggle and I kiss you and whisper, “Goodnight Madam President” into your ear.

Love, Mom

To be read while humming “Manic Monday”

Granted I’ve been in banking for the past five years, so I can’t say with certainty whether this Monday morning routine happens anywhere else with such regularity.  But every Monday- every single one since I’ve been here starts out the same.  Haggard looking, disheveled employees straggle in anywhere between 5 minutes and 45 minutes later than their usual time, and greet each other with the same exact salutations as they did the previous Monday. 

 

“How was your weekend?” one asks. 

And the other inevitably replies, “It went by way too quickly.”

 

Or the slight variance:

“Good morning!”

“Monday- ERRRGGH.”

 

Or the ever popular: 

“Well, here we are again.  The start of another week. . .”

“ERRGGH.”

 

The Monday morning grunts and grumbles- a staple of the work week as necessary as coffee and watercoolers.