Another year...

 

Dear Gracie,




Two days before your third birthday, you looked up at me from whatever mess you were making (have I ever happened to mention that you possess the most beautiful blue eyes that I ever have seen?) and declared "Mama, I don't want to turn three. I want to stay your baby forever".



I had been holding it together so well. You have a habit of doing that, by the way- totally disarming me. As tears blurred the edges of my vision, I told you that as much as I wanted to freeze time, to keep you just as you are-you were already growing into a beautiful little girl and before I knew it you would be an amazing young woman.



Last year, I wrote to you telling you the story of the day you were born. Now- you can tell me all about it. You tell me that you grew in my belly when you were a tiny tiny tiny baby. You kicked and squirmed and danced while you grew. And that one day, you decided it was time to come out. So you were born, and you made Mama and Daddy so happy and you made Mimi and Grandpa cry. And then you list off the people who came to the hospital to see you and love you- and if I tell you someone that you say wasn't there (such as Dakota, the dog), you become insistent. So I let you believe what you want. And you always finish by saying "And that was the day that I became the best thing to happen to my Mama". This abridged version, told in Gracie speak, never fails to warm my heart.



We have weathered a lot together in the last few months. Lots of change, the trials of potty training, the fierceness of your desire to be independent in all things that you do, growing and bending and stretching to fit this new reality we find ourselves in, together. You have been my constant throughout all of the changes. Right by my side, reminding me to laugh at myself, abandoning whatever you're doing to run up to my side, hug my leg and tell me you love me- always at the most needed moment.

(thank you).

Gracie- you are extraordinary. Our constant mantra is this- that you are kind, beautiful, funny and smart. But the truth is- you are so much more. You are unbelievably compassionate. You have decided that when you grow up, you would like to be a nurse, just like Mimi. When I broke my foot a few weeks ago, you rubbed my knee as you told me it would be OK, because you were there with me. You are the funniest person I know, without even trying- and once you realize you are making people laugh, there is no stopping you. Your facial expressions make up for whatever words you don't quite have yet and much like your mother, all of your thoughts, pleasant or not, show up clearly on your face (sorry about that).



You have quite the fan club of young twenty-somethings, given the fact that you offer none of the usual friendship benefits such as chipping in for gas money, playing wing-woman at the bar or sharing a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese (oh wait, that one you've got under control). You have "aunts" and "uncles" that love you as if you were their own, and probably more so because you are not. You have charmed your actual family as well- with one of your cousins delivering you a bouquet of pink tulips to you on your birthday. Quite franky- you enchant just about everyone you meet, regardless of their age or possible relation to you. We FaceTime on my lunch break every Tuesday and Thursday and the therapists that I work with all rush to say hello to you, because you make everybodys day that much brighter.



You have become your own little person, making choices and preferences separate from me at an alarming rate. You love motorcycles (where I am petrified of them) and the color pink. You are constantly playing in the dirt and then, in the next breath, asking me to paint your nails. You love music, but are quick to tell me if you don't like a song of my choosing and protest loudly until I find you something more agreeable. We have dance parties in the kitchen, in the car, in the aisle of the grocery store. You sing along to the radio, with invented lyrics that rival your Mimi’s in their hilarity. You love guacamole, squash, ranch dressing and above all- pink ice cream.

If there is one thing I ask of you on the brink of your 3rd birthday, it is to fight like hell to remain true to yourself. Sooner than either of us would like, you will start to feel the pressure of squeezing yourself into spaces that don’t quite fit, becoming what other people might expect...but the person you are right now? The person you have created of your own design? That girl is awesome. And I will remind you of that, every day. You are everything I might have imagined my daughter to be- but better. Often (more often than I’d like to admit), I find my breath catching in my throat as I marvel in the fact that you actually belong to me. As the days go by, I still see so much of Daddy and I in you- but more and more, it is your own self that is shining through.


Baby girl, I would love to spend the rest of my days being the buffer between you and the real world. Protecting you from the people who will hurt you, making your choices for you and having a kiss and snuggle from me be all you need to quiet your tears. But at just barely three, you are already showing me how capable you are to stand on your own. How proud you are going to make me. I worry constantly about how the choices I make will affect you. I wonder if I am doing the right things, teaching you by example.



Everyday, your smile...your kindness...your unflappable sense of humor. They assure me that, if nothing else, even on the days when we eat cereal for dinner, dishes are piled in the sink and the living room looks like fisher price threw up all over it- we’re doing alright.



                                             And G, do you want to know my secret?



                                                      You’ll ALWAYS be my baby.



                                     So go ahead, keep getting older and breaking my heart.


                                                        I love you to the moon & back,
                                                                Happy Birthday...
                                                                     Love always,
                                                                             Mama.



One Word

I've been trying to pull together a nice,light-hearted "Year in Review" post.- I promise I'll post one, complete with sweet pictures and funny anecdotes about the last year with a girl who keeps getting funnier and sweeter with each passing day.

Might I add that it should surprise no one who knows me that these "new year" posts are arriving much closer to the middle of the month than the beginning of it. Obviously.

Naturally, there is a lot of introspection going on at this time of year. I've thought about my goals for 2012, where I see my life going in the next 365 days. It's amusing to even entertain the idea that I have much control- but if the last few years of my life have taught me anything, it's that coping skills and contingency plans are key.

I saw this on another blog (that I can't even remember now) so I can't take credit for being super creative. But I'd like to condense all my goals and "resolutions" into one word. One word to carry me through the next year, to buoy my efforts and soften my missteps.

Courage.

My word for 2012 is courage.

Courage to do what is best for me. Best for my family. Best for my daughter.

Courage to take care of myself. To say no when I need to.

Courage to become the type of woman I want my daughter to be.

Courage to speak up. Stand firm.

Courage to grow into my career,the one that still feels a little bit like dress-up or grad school. (I still have to stifle a childish grin/giggle when I introduce myself as a speech language pathologist, certain that someone is going to come around the corner and call my bluff)

Courage to make peace with my body. Because even with the progress I've made, I find myself wishing away more pounds and for smaller sizes on labels.

Courage to keep running, because it's something that I do only for myself. This year's goal? I have my sights set on completing  the Seacoast Series (6 local races, 2 of them longer than 5K's) and on running the Patriots Place 10k- because finishing on the 50 yard line of Gilette Stadium? Holy awesome.

Courage to make time. To write. To read. To breathe. I don't do enough that is only for me. Courage to be selfish, if only for a little while.

Courage in the face of obstacles and stumbling blocks and flat-out falls.

Because the word of 2011? It was retreat. I don't mean that negatively. But I was in survival mode. Finishing grad school. Finding a job. Making it through. Just surviving. I found satisfaction in continuing to breathe in and out. In keeping my daughter fed and clothed, happy and healthy. I feel no shame in that.

But in 2012?
I have the courage to want more.

Confessions of an (emotional) hoarder...

I just made a big, stressful, totally inconvenient, turn your life upside down move from a two bedroom in-law style apartment to a 3 bedroom house.

I don't enjoy change. In the last 3 months- there has been a whole lot of it in my life.

This move was very bittersweet. I found myself wandering around our old apartment, tripping over memories at every turn. This was where my daughter was brought home from the hospital. Where I paced the floor, obviously in labor but stubbornly refusing to call the doctor. This is the kitchen where, hands trembling, I found out I got into graduate school. The same kitchen that I stumbled into, delirious and giddy following post-graduation celebrations. That place saw more laughter, arguments, tears and pure joy than its square footage should have possibly been able to hold.

It was during this move that I discovered I am, in fact, a hoarder.

Not of the dead cat carcass variety. Thank goodness, because I don't need A&E knocking on my door.

But I hold onto material things as a way of keeping a grasp on the past and ensuring my foothold in the future. Each item I packed or threw away told a story for me and the process was painstaking. Each outfit of Grace's that I had stashed in our storage closet? I remember her wearing them and for a moment it was if I had my tiny baby back again. Those stayed. 7 old pacifiers- I only kept her favorite one. Birthday cards from 3 years ago? It was time to let go of those. But the high school year book that absolutely walloped me with the words scrawled on the page and the pictures and the people who have disappeared out of my life or have stood solidly by my side.. That's sitting in the top drawer of my nightstand.

You wouldn't believe it by looking in my new basement- but I threw away or donated
a lot of things. It was utlimately, a free-ing sort of process. I felt lighter, somehow, with each piece of mismatched Tupperware that I tossed in the trash.

Recognizing this pattern with the material things in my life led me to wonder...how many other "things" am I holding onto unnecessarily?

Turns out- it's a whole lot. This time of year naturally lends itself to retrospection. There are things that have happened in the past year that I am not particulalrly proud of. There are lots of things, however, that I believe I mananged to get right. And each time I found myself in tears over a photograph or angry or uncomfortable or anxious when remembering the history of something seemingly unassuminging and benign, I began to understand how little I am able to let go of.

Right now? My tupperware cabinet is perfectly organized. Each piece has a matching lid and are stacked with like containers. When I open the door I am no longer dodging an onslaught of tumbling, disorganized mess. I know it won't look like this every day, maybe not even every week...but I'm working on it. I'm working on giving each thing in my life its appropriate place to belong. And knowing how to throw it away when it grows too big or too old or doesn't quite fit anymore.

It's a process. One small teeny tiny step at a time. If I manage to avoid a collection of flattened cat carcasses in the process? Then I think I'm doing just fine.

"Problems"

I try not to irrationally, emotionally vomit too much on this blog. I try and keep off my soap box and stick to bragging about how awesome my kid is ( which is not totally obnoxious or anything) and try to make people smile.

But sometimes I just can't seem to keep my big mouth shut.

Earlier this week, I stopped at a gas station on my way to work to buy a can of soup for lunch. (procrastinating food shopping seemed like such an excellent idea on Sunday afternoon...Monday morning? Not so much) While making the difficult early morning choice between Tomato and Hearty Vegetable, I overheard the cashier asking a gentleman if he would like to donate a dollar to support cystic fibrosis research. His reply? "Jesus! I wish you people would stop asking. I don't donate any money to this bullshit because none of my kids have any problems."



Listen. I know this time of year is one of penny pinching and paycheck stretching.
I also happen to possess the fatal flaw of always giving people the benefit of the doubt (which tends to leave me extremely disappointed roughly 75% of the time) so my initial thought/hope was that this guy simply didn't have an extra dollar to spare and that his oh so tasteful response was simply his masculine bravado speaking. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I am also a giant sucker. Nine times out of ten, you ask me to donate a dollar
to a cause I'm even remotely familiar with? I'm going to do it. Tagging little league sports player are THE worst. I get this insane guilt if I don't give them a dollar when I go in the store
as well as when I exit it. Like maybe they won't remember the dollar I just donated but they will remember me as the grouchy lady who didn't give them a measly buck.


But honestly? Your kids don't have any problems? Even MORE reason to donate to causes for
families who are less fortunate than you. Pay it forward, keep you karmic balance in the positive, all that jazz.

And a little sensitivity wouldn't be out of place, even for a big macho man like yourself.
That cashier who politely asked you to consider a donation? Maybe she lost a sibling to CF. And guess what? MY kid DOES have a "problem". She's perfectly healthy now, but the future of
her health is reliant upon the generosity of other people, donating money towards research for better treatment and hopefully, a cure for the backwards gene that she had no control over inheriting. And I happen to personally know an absolutely amazing family whose life is
affected by CF every single day. And instead of lying down in the face of this ominous diagnosis, they started fighting. And their incredible little boy is surrounded by positivity and love and they have single handedly raised an unbelievable amount of money for CF research.

So if you don't have the cash? Politely decline. You never know who is listening. When you find yourself face to face with seemingly unsurmountable odds, as we all do at some (or many)
points in our lives- it's those random, subtle acts of kindness and generosity of spirits,that mean the most.

Trust me, I know.


When I got up to the counter to pay for my tomato soup, I quietly offered to donate $2.

One for my karma and one for his.

CAKE

I should probably launch into an explaination about why I haven't updated this blog in over 6 months. But the excuses wouldn't be good or new or interesting. I've been without consistent Internet for a while, without inspiration...

Today I read in an article that psychologists suggest that between the ages of 8 and 10 we are the most authentic version of ourselves. This is a humbling and startling statement ( if it's accurate, my authentic self is awkward, loves Titanic and is going to marry Leonardo DiCaprio) I'm going to challenge this however- because at 2 1/2, Grace Margaret Cayer is shockingly, unequivocally authentic. She also happens to be living her life more than a little bit like exactly how I wish I lived mine. Let me offer some examples..

1) She says no. Often. And she means it. Wearing her coat when it's below 40? Eating all of her vegetables before having a cookie? Better brush off your negotiating skills and offer some pretty hefty compensation or fool proof reasoning. While slightly infuriating, you've got to admire her tenacity. I find myself saying yes all over the place in my life while inwardly screaming "NO".

2) She embraces her innate sense of style. If it has a monkey on it? She's rocking it. Jeans "don't fit" and she currently insists on wearing only leggings and sweatpants. The.girl.is.a.genius.

3)She constantly pushes the boundaries and thinks outside the box. Don't have a phone? This Lego will do perfectly to call and text Grandpa. Want a pet cat? Oh, I just happen to be carrying around a very cute kitten in my pocket- just be sure to not sit on him. She is flexible and innovative and is constantly using her imagination. This is generally appreciated, until she uses her imagination to tell her Mimi that "Mama makes me sad because she throws me out the window".

4)She forgives instantly and trusts implicitly. Just last night, I told her that she couldn't
go to London on an airplane until she was potty-trained because diapers were not allowed on airplanes. This is now an irrovokable truth. Lest I become too drunk with this power, she has also taken to liberal use of the phrase "Are you KIDDING me?" But she doesn't waste her energy on grudges or resentment. Balance can be restored in her world with a snuggle, a kiss, a princess bandaid.

5)Exuberence and enthusiuasm. She's got 'em. Everything is an adventure. She gets excited about eating dinner, excited about reading the same book at bedtime, ecstatic when I pick her up at school. I know this won't last, I've seen glimpses of it slipping away- but that joy? It's one of my favorite things about her, something I hope she holds onto always. It gets forgotten so easily and life quickly becomes mundane without it.

6)She always says exactly what she is thinking. She tells people when she doesn't like them (this is typically very fleeting), sings a little song about being able to see various parts of my anatomy when we are together in dressing rooms (sorry, patrons of Target) and best of all- bestows I love yous and thank yous at every turn.

7) She is the most confident and unknowingly hilarious person that I know. She will recite, verbatim, that she is "Beautiful, smart, funny and kind".  She will hang up her play phone and tell me "You called me Mama. To tell me that you love me. Because you do", I will make it my personal mission to remind her of this every day. She is all of these things and more- that is her most
authentic self.

I have created a world for myself where I am constantly biting my tongue, holding back, doubting myself. I have no desire to be the person my 8 or 10 year old self wanted me to be (mainly because I think that version would be unbelievably disappointed that I did not, in fact, marry Leo).

That person has been replaced by the type of mother I want to be and exactly like the two and a half year old daughter I'm lucky enough to have.

Fairytale Dreams...

Last night Grace and I laid together in her new princess tent. We had some books in there and some baby dolls…but we chose just to be together, hand in hand, staring up at the ceiling. Grace insisted on putting on her princess pajamas for the occasion. Because of course, Grace knows she is a princess.

I am envious of Grace. She approaches everyone with this attitude. She assumes everyone will love her, find her charming and that she will always get what she wants. Mostly, she’s right. I don’t know what her dreams and aspirations are, but if I had to guess, I would imagine she will seek out a career that will allow her to always be the center of attention. She will want to be surrounded by people who she can surprise with affection and kindness. She will want to marry someone who is tall like Daddy and who understands the importance of her beauty sleep and can fetter her stubborn nature.  They also must be willing to take her dancing.

And of course, she will be a princess. With a castle. And Prince Charming. And probably a pet monkey.

 So, when do we stop believing in ourselves?

When do we stop looking for that fairytale?

When I think back to things I wanted when I was 6….9…even 14…where did that girl go? The girl who dreamt boldly. Who drew hearts around boys’ names in her diary, but didn’t lose sleep when the names were scratched out. Who recognized how smart she was and knew exactly what she deserved. Who planned out the path her life would take and didn’t imagine any deviation would be possible.

Life gets in the way of the best laid plans. Dreaming becomes scary instead of liberating. Confidence translates to cockiness and those boys? They grow up. They make mistakes. They surprise you.

We have little control over the shape our fairy tale takes. But we have complete control over how we react to these circumstances.  We can make the conscious choice to keep dreaming, even if it’s petrifying. We can take risks, appreciate our strengths and find ways to compensate for our weaknesses. We can believe that we deserve it all.

As for Grace? I will revel in her schoolyard crushes. I will support her in her early career goals (mine was to be a zoologist or the author of romantic novels set in Victorian England...those are close to reality, right?) and simply smile when she changes her mind again.

I will be there to remind her, every step of the way, that dreaming is what challenges us to be better. That comfortable isn’t always the same as safe.  That being smart is way more important than being beautiful (but she’s got that going for her too).  That the easiest choice is almost never the most fulfilling one. That fear often inspires greatness. That sometimes, you’ve got to breathe and just believe.

If you need me...

I'll be the girl leading by example.

On The Day You Were Born...

Dear Grace, 

You are a blink of an eye away from turning two.

I can't tell you the way just thinking those words crash right through my heart.

I'm so proud of all you've become. But I'm heartbroken at how fast time is racing by.

Your daddy always jokes that in 14 short years, you'll be asking to borrow the car.

I never laugh, because I know that he's right.

I wanted to tell you the story of the day you were born. I'd like to make a tradition of telling you about it on every birthday. Someday, the idea of you being brought into this world by anything but the stork will disgust you. That's probably about the time this tradition will go on hiatus. But when you start having children of your very own, you will want to know every detail. And by then, I will certainly have forgotten all but the best parts.

I will have forgotten about how the entire world took on a new tint when we learned you were going to be born. Here were people shopping for groceries, and we were getting ready to have a baby. We told everyone that we knew that you were coming, including every cashier we encountered that day. I will have forgotten that Daddy parked at the wrong entrance of the hospital and I refused to get back in the car so we had to walk the whole way around the building. Then the elevator to the labor and delivery floor was broken.

I will have forgotten the pain (thank goodness) and how Daddy broke the showerhead at the hospital trying to adjust the pressure, so that scalding hot water was beating endlessly against my back and I didn’t even care. Once you were born and I went to use the bathroom, the ceiling was leaking. I will have forgotten that I had the thought while in the shower alone that I hoped Daddy thought you were perfect because I was not ever doing this again.   I will have forgotten how I demanded an epidural because I thought you were going to take hours to arrive (when in reality, I was moments away from delivering you) and when the anesthesiologist peaked his head in the room and saw you screeching, he said “Guess you don’t need me, good job”. I will have forgotten how I thought that he was really lucky that you were so beautiful because I might have stood up and kicked him in the shins. I will have forgotten how Mimi actually pushed Daddy out of the way to be by my side for your grand entrance.  I will have forgotten that Grandpa didn’t even make it to the waiting room when he heard you cry for the first time. I will have forgotten that because I was scheduled to be induced the next day, Oma & Pops & Gram and Auntie had all turned off their cell phones. They weren’t expecting a call until the following day, so no one was around to answer the phone and Dad paced the hall finding someone to tell that you were here. He finally reached Grandma & Pepere in Connecticut and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound so proud.

You were born in the very early hours of Wednesday, April 15th, 2009. I was scheduled to be induced at 8:30 that morning. The original due date I was given was March 5th. I was also told you would be a boy. I don't need to go into detail about that debacle, because I promise I will NEVER forget about it.

When our doctor told us that I was "favorable" for induction & already 3 cm dilated, Daddy and I were thrilled. I asked the doctor what the chances were that I would have you on my own before 8:30 am tomorrow, he almost laughed in my face. Naturally, I believed him. That was my first mistake.

We spent the day calling practically everyone we knew telling them the good news. We actually jumped up and down on our bed in excitement.

This, in retrospect, was probably my second mistake.

We already had plans for dinner at a friends house, so we decided to go anyway. I remember distinctly feeling that whip crack of pain, my first genuine contraction. As I doubled over, I thought, "hmm. That's probably not good". Determined to wait until we were scheduled to be at the hospital, I didn't tell anyone. I forged ahead&enjoyed a delicious meal that has since been dubbed "the birthing burgers". On the way home, my anxiety kicked into over-drive. I worried that you might have an extra arm that ultrasounds had somehow missed. That you would be born less than perfectly healthy. That you might look too much like an alien. That you might not love me. That I might somehow be the world's worst mother.  Daddy told me we would love you anyway. (Turns out, he was right).

When we got home, there was work to be done because, you know, we were having a baby the next day and all. I tried to keep busy by putting clean sheets on the bed. Before the job was even finished, I knew something serious was happening. Your dad was watching (of all things) WWE wrestling on TV. This was not really a habit of his then- and it definitely isn't now, because I can't even hear the announcers voice without getting ptsd-esque flashbacks. I decided to "hop in the shower" where I spent the next 40 or so minutes trying not to panic as it slowly became painfully (pun intended) apparent that I was actually in labor.

We tried to time contractions. We failed because even as Daddy crawled in bed to hold me & comfort me (achingly sweet gesture, until I realized he had actually fallen asleep and subsequently wanted to kick or pinch him. Hard), I was too busy being in pain to tell him when I was having a contraction and although he is a lot of things, he is not a mind reader. Turns out I was having back labor, so I didn't really have a break between contractions. Thanks for that.

Daddy wanted to call the doctor. I wanted to be ABSOLUTELY SURE I was in labor before we called.  I'm not quite certain what kind of proof I was looking for, but when I ran to the bathroom to throw up for the third time (that’s a lovely little part of labor that we like to call transition, or a special little circle of hell), Daddy whispered into his cell phone to the doctor on call that he thought we should go to the hospital. The doctor told him that I probably had a virus, that he should tell me to take some Tylenol and “see what happens”. Daddy replied that he didn’t want to see what happens, because he was fairly certain that what would happen would be a baby.  The doctor exasperatedly agreed to let us come in, for some IV fluids so I didn’t get dehydrated. Thank goodness that Daddy was so persistent, or you would have been born in our kitchen.

We arrived at Portsmouth Hospital around 10:30 pm. My water broke at about 11:15. You were born at 1:33 am. I told Mimi that I thought I needed to push & then subsequently told her not to tell the nurse (I was so helpful and facilitating thought this whole process, huh?). The nurse (who’s name was Lou & I will never forget her) decided to check me, with a roll of her eyes, to appease me and realized, one gloved, that we were “having a baby”. She pleaded with me not to push and called first for the OB GYN and then for any doctor in the ER. There was no warming table, no scale in the room. Nothing. And after about 5 pushes (which I made absolutely no attempt to stop, I’ll have you know) you were here. Lou caught you one handed, as she didn’t have any time to put on a second glove.  I asked if you were ok, as you didn’t cry right away (you’ve been making up for that ever since). You were immediately placed on my chest and your first out of utero act was to poop all over me. I was so elated I barely even noticed. Then the doctor arrived. Clearly, you were far too busy and important to wait for him.

This is the part I won’t ever forget. You stared up at me, alert and so alive. Your eyes were somehow wise, as if we were meeting again after a long absence. You were strong as you grasped my finger and searched for my breast. You made Mimi & Grandpa cry, but I, who cries at Hallmark commercials, had no tears. You had made me stronger. Equal parts wise and clueless in one fell swoop.  I didn’t feel as though I was meeting you for the very first time, because I had confided in you for nine months. Told you my fears. Laughed as you rippled across my belly.  I felt as though I had found my best friend. That we were together at last, where everyone could see for themselves how special, how brilliant you were.

I won’t ever forget those first few days. How our hospital room was constantly full to the point of explosion, full of people who marveled at your perfection and who love you still to this day. How we didn’t sleep for almost 48 hours, functioning on the fuel of our excitement. I can still will myself to feel that calm and still of the first morning, before any visitors arrived and it was just the three of us, as a family, in that small hospital room with sunshine streaming in through the windows, oblivious to the world marching on without us. When our life gets crazy, when I forget to breathe and feel like I might teeter over the edge, I reclaim that moment, hold it in my mind and my heart. 

Thanks for making your way into this world far easier than the 9 months that preceeded it. Mostly, just thank you. 

Love you to the moon & back, 

Always yours,

Mama

You pulled my trigger


The song that rang out was so pretty and new


How did you get so wise


With one look in my eyes



I guess that's what angels can do