Just A Little Longer

It's 8:24 on a Thursday evening.

The toddler should be sleeping and I should be curled up in bed with two pups, catching up on Jon Stewart, Glee and those crazy Housewives.

But she isn't and I'm not.

I'm lying on brand new floors being fed plastic food cooked for me by a curly headed girl with bright blue eyes, who is waiting expectantly for me to eat and rave over her superior cooking skills.

I tell her it's delicious and that I love her.

She beams, giggles and takes my plate back to the kitchen.

"Milk?"  Ever the hostess, she offers me one of her plastic milk bottles which, 20 years ago, were found in my own personal kitchen.

I slurp and lick my lips.  She giggles again and slurps right after me.

We grin at each other.  A knowing grin.  A special grin shared by two people who once shared a body.

A grin that says "I love you and I love this moment" without having to speak a word.

She should be sleeping.  I should be resting.

But it's a Thursday night and I've been away from the house for over twelve hours.

A few more minutes won't hurt.


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My Girl

I'll be honest - for the first year of Natalie's life, I dutifully put together a monthly post all about what she was up to and all the new tricks she had learned.  They were upbeat, positive and raving about my precious little girl.  But most of the time (especially for the first six months) it was a facade....obviously I was protective of this little girl who had been brought into our world but she didn't quite feel like MINE.  Or I guess, in other words, I didn't quite feel like her mother.  I was putting on a show and going through the motions of what I suspected mothers who instantly felt that rush of emotions for their child did.

And here we are at fifteen months old as of June 8th.

This might be the first post where I am fully invested in the words that I write.

I am absolutely infatuated with my daughter.

She has me transfixed on her slightest moves and twitch of her face.  I have become that mother that is entranced by a peacefully slumbering child.  I truly want to capture every moment of her life (good and bad) because I now understand how quickly time can change a newborn to an infant to a toddler.

I have missed enough of her life.  I refuse to miss any more.

She is truly a beautiful little creature that has wandered into my life.  From the concentrated furrow of her eyebrows while coloring at the coffee table with me to the look of surprise and "uh oh" when the unexpected occurs.  The way she moves her toys around in the playroom, not quite in any discernible fashion to the observing adult but in a manner which is obviously important to her.  Although she doesn't quite have the words to explain it, there is always a method to her madness.

I am seeing more and more of myself encapsulated in her tiny frame.  An innate love of water and dogs that is shared by the generations of women in my family.  Or tonight when playing at a friend's home, she didn't want to cook or serve the play food at the plastic kitchen.  No, not my child.  She carefully....methodically....put each cooking utensil, each pot and pan stowed safely and neatly away in the bottom of the kitchen.  Just like she does with Momma when emptying the dishwasher.  Or the pride and determination in her face and demeanor as she struts through the house pushing baby dolls and stuffed animals in a stroller.  But what really gets me about the stroller.........after she puts her baby or animal in the seat but before taking off on an adventure, she delicately gives her creature a kiss on the forehead.  I kiss her every time I put her in her carseat.  Every.  Single.  Time.  She is an observant little thing.

Dolls.  Stuffed animals.  Coloring.  Swimming.  Playing pretend.

These are things I understand.  This is the stuff that my childhood is made of.  Hours spent arranging and rearranging Barbie doll house furniture.  Or taking my Cabbage Patches on fabulous voyages across the world without ever really leaving my white wrought iron day bed.  Summers focused on perfecting my back dive and crawl stroke.....and my tan.  As I watch her at play, I can see the layers of her babyhood shedding off day by day and there is a little girl starting to peek out; MY little girl is peeking out.

She is brave, my girl.  Much braver than I ever was.  She has no fear of strangers and the unknown and instead walks boldly into new experiences and delights in discovery.  Even at fifteen months old, she is teaching me.  Forcing me to step outside of my own comfort zone and make contact and conversation with the woman she just happily waved at.  She is curious and contemplative.  She does not just look but seeks understanding.  Looking from her point of view, there is so much I take for granted.  A tree is a tree to me.  But to her it is all new.  She doesn't know about the soil in which the tree is rooted in.  Roots that lead up to a trunk protected by bark.  A trunk that provides support for the branches which give way to leaves.  And how without the rays from the sun and the rain from the heavens the tree would wither and rot away.  There is so much in the world for her to discover and find enchanting.

A year ago, the amount of knowledge my child had to learn overwhelmed me.  I was consumed with giving my child the best possible advantage in life.  I was determined to not make a mistake in order to not damage her.  Because sometimes there are things out there in that big enchanting world that can destroy sweet little girls like the one I was holding in my arms.  But just as she has gained her footing on this Earth, so have I in parenting her.  I take things step by step.  I protect her from what I can and from what I should at each step in our journey.  But I give her the amount of freedom she needs to grow strong and to be independent.

And strong and independent she is.  And smart and sweet.  And lovely and joyful.

A long time ago I couldn't picture a future for my family with myself in the photograph.  All I envisioned was a little bit lonely and a lot bit sad daddy raising his beautiful daughter all on his own, the best way he knew how.  In my eyes he was the one brushing hair into a ponytail for a basketball game.  There was no hairbow because there was no Momma to put on the finishing touch.  There was no Momma to teach her how to be tough and feminine at the same time.  I saw him completely flustered shopping for prom dresses with an impatient teenager.  A fight ensuing because there wasn't a mother there to help find the right fit, the right jewelry and of course the right shoes.  There were lots of meals spent with take-out and silence because there wasn't a Momma with a love for cooking hanging out in the kitchen and creating conversation at the dinner table.  I know what I bring to my household and I understand my value as a woman, a wife and a mother.  Sure.  If something tragic were to happen, he could manage.  He would gather himself together and raise our daughter to be an amazing woman.  But it wouldn't be better that way.  They need me.  Not just for hairbows, prom dresses and cooking but because of my lightness, my silliness, my compassion, my insight, my creativity, my direction and my ambition.  But above all of it?  They need my love.  My daughter needs me because God chose me to be her mother and raise her to be a wonderful Christian woman.  

In retrospect, I didn't see myself in the future because I wasn't existing in the present.  I was floating up and above my family, my body, my self.  I was so wrapped up in that damn fog.

But........right now?  I'm here.  I'm living in the moment and enjoying my daughter, my husband and even those crazy pups of mine.  I'm soaking in the sweet kisses, hugs and snuggles she freely doles out.  I giggle at her silly faces and expressions.  I relish in her creativity and curiosity.  I take pride in her independence and bravery.  I breathe deeply through her tantrums and tears, fits and foibles.  I have patience with myself and confidence in my abilities.  It's not always pretty raising a toddler, but I've found the groove the fits my family.

I didn't think it would get better.  Honestly.  I didn't.  I really thought that I would forever have a little black fog following me around as I navigated my way through her life.

I cried writing this post.  Sat on my bed with two precious pups next to me while Florence and the Machine sang on the stereo and tears rolled down my cheeks.  It's not the first time tears have fallen on my keyboard while writing about my journey through motherhood.  But it is the first time they are tears of joy.  Tears of relief.

Good morning!

7:40 am on a Saturday morning in May. Daddy is at a basketball tournament so this is what we girls are doing.


Last night was the 8th grade awards banquet and formal. I chose not to go in lieu of dinner and a margarita with my husband and daughter after an absolutely CRAZY Field Day that included (among other things) a broken arm, two referrals, and three buckets of water poured on yours truly. Sigh.

I'm a little sad that I missed out on seeing all my lovely girls all dressed up and receiving their awards but I needed to rest and relax.

Besides....the years will fly by and soon enough I will be shopping for a formal dress with Natalie while Craig will be screening her potential dates. Ha!



But in the meantime...we are going to work on our animal noises and wooden puzzles this morning.

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Mini Me

The first time people see my child their initial response is something regarding how much she looks just like her daddy. And they're right......she most definitely has his eyes. But the rest of her? That's all momma.

Case in point:


Here I am just home from work. Yep. I wear a t-shirt, shorts and tennis shoes everyday and more than that, today in my area it was warm enough on this last day of January to wear shorts. Outside. Because it's above 70 degrees. Anyways. Focus on my build. Although I'm a big bigger than I would like right now, I'm naturally long, lean and athletic. I hit 6'0 by the time I was 16 and I wear a size 11 Nikes. I never could wear shorts to school growing up due to my super long legs.


Now here is Natalie at almost 11 months in her outfit for the day. She is over 30 inches long but only 21 pounds. Those shorts are 18 months and won't make it to summer because she will outgrow them. And the shoes she wore with this outfit? Size 5.

Like mother, like daughter.


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Grandma

All week I've been feeling like a little black cloud has been following me around.  Just an overall sense of discontent, unease and general out of sorts.  I tried some volleyball therapy last night but that session was ended quickly when I rolled my ankle (again) and had to limp out of the game and head home early for ice, elevation and compression.  My dreams have been out of control this week - completely off the charts weird and totally terrifying.  

I've just been feeling anxious and contemplative.  But WHY?!  If I knew the source I could figure out the solution.

And today, thanks to my friend Shemika, I remembered why.

Shemika and I come from very different backgrounds which has lead to some very interesting and enlightening conversations in the girls' coaching office.  But despite our differences we have one thing in common - our wonderful grandmothers.  

Today would be Shemika's grandmother's birthday while ten years ago today during dinner with my brother and parents at the Cheddar's in College Station did I find out that my beloved maternal grandma had passed away.

When Shemika mentioned her grandmother's birthday this morning to me, time stood still and I felt like I had been hit in the gut.  

Of course.  That's why I've been more emotional.  That's why I've been preoccupied with crazy dreams.  That's why I'm crying right now.

Even with the greatest of wordsmiths and the largest selection of dictionaries at my disposal.....I would not be able to find the right words to accurately describe and depict my grandma.  She was one of the most inspirational women I have ever met but yet at the same time the most complex.  Maria Amalia was born in Naples, Italy in 1914 and was an Italian Red Cross nurse during World War II.  Towards the end of the war while spending time on the vacation island of Capri she met a tall and handsome American pilot.  They married in her mother's apartment and due to the shortage of proper dress material, she created her wedding dress out of the silk parachute that once saved my grandfather's life as he jumped from his airplane during a mission.  After the war the young couple traveled across the ocean to settle in my grandfather's home state of Louisiana where my mother and uncle were born 14 months apart from each other.  My grandpa eventually became a highly respected member of the agricultural department at Texas A&M and through his career my mother and her family were able to travel the world and live in a variety of places such as Vietnam and Tunisia.  Eventually they settled back in College Station where they lived the remainder of their lives and where they are now buried in the city cemetery.  

But what is the most amazing aspect of my grandmother's life was not her memories of living in a war torn nation nor was it her stories of raising children overseas during the 1950s.  It was her words, her outlook on life, her strength, her dignity, her compassion and her endless curiosity.  

She had this way of making the most seemingly complex problems.........so simple.  With just a few words she could calm my nerves, my anxiety, my frustration, my anger.......her words and advice were like the bright rays of sun that would break through the cloudy sky and illuminate a small patch of grass.  Over the past year I've thought about what Grandma would tell me about being Natalie's mother.  What advice would she give me.  The reassurance.  The comfort her words would bring me.  What I wouldn't give to be able to spend just one more hour with her.  To show her my daughter.  To hold her hand.  

My most cherished and favorite memory of her from my childhood........when my family would first arrive at my grandparent's house in College Station, after the initial "hellos" and "how are yous," my mother and grandma would go lay down on the bed in my mother's room and talk and catch up.  Most of the time they spoke in Italian or French........and sometimes a mixture of both.  I would crawl up between the two of them and lay down, close my eyes and just listen to the flow of their foreign languages roll over me.  My grandma would stroke my long hair and I would drift off into that purgatory between awake and sleep, I could hear what they are saying but it was almost as if I were floating above them.  When my mother would stroke my head and play with my hair it was hurried, harsh and rough but with Grandma.......maybe it was due to arthritis or maybe gentleness and patience is just something women learn with time.  When Grandma stroked my head and hair it was soft, tender and simply wonderful.

That's the moment I miss.  In that moment I knew I was wholly loved and not just by the two women lying next to me but by the generations of strong women that came before them.  There's still some sort of magic for me when I hear Italian being spoken.  I can close my eyes, open my ears and I'm back on that bed, being lulled to sleep by the lilt of my mother and grandmother's voices alternating back and forth.

I miss her voice.  The way she would say "Ciao bella" every time we hung up on the telephone or how there were certain English sounds that just didn't translate into her native Italian so my father's name Doug came out more like "Dog."  Or how it never failed after Sunday lunch at her home in College Station she would disappear into the kitchen and return with a blue glass bowl full of fruit asking us if we wanted a pear, an orange or an apple.  We all took a piece just to make her happy.  I miss how she would stock her fridge with Dr. Pepper and Hawaiian Punch every time the grandkids would visit because she knew those were our favorite drinks.  I still have the specially knit Cabbage Patch outfits she would carefully create for my beloved doll Ellie.

I could fill a novel about my grandma and hopefully someday I'll be able to make these memories come alive for Natalie so that she can have a clear vision of the type of women that she comes from.  

Mothers and Daughters

I took Natalie back to the doctor today for a follow-up on her chest congestion and coughing.  The appointment was at 3:00 and we were home by 3:30 so I had some time alone with her at home before Craig came home from work at around 4:30.  She and I were just rolling around and playing on the blanket on the floor of our bedroom and I as she stood in front of me grinning and cooing, I realized something important.

Natalie is my daughter.  

I am her mother.

Up until this point in her life, she's been "my baby" and when people ask the gender the response is "a little girl."  

Having a baby girl is different from having a daughter.  She won't stay my baby girl forever....she's going to be my rambunctious and creative six year old and then my determined and tomboyish twelve year old and then she'll be running around the house putting on the last touches to her make-up for prom and then I'll turn around and I'll be the mother of the bride pinning a hair piece in her up-do before she walks down the aisle.  And one day I'll be the one beside the bed, holding my nervous daughter's hand while she anxiously awaits the birth of her first child.

As I sat there playing with her this afternoon watching her explore our bedroom I saw my own life with my mother flashing before my eyes.

Playing Cabbage Patch dolls in my bedroom.  Watching Gone With The Wind in the living room while she vacuumed.  Volunteer projects with her at church.  Swimming in the summers.  Midnight masses for Christmas Eve.  The fighting in junior high.  The anger and the tears.  Picking out my dream dress for prom.  Watching her wave good-bye as she dropped me off for college.  My grandma's funeral.  Moving home from Denton and crying in the driveway.  Breakdowns and breakups.  Seeing her so proud in the stands watching me coach.  Introducing her to Craig....and later announcing our engagement.  Picking out my wedding dress.  Telling her that I was pregnant.  Her holding my hands during labor.  Tucking Natalie into bed the first night at home.

Where would I be without my mother?  WHO would I be without my mother?

And in turn, what will the imprint be that I leave on Natalie?  What will our relationship be like when she is 28 and what kind of road will we take to get there?

I Feel Pretty

This morning I was getting ready in the bathroom and actually putting on make-up BEFORE I went to school while Natalie was scooting around on the floor.  It was about 15 minutes before we were supposed to take her to Ms. Rebecca's house and she was starting to get fussy and hungry.  I looked down at her and said "Hold on Natalie.  Just let Momma put her make-up on so she looks human." 

A seemingly innocent remark, right?

Not so fast.

Obviously at 7.5 months old Natalie had no idea what I was saying.  Her thought process was focused on getting a bottle into her belly, she was not processing the greater societal pressures that are put on women by the media to be perfectly tan, skinny and always put together.  She was just hungry.  But if I'm going to grow a daughter that is confident in herself despite what the media portrays as beautiful I have to start watching my words and my actions. 

Craig and I can tell her everyday that she is beautiful and smart and wonderful but our actions, especially mine as her image and role model of a woman, will speak far louder than our words.  I have to model for her self-confidence which will mean eliminating negative self talk and reinforcing a healthy lifestyle.

My biggest struggle growing up was my height.  I towered over all my friends....including all of the boys.  I was gangly and awkward and struggled to find clothes that fit my tall and lean frame.  From the looks of Natalie, being tall will be a part of her life as well but hopefully since I know where to shop and how to "dress" a taller frame I'll be able to guide her in the right ways towards appreciating her height and being proud of her build. 

Craig and I were chatting the other day about our experiences with sports growing up and how things would have been different if we knew then what we know now.  I didn't appreciate and take advantage of my height when I was in middle and high school.  Instead of seeing it as an extreme advantage and something other people were envious of, I hated having unnecessary attention drawn to myself and would have much rather blended in with my peers instead of standing out.  It's only now that I view my build as my biggest asset when it comes to playing sports - I'm tall, I'm intimidating, I'm strong and I'm confident.  I just wish that I didn't have to wait until my mid-twenties to figure that all out.

Of course as an athlete I would love to eventually be a parent in the stand watching my daughter play a game that she loves but if she decides to play sports I want it to happen organically, not because Craig and I are forcing her to participate in something that she isn't good at or doesn't want to do.  But if she does decide to become an athlete I want her to recognize her height as an advantage and use it to the best of her ability.  I want her to feel confident on the court and strong as an athlete and as a young woman.