happy birthday, sweet girl

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Lo Hicimos! We did it!

~ Dora the Explorer, at the end of every show

One year later, we find our little heroine in a whole new place. Her sixth birthday party, thank God, looked far different than her fifth. Only the birthday ‘hat’ remained the same. Oh, and the Dora theme (minus Halloween). But this year, there was something new. And beautiful. Something that lit up the room. And now glows from the screen.

My baby’s SMILE.

 

This year, as promised, Mama got a clue. Gone were the twenty four children (what the HELL had I been thinking?) and their parents (no, seriously, what was I thinking?) all packed (what’s that, like fifty two people in total?) into a low ceilinged room (torture chamber?) for a party (that despite the efforts of a wonderful entertainer was about as much fun for my baby girl as an enema.)

This year, we kept it small. Very small. It wasn’t easy to do. We had to draw a line and stick to it. We invited only the girls from Kendall’s class. Not a single extra friend. Not even her adorable little buddy, Clara or her darling pal, L from preschool. Not even the twin sister of one of the attendees. It felt awful knowing we were leaving out some dear, dear friends, but it was the only way to make it work. Lessons learned the hard way tend to stick. We sent ten invitations in total. We had eight guests. It was perfect.

Kendall wanted her party to be at home. She asked for Jeannie Mack, a lovely local children’s singer to come and entertain the troops. The eight grandparents all generously chipped in again and helped to foot the bill. Darby, bless her sweet heart, asked if she could participate. She begged and pleaded and made those irresistible googly eyes at me as she presented her idea. She wanted to do face paintings for the girls as they arrived. When she told Kendall that she would have a red star, she was all for it. How could I say no?

Darby set up her shop in the den. She made a ‘menu’ of choices that the girls could choose from. She had two little chairs facing each other and a third grown-up sized chair perpendicular to the others. Just in case a mom or dad stays and wants to watch, Mama. The girls loved it.

Within short order, Ms. Mack settled in with her guitar and began to sing. The girls sat around her and watched. After a song or two, they joined in. They happily sang along to songs like “Sticky Sticky Bubble Gum.”

And “Yahoo, Cowgirl!”

And “I’m gonna get you; you’d better run!”

They danced together.

They wiggled and jiggled and laughed together.

They played tambourines.

They clapped and sang some more.

They curled themselves into little balls (well, maybe that was just Kenz).

And they did, um, this …

They devoured the cake that took Mama a really, really, really long time to make.

 

In short, they had FUN.

Yes, it’s a year later. We’ve learned last year’s lessons. There will plenty be more to come, no doubt. But for now, we’re twelve months smarter. Our toolbox is armed with a whole year’s worth of new tools. More importantly, so is Kendall’s.

One year ago, while holding my crying, shaking little girl in the den while her party went on without her, I never would have believed we would be here. Singing. Laughing. Dancing. ENGAGED. It is possible.

A happy new beginning indeed.

Happy birthday, my sweet girl. Mama loves you more than anything in the whole wide world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the $240 balloon animal (that wasn’t a monkey) redux

The following was one of the first posts that I ever wrote.  It was originally published almost exactly a year ago, a couple of days after Kendall’s fifth birthday party. The party was arguably an unmitigated disaster.

I warn you now, the story’s not pretty. It’s not even particularly well written. Truthfully, the whole situation pretty well sucked. But if you’re willing to stick it out, I can promise you a happier ending than the original. Or maybe a happy new beginning.

One year later, you’ll find a story of redemption. A tale in which the supporting characters (the bumbling but loving Mama, the wonderful, supportive Dad and the delightful big sister) get a clue. And where our beautiful little heroine sings and dances, laughs and twirls, and shines her inimitable light on all those around her.

But first, let’s go back to April, 2008 ..

*

So I paid $240 yesterday for a balloon animal. And it wasn’t even a monkey. Kendall thought it was, though its creator was the first to admit that it had an EXTREMELY strong resemblance to a dog. Perhaps I should back up a bit.

As we approached Kendall’s 5th birthday (and by approached, I mean we were about 4 months from. Let’s just say Mama’s a little anal about planning parties) I asked her, as I always have, what she’d like to do for her party. Now in the history of Kendall’s birthdays, she’s never really seemed to understand the concept, and has never shown the slightest interest in helping to plan a party. So, that being said, I was floored when I brought it up on a drive into town and she made it clear that she had a plan in mind.

I had thrown out a couple of suggestions (the Little Gym? My Gym? Plaster Fun Time?) which were each shot down with an unceremonious ‘No’. Since no’s usually lead to dead ends, I wasn’t sure what to do next. I gave a shot at an opened ended question (not usually a wise idea) and said, almost to myself, ‘Well if you don’t want to do any of that, what are we going to do for your party?’ Imagine my surprise and delight when she firmly answered, ‘My party would be at home.’

I was so thrilled that she had an interest and seemed to have put some thought into this! Oh my gosh, I thought … we’ll have to have some kind of entertainment. Yes, I know how pathetic that sounds. What ever happened to the good old days of pin the tail on the donkey and a good old scavenger hunt? Yes, I know. I’d love a return to those days too, but life is a little different in our world. Here’s why.

Kendall is still in preschool. These are the days where we invite every class member, lest we leave anyone out. Besides that, I have to admit that I am so incredibly thrilled that Kenz has connected with some of the children in her integrated class, I want to do everything in my power to help foster those friendships. Sooooo, everyone it is. I just never thought of any other option.

Kendall’s ‘class’ is actually made up of two different parts. She spends 3 hours a day in an integrated room where a little more than 1/2 the kids have some sort of special needs and the other (almost) half are typically developing. She then spends the next 2 hours in an ABA based social pragmatics group with other children on the autism spectrum.

So, add those kids together, plus 2 others that are ‘friends’ because Mama and Daddy went through a ‘basics of ABA’ class (that became a defacto support group) with their mommies and daddies for 12 long, emotionally draining weeks, and what do you have? 24 kids, at least 2/3 of whom have some sort of special needs. Therefore, what you also have is a mom who has no idea how to get that group to line up for a rousing game of pin the tail on the donkey. So, that leaves me suggesting some local entertainers.

I suggested her new favorite children’s singer. No. Hmm. How about a clown? No. A magician? No. Uh oh. Then, almost rhetorically, ‘What are we going to do with all these kids at home for your party?’ And again, as though she’d been waiting to say it, each word slowly and precisely articulated, “I would have Big Joe at my party.”

Big Joe is a fabulous kid’s entertainer that she saw when the PTO had brought him in to do his thing for the kids at school. He’s this delightful story teller who comes with a trunk full of puppets, a repertoire of silly voices, and a wonderful connection to the kids.  Well, I was over the moon that she had something in mind (an interest! an opinion! the words to tell me!) so off I went to secure Big Joe.

Big Joe on retainer, handmade invitations on their way to all (gulp) 24 kids (and one favorite teacher!), the theme secured (Dora Halloween. Yes, Halloween. In April .. problem? I didn’t think so), cake designed, pizza ordered, house decorated to look like an ad for Nick Jr, 3 long tables and 24 little chairs rented, and we were ready to go.

We had set up the basement for the show and then planned to bring everyone upstairs for pizza and cake. Big Joe had the fantastic idea of making balloon animals for the kids as they filed in to keep them entertained before the show began. So, our proud birthday girl was first in line to get her balloon. Big Joe said, ‘OK, my dear, I have loads of animals I can make for you. I can make cats, dogs, bunnies, swans, snakes (hmm, I can make a snake I thought, just hand her the balloon), hats, horses and giraffes. So, of course, when he said, ‘So what would you like?’ she said, ‘A monkey.’ So he ran through his list again. And when he said, so which of THOSE would you like, Kendall?’ she got to say it again. ‘A monkey.’

Now here’s the thing. Kendall has some very consistent favorites, and, as is typical of a child with autism, she can be pretty particular about them. Color = red, Shape = star, Number = 2, Letter = Y, Animal = yeah, you got it  - monkey. So, she wanted a monkey. Anyone else thinking of that kid in The Wedding Crashers saying,  ”Make me a bicycle, clown.”? Anyway, I digress.

Now Big Joe knows his audience and he confidently assured us all that although what he was about to make would have a striking resemblance to a dog, our little princess would absolutely love her ‘monkey.’ And he pulled it off beautifully. Ah, the power of suggestion. So she walked away happily clutching her monkey dog. Then the room began to fill. (Cue the doom doom ~ drama about to ensue~ music from Law and Order).

As the low ceilinged room filled, it became a sensory overload nightmare. The noise level skyrocketed. The kids ran from one end of the room to the other, children screamed for their parents, parents excitedly greeted each other. Kendall did what Kendall does. She shrieked and ran upstairs crying. We thought it wise to let her stay upstairs in the relative quiet and wait for all the kids to gather and get their balloons and then, when things calmed down and everyone was seated for story time, we’d head back down and join the party. We sat in her favorite chair and I sang in her ear to calm her.

So, for the first 20 minutes or so, Kendall’s party carried on downstairs without her. We broached the doorway to the stairs a couple of times but she balked immediately at the noise. But hey, it sounded like our guests were having a great time.

OK, time for the stories .. The big moment. The realization of my baby’s vision of her party. Big Joe. Telling stories. At home. With all her friends (and Joanie the teacher). Deep breath, here we go, Honey. You’re OK. Down the stairs. Mama will hold you. It’ll be OK. The kids are sitting nicely. But they’re laughing. Hard. And they’re wiggling around. And they’re gesturing along with Big Joe. And they’re shouting out excitedly. And the parents are laughing along with them in delight. And it’s her worst nightmare. And she panics. And runs. And we are upstairs. Again. And the party is going on without us. Completely. And she is shaking. And crying. And my heart is breaking for her. And for me. We sit in the chair. Again. I sing in her ear to calm her. Again. There are tears streaming down my face meeting hers. She curls up on me in the chair and rests her face on my chest. A mom walks into the room and tells me later she mistook us for a mother nursing a baby. I tell her that’s essentially what we were.

We can hear Big Joe from where we are. I encourage her to listen. At least maybe we can be a part of her party from here. I try to bring us to the door at the top of the stairs to listen better. It’s too close to the noise. She freaks, perseverating on the number 17. 17! 17! 17! We retreat. Again. Back to the chair. Again. I sing in her ear. Again. I comfort her. And me. Again.

Another little girl is now upstairs too. She can’t handle it either. I pass her mom in the hall as I hold Kendall, bouncing slightly as I sing. I’m holding a 5 year old, but I know that I look like I’m soothing a colicky baby. I pass another mom whose husband is walking her son around the neighborhood because he too had to escape the room. She sees my red eyes and quietly says, “This is what we do.” I feel better. And worse.

The show is coming to an end. Earlier, I had heard Big Joe telling the kids he was going to dress up as a princess in the last story. I’ve got it – a hook! I know she’ll want to see that. I sell her on it. She wants to give it a shot. We make it to the landing. We’re past the door. She hasn’t screamed. We’re making it down the stairs! This might work! I catch Joe’s attention and signal him to try to take the volume level down if he can. It’s too late. The kids are having a ball. They are laughing. They are yelling. They are having the great time we hoped they would. And all I want is for them to shut up so my sweet baby won’t lose it.

She’s in the circle! She’s sitting! Wait, someone jostles her. She’s looking around. She’s not comfortable. She’s getting anxious. I can see her body starting to tense. Damn it. She’s in an all out panic. It’s been 45 seconds and she’s yelling. And kicking. And looking up at me through tears, panicked, screaming at me, “I don’t want to stay!’ and it takes me a minute to piece together the words and understand her. And then I do. And then we’re upstairs. Again. in the chair. Again. And my heart is breaking for her. Again.

The show is over. Big Joe is packing up. And the kids are thrilled. And I’ve essentially just paid the nice man $240 for a balloon animal for my baby girl. So for heaven’s sake, please don’t tell her it’s not a monkey.

To be continued …

christine ricci is trying to kill me

 

The chicken costume arrived in the mail a couple of days ago. It’s fabulous. Utterly fabulous. The stuffed Boots should be here any day and all that leaves is a plastic fire hat from the party shop. Hooray! Break out the champagne! Let’s celebra …

HUH? WHAT?? A superhero-baseball player-clown? WhatchootalkinboutWillis?

Noooooooooooooooooo!

Yesterday, the girls’ school held a second hand book fair as a fundraiser for the PTO. Parents and kids donated their gently used books and they were resold to raise money for the upcoming fifth grade graduation party. Most items were $1 and it was a nice way to pick up a few age appropriate books without breaking the bank. Darby got a couple of biographies ~ Martin Luther King Jr and Thomas Edison, along with The Little Princess and yet another of the Little Miss books which she adores. Kendall, of course, walked straight over to a pile of Dora books. Somehow, she defied extremely long odds and actually found one we didn’t already have, called Dora’s Costume Party.

Now, you might recall that the entire firechicken Boots fiasco started with another Dora book, Dora’s Halloween Adventure. In that book, as I’d mentioned, our little simian hero has trouble deciding what to be for Halloween. After much angst, he decides not to decide and creates the hybrid firechicken costume. 

Well, apparently Dora, Boots and the folks at Nick Jr weren’t satisfied. Heck, the formula was a success, why do it just once? I can just see them sitting around in their orange and blue lair.

 “Someone get Christine Ricci on the phone! Tell her to whip up another story, STAT! Tell her there’s a kid in Boston obsessed with this crap. Slap something together. Go with that whole Halloween thing. Yeah, I know it’s already been done. Beauty of it is, it doesn’t matter! They lap this stuff up; I’m tellin ya. Go with that whole ‘Boots doesn’t know what to be for Halloween’ idea. Trust me; it works like a charm!”

Followed, of course by hand wringing and evil, echoey cartoon laughter.

Last night, Kendall and I settled in to read her new book. She was thrilled. She laughed when Benny the Bull decided to go as a slice of pizza. “That’s so silly!” She happily helped Dora figure out the pattern of petals on her flower costume. “Red, yellow, orange!” She counted in Spanish with Isa the Iguana and searched the page for Tico the Squirrel’s star badge for his cowboy costume. All seemed to be going just fine.

I should have seen it coming. It was right there in print on the second page.“Boots might want to dress up as a superhero who rescues anyone who needs help. Or he could be a baseball player who can hit the ball over the fence and win the game.”

And the third page.“Or maybe he’ll be a clown who does tricks in the circus.”

But no, I just kept blithely walking along the tracks, completely unaware of the oncoming train. I breezed right past, “Boots can’t decide, and it’s almost time for the party!” I never thought twice. I mean, c’mon, little guy. Time to buck up and MAKE A DECISION! No way we’re going down this road again, right? Boots? Baby? I got a bunch of bananas says there’s no way that little fuc …

Oh God. No.

But there he was, on the second to last page, in all his glory. Boots ~ wearing a Bozo wig, a superman t-shirt and cape and a baseball glove, holding a baseball and clutching a bat in his tail, all while riding a unicycle. In case there was any doubt, the text spells it all out. “Oooooh! Boots couldn’t decide on just one thing for his Halloween costume. So he decided to wear all of his favorite costumes. He’s a superhero-baseball player-clown! What a cool costume!”

I’m tellin you right now, if this little monkey doesn’t start making some decisions, he’s going down. 

 

swiper no swiping

On Sunday afternoon, we were feeling adventurous. The weather wasn’t quite warm enough for the four-mile walk into town that we’ve made as a family each of the last couple of weekends. We considered a trip to the Arboretum or a bike ride in the parking lot of a nearby school, but none of the options really seemed inviting with the chill in the air.

We decided to drive into town and walk over to Quincy Market for lunch. The market is essentially a colonnade made up of forty or so stalls that sell just about every type of food imaginable. Flanking the colonnade are seventeen different restaurants, just in case one hasn’t had their fill inside.

The market gets loud and crowded and could easily be a disaster for Kendall, but we packed up her headphones and decided to give it a shot. We figured it would be easy enough to pull the ripcord and head straight outside if need be. The harbor is right across the street and she loves to walk along the water, so one way or another we’d find some fun.

As we got closer to the market square, Kendall spotted a dog and scrambled onto Matt. He swung her up onto his shoulders, as he often does. Kendall loves to be on Matt’s shoulders. For years, she spent most of her time up there, perched far above the various stressors of the world below. From a safe distance, she was able to watch everything and everyone go by. Little by little, she has come down to earth, but when things get tough, Daddy’s shoulders are always there.

We made our way through the market, exploring the vivid tapestry of colors and scents. Each vendor vied for attention, hawking their offerings in varied styles and accents. Tandoori chicken and saag paneer were displayed next to bread bowls of steaming New England clam chowdah and spicy strombolis to stroll. Kendall watched it all from her perch, safely removed from the madness.

We all made our choices and settled into a relatively quiet spot to eat.

After lunch, I hoisted Kenz up onto my shoulders and we headed back into the colonnade in search of a sweet treat for dessert. Mama’s shoulders may be better than walking, but they’re a full foot closer to the action than Daddy’s. Somehow, it’s just not the same. As Matt and Darby walked ahead to find a gelato stand, Kendall and I wound our way slowly through the crowd. Over and over again, she yelled “Konnichiwa!” to passersby. I’m not sure why. I can only assume that she had spotted Japanese tourists. As we walked, I tried to draw her attention to some of the more interesting things we passed.

We came to a booth selling ice creams and frappes. I hadn’t noticed a display of lemons overflowing from their counter until Kendall shouted excitedly, “Lemons!” I turned and saw the bright yellow pile, next to a juicer and a big sign offering fresh lemonade for sale. I asked if she’d like a lemonade, but apparently that wasn’t her plan. “Lemons!” she shouted again. “Yes, baby, they have lemons – lots of lemons!” I said as we continued to walk.

“They had lemons,” she told me again as we caught up to Matt and Darby, still scouting out gelato flavors. “Yes, honey, they sure did have lemons,” I said (yet again).

Matt was crouched behind Darby, discussing the merits of strawberry versus chocolate when he looked up at us. He cocked his head to the side and asked, “Where’d she get the lemon?”

Ummm.

We walked back to the lemonade stand and I explained that we had, uh, inadvertently swiped a lemon. Apparently, Mama’s shoulders were just the right height for something. Kendall relinquished the fruit to its rightful owner and the vendor gave her a big smile in return.

I scooped her off my shoulders and into my arms, where I could keep a better eye on my little Swiper. She looked over my shoulder as we walked away. ”They had lemons!” she repeated with a satisfied grin.

no accidents ~ part two (alternatively titled ‘a really, really long post that i can’t seem to make any shorter no matter how hard i try’)

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*

I turned onto the exit ramp on my way home from work last Friday night, rolling slowly into the long line of cars waiting for the light to change. My mind raced through a recap of the week. To put it mildly, it had been a tumultuous time at work. My stomach churned as I tried to make sense of it all. 

I finally made my way through the traffic light and followed the masses to the next one just a few hundred yards ahead. I arrived just as it turned red. It’s a relatively long light, so I shifted into park and settled into my head again. When the light finally turned, I shifted into drive. I moved approximately one car length and then heard the God awful sound of metal grinding against metal. My gas pedal was suddenly useless. The engine was running, but the car refused to move.

I tried to stay calm as the drivers behind me began to honk their horns. I switched back into park and tried engaging the gears again. The noise pierced straight through me. I tried shutting the engine down and turning it back on – thinking what? That it would reset itself like a computer? It became obvious that this car wasn’t going anywhere.

I was a sitting duck in the middle of an incredibly busy three-way intersection. My car sat blocking the ramp back onto the highway from which I had just come. On a Friday. In the middle of rush hour. As the lights changed, cars began to come at me from two different angles at a time. Horns blared, angry drivers shook fists and heads at me. People had obviously made their own assumptions about why I was where I was.

I called 911. I wasn’t sure if that was appropriate, but I didn’t know what else to do. I had to get out of the line of fire. Cars were narrowly missing me as they made their angry way by. When I told the operator my ‘emergency’ (was this an emergency?) she put me straight through to the state police. Sitting there with a phone to my ear brought out the worst of the venom from other drivers. I suppose I looked like a ditzy chick who drove through a light while absent-mindedly chatting on her phone. Apparently they thought I had made a decision to just sit in the middle of an intersection. You know, just for fun. An adrenaline junky maybe? 

I heard the police cruiser approaching long before I saw it. It came up behind me with lights flashing and sirens blaring. The cars behind me parted and I breathed a sigh of relief. As the cruiser pulled up behind me the officer’s voice blared from his PA system. “Put your car in neutral. I’m going to push you.” I stuck my arm out the window and offered a thumbs-up in reply. He eased his car up to mine and pushed my car with his, issuing instructions over the PA. “You’ll roll into this next light. Use your brakes.” “You’re on your own here. Steer yourself straight.” “Ok, we’re going to ease into the taxi stand up ahead. You’ll be safe there.”

There was a service station less than two blocks ahead of the taxi stand. I wondered if (or how) I could ask him to push me there instead. I had no way to communicate with him. I helplessly followed his instructions, frustrated that I couldn’t talk to him, but far more grateful just to be out of danger.

As soon as I was safely parked in the taxi stand, I got out of the car to thank the officer for his help. I recognized him immediately. Thankfully, the recognition wasn’t mutual. A few months back he had pulled me over on the highway, citing me for an expired registration. He had shown no mercy as he wrote out a very expensive ticket. He had looked at me gruffly and admonished me at the time. “I could have your car towed and leave you here, ” he had grumbled.

But now the same man stood before me asking me if I’d like him to call for a tow truck. I thanked him and declined, thinking I might walk up ahead to the service station and see if anyone could help, maybe even avoiding the expense of a tow. I thanked him again as he pulled away.

I called Matt and he reminded me that we have AAA. “This is the whole point, Jess. Do you have your card?” I was obviously a little more rattled than I’d thought. I called AAA and then went about trying to figure out where to have them tow me. To the service station up ahead? To the car’s dealership? Matt and I set about making phone calls at the same time to come up with the best plan of action. All I could think about was the money. This was going to cost a fortune. Metal grinding on metal is never cheap. This wasn’t an errant fan belt. This was going to cost me dearly. I took a deep breath and settled in, thinking that the “anytime between now and an hour from now” was sure to mean “anytime between an hour and an hour and a half from now.”

I’d been at it for just ten minutes when the flat bed pulled up. A shy, unassuming young man got out and surveyed the situation. He hopped into the car and tried to put it in gear, but all he got was a quick, awful taste of the noise I’d been trying to describe. He cringed. I asked if it was something he thought he might be able to fix. He shook his head and gently said, “That sounds like you dropped your drive shaft. That’s gonna be a big job. You tell me where you want to go.”

The taxi drivers moved their cabs to make room for the truck and he pulled up in front of my car. As he began the process of hoisting the car onto the flatbed, I waited on hold for the dealership’s service manager. I climbed up into the cab of the cleanest tow truck I’ve ever seen. As the driver got in, I asked if he’d mind waiting just a moment while I figured out if something like this might be covered under the car’s extended warranty. I was afraid he’d be angry, or at the very least impatient, but as soon as I told him what I was doing, he asked if I knew the car’s mileage. I shook my head, embarrassed that I hadn’t checked it before getting out. Without a word, he climbed out of the cab and onto the back of the truck. He made his way into my car, checked the mileage and came back to report it not thirty seconds before the service manager asked me the question.

The manager looked my car up in his system and told me that the extended warranty had expired. Thirteen lousy days earlier. Thirteen. I was sick to my stomach. Murphy’s Friggin Law. A huge repair bill is like a punch in the gut right now. “Jess, bring it here,” he said. “I can probably do something for you. Just come on in and we’ll figure it out.”

I called Matt again and he promised to gather the girls and come pick me up at the dealership. I sat back and chatted with the tow truck driver. We listened to his Dominican house music and even laughed a little at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

Once at the dealership, an older mechanic began to look over my car, checking it into the system. As I was lamenting my predicament, he looked up from his clipboard and said, “Friday the 13th, guess it had to happen. Been a pretty light day today though. No accidents.”

No accidents. The words that kept coming up over and over again. On Carrie’s blog, in comments everywhere, suddenly they were unavoidable.

After just a few minutes, Matt and the girls picked me up. I exhaled as I climbed into the car with them. I was home. Darby had a million questions. I tried to keep up and shared the story as well as I could. I was exhausted.

The older mechanic’s words echoed in my head all night. Through dinner and bath time, into bedtime with the girls until I found myself still chewing on them late into the evening. No accidents.

There are a million levels upon which to interpret the concept that there are no accidents. I’m too firm a believer in self-determination and the power of individual will to truly embrace the idea of pre-destination. No matter how deep my (questionable) faith may be in God or Fate, I just can’t bring myself to believe that every moment of my life is predetermined. However, I do believe with all my heart that everything happens, in the way and in the time that it happens, for a reason. Whether that reason comes from the work of the greater forces of the universe can be left to a whole different conversation. What matters most to me is that in each and every experience, there is something to be learned. From catastrophes to victories, each and every thing we live through has value. Each and every story we have informs who we are and who we will become. Some of the lessons are obvious; some are well camouflaged. But when we’re open and ready to learn, the lessons are there. No accidents.

So I continued to chew on it. What was it that I was supposed to take away from all of this?

Why did my car curl up in the fetal position and say, ‘no mas’ in the middle of an intersection on a Friday night in the middle of rush hour? Or, if why is the wrong question, then what – as in what could I take away from all of this? What could I learn from all of it? Yes, I know; it was just a car breaking down. No one was hurt. What’s the big deal? But still, this is what I do. And so, from square one, I dissected the experience to within an inch of its life. Welcome to the inside of my head. (Yes, it’s crowded, chaotic and exhausting in there.)

When this all started, I was dwelling on work, as I’ve been for months. Hell, years. I was worried about money. I was concerned about how the decisions that I make will affect our financial security, or create a complete lack thereof. I haven’t figured out how to leave the stress behind when I leave my office. My stomach churned as I tried to make sense of it all. But as quickly as I could say, “what the hell was that?” none of that mattered a whit. Perhaps the God awful sound of metal grinding on metal was a wake up call. Sitting in the middle of that intersection, panicked, work was simply work. It was relegated to a distant compartment, where it should have been all along. What mattered ~ and always matters ~  is being safe and healthy and finding my way home.

Then there was the far too obvious metaphor.

I was a sitting duck in the middle of an incredibly busy three-way intersection. My car sat blocking the ramp back onto the highway I had just come from. On a Friday. In the middle of rush hour. As the lights changed, cars began to come at me from two different angles at a time. Horns blared, angry drivers shook fists and heads at me. People had obviously made their own assumptions about why I was where I was.

There I was ~ out of control, frightened, and completely misinterpreted by everyone around me. I couldn’t help but think of my baby girl in a store, assaulted by sounds and smells and lights. A baby cries. Kendall is scared. She screams. A fellow patron sneers at what they see as a little brat yelling, wondering why her parents don’t punish her for her behavior. They make assumptions based on what they think they see. We must always remember to step back and view the world through a lens of compassion. Our initial perception may well be far from what we are really seeing.

I had no way to communicate with him. I helplessly followed his instructions, frustrated that I couldn’t talk to him, but far more grateful just to be out of danger. I am so grateful for my baby’s ever expanding ability to communicate with us. We can never, ever take it for granted. Nor can we stop fighting to help EVERY child find words.

But now the same man stood before me asking me if I’d like him to call for a tow truck. Sometimes people that appear to be hostile may actually be the very people that ultimately offer salvation.

Without a word, he climbed out of the cab and onto the back of the truck. He made his way into my car, checked the mileage and came back to report it not thirty seconds before the service manager asked me the question. The smallest acts of kindness may be anything but small to someone else. It can take very little effort to be a hero in a tough moment.

I sat back and chatted with the tow truck driver. We listened to his Dominican house music and even laughed a little at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. There’s beauty and joy everywhere. Even in the cab of a tow truck. We just have to remember to look (or listen.)

“Jess, bring it here,” he said. “I can probably do something for you. Just come on in and we’ll figure it out.” When we’ve treated people with respect, they often treat us in kind. (The service manager convinced the company to cover the parts, even though the extended warranty had expired.)

Matt and the girls picked me up. I exhaled as I climbed into the car with them. I was home. All that matters in the end is finding my way home. (And home is not a place.)

Maybe in the end none of the individual lessons mattered. Perhaps the whole process was simply an exercise in remembering that they are there. That they are everywhere. And that there really are No Accidents.

happy spring

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“Like”

Original artwork by Miss Kendall Wilson, March, 2009

listening for the angels (alternatively titled ‘no accidents ~ part one)

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From the time that Darby was tiny, I would lie at her side every night for a few minutes in her darkened room before bed. Many times, it was was the very best time of the day.

She would pull up the sleeve of her nightgown and stick her little arm up in the air. On cue, I would begin long, slow tickles as I sang our medley of lullabies. Tora Lora Lora led to Lullaby and Goodnight which segued lazily into Hush Little Baby. But the best part of the ritual was yet to come.

In the tradition of my Grandma, we would do ‘a walk around the park.’ Starting with both index fingers at the point of her chin, I’d trace the outine of her face all the way to her hairline ~ Take a walk around the park ~ run my fingers lightly through her hair ~ Out into the meadow ~ slide one finger down the length of her nose ~Down the lane ~ and end by drawing a tight circle at the very tip ~ And ring the doorbell ~ and push gently ~ ding dong!

Then it was time for the very best part. We would take a deep breath, lie in the dark as still as we possibly could and listen for the angels.

When one of us heard them we’d shout to the other in a stage whisper, “I heard them!” We often came to that moment simultaneously. When one of us took a little longer than the other we’d lie in the dark, side by side and wait.

I wasn’t just pretending for Darby’s sake. I did hear something. When I was quiet enough, when, for that one fleeting moment, all the constant noise in my head gave way to the calming silence, I began to hear  the soothing sound of blood pumping in my ears. Funny, but the rythmic whoosh whoosh whoosh sounded just like the gentle fluttering of wings. And, just as the angels would, the sound brought with it a sense of quiet comfort and peace.

In that precious moment of stillness every night, I heard the angels.

Yesterday, I read this post.

I e-mailed Carrie. She’s been on my mind this week as she’s responsible for (now another) brewing post. The other one is clunkier. It’s taking some time to piece together. It’s chewy, sticky. It’s making me think, work.

I asked her about the cards that she referred to in the post. I was curious. I’d never seen anything like them before. By way of explanation, she sent me this link. In the middle of the page were these words:

“Angels Are Inner Companions”

Over the past year or so, our bedtime rituals have shifted, morphed into something different. As they’ve been getting older, the girls have been heading up to bed later. Time has been limited. For the past few months, I have spent time with Darby first, typically playing a game or reading together. During that time, Matt hangs out with Kendall and they carry out their own pre-bedtime routine. Then we switch. I say goodnight to Darby and head into Kendall’s room. Matt comes in to put Darby to bed and Kendall and I begin our own well practiced ritual.

Which means that walks around the park and an outstretched arm awaiting tickles have fallen by the wayside. Along with those blessed moments of listening for the angels in the darkness.

Darby and I have been having trouble finding enough time together lately. I haven’t had an easy solution. I’ve been stretched thin.

The answer couldn’t have been more obvious today. Those words, glowing on my screen. ”Angels Are Inner Companions” They might as well have screamed, “Slow down and listen.”

I realized today just how much I’ve missed that quiet time with Darby. And with myself. And with my own version of the angels.

Tonight, I’m going to reinstate it. Even if it’s five extra minutes. I’ll find it.

As Carrie says, “No accidents.”

fire chicken boots

With Kendall’s sixth birthday quickly approaching, family and friends have generously been asking what she might like for her birthday. I came up with a few ideas, but, as I always have, I really wanted to see if Kendall might tell me for herself what she’d like. I wasn’t particularly hopeful.

I didn’t mean to sell her short, but as recently as this past Christmas, conversations about what kinds of gifts she might like have gone something like this:

“Kendall, what do you think you would like for Christmas?”

“A present.”

“OK, what would you like the present to be?”

“In a box.”

“OK, so when you open the box, what would you like to find inside?”

“A present.”

And so, as I’ve done for nearly six years, I did my best to guess at what I thought she would enjoy. But, stubborn as I am, I still asked the questions. Imagine my delight when she answered them like this:

“Kendall, what would you like for your birthday?”

“A present.”

I tried a slightly different tact.

“Kendall, is there a toy you might like to get for your birthday?”

“I would like Halloween Boots.”

Holy cr@p!

Now, those of you who have been following along for  a while know that Boots (with a capital B) is not footwear, but this guy ~ Dora the Explorer’s sidekick and Kendall’s all time favorite monkey. If you happen to have kids young enough to be enamored with Dora, perhaps you’re familiar with the movie, Dora’s Halloween Adventure. For the uninitiated, let me give you a quick synopsis of the relevant plot line.

Boots has trouble deciding what he’d like to be for Halloween. Throughout the movie, he vacillates between dressing up as a fireman and going as a chicken. (OK, so it ain’t Sophie’s Choice, but Kendall loves this stuff.) After a movie’s worth of angst, our hero finally decides to go as a firechicken. Yes, a firechicken. Boots decides NOT to decide and creates a hybrid costume.

And so it is that my sweet, innocent, unassuming daughter wants a Boots doll dressed as a firechicken. Which, of course, does not exist anywhere on the planet. Not even in Canada. (Anyone remember this?)

But Mama ain’t gonna give up wihout a fight. So far, my thought is something along these lines:

Picture this guy

wearing this costume (made for a bear ~ close enough)

Decent start, right?

But that’s where I lose steam. A chicken suit? For a doll? Anyone? Beuller?

HELP!!!!!!!!

ed note .. after further research (meaning Kendall looking at the picture above and telling me I have it all wrong) I’m now back to square one. Or square zero. Apparently, Firechicken Boots wears a RED fireman hat (OK, that I can probably handle, though so far all I’ve seen is black) and a WHITE chicken suit. With feathers. And wings. Which brings me back to .. HELP!!!!!!!!!

ed other note … did I mention he needs to be carrying a pumpkin?

lady

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We were walking through town on Sunday, enjoying an early taste of Spring. It seemed that everyone in the world was out and about, reveling in the sunshine. As we rounded a corner into the center of town, we came upon a young couple with an adorable Cocker Spaniel.

As if on cue, Kendall began to tremble. She grabbed at my leg and shouted, ‘PICK ME UP! PICK ME UP!” She scrambled up the side of my body and clung to my neck like a koala.

Darby walked up to the young woman and asked the dog’s name. I walked a few feet away where I could still watch Darby and Kendall would feel safer.  I reassured her that the dog was on a leash and showed her that the lady was holding on tightly.

Darby politely asked, “May I please pet your dog?”

Her sister, on the other hand, shouted loudly, “MAY I PLEASE NOT PET YOUR DOG?’

bombaloo

Darby had a playdate yesterday with M, a  girl in her class. They baked and decorated cupcakes and M’s mom generously sent Darby home with a plateful. Two were adorned with brightly colored sprinkles, one was buckling under the weight of what looked to be a full bag of chocolate chips and one was naked. Yes, naked. Not the tiniest schmear of icing to be found.

Darby couldn’t wait to serve her creations to the family. She looked tortured when Matt told her that dessert would have to wait until after her shower. I’ve never seen her shower and dress for bed so efficiently. She was back in a flash.

She served Matt and me first, proudly walking each cupcake in separately on its own plate. “They’re strawberry!” she proclaimed, explaining their somewhat odd pink hue. She set them down before us with a flourish and then asked if she could put a candle into Kendall’s. Matt and I looked at each other and shrugged. Why not?

Matt helped her light the candle and then came back into the den to wait. Darby walked in, her beautiful face lit by the glow of the flame. To the tune of “Happy Birthday” she sang.

Happy best sister in the world day to you

Happy best sister in the world day to you

Happy best sister in the world day, dear Kendall

Happy best sister in the world day to you

She placed the nude cupcake in front of her sister. Who loves cupcakes. And won’t touch icing.

Kendall took a few bites and then turned to her sister.

“Can we put a candle in HER cupcake?” she said.

Matt and I repeated the shrug. Why not?

I carefully removed the candle from Kendall’s cupcake and set it into the chocolate chip extravaganza. I lit it for her and helped her carry it into the den. She began to sing.

Happy sister in the world day to you

Happy sister in the world day to you

Happy sister in the world day, dear Darby

Happy sister in the world day to you

OK, so there was the matter of the word ‘best’ but um, honestly?

Cutest.

Thing.

Ever.

As we munched through our cupcakes, I chatted with Darby about her day.

“I didn’t like Sib Shop today,” she began.

“Why not, love? Did something happen?” I asked.

“Well, no. OK, maybe it wasn’t that I didn’t like it. But I didn’t like the activity that we had to do.” she said, scrunching her nose.

“Hmm, what didn’t you like about it? Can you tell me what it was?”

She took a bite of cupcake. “We were supposed to draw our siblings all bombaloo.”

I cocked my head, confused golden retriever style. “All bombawho?”

She sniggered.  “Bombaloo, silly. It means like really mad or upset. Kinda means ‘freaking out.’” She proceded to show me her best imitation of bombaloo. She stood in front of me with her arms and legs akimbo, wearing an expression similar to the abominable snowman from Rudolph. I tried not to laugh.

“But I didn’t like that,” she continued through a mouthful of chocolate chips. “ I asked if I could draw two pictures. They said it was OK, so I drew a line down the page and split it in half. I drew a picture of Kendall all bombaloo on one side and one of her happy on the other.”

“So why didn’t you want to do it the way they initially asked you to?”

Her nose was scrunched up again, like she’d smelled something foul.

“Cause I didn’t want to remember her that way.”

I realized I was humming. The song in my head was getting louder.

Happy sister in the world day to you

Happy sister in the world day to you

Happy sister in the world day, dear Darby

Happy sister in the world day to you