To The Moon and Dinosaurs
with Megg Lasswell
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- Apr 11, 12There are days when Gia screams during a "timeout," which is actually just a fancy/socially acceptable way of saying "kid, go chill out on your bed where you can bite pillows and not me, and mommy can go cry into a pillow and eat seventy-five mini laffy taffy's and figure out what it is she's supposed to be doing."....and then there are these days.If you notice, there is chalk on her pants, and stamps all over her arms, hands, and face. There are sugar free popsicle stains under her lip. She played hard while I was at school and it's literally written all over her body. The wind tossed our hair around while we sat in the grass and played Don't Get Me!I should have been reading the last of my chapter for a test tomorrow. Should have, but didn't. Just like I should have finished it in the bath tonight, but I drank coffee and stared at my toes instead.The days when I can plop down on the grass with a willing child to play and converse with isn't as common for us as it is for some. She doesn't always want to do what I want to do, or for that matter, what she wants to do. Some days, I don't know what she wants and we're both frustrated because of that. Other days she wants things that aren't possible in that exact moment and the worlds fastest meltdown commences. Not a crying, upset, angry meltdown. An intense, teethmark-in-your-thigh kind of meltdown.So today was perfect. To make room for perfect, I have to give up things like blogging, or returning phone calls, or homework before...11:47 pm. I have no clue who is on The Voice or American Idol. In place of necessary work comes laughter and appreciation - a different kind of necessity. My silly girl slid down the slide of her brand new swing set (thanks Pamma and PaPa!), and learned how swing without my help. We played airplane and giggled when she landed on my chest, and couldn't catch our breath when Dottie began running in circles around us.It sounds like wind mama.Dottie handed us plenty of dog kisses and when she planted one in Gia's ear, she threw her head down and around smacking my lip and hers. Mine split on the right side, hers on the left. Two bloody lips in a perfect little gross puzzle. I paused, and she laughed anyway.Everything was beautiful today....
Do you see their paws? Gia and Dottie girl. "ballerina bars" "are you here mom? are you here?"
- Apr 10, 12
She was born on the morning of April 7, 2007 - on the day before Easter. She arrived at the perfect time in the morning- not too early, not too late. My labor wasn't intense, my love for her however, was. It felt like hours, though it was just moments, before I knew that she, was indeed a she. After our family and friends were gone and we were all alone for the very first time, I knew that everything would be fine even if it wasn't. Holding her, simply because I could and not because she needed to be fed or changed, was the first time in my entire life that I felt home in the body I was in. The moment I was in. You know those times when you get tangled up in lifes messiness and you go home again so that you can feel content and firmly planted back into reality, even if its just for a few hours/days/week? Holding her, holding my little family - just the two of us - was the first time I felt that same sense of contentedness right where I was standing (or sitting). I've never, ever, ever, stopped feeling that way. She is where my home is.
Turning one. The milestone. The first time I realized my baby wouldn't stay my baby forever. There would be candles and cakes in her future. Presents and family and chaos and crying and more milestones.
A few days before she turned three she got her first pair of glasses. Needless to say that after hearing my four month old was blind, hearing that she needed glasses at age two- however teensy the chance of her getting full or even half use out of them, was the best news thus far. Two was hopeful in the most unbelievable of ways.
My three year old. Three was the year she became a water baby. I had one of the best summers ever, watching her enjoy the sunlight, the splashing. Water. She welcomed barbies, babies, dolls and stuffed animals into her life-- not to play with, to merely exist beside her. Three was a very sweet year.
Four little candles before a little girl. Four months into being four, she started pre-school. October fourth she was diagnosed with an Autistic Disorder. (I learned she was blind at four months old. Four is tricky number). If I'm honest with you- age four was tricky. Heartbreaking some days, and amazing the rest. She wrote her name for the first time. Found Easter eggs for the first time. Pointed to colors. Letters. Numbers. Fell in love with every single part of a word. Words.
Five. FIVE. People have talked about this age as one that is another big milestone. Kindergarten begins at five. More independence sought. Thinner carseats. Bigger poop. Full-sized backpacks. No more training wheels. Fairy wings come in.
I'm not sure what exactly I'm looking for at five. I know that I can't stop saying it.
Five, baby. you're a five year old. Holy crap.
On her birthday eve this year she couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning and singing to herself in her big girl bed surrounded by all things Gia. I couldn't sleep either. Like a normal person, I scooped her up in my arms and snuggled with her in my bed, so that we could ring in five together.
She asked me if she could have presents for her birthday.
yes, baby.
She asked me if she could have four of the movies already in her collection.
of course you can.
She told me, in the same manner that she usually tells me, what her tomorrow will be.... that tomorrow we will: "wake up in the morning, have breakfast in the morning, have waffles, use syrup dip, brush our hair mommy in ballerina bars (because she doesn't say buns, and she corrects me when I correct her), and we'll watch a movie, and play outside, and brush our teeth, and be five, and have an adventure, and have lunch and crackers and soda, can we have soda at our party, mommy? (yes, baby), and have presents, eat chocolate cake, read books, play letters, have a mermaid bath, mommy, can she have a green mermaid bath with splashing? can you tell her : "mermaid, mermaid, mermaid!" 5 times? no, no, 100 times? (yes, gigi).
Mommy, can we do that?
absolutely.
She's speaking to me. Yes, it is in the third person, and it is one fluid sentence, and she is busy moving her hands and feet while she is telling/asking/yelling her sentence.
...but this is our milestone. This is five. FIVE. This is what it means. She talks to me about being five and everything in between and I take none of it for granted. I cried when she told me that we would go on adventure on her birthday, because she was right. We did five years ago and we will again. We do every day.
She echos my speech and those around her much less. There are times, when overwhelmed or nervous, that she will echo questions or make sweet sentences full of beautiful words that have no connection or relation to one another according to my ears, but make every bit of sense to her....but less so than before.
Organic sentences.
One of my favorite phrases. Its taken a long time to get to this spot where we are. Tonight, we went to the grocery store and she pointed, with her whole hand, to a something over head. She asked what it was. What shape was it? Is it blue? Green? Red? Tiring as it is to always answer "what's that?" questions from afourfive year old, I will gladly keep doing it because she is asking me about something new.
I'm not sure if she always wondered about her world, and could never say the words, or if she simply hadn't seen something yet that compelled her to explore, but for whatever reason I feel so, so lucky that I get to go on this adventure every day.
Welcome, five... we've been waiting for you. - Mar 26, 12
There are moments that I am blown away that this child, *this child* is my child. That I get to mother her, love her, guide her, learn from her. How has she grown so fast?
- Feb 21, 12Playgrounds can be scary for a multitude of reasons. I’d like to illustrate some *things* from this weekend that forced me to rip several little hairs out of my head, hold my fists to the sky and curse- CURSE- all those people who had come to the park. My thoughts on this weekend…..1.) Children are so similar to axe wielding homicidal maniacs that it frightens and disturbs me to my very core.
2.) Parents are so into themselves that they are oblivious to the piranha toothed children that they gave birth to, running around like characters from Lord of the Flies.3.) Turn taking. Turn taking is just as important for parents as it is for children.4.) Parents: you are here at the park with a child, I don’t know if he/she is yours or not, but you’re here with “a” child. Remember that. Remember how you feel when they start crying, drop their favorite toy in the car, pinch their finger, scratch their eye, drop their glasses, etc. Sometimes, we must take a moment to help them. If you’re in a parking lot and the car in front of you HASN’T inched up a foot or two like the other cars – do me a favor – please don’t honk. I get it. You want out of this place just as much as the rest of us, but as you can see I am turning around to fix something for a tiny person in a car seat. Your Subaru horn? Yeah, it doesn’t help any of us.5.) Most of us are teaching our children to be tolerant. We want our kids to acknowledge differences in others and appreciate that some people have special circumstances. It is your job and mine, as parents, to not only foster sensitivity in our children, but have a general sense of common decency. When a mother is helping a child onto a green sea-horse on the merry-go-round, and another child onto a super high, tan carousel horse- and one has a bright green cast on his arm and the other is repeating, “she wants the horse” over and over and over and over and over again, while visibly shaken – DON’T STEAL THE TAN HORSE! Yes, a mother broke the unspoken rule of parent community this weekend by upsetting an already frustrated mother on the damn merry-go-round by making her kids upset. Angry baby bears = angry mama bear. Not only did she cut me off in line, but now she was stealing a freaking carousel horse from my child. Like a good mother, I said “Excuse me, we sort of had these two picked out and the kids are attempting to get on.” I was polite. At first. She replied with an unusually bitchy, “So…what are you trying to say?” Meanwhile the two children *I* had were still trying to get on the ride. Given her direct question, I replied in the same tone, “I’m saying that we have these.” Wouldn’t you know… that kind, puffy coat wearing, sensitive mother, picks up her child with a smirk and puts her on the horse my kid was attempting to climb.6.) Parents! Good Job! This is where I actually have a little faith restored in the other parents at the park. Sometimes an overwhelmed mother will go beyond the learning experience that is put before her, and show her child what *not* to do in a tense situation. Good job for smiling and going about your business when some parent yells things like, “HEY ASSHOLE- THANKS FOR STEALING A HORSE FROM A BLIND CHILD AND A KID IN A CAST!”7.) “asshole? Really?” – you say. Yes. Really. Why? Blind. Cast. Little tiny kids.8.) Watch your child. It’s not that tricky. I know how my child behaves in public and that is the reason why I maintain a sense of space from me and freedom for her, while still being close enough to intervene when I need to. Call me a helicopter mom if you need to. I prefer to think of myself as a mother of a wonderful child who is visually impaired and on unfamiliar playground equipment. A mother who is trying to let her child explore and interact with other kids, but aware of the fact that she is Autistic as well, and might not respond well in certain situations with your child. She won’t tell me what happened when your child plows into her face, even though I can see what happened. She can’t or rather won’t, tell me what what’s wrong. I’m making sure that my child is playing well and not interfering with your child’s fun day at the park. How about you stop reading a magazine on the bench and watch your child. Yes, you. Your child, as sweet as he/she is, is the child who just stepped on my kids fingers on purpose. Your child is the one who follows her up the steps to the slide and goes down right after her, kicking mine in the back so hard it makes her cry. Your child runs up the stairs/across the playground so fast that it knocks my kid over. I’m not insane, and I understand that children are excited and hyped up on playground merriment when they are running around, but it is your job as a parent to make sure that they are not cutting off other kids in line, pushing then down, or knocking them over. The park is a learning experience as much as it is a fun time.9.) Plenty of parents are active and involved with what their children are doing, and for that- we are all thankful. I am in no way saying that all parents are crazy and their children are wretched little creatures. However, every time we go to the park, there is some new horror story waiting there for everyone to experience. Every. Single. Time. It ruins the park for people and I don’t get it. I watch mine. Watch yours. How can you justify the injury to other kids?This playground madness has got to stop. I’m likely to start pelting parents with organic fruit snacks if it doesn’t, because kind words aren’t working. - Dec 05, 11Today is December 4, 2011. It’s just a Sunday, not a particularly magical Sunday, but a Sunday nonetheless. It is exactly two months from the day that Gia was diagnosed with an Autistic Disorder. I thought of other crafty ways to say that, but it never turned out the way I wanted. I typed the sentence(s) and then delete-delete-delete, and then typed another. I gave up. Nothing poetic. No segue from witty thought to a topic that tears my heart out, most days.Most days, I cry.The other days? Honestly, on the other days, when I am not sobbing-in-my-car-alone-like-a-not-so-hot-mess, I wonder what the fuck I’m doing. I’m angry for her, and unsure of who I should direct my shitty disposition to. I remember feeling like this when I found out that she was blind. I remember feeling like this when the doctor said she would need a growth hormone injection, nightly. At this point in time, I am heartbroken. Pissed and heartbroken. Eventually, I will stumble across these words and realize that this was just a phase, and that I tackled this diagnosis like the others, and kicked its ass, on her behalf. I will be her advocate, there’s no questioning that, but right now I'm sad. Don't confuse that with pity, because there is no pity here. Most parents want what is best for their children, and in those wants come the desire to have good health and the least amount of obstacles in their future. Right? RIGHT??This isn’t a phase. That’s the part that I’m having a hard time with. For some reason, it was easier to be content with thinking that her behaviors were phases in her development and not actual issues. Actually, I was pretty content with the possibility of Autism. Once there was a hint of the A-word, it served as a point of relief for certain otherwise-unexplainable behaviors. If my family and I could imagine that Autism was the cause of a lot of issues, then the actual tantrums/hand flapping/incessant jumping/etc. became easier to deal with. Okay, not easier, but more ….understandable. Does that make sense? It isn’t a phase, however, and the realization that these behaviors are here for a while - - - are overwhelming.Now that we have the diagnosis, I find myself struggling to believe it’s real or accurate. I feel like the 482,196 questions I answered were wrong somehow or I overestimated things. I question its validity daily. She has been evaluated by several people who each say the same thing, and I still can’t believe it sometimes. G and I had a meeting the other day with 4 million people from her school (well, it felt like 4 million). The whole group was there, all nine of them. They each took turns pointing out her skills and weaknesses and intended goals. They showed me, in years, where her current abilities reside. If you’ve never had your child picked apart and described to you, even in the most gentle way, by a group of educational professionals, then you may not know what I’m talking about when I say that it sucks. Yes, there is my very most grown up phrase. It suck-suck-sucky-suck-SUCKS, and it is one of the most difficult parts of being a parent.I began parenting classes last week. The first class was extremely hard, because we all had to share our stories. Talking about G’s vision or the other things that make up who she is comes easily, but if you expect me to explain anything about her daily habits, or what I want for her future – you’re out of your mind. I cried like a baby. There I sat, in a room full of parents who had kids with echolalia, strange attachments to unusual objects, and the inability to create spontaneous speech consistent with kids in a close proximity age group. Story after story, parents spoke of situations and behaviors that we see every day in our home. Not a single person tried to make another feel crazy for being concerned about a specific behavior. Not one person pacified the other. We were in a room full of people who understood that their kids’ milk drinking obsession was akin to my child’s tendency to carry a chapstick in her hands for as long as I'll let her. The second class was better, because during the moments in between exercises, I was able to share my frustrations with other parents at my table. We laughed about the things our children had done, because what else can you do? I've talked to several parents of children who are blind, and we have our own connections and camaraderie but not like this. Sitting across the table from the faces of parents who look as tired as me, and have stories similar to mine, I can see how important it is to have this contact.
Gia is sitting on the floor asking "what's that?" repeatedly, while she flips through flash cards. She holds them to her eyeball and I have no clue how she sees any of it with the tiny vision she does have. She's hitting the bed and semi-yelling "nooooOOOooOOoooooooo," with every word I sing out loud, as I type.
We're trying to figure this out. We're trying to find the right rules, actions and behavior. We're trying not to lose our shit. Well, I'm trying not to lose my shit. - Nov 28, 11
Dear Gia, Aiden, and Trace,
I apologize in advance for all the wacky things your mothers have made you do and *will* make you do in the future. It never pans out quite like we hope it will. The painting sessions, the beach trips, the christmas light strolls, movies, games, cookie decorating, zoo, museum, exploring adventures, and on and on. It. never. goes. as. planned.
...but what I just realized is this: things never went as planned for your mothers as well.
All of OUR shopping trips, movies dates, dinners, vacations, club moments, drunken arguments, eye rolling conversations, roommate fun, roommate hell, christmases, birthdays, thanksgivings, plane rides, weddings, baby showers, and births.
you. name. it.
none of those things ever went exactly as we hoped, for better or worse, and there were plenty of meltdowns and tantrums along the way for your mothers as well. We are wild, passionate, women, and with that comes a little bit of crazy. The three of you will love each other without even realizing that that's what it is, because you've always been family, you've always been friends. You will fight, and kick, and scream - and HATE to share sometimes - but you will do it because someone, somewhere, says you should. You will find more humor in sitting on a bench outside Color Me Mine, than you will on the inside painting plates for Santa, just as we found more fun sitting on a bed, laughing, than we ever did that night as we left for who-knows-where. You won't remember the destination, but you will (you will) remember those moments it took you to get there.
You are stuck with the two people who sit beside you. Lucky- and stuck.
I see the similarities in your relationships, and wonder if they will parallel your mothers exactly. It doesn't really matter if they do, but I'm curious all the same.
My point? Be silly. Have fun. Laugh on park benches and giggle while you essentially tell us to f@#k off as we plead for you not to jump in puddles and most definitely, not to sit in them. Love the moments the three of you share that we couldn't possibly understand, because we aren't three or four years old. Because we aren't you. Because we once knew someone just like you, and you and you. - Nov 18, 11Candy Striped Snapshot Christmas CardDesign photo Christmas cards at Shutterfly.View the entire collection of cards.
- Aug 26, 11Gia,On the night before preschool, we sat on the floor of your bedroom and tried on all of your brand new school clothes. You were a good sport – as good of a sport that you could be at the young age of four with little interest in dressing up in clothes that didn’t help you govern a magical princess monkey queendom, or enhance your ninja skills. While wiggling in and out of jeggins and cotton dresses, we talked about how nice it would be, on your first day of school, to tell your classmates your name.Hi, my name is Megg. That’s what I would say to the kids in my class. What would you say?After you brought your tiny hands to your face and covered it several times, and apparently due to the lack of bones in your legs, you collapse in laughter onto the floor.Hi, *giggle* my name is Banana!What’s your name?Clearly, you have missed the exact point of this exercise. Somehow I can’t help but giggle with you, because you are more entertained with yourself than I’ve ever seen you. For 40 minutes you proceed to tell me that your name is banana, lollipop, cookie, and mooku (your favorite pretend word). You talk about the stories you will tell your friends about “princess monkey” and the moon, and of course…dinosaurs.I’m nervous for you. Excited, but nervous about your first day. On the morning of the big day, I lean in to hug you and you whisper, “It’s okay mommy, I’ll be right here.”I wipe my own tears away.The orientation comes and goes and before we know it we’re back in the car and talking about what the next day of school will be like. You love the swings. You want to know more about the music that will come. Your cubby is yellow and has letters that are big, but not quite big enough to show you that it’s your name written on the front, in black.
A new friend said hello, and you replied, Hi, my name is Gia. You are indeed, not a banana.Tuesday morning is the big day. We’re running late, because I’m not used to taking you somewhere in the morning and dropping you off. Unlike our other trips in the car, we don’t listen to music, we talk. We talk about school and friends, and the beautiful experiences that you will have today. Your arms wrap themselves around your new owl backpack, and you tell me the colors that decorate it. You. Tell. Me. I don’t even know that I ever told you what colors are on it, because I’ve become so used to you guessing the colors of things. Your tiny fingers twirl around the curves of it and at first I think you may be nervous. Your face, from my rearview mirror is bright and I can see only a smile when you talk. The tracing of the backpack isn’t nerves, its anticipation. You’re exploring, because that’s what you do. In fact, you can’t wait to do it and school must seem hours away, not moments.We arrive to your school and when you step out of the car you reach up to grab my hand. I take it and squeeze it to let you know that everything will be okay, but instead you squeeze mine. I take one step and you almost pass me, skipping, laughing out, we’re here! You skip to class with your backpack bouncing up and around and we can’t seem to get there fast enough.The yellow cubby is waiting and before I can blink you are walking away to the music circle. I ask for a kiss and you gladly give me one, but you don’t hesitate before you leave. I wave goodbye and say I love you, and then excuse myself to cry in the car. It wasn’t you who was afraid of preschool, it was me.Its 10:19 am, and the minutes have passed like hours and the hours like years.I want to know if you’re laughing or looking around the room for me. Did you remember that I said I would pick you up in three hours? Do you know how to ask for help with the potty if you need it? Is someone cleaning sand out of your shoe right now? Do they know you are just tiptoeing into sipping milk out of a regular cup, because milk is the one thing you can’t stand to stick your nose into? Are you waiting for your turn? Have you fallen off the slide? Has that smile remained on your face?It’s 10:23 am and the hours keep ticking away.I’ll see you soon. - Apr 12, 11
- Mar 29, 11
The place I come from is warm in the summer, too warm in fact, and full of bugs, flies and sunblock. In the winter, the rain and fog are dominant fixtures as are layers of fat and clothes. We invested in hoodies and coats that repelled rain when I was younger. It wasn't until I moved to Napa/ Oakland/ Alameda/ Emeryville that I truly invested my cash into a fine coat(or 5). It was chilly a lot of the time and I had a new found respect for clothing and style. $200 on a coat was a small price to pay for the feelings I got out of wearing it.
FastForward>> to 2011, where I sit typing this in a pair of vans that peek out from underneath jeans, which sit closer to my belly button than they used to, and hid under a simple tee. My Pièce de résistance? A stupid plain, gray hoodie (thin) from Old Navy. Classy. Comfy. Non-give-a-fucky.
My style - or lack of - isn't the point. Well, I guess its sort of the point.
I tossed out a lot of the contents of my closet the other day and Im feeling a little sentimental. There were jeans hanging inside my closet that were ones I wore while datingGia's fatherOakland. Do I need those? Am I that size? Will I even want to touch those things with a ten foot pole once I find myself able to fit in them or will I run out and buy a pair of kick-ass jeans instead? The latter Im guessing. So I tossed them. I got rid of the things I wore when I lived in a rad-jacket sort of place and kept the things that take me out of the house everyday. I've been weeding out clothes here and there for a while now but this last batch of material-goodbyes was the finale.
old shirts from even older ex-boyfriends? gone*
skimpy "girls night in" clothing? *absolutely gone*
super high heels ? gone*
books-stuffed animals- odds and ends from men I no longer love or like? gone* gone* gone-and-gone*
The only thing left hanging around are my jackets. I can't part with those bad girls. They were my superman capes and invisible shields.
and now they're gone.
good.
I have more room for things I love and use.....like etsy-inspired banners and ribbons, boxes, bows, props, suitcases, camera lenses, blankets, sheets and sheets (because I'm a moron and I decided to go with WHITE bedding, and I have a toddler who loves red crayons, chalk and slipping up with the potty training on MY bed as well as getting a nightly shot that sometimes causes bleeding, so I need 4,378,890 sets of sheets. and nerves. of. steel).
It just seems like everytime I think Im fully into my new stage of being, something else comes along to remind me that Im trying to hide out with pieces of my past (ie. stupid clothing). Perhaps I liked the memories. Perhaps. I've got photos of the things I really want to remember so away those things go.
Anything in your closet you just CANT part with? How long has it been there? - Mar 28, 11
Ray Charles once passionately sang a little song titled “Night time” and part of it went a little something like this:
You know the night time, darling
(night and day)
Is the right time
(night and day)
To be
(night and day)
With the one you love, now
(night and day)
True? Absolutely. The one I love is 40.4 pounds of pure beauty cuddling up to me at night, sticking knees in my thigh and rubbing her face into my neck like she’s a baby kitten looking for warmth and protection. We read stories, unless – like a bad mother – I’m just too tired for a formal handheld book and I try to make up something witty to rattle off to her. When I’m done reading, or making up fantastically horrible tales, I turn to face my little love and kiss her lightly on the nose. She giggles and blinks like a cupie doll.
“Gia, I love you to the moon and ….” I start to say.
She cuts me of and leaps head first into creativity, telling me “…… Annnnnnnnnd Dinosaurs!”
From that night on I’ve refused to love her to the moon and stars, or to the moon and back again. Instead, at her request, I love her to the moon and dinosaurs.
I've decided to take this saying, this personal exchange that the two of us share each night (and more often, throughout the day) and build a website on it. I want to change a blog for it. Things are moving so quickly in our lives and I feel like I owe it to Gia and myself to embrace my need for change in order to move on happily. New colors, titles, hobbies, and people propel into the future, and I need that right now. Change. There are so many things I can't change, but this? This, I can.
Enjoy- and stay tuned for a new blog up-do! - Mar 27, 11
C+..... that's what the top of my ******* midterm test paper says. It looks polite enough, sitting on my paper with perfect curvature and light blue-black ink. It's not scorning me in crimson ink with hasty penmanship. No, no, it looks nice. Somehow though, I feel the grade sitting heavier in my mind than I feel my peers do their papers. I look around and see thrilled faces that there is a "D" on the top of their midterm, and not an "F." Some are grinning like psychopaths after a fresh kill, because their lined college-ruled paper has a "B."
I'm not happy. I'm not going to be happy unless I question the incorrectness of it all and find my way to a better grade. If this had been an essay that I wrote because I was told to, and I had no connection to its content, then I would have more than likely accepted the graded spanking. This topic was one that I wanted. This was the one question out of the five presented, that I wanted, and was lucky enough to have been assigned to. The words came out like projectile vomit. I couldn't stop them from flowing. There was an ease with which my hand scribbled down the words as fast as I thought of them.
C+
Fat chance. I'm not okay with settling for something so mediocre. Look at its shape. It looks like a hand that curves and allows its fingers to almost touch their tips together. It looks like it wants to be a circle but didn't quite get there. It's an almost circle. C is an almost. It is almost good, or almost bad. The plus is just a personal F-you that let's me know just how close I am to the former.
For seventy-five minutes I sat in my class and wondered how I would be able to get through asking why I received this grade, and more importantly, what the comments written all over my paper meant. Some, I felt, were unjust. I ignored my class lecture today and devoted the duration of class to the examination of each comment, its validity, and my possible error. Some were right, some remained wrong. I spent seventy-five minutes training myself not to cry. I repeated it.
I made a mantra:
"don't cry while talking to Dr. ***
don't cry while talking to Dr. ***
don't cry while talking to Dr. ***"
When I am passionate about something-
when I feel frustrated and angered over things that I believe -with every ounce of my fat ass- are true, I find that I forget to blink. My eyes well up with tears, and then I become angered that Im angry and tearing up.
Mantra. Mantra. Mantra.
My points were well received and my grade has been changed to a better one - a happy compromise. What I can't shake is this realization that I am now a student who fights for what is right for my education. I cry when I fear I am running out of time for an assignment. I beg for extra credit. I loathe the slackers in class. My bookcase is filled with highlighted papers and practice tests that aredone until they're right.Im right. five times. I study, and study and study.
I cry over C+'s and tape A's to the fridge. - Feb 03, 11
In 2010 I participated in a Flickr inspired 365 day photo project and chronicled GiGi for a year. One photo, every single day, for a year. There were times that I felt annoyed with the tediousness of having to edit, post and share. It wasn't until I had gotten to the end of the year and began to edit my photos that I realized how perfect each and every one of them were, because of the subject. I found the week, the exact week, where GiGi started to become this little girl. I spent every day with her (with the exception of a weekend for my birthday and another - which still, by the way - had pictures that the sister helped me with) and if I had not done this project I would have never been able to tell you which month it was that her hair seemed longer, or that her face became thinner and her legs hung closer to the ground when she sat upon a park bench. August. August is the month her face morphed into a little girl and shed the image of a teeny toddler.
The 365 Project taught me a lot about my daughter and myself as a parent. I learned about this craft, this photography. There were times that I felt bored with the types of images that were taken, because there were indeed times when her sleeping face, perched upon a pillow were all I could snap before the clock struck midnight and my camera turned into a pumpkin. I hated that for days on end I would have to decide on whether or not to use the photo I had taken of her with my cell phone while she was brushing her teeth/ smacking the TV/ having a tantrum in time-out town was better than the one of her sleeping that I snapped with Nina Nikon. I loathed that those were my choices. So I put them off. I put off editing those photos and posting them until I had a pile of images to sort through.
When I looked at my set of photos and the last one read "day 211/365" I nearly pissed myself. Collecting images and sorting through my various eJournal entries in my Word Docs and figuring out how to mash them together without my head exploding was proving to be a massive challenge. Alas, I did it. I put on my big girl pants and followed through on a project I had so much fun doing at times, and whose final product I was sure, positive, I would love. Looking through the folders clearly marked with the date the image was taken proved to be a lot easier, and A LOT more time consuming that I had initially imagined, but it was doable.
I found the folders, one day after the next, with a mere 4 or 5 photos in each one, 3 out of those 5 blurry or over exposed and began to see the bigger picture. She was asleep in those photos, but on the other side of her little hands clasped together was a mound of textbooks. I didn't take her out and create some set/stage for a mini photo shoot because I was studying. I was in school. I fell asleep before I finished my online geography assignment, or wrote a paper on violence in the media. What I captured in those images wasn't just a little girl growing up, but myself growing with her. Those images reflect what *our* life was like in 2010, not just hers. Sometimes life was sloppy and tired and forgetful. Other times, our life was organized and blissful. There were days when I couldn't express (in words) to someone - or myself - how much loved her and a photo was the only choice I had left. The photos splashed humor and talent all over the place and punched me in the gut with irony sometimes. They captured firsts. They shut the door on lasts.
I love my kid. I love her more than anyone on the planet and I feel so lucky to have a record of what each day was like with her, for one entire year.
...and I want that feeling again.
This year, my 365 day project has gotten off to a mediocre start. At least, I thought this year had started that way, but yesterday I had a moment of clarity with regards to this whole thing. I knew that I wanted a challenge, something that I could push myself to do - raise the bar. So I've decided that while having a set of print for myself is an amazing gift, I want Gia to have a set as well. Whether there is any improvement in vision or not, I'm confident that large print may be a reading option in her life. I'm hopeful. Even if I'm completely wrong there is always the option to have things Brailled for her. This year, I've begun to make each image representative of how our day went sot hat I can look back and remember it. For GiGi, I've decided to tailor my entries to her, and her alone, and include what the image looks like so that she will have a better understanding of the photo.
I'm excited. Thrilled, really, to finally know how to get into this years project. I won't beat myself up for not posting every day, because chances are, I *won't* post every single day. I have school, and homework, and the park, and dinner...and story time, and a million other things to do and sometimes I won't make it to editing or writing and posting each day. It doesn't mean that I didn't capture a moment and that I don't have something brilliantly personal to share with my daughter. The pressure stays at bay this way. I'll try to give myself a short term goal of having a month unprocessed at a time and no more, but with today's date being February 3, 2011, I suppose I've already slipped up. Que sera, that's what this weekend is for.
... so with that, let the project commence!
(a visual sneak peek...) - Feb 03, 11Day 23:
You sit by the window kicking your feet in rhythm with the music that's dancing around - back&forth- swinging through your ears. Dancing. Dancing as if it were 1956 and you are hearing Miles Davis' record "Round About Midnight," for the first time. You are in utter bliss the first time you hear his melody 'Bye Bye Blackbird.' However, it's not 1956. Not even close. The year is 2011 and while it's the first time you've listened to this album you are no stranger to Davis. You two go way back.
You could hum 'Blue in Green' before you could say "I love you." In fact, if you could have said I love you at that point in time, I bet my life you would have said it to that very song.
My darling, you enjoy Miles Davis more than anyone else ever could and this look explains that. Your eyes are closed and instead of being pinched shut they carefully squeeze together as if to examine his carefully placed notes. You dissect its color - it's tone. Like a lover of food critiques each flavor that caresses their palate you too have an innate ability to discern this brilliance from that one.
The light pours into the room like smoke and fills the air, surrounding you, circling you. It rests on your face, your skin. It sit's in silence with its ear pressed to yours, swaying this way and that to the lullaby of this song. It would peacefully fall into a sleep of dreams and dreams if it weren't for the unmistakable pounding of your heart. Miles makes your heart pound. You - make - my- heart pound. I watch both of you , the light and your body, sitting by the window and I'm afraid to break your silence. At this moment, there is nothing else in the world for you, but the music. - Oct 31, 10
It's 12:01 am and like a child who waits up for their Santa Claus or Easter Bunny to arrive and bring them a surprise; I too wait up for something. I've anticipated this moment for the past year. I've dreaded it, loathed it, loved it, tried to lose weight for it, planned a party for it, stopped planning a party for it, and waited up for it.
I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for today.
It is October 31, 2010, and I am officially thirty years old.
For some odd reason I had half expected to turn into something at this magical midnight, but much to my amazement it feels like New Years Eve 1999. Do you remember that year? Everyone sat around and anticipated the end of the world at the stroke of midnight, but nothing happened. People stayed the same. The weather stayed just as it was 13 seconds prior to the time changing from 1-9-9-9 to 2-0-0-0. Just as I sat and watched the clock on that new Years Eve - preparing in my mind for a potential doomsday, but neglecting to lift a finger to change it - I sit in my pajamas, wipe Gia's drool off of my arm, and wait while the clock ticks still, and doomsday never comes.
I am thirty, and I can't stop saying it.
Some people make lists of things they want to do before their fateful thirty arrives. I hadn't really thought of it all that much until now. Do I have a list of things I feel that I should have accomplished before thirty?
*I wish my ass wouldn't have brought me into this age bracket at this size.
*I wish I would've been stronger, sooner.
-There are things however, that I am happy to have done. Places that I am happy to have traveled and people that move me all the time.
+My daughter, as most people say about their little ones, has changed my life.
+The family I have, though trying, and stressful as we all may be in our interactions at times - loves me, and I them - no matter what.
+I have made three of the very best friends a girl could ever want or deserve to have.
+I've seen more bands than my 16 year old hands could have ever prayed for in those days.
+I've met a legend.
+I've fallen in love.
+My book has begun ...metaphorically and physically.
+I'm committed to school.
+I've suffered.
+I learn something, every. single. day.
+My passport has been used.
+I've done things to make my parents blush.
+I've given.
I am done with my twenties and thank-my-stars, I have taken enough photos to remember the best times and retrace my steps of the even better times.
When Gia turned one I cried because my little girl was finished being a baby. I cried a few minutes ago for reasons quite similar. I wasn't upset that she was growing into someone new and older, but there was something heartbreaking about having to say goodbye to a time she'll never get back. My twenties are the same. I'm trying not to be completely bummed that they are over, because the events that occurred in those years were the events that established who I am and who I love at this very moment in time. Still, I feel like there is some apprehension to turning thirty. Maybe the reason that so many of us (please, please let me be right - that there are MANY of "us" and that I am not imagining all of this)are frightened by this particular age is because of the responsibility it brings with it. I'm no longer in my twenties, thus I am required to be more focused and stable than I've ever been in my life, because who wants to watch a thirty-something fuck-up left and right? No one. People look past the mishaps in your twenties and write off the stupidity to acts of capricious youth. In your thirties, people just write you off as a fuck-up. That's a lot of pressure in my book.
If you're reading this and you think that I should shut up and eat cake, then high-5. I wish I didn't over analyze things sometimes, but I do. That is me.
It's 12:40am and I'm 40 minutes into being thirty years old. It's 12:40 am and I've "seen Santa" and "checked out what the Easter Bunny left me," and if it's all right with you, I'm going to cozy up to a little girl who held my hand today and called me "Mommy." I promise to spend this birthday both lamenting my twenties and saying Cheers! to my thirties.
Thirty will be easier to handle with sweet little breath on my cheek and a finger in my eye. Thirty will be more interesting with 3 am trips to the potty with Gia to pee, instead drunken twenty something nights filled with 3 am trips to the potty to puke.
-m - Sep 24, 10
Dear Political Science,
These types of conversations are never easy so it might be best for you to just sit there and take it like a subject.
I think the inevitable is here and we should probably break up. When Im with you, I think of other things like English and that sexy new guy Math. I know, I know, I said I was really into you, but I think the honeymoon is over. Sure, we have great times here and there, like yesterday when we locked eyes during the discussion of the tenth amendment and the courts giving states their rights again. There was also the time that we shared a video on the subject of how the federal government nationalized the Alabama National Guard, so that two African American students could attend the University of Alabama. Maybe it was the Bobby Kennedy or JFK on the big screen that really put that *spark* there, but it was magical nonetheless. I still don't understand why the State national guard had to receive executive orders to be a NATIONAL state nat'l guard, and you talk yourself in circles when explaining.
The bottom line is that you are smothering me. Every night when I get home from hanging out with Geog, and Eng, and Algebra, you're like, "What the f*ck? Where have you been? I have so many things to explain to you right now. In fact, I wrote them down and I want you to check out sixty pages worth..of my feelings, of what makes me...ME." *yawn* I think we need to have more of a "closed book" relationship if you know what I mean. You're so emotional and long winded.
When you talk, I'm listening to other people.
When you quiz me on what you've just said, I freeze up because halfway through reading your letters (it seems like you write books, not letters), I start thinking about other more important things. Chips. M&M's. Bad breath. The new season of Brothers & Sisters. My daughter.
That's another thing. You don't care about my child. I mean, I thought when I entered into this relationship with you, that things would be intense, but I had no idea that you would suck the life out of me. Let's face it, Gia comes first and at this point you are trying to push against that. Unacceptable.
There is something else I need to tell you. Last night, after I put my pajamas on and let my hair down, and you crawled into bed beside me and opened up your book looking for a little action.... I was secretly reading an In Touch magazine while you stared up at me with your big blue words. I'm not even ashamed. Sure, this is an awful venue to say things like this, but had you made it a little more exciting in those moments where my guard was down and your book was open, maybe I wouldn't have had to balance the checkbook or read magazines while you were...well, you know what you were doing. (by the way, seeing how many 'post-its' you could hang from your index, stopped being funny/cute weeks ago.)
While I'm confessing, last week - while you were away in my backpack - I logged into online algebra and spent the night doing it until we fell asleep. That's not all. Last Thursday, when I told you we would spend time together, and then at the last minute I said I was tired....? The truth is, I hammered out a quickie English paper. it was fast, and good, and it turns out, I got an A. Maybe that's the problem. I'm more of an English kind of girl - creative and spontaneous - and you are more of a fly by the seat of bookshelf kind of ...whatever. I'd say person, but you're so stiff its like you're not human.
We've been doing this dance for some time, and I think that it might be best to ride it out, just until our little semester, Fall 2010, grows up and spreads its own wings. After all, we need to set a good example. When our semester is gone, I'm going to clean its things out of the house and put a gym in its place like other mama-students with empty nest syndrome do. Who knows, maybe I will adopt another semester. One from a foreign country. A friend of mine says that a lot of little classes are homeless and I would like to open my home to a whole semester if I can. French 25, Spanish 101....
So, I will try to see you as little as possible until December 16th. Maybe We can just keep our conversation to minimum and have that Professor on campus be our mediator.
Always,
Megg - Jul 24, 10There is nothing more heartwarming than being shaken awake by a toddler who is grasping her little green bunny, Franny, and whispering sleepily into my ear, "do you want some breakfast? toast, and milk, and eggs, and potatoes. please." It delights me, honestly, to hear my sweet little babes voice make her morning request. Never mind that everyday is the same routine and that underneath those soft requests are a bubbling vat of demands and whines.
Oh, silly me... she doesn't want toast anymore.
...or eggs...
...or hash browns..
...or sausage...
No no, instead she wants to witness me poking my ears with the arm of a yo gabba gabba toy until the whining ceases, or I've smote myself deaf. Either/or.
Life is full of choices and my little// teeny /demanding/ loving /amazing/ sweet/wild/independent/slightly insane in the mornings/wacky/ 3 year old has already learned what that means Unfortunately, I present her with too many choices at times, and instead of simply choosing one, she chooses nothing. I guess that's still a choice, right?
day 203
7.22.10 - Apr 29, 10There was no grand celebration this year for Gia's third birthday. I almost felt bad until I realized that smaller, for the time being, is better.
There are a lot of things that my little well-dressed lamb doesn't like. One of those things is birthday cake. Yes, I have a child who hates cakes. And frosting. She also seems to be consistently disgusted by creme filled cookies, doughnuts, candy (even M&M's !?), and basically all other things that are sugary-delicious-and-bad. This year I decided to do what Gia wanted to do and it went against every molecule in my body not to throw a themed party (color or animal/ not Dora or Princess) for my little girl. She isn't into the whole wrapping paper thing, I while I completely understand the pointlessness in wrapping a gift for a visually impaired child, I also love pretty paper. Silly, I know.
It's much more than pretty things. I can bet that 9 out of 10 people grew up with parties, presents, cake, candles and lots of people around on their birthday. My statistics aren't valid, fyi, just my own cool numbers. Nevertheless, it is a common tradition to engage in some of these things growing up. For many of us, these traditions are instilled in us at a young age, myself included in this.
I just read a hearty helping of posts on a parenting group that I *LOVE* and it struck a chord. The topic was regarding opening presents at parties and whether it was rude/uptight/ wrong. I happen to think it's perfectly fine to not open presents. Why would it ever be wrong? The whole point of a part is to celebrate something that is going on in one's life, and more importantly, to celebrate that individual.
We eat the food that they like, hear the music they choose, and hang out with *that person* because we like all things...them. We don't go to the party because we need to see them open our gift, do we? It's fun to watch someone enjoy the thoughtful gift you brought them, but it isn't necessary. It's not mandatory that cake is served either. This year, I served chocolate chip cookies and ice cream and Gia was the happiest she's been since she started having parties. (two a year, so far). This photo is of a cautious little girl, accepting "Happy Birthday" being sung to her, which wasn't always a welcome thing. You can still see a little hesitation on her face, I believe.
...but she loved it. She loved her birthday this year because all she did was play, eat what she liked, and laugh. Nobody worried when she tired of opening her presents after the first one. It overwhelmed her, and all of my nieces and siblings present, were moving at her pace for the day.
I would say...it was the best birthday yet.
taken: 4.07.10
posted: 4.29.10 - Apr 29, 10We do a lot of reading together when Chloe visits. I mean, hello-to-the-last-three-or-four-posts. They are scrunched over to the side and waiting for me to crawl back into bed and read eight silly monkeys at a loud volume with them.
Gia always gets to be the voice of the doctor which tickles me pink.
taken: 4.06.10
posted: 4.29.10 - Apr 29, 10I have no words for this. I love that it looks like they are graciously sharing, yet I had to repeat over and over again, "share with your sister! you can hold it, she can read it!" Every other hand belongs to the other.
*sigh*
Lovely, right?
taken: 4.05.10
posted: 4.29.10 - Apr 29, 10What a gray, gray day for Eater eggs and chocolate bunnies. As a tradition, Easter is a day for hunting eggs, eating chocolate and wearing lovely dresses. It was that way when I was a child and so the tradition continues. ....with few exceptions.
The first change in tradition that my sisters and I have made, is that we accept the idea that the Easter bunny wants to deliver new swimsuits for the kids. Spring has sprung, as they say, and with that notion, so has the sun, heat, and prelude to water play. Perfect time for a new swimsuit.
Bubbles flow like water on Easter and everyone left standing without a drivers' license has a giant container of bubbles in their hand.
Chocolate is another Easter perk. ON this very holy day (holy cocoa day), the consumption of that silky brown sweetness is grand and absurd. Willy wonka himself would be shocked by one walk-through of our home on easter and swear he had been out-"cribbed." Chocolate becomes a fod group, meal replacement, and hobby, for one day only.
...and it's glorious.
Chloe and Gia raced through the front yard with their cousins, in search of the golden and silver eggs that held in them, crisp green bills of easter fortune. I knew Gia couldn't really understand the monetary excitement in the racing, or the competitive nature of it all, but what mattered most is that her big sister held her hand tight, and ran around the yard with her, giggling like a chocolate-driven-lunatic, ready to be taken down in her maniacal laughter and fitted for a teeny sugar caused straight jacket.
In fact, Chloe didn't care about the money either. She traded hers for candy, and, even after I told her not to eat any more cocoa crack, she scarfed the contents of about seven eggs down, before I even noticed.
Gia had no interest in junk, and every interest in fresh whipped cream. She also had no interest in finding her eggs, which my wonderful sisters purchased at a whopping five bucks a piece.
Easter is most definitely a day open to interpretation for anyone, but I would venture to guess that most of us associate Easter with bunnies, candy, coloring eggs, and most importantly - finding those eggs (can you tell I'm not religious?). Now then, coloring is not something I can do with Gia. She is absofreakinglutely not even vaguely interested in dropping cold, round, smooth things, into cups of pungent liquid, and then patiently waiting for....? *Finding* eggs, however, is something that she can hop right into. This year, I shopped around for glowing eggs, and oddly enough, found them at Target. Unfortunately they did not glow unless you had the secret decoder flashlight. Lame. Then, I found beeping eggs....selling for $17.95 each. After I came to, passed out again, then shook it off and stood before my computer, I realized that these little thing had to be easy to make. I located a website that had a manual for building them, and my very sweet brother-in-law offered to make them.
A few days after our epiphany eg-making idea, I bumped into the talking eggs in Walgreens.
It was hard to contain my sheer excitement, so I didn't. My sisters, neighbors, friends, milkman, mailman, ups guy, starbucks lady, solicitors, etc all got a chance to play with them before Easter, and we all squealed with delight over the prospect of Gia being able to participate in her very own egg hunt.
Fast forward to today, and I have a child who is not in the mood for a egg hunt. In fact, the only thing she was in the mood for was licking the hot pink, plastic egg, and holding the talking thing right up to her ear. cool, but yet, not so cool. I'm saving them for next year and I'm hoping that she learns to hunt them.
Either way, both girls indulged, both got what they wanted out of the eggs, and neither stopped hugging me all day.
taken: 4.4.10
posted: 4.29.10 - Apr 29, 10From the time Chloe was teensy, she was a book worm. Her little hands would hold onto light in whatever form she could make it work, and there, in the dim lit night, she would flip through pages before she even knew what the words meant. When pages weren't paragraphs. They were pictures, and paragraphs were jumbled up sentences and sentences were words, and words letters, and letters were the things that could keep a little girl wide awake at night, gleaming with curiosity under flashlights and pale pink blankets and pillows. Back when the bed was covered with mounds of books instead of stuffed animals, and tucking her in meant possibly getting a paper cut. "Sweet dreams" and "I love you's" were kissed to fingertips and blown across the room, to a little girl and her chapters.
Reading, it seems, is in the DNA, because GiGi would rather snuggle a page full of cardboard and braille, than most other things. Franny and Louis - her partners in literary crime - are hugged and kissed and tucked under arms while we read out loud, and argue over who gets to turn the pages first.
Last night, I walked in to tuck GiGi in after she had fallen asleep, and I found Goodnight Moon still in her hands. Eight Little Monkeys, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear were slumped over in the corner by her feet. A place where books go to wait while she decides how many times she wants to read the book in her hands.
Every character in Brown Bear, Brown Bear, has a slightly different sounding voice than the last. The purple cat has a raspy voice, like that of a cat with a smokers cough. The white dog barks his lines out, and the teacher sounds just like Gia. Her passionate way of reading aloud is adorable and familiar. It's the same way I read to Gia, and Chloe when she visits. It is the same exact way that I read to myself.
I have no troubles with understanding literature, or reading the words, but there is something so interesting in giving the letters a voice, even if it is my own. Or my own with a southern accent. Or British accent. Even in public, I can always be caught whispering the words aloud.
I read often, and write when I get the chance, and I am passionate about text and books and smells of the literary world. C is a connoisseur mush the same, and G is animated.
Put them together in a room and ask them to read to each other and the opportunity for photos, and mutual appreciation - is limitless.
here are my worms. my book worms.
taken: 4.03.10
posted: 4.28.10 - Apr 29, 10When Eater rolls around, fluffy pastel dresses abound and tights,cloppity shoes, gloves, and slim sweaters sneak their way into my home. I try to shun it, but I have one little girl who likes the fluff and one who doesn't care for the drafty atmosphere a dress provides or the fact that the grass itches without a pair of jeans on.
My compromise with Easter is this: let me take photos of the daintiest dresses I can find on the sweetest girls I know, in an Easter-like atmosphere.....and I will do fluff -n- tough on easter to appease the masses (or the massively cute and bossy kids -o- mine).
This photo is so real, its going on my wall. This is the epitome of big sister/little sister relationships. The serious face of a the guide, and the joy in being taken out for an adventure. The duty and reward.
taken: 4.02.10
posted: 4.29.10 - Apr 29, 10I had no clue how much I liked children until I met Chloe. I didn't know that eating something half-chewed by someone else wouldn't kill me, and that clothes would survive a melted chocolate mess/massacre and still function properly. I learned that names spelled out of macaroni and glitter are absolutely piece-of-art and so was twirling around in a makeshift Cinderella dress with dirt under your fingernails from playing in the sand.
Indoor soccer and the alphabet were competing with smoke filled bars and long work days, and almost winning.
responsibility was attractive.
If there had been no-chloe, then I would I have been a terrible mother. I would have been selfish and rotten at first, as much as I like to think that I wouldn't have sucked, I most likely would have.
I loved her almost instantly, in a way that I did not love my nieces and nephews. I loved her like she was my own, and I am so lucky to have a seven year old rock star/princess/wanderer/chatterbox/girl/lady/magician/dancer/girl scout/student/child.....let me love her as much as I do.
I'm lucky that I get to love her like a mother, absolutely and completely, and I am amazed at how awesome it is to watch her be Gia's big sister.
My ladies. My lovies.
taken: 4.01.10
uploaded: 4.29.10 - Apr 29, 10Sometimes, when you concentrate so hard on keeping your child safe, you forget to protect yourself. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has injured herself while attempting to keep their child out of harms way.
Today, I took Gia to a little park in Orinda, CA after her appointment with the fabulous pediatric ophthalmologist we know and love.
I set myself up for...nothing. The 4-6 months leading up to her appointments I stay very neutral about what she does and doesn't see. I'm hopeful on the inside but outwardly - blah. Some don't understand my reasoning, but others nod their head when I say that the prospect of gearing myself for such amazing progress and possibly hearing that she can't see a thing, terrifies me.
The honest, very very honest truth, is that I pass it off as "just another appointment" - but the night before, I'm nauseated. The day of? Still much the same. Inside his office, waiting? I'm bright red, hot, and clammy. Nervous.
...and the minute he enters the room....
I explode positivity like you wouldn't believe. I ear-rape him with my jibberish and excitement, and unleash the optimistic mother within. It's okay to share my hopes and fears in his four little walls of exam room three. He has seen it all, I reason, and so I ask, and probe and cry. I laugh and rave about her successes and ask him to explain what a list of things she does, could possibly mean.
We leave his office and I am filled with hope that her left eye is showing her more of the world than even he assumes. When he is hopeful, I am hopeful, because he isn't just patting us on the heads and wishing the best. He is honest and medically driven to help us support Gia how we can.
He gives me a day, a full day, of uninterrupted hopefulness.
I am on cloud nine so long that I forget to look straight ahead and NOT run into metal monkey bars that knock me on my ass. As long as it happens on this day, this one check up I cherish, even a concussion can't slow down my happiness...
taken: 3.31.10
posted: 4.49.10
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