At the end of every parent's day...

(Originally posted Thursday, July 19th on Facebook)

So you know how you put your child to bed and shut the door, breathing a sigh of relief and thanking God that it's finally bedtime because you're exhausted and just can't take any more?  And then thirty minutes later, your heart aches because you miss them already, so you peek in on them just to watch them sleep and make sure they're okay?  And sometimes you open the door to find them awake, maybe reading a book or talking to their baby or cuddling with their blanket, and ultimately they always seem to see you, regardless of how quiet you are?  And you immediately duck down and slink backward, shutting the door, thinking "Oh, crap, I've been spotted!"

What the hell is that all about?  Why do we keep hiding from our kids?  Ever wonder how that looks from their perspective?

That's exactly what happened here tonight.  Well, almost.  At the end of a very long (albeit fun) day, I put Piper to bed and retreated downstairs to read on the front porch and watch the storm.  After the first clap of thunder, I went up to check on her and see if she had stirred.  There she sat, resting against a pillow and cuddling quietly with her baby, eyes right on me.  With a sharp intake of breath, I instantly pulled back on the door handle, but the look in Piper's eyes made me stop.  And I realized what a crappy thing I've been doing for the last two years.

Why on earth shouldn't Piper know that I'm checking in on her?  Shouldn't she see that I love and miss her?  Shouldn't she know that I care enough to watch her all through the night, and that she is never truly alone?  Doesn't she deserve to hear "I love you" one more time before she falls asleep?  And I swear to you, all of these thoughts raced through my mind in about three seconds while she stared at me.

So I let go of the doorknob and stepped forward, nudging the door open with my elbow.  I tiptoed over to Piper's big-girl bed, where she looked at me with a cautious expression that read "Oh shit, am I in trouble for being awake?!"  I leaned over and smiled as I brushed her hair off of her forehead, and she grinned in return.  "I just wanted to give you more kisses."  And I kissed her on the cheeks and nose and told her that I loved her.

"Love you," she whispered back.

So from now on, I'm waiting a full hour before I check on her :-)  But if she's still awake and sees me looking in, I will not shut the door and pretend that I wasn't there.  Even if my peeking in causes her to stay awake an extra fifteen minutes, at least it's fifteen minutes that she knows I'm loving her.  At the end of the longest, hottest, crankiest, teariest, most tiresome day, we could both use a little extra love, after all.

Share, and share alike

Hi, Daddy!

I know it's way past my bedtime, but Mama said it was okay.   She can be cool like that, sometimes.  We've had a lot of teachable moments around here this week.  Usually Mama is the one doing the teaching, but tonight she was the one doing the learning.  She's mumbling something about “humility,” but I don't know what that means.  Anyway, my favorite word lately has been “mine.”  A lot of my friends use that word too, but I don't like it when they say it.  That word is mine.  And every time I say it, it seems like Mama has some kind of response:

“Yes, Piper, that is yours, but Caleb is using it right now.”

“No, Piper, that's not yours, Kara is just letting you play with it.”

“Piper, that nice lady is not going to steal your snack cup.”

“Honey, here at Gymboree, the toys belong to everyone. We like to share!”

I don't know what “we” she's talking about, because I sure don't like to share.   And as it turns out, Mama doesn't really like to share, either.  I mean, some things she shares, like food and hugs and lip gloss and napkins.  But today she got all weird because someone wanted to use her idea (which, like, isn't even a real thing, anyway.)  She might not have said the word “mine,” but I know she thought it. So tonight, I used her own words against her.  After, like, the sixth time that she thought “that idea was mine!” I started asking her questions.

“Yes, Mama, it is yours.  But are you using it right now?”

“Well...no.”

“Have you used it recently?  Or did you just now notice it because someone else wanted it?”

“Well, yeah, but...what if I wanted to use it?”

“Were you really going to use it later?”

“Maybe!  Okay, probably not.  Um, okay, no.  But it was mine in the first place!  I thought of it!”

“Yeah, so?  What's your point?”

“The point is that it's mine!”

“Mama, if you never used it and aren't planning to use it, then how can it be yours?”

Mama took a deep sigh, smiled a little, and ruffled my hair. “How'd you get so smart, kiddo?” And then I said the smartest thing ever, Dada.  I told her I learned it from watching Elmo.

So it all worked out in the end, I think.  Mama's mostly okay sharing her idea.  Auntie Becca pointed out that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  I didn't understand what that meant, so Mama took out the big words and said that people like to copy the cool kids.  I'm still a little confused, but I think that Mama's one of the cool kids.  And I think you're pretty cool, too, Dada.  Have fun with sticks, area pee dragon, and ted new jet.  I'm glad you're only gone for a month, and I can't wait to see you when you get home.

P.S. – I don't recommend using Mama's words against her unless you're in another state or in Mama's imagination.  It could get real ugly, otherwise, I think!

Infinite love

April 17th of 2010 kind of disappeared in a blur for me. Between the pain, the fear, the drugs, and the euphoria, there are only a few outstanding moments that remain in my most reachable memory. And even those, I generally chose to overlook. When I think of Piper's birth, I immediately recall how I spent the night before, and how I felt the week after. Fortunately, I have been able to focus more on Piper's present than I have on her past. The PTSD still rears its ugly and violent head, and I didn't recognize its crafty form until this morning. I've been more sensitive and weepy than usual (I used to cry once a year, and now I'm brought to tears on a daily basis) but I haven't felt the anger or pain that I encountered last year. And I'm grateful for that.

St. Vincent's can breathe a sigh of relief as tomorrow we exceed the statute of limitations. Despite the advice of many, including those in the medical and legal fields, I simply could not bring myself to take action against them. Do I absolve them of their responsibility in the critical mistakes during Piper's birth? As my beloved girl Whitney said, Hell to the no. But I can't put any more energy and action into being angry and negative. I have come to peace with the way things transpired, and I hope that everyone understands that. If I ever see Sally Talbot in a public place, my foot might slip off of the brake and hit the accelerator (and I might accidentally put it in reverse and do it again) but I can't put myself or my family through the drama and turmoil of a law suit.

The last year, and the last 15 weeks in particular have taught me a great deal, which I won't fully go into tonight. I have been blessed and lucky to have such an amazing support system, especially since it sometimes comes from the most unexpected places. I have several close friends and coworkers who have gone out of their way to help me, two besties who would go to the ends of the earth for us, and an amazing husband who sacrifices so much to keep his ladies happy and cared for. I have an overwhelming number of people who have been following our countdown on Facebook, and as silly as it sounds, their attentiveness and “likes” have helped me get through nearly four months without ever truly being alone. So thank you.

As I got Piper ready for bed tonight, she kept asking me to read more books. At one point, I told her “Just one more, and then we're done.” I realized that I had no real reason for rushing her off to bed, other than my own selfishness. Okay, and my sanity, too. But mostly it was selfishness. And I immediately remembered those first twelve hours when I wasn't able or allowed to hold her. I then told her to get all the books that she wanted, and pulled her into my lap. I snuffled my nose into her crazy toddler hair and gave her furry-purry kisses on her big-girl head. I listened to her say the words that she knows from her books, savoring her voice, reminding myself how lucky I am to hear it. I recalled those first moments after they pulled her out of my belly, when she wasn't conscious or strong enough to cry. I admitted that the words “mine” and “no” are far better than the bone-chilling silence that followed her birth. I understand that every day I have with her is a gift.

Maybe that's what gets me through the toughest of times. You know, when Doug is gone and the dog has the poops and I tear my rotator cuff and Piper throws up for 24 hours and I have to be at work the next day. Perhaps my subconscious reminds me “It's all good, chica. It could be a lot worse. It could be just you and the dog.”

But I digress.

Tomorrow we wish our amazing, bright, funny, strong, goofy, beautiful girl a happy two years. Piper's earned each bite of cake, every single gift, all the kind wishes that come her way. She continues to amaze me with her infinite love, her capacity to explore, and her joy in simplicity. I hope that I can reciprocate the ridiculous amount of happiness that she brings to my life, and pass some of it on to all of you as well.