When God closes a door...

I had Lucy and Audrey for the whole weekend. Me and my girls. We had a great time. Went to a street festival, had our faces painted, hit up the Please Touch Museum, slumber parties every night; I cherished every moment I had with them, so happy to have consistent, uninterrupted attention. Lucy and I were eating our breakfast on the back patio, because that was super cool, and little tiny Audrey reached her hand up and slammed the sliding door leaving her locked in, and Lucy and me locked out. I panicked. Big time. We had no shoes, still in our jammies, with an 18 month old stuck in the house. We ran around to the front (walking nearly a block from the back) and tried to get Audrey to open the simple knob of the front door but she couldn't reach. She began to cry. Lucy was jumping up and around the planters, running close to the curb and running back. She was unphased. I called mom and dad. Maybe a neighbor has a key. No answer. No answer. No answer.

I talked to Audrey through the mail slot, trying to calm her. Lucy- still bouncing around out front. I felt defeated. How could I let this happen? This is what happens with her mom. The neglectful one. The one who let Audrey wander three blocks away until a friendly stranger returned her. Hours had gone by without notice of her absence. This doesn't happen to me. I'm responsible. I love her. And now she's crying on the floor, pushing furniture against the door to try and reach. Poor Audrey.

I finally realized I had a spare set of keys at my own house. My faithful roomate brought them over and we got into the house. Mom did not return my call for 4 hours. Not minding a single text saying it was an emergency.

I talked with Audrey about playing with doors and the dangers of pinched fingers and being stranded. We cried and held each other.

Bath Toys

Lucy, 4, and Audrey, 2, are splashing wildly in their parents' tub. Lucky for me it is an enclosed shower so I make silly faces through the glass, let them shoot water at me, and enjoy the dryness of my side. The girls are off on a pirate adventure but I interrupt to ask if they want to paint nails when they get out. Of course they do; it's a special activity mom never has time for. I take the time to sit with them, let them choose a color, paint whatever bizarre requests, and giggle and laugh, and spend time just me and the girls.

I looked for mom's nail kit in the bathroom closet. Digging around, on shelves too high, items begin to topple down but are replaced easily. The girls laugh at my fumbling and inability to keep the avalanche at bay, or find the nail kit for that matter. And then, the motherload. Down it comes. Pearly and black, the rubber hit my hip and crashed, convulsing, on the floor. Mom's vibrating dildo writhed around, quieting the girls, and widening their eyes. I didn't know where to begin. I picked it up carefully. Took my time shutting it off and placing it deeper in the closet, aborting my nail kit mission. Then I turned to face the girls.

What do you say about that? They stared at me, none of us speaking. Lucy finally blurts in her 4-year-old incessantly and uncessarily loud voice, "WHAT'S THAT?!" I panicked. And froze. And stood realtively grossed out as I had manhandled this woman's device. I asked Lucy a diverting question about the pirates attacking and the event was glossed over. I never went back for the nail kit again.

Water Babies

I'll recount one of my first huge faux pas; a classic new mommy moment.

I had Madeline for the weekend. I was pumped. I like taking charge for a while. A little consistency and setting things up my way. On the last day Maddie had swim class. I was excited to be doing something new with my little favorite. I adored Maddie (and will talk of her often and our "special" relationship) and couldn't wait to jump in the pool with others moms and babies. I got her suited up and we had a great class blowing bubbles and floating on our backs. It was a great experience and I was really able to enjoy a mommy-and-me class as a participant, not an organizer. When class was over I put on her cover up and thought we were good to go. Mistake number one. We stopped at Starbucks on the way home (it was 9a on Saturday morning, and I was only 20 at the time). I noticed my shirt was exceptionally wet, but figured her suit was wetter than I realized and holding her got me good. By the time we got home I realized I was really soaking and figured we both needed to get washed up before her aunt and uncle came to pick her up. Madeline stood by the garage door and there I saw it, a constant stream from her bathing suit to a puddle on the ground. I was definitely not wet with pool water. I rushed us both into the shower trying not to think about being covered in urine. In the shower, Maddie slipped and got upset, seconds later I hear a banging at the door; aunt and uncle were early. I had to answer the door in a towel with an upset child and soaking clothes and puddles all over the house.

What a mess. I learned my lesson: change the diaper immediately after swimming.

Two Boxes

I started sharing the news today of my extreme aimlessness. I know I am qualified for things, lots of things, but I can't figure out how to go about, how to convince people I'm worth it, and make it happen according to my time line.

I was thinking of great memories I have of my kids throughout the years. I think I'll start writing them in each post. Here's the start.

Josie and Corey hold tight to their respective loops on the rope, walking home from the park. Following rules to a T, Corey often reminding the teachers when we've deviated, they speak at an acceptable volume, to the person nearest, keeping eyes forward, hands at their sides. I tune in as Corey, 3, says "But two girls can't get married in Pennsylvania." Josie says, "I know. But we can go to New York. Girls can get married there." Josie has two aunts living in the City. She loves to visit her cousin and play in their high rise loft, above all the surrounding buildings. She loves her Aunt Mimi, Emily to adults, and speaks of her often. Corey, "I don't think we can in New York. Maybe. Can two girls get married in New York?" They look to me. I'm beaming. So proud that these girls can think so logically, and so clearly about how to marry each other. Recognizing limitations and barriers that stand in their way, and mapping out how to jump the hurtles so they can be married. This speck of hope for the next generation lies right in front of me, with these adorable little ladies. I tell them maybe, when they are old enough, they will be able to get married. Corey, "Yah. I think so. I think we can get married then." I can't help smiling like a fool. They giggle. We march forward with our routine.

You are not...

Things I already knew I'd need to be happy:
- laughter
- Internet
- children (though not necessarily my own)
- a pet
- champagne

Things that, this weekend I learned, I will need to be happy:
- high culture events (Met Opera for one)
- a new pair of black stilletos
- duck confit with sweet potato hash

While a great revelation has yet to come, I am slowly piecing together what I hope will turn into some sort of success. I well up even at the mention of the future, however inappropriate it may be, and any specific gestures towards the recent events really pushes me over. The glimmer of hope I'm hanging on to for dear life (and fear I may strangle with my death grip) is I will be published as of Feb. 15th. And that will be nice. Something to show I can do, I do have worth, and all the trekking and mucking around I've done until now has paid off, albeit, in a totally unexpected way. I look forward to my next accidental boost of proof that the world does make sense, and I will come out on the other side.

Let the water hold me down

I found it. For a moment, at least. A moment of imperfection. Of contentedness and solace and acknowledging my world as it is and my world as it could be and my world that will never be. Mid sway of the hips, Talking Heads blaring, sweaty strangers abound. That's were I find my plans and paths and accept and release.

Walking home from yet another Friday night cast as mom, listening to the bizarre triad in front of me discussing selling out and riches to rags stories. Perhaps I do indulge in the grandiosity of passing up privilege. I get it now. I get what he meant when he spoke of the pride one can find in living below the means afforded to you. There is a difference between humility and martyrdom. The trouble is finding the space to live in between. The trouble is letting the days go by.

Two sixty-two Pierce Street, the house of repression.

Okay. I didn't make up this clever title. Rather, borrowed from my yellowy dog-eared copy of Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone, my reference encyclopedia for the interstices of life. Though I've never lived at two sixty-two Pierce Street, you could interject any address I've occupied and would be just as accurate. I've begun to write for several reasons which might as well be defined now, so as to have some sort of guide on this path of self-indulgence.

1) My life plan went to hell today.
2) I need to find a new one.
3) I melt without a plan.

A very dear and overly considerate professor-turned-companion has suggested I write daily (and work on my grammar). I do not exactly recognize the value but figure I might as well heed the advice of the wise, as my quarter life crisis has infected every decision from toast or yogurt to marry or break up. I begin this with hope for a little insight, clarity, and a way to pass the time until I get to wherever I am going.