Little Twig

Xanthe and her loot from Coco and Bill's trip to Europe! She's in heaven!

 Xanthe practicing for Crazy Hair day.  Seriously, practicing for Crazy Hair day.

Xanthe has some hangnails that are always bothering her.  She said,  "I have two owies.  When you're Chinese, you have a LOT of owies."  I tried to tell her that being Chinese doesn't mean you have a lot of owies, but she replied, "Weeeeeell, Ruby has a lot of owies."  I said, "See?  And Ruby isn't Chinese."  Xanthe said, "Uh, kind of."  Ruby is kind of Chinese?  Yep, in Xanthe's world she is.

I took the opportunity of Xanthe bringing up her ethnicity to talk about her about where she came from.  We decided that Ruby wasn't born in China, but Xanthe was.  Xanthe described herself as having brown eyes, brown hair and brown skin.  She said matter-of-factly, "And when I was born, you weren't there because you were getting my crib ready."  Not the whole story, but OK.  I said, "Do you remember me telling you about your birth mother?  Remember when Ptolemy was in my tummy?  Well, you were in another mama's tummy.  When you were born, she couldn't keep you."

Then the inevitable, "Why couldn't she keep me?"

"Because she didn't have any nice, warm clothes for you or any..."  I trailed off because my voice was getting flimsy and I didn't know the truth, anyway.

Xanthe finished the thought:  "She didn't have a nice, warm jacket for me?"

All I could say was, "No."

It definitely wasn't the ideal conversation, but I didn't have any regrets about our little heart-to-heart.  I don't have to say the right thing or have all the answers, now or ever.  I have my whole life to sort out with Xanthe where she came from and why.  I am Xanthe's mom, but also the steward of this tiny twig from a family tree I'll never see, whose roots are deep in unknown soil.  Hundreds of generations of a pure Han Chinese family, no doubt a family incredibly rich in tradition, culminated in our daughter.  She is lost to them on this earth, but I like to think that her ancestors know exactly where she is. She's right here, worrying about computer lab tomorrow, even though she has practiced typing in her username and password dozens of times.  That's our Xanthe.  Oh, sorry, Ancestors...your Xanthe, too.

Peace Be Still

Ninety-nine percent of Freestone's sentences start with, "What if."  This morning, it was "What if there was a giant ball and it had bumps on it and you were an ant hanging onto it and it started bouncing and you were like WHHOOOOOOOOAAAA!  That's what Jesus felt like when he was tossed on the waves."

Scott and I glanced at each other and tuned in more attentively to the story, now that Jesus was a main character.  I wasn't sure where he was going with the ant-on-a-giant-ball/Jesus-tossed-on-the-waves analogy. 

He went on, "But then Jesus said, 'Peace be still,' and the waves as big as mountains went teeny.

Right in the middle of cereal and finding shoes and packing lunches, Freestone had given a little devotional.  Short, sweet and far more effective than my teaching moment on the way home from church yesterday when I found myself saying loudly, "Xanthe!  Jesus would never throw a Littlest Pet Shop toy at his brother!"  I heard someone mutter the obvious, "Jesus didn't even have Littlest Pet Shops.  Or a brother."

From now on, I'm going to leave the teaching of Gospel principles to Freestone.  And I'm just going to listen.

Four for Four and Grateful!

The Saturday after Labor Day is always Nutcracker auditions, one of the most thrilling days of the year, fraught with every emotion imaginable.  Golda was first, being in the taller group.  It was a huge group, 87 dancers, and I saw a lot of girls walk out afterward, shaking their heads.  Others, with a glance at their result paper, looked relieved and hurried to find their moms in the crowd.  There were so many disappointed faces, that the girls who did get parts kept their joy low-key, which struck me as extremely gracious.  I was doubly nervous because Golda and my niece Lexie were both auditioning.  They finally came out, having looked at their papers together at the same time.  It was good news.  Thankfully, I thought, "That's two down, two to go," thinking of Ruby and Ari.   

I was lucky enough to teach one of the audition dances, so I was in the try-outs with Ari when Ruby came out into the alley from her audition.  I wanted her to have someone there to see her (Scott was at the Utah game), so Golda and Lexie waited.  I slipped out of my audition long enough to see the three "Siskins" (sisters/cousins) standing in the alley.  More good news.  Ruby got a part!  With three down and one to go, I was more nervous than ever.  Araceli, at eight years old, was up against a lot of older girls.  This is her first year to try out, and she skipped the shortest group because of her height.  Although she seemed to be doing well and looked adorable in her perfect bun and the ribbon Golda chose for her, I kept thinking how devastating it would be for her to be left out.  As the third sister, being left behind is a familiar feeling.   Ari is never old enough or big enough or advanced enough to be "one of the big kids."

When the result papers arrived,  I was in a unique position as a teacher to see Ari's results and reaction first.  I saw "congratulations" and sagged with relief!  Golda and Ruby were waiting anxiously in the alley to celebrate with Ari, and she ran to them. Is there a sweeter moment sisters could share?  Ruby has been worried about Ari not making Nutcracker since last year.  In the car on the way down, Golda had told Ari, "I want you to remember that you're a really good dancer and you can do all this stuff.  Just smile and point your toes."  Ari said, "OK.  I might get a Clara callback!"  Confidence?  Not a problem for this eight-year-old.  :)

At home, Ari ran in the house and shouted, "I made it!  I made Nutcracker!"  Freestone put it all in perspective for us when he replied, "I have to go see that again?"  He liked the idea of celebrating, though, so we went to Wendy's with Uncle Trajan.  But the real party was later at Yogo Togo with all four Nutcracker girls and the two moms who are grateful to share this journey with them, Jennie and me.  The frozen yogurt was good, but the real treat was seeing all the girls talk about something they love, dance.  They are so fortunate to have this opportunity.  Their childhood recollections will be made up of the thrill of days like this.  It's a rare and wonderful thing to be a part of, and we feel so lucky.

Best Deal in Town

Check out Ptolemy's photo shoot.  Alexis at Big Sissy Photography is so talented and creative, you're guaranteed tons of perfect shots.  And it's CHEAP!  Ptolemy's photo shoot and a disk of all the pictures was FIVE dollars.  Think Christmas card pictures.  You will not be disappointed!  Thanks, Lexie!

I See, Said the Blind Man

Xanthe brought home a vision screening consent form for me to sign.  You would have thought she was going in to take the LSAT with all the worry she went through about returning the form.  "I won't take it back!  My teacher said to bring it home!  What if my teacher says no in French?  I'm supposed to leave it here!  What if the other kids don't have one?  What if I can't find the paper?  (It's the only thing in her backpack.)  What if I forget?  What if I lose it?  What does the paper say?  When do I give it to her?  What if I can't get it out of my backpack?"  Xanthe went so far as to do several drills, wherein she put the paper in her backpack, zipped it, put it on, took it off, unzipped it and got the paper out, brandishing it with a smirk of triumph.  This child rehearsed getting her vision screening form out of her backpack. If I had to guess, I would bet that Xanthe will do fabulously in school, right up until her nervous breakdown, whenever that happens.

To tell you the truth, I had a little anxiety over the vision screening test myself.  For all intents and purposes, Xanthe is blind in her left eye.  I don't want her to come home with a letter from some school nurse that orders me to have her eyes tested.  Yeah, we've done that.  We've done patching, glasses, drops, specialists, the works.  That eye is not going to get better.  Xanthe will fail the screening.  I wrote at the bottom of the form, "Xanthe is blind in her left eye.  Please inform the screener.  Thanks."   The look of dread that clutched Xanthe's face when I casually told her she was going to get her eyes checked at school was enough to remind me of what she's been through.  When she blanched, I rushed to assure her that there were no eyedrops involved, no contacts, no machinery, no doctors.  Just reading letters from far away.

"What if I can't see the letters?  What if I forget what the letter is called?  How far away?  Which letters?  B?  X?  S?  I don't know S.  Who will be there?  Who will help me?"

I will, I wanted to say.  I'll be there.  But I won't.  I just have to hope that some compassionate adult notices the fear in Xanthe's seeing eye and the other eye too, the one that wavers a little bit.  The eye that can barely make out a slightly scary world through a patchwork of shadow.

The Lion King

While Scott and a gaggle of kids were at soccer practice and I was at ballet with my own gaggle, two lucky little girls (OK, medium-sized girls) were seeing The Lion King!  We got two tickets and decided that it would be more fun for the girls to see it than for Scott and me to hog the tickets.  Just to give us an outside chance of going, though, we challenged both Golda and Ruby to practice one hundred hours in order to earn their Lion King ticket.  I think this was back in May or June.  They both reached their goal, Ruby logging her final hour the morning of the show.  I was really proud of them, not just at the completion of the goal, but every time I heard them begin their practicing without being asked, and every time I walked past Ruby's white board and saw her practicing total written there.  We truly do live in an age of instant gratification.  I can hardly stand to leave a phone message because texting is so much faster.  I feel like I have to fabricate these goals to teach my kids that hard work comes before the reward.  Now Ari is trying to pass off her beastly etude to earn this ceramic cat that I found next to the charity drop in the store parking lot.  (Scott says I could have been prosecuted for stealing.  Oops.)  Hey, some rewards are bigger than others.  Lion King vs. ceramic cat...but 100 hours vs. one etude.  So it's fair.  Right?

I have to say, I enjoyed waiting for the girls to get home and report on how much they loved their hard-earned reward just as much as I would have enjoyed the actual show.  When they burst through the door, I knew it had been an amazing night.  Thank-you to Ryan and Jennie for driving them, because waiting for them in the parking garage would have definitely taken away some of my enthusiasm!  And thank-you to Grandma and Grandpa who graciously traded seats with the girls at intermission, thus spending the second act on the second-to-last row.  That was so nice, and so appreciated by the girls.  When Golda was a baby, we would dress her up in her denim dress and purple beret and take her out.  Scott would hold her up above his head for everyone to admire, so we called her Simba.  Now she's experiencing the world in her own way and has aspirations for Broadway.  Circle of Life, indeed.

Summer Love

On a Fly Drinking Out of His Cup by William Oldys

Busy, curious, thirsty fly! Drink with me and drink as I: Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up: Make the most of life you may, Life is short and wears away. Both alike are mine and thine Hastening quick to their decline: Thine's a summer, mine's no more, Though repeated to threescore. Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one!                               William Oldys. 1687–1761 This summer is gone.  Labor Day came and went and took summer with it.  I love the "fly poem" that my dad used to quote all the time.  Its message only became poignant to me as I got older and more able to feel time slipping as quickly as pool water out of my cupped hands.  Never is the feeling that "life is short and wears away" more present than when we're walking away from the empty swimming pool on the last day of summer, the mountains telegraphing their intense colors in the saturated evening glow.  The illuminated peaks of the so-familiar mountains seem as reluctant as we are to let go of the August light.  Each sun-kissed child I claim as mine will be one year older when we come back next, and I almost can't bear it.  I want time to stop on this perfect day for awhile, just before the sun slips down, and let me have my little kids for one more dive, one more toss in the air, one more warm-towel snuggle, my nose buried in their chlorine-crispy hair. This Labor Day, the last day of summer, we all woke up at the cabin, surrounded by a rustic and heavenly manifestation of Grandma and Grandpa's love for us.  We spent the morning with cousins, throwing logs into the fire and laughing, eating together and remembering other fires and other meals.  We ended up at the pool under a cloudless sky to claim the snack bar treat we waited all summer to choose.  The Last Day Treat.  We earned it through patience, and it was sweet.  As we drove away from the pool, I said, "What a perfect day!"  Ruby said, "And to make it even more perfect, now we'll just keep driving until we get to San Francisco." In some strange way, I loved what Ruby said.  She reminded me that the future holds more perfect days, more lofty dreams, more family trips, more cabin campfires, more Last Day Treats, more whiffs of sunscreen from my baby's downy head and a myriad of experiences we haven't even imagined yet.   Go ahead, summer.  You can go now.  I love you, but autumn needs me.

This Little Child

There is a very creative child in our midst.  William Wordsworth said that children come to us "trailing clouds of glory...from God, who is their home." This child came to us trailing clouds of glitter and spools of ribbons.

This is the picture she drew on her whiteboard.

This is the necklace she made for me out of "Cheerios covered with glue covered with sprinkles" and the tabs from all the pop cans leftover from the party last night.

This is the bracelet she made for Ptolemy. "He can eat it."

This is the gym in the corner out of a mini tramp and couch cushions.  The other kids are now paying a gym membership to use this corner.

 This is her sand bucket on the kitchen counter with homemade potpourri in it, including cut up straws and fresh dirt.

This is one of the many things she can do with tin foil, sprinkles and Elmer's. Mind you, all of this was just today. Yesterday, she decorated the house with palm trees, set up a carnival in the front yard, made a 30-layer cracker and peanut butter tower and traded bedrooms with Freestone.

  This is Araceli.  If you were one of those people who can see auras, you would see a big, pink, sparkly, rainbow-colored light around her head with sparklers shooting out in all directions.  Sometimes the aura turns muddy and the sparklers go dark and we grit our teeth and we wait.  That's what makes it all the more fabulous when the lights go up and the creative juices flow out of this little head and flood our house with the detritus of a thousand little ideas.

She might look like she's resting, but she's only dreaming of what to do with an empty box, a pair of scissors, a magpie feather and a stack of origami paper.  With Araceli, the possibilities are truly endless.

Cream of the Crop

Ptolemy is a featherweight.  It's official.  He went to his 12-month check-up, and he had fallen off the bottom of the growth chart.  The doc says we should pump him full of heavy cream all day long, which sounds like a dream come true for me.  I love creamy dairy products!  (Whipped cream on turkey sandwiches, anyone?)  I distinctly remember asking my mom when I was eight, "If the Queen of England came to visit us, would we serve her cream instead of milk?"  Her reply was sortof noncommittal and perplexed.  I didn't understand how that question could have more than one obvious answer.  Of COURSE we would serve the Queen heavy cream instead of ordinary milk!  And now I can say I'll settle for nothing less for Prince Ptolemy.

He now drinks Half & Half out of a sippy cup constantly.  It won't be long before I'm soaking all of his food in bacon grease.  I really think he's such a shrimp because of his surroundings.  His world is not geared toward babies.  By all rights, a baby should be nourished while rocking in a chair in a quiet nursery, listening to soothing music.  Not dangling precariously from his mother's breast as she uses both hands to fill a cooler with ice and soda cans for the two dozen teens that are running through the yard practicing their primal screams.  The poor kid doesn't have a chance.

But, despite Tolly's waif-like, 18-pound frame, his verbal skills are up there with the best of 'em.  He can say the usual words, mama, daddy, uh-oh, go, izzit (what is it), diptaboo (peek-a-boo) and others like Golda, Star, Prestie, Scott, Coco, kitty kitty and gobble gobble.  His funniest word is "Mom," said just like the older kids.  "Moo-oom?"  He imitates inflection very well, even if his speech is still garbled.  He copies everything people say.  I know, all babies copy everything people say, but...it's so funny!  The doctor didn't come right out and say Ptolemy was the most beautiful, funniest, happiest, smartest baby he had ever seen, but I know that's what he was thinking.  It's what I was thinking, for sure.  We love this little featherweight!

Il le Fait!

The French Immersion program is working!  (Cue accordion music!)  I don't think I've ever been so giddy in my life!  Freestone speaks French!  How amazing is that?  I'm too elated to even apologize for bragging!  I've gone through several periods of concentrated effort to learn French, including three months in Paris when I was 14 and living with French roommates in college.  I did the same thing with Spanish.  Two summers in Spain, stacks of notebooks full of notes, a dog-eared English-Spanish dictionary, close friendships with the sous chefs at Lamb's, where I waitressed.  I think I ruined it all the summer I worked for a French man in Madrid.  Ostia and zut alors, I still haven't sorted out the mess.  My Spanish is only passable and my French is so rudimentary that French people I've tried to talk to just sigh and answer in English.  Like mixing gin and vodka, amateurs should never mix two foreign languages and expect anything but a babbling idiot as a result.  Last year when I took classes in French, I found that everything I translated had to go through a Spanish filter before French came out.  Sometimes in desperation, I substituted Spanish words and became incensed when the French teacher didn't understand.  It's a foreign language, isn't it?  Aren't they all the same!?  Highly ineffectual communication process.

But Freestone can speak!  Here's what he said to his teacher after school yesterday:

Est-ce que tu as presque sept ans, Freestone?
Non, j'ai presque sept and a half.
Ah, tu as presque sept et demi.
Oui.
Quel jour est votre anniversaire?
juin.  juin dix-neuf.
Tres bien.  En Francais, on dit le jour avant le mois.
Oh.  Le dix-neuf juin.
Tres bien.  Alors, tu dois faire votre devoir avant de jouer, d'accord?
D'accord.

I have never heard anything so sweet.  He understands!  He speaks!  He is seven - and a half! - and he can do something I've always wanted to master.  I'm so proud of him.  After school, two of his friends came over, one from Madagascar and one French, both children of the French teachers, and I heard both languages spoken.  Best playdate ever!  Of course, speaking French pretty much guarantees that he'll go someplace like The Philippines or India on his mission, but hey!  Then I can listen to Tagalog or  Hindi.  For now, this mom is basking in the sweet sounds of an almost-seven-and-a-half-year-old voice en francais.  I'll have to ask him if he knows how to say, "Help!  I'm melting in hot lava!"  I bet he does.