En Pointe

Nahanni sat in my lap in a dance studio filled with parents and their kids.  Her hair was braided along the front, swept to the back in a lovely bun bedecked with flowers and sparkly barrettes.  Her eyes grew wide when the girls started to dance -- and I began to cry.

Here I was in this dance studio, weeping as a lovely young ballerina in an impossible blue tutu flitted gracefully before us.  Nahanni was rapt, her eyes following this young girl's every step, every fluttering movement of her nimble arms. And all I could see was my daughter.  Nahanni seems born to dance - she seems to have simply awoken in this life as a ballerina, so I couldn't help but imagine her someday before us all, doing this dance she seems to so love.  This lovely girl, dark haired, brown-skinned seemed like she could be my daughter some day in the future, someday far removed from now when she will have half completed her inexorable unwinding from me.  It is a proud thing to watch these girls who have worked so hard, and also to imagine the work of their parents, who must also be credited for their success.  For even if they never dance professionally, any of them - there is a profound beauty to the dance that makes me happy every time I see it.  When the two raven-haired sisters finally danced I could hardly believe that someday I will have two like them.  What will they be?  What will they love?


For now I try to live in the moment with them both.  Nahanni had another sleepover last night so I soaked up the wonderful evening with just Zola, remembering how lovely it is to have uninterrupted time with just one child.  How much she deserves as much love and attention as Nahanni got.  Tonight I held and rocked her, her hair soft as silk against my cheek.  I breathed in the smell of her, kissed her pink pearl lips a hundred times, tasted her with all my senses and I sang her little song.  It is a gift from the gods to hold a small, beautiful child in my arms again and know that she is mine.  I am very grateful.

Life is Grand...Even When it's Snot.

I haven't somehow managed to write much yet about what a doll Zola is.  I was joking at a Christmas party the other night that for the second child all I've put on here is "See first baby".  And while it is easy to talk about the things that are hard, the truth is that everything that was lovely and stunning about my first baby is equally true, if not stronger with my second.  Zola is an absolute pet and I love her with all my heart as I did with Nahanni.  Her vanilla breath is as sweet - or perhaps sweeter for it is laden with the sad note that she is my last baby (I think...no, really, she is.  I think).  The worst thing is that there just isn't the time to dote and swoon that there was with Nahanni.  Or, I still dote and swoon, I just don't have time to write about it.  But I love having this baby every bit as much as I did the first time, and I am able to enjoy much of it more than I did as I am a) not half dead from blood loss and, b) much more chill than I was the first time.  I know eventually this child will eat french fries or potato chips so I don't get so worked up about the little things.

As for Nahanni, while it may seem that she and I are walking a rocky road, I recognize that in some ways I have done her, as well and her and me somewhat of a disservice when I speak here of the trials and tribulations of our recent times.  But I had a dream last night that illustrates the truth.  She and I were walking down the street and somehow she went from having her small hand in mine to being lost. I could hear her crying, that distinctive wail I have heard oh, so often lately - but because I knew she was lost and scared it was chilling.  She was yelling for me and I kept saying "Nahanni!  Keep crying so I can hear you! Louder!  Mommy's coming, I'll find you!" and like a horrible game of 'hotter/colder' I kept running towards her fading voice, panicked trying to find her.  Suddenly I found myself in a rural field, far from any homes and her cries had faded to a whisper on the wind.  I stood alone in this snow swept expanse while my daughter's cries faded away and I wept because I knew she was lost, utterly and completely.  I woke up in a dense sweat, my heart racing.  I crept to her room just to see her porcelain face, her lovely pink cheeks and ruby lips.  Her impossible lashes blinked slightly as she lay dreaming, completely safe and lost only to her dreams.  I knew then that even though we might be struggling lately, she will never be lost.  She is loved even at the worst of times and I would search to the ends of the earth to find her is she were missing for even a second - physically or metaphorically.

We'll be just fine.

Is it just me?

Ah, more of the same, I'm afraid.  The syrupy sweetness of 2007 has been replaced with the walking zombie of 2010.  I'm feeling utterly incapable of accomplishing major tasks.  I've joined a photography course online and am stuck (it seems permanently) on module one.  My hallway remains half painted.  My house, despite all my efforts to the contrary, looks like a bomb went off in it.  I am not sure what my path is anymore, other than mommy.  And mommy sure has its days...

Now that, I know is not just me.

I carry an awful guilt with me the days that Nahanni drives me nuts.  I look at her beautiful face, those big doe eyes and wonder how I can go from wanting to eat her up to wanting to lock her in a closet in a matter of minutes.  So far I'm enjoying Zola and her babyness but dreading the day when I have two kids driving me nuts and feel twice as bad of a mother.  This is challenging stuff.  Well, for most of us.  I was in a posh children's store yesterday and a young mother was there.  She pulled up in a huge Land Rover and nearly took my eye out with her giant diamond as she walked in the door.  She walked around with a doting salesperson (where was my sales suck-up?!?) and filled a satchel with an unimaginable amount of clothes for her 12-month old.  "We're going to Hawaii!" she exclaimed, between intermittent cell phone calls.  She never once looked at the price tag of the $50+ shirts she was chucking in - her only complaint was that they might shrink when her nanny washed them.  I heard her call the nanny once to tell her to steam some carrots for the boy, she'd be home in an hour or so.

I wonder if she ever feels like a bad mother.

Preschool has again come to the table and I have to make a decision fast.  Somehow preschool is looking vastly more doable than homeschooling, although I cannot seem to fathom all the responsibilities of  parent participation preschool.  What has happened to me?  What happened to the Wonder Woman I used to be?

Oh yeah, she hasn't slept through the night in a year and she's bloody tired.

And her costume's at the cleaners.

And doesn't fit.