There's something in my eye (or how I became a big baby)

I used to be a cold-hearted bitch. Nothing could get to me. Not a Hallmark or reach-out-and-touch-someone commercial. Not a sappy movie. Certainly not anything anyone else could do to me. Nothing. I was bulletproof.

Then I had a baby. And damned if that didn't turn me into one big, post-natal, totally wimpy baby.

I was sitting in the recliner in my mother's basement one afternoon, nursing Savannah and watching PBS. There was a show on about a mama lion and her adorable, little lion cubs. They were romping and rolling about--just like kittens--when their whole world (and my momentary, new-mother bliss) was shattered. They were attacked by a cobra and the cubs were just too tiny to survive. I sat there clinging to my own precious cub and sobbing as the mother lion nudged and licked and nuzzled her lost babies.

And--17 years later--it hasn't stopped. It's gotten worse.

How does a (fairly) normal person become someone who is reduced to a slobbering mess at the sight of their offspring smiling, walking, going to kindergarten, singing in the school program, performing in the Christmas pageant, playing their viola, getting their first byline or dancing on stage in their first musical?

Tonite was the opening nite of Gabi's school musical: "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." The minute I glimpsed her cavorting on stage my chest felt tight, my throat closed and my vision blurred with tears of pride and love and amazement.

And it didn't stop there.

I saw Taylor and Brittney (longtime friends of Gabi) and the little, red-haired boy performing so earnestly--and the kid playing Joseph working so hard and singing his heart out. I teared up at the sight of all of them.

This happens every time. I am overwhelmed with pride and encouragement at the chutzpah and passion of these kids putting it all out there because they are young and bright-eyed and still believe that they can do anything--even make it all the way to Broadway or Hollywood.

I used to be one of them. I was fearless. I can still feel what it was like. And I wonder if my strong response to the brave acts of faith I witness in my children is not only in celebration of them, but also (on some level) mourning...or longing...for that fresh, potential-filled person I still remember.

Or maybe it's a simultaneous exultation of their limitless, blank-slate dreams and the reluctant hint of sadness that life may not give them everything they think it will.

But tonite--and for the next three nites--Gabi and her merry band of Canaanites and Wranglers, Brothers and Wives, are jumping in with both feet and jazz hands. The view from my seat is dazzling, if a little blurry. I must have something in my eye.

Mother's Day Run

Tonite I sprinted across a Major League Soccer field. There were 89 of us--pushing and striving toward the ultimate prize: a diamond necklace. Personally, I would rather get a spa treatment, but who would say no to free diamonds?

My beau, K, got tickets for all of us (him, me, my girls, his boy and girl) to go see the Real Salt Lake game. It just so happened to be Mother's Day Eve. In honor of the occasion--or in order to exploit the occasion--the fine folks at Real Salt Lake decided to do a Mother's Day Dash at the end of the first period (do they have periods in soccer?). As we were walking in, I was accosted, I mean, I was invited to participate and my loving, wonderful children all too eagerly herded me over to sign up. The gist of it was to have 100 moms on one of the goal lines at half-time (do they call it half time?) and have 100 envelopes filled with magnificent prizes (gift certificates for dinner, spa treatments, strange local coupon books, and the big one: a diamond necklace) littered all over the field at the opposite goal line. At the signal, we moms would move our booties, preferably at a run, across the field to duke it out for our prize envelope. The excitement! The spectacle! The chest pains! (How long is a soccer field anyway--there were rumors ranging from 50 to 200 yards, with most of settling on 100...we could make it 100 yards, no problem...couldn't we?)

As we settled in our seats to watch the game--my registration for the half-time humiliation complete--my girls and K suggested several tactical strategies that I could use to my advantage.

"Position yourself right in the middle of the goal line, don't get on the end."

"Why don't you warm up and stretch, maybe run a few laps around the stadium?"

"Be ready to elbow your way past the other moms if you need to."

I paid scant attention to their eager words (except for that elbowing one--that could come in handy.) I was more interested in how I could pretend to go to the field and instead get a coke and a churro without any of my loyal support team noticing. I tried to distract myself from the impending run (I mean, we often don't even walk up and the down the stairs to talk to one another at our house--we text, call or email--and now I have agreed to actually run, nay, sprint in front of a crowd) by looking for cute soccer players and grooving to the cool percussion group who played non-stop throughout the game. In fact, I want to go back again for the percussion alone (we don't really have any cute soccer players!)

When the time came, we were instructed to take off our shoes if they were heels or otherwise unfit for running. I had miraculously worn tennis shoes, of a sort. They were slip on sneakers that fell off half the time just sauntering down the street. I decided to leave my shoes at my seat and meet my fate in the shoes God gave me. When I found my way to where all the other moms were corralled, I began to sense that this wasn't going to be one of those "fun runs." These moms meant business--and they seemed to know one another. I scanned the crowd for other lone moms like me, wanting to throw in my lot with them rather than the pods of ya-ya sisterhoods I was surrounded by. I noticed two pregnant moms, and decided that if I ran next to them I might not look half bad. I might even look like I'm in some sort of shape. I mean, if I can't outrun an obviously pregnant woman, then things are worse than I thought and I think it's time for someone to do one of those extreme interventions with me: introduce some dire consequence for sitting on my ass, brand me with a scarlet L for lazy, send me to rehab with Amy Winehouse.

Noticing the pregnant moms, one of the ya-ya pod moms made a suggestion that I thought was inspired, "They should have given all of us a soccer ball and had us stuff it up our shirts and we could all do the pregnant hobble across the field to get our prize." THAT would have been worth seeing--that is what a great half-time soccer show is made of! Maybe those ya-ya pod moms were not evil after all. Finally, the gates were opened and we were led to the center of the field, I had images of the mighty Roman gladiators as we stepped into the arena. Being on the field, I was ready to face this challenge. I was prepared to run my heart out and grab my envelope with gusto! My mind started playing the theme song to Chariots of Fire, and I only hesitated for a moment when I saw the EMS personnel roll out behind us with a stretcher and the full emergency medical accoutrements.

Looking back, I no longer feel the fear. I only feel the joy of running in front of a bunch of strangers with a bunch of other strangers for a prize I don't even want, and ultimately, (after tearing it in half because another mom over-enthusiastically grabbed two envelopes, and being unable to find the redemption booth to trade in my torn envelope for my actual prize, throwing away said envelope,) I am proud to be noted among those other brave moms who faced twisted ankles, pulled muscles, broken fingernails, and (in some cases) early labor to celebrate our roles as mothers by participating in a spectacle for soccer fans.

...and it's only going to get worse

If only I had known. I would have looked at her longer that last time. I would have drunk in every detail of her blue eyes and peachy skin. I would have paid attention to how she smelled. I would have felt her downy cheek one more time, or held her hand in mine. But I didn’t know. And now she is gone. Lost. Disappeared. And I will never lay eyes on my baby girl again. As this realization hits me I run into the other room, desperately seeking photos, a note, anything to keep her present and with me. I sink to the kitchen floor and the most unfamiliar scream is ripped from me and the sobs overtake my soul.

Suddenly, I wake up. Sweaty and panting. In the fog between dreaming and wakefulness, I crawl out of my bed and stumble across the hall to the room where my 15-year old daughter, Savannah, lay sleeping. I love to watch her sleeping—now almost as much as I did when she was a baby. Sleep is where the child part of her still reigns supreme. Flailed out across her bed, eyes closed, mouth hanging open or pursed in a pout, she is still a little girl. All the adult mannerisms and attitudes, all the knowledge she is gaining that looks out from her eyes—these don’t exist in sleep. In sleep she could still be a chubby toddler, tow-headed, tired from the day’s adventures, not a worry in her world.

Yesterday, as I drank a glass of wine and watched my best friend Terri paint baseboards for her newly-remodeled kitchen, we discussed the changes entering my life via my growing daughter. She just started her first job, working in the gift shop at the zoo. She loves it. She has always wanted to be part of the working world. As a little girl, she would play that she was a career woman. She asked for clothes that were small imitations of the professional costume I wore to work everyday. She once got a box of office supplies for Christmas and it was her favorite gift that year. Because she is at the bottom of the totem pole at her new job, Savannah is required to work pretty much every weekend and every holiday. That means that this coming Easter Sunday she will be at the zoo’s gift shop from 11am until closing, instead of celebrating the day with family and friends. We were going to go to Idaho for the weekend to visit grandparents, but I didn’t want to go without her or leave her alone on a holiday to toil away while we enjoy ham and candy and Easter egg hunts without her. And Easter is just the beginning.

The summers have typically been a time of bountiful travel for Savannah and her younger sister, Gabi. They usually spend the summer visiting dads, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins while I work. This arrangement has offered them the chance to make great memories with their extended family and has saved me who knows how much money in childcare. However, this summer, we don’t even know if Savannah will be able to make it to our family vacation on the Oregon Coast. Not to mention the visit to my dad’s in northern Idaho. I don’t like this new reality where Savannah may or may not be present where she has always been present before.

“That’s just life,” Terri offers, “and it’s only going to get worse.”

Terri is the queen of saying just the thing to really make you freak out. I shared my dream with her and it was easy for both of us to make the connection to our previous conversation. I am surprised at the reaction of raw, naked grief I felt in my dream. And as Terri and I continue to talk, it occurs to me that Savannah has been the one consistent thing in my entire adult life. Terri says that she has thought about how it will be when her two young boys are grown up and out of the house. What it will be like to be alone with her husband again—able to go to the movies or have sex on the spur of the moment without worrying about the kids. But she had Jeff before she had her kids, and she will have him after. I had Savannah when I was 20, and she has been my constant since then. When she is gone, it will be me and Gabi for three years, and then it will just be me. I have always joked about how I will live my 20’s in my 40’s because I was being a parent in those years, but as I stand on the precipice of that reality, my chest tightens and I feel like I may suffocate.

Today I find myself looking at my daughter a little more closely, lingering over her features, her facial expressions, the way she fixed her hair. I notice the color and texture of her skin and the sound of her voice. I reach out and touch her cheek, her hand. And then she breaks the spell, crashing me back into the reality of life with a teenager, “Mom, you don’t have to touch me. Stop staring at me. You’re creepy.”