On New Year's Eve

In a few minutes, we're going to be a year apart. You'll catch up, don't worry, but it's a strange feeling for me: all this craning around for the people I love, all this looking back over my shoulder. The truth is, if I could herald 2011 from anywhere in the world I'd put myself right here at this table.

  

But I can't, so I'm going to do the next best thing: I'm going to pretend I'm at that table and I'm going to wish you a Happy New Year via pictures; so, here's to a year that's full of... 

...family and feasting...

...leaps of faith, and discoveries...

...made...

...and celebrated.

 Here's to having new roles to explore...

...and lots of cuddles...

...and even more snuggles...

...and love and love and love, most especially.

I miss you! And I love you! Happy 2011!!

Dancing School

A few weeks ago I was standing in the kitchen. I can't remember why I was standing in the kitchen exactly, but I was probably doing something boring, like washing dishes. Let's pretend I was baking a pie though, okay? So there I was, rolling out the pie crust when Penelope burst into the room wearing a tutu and a tiara and announced  "I'm ready for dancing school, Mama!"


Do I even need to tell you my reaction? Nothing makes my mama-heart pitter-patter more happily than a declaration of ballet love, especially if that declaration comes complete with a tiara. If I could have, I would have bundled her off to dancing school that very instant. As it was though, I kept my cool. I stayed calm, reasonable even, and we waited, oh, I'd say, about 72 hours.


Here's a picture of Penelope at her very first class:

She really likes ballet.


But now, as we're nearing the end of Winter Break, both my girls are antsy to get back to school, so they're doing what any good ballerinas would do: they're making up a school of their own and attending classes anyway.


Meet the ballet master, a unicorn-girl named Katherine:

She is beautiful and stern, just like a real ballerina, and rainbow-colored stretch pants are strictly forbidden at her school.

Her dancers are elegant and sleek, but what they lack in rainbow-colored brightness they more than make up for with grace and devotion. And after their lessons?

Why, it's off to map school, of course.


I mean, how else would you spend your last few days of winter vacation?

The Great Winter Bug Hunt of 2010

Sometimes I feel like I'm scrolling through the same three realizations over and over again in my life: motherhood is hard, my girls are growing up too quickly, and life feels easier if you go outside.


Last week the girls and I were feverish and coughing, and practically housebound with our winter colds, but today we felt well again. We gathered around the table for breakfast and the sun kept shining in our eyes, making us squint and blink, and the trees, as we noticed, were not being blown about by any winter winds, so when Katherine started speculating about what kinds of bugs she might find outside this winter we decided to go out and investigate.

The truth is, I didn't really want to investigate. Coming off the jammie-clad, cartoon-filled week we'd just had, the thought of getting the girls dressed and ready and then actually exploring something seemed like an enormous effort; but, my girls like bugs and we haven't been on a nature walk in a long time, so after awhile I relented.

The girls ran ahead and I followed along with growing interest.

They didn't find any bugs though. The hunt failed. But it didn't matter.

After all, we were outside. 

And Realization Number 3 for the 5, 765, 000th time? It's fun to go outside.

finding Christmas

I woke up forty-five minutes before the kids on Christmas morning.


Okay, that's not entirely true.


Penelope woke up first. She cried out in the night. Chris stumbled across the hall to soothe her and, because he's magic, less than five minutes later they were back in their respective places and fast asleep again. I, on the other hand, was squinting at Chris through the darkness. "It's Christmas morning," I wanted to hiss at him, "why on earth did you just put Penelope back to bed?" Instead, I blew my nose into a tissue. I started coughing up phlegm. Fifteen minutes later, when I could speak again, Chris was lying on his side with one hand tucked under his pillow. He looked too comfortable (and too blithely unaware of the dripping mess of me) for me to want to yell at him anymore, so I tiptoed toward the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea.


Of course I drank my tea slowly. I turned on a small lamp, curled up in my favorite chair, and let the hot sips soothe me. Chris had forgotten to unplug the Christmas lights the night before and, in the semi-dark, our Christmas tree was multi-colored and soft and glowing. The ornaments were clustered in front of the tree, at child-height, and exactly in the center, and the sight of them made me smile. The girls had been so proud of their work, I remembered, and so sweetly excited about Christmas. I started to imagine the scene to come: the girls rushing into the room and seeing all their presents. Chris smiling at me over their heads. Me smiling back at him and then the two of us getting lost in our girls together: their turned-up cheeks, their eyes, and their exclamations. I wanted to kiss them and embrace them and help them untie the tricky knots from all that pretty Christmas ribbon. 


As I sipped my tea, I strained my ears for the sounds of their waking, but the house was quiet. I fiddled with my teacup, impatient for my children.

When the girls were babies, I used to stare at them while they were sleeping. I was so desperate to hold them--to hear them coo and to see them kick and squirm--that I would try to will them to be wakeful. I could never get close enough to my babies, but for the past few weeks--months, maybe--I've felt the opposite. I've almost dreaded my children. I've been shuffling them off to activities (or toward the TV) because I can't handle the constant neediness that surrounds them: It's my turn! I never get a turn! I'm hungry! I'm crying! That's too hot! That's too cold! I don't like you! That's not very nice! And Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! that's not fair! I'm telling!


With Chris spending more time at work lately than he does at home (which he can't help because his work day is five hours longer here than it was in Sicily), I've felt increasingly overwhelmed and adrift and desperate for time away; but, I hadn't recognized that feeling until Christmas morning when I was curled up in my chair, sipping my tea, and so suddenly impatient to be with my children. Anyway...

I finished my tea, washed my cup, and tiptoed back through the darkness toward my room. Katherine was just creeping out of her bedroom and we met in the hall. I scooped her into my arms and she giggled and I laughed and we both blurted out Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! at the same time, which made us laugh even harder. Chris was getting dressed by lamplight in the bedroom, so I tossed Katherine into our bed and the three of us played at making each other into pillow-topped sandwiches until Penelope woke up and ran into the room--tummy first, and in her red Christmas jammies--and climbed, giggling, into the bed to join the game. I never got to make her into a sandwich though because Katherine reminded her it was Christmas morning and they jumped out of bed and dashed down the hall to see if Santa had come...

..and, of course he had, and Chris and I smiled at each other over their heads and felt grateful.

Two days later, I'm still feeling grateful. I'm grateful that this holiday, which is so entwined with excitement and childhood, and the excitement over the coming of a child, made me eager to be with my own children again. I want to play with them and snuggle them and look them in the eyes and listen to their stories because I love them and because I'm excited, once again, to be their mom. I feel like I'm falling in love with motherhood all over again and it's the best gift I could possibly imagine---and the best I could possibly give.

Merry Christmas! 

feeling Foreign: my day at the Salon

"Um, I'd like to make an appointment, please?"


My voice was low and I uttered the statement like a question, cringing at the sound of my own English echoing in my ears. The woman behind the desk smiled at me slightly and shook her head. I stared back at her, blankly. She drew her eyebrows together and tucked a strand of dark hair behind one of her ears.


She didn't understand.


"Um, an appointment," I repeated, a little louder. I picked up a strand of my own hair, cursing myself for speaking English, and pantomimed a snipping motion with my fingers. "I'd like to make an appointment to cut my hair?" The woman widened her eyes a little and lifted her chin, triumphant; her jawbone was birdlike, but her features were strong and well-defined.


She smiled.


"Cut," she repeated, "you want cut?"


"Cut, yes, hai, hai!" I cried, vigorously nodding my head.


She bit her lip and shifted her eyes downward, thinking. "Today," she asked finally, and then with a sudden gesture she pressed her palms down and clicked her fingernails against the counter. "You want cut now?"


"Hai, hai," came my ready answer. My smile was broad and I nodded again, but less vigorously this time. 


She stood up, inclined her head slightly, and led me to a white leather couch in the corner. Then she gestured for my coat and hung it carefully beneath a long line of Louis Vuitton purses by the door. I noted the purses uncomfortably and sat down. Moments later, a young man appeared with a wooden tray in his hands. He handed me a warm cup of jasmine tea and I thanked him, arigato gozaimasu, and bowed and thanked him again. When he left, I sipped the tea nervously and flipped through a fashion magazine, backwards.


I was still eyeing the purses.


Soon, another man appeared. He bowed at me and I stood, letting him guide me toward a row of white leather chairs where a line of women were reclining. The women were covered with soft chenille blankets, all in identical shades of sea-foam green, and they had squares of clean, white cloth covering their faces, but their black hair spilled out all around them, like scrawls of ink across a paper, and as I passed them I noticed they were all wearing trim black boots with narrow heels. "These," I thought, "must be the women who own the Louis Vuitton purses."


The man ushered me into an empty chair and settled my legs onto the footstool. My Uggs felt clunky, but he, I reminded myself, was wearing a pair navy blue slacks tucked into a pair of white, high-topped Keds. I tried to breath in deeply.


He covered my legs with soft fabric, and my face with a cloth, and soon a stream of warm water cascaded into my hair. I closed my eyes briefly, inhaling the clean, un-perfumed scent from the cloth across my face along with the fresh, almost floral, scent of the thick shampoo in my hair. After a few minutes though, the man began rubbing a towel across my hair. He paused momentarily to dry out the insides of my ears and then he sat me up, quickly twisted my hair into long strands, pinned the towel around them, and coiled the twisted mass around the top of my head.


A third man (who somehow managed to look svelt in a pair of pastel pink jeans and a black bolo tie) appeared and guided me to yet another chair.


"This," he asked, pulling out a hairstyle menu and flipping to a picture of an extremely overweight Caucasian woman who had bad skin, chunky, poorly-done highlights and flat-ironed, stick-straight hair, "you like this?"


I drew away from him in surprise. (Was this stereotype really how he saw me?)


"Oh, no! No, that's too harsh. I want something softer," I cried. My words came out in a startled rush and he stared at me, not comprehending for awhile. "Okay?" He smiled.


I cursed myself again for not speaking Japanese, but I shook my head no firmly and took the menu from him, flipping through page after page and imagining myself as one of the smiling Asian women in the pictures; or, as one of the women still reclining at the washing station with their glittering, silky-black hair. I was certain they never had trouble explaining things to their stylists.


"This," I showed him, nodding and pointing, "or maybe something like this one."


He squinted his eyes and looked at me. "Okay? Sure?"


"Hai," I said, and nodded yes firmly; then, just for good measure, I smiled.


He unzipped a black case, pulled out a pair of scissors, and began to trim---


---and trim---


---and trim---


---and trim---


Two hours later, he held up a mirror and...I had a fairly standard bob. But he walked me to the salon door and bowed at me--from the waist, and deeply--and I bowed back at him: arigato gozaimasu! arigato gozaimasu!


...and just like that, I'd had my first haircut in Japan.

What do you think? 

the dinosaur who tickled the pirate who tickled the dinosaurs

Remember a few days ago when Katherine was questioning creation and I was questioning the very legitimacy of God? Well, Chris is home now and, as is his way, he's framed the issue from an entirely new perspective.

With a great deal of scampering and giggling and screeching, one thing became abundantly clear at my house tonight: dinosaurs and man definitely co-existed. Unfortunately though (or not unfortunately, I guess, depending on how you feel about dinosaurs), pirates tickled the dinosaurs into extinction. (I know! The revelation was shocking for us too, especially since my girls have always doubted extinction.) To confuse the issue further, with their last giggling, gasping breath the dinosaurs called down an asteroid to punish the pirates. (I can personally attest to this fact. I was there. I heard it happen.)

So, actually a few things are now abundantly clear. First, scientists are woefully misinformed about the asteroid impact theory; and second, despite my uncertainties and my searching, I should thank God every day for the joyfulness and love and imaginativeness in my sweet family.

I am loved. I am love. And I am grateful.

(And hey, the whole event was dizzying enough to bring my blog back from extinction, so that's kind of cool--)

remembering Brock

Ponca City, Oklahoma, 1993

The curve of his neck is a distraction, she thought, readjusting the sheet music in her hand, or, I don't know, maybe it's the breadth of his shoulders; either way, she leaned forward slightly in her seat, straining to pick out his voice from the mingled sounds of the Junior High mixed chorus.

Like a river flows, surely to the sea....

Darlin so it goes, some things are meant to be...

She couldn't hear him. Her own high soprano was throbbing too loudly in her ears. She quieted herself by slow degrees and then, casting a quick glance across the room at the teacher, she stopped singing all together. Surprised by the sudden absence of her voice in his ears, he turned around to peek at her.

Take my hand, take my whole life too

For I can't help falling in love with you...

His eyes were startling, blue and green, and his voice was low and wide and open. She grinned at him, opened her mouth, and began to sing.

For I can't help...

The bell rang. The class went silent.

***

Students began scurrying this way and that: some bolted toward the door quickly; others hovered together in laughing circles. The teacher, suddenly awkward, opened a window and a gust of cold air spilled into the room. Along with the air, the sunlight came in streaming, but the girl crouched down in a patch of shade and carefully began zipping her music into her backpack.

"So, uh, what do you think about Elvis?"

She looked up at the voice and blinked, momentarily blinded, but when her eyes cleared she saw that it was him. He was standing beside her.

Loudly, rhythmically, her heart began to beat.

"Oh," she swallowed, feeling her throat close and then open as she searched for the right response, "he's awful, don't you think? I mean, if they're going to make us sing love songs why don't they let us sing something cool like, I don't know, like Indian Summer."

"You like The Doors?"

"Sure, they're great! Don't you?" Suddenly, her mouth felt dry; her palms felt wet. She stood up and brushed her hands across her jeans. The Doors, she cursed herself silently, are you serious? You couldn't have picked something more current?

"Yeah, I do. A lot, actually." He flushed, then grinned. His nose was long, she noticed, and his lips were full and almost pouty. "So," he continued, "uh...what class do you have next? I'll walk you?"

She took a deep breath, wiped her hands across her jeans again and prayed her voice wouldn't choke-off mid-sentence and betray her. "Okay, sure, but I'm just going across the hall."

"Oh, that's cool. I mean, I'm going that way anyway, too. I mean," he paused, his lips drawn back in an embarrassed smile, "I'm Brock, by the way."

"Yeah, I know. Brock. It's nice to meet you."

***

the origin of Girl Power

Katherine (skipping along next to the stroller): Hey Mom, did you know there are more girls than boys in my class at school? At first the boys thought there were more boys, but then we counted and there were two girls left over. That means there are more girls than boys after all.


Me (distractedly fiddling with Penelope's blanket): More girls than boys, huh? Sounds like your class has a lot of girl power.


Katherine: Yes! It DOES! In my class the girls have all the power. We get it by grinding up leaves and sticks and making it into this really fine powder and then we put the powder into these little velvet bags--oh, they're so pretty--and we can all just use it whenever we want. Oh, but Mommy, we need more power. Do you think you could help us?


Me: Sure, what can I do?


Katherine: Well, first we'll need an elephant and some tree trunks, so could you go get those and bring them to me today while I'm at school? That way the girls and I can make more girl power this afternoon at recess. Please Mommy, it's really important.


Me (laughing, stalling): Why's it so important? What are you girls planning to do with all that power?


Katherine (looking surprised): Well we're going to use it to defeat the boys of course, Mommy! What else would you do with girl power?

Hap-Hap-Happy Birthday!

The night Chris left, he kept joking that the sea was a' calling him and now, looking back, I wonder if it was true, but anyway:

Hap-

Hap-

Happy Birthday, Chris! 

We love you!

And we miss you!

And next time you hear the sea start calling, grab a pair of earplugs...deal?

Ikego Elementary School

Today was a big day for Katherine. After weeks of asking and waiting and asking again, she was finally allowed to ride her bike to school. For Katherine, this morning was a long-awaited triumph--a growing-up and a fitting-in--but it wasn't the kind of triumph I expected anyone to notice.

Let's go back for a minute though, shall we? Let me tell you about our quest for an elementary school:

Arriving in Japan with a five-year-old in tow, we began searching for a good kindergarten classroom immediately.

As far as I could tell, we had three options. We could (a) send her to one of the many well-respected Japanese kindergartens, or (b) send her to Sullivans Elementary, the large, American school on the main base in Yokosuka, or (c) send her to the small neighborhood school in our area.

The Japanese school offered a unique cultural experience (and a good story to tell her college friends later), but (since we aren't going to be in Japan long enough for her to become completely bicultural) we decided not to compound the natural stress of kindergarten with complete immersion into a foreign language and culture. Cross out Japan.

We decided to send her to one of the American schools and, at that point, Sullivans Elementary on the Yokosuka base seemed like our best option. The school is large, technologically advanced and fairly well funded. (Katherine's good friend, for example, has a computerized touchscreen in her classroom instead of an old-fashioned chalkboard.) Unfortunately, after we enrolled Katherine at Sullivans we found out we actually had to live in Yokosuka if we wanted her to go to school there, and we didn't want to live in Yokosuka. Cross out Sullivans.

That left Ikego Elementary School as our only option. At first I was hesitant about the decision. After all, Ikego was built as a temporary school and it isn't as well funded as the school in Yokosuka. I was afraid Katherine might miss out academically if she became a firefly, the school mascot; but (if you've stumbled across this page because you're moving to Japan and you're trying to decide where to educate your young children) months later I'm thrilled with our decision. Katherine's teacher is energetic and kind, and obviously devoted to his students, and instead of being overly reliant on technology I feel like the school here encourages hands-on learning and creativity. The school is small, only open to students until they reach third grade, but because of its size there's a real sense of community.

An example?

This morning the principal was standing at the edge of the school zone, greeting all the parents and children by name, as he does every morning, but he crossed the street when he saw Katherine. He bent down to her level, looked her right in the eye, and congratulated her on her first day riding her bike to school. She was proud and I was delighted.

After all, knowing that my kindergartener is noticed, cared for, and celebrated each day while she's at school means more to me than whether or not she has access to a computerized touchscreen.

a strict permanence of feeling

Katherine (storming away from her sister): Mama, will you help me?

Me: Sure honey, what are you doing?

Katherine: I'm making a sign for my door, but I need help with the spelling. I want it to say No Babies Allowed In This Room EVER AGAIN.

Me: Oh, well, okay.

Katherine: And then on the other side I want it to say Babies Allowed, okay?

for Chris

Yesterday Chris sent me an email telling me he'd been reading my blog (Hi, honey!), and that he'd really been enjoying all the funny stories I've been writing about the girls, but, ahem, did I also know he could see the recent pictures I've been posting?

"That's odd," I thought to myself, "I don't remember posting any recent pictures....oh!"  Call me slow, but here you go, honey: here's the reason you won't be able to sleep through the night when you get home...

...and here's the reason you won't be able to make it up by sleeping late in the morning.

Can you take naps on deployment?

Dare: Sweet Pea, the Queen of Sheba

The library steps, Ponca City, Oklahoma, 1993


"I dare you to go down there and talk to him," the boy whispered, gesturing toward the bottom of the steps with his chin.


The girl didn't notice his gesture. Her eyes were already focused on the man, but she tilted her head closer to the boy anyway and her honey-colored hair formed a tent around their faces. "He looks crazy," she said in a low tone. "Who is he?"


Surprised, the boy drew back at the question. The girl tore her eyes away from the man and glanced at him. His eyes were churning, kaleidoscopic blue and green. "You mean you don't know?" he cried; and then, hushed again, he continued, "that's Sweet Pea, and yeah, he's crazy. He thinks he's like a cat or something, or like, the Queen of Sheba. You've got to go talk to him," he paused, considering her for a moment, "but I don't think you will."


The girl looked down the steps to where the man was reclining. "Are you sure," she stammered, searching for the words, "I mean, are you sure he's a man?" The boy laughed as though she'd said something funny and his laugh was warm and golden. The girl took a step toward the man.


"Jesus Christ," the boy swore, "are you really going?"


She smiled back at him over her shoulder--coquettishly, she hoped--but her throat closed suddenly and she gagged. She took another step toward the man.


Four steps below her, he began to stir. He arranged his long skirts prettily around him, pulled off his shabby Cloche hat, straightened the bow on its brim, and then, twirling his wrists like a dancer, he settled his hands in the air.


(The girl, being young, was left with the strong, strange impression of the hookah-smoking caterpillar from Alice-in-Wonderland.)


"Yes, my child?" Suddenly, his eyes were fixed on her. "How may I help you, my dear?" The girl flushed under his unexpected attention. She squinted her eyes against the sunlight and realized she was unprepared. "I-I-I-" she stuttered, "I was just, um, wondering...I was just wondering if you could tell me your name."


"I," the man lilted, "am the Queen of Sheba, and I am one hundred and fifty thousand years old. Would you like to hear my story?"


The girl glanced backward up the steps, but the boy didn't see her. He was crouched down and laughing into his hands. "Um, yeah, I guess, maybe," she murmured, allowing her voice to drift off into silence.


The Queen of Sheba's eyes were patient and dim. The girl didn't want to hurt his feelings.


"I mean," she added, grasping for words. At that moment she noticed a green Chrysler pulling off the road. The car stopped in the parking lot below the library steps and the girl began to smile. " I mean, sometime, maybe, but not today. My mom's here, so...well, it was nice to meet you! Bye!"


With that, she linked her thumbs into the straps of her backpack and ran.

***

Now I'm curious: when was the last time you took someone up on a dare?