with heavy lungs

I was just cleaning out my in-box and oh, my heart sinks a little when I look at pictures of my kids from a year ago.  A lifetime and just yesterday.  It's like I've just dropped off the peak of a roller coaster, that same feeling, a downhill plunge.  In the swing, when she gets going really high, Juniper says, "My lungs are heavy!"  That's it, exactly.  My lungs get heavy.  They sink and press on my stomach.  My heart throws in a few extra beats.  Did I miss something?  Did I remember to enjoy it?  To love every (other) minute of it?  Am I loving it right now?  Why is my memory such a blur?  

^One year ago today.^

Right now.  Juniper is wearing slightly too-big undies with yellow and orange play-silks stuffed in the back.  She says it's her fire-power that she can shoot out of her bum, like a wasp.  (Yeah, might have to wash those play-silks later.)  We watched Frozen on Father's Day and she's since been trying to find her own magical powers.  She's also since had a few nightmares.  Last night she awoke frightened that her heart was on fire.        

^One week ago.  Watching Frozen.  Must have been one of the scary parts.^

Right now, Hazel is completely naked excepting a new (to her) pair of sandals.  I'd noticed her feet were getting long, long, long.  Her whole body is lengthening, stretching.  Starting on the summer solstice, we'll spend the next three days potty-training.  Her window was late last fall and she's not particularly excited about it now.  Fingers crossed.  In our country, you potty train according to weather, not windows.

^Two weeks ago.^  

Right now, they are playing, playing, playing.  I got out the Legos, which they haven't seen in months.  They play so unbelievably well together.  It shocks me daily.  Their mutual cooperation.  And when it falls apart (typically Hazel crying about not getting her way), I sing-song to Juniper, "Find a way to play together!"  And most of the time, she totally does.  She takes on a sweet, higher-pitched voice and says, "Come on Bazey, let's try this.  There ya go!  Good job.  Now I'll do this and you hold this.  Okay!  You can have this one, Bazey."  And Hazel wipes her tears and says, "Okay, Ju-per.  Dank you, Ju-per."  It's amazing.  Truly beautiful stuff, this sisterhood.  Maybe Juniper's heart is on fire.    

^One week ago.  On a hike.^  

Right now, there is a pretend birthday party with lego cupcakes.  Naked, of course.  

^Four days ago.  Juniper put on undies, a sweater, a backpack and announced she was going on an adventure.^  

^Two days ago.  They spotted a double-rainbow.^

Just now, Hazel takes those long limbs and curls up into the tiniest ball in my criss-crossed lap.  She is still so small.      

^Two weeks ago.  They found a hatched robin's egg.^ 

^Two days ago.  We were all a little frozen. 

And because of that, we had a double rainbow.  The first time I've ever seen the end of a rainbow.  You can't see it in this photo, but I have my pot of gold, right here under my wings.    

flying

People always say--in the same sing-songy voice as, Sleep when the baby sleeps!--that in order to take care of your children, you have to first take care of yourself.  I'm calling bullshit on that.  For me, taking care of myself involves: 1) Eating well, 2) exercise, 3) sleep, 4) keeping family relationships afloat and, 5) pursuing my own creativity.

Because my husband and I cook--almost always from scratch--three square meals a day for the kids, I either directly or indirectly (if I'm eating off my kids' plates) eat well.  Check.  Keeping family relationships afloat falls on all of us and sometimes we're sailing the high seas and sometimes we're treading water, but by golly we're not drowning.  Check.  Every night after the kids are tucked-in and well on their way to dreaming about fighting fires and rescuing baby jaguars and riding friesian horses on the beach, I slip upstairs to my project room where I either write, process photos, sew or knit.  Creative pursuits, check.

But.  Sleep...when?  Exercise...huh?  If I sleep I have to give up the creative pursuits and that's not an option.  My nearest relatives are at least one state away, so no one to take my kids out to lunch while I kick up my feet and knit for an hour.  Nighttime is my only time.

And exercise, oh, that slippery fish.  Exercise was not a problem back in those delirious, golden days of having a single child.  Daily walks.  Remember those?  Remember how easy that was?  Or mom-and-baby exercise classes where the moms sweat and the babies crawl around whacking each other with toys.  Those were the days, I'm telling you.  They shine like stars in the murky depths of my memory.              

So instead of patting myself on the back, because hey, at least I'm taking care of my children--I am in the dumps.  Clearly I cannot take care of myself which means I'm not taking care of my children which means I'm failing on all accounts.  Shit.
::
All those thoughts had been floating around in my head for days when, on my man's last full day with us for a while, we decided to throw in the towel on Hazel's nap (taking the risk that she may not sleep while Juniper jabbers on and repeatedly bumps her boots)--and go skiing.

Oh!  I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence.  Hovering there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung 

My eager craft through footless halls of air.  

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew--

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.     

                      ~Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee, killed December 11, 1941

:: We skied all afternoon until the sun dipped behind the low, western mountains.  Both kids napped.  We felt more rejuvenated than we had in months.  The trail is a half-mile from our house.  It was groomed last week, I think.  We'd never been on it.  Loops of trails wander for miles over the mud flats and frozen lake.  I am pumped.  I'm thinking of picking up some skate-skis.  My body feels good.  My back hurts a little less.  

I stopped at the warming hut, just to take a peek for future reference.  As far as I know, the trails and hut exist all thanks to local volunteers and grant money.  It's awesome.  

It has a little gas stove, some gorgeous hand-hewn pine chairs and benches, and a table with a random assortment of business cards and local information.  In the frame was the poem I quoted above.  Obviously it's about flying, but on that day, I was.  

light

My better half has been gone for a week.  On day two just before naptime, Hazel slipped off the mudroom stair and bonked her head.  She screamed while Juniper whined about somethingorother, and the phone rang.  It was the florist.  She needed directions to my house.  Actually, she had to repeat that question five times before I could hear her.  My first thought was, Who in the hell would send me flowers?  And then, Oh.  And I told her, through the crying and whining, "You know, this is why I'm getting flowers."

I can think of only one other time my husband has sent me flowers.  Well, maybe two.  Mind you, he brings me bouquets of hand-picked wildflowers all summer long.  But buying?  No.

I've mentioned once before in this blog how I came upon the pen-name Clove (my real-life name is Gretchen).  To make a long story very short (for the longer version, click here), my man and I have been exchanging love notes since the very first days of our courtship.  I don't think I've ever had a note addressed to Gretchen.  I've always been Clove, but only--ever--in writing.  We were often away from each other in those early days and would slip notes into socks, books, toilet paper, tackle boxes...and the tradition continues.  He has always found the better hiding spots.

The flowers came with a card.  The card read: "Bookshelf.  The Life of Birds."

First thought: Huh?  Second thought: Oooh.  I ran to the bookshelf, pulled out his old biology textbook and shook out my letter.  I didn't notice the chapter it had marked, but later he told me the note was tucked inside "The Care and Development of Young."

I have never appreciated flowers as much as I do these.  Like song, they changed the entire attitude of our household.  We needed flowers.  And I needed a love note.

Juniper chose one hot-pink daisy for her room.  

:: Over the last week or so...
We've been enjoying the waxing sun, the way these almost-spring rays creep further into our home like hopeful pea tendrils.  It's infectious.

:: Bear-love continues.  

:: To date, my favorite of J bug's watercolors.  The work of a wild, free soul.  In her words, "Bear den, bear tracks, and the moon."

:: I finally made Juniper a baby sling which she uses for animals.  The bear, yes, also turtles and big horn sheep.  

And now I need to sew one for Hazel.

::  We started a window box of basil (well, as you will soon see, I haven't poked the seeds in yet).  This was the first time my kids have seen dirt since early December.  I didn't anticipate the reaction.  Talk about infectious.

:: My cousin stopped by!  The last time he stopped by my Wyoming stead was 14(?) years ago.  It was summer, he arrived on a motorcycle and sporting a purple fro.  This time he was donning a handlebar mustache, fresh off the ice of Antarctica, and on his way to paddle the Inside Passage for the summer.  Love my family.  And, like fresh dirt and spring sun, his presence was infectious.  

:: Wyoming's version of a celebrity sighting.  Our resident herd of mountain goats have come down close enough for even my non-telephoto lens.  Typically, you can spot them by the gang of paparazzis on the highway.  Anyway.  They are so fuzzy and cute and often perched precariously on a cliff.  

:: In a fit of pre-spring ferver I shoveled 18 inches of heavy slush off the wrong garden bed.

:: Juniper's favorite play area of late is our loft, where she strips naked and jumps off the futon into a pile of blankets--I mean "the pool."  Hazel climbs atop the chest, dangles her feet and tumbles in with a squeal.  At our last playdate, it took about 2 seconds for Juniper's friend C to strip down and join in.

:: And then, late Friday night, my man returned.  The sun is shining, the snow is melting and we spent yesterday on a warm riverbank, fishing, picnicking, and lizarding around in the sun.

      

^My flowers included irises, of course.  

a beast of a post

All the old tricks weren't working.  We read one book, said goodnight to Hazel and papa, read another book just the two of us, she read a book to me, I scooped her up in my arms, hugged her and kissed her forehead, she rang the ancient-looking bell on the grandma-felted mobile, I dropped her splash! into bed, I kissed her and hugged her, she kissed me and hugged me, I turned off the light, I sang a song about our day, I scared away the spiders or the giant poop or whatever it was that night, sang another song, softly reiterated instructions on how to count sheep, and then...No, mama!  But I'm not sleepy! I'm afraid!  I'd completely exhausted my nighttime repertoire.  So I crawled into her tiny toddler bed, springs groaning against my weight, and snuggled up with her.  She turned her body into mine, we touched foreheads, I wrapped my arm around her back, tucking my hand just under her body, locking her into place, the way we used to.  We looked up at the ceiling.  I told her what a nice, safe room she has.  All the glowing stars and moons and planets; the dancing ladies above her bed, the felted mobile.  I told her how lucky she was to have such a cozy, warm, safe bedroom.  She fell asleep almost instantly.  I lay there, her soft, heavy breath against my cheek, an ocean of guilt washing over me.

It's the same guilt I've tried to wad up and stuff away in the sock drawer.  It's the same guilt that comes spilling out every time Juniper is afraid and asks to sleep in our room.  Too many big changes, too close to the birth of a new baby.  Two months before Hazel was born, we moved.  For the first time, Juniper had her own room with her own bed.  She continues to be the only member of our family who does not sleep in our room.  That fact alone makes me sad and lonely for her.  

In the middle of the night she awoke screaming, something about spiders.  We brought her into our bed, we always do.  In the morning, I awoke with a foot in my face.  There has always been one thing I've known for sure: I want my children to feel welcome in my bed.  Not--when they're no longer babies--as a matter of habit, but when they need to.

Once Hazel was born and, by the nature of newborns, every ounce of my body was poured into hers, I ached for Juniper.  It was a deep, visceral, heartbroken, physical longing.  Although that ache has waxed and waned over the last 15 months, it continues to resurface.  Like a buoy, or a guidepost, a lighthouse in the fog, it reminds me that this guilt will always be present, leading me back to my firstborn, keeping our connection strong.  

Lately--like, for the last month or so--Hazel has carved out her comfort zone in the curved C of my right hip.  Most of the time, she is happy nowhere but there.  If I set her down for anything--to prepare food, do dishes, use the bathroom--she has a meltdown.  I'm all about baby wearing.  I love that I can give her that simple comfort right now, of simply being held.  But.  Damn, it gets exhausting.  And aggravating.  And mostly, I feel bad for Juniper.  She is so tolerant.  So patient.  So good at occupying herself by playing preschool or merry-go-round or ice-skating or save the whales, or stripping off her clothes and playing "at the beach".  There is so much I'd like to do with her, but mostly I end up pacing, figuring out life with my left hand, fruitlessly trying to find things to interest Hazel besides being perched on my right hip.  It's hard.  Trying to balance the two very different needs of my kids right now.

But the one thing we can do is go outside, hang with friends, and watch horses and people do crazy things.  Hazel loves it because she gets to spend the entire afternoon on my chest.  Juniper loves it because she gets to play with her friends and watch horses.  So, for the last three weekends, we've gone to the races.

:: Two weeks ago: The Cutter Races.
I've known about these fundraising chariot races for 15 years, but this was the first time I attended.  Holy hell, these horses are fast.  They scream down the track and poof! disappear into a puff of powder.

In between runs, there is a lot of complicated betting going on which I never fully understood except that all proceeds benefit the Shriners Hospital for Children in Salt Lake City.      

 ^Juniper and her friend Q who, incidentally, became a big sister one week after this photo was taken.^   

In between runs, attentions spans wander, kids clamber around, disappear, and in the case of my kid, return with a hotdog.  Juniper went through a bashful stage that spanned about two months on either side of her third birthday.  That stage is over.  At the races, she was like a lost dog wandering off to the neighbor's house who keeps fresh bacon on the front porch.   Needless to say, she found the place to get free hotdogs and beer.        

Also, she tied in with some big kids who let her sit on them and pound their chests.  Oh, and make castles.  

Hazel: happy as a clam in high tide.  Me: happy that they're both happy.  Added bonus, by the end of the day Hazel learned to say horse, "orse", accompanied by kicking me in the thighs, pointing excitedly, and making the O face.

:: A couple of days later: a carousel exhibit at the Museum of Idaho ("History in Motion").  It was a holiday and free and packed.  There was one carousel open to riders.  We waited in line along with the entire population of Idaho to ride that one carousel.

^The carousel Juniper is trying to touch was from England, circa 1870.^

^In line with a friend.^

The thing I've noticed with Juniper: the more she anticipates something, the more likely it is to backfire.  It's like she gets star-struck and lapses into a tongue-tied, whole-body paralysis.  It was finally her turn, she was second in line to pick out her very own horse, there was even a horse with a pink saddle blanket, but no!  All of a sudden, she melted to the ground and wanted nothing to do with riding a horse on a carousel.  After all the horses had been bagged by eager children, the only thing left was a little cart.  So Hazel, Juniper and I squeezed into a cart while we watched the rear-ends of carousel horses go up and down.

J bug continues to be obsessed with the merry-go-round and every night we sing a song I made up--Here we go round the merry-go-round, up and down on the merry-go-round....  The first night I sang it, Juniper pointed out that *we* did not, in fact, go "up and down" because we were in the cart.  Fair enough.

   

:: One week ago: Ski Joring. 

Same track as the cutter races.  Possibly the same horses and the same crazy people.  Not as fast (but still *fast*), not in chariots, but on skis.  

Juniper's favorite part: hanging with friends we don't see often enough:

Saving "baby whale brothers" (and you thought it was a snowball):  

And playing tag:

:: Yesterday: annual sleigh ride on the elk refuge.  I think we finally went, in the nick of time, to get an actual sleigh, versus the bumpy wagons we've ridden in the past.  (It rained all day today and I'm guessing they've now switched to the bumpy wagons.)

Like Juniper two years ago, Hazel was all full of excited suck-in squeals, exhaling "orse!" and pointing with full force.

And, like Juniper, she learned to say elk, "et".

Hazel was mostly interested in the horses.  Juniper found the idea of a "pretend fight" (sparring) intriguing, but she was mostly interested in the horse poop.

Despite my torn feelings about her predilection to my right hip, Hazel is truly the most lovable, adorable little monkey.  It melts me the way she wants to do everything just like her big sister.  From sitting on the potty and wiping with toilet paper, to the bingo game they gave Juniper on the sleigh.  It is indescribable how adorable these second-borns are in all their effort to grow up even faster than the first.

^Short bus ride back to the car.^

:: And lastly, tonight.  Playing merry-go-round.