And a Cuter Ballerina You Never Did See

I've been dying to post this for weeks now, and today is the day for my blog barrage! On June 11, Grace had her first ballet recital. After a year of hard work -- especially for her -- the Big Day finally arrived. And my little girl couldn't have been more excited.

This was a very interesting experience, for both Grace and myself. I knew nothing about dance of any kind, and I found myself particularly engaged during her Saturday morning practices. I loved watching the steps, the combinations, the terminology, the "art" of ballet and tap (ballet especially). And in order for Grace to practice her recital routine at home, I took detailed notes for each piece and practiced alongside her in our living room. Even I enjoyed it!

Overall, it was a good program. It was one of the most affordable studios in our area, bordering on (relatively) inexpensive. I also loved how laid-back they were (almost too laid-back at times with some of the girls in the class who truly needed discipline and didn't get it), calmly helping Grace (and others) who still doesn't know her left from her right. But interestingly, Grace was the one who wasn't too pleased with the music selection for her recital pieces. Elvis. "Blue Hawaii." For Ballet. Grace told me in the car after that first run-through, "That is NOT ballet, Mommy!" She's a discerning little ballerina, that's for certain.

She worked hard, my little girl. She struggled with some of it but held her own in a class of first and second graders. She admitted to me the week before the recital that her clubfoot holds her back, that she has trouble standing on her right foot while having to do all those tap steps and jumps. The tears started to fall out of frustration. She wanted to do better but couldn't. I have never, EVER seen this reaction. I have never, EVER heard her talk about her clubfoot in this way. I have never, EVER heard her mention any limitations. It was heart-breaking to know that she's quite aware of her condition, while all the while I thought she was just so easy-going about it and could care less. That's true, to a degree -- she IS easy-going about it. But it was a bit of shock to her this admission. All I could do was hug her and tell her how strong she had gotten. And it's true. In September she could hardly balance on her right foot for more than 3 seconds. By recital time, she was hopping and shuffle-hop-stepping quite well. Perfectly? No. But better. Stronger. And I have no doubt she'll continue to do so.

The evening of the recital was electric in our household. Grace was ecstatic, and not nervous in the least. Not even a tiny bit. No butterflies in sight. Just pure, simple excitement ... and joy. She donned her costume and walked confidently backstage, calm and relaxed and so sure of herself. I was truly in awe of my little girl, for at her age (heck, at any age!) I would have been so nervous I'd have a bucket at the ready. I gave her a hug, wished her luck, and she said, "OK, Mommy! See ya later!" Calm as can be.

And then it was her turn. The class marched out on stage, and Grace looked right out into the audience. Her eyes were sparkling, her face was lit up with such joy it was breathtaking. She was exactly where she wanted to be -- on stage, ready to perform. It was "home" to her, and her head was held high. For both tap and ballet, she worked so hard -- you could see her little wheels turning, recalling the steps we had practiced over and over. When the little girl next to her went the wrong way, Grace pointed her in the right direction. She owned that stage. I was bursting with pride.

The finale was hilarious, for it wasn't well practiced and no one knew what they were doing. But Grace didn't care. When her name was called, she stood up, received her trophy, and instead of plopping back down as most of the others did, she faced the audience, a huge smile breaking across her face. She blew a kiss and waved, eyes shining, before she sat back down. I think she'll remember that evening for the rest of her life. And so will I.

Posing in Grandma and Grandpa's house (Grandpa couldn't come because he was sick)

Sigh ... next year's Halloween costume, I suppose.

The costume had a removable tutu and this flapper-esque "grass skirt" for "Blue Hawaii." Despite Grace's reservations for not doing a classical piece, she embraced her role whole-heartedly.

Tap - "Sweet Home Alabama." For goodness' sakes ...

Grace does everything with a flourish

Receiving her trophy

She was so proud of herself, and proud of her very first trophy

Time is Flying ...

Whoa, it's been a while! Sorry, folks. I should learn by now not to make promises to myself. The thought of summer being the perfect time to resume blogging was ... well, laughable. It's July already. Still loving my glasses, though!

Yes, July ... the fastest summer on record so far. I simply cannot believe how quickly the weeks are flying by. But I must say ... it's been great. I mean, really great. The kids have been fabulous! Sure, a few squabbles here and there, but there were hardly any adjustment issues (for them) whatsoever. They naturally fell into a comfortable routine of their own making, and it's working well. Grace continues to live -- or rather, thrive -- in the strange yet fascinating world of her own imagination, playing with toys and "bits" and pieces of cloth and who-knows-what-else that keep her occupied for hours at a time. Now she has even taken up foreign languages -- of her own making. That's a bit disconcerting to me, I must confess, to hear her speaking so sweetly with her animals and "friends" yet having absolutely no idea what she's saying. But she's happy ... so I'm happy.

Even Aidan has been playing, and I mean really playing. He turns off the TV voluntarily because he wants to play. Yes. Just read that sentence to yourselves a few times. Aidan. My son. Does THAT. It's Legos all the way for him, and there hasn't been a day yet when he's become bored. Thank God -- and I mean that truthfully! -- for that!

We've had some fun highlights so far, but nothing monumental. Those dates are coming up. In less than two weeks, the kids and I will be driving to Ohio for a much-needed reunion with my friend Jacie and her two kids, who moved away two years ago. When I told the kids of our plans, Aidan was so excited he was going to burst. You could see his brain processing all that good news -- not just seeing good friends, but the excitement of a real road trip -- to another state! -- to boot. He finally blurted out, "All right! We're going to OHIO!" with such exuberance I couldn't help but laugh. I'm partly hesitant about the trip, truth be told -- I am not a fan of driving, nor have I ever driven that far by myself (let alone with two kids in the car). But the destination far outweighs any concerns about the trip itself. If anyone has some good tips to share as to how we can survive those long, long hours in the car, please feel free to share! I'll take any advice I can get.

We'll be coming home on Grace's birthday (poor thing), and the next day we'll be greeting my brother and his family from the midwest, who will be staying with us for several days. Now that's a long road trip! We'll be celebrating Grace's birthday, along with the triplets who turn 4 the day before Grace. Throw in my brother Jim's birthday as well, and we'll have one smashing party! We're planning a family trip to the shore again, complete with lots of photos, and the older kids and dads will be going to a Yankees game as well. July is one busy month. I'll get to August at another time.

Tucked in there as well are plans in the making for Grace's 6th birthday party -- her first "friend" party. Unfortunately, it hasn't gone off with a good start. Out of the 7 invitations sent I already received two declines. Ah, the down side of a summer birthday. But the up side is that we have flexibility in our favor. If too many friends bow out because of vacations, then we can always pick another date. So, we'll see ...

Yes, so far so good ... I must confess I'm struggling with making summer "work" for me, trying to work from home with my kids constantly at my elbow. When I'm at my most creative, I too go into a "world" rather like what Grace inhabits (minus the strange languages), but here I can't do that. With demands every 10 minutes -- I need a snack! I need to pee! I need a towel! I need helping getting this toy out of my nose! -- it's hard to focus. It's claustrophobic. Don assures me that I just need to hold my breath until September, when both kids are in school full time this year and I'll have my time to myself. Oh, it's so easy to look ahead ... but I've learned that in doing so I'll miss the "now." And that's one thing I certainly don't want to miss. Not this summer. Not with my kids where they are now. I'll hold my breath all right, but I'd rather have the days slow down.

Speaking of "I need," I haven't fed my kids yet. Ah, summer ... to be continued!

Self-Portrait

I finally did it! This morning after dropping the kids off to school, I bit the proverbial bullet and headed to the eye doctor.

The verdict: I really like them. Both of them. The Kate Spade sunglasses, staying as far away from Jackie O. as I possibly could. And the glasses ... well, see for yourself:

So? Whatcha think? If you don't like them, don't tell me. I bruise easily. The lenses are a bit strange, made of some state-of-the art material that makes them paper thin (a gift for a nearly blind person such as myself), anti-glare, anti-reflection, anti-anything-you-can-think-of-except-unwanted-fat. But they're strange. I can feel my eyes physically adjusting to them as I turn my head, like a digital camera with auto-focus, zooming in and out until it settles in on something clearly. I am assuming -- hoping -- it's just a matter of time and adjustment. After all, my eyes have been used to the same thing for 12 years. A little zooming in and out must be normal.

Plus, I'm not used to actually seeing something on my face. I can see the dark copper frame. I can feel the weight of it on the bridge of my nose. With my old rimless specs, it was as close to wearing contacts -- or nothing at all! -- that I ever came to. Now, I know I have glasses on. Another adjustment.

But it's all good. I love the sharpness of what I see. And if I had the wit or energy, I'd somehow find a clever way to apply that to life's larger analogies ... but not now. The toilet overflowed this morning as we were heading out the door for school and I had no choice but to leave it. That's my life's larger issue right now.

A Monkey in Action

Remember "The Queen Spot" from two posts ago? I assumed Grace had done some climbing in order to get her "bits" to the top of the bookcase ... and I was right. Later on, I caught her in action:




I'm not sure what I can say ...

A New Per-SPEC-tive

I got the call yesterday afternoon.

My new glasses are ready.

And here I sit, hemming and hawing about when to go. You'd think I would jump at the chance to get them as soon as possible, to ditch my old wobbly specs and walk out a new woman (at least from the neck up). But I'm wondering if I can carve out the time. I'm wondering how many excuses I can find to avoid it.

What IS it about me and this strange compulsion to hang on to things? To avoid getting rid of something old in order to embrace something new? To cling to the familiar because there are no surprises?

Ah, that's it, isn't it ... I've been "me" in these rimless spectacles for 12 years. By donning something new, something edgy, something that will cause people to look at me in a new way, I'm drawing attention to myself. And for years that's exactly what I wanted to avoid. There are no surprises that way.

I can almost hear my friends say, "Do it! Embrace this 'new you,' this new chapter in your life that's opening up before you!" And indeed, that's true ... There are chapters closing and new ones opening very soon. Perhaps this simple gesture of getting new glasses -- a new look for a new chapter -- is an outward embodiment of those changes on my horizon. Oh, I haven't been able to let go yet, to the chagrin of my friends, but it will happen. Perhaps I need to go to the eye doctor ... today ... Get the new glasses and then step through that door.

But I sure do have very strong fingers.
I just need a little prying.

The Queen Spot (Or: Nothing is Sacred)

In the past, I've written several times about the issue of identity -- sometimes having felt that I gave a part of myself up when I became a mother, or a wife, a Pastor's Wife and then not, etc. When I'm optimistic, I consider it a "season," a calling to that role in that particular time, especially in regard to my children. When they're little, as they are now, they're quite demanding. They need help pouring the heavy gallon jug of milk. They need help with tying their shoes, or combing their hair, or -- in Grace's case -- wiping her cute little butt. They need, need, need ... and sometimes being needed can be inexplicably exhausting. When I'm optimistic, this is endearing ... but when I'm not, I need some Advil.

As I get older, I learn more about myself -- what makes me tick, what needs I have, what things I need to grab on to in order to keep myself from going under. One thing that is vitally precious to me is space, elbow room, a place to which I can retreat when I feel those waves lapping at my ears. Lately I've been wondering why I can't seem to recharge, why I can't seem to regain my balance and strength to forge on. And last night, as I walked into the living room and saw my daughter in action, I figured out part of the problem.

It's Grace. She's a gem, a wonder, one of the happiest and most charming little girls I have ever met in my life. She's beautiful in every way ... but that little creature, so small in stature, is larger than life. And at times, that exhausts me. As I looked around my living room, in a rather -- unfortunately -- pessimistic state, I realized that I have no space. I don't have much in this house that is solely mine, for my own enjoyment and respite. Nothing is sacred ... nothing is holy. Nothing, really, is set apart for just me. But it's not for a lack of trying.

I need my own (wo)Man-Cave ... but even if I had one, I know that my darling daughter would infiltrate it, as she has done in every part of our house. Literally. Despite the creation of a playroom, she still finds a way to branch out, to leave her mark everywhere she goes:

You'd think the "Master Bedroom" would be sacred.
It's not.
Grace was adamant that her "art work" needed to adorn our walls.
I don't want to share the reaction when I attempted to take them down.
Apparently this was never intended to be a revolving exhibit.

Even Jack's "space" was invaded, for Grace felt it was imperative that Jack needed direction -- and decoration -- for his dinner, complete with his name (and backwards "J") and "food" and "water" signs, in case he forgot which was which. Cute? You bet. But don't try to remove it, or else.

And last night my jaw dropped as I saw what had been occupying her time for a good part of the afternoon. Her praise music was on, she was singing at the top of her lungs, pausing occasionally to raise her arms and close her eyes before resuming her "work," but she was busy. Very busy. Busy taking over what little space I can call my own.

It's my bookcase. Last year I blogged about this very thing, wanting something that was just mine. Books are precious to me, and I mourn the many, many boxes that sit patiently in the attic, filled with my friends of every variety and genre. I declared to my kids that I had had enough, that my bookcase would no longer house their toys and puzzles and their books. I was reclaiming it for my own. I embarked upon the painful task of selecting only a certain amount of books to bring into the light of day, along with precious old family photos. That very small corner became mine. All mine. Sacred and holy; set apart ... for me.

But I forgot about Grace. I forgot about her need to spread out, to set up, to claim All Things As Her Own. I clearly laid out the parameters, that this bookcase was mine and mine alone. But those huge chocolate-brown eyes ... that sweet little pouty mouth ... I melted. I gave her the bottom shelf.

Last night I saw what happened with my never-ending self-sacrifice. I stood in wonder as I stared at the result of her toil. She was beaming, eyes shining, arms outstretched like Vanna White as she exclaimed, "Look, Mommy! This is for YOU!"

Knee-jerk annoyance immediately mingled with heart-shattering guilt. She created what she calls "The Queen Spot" -- I've been elevated to Queen status, it seems -- and this space was for me. That's the irony, isn't it ... that space was mine, established as I had wanted it, with my things. But somehow, in her Grace-way, it was no longer holy, set apart in the way I desired. It was transformed to her liking, under the guise of it being "my" space. I've never seen anything like this:

"This is a comfy spot for you, Mommy, to take a nap when you're tired." Hmmm ... I think she forgot that I'm 5'8"

Every single shelf is filled with something ... even the very top of the bookcase. To get there, she climbed on the arm of the love seat, and then made her way across the windowsill. Unbelievable.

Once again I must make myself look on the proverbial bright side -- for the first time in my life, when I ask myself, "Who am I, really?" I can answer with certainty:

"I am royalty!"

I don't think she has staked any claim in the bathroom ... yet ... but I do have my standards.

Sigh ...

Therapy

Many times I've stumbled across the phrase, "retail therapy." I guess there could be a "food therapy" as well, depending upon your mood. For me, today ... I needed some therapy. Big time.

I'm too "Dutch" for retail therapy, although trust me when I say that personal denial can be a huge one for me. I do love to shop ... I just don't like spending money.

And yes, there are rare occasions where I say "heck with it, I'm going to chow down on a handful of M&M's" ... but I usually end up regretting it. It's just not worth it. And besides, I went bathing suit shopping yesterday ... I don't think I need to say any more about that. I'm struggling between denying myself M&M's and saying "heck with it" because I'm just too far gone ...

But today I needed therapy. It's been a rough week. A rough couple of weeks. It wasn't any one thing in particular -- although Don's trip to San Francisco threw a hefty monkey wrench into our daily routine, from which we're still trying to reorient and recover. I think that's my problem, though -- I am constantly reorienting and recovering. And for a girl who doesn't adjust well -- or quickly -- to change, this constant flux keeps me swirling. And I'm worn out.

I wanted to sign up for a yoga class ... but I ended up bailing because of the too-many instances where Don had to work late, of course on my yoga night and no other. I plan on doing something in particular on a given morning, only to find out that something shifted and I can't. You get the idea. One after another, ebbing and flowing, ever-changing. I can't keep up.

Our weather hasn't been helping. I think it has rained for a week straight. We're stuck indoors, claustrophobic, sun-deprived. Being Friday, it all caught up to me. I cried quite a bit in the car this morning, despite my best efforts to keep it all together. I vented to the steering wheel. I have a splitting headache. After spending some time at church getting some last-minute work done, I went home and vacuumed. Then I cleaned a few windows -- anything to make me feel as if I accomplished something. Therapy.

But it wasn't enough. I felt as if I was drowning. I decided to escape for a while, to shut it all out and take a nap. Therapy. But even that didn't work so well, with Grace waking me up because AppleTV froze. Then my mom walked in. Ugh ... what a day ...

I had enough. I needed therapy of a different sort, for bathing suit shopping just added to the dark cloud above my head, and the handful of M&M's made me a bit nauseous. The sky was gray, but I didn't care. I needed to work in my garden.

I grabbed Grace's hand and jumped into the car, speeding to Home Depot. I hadn't mapped out my garden yet, but I figured I could at least purchase some vegetables. Roma and grape tomatoes, eggplant, and red and green bell peppers. Cilantro and basil for the herb pot. And I just couldn't pass up the 99-cent geraniums of the prettiest colors. Oh, did that feel good.

Oh, you just know there's a snafu in the mix. I picked up the red pepper and as I was preparing to put it into the ground, I glanced at the tag. JALAPENO. What the heck???!! Oh, how I despise things that are placed in the wrong section, the shelf declaring "Sweet Red Bell Peppers" and this one rogue Jalapeno stuffed in the mix. I seem to recall last year's similar snafu, with Ichiban eggplant filling our garden, when the sign expressly said "Black Beauty" ...

Who cares. I planted it anyway. We'll just have more Mexican food than usual this summer. The sun came out, and Grace played happily in Bug World (or, rather, Mud World). It was hot and muggy (a far cry from the chilly weather we've been having) but I didn't care. My therapy was working. It was muddy indeed, but it felt good. It smelled good. It looks good.

I don't feel as if I'm in control of my life during this "season." I'm constantly a few steps behind, always trying to catch up and never quite making it. I don't thrive well in that kind of environment. But today, getting muddy in my garden, everything was OK. It was a good day. This is my kind of therapy.