They say you never wake a sleeping baby. It’s one of the first things you learn as a new mom. That and how to survive on twenty minutes sleep.

And it’s the quiet moments while they’re sleeping you come to cherish. That morning started out like any other – the quietest breakfast on the planet so as not to wake Leah, five months old, still sleeping upstairs in her little pink room. The TV was on in the background as I sat in bed working on my laptop.

I didn’t notice the break in programming at first. I thought it was a commercial for a movie. Any scene involving a smoking skyscraper had to be a movie. But then they kept showing it – and Peter Jennings’ voice was a constant. And then — it wasn’t a movie — it was another plane, and another, and another.

And I didn’t know if there would be another. Or where.

In that instant all I knew was that I had to go get Leah and bring her downstairs to be with me. I had to wake a sleeping baby. I had to lay hands on her to know she was safe – for now.

I don’t remember much else about that day. I remember a blur of phone calls to make sure everyone we knew was okay. I remember endless images that to this day I can’t forget, but never choose to see again. And every time I remember this day, which is often, I hear a deep, tolling bell in my mind. I never understood why, but I respect it nonetheless.

There are several moments that stick with me as a parent — lessons or realizations or pivotal ticks of a second hand. Ten years ago today I learned what maternal instinct was. And I’ve never forgotten it.

Today I am thankful for blue skies that stay blue, for phones that don’t ring, that all I know and love are present and accounted for. My heart is with those that mourn today – for any reason – we remember. For all those that serve and protect – we are grateful.

#neverforget

I was home with Benjamin and his phlegm today. I took the opportunity to catch up on folding and distributing laundry about the house… so up the stairs we went. First stop, Benjamin’s room. Then Leah’s. The picture above is what I walked into when I opened the door to Leah’s room.

Felicia uses a great phrase that I now completely understand: RAGE BLACKOUT. There are no finer words to describe how I felt standing in that tiny bathroom. I’m sure I owe her royalties – I’ll gladly pay. Perfect.

Leah was told she had to clean her entire bathroom Cinderella-style before she could go to sleep. She also had to pay for the wasted deoderant ($3). As an attempt to make amends, she brought an extra dollar down to give to me. I told her that I didn’t want the extra dollar – $3 was fine.

“But, Mommy, the extra dollar is because you are the best mommy and I’m really sorry.”
“I appreciate that, Leah, but money doesn’t always fix things.”

That was a moment.

I believe that she is genuinely sorry, but I also believe in consequences. I’m pretty sure this lesson was learned with some elbow grease, repaying for lost product and a hug when it was all complete. But man this stuff makes me tired.

And wondering what’s next.

This is not totally in character for her, so clearly something else was going on.

We came to find out that the day before was a TAKS review test. (TAKS is the dumb standardized testing that happens here in Texas at certain grade levels.) She did great – only missed three on the math section (out of 40) and was proud of herself for that.

However it appears that after the review test was done a little girl in one of the other third grade classes made fun of her a bit by saying Leah was the last one to finish. And that completely unnerved Leah.

We talked to her that you don’t get any extra points for finishing quickly and that she did the right thing in taking whatever time she needed to do it correctly – and that it paid off since she only missed three. This didn’t help. We pulled out all the parenting clichés… it’s not a race, ignore her, she’s not the boss of you.

Nothing stuck.

I let her stay home from school because she did, eventually, feel warm and she ended up having some low-grade fever. Better safe than sorry at that point.

This morning she was fine with no fever and it really was time for her to go to school. Again the meltdown. I started thinking about that last cliché – she’s not the boss of you. It occurred to me that apparently she was. Leah had given this girl tremendous power over her. And it was alarming to see that.

She was so wrapped around the axle that even threats of taking ice skating away if she didn’t get dressed were met with, “Fine. I don’t want to skate.”

Okay, then.

“Leah, I don’t understand why you are giving this girl so much power.”

“Huh?”

“By letting this girl bother you with a very dumb little statement that you know is silly you are giving her control of you and your life. And I’m surprised you’re letting someone do that.”

“Oh.”

Husband explained it was time to go to school to face it. That it will not be nearly as bad as she thinks it is in her head. That she needs to tell the teacher what is bothering her because the teacher will notice she is sad. And when the tears came yet again, the message was very clear – you will get dressed and go to school or we will dress you and carry you there ourselves.

Husband took her to school (still under protest) and called me to say that she did, indeed, collect herself before getting out of the car. So I’m proud of her for that.

But man am I bothered by the idea that some silly girl comment unnerved her the way that it did. Leah is tremendously bright, unerringly sweet and a bit sensitive for her own good. But she’s never just been, I don’t know, defeated. She’s pouted or waivered or doubted or assessed. But she’s never been defeated like that.

I don’t think there is more to the story. I believe we would have heard about it by now. But there is clearly another conversation to be had with Leah. Actually, there is an ongoing conversation to be had. I’m just not entirely sure how to approach it yet. Is she hurt because she thinks being “last” is like losing? Is it because she feels “different” with her “race car brain“? Or is she just hyper-sensitive to any sort of teasing? Any or all could be the case.

Regardless of the cause, it’s time to talk about the idea of (self) power and control — and how easy it is to give that away if you’re not careful. How easy it is to hand over the keys to your kingdom and what the consequences of doing that are. But, man… to start having that discussion at EIGHT?! That just makes me a little sad.

Husband asks Leah, “See that sign, sweetie? What does it say?”

“No outlet, Daddy.”

“Right. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, Daddy. It means you can’t plug your TV in there.”

…and a very happy holiday season to all of you!

Today you are seven. I know this not because seven short years ago you were ceremoniously cut from my never-to-be-flat-again stomache, but because you have reminded Daddy and I about your birthday about 157 times in the past 2 days.

We had your birthday party last weekend and hosted the family as well as five girls from your class for arts and crafts, cupcakes, confetti eggs and playing. You had the best time just being with your friends and those that love you and announced to me later that this was the Best! Birthday! Party! Ever! You are very welcome.

You’ve gone to a few birthday parties this year and I always schlep my camera along to snap some shots. These same girls are at almost all the parties you attend and it always strikes me that when I take a group picture of you and your friends that with very little effort I can see you in the same group picture 13 years from now as a Party Pic in college. I can see that girl in your face. And I can see that beer can in your hand. Put it down.

This was the year that some of your natural talents have started to rise to the surface. For the past few years we’ve let you sample and play with some afterschool activities to see what you liked and what you were good at. There were many that fell by the wayside…tennis and golf to name a few. (Although I have a feeling golf will show back up again when Benjamin starts playing…just a hunch.) This year it became very clear – you are a dancer.

It’s not so much that you have innate musicality – because rhythm does not come easily to you – but you have natural grace, love to perform and genuinely “feel” the music. You often times belt out the song you are dancing to while you dance – and it is so charming to watch you perform. And, man, you love the costumes. I’m glad you found this for yourself and I’m glad it makes you happy. I hope it continues to feed your creative soul and challenges you to push yourself – you will be all the better for both.

Challenges seemed to be a central theme for you this year. In the beginning, reading was a challenge. It didn’t come easily and was frustrating you. But then we discovered Daisy Meadows’ Fairy books and it was like a little lightbulb went off in your head. Now, you read voraciously, comprehend what you read and love to write stories as well. You worked hard to own this new, important skill and I’m so glad it’s become such a big part of you.

The next challenge came when life handed you your first true loss in the form of the death of your Grandpa Gene. We struggled with how to tell you and what to do, but ultimately I decided to be straight and kind with you. You were sad for you and sad for Daddy, but the questions you asked were insightful, thoughtful and loving. I’ve never seen a six-year old at a funeral before, but you handled it with the grace of a grownup. Seeing a lifecycle like this through your eyes was uplifting and brought a sense of peace to many. Everything through your eyes was new and interesting – bringing tradition and ceremony back to earth and heart. You continue to keep Grandpa Gene in your “special blessings” list each night and I know he has been watching over you this past year with a big smile on his face.

But for the better part of the year you were your own hardest challenge. I began to recognize the tell-tale signs that something wasn’t quite right in that pretty, bright head of yours. Your teacher, who is wonderful and your strong advocate, agreed. I saw a girl who couldn’t let go of a stream of thoughts in her head and struggled with switching conversation content quickly. I began to see issues with managing friendships. And you and I struggled with our own relationship a time or two as we both wrestled with your frustrations.

Finally, Daddy and I took you for an evaluation for ADD last week. As of today, we don’t have the results, but we are better for having had the discussion. You are still unaware of any real issues or terminology, but you know we went to check to see if you had a “race car brain”. I’m betting it’s more Formula One than Ford.

Whatever the results what Daddy and I want for you as you enter your seventh year is to give some control of you back to you. We don’t know how to do that, but we’re working on it. And at some point we’ll work on it together.

Swimmy, this summer you leave for sleep-away camp for the first time. This is going to wreck Daddy. Okay, I’ll admit I get a little sad thinking about it, too, but I know that even though it may be hard at first, you are going to eat it up. I can’t wait to see what August brings for you – a new world of sorts – one filled with new friendships, new experiences, new doors to faith and the knowledge that you can do things independently of us.

I think this is the last year of you as a little girl. By the time I write again for your eighth year, so much will have changed. I know this next year will be filled with wonder, laughter, tears, hard work and good work. A lot of this we’ll do together – some you’ll do yourself. Just know Daddy and I are so proud of who you are and who you are becoming. But you’ll always be our little Swimmy.

Love,

Mommy

In two weeks we will get the doctor’s professional opinion and recommendations. She will either be labeled or she won’t.

There’s a part of me that wants to hear the label because it means we can define all the issues we’ve been seeing these past six months. And that means there would be a plan. A focus. Some answers. But the other side of that is recognizing she actually has a little part of her that is broken. And that makes me sad.

As a parent you wish for your children a life that is pure and loving and free of challenges (aside from the ones you put in front of them). You look at the little girl wrapped in a soft pink blanket laid on your chest and you don’t see group socialization classes, medication and routines followed religiously.

My daughter is sweet and kind and bright. She is a vivacious introvert and loves to dance. She loves fairies and butterflies, her family and any animal she can think of. She loves to swing and play and laugh. She is scared of bugs but not of being on stage. She is sassy and silly and wonderful and I swear she floats when she walks. She is all of these things wrapped up in a soft and sparkly pink ribbon.

I am scared she will lose some of these things. I am scared that she will think she is broken. I am fearful that she won’t understand “different” isn’t the same thing as “bad”. But really? I want her life to get easier so that she can enjoy it. I want her to have the skills to be a good friend and a strong girl. I want her to have the structure to make good decisions – not just easy ones.

It’s been a long walk to get where we are right now – standing at proverbial fork in the road. And tomorrow we will take one more step before we know which way to turn. So, G-d, if I could just get my foot to feel a little less heavy, I’d appreciate it.

(Write that down.)

The Swimmy lost her first tooth.

Sigh.

Yes. This bothers me. It’s like watching a sad little strawberry plant’s flower petals start to drop off as we wait for the berry. Her Little Girl smile is turning awkward – full of loose and crowded teeth as other Big Girl teeth start to show up and shove the others around like bullies on a playground.

And I’m kinda mad at those big teeth. I don’t know this new smile full of holes and crookedness hinting at years to come full of braces and make up and bad poetry written in diaries and, ugh, boys.

And I look at that little tooth (she has named “Princess” for reasons unknown to logical adults) and marvel at how TINY it is. As she was tearing up over the loss of the tooth, the blood and how “different” she looked in the mirror, I pointed out that that tooth is the same size as what Benjamin has in his mouth. That’s how long she’s had baby teeth. Almost six years.

We both sat there and were kind of amazed by that.

And then, of course, there was The Coming of the Tooth Fairy.

She wanted to make sure the Tooth Fairy knew that she wanted to KEEP the tooth. DON’T TAKE THE TOOTH. Could I remember to tell the Tooth Fairy that? When does the Tooth Fairy come? When I’m asleep? Mommy, what time do you go to sleep? Don’t forget, okay?

Okay. I promise.

Daddy, however, forgot and when she woke up the next morning was none too pleased to find the tooth missing. Daddy being the Pro that he is promptly stated, “It’s in Mommy’s jewelry box – where she keeps all her precious things – that’s why the Tooth Fairy put it there.”

Nice save.

I’ve hidden my sadness from her these past few days – and I know it too shall pass. Because even though a petal has fallen, and time has passed, I know how sweet the berry is. And she is, by far, one of the most delicious things in life.

But this application was a little different. This will be the first summer she goes to “sleep away” camp. For 10 whole days.

Dude.

Don’t get me wrong, I am THRILLED for her. This is a camp I went to, OldestDaughter and ArtsyDaughter have experience with and tons of my best memories are there.

Husband, however, cried a little when he realized I wasn’t kidding. And I quote: “Just get ready. Once they leave for camp they never come back the same kid.”

And? He’s right. I know that this experience will be challenging, a little lonely, completely eye-opening and absolutely a blast like she’s never had. How could she not come back different?

Husband always says enjoy the ages of 3 to 6 – that they are the best. I think he’s right. I’ve enjoyed her so much. And I wish I could freeze her little heart and brain where it is, but I can’t. And I know this.

I hope Camp becomes a part of her life that she looks forward to every summer. I hope she makes friends from all over Texas (and beyond). I hope she discovers parts of herself she didn’t know existed. I hope at the chapel under the twilight stars that the little piece of G-d inside her that she loves so dearly twinkles a little brighter. I hope she learns all the words to the Birkat. I hope that camp is ready for the little force of nature that is The Swimmy.

And I hope that as camp gives her wings to fly, she still comes back to us roots for a hug now and again.

“Hi, Pam? It’s Maurice. Gene has passed.”

And there it was. The words that we had all been anticipating for days, that were making Husband jump with anticipation every time the phone rang. They had finally come. And he was finally gone.

We decided not to tell The Swimmy until she got home from school that day. There were meetings to be had, details to be discussed and arrangements to be made and having her at school was better than dragging her through all that.

We told her about her Grandpa Gene and she was okay. We talked again about the funeral that would be the next day, the burial that would happen afterwards and all the things that she would see and hear tomorrow.

The next day we got up, hung around the house a bit, helped everyone get dressed for the long day ahead and left to meet the family at Husband’s aunt and uncle’s home. I told The Swimmy we would all be riding in a “special long car” (limo) and she was excited about that new adventure. The whole way to the temple she looked around, chatted about being in first grade and giggled about things she saw out the window. It was good to have her in the car – she brought some light as she always does to our little world.

When we got to the temple, I took her privately into the chapel where the casket was so that she could see it and ask any questions before we were all bombarded with friends and family and their kind wishes. She walked straight up to it and stood there for a contemplative moment. I kissed my fingertips and put them on the casket’s warm wood and she imitated me holding her hand on the wood a bit longer and with great curiosity.

She was kind and charming with the people who came to pay their respects. She shook hands and smiled and said, “Nice to meet you,” and “Thank you” right on cue.

When we took our places in the front row, she shared ArtsyDaughter’s lap during the service. She sat quietly and respectfully. Husband’s sister was very sad and cried openly and redfaced during certain parts of the rabbi’s remarks and The Swimmy couldn’t stop looking at her. I watched her face and could tell in her little head she was thinking, “Why are you so SAD? Am I supposed to be sad? I think I am a little…” And a few times I’d see her close her eyes and bow her head. I wasn’t sure if she was imitating what she saw, but it was touching nonetheless.

I kept waiting for the moment where all this would hit her. I didn’t expect tears, but I knew something would happen that would help her realize the weight of the situation – or the permanence of it. This moment happened at the cemetery.

We all loaded back into the limousine to ride to the cemetery after the service. Again, I walked her over to the gravesite privately to make sure she could ask questions or react without the hundreds of people around. We spent some time talking about the headstones – she was very concerned we wouldn’t know where Grandpa Gene was going to be – and reading the others that were around his site.

Then she wanted to see “the hole” as she called it. We walked over so she could look in and she looked straight down to see a cement liner at the bottom of a very deep hole. You could see on her face that her mind was racing. “That’s so far down. You can’t get out of that kind of hole…” When she looked at me I could tell that she was beginning to realize that this particular situation may, in fact, be irreversible.

We took our seats again in the front row before the gravesite and the cemetery workers placed scaffolding on top of the opening where the casket would rest. I told her that her cousins will take the casket out of the hearse and place it on top of this and then after some prayers are said, the casket would be lowered into the hole.

This time she sat on my lap during the brief service. I told her they were getting ready to lower the casket and she asked, “Mommy? Is Grandpa Gene sleeping?”

“No, sweetie. He’s not. Sleeping is different from being dead.”

“Why?”

”Because when you sleep, you are still breathing. Why you die, you don’t breathe any more.”

And as they started to lower the casket, she hopped down off my lap and walked up to stand next to it with her little feet together, hands clasped in front of her and head tilted slightly to the side in a pose that simply said, “I am sad for you.” I wish I had a camera to capture that image, but in my mind I know I will never forget it as long as I live.

It was at that point that Husband became redfaced and cried. And I definitely joined him a bit.

In Judaism we are taught that one of the finest things you can do (a mitzvah) for someone is to help bury them by placing a scoop of dirt on their casket. I talked with The Swimmy about this and, at first, she didn’t want to, which was fine. THAT could be a bit much for a six year old to deal with. But then, they brought out a small pail full of sand/dirt and a small hand trowel and she decided it was okay. She may have thought she was playing sandbox, but I think she felt more comfortable with the little shovel as opposed to dealing with the full sized one.

She was so okay with it that she put 6 scoops of dirt and I finally had to stop her. I told her that this next one was the last one so she took a scoop, placed it over the casket and said, “G-d bless Grandpa Gene.”

I might have cried a little more.

As I think back, I know I wrestled with whether or not she should attend the funeral and burial. And I now know I made the right decision. I am amazed at how well she handled everything and completely blown away by her thoughtfulness, inquisitiveness and compassion that she showed. Oh, sure, there have been more questions as the days went on, but she continues to thoughtfully consider the answers and weigh in from time to time on her experience.

As a parent, this has completely floored me. This little mind and heart asks such complex questions and all I can do is try to be straightforward, honest and simple in my response. And it’s hard. It’s hard to boil all this down to simple, meaningful words. It’s hard to figure out a way to educate not only on life, but on faith…to try not to instill fear of the unknown…to help her not feel left behind but to feel connected to those who are with her now AND those who have gone before us.

I’ve gone to bed exhausted these past few days, but we’re all sleeping pretty peacefully in the scheme of things. I hope you are, too.

It was now time to have that discussion with The Swimmy for the first time in her little life. I was a little unclear about how to fill in some of the details, but thanks to two friends named Wendy I got some good advice and Husband and I sat down to talk with her about her Grandpa Gene.

She was sad, and I think seeing her Daddy cry was a little surprising to her, but I believe it went okay. She asked good questions and we answered them truthfully.

In the hours that followed, she had some more questions – some I anticipated, some I didn’t. It’s charming to me that even through our sadness and other mixed emotions that we can still find kid-logic-induced humor in the midst of this. As I was tucking her in, this is how it went,

“Mommy, how does Grandpa Gene get buried? I mean, how does he get in the ground?”

“Well, some men who work at the cemetery will dig a hole to help.”

“But won’t he get dirty?”

“No, sweetie, he won’t. He will be in a special box made of wood called a coffin so he won’t get dirt on him.”

“Well, but what about his clothes? How will he get them?”

“He doesn’t need his clothes any more. So it’s okay.”

”You mean he’ll be naked?!”

”No, he’ll have clothes on. But he won’t need any other ones.”

“Oh. But won’t he get sweaty?”

“No, Boo Boo, he won’t. When you die you don’t need your body any more – and it doesn’t work any longer. So your body stays here and the special part inside of you and the little piece of G-d go up to be with G-d and watch over everyone you love.”

“Just like Earline?”

“Yes.”

“So they’ll be together?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good for them. But I’ll still miss them.”

“Me, too.”

Every day she asks if Grandpa Gene is gone and I tell her not yet, but he’s resting comfortably. She seems okay with that. I’m sure there will be more questions, but in the meantime we wait.

G-d bless her Grandpa Gene.