He was home. His business trip was finally over.
I hung up with him as I turned into the airport's entrance.
"Okay, Sprite. Daddy's here. Wanna go get Daddy?"
I peeked at the rear view mirror and saw her staring dimly at the DVD player. It was late, too far past her bedtime, way too far past her logic's threshold. We were both running on fumes by now and I had the feeling that I could have dangled the Princesses in front of her face and her reaction would have stayed the same.
Once we parked, the tired child immediately demanded a ride in my arms as we steered toward Baggage Claim.
I looked around, slowing my steps down, trying to peer through the throng of people congregated around the only working carousel. "I wonder where Daddy is." Sprite's head stayed glued to my shoulder, not interested in my one-sided conversation.
Then she heard it. A whistle coming from about 100 feet ahead of us. She straightened and looked into my eyes. "Daddy?" Her voice sounded hopeful after a week of only seeing him through the computer camera.
The whistle sounded again. This time, I spotted him in the crowd. Stopping, I put her down and pointed him out to her.
"Daddy!"
She had spotted him. Forgetting about the distance and the people she would have to navigate to get to him, she bolted.
He leaned down, his arms opening wide while I fumbled for my camera to try to capture the moment they made contact with each other. I didn't quite get what I wanted.
I watched them embrace and heard her scream with excitement and him exclaim over her dress and her hair, compliments he knew she wanted to hear, the musical voice he knew she loved. He pulled a Belle doll out of his carry-on bag to present to her, but the doll played second fiddle to him. She was much more interested in him.
I walked over to the two of them lost in their greeting, one spilling over with words she didn't quite understand to fill him in on everything he had missed in her week, and the other studying her closely for any signs of change that may have possibly happened while he was away.
Reaching them, I stole a kiss for myself, happy that my partner was back, my co-pilot in parenthood. We secured his luggage and walked out of the airport quickly, as if that would expedite out return to normal, at least the normal we knew.
A few moments later, I realized they had stopped. I turned around and caught them still chatting and soaking up each other's essence. This time, my camera captured exactly what I wanted to see.
Only he can make her smile like that. And only she can make him smile like that.
Happy Father's Day, John. Sprite and I love you very much.
And a happy Father's Day to everyone else out there too, especially if you can make your kids smile just by coming home.
I never understood Mother's Day as a kid. Sure, it was a day to honor Mom, make her breakfast, call a 24 hour truce to the sibling wars to remind her that motherhood is not only about breaking up fights, and lean a little more on Dad to mediate the battles that just couldn't wait for sunset.
Mother's Day presents meant a trinket, either a mug with "#1 Mom" written on it, or a photo album, whatever we could buy with the allotted amount Dad slipped us before letting us loose in the mall. Of course, this gift usually shared the receipt total with an Archie comic book or little something for us, you know, commission.. And of course, the homemade gifts, usually assembled in art class, a "required rite of childhood", a construction paper card scribbled with a slapdash poem,
"Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You're my mom,
And I love you."
I didn't think anything of these crudely assembled gifts, just considered them a contribution to the holiday andsomething she would treasure because it was made by me, something she would cherish because I took the time to draw a silhouette of my hand or a stick figure representation of Mom. She would love it because it came from me. After all, I was the reason she was a mom, no?
I was so freaking selfish when I was a kid. Only, I was right. About everything. I just didn't know it until now.
I received a "gift" from Sprite for Mother's Day. It was taped to her cubby when I picked her up from daycare on Friday. The 8 x 11 magenta colored construction paper was the background for a flower picture, Sprite's pink handprint acting as the blooming flower. The same corny poem was glued to the stem that they had provided last year, just another art project. I rolled my eyes and detached it from the cubby's door before I began to remove her blanket and sheet for weekend washing. My eye caught the pale pink of her handprint once more and I studied it more closely as I stood there in an empty classroom, Sprite and her classmates just outside in the hall, tormenting their teacher.
When had her handprint become so big?
For a moment, I tried to process all that had happened in the last year between 2008's handprint and 2009's. There was too much to consider, too many little memories that had already slipped away, eclipsed by the bigger events of time. I actually teared up a little, holding onto that paper present. I knew this was the only gift actually coming from Sprite this year, it would be many more before the mugs and photo albums would be unwrapped for Mother's Day. But this gift meant so much in the fact that it was tangible evidence of my child, a landmark of sorts. I would store this card right on top of last year's in a safe place. And next year's handprint flower will join this one until she's old enough to print out a message in her own words and sign her name at the bottom changing the look of the card, and on and on as these homemade cards become their own Mother's Day time line, each year more elaborate than the last as she adds another piece of herself to the gift.
Now I get it. I will treasure these "required rites of childhood" because they came from her. Every scribbled "I love you, Mom" will trump the flowers and candy. The messy glued hearts on construction paper will warm my own heart so much more than the mug she decides to get me when John lets her pick out my present. Every personalized Mother's Day card will be kept and honored. Because it came from her. After all, she IS the reason I am a mom, no?
(taken with my Mother's Day present. Thanks, John. I love it!)
Happy Mother's Day, everyone!
Please forgive me. I'm about to bash Easter. Kindly, though! Please do not light your torches until after the comments section has been opened. (That is, if I feel brave enough to open the comments section..) And remember, this is a non-smoking blog. Thanks.
Considering Easters past, I can recall Sundays of little girls and boys in their Sunday best, collecting Easter eggs from hidden spots where the hollow ovals would be opened to reveal either candy, a coin, or if they were lucky (or had rich parents), even a dollar. Sometimes, they got a bum egg and they accepted it anyway. (Unless they had rich parents or were spoiled. Or both.)
The Easter baskets would be filled with Cadbury eggs, jelly beans, and maybe a little stuffed bunny or chick or whatever animal was prone to repeated reproduction and left for the kiddies to find.
Now, of course, being the one Jewish family on the block, we did not participate in the Easter finery, or get our yearly picture taken with the Easter Bunny, but Lee and I still received a small consolation basket from my mother, who was determined to make sure we would not be completely left out from the merriment. (And she had a yen for jelly beans.) (Yes, you did, Mom. Caught you a couple of times..) Sure, we were allowed to play along when the school ran it's huge egg hunt and had a ton of fun with that, but Easter for us usually meant that our friends would most likely not be able to play that day.
As we grew, Mom stopped buying into the entire candy routine. I believe her reasoning was, "You get an allowance. Buy your own damn candy!" or something to that extent. (My teen years are a little fuzzy..) (Okay, maybe I'll close down the comments section to just my mom... Can I DO that?)
Now, being a parent myself and being married to a Catholic man, I get to join the legions of parents trying to prove to their kids that the Easter Bunny does exist, although Sprite didn't look too convinced when she saw him at the mall on Saturday.
When Sprite was old enough to walk and grab at the brightly colored plastic eggs, we brought her to the city's celebration where we stuck to the outskirts of the enormous crowd and let Sprite mosey around in her own little area and pick up what she pleased. We didn't entertain the thought of making her an Easter basket, because, Dude, she was hardly 18 months old, she wouldn't appreciate the chocolates like we would so why shell out the money? I never looked into it.
This year, it was a different story. I knew we would be making a day trip to Nana and Papa's house, so I started eying the pre-made baskets that the grocery chains had to offer. And tripped over my own sputtering. Toys? And not just little stuffed animal toys. Big toys. Regulation basketballs. Barbie dolls. Little-est Pet Shop dolls. (I really hope Sprite completely sails past that particular trend. I don't think my vacuum could survive that many little parts.) I saw baskets playing up to the sports minded, the princess minded, the farm animal minded, the video game minded, the CRAWLING minded. If you have a kid who fits into any genre, I'm sure there's a basket out there for you. These baskets were overflowing with offerings, mostly plastic, and of course, the candy was represented. (Yo yo, and a Yum.)
Some of the baskets retailed for $9.99, although their content would suggest you're getting it for a steal. Some of the baskets went all the way for a cool fifty, with two Nintendo DS games nestled in the fake grass, right next to the M&M's. Intimidated, I backed away from the baskets and re-thought my strategy. We're raising this kid Jewish for goodness sake. Let her have her egg hunts at the day care, some candy at Nana's, and don't play into this hype. It's not her birthday, it's not Christmas, It's not Hanukkah, Hell, it's not even Arbor Day, let it ride! She's two, she won't even notice.
Sunday morning, we dressed her nicely, (Of course, I would acknowledge the Easter finery, plus her photographer uncle would be there, so I was hoping to snag some pictures from him. Um, Ryan? Does this count as a request?) (I know. I'm so bad.) (Please, Ryan?) and delivered her to her grandparents' door to have some fun with her aunts, uncles, and cousins. As soon as we entered though,
Hi, Easter baskets!
And to top it off, the very object of her affections, a Sleeping Beauty Barbie doll was sitting high and regal above the other prizes and candies. And not to give all the attention to Sprite, her baby cousins collected some nice loot too.
So, where is this post going? Good question. I could throw a couple more cute photos at you to deter you from trying to gain a point from this blathering on, but I actually have a question. (Or two.)
When did Easter succumb to the excess? When did gifts (and I don't mean the candy) become the norm? When did people start treating this religious holiday as an excuse to buy presents? Sure, egg hunts are a great way to get kids involved and the Easter Bunny is the biggest mascot I can think of other than Santa Claus (or the Cleveland Indians) (Sorry, but that mascot immediately comes to mind.), but buying plastic toys to fill the basket? Doesn't that take away from the holiday when you have kids clamoring over each other to "open!" their toys while you're trying to have Easter dinner or partake in Mass? Can't people just buy smaller baskets and keep it to only candy?
Or is that it? The competition of the baskets... Yeah, I can see it. The kid with the bigger basket won. So, everyone started getting larger baskets. Then it became a problem of filling the baskets with just candy, so they turned to toys... and the snowball picked up speed. (Can I blame this on Mattel? From the abundance of Barbie dolls decorating the baskets, I have to think they had a hand in this.)
Easter, to me at least, has always represented a celebration of family, a celebration of church, a celebration of the very thing that makes Christians believers. Now, again, since I am Jewish, I am in no way slamming the faith at all. I respect it very deeply. And while I appreciate the fun aspects of celebrating Easter, I just can't get my mind around the burgeoning Easter baskets or the excuses we parents use to heap more excess upon the kids who would most likely be just as happy to get a Peep as they would to get a Wii. (Of course, this would be dependent on the child not knowing they had the choice of a Peep or a Wii. Because if the child knew they had the choice, I would seriously doubt the child would even acknowledge the Peep.) (Unless that child was Sprite. Bright colors? She's all over that. And marshmallow? Score.)
Unfortunately for Sprite, (Or fortunately. She probably won't cast an opinion for another year at least.) John and I are not joining the basket barrage and her only prize will be what she collects in a plastic egg or gets from the grandparents. (Since we have no control over how they spoil their grand-kids.) (Yes, I know we have some control, but come on! I'm denying her the coolest thing! If they wanna slip in some spoilage, let them.) (I know that thought will come back to haunt me..) We're going to celebrate the way we remember it, and toys are not the way we remember it.
Ooh, look! a cute picture! Just look at it for a few minutes and all will be right in the world...
(The three "princesses" of the family. Sprite, Alyssa-9 months, and Daniela-4 months, or as I spent Sunday calling them, "Small, Medium, and Large".)
(Are we good?)
(Phew!)
Six and a half years ago, I started working for my current company. In the beginning, I was shipped off for a month of training in 2 week installments to Tampa to learn the ways of my employer. I met Yvonne pretty early on and something clicked. We just caught on.
Now, the fact that Yvonne lived and worked in Indiana and I was a Florida gal didn't mean much. It wasn't an effort to pick up the phone once in a while and chat, and having our jobs in common made for some pretty good topics.
Along the way, our lives changed as time lines dictate, yet we always kept in contact. Then the news came. Yvonne wastransferring down to Florida. To work in my office! I was so stunned by her announcement, I hated to drop my own bomb. I was leaving to move to Ft. Myers since John and I were building a home on the West side of the state. Within a month of my vacating the Ft. Lauderdale office, Yvonne moved down with her husband.
We still kept in contact, having even more in common now that she and I knew so many of the same people.
Then I became pregnant with Sprite. Not long after, she became pregnant with her daughter Addison. Our two were born 3 months apart.
Play dates became cross-county affairs, each side sacrificing 4 hour round trip drive so the girls could play together and we could see each other. We were able to make this work for almost two years, until the economy pulled a one-two punch.
Now Paul, Yvonne, and Addison are moving up to Massachusetts. Today in fact. Realizing we had little time left to see each other, we scrambled to rearrange our schedules and met last weekend for some lunch and a last play date before they left.
Yvonne and me at my baby shower. She was five months along, I was eight.
The results of that baby shower picture, playing in the sand at Ft. Lauderdale Beach last weekend.
We promised to try to get up to their new area to visit, but my heart breaks in the knowledge that the Recession makes that less of a possibility than we'd like. At least for the next couple of years.
Sorry for making things personal today, but I want to wish a final Bon Voyage to Yvonne and her family as they begin a new life in a beautiful part of the country.
We miss you already.
Would you believe I offered myself up for another meme? The new year is only 6 days old and this is my second meme! I'd tell you to do the math, but I just realized this is actually my seventh post which puts the numbers at odds with easy fractions, so I'll save you from doing unnecessary finger counts.
Anyway, I really liked this one. One of my more frequent stalking routes brings me over to It's Sherendipity and yesterday's jaunt proved interesting. An interview meme! I had never seen a meme like it before. It was a meme that practically wrote itself! So, I commented (TWICE!) and expressed my interest (begged) and Sher sent me some questions (a cease and desist) (but it wasn't notarized, therefore not legal) (and I thought those law courses I took would never come in handy, ha!).
