Have I mentioned how much I love the daycare G goes to? It's amazing. Period. Each day she get's a little "report card" that outlines her day... input (yumyum), output (numéro uno y dos), time outside (including an timeline for sunscreen application), naps (typically of a questionable length) and a comments section that is pretty much the highlight of my mother/stalker life. From now on I plan on sharing the better comments with you. I particularly enjoy today’s.
"After I put one ponytail in Gaia's hair she asked for more, so I put another one in her hair and she asked for more again. I put a third ponytail in her hair and Gaia said more again, but she had no more hair!"
In other news I’m kind of obsessed with the new tea place in the mall. Try the Mojito. Tell ‘em Risa sent you.
Two years ago today JM and I were celebrating our half-birthday in Barcelona. I was clean, I had makeup on and I was drinking beer in the streets. Later that night my girl was conceived. Currently it is 8:00am on Saturday morning and she’s throwing a patented monster tantrum because I won’t let her watch her Baby Einstein World Music DVD. I'm forced to make this decision because a month ago she broke the DVD player. Did I mention I was up no less than eight times last night?
I feel like there’s an ad for birth control in here somewhere.
I’ve talked before of my daughter as a budding artistic genius here and here. Still, I’ve done so with my tongue planted fairly firmly in cheek. Now that she’s actually started creating art it’s a whole new ballgame.
Take, for example, the following drawing, created by Gaia in Mid-May 2010.
Notice her choice dark, muted colour palette of browns, slate blues and greys? See how her lines vibrate with raw anger in their sharp, staccato placement across the page? Notice how the artist (formerly known as G) has ripped a portion of paper at the right of the page. Was this a way to highlight the artist’s (decidedly negative) take on the state of our broken world or perhaps even confront the viewer with their own mortality?
The day I found this drawing tucked in G’s cubby I was greeted by a baby ball of rage and a daily report reading only “This morning Gaia enjoyed screaming loudly with (her baby BFF) in the aquatic viewing area.” I noticed she also refused to nap, eat or generally be pleasant in any way. This behaviour carried on well through the evening. I wouldn’t hesitate to classify to the day this drawing was conceived as a decidedly bad one.
In contrast take the following drawing, created by Gaia yesterday.
Notice the bright, tonal colour palette of greens, reds, purples and blues? See how her lines flow along the page in rhythmic harmony? See how the artist is attempting to recognise the beauty of nature with the abstract representation to the left of the image? Is it a tree, perhaps a symbol for her own growth or simply a rush of frenetic energy reaching skyward?
Yesterday when I found this drawing tucked in G’s cubby I was greeted by a giggly baby and a daily report that read “Gaia coloured with so much enthusiasm today! She had a crayon in both hands and moved them quickly across the table.” She took two naps, played outside and ate two servings of meatloaf at lunch. Her behaviour was such that kissing her on the forehead as I gathered our things caused her to laugh so loudly it set the other babies off in waves of glee. I’d say it’s clear that the day this drawing was conceived was a decidedly good one.
My point? My daughter is a true artistic genius, in touch with the very deepest corners of her soul with the ability to capture her emotion on her chosen canvas (scrap paper – ever the environmentalist) that I have no doubt the world will take notice.
“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” – Bob Dylan
Gaia’s been sick the last few days. An invisible ear infection that in turn caused a bit lip to fester into some weird, swollen, oozing sore that made my baby girl smell like an old man whose finally given up on hygiene. Meanwhile I somehow managed to log thirty working hours in three days while still taking a whole day “off” to stay home with my little geriatric. Hmmm. Anyway. Antibiotics, a good night’s sleep and a sunny walk to daycare this morning and we’re (almost) good as new.
But the sunny walk to daycare? By the time I left work I was faced with no less than a torrential downpour with the occasional sharp burn of pelting hail and wrath of thunder and lightning. Regina, like everywhere in the world it seems, is a little confused. I’d like to take a moment to point out, should Mother Nature read this blog that it is, in fact, SUMMER. But I digress. My point is not to complain. I feel like everyone else in this waterlogged town has got the complaining thing covered. Plus, it’s not my style.
So I braved the fifteen minute walk to my car with only a brief desire for the umbrella tucked safely in its backseat. By the time I got over the initial shock of going from dry to soaking wet in under a minute I realised there’s something beautiful about the rain. The way it smells (cliché, I know) and how it washes the city clean, blurring the steel and glass and making it shimmer like a Matisse painting, all brushstrokes. The way the dark clouds look ominous and lush all at once, a study in contradiction. Strolling stoically past the masses huddled under awnings with my dripping face turned up to the sky I enjoyed the rain like I had as a child (standing in wet pyjamas, barefoot with my brother on the grass in our yard, watching as my father checked the rain gauge). I even justified jumping in a puddle when I realised I couldn’t get any wetter. When was the last time you jumped in a puddle? I highly recommend it.
Small rivers dripped in my wake as I let myself indoors to pick Gaia up from daycare. She laughed when she saw me and stuck out her tongue to catch the beads of rain that dripped from my hair. I didn’t bother with her jacket, just held her close as we ran out the door, past the growing crowd attempting to wait-it-out at the entrance. The minute she felt the rain on her face she looked and me and smiled, then held her hands up to the sky to catch it and screamed with joy. We let the car’s seats be our towels and sang along with the raindrops on the windows. She clapped every time we drove through the puddles that splashed up in waves on her window.
How can you stop yourself from loving the rain? Besides, it’s only water.
It’s been one hundred and sixty nine days since I posted about my inner dialogue and the vacation it took without me. Since then a lot has happened.
In brief: Jose Miguel and I separated. Mi familia y yo had an amazing/awkward/perfect/painful last week as a family in Perú. Two-thirds of mi familia flew back to Canada. One-third of mi familia screamed for over an hour on a flight from Winnipeg to Regina. A gorilla, a robot, some long-lost members of Jem and the Holograms and my Dad met us at the airport. Saskatchewan, as always, proved cold and somehow comforting. I made some bad choices, obsessed a little and lost twenty-five pounds from the stress of it all. I’ve never looked better. I started Spanish 101 and found myself in a level of hell only verb conjugation can create. I started reading and writing en español at a level I never thought I’d reach. I felt proud of myself. Jose Miguel was approved as a Permanent Resident of Canada after well over a year of waiting. We were told our paperwork was some of the quickest of anyone in our situation. I still want to burn Immigration Canada to the ground. Jose Miguel moved to Canada. Turns out the full three-thirds of mi familia in one house is amazing. We vaguely looked into filing for divorce but then something came up. Gaia learned to walk after an intense session with her personal Phys Ed teacher while Canada was winning an insane amount of gold medals in the Olympics. I finally went to Salsa night. I didn’t dance. I bought a car. I actually won’t own it for four years. Semantics. I tried snowboarding for the first time and I was amazing, even if I couldn’t move for almost a week after. I applied for a job, got offered a job and turned a job down. I’m glad I changed my mind. I love my job. Jose Miguel stayed home with Gaia full-time for almost a month. He’s an amazing father and still the most handsome man I’ve seen up close. The fact that we’re horrible at being married remains. I started running every morning at 6:00am. It made me feel strong and powerful and brave. We celebrated Gaia’s first birthday with a big party and a cake only my Dad could create. Jose Miguel took one last contract on ships. He left. Gaia got a spot at a home daycare. Gaia got kicked out of a home daycare. Gaia got a spot at an amazing, reputable, government subsidised daycare. I was reminded that everything happens for a reason. Gaia and I went to Vancouver for a visit. She made a lifelong friend in a big black dog, had her first experience with finger paint and was the star at her second first birthday party. She did this while wearing an excessively large tutu. I got to catch up, tell my story and celebrate the thirtieth birthday of one of the most amazing people I know. I felt like I could breathe again. We went home. I started a passionate love affair with coffee. Gaia started a passionate love affair with making friends. We are all very happy. I bought an iPhone. I took a week off Facebook. My Dad started cooking family dinner on Sunday nights. I got to dress like a grownup every day. It’s been said, by my boss, that I could take over the world all while wearing six-inch heels. She’s a smart lady. Gaia was exposed to every germ in existence. One day I caught her licking the floor at daycare. She was sick a lot. She stopped sleeping through the night. I talked to Jose Miguel on the phone almost every day. Who would have thought? I got my hopes up for spring and then it started snowing again. I questioned my decision to live in Regina. I started dating, realised I was bad at it and quit. I cut over ten inches of hair off my head. I was relatively unmoved but I’m pretty sure my stylist cried after I left. I had a picnic with my Mom. Gaia enjoyed her first ice cream cone... and her second... and her third. The sun came out and we got a big plastic pool shaped like a shark. Again, I got my hopes up. It was grey and rainy for a month. I cleaned my bathroom. Gaia proved she is a budding genius through a series of events I relayed to anyone who would listen. She started running everywhere. I finally sorted through all my old boxes, found I’d saved every piece of paper from university and threw it out. Now I have a whole extra room in my house. I’m planning on setting up a studio space for me and my girl. Gaia still doesn’t speak save for “Mama”, “Dad-Dad” (what she calls her Grandad) and “Uh-Oh” but she is the best non-verbal communicator I’ve ever met. She now knows the signs for “please”, “more” and “all done” thanks to the wonderful women at daycare. She has a genuine best friend who makes her laugh like no one else. They have perfected the best friend high-five. She climbs up the stairs, up the couch and up the walls. I’ve taken to telling strangers she is NUTBALLS when they look at her picture in my iPhone. She is. I drank many glasses of red wine and got drunk for the first time in a long time. I went to a lot of BBQs, playdates, dinners and a gala. I had my picture taken by Regina paparazzi one night with my boss. Apparently I’m Regina famous (or rather, employed by someone who is). A good friend came to town. We ate the best burger I’ve ever tasted, hosted a BBQ, drank a lot of Big Rock Lime Beer and bought fifteen dollars worth of jellybeans. I redesigned the blog one night while I watched Whip It. Jose Miguel and I made some decisions. We're still not divorced. This weekend the sun started shining. I got a tan while logging working hours and danced on the grass with Gaia when I was finished. Last night I took her to the park. She slid down the slide on her own for the first time. She perfected the art with at least eighty more solo slides before I could get her back home. As a result I think I developed an arm muscle I didn't know existed. This morning I felt like writing.
I make no promises, but... I'm back. Did you miss me?
Almost every night before going to sleep I lie in my bed and cuddle up next to my iPhone to Facebook creep*. It’s a bad habit and one clearly not conducive to slumber but so it is. Last night the last thing I saw before calling it a night was the following video, posted by an old friend from university.
When Gaia was a wee one, about 3 months old, a mama-friend and I discussed the ramifications of constantly praising our “pretty” babies. We discussed gender politics. We discussed theories in education. We discussed our own hopes and fears. I confessed I found myself hastily adding “and smart” to the tail end of every “you’re pretty” even in the days when Gaia could barely hold her head up. I later found I did this even more in the days when she was making choices like eating out of the garbage can and running head first into the walls. My mama-friend confessed to throwing in a “and hard working” lest her babe be giving the impression smarts alone were enough. God forbid our infants rest on their laurels.
Two baby girls lounging lazily on the floor – “You’re pretty... and smart... and hard working.” Their twinkly baby gazes gave little indication that the message was getting through.
Since Gaia was born there’s a whole portion of my brain that’s dedicated to raising a teenager. I fear it in a way I never expected and one that at times consumes me. Somehow I grew up with a healthy dose of self esteem. I’d always been a “pretty little girl” all big eyes and dark lashes. My big teeth turned into a perfect smile without the rite-of-passage that is braces. I hit puberty hard, and early, but even that only slowed me for a second when in the back of a car while I pretended to sleep my parents talked about the relief they felt that their “pretty little girl” had a new layer of fat to protect her from dangers I didn’t fully understand in grade five.
“Thank God she’s a little bit chubby because with that face we might have been in for trouble.” I stored it away in a place I don’t often visit.
I’ve always dressed and acted how I wanted. Always got what I wanted, in school, at work, in life, with men. When I look in the mirror I see so much more then my reflection. How could I waste time on my muffin top when it's so hard to see among what I’ve accomplished and what more I have to conquer? The real question then, is how did that happen? I am the minority among my friends who use their reflection as an excuse to forgo the life they long for, who poke and pinch and prod and one who did such damage to her body with years of grasping at straws to keep those bones that jutted from her hips that she struggles, nearly ten years after recovery, with the most basic of bodily functions. Nagging me constantly is the story that has burrowed into my brain about one friend who refused to have her picture taken for years because she couldn’t stand her own visage. She wasn’t even ten years old. Growing up my house was filled with fad diets and low-fat recipe books and Weight Watchers magnets and still, I have never defined myself on being “pretty”. When a car accident in 2004 left half my face scarred and broken after countless stitches that closed the gaping hole in my forehead and ran down my cheek I used the settlement money to pay debt and buy a laptop. The thought of plastic surgery receded with the reality of what the money could do. The scars, which are so faded already they’re almost invisible remind me pretty isn’t everything and that life doesn’t stop when pretty is compromised. I love them. I don’t want Gaia to define herself on being “pretty” and still I watch her play and can’t stop myself from scooping her up and whispering in her ear that I know... I KNOW... she is the most beautiful little girl I have ever seen.
One little girl laughing at the playground – “You’re SO BEAUTIFUL. No one. NO ONE is as beautiful as you.” She smiles and hands me a fistful of sand.
Of course what I really mean is that no one has her personality or the way she twists her face into a myriad of expressions that make her a little baby pantomime. The way she stubbornly problem solves, refuses help, runs ahead to assert her independence only to cautiously wait for me to catch up and tickle her round Buddha belly. When I say she’s beautiful I mean that the very inside of her emits such a stunning light that sometimes I am blinded in wonder of her... all of her. That she is the very best parts of me and her father and that every time I see her she helps me remember everything that’s good in the world. That the parts of her that are hers alone and that shock me every day with how much of her own person she already is are the most amazing parts of the most amazing human being I have ever met. And yet, I praise her with words like “pretty” and think she’ll catch the subtext.
I’m nowhere closer to knowing how to raise her to be who I hope she’ll be. She’s my “pretty little girl” all big eyes and dark lashes. My “pretty little girl” with wild hair and a dirty face with runny nose and sticky hands and skinned, chubby knees. Pretty isn’t a disease, but pretty isn’t everything.
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* For those of you not familiar with this terminology please see here. I feel I’ve raised it to an art form.
DVD. I'm forced to make this decision because a month ago she broke the DVD player. Did I mention I was up no less than eight times last night? 
