We’re ON

In case there was any doubt -

The Easter Egg Hunt is on at Chez Treehouse at 14:30 today.

(Yes Good Friday is a little untraditional, but hey, that’s how we roll.)
Hope all the locals reading this can join us!
Happy Easter to all the rest.

Friendship – an abstract art in itself

I am mostly dressed, but I go back and put on a necklace for courage. It is made with extra love, and even has inspirational words on a couple of the beads. “Faith,” I read, then “hope,” hearing the words spoken by the necklace’s creator. It buoys me up as I prepare to face the elements, and that sense of lightness makes me smile to myself. I’m thinking about our two gulls and a buoy, and the giggles we’ve all shared.

Outside, the trees are bending and shaking in the wind, rain whipping at my face and clothes. I turn my back to the gale and fish my key ring out to lock the door behind me. Deep in my pocket I feel its soft wood, another gift from my treasured friend, knowing it is emblazoned with my hard-fought status: “Mama”.

That elicits another grin, as I realize it’s been five years we’ve been in this together. From the first, she was my stalwart supporter, the first person to sing to my daughter and the woman with whom I celebrated all her firsts. Even as she struggled through her pregnancy, she somehow found enough energy to be our girl’s biggest fan, and time to watch her so my husband could come with me to attend a myriad of tests on our unborn baby.

My husband was at home with our girl while I was in the hospital with daughter two – and  despite that her hormonal hell had not abated,  my friend brought me food and caring, just what I needed, supplanting the soul-destroying desolation of hospital catering.

And she’s been there for me ever since, encouraging me through depression and dilemmas; crises and career angst. She’s been that little spark of courage, held tightly in my fist, deep in my pocket, through the worst storms, and the hallelujahs ringing clear to acknowledge our new lives’ accomplishments.

But above all, she’s been an inspiration. She’s kept on giving and believing, being present and persevering, succeeding in improving the world through her work, her marriage, her art, her motherhood.

Happy Birthday,  my bestest friend. Let  your grace shine on.

Our J

My Uncle Edgar used to tell my mom that her first mistake was letting us kids think for themselves.
Being a confirmed bachelor, himself, he was inclined to deliver these kind of helpful observations. And when you think of it, what, exactly, is the alternative?

My poor mom, putting up with him all those years she was trying to raise us, and well, manage. But I’m grateful he was in my life. Everyone needs an uncle like that.

J is now 5, and clearly, somewhere we managed to make the “mistake” of letting her think for herself. She has a unique kind of confidence, a certainty that she is right, that extends to her speech. She is perfectly capable of acknowledging that other people say “snowflakes” but she feels it is far better to refer to them, and particularly images of them, as “snow flags.”  She likes saying “colander” so much that she uses that word to refer to calendars and dog collars, as well as the thing in the kitchen with holes in it. She still says “aminal” or even “aminimal,”  instead of “animal”, and  And, yes, she can say the other words. She just prefers not to. Likewise, she says “those things that babies drink from,” instead of breasts, or boobs or anything else, because she doesn’t like those words. However, her saying “Eau de voir” for good-bye in French drives me nuts.

Some days there are very few things I can tell her about. I’m embarrassed to think  how many times I have caved in to her certainty that she knows better than I do. In many cases, that is simply because I can’t argue with her logic.

In part this is because J is also very sensitive. She gets anxious about movies and upcoming events, even happy ones. She can be cut to the quick by a poorly considered word: I mentioned that everyone is boring sometimes, in response to her complaint that some friend was, but I went too far and suggested that even she was, sometimes. Hurt feelings ensued that took hours to patch over.

She cares deeply about other people’s feelings, and will still run to get her little sister’s special blankie when sister is distressed (but that may be self-preservation to prevent ear damage – A has never been known to suffer quietly).  J still bosses A around, but it is getting closer to a relationship of equals, unless A specifically challenges J’s knowledge. “You don’t know. You aren’t in kindergarten” J yells as the final riposte in numerous arguments each week around the treehouse.

So, yeah, maybe not so secure, but determined as all hell. I get that. Sometimes, I just decide that arguing a point isn’t worth dashing her sense of certainty. I remember when admitting I was wrong, or just didn’t know, was a strike to my entire sense of self.

J simply glows under attention. She revels in time alone with me, her dad or our beloved friend. And yet, when they are apart, J is the first one to think of making something or bringing something back for sister.

J now contributes real art to our world, drawing things and making crafts without any grown up intervention. She can draw all her numbers, and all the letters in any of our names. She’s interested in reading, and can spell out a few words. She still astounds with her memory of events or stories, and loves to listen to chapter books– we’re reading Alice in Wonderland now.

She looks fabulous these days, as strong as ever, but with her slender height, delight in hairstyles and ability to put together outfits – a talent that clearly has not come from her father or me – she looks fascinatingly  different, older, younger, sportier or more elegant, every day. Mostly, though, she simply looks enchanting: a tough, mercurial, elfin child I was somehow lucky enough to have for my own.