Adventures in Leavenworth

Sometimes all you need is a superhero. 

 Or a bike track. 



 

Or a bunny rabbit from hell.

 

Sometimes you just feel like hell, and so you puke your fruit juice - every last bit of it - all over the pristine couch of the house you have rented to enjoy a weekend away with family. 

Sometimes you are ready for a first. Like a first face painting to become a ferocious tiger...

 

...along side a cunning pirate.

 

Sometimes your sister-in-law looks so precious when she is pregnant that you make her pose for pictures and she humors you because, well, that's just the rock star that she is. Or Miss America. Whatever you prefer.

There are times you finally work up the courage to extend your hand and give a little goat a little something to nibble on.

 

And then there's the one who has to ruin it all. The one I may have affectionately named "Tina Turner" just seconds before. Come on. Look at her hair. I loved her. Then I hated her. Because that little boy, who had worked up so much courage to extend his hand, was subsequently spit on by this one and then he was officially done. 

 

But sometimes you still need to suck it up and smile. 'Cause it makes your mama happy.

 

Sometimes, as luck will have it, you will be hanging out on your front porch when the guy from the city comes along to water the city's plants, and he will let your cousin take a turn (which you miss because you have to run inside to get the camera) and then let you, too.

And your little brother.

 

And then your uncle will be wanted by all three at once, and because he cannot disappoint, he will make a valiant effort to make all of you happy, almost dying in the process.

 

 

Sometimes you need a little trek in the mountains to burn off some steam. So you cling to the one you love the most for dear life.

 

Or join forces with the leader of the pack. 

 

And try oh-so-hard not to share your Tia because you say "Mine." 

 

But so does your brother, so Tia shares and gloats that she is being fought over. 

 

Sometimes you need a stick to help carry some of the weight. 

 

And sometimes you are the idiot of the family who brought absolutely nothing to wear to participate in a hike through the woods, and so you plow ahead in a dress, a cardigan, and a pair of Nikes.

 

 

Because you can't fathom missing moments like this.

Or like this. 



 

Or like this, either.

Only one time do you turn 3. Three-whoppin'-years-old. And so you must celebrate with cupcakes and singing and presents galore.

 

Sometimes it is best to celebrate all three birthdays at once. So everyone gets a candle.

And everyone gets a present.

 

And everyone says, "Well, that was fun. Let's do that again some time."

That Family

 We are officially THAT family.

 

The one whose kids climb on crap they aren't supposed to climb on in the 10 seconds the parents look away because, well, said parents don't have a cooler and said parents thought maybe it would be nice to have one.

 

Bad idea.

 

You see, these children of mine, who had seconds earlier been hanging on to the side of the cart - one on each side - saw their opportunity to have a little party. So when I looked back to check on my children, this is what I saw:

 

 

That is called a Costco Cooler Party.

 

That is what happens when you look away for TEN flippin' SECONDS!!!

 

How does this happen, people? I want to know. I want to know if we are the only ones this happens to, because I am pretty sure I don't see other people's children climbing cooler displays.

 

Oh, and for the sake of 100% transparency, Nico then took off. Yes, Nico took off and I took off after him, with Noah tucked under one arm like a football and the entire Costco patronage staring at me, maybe even laughing at me a little bit.

 

When I reached the little turd, he crumpled into a giggling heap on the floor. My sister once brilliantly stated that all good protesters should do what toddlers do and just go limp when police try to arrest them. I now understand why. Because my child went limp. And when you have the other child in a football hold, it makes it really hard to pick up another child who is laying there like a 30-pound sack of flour.

 

So I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back to the cart (Note to Self - Costco has really slippery floors! He just slid right along!). Yes, that's right. One child was a football and the other child was a prisoner of war.

 

 And my husband, the one who was my hero just a few days ago, is now dead to me because he stood in line laughing while I was THAT mom with THAT family.

 

 Thank God they are quite possible the cutest beings I have ever seen.

 

There is always THAT.

 

The Chub

Sometimes my husband says just the right thing.

 

Like this morning. This morning, when I was struggling with the chub.

 

Those who know me best know that I struggle with the chub. I have literally struggled with the chub the entirity of my life, the only exception being birth when I weighed in at a whopping 6 pounds and 13 ounces. My mother likes to tell the story that the only time I was quiet as a baby was when there was a bottle in my mouth. That about sums it up.

 

In 1st grade I was told by a kid that my thighs looked huge. In 6th grade, I was tormented on a daily basis by another boy. He called me "Sarappotomus." And when I would cry he would say, "Hey, I thought fat people were supposed to be jolly." In the 10th grade, a boy I had asked to a dance told me I had no redeeming qualities.

 

It sucked, even though for the most part, most kids were just my friends.

I have beaten the chub at various intervals of my life. The first time I was 16 and a sophomore in high school. The comment by that boy I had asked to a dance sparked a fire in me. And so I signed up for Weight Watchers and within six months dropped 50 pounds. I swore I would never gain it back. And while I have actually never been that weight again - with the exception of my pregnancy - I still struggle.

 

I go up and I go down. And the chub remains, especially around my middle, and I hate it. I hate that it causes me to doubt my will power, my strength, my beauty, and sometimes even my worth.

 

 Sometimes the voice that lives inside my own head says really mean things about this body of mine. That voice is my arch nemesis. In fact, that voice is a mean little bastard. And I want the bastard to die. I can be a little dramatic. I know.

 

Sometimes this voice comes out of my own mouth. Like when I am getting dressed in the morning for work. And my husband usually just looks at me sternly and says, "Hey, be nice to my wife." Which is pretty damn nice.

 

But today was even better.

 

Today, when the bastard voice made an appearance, commenting about how the roundness of my stomach seemed magnified by a new dress, this husband of mine looked me square in the eyes and said:

 

"You look like a woman. A woman with all the right curves. And you're beautiful."

 

Just so we are clear, he could have just stopped at the "You look like a woman."

 

It was just the right thing. Perhaps ranking in the Top 3 things he has ever said to me.

 

I look like a woman.

 

Damn. I love him. I hope he knows.

 

 

 

For mi madre...

I was 14 when she said it. I was 14, and we were in the car driving home from some inane errand, when I informed my mother I was going to save myself for marriage.

And she said it.

“Listen to your mother,” I had been told by many adults in my life, and so I did.

“We all said that, Sara,” she giggled with a grin. “Just remember, though…virginity is in the soul, not in the hole.”

I was 14. I had never even held hands with a boy. Not once. And now we were talking about souls.  And holes. I was mortified. “Oh. My. God.” I muttered.

My mother was 15 when my grandmother said it. My mother was 15 when she faced her mother in the airport in Havana, Cuba, not knowing if or when she would ever see her again. My mother was 15 when her mother placed her on a plane to the United States of America to save her from the tyranny of Communism, knowing with every fiber of her being that her daughter’s life was more important than hers.

“Men only want one thing,” my grandmother said. “Guard your pearl.” And with that, she put her daughter on the plane.

It was years before I understood the importance of my mother’s words. Years of sharing with friends in high school and college and adulthood that moment in the car when my mother bestowed upon me her indelible words of wisdom. Friends in high school dropped their jaws in disbelief. Friends in college cheered. Friends in adulthood have asked permission to turn her words into a bumper sticker.

I have seriously contemplated that one. It could be quite lucrative. But ultimately, the answer is no. No, because the words are mine. The words were gifted to me. The words about souls and holes and pearls were never about souls and holes and pearls at all.

Those words of my mother and grandmother, I now know, were about worth. That’s what mothers do with their words – they remind you of your worth.

I was worth more than my virginity, my mother said.

You are worth more than any man, my grandmother said.

And so now I ask myself, what words do I want my boys to listen to? What words do I want my boys to remember their mother said to them one day in the car on the way home from soccer, or on the day I drop them off for a week at summer camp?

Should I say “Hey, loves, for the record, fast cars are better than fast women”? Or perhaps “15 seconds in the hay could cause a couple of eggs some day”?

My boys are 1 and 2. I suppose I have some time.

But still, I wonder, will they listen the way I did? The way my mother did? Will they tell their friends in high school what I once said, only to make me seem a fool? Will they tell their friends in college, only to induce some laughter? Will they tell their friends in adulthood, because now they understand?

I hope so. I really, really hope so.

I only pray that they someday understand; behind all the hellos, all the goodbyes, all the pep talks, all the “Good for yous,” all the “I love yous,” and all the clichés – every single one of them – lie the words: “You are my most precious creation. You are worth more than you will ever fully know. But I know, so listen to me.”

 “Listen to your mother,” I want to whisper in their perfect, little ears. “Listen to the one who understands you will often lose sight of who are. Listen to the one who will remind you of who you have always been. Listen to the one who has known your worth before she knew your face. Listen, my boys, listen.”

Yesterday...

Dear Stacey, Elise, Jennifer S., Karlene, Becky N., Kathryn, Mery, Caroline, Gretchen, Rebecca, Becky A., Terra, Rose, and Jennifer K.,

I want you to know that yesterday now goes down in history as one of all time favorite days. And it had nothing to do with the stage or the hair or the make-up (okay, that part was kind of fun), but instead, had everything to do with you. All of you.

Your stories and your honesty and your laughter have touched my heart and I will forever hold dear the experience that together we made ours.

The thing is, I have a confession - I don't try out for stuff. I don't try out because, well, I don't get picked. At least that's what childhood taught me. But this taught me differently, and I am so, so thankful for that.

You also reminded me that we are always more alike than we are different and that sisterhood is never determined by blood. Oh, and that we should flash each other whenever possible.

Listen To Your Mother is on my list. My list of all things holy and magical and breath-taking. I thank all of you for taking my breath away last night, and I hope to see you all very, very soon.

Tu amiga,

Sara

Today...

Today.

 

Today was monumental. Today, my baby started swim lessons, and while we have done lots of swim lessons before, today my baby started swim lessons all by himself. No mom, no dad. Just my boy.

 

So today, for kind of the first time ever, I handed him to a teacher and sat on the sidelines to watch. And I couldn't take my eyes off of him.

 

I watched as he sat on the steps, clearly the littlest one of six, but yet somehow, he looked so very big to me. I watched as he ever-so-patiently waited for his turn to blow bubbles and kick his way across the pool, to backfloat, to practice using his lean, lanky arms, and to jump (i.e. belly flop) into his teacher's arms. I watched as he decided one time to just go for it and fling himself fearlessly into the water. I wasn't even scared. I laughed even. And his teacher brought him safely back to that step. I watched as he attemped to start a splash party and when he very firmly told his teacher, "No. I'm not doing that." I watched him as he watched me, as if he knew I needed that little bit of reassurance that he still needed me there.

 

Today my baby became a boy. An almost 3-year-old boy who follow directions, and makes friends, and trusts his teachers, and sees his own little body as capable and mighty and strong.

 

In the locker room afterwards, I grabbed his little cheeks, smooched his little lips and said, "Baby, I am sooooooooooo proud of you!"

 

He said, "I did a great job! I jumped!"

 

"You did, my love! You did!," I said back.

 

Today I clearly saw my baby for the boy he most certainly is. Today I fully recognized that my boy is indeed capable and mighty and strong.

 

Today was monumental. One the best todays ever.