Saying Good-bye to 2008

I had heard that children attract colds like my garden attracts bees. And now I know it to be true. I am sick with my second cold of the season, and Amelia seems to finally be recovering from hers. I had intentions for our New Years Eve celebration that will not come to fruition. Life happens, we adjust. And so it goes.
I have a tradition each new year. I sit down with a giant scrapbook, and capture the year. I reflect on all that was meaningful, and the growth and experiences that filled my year. Each year, I find myself amazed all over again. I forgot about that. And that. Oh, and that. Yes. A year well-lived indeed.
It is not the accomplishments that stand out to me. It is the smile on my face in the picture of me iceskating in Rockefeller Center, and the remembrance of a spontaneous journey with my mom. It is remembering my trip to Alabama for the funeral of a woman who gave me wings, who wished for me that one day I would notice the beauty even in the midst of pain. It is remembering that, even though she had passed from this life, showing up and being there mattered. To celebrate her life. Even in the midst of pain. I look back and see the books that I read, the places I've been, the people who touched me, the longings of my heart.
Yesterday, I sat down with my giant scrapbook and looked over the last four years. If there was a fire in my house, and my loved ones were safely out, I would return for this scrapbook. That is how much I cherish it.
And so tomorrow I will take time to reflect, to create, to capture. And then I will set my intentions for 2009, and bid farewell to a year well-lived. And I am ready and eager for 2009.

Humble Warrior.

Its funny how the universe works. On Wednesday night, during a particularly challenging hot yoga class, our teacher guided us into the humble warrior pose. Something about this pose struck me; I walked home later thinking about humility, and made a conscious note to explore it later on, in a blog post, or otherwise.

And then Thursday arrived. Or, shall I say, Humility arrived at my doorstep. It was a rainy, yucky day. I had good intentions for us, but Amelia wouldn't have any of it. In fact, she wouldn't have much of anything, except for my complete and undivided attention.

As the afternoon progressed, it became clear to me that I am entering new territory with Amelia. What worked before no longer fits. She has her own opinions now, and she is determined to share them. Joe and I have been exchanging lots of "when do you think...??", "what about changing...??", "does she need...anymore??" And we both respond similarly. Good question. I don't know. I need the crash course on raising a toddler. My toddler, specifically.

There would be time this weekend to talk through the challenges with Joe. For now, I was simply exhausted, and holding all of my questions. And so I was both relieved and excited when 5 pm rolled around, and we were heading out to the annual holiday extravaganza at a local square. Santa would be there, gingerbread cookies would be made, my little family would be together. I bundled Amelia up in her A Christmas Story snow suit, and we headed out into the rain to search for the car; The car that was no longer there. I searched and searched. Towed. My car had been towed.

This is where humility truly entered the picture for me. Inside, I wanted to stomp my feet and let out a glorious scream. But Amelia was in my arms. She was hot and bothered in her snowsuit. She was hungry. I thought about Amelia, and how she has been lately. In one word: Frustrated. The world frustrates her as she wants to do things that are beyond her coordination, as she wants to tell me something that I can not decifer. I watch the frustration overcome her, and I feel helpless. Until I remember my role, as her mama. To help her learn that she can handle it. To reassure her that all is well, that she is capable, that she has choices. Which is exactly what she needs to see from me.

So, there I stood. A pink bundle of fuss on my achy left hip, car keys in my right hand, and the realization that there will be no Santa, no gingerbread cookies, no evening together beneath the rainy sky. Instead, I take her back inside the house, undress her, and begin to make her a grilled cheese sandwich. I burn the grilled cheese to charcoal black as I search for the tow company number. So, I eat it instead. Humility. And I make her another.

We did retrieve my car. I was able to dress and head out to a holiday gathering. Except that I misunderstood the address that Joe passed along, and arrived at the wrong house. No worries, I eventually made it there. I even enjoyed myself. (And it didn't even bother me when a woman pointed out that we were wearing the same sweater).

Then I woke up with my left eye swollen shut, red, and gooey. And came up with my own definition of humble warrior: She who is reminded of her humanity so as not to take life, or herself, too seriously.

Lottery Winners.

"We won the lottery, didn't we?!"

"Yes, honey, we definitely won the jackpot!!"

This was my e-mail exchange with J today. Unfortunately, we were not talking about financial gains. Quite fortunately, we were speaking of our daughter.

What prompted this exchange was my recount of our 2pm hour. Amelia woke up from her nap (this time I turned on the monitor to make sure sleep was involved), and I did my motherly duty of lifting her out of the crib while bathing her in kisses. When I sat her down on her elephant rocker, I noticed that she had a red bump on the right side of her forehead. "Awwww, sweetheart, did you bump your head? Awww..." I (enter verb, I'm at a loss...) Her face suddenly became concerned. And then the bottom lip emerged, and began to quiver in what seemed like slow motion. She began to cry, really cry, as she met my embrace.

I am quite certain that whatever caused the bump no longer caused her physical pain. Amelia is a mover and a climber. She falls often. And she was perfectly content when I arrived in her bedroom.

No, I believe that the concern in my voice triggered this tender response. Maybe she associated that voice with being hurt, and so hurt she felt. Or maybe she just wanted love and that was her ticket.

I don't know the answer to that one. But I do know one thing: being her parents is our ticket.

And there you go. She is our million dollar baby.

Musings.

27 days until 2009. Does this shock you, too?

Tonight, I shared with Joe how much of my personal challenge I have yet to achieve.. in the next 27 days. Bake an apple pie... run a race... gourmet picnic... 10 hours of yoga... and now its the crazy, busy, holiday time?! He thought for a moment, and then suggested that we have the gourmet picnic on the floor of our living area. Love my Joe.

In three weeks, we will begin our holiday road trip. We will drive to Philadelphia to celebrate "the Christmas that isn't Christmas" with my in-laws, and also visit with my college buddies Katie and Jeremy and their little ones. Then we will drive to Toms River, NJ, to introduce Amelia to her great-grandmother (my dad's mom), and then to visit with Joe's dad in NJ... and then head back home... all of this before the actual holidays. Are you tired even reading this?

But, really, what I wanted to share tonight is how very possible it is to be fooled by a 1 year old. Amelia, it appears, played so quietly during her naps that I assumed she was sleeping. She even had her deliciously warm and rosy cheeks when I rescued her from crib-dom. But, alas, by her pale face, droopy eyes, pleas for "MA!" and falling asleep at 4:50pm for the night, it seems that she did not, in fact, sleep today. Amelia likes to talk, to herself, to whoever is listening. She is always making some noise. (This is coming from the one who received a "u" (unsatisfactory) in conduct in 3rd grade for talking constantly... and a few "s-" (less than satisfactory?) in my years, too.) And I can only assume that she lay up there whispering sweet nothings to her animal friends who share her crib. And I knew nothing of it.

Sadly, Joe arrived home in his whirlwind fashion with wide eyes searching for his prize at 5:50pm. I had to break the news that she was already asleep. Thankfully, he accepted me graciously (sort-of) as runner-up.

And so, circling back to my original point (I played instead of napped today, too) about the short amount of time left until 09, I have concluded that this is, indeed, my favorite time of year. This last stretch of the year, the grand finale. And, following the finale, is a new beginning.

A coach's dream.