Bigs and Littles

Kids and I have an interesting dynamic. Especially, older, more cognizant children; they don't know what to make of me at first. I seem unsure, timid, and slightly awkward. I don't rush children into accepting, or trusting, me right away- I like to give them plenty of time to bloom at a natural (their own) pace. Conversely, Babies and toddler-aged kids warm to me rather quickly. Fortunately, I can usually win them over within two to three hours (average estimate). I try to be gentle with their raw feelings, converse with them in a dignified manner (that doesn't insult anyone's intelligence), pick  my battles, and sternly uphold appropriate boundaries. Don't get me wrong- I also have my times of low energy, limited patience, and creative drought (who wants to play I Spy AGAIN?). But there seems to be an emotional and intuitive core that I'm able to tap into,  as needed.

Today, I was on babysitting duty from 8am to 3pm. A pal of mine referred the child's mother to me- one of the perks of working at a daycare is the ripe opportunity to earn some extra cash, via babysitting. Therefore, she was from a classroom I had rarely ever worked in, so I wasn't too familiar with the little one (female, age 6, we'll call her S). However, after a few rounds of memory game, puzzle piecing, and teeter-tottering; we were pals. We spent the day strolling through the shady woods around her house, talking about monarch butterflies, favorite things, and gender relations- "Girls are smart, and boys are strong, but dumb" said S. I tried my damnedest to give her a fresh perspective "Girls can be as strong as boys, and boys can be as smart as girls". But she wasn't having any of that- very set in her ways- I figured this was one of those battles best not  picked. We put daisies in our hair and treasures in the "purse" attached to her bicycle (a green guitar pick, two rocks, and smashed dandelion). At one point on our nature walk, we had to cut across a few backyards. Armed with the knowledge that briefly, and respectfully trespassing would not result in public flogging- I assured S that she was not going to get yelled at, or get in trouble.
"If anyone gets in trouble- it's me" I said.
"But what if they ask whose idea it was?" S inquired.
"It was my idea honey, we'll just always say it was my idea" I replied.
"So I wont get in trouble- you'll just say it was you? why?" S said.
"You will not get in trouble, I will. And I'm okay with that- because I'm a grown-up. Don't worry" I said.
She beamed up at me like I was superman, and I just said everything she needed to hear. She gave me the privilege of holding her hand for the rest of the afternoon.

Upon her mother's arrival, we shared a heartfelt hug- at which time, she clung to the ends of my hair, inhaled the seemingly heavenly aroma, and proclaimed "It smells like coconut, I just love it". It melted my heart and weakened my knees. I drove away on that wonderful cloud that only an adoring child can put you on. When I spend time with kids I can correct the embarrassments of my own childhood, I can hug when others screeched, and I can listen when others lectured. I screw up (like so many before me), but I try to understand. I strive to ascend and be the bigger person so that the littles can feel the freedom to be little - leave the big problems to me; you just love, live, and learn....for now anyway!

Oz-fest 2011

I love the Wizard of Oz. Something about it causes my mind to hush, my jaw to relax, and my whole body to unclench. It also has the amazing ability to bring my emotions to a rolling boil. I blubber like a small child, with diaper rash. I can't help it- before the good witch even makes her first appearance, I find my eyes heavy with dew. Upon my most recent viewing (last night), I realized what I find so compelling about this film. It isn't the story (which is a pretty basic arch that has been told in thousands of various incarnations), it isn't the dialogue (trite at best), and it most certainly isn't the visual appeal (chintzy set design, and a lot of not-so-special effects).

It's Judy Garland, plain and simple. Although, plain and simple are two adjectives that could never be attributed to the late great Ms. Garland. She was breathtaking in her beauty, and her complexity. It's hard to fathom how such emotional depth could be captured within the miniscule window of narrative film. But the crafty bitch gets me every time. It's only with that sad twinkle in her eye, and a thick drawl in her voice, that the land beyond the rainbow becomes a very real place. It catches me in my throat; that sad girl with longing in her eyes. I believe, that almost every young lady (with a pulse, and a soul that is) has longed- for someone,
some thing, or some place; very far away. A state of being that is more whole, where we are better. Where life, is simply better. Things will make sense, somewhere over that rainbow. Bills will get paid, fingernails will not be chewed, and anxiety melts like lemon drops. So hats off to you Ms. Garland...AND your bitchin' pair of ruby, red kicks !

Isn't It A-Peeling?

Some days are beautiful. Annnnd some days smell like hot garbage. Fortunately, today was the former. It was merciful, because yesterday- was most certainly the latter variety. It reeked of overwhelming emotions, difficult conversations, and unpalatable thoughts. Today, however, was lovely. Work flowed smoothly;  a delicious balance of affectionate babies, and entertaining banter with coworkers. I also got the pleasure of having lunch with my mom. There is something so warm and quaint about having your mother pick you up from work and take you to lunch- it's even better as an adult than it was as a kid. Hearing my boss compliment my work ethic to the very person responsible for teaching me how to work- was a glowing moment for me. It's also that surreal sensation that comes when worlds collide. In the past, I have successfully (or not so successfully), kept my life severely compartmentalized. It was a familiar way to live for me. But, I have learned, that in order for others to REALLY know you- they must know all shades; the good, the bad, and the ugly humanity. Hence, the lines of my life are blurring more and more by the day. Which is good, but it's new, and slightly jarring. And though it may cause some momentary anxiety (mostly the loss of control and perceived organization), it does make me feel much less alone in my skin. Anyway, seeing my mother at my workplace was strange and fun. She got to meet all the little one's I chatter endlessly about.

After work, I decided to revel in the fabulous weather Michigan decided to bestow upon it's residents (she is a fickle lady; one prone to ridiculous mood swings). I grabbed one of the books I'm working through and headed to the nearest Starbucks (p.s. - the salted caramel mochas are every bit as insane as one would hope). At a flimsy, cafe table- I floated happily in the pink light of the setting sun. I found myself thinking about my last beautiful day. It was Saturday, a very sunny Saturday...

My friend J had an extra ticket to the University of Michigan vs. Eastern game, and I was open to giving spectator sports another shot. My father has tried, on many occasions, to teach me the game of football. He is an avid/ obsessive sports fan (especially for the champions of the west *cough* GO BLUE). Sadly, I always grew frustrated with my lack of understanding, and his lack of patience. Therefore, I was attending the game quite blindly. I love learning new things, and I'm stubborn. I'll beat my head against that table if that's the only way to understand its molecular structure. So it goes.
Between my boyfriend M, and my pal J, I was outfitted for success. M provided me with the proper attire-a tee shirt emblazoned with the home team logo (*cough* GO BLUE). J accessorized my ensemble with a delightful face-sticker in the shape of the infamous, Michigan M. I was like a kindergartner whose parents wanted me to have a damn fine first day of school. I felt very loved, if not slightly pitiful.

We parked a decent distance from the stadium, which was perfect. The weather was picturesque. The clouds looked computer generated in their perfection. Upon entering the big house, I just stood and gaped. Its size was astounding. Places like that never seem as giant from the outside as they do within. After picking my jaw off the floor, the game passed in a fun flurry of fight songs and camaraderie- the student section is the place to sit for the restless and rowdy! I loved it. J is such a wonderfully gentle teacher and guide- I actually was able to absorb. I learned the very basics at least. Which is an accomplishment after 23 years of scratching my head. And I must say, I nailed the Victor's Valiant.

After the game we decided to take a walking tour of Ann Arbor- literally. We walked from the stadium to the downtown area. We soaked in the eclectic platter that is State street. We meandered the shady sidewalks of the diag. We got our grub on at BTB Cantina. Each setting flashed by amidst the music of the city and, the comfort of lively conversation. We ended our evening at the Oktoberfest that had overtaken Main Street. After several rounds of delightful brew and polka dancing, I felt thoroughly stimulated. Practically percolating with the joy of being.

Sadly, the day after, I found myself sunburned (in addition to being whimsically, branded thanks to my face-sticker) and exhausted. The day after THAT, was one helluva a hot, garbage day. My face was peeling, and nothing seemed to be working in my favor. But today, I sat comfortably with the realization that ya win some, and ya lose some. Some days buzz your bones in the best way. While others, are spent picking at the burnt remains of your face. So it goes.

Smells

I have an extremely responsive sense of smell. I can walk into any room and pick up on even the slightest of unsavory odors. Recently, I walked into my boyfriend's apartment and proclaimed "It reeks of old yogurt in this place!" And it did. I sniffed around for awhile, before I chalked it up to my overly sensitive nostrils. I tend to have nasty odor paranoia; unpleasant smells stay in my system, so I project them upon environments that aren't appropriate. On the flip side, I can also thoroughly enjoy pleasant smells on a level of nirvana-like pleasure. Every human I have ever loved can be summarized by their olfactory cocktail.


For instance, the faintest whiff of lilacs immediately takes me to my childhood backyard. My mother's lilac bushes- only blooming for that magical week in mid-June-causing the house to brim with aromatic waves of floral glory. Heavenly! Sadly, they wilted quickly and emitted a sickly perfume....ah well! My eldest brother, Sean, will always be the odor of sweat, marijuana, and Tommy Hilfiger cologne. Ryan, our proverbial middle child, carries the heavy fragrance of mildewy-basement, fabric softener, and aftershave. 


My boyfriend Matt; he has a distinct fragrance. He wafts a beautiful combination of vanilla, soap, and fresh rain. My grandma Hussey conjures the distinct smell of pink. I know that sounds silly, but she smelled of pink! Like a mixture of flowers and laundry detergent that howled pink in my young mind. 


Smells have a strong impact on my emotions. It not only applies to the smell that clings to those I love, but also to the smells THEY love. If they fancy a particular food; you best be sure that I will hold that trace of culinary inclination within my heart; in the deepest bowels of my emotional reservoir. 

Breaking and Entering

I locked myself out of my own home today. This has probably happened to me at least 22 times in my life. On this occasion I had reached my destination before I realized, not only had I left my keys on the couch, but my purse (and all its crucial contents) as well. I agonized for a moment, as we all do, with a few profanities and a shrug of the shoulders. Eh, well, I have gotten used to this sort of thing as a regular occurrence in my daily life- I tend to move too quickly, which causes me to gloss over the finer details (like ya know, KEYS and DRIVERS LICENSES). Anyway, I shook it off and headed back to the homestead. I also had the welfare of my brother/roommate's dog to think of. My brother had left for Chicago early that morning, and I was put in charge of keeping our beloved pooch thriving and happy, hence being locked out for the weekend was really not an option.

When I arrived, I performed the classic pipe-dream; I hoped the backdoor was open. It wasn't. I HAD remembered to lock it before leaving- it's wonderful how my vigilant/responsible impulses come and go that way! But, as I mentioned before, I have been locked out a lot in my life. I have become an expert at looking for passive entries. I meandered to the side yard and spotted our living room window- bingo! It looked hopeful. I trudged through the wet (it was raining-of course) shrubbery and groped the window ledge for confirmation that it was, in fact, unlocked. It was, and after wrestling with it for a good two and a half minutes it flew up (the house is somewhat old- so the windows open- but they whine about it). Once the window gave in, it was a cake walk. I used the hose hook as leverage and lumbered into our living room. Granted, it wasn't my most flattering/graceful moment, but I still felt proud of my problem solving abilities. Meanwhile, our dog, Mick, was losing his shit at the sight of me. Not only was he simply happy to see me, but I kind of felt that he was also amused at the show he just got free admission to. I crawled in like a clumsy, spider monkey and landed with an awkward thud against the hardwood floors.

The whole experience just reminded me of childhood- which is perhaps, why I felt no real stress about it.   My brother's were the keeper of the keys in our house. Unfortunately, my brother's are just (if not slightly more) forgetful than I am. Obviously, I spent some time on our front porch, waiting. Sometimes, as a child, I felt like a bulk of my time was spent waiting. Waiting for someone to pick me up, waiting for someone to come home (occasionally- with the key), waiting for a call, waiting for an acceptance letter, waiting to leave, waiting to go, etc. As an adult, I love that I can take charge. I almost never have to wait. I can take action instead- and it usually works! Even if I had not been able to bust through that window, I could have driven to my boyfriend's workplace and ask him for the copy I gave him- ta da! Entry! Open Sesame!

Wilson

Last fall, after a frustrating string of interviews and dead-ends, my stint of unemployment ended and I was hired in at a daycare center. Though I had babysat as an adolescent, I had never really taken care of "baby" babies. The children I watched were generally off of bottles and swaddlers. Hence, my anxiety skyrocketed when I was handed a tiny infant WHILE being interviewed. Her name was Claire, and she is a true spitfire. Claire's now in the toddler classroom and not so tiny, but still very much a spitfire. I think I will always hold a soft spot for Claire- she was the real interviewer that day. She squirmed and squawked as I awkwardly hugged her to my chest, and cooed her using my gentlest tone; clearly, she was determined to put me through the ringer, make sure I could cut the mustard, yadda yadda. Meanwhile, I thought "I would either love it here or hate it." Luckily, I managed to jump through every necessary hoop and land the gig. I have been an assistant teacher ever since, and miraculously, I happen to love it.

In mid-December, the mother of a two year-old named Charlotte, came in with her brand new bean in tow. A little, shapeless, dumpling named Wilson. I peered over into his car-seat and saw a shrunken potato, slumbering soundly. To be honest, I did not find anything particularly cute about him upon my first viewing, but I fawned and fussed as if he were the Gerber baby. I didn't think much of this brief interaction until 7 or 8 weeks later- when he was enrolled into the infant room. The infant room just happens to be one of the several classrooms I frequent. My job description includes the term "floater", which is exactly how it sounds- I float. I move between classrooms and maintain order while the lead teacher goes on break, or leaves for the day.

Anyway, it was another hectic day in the baby room; bottles to warm, diapers to freshen, solids to prepare, etc. We had 10 infants enrolled at the time, and it seemed as though each one were hellbent on screaming themselves into oblivion. All, except Wilson. He spent half the morning slumped in the swing, sleeping, with a mysterious little smile on his face. While all the other babies had their volume dials turned to 11 ("these go to eleven..." - what can I say, I love Christopher Guest), Wilson was content and patient in his swing state. He actually had to be woken up for his feedings. Somehow, I never got to be the one to feed him until the very end of the day. His 5:30 feeding rolled around, and as luck would have it, I was the only teacher not occupied with another task. When I hunkered down with the half-conscious, little ball of a boy, I was met with the most pleasant surprise. His eyes- actually open for a change. Two bright blue orbs, shiny and sweet. They widened at the sight of another new person in his daycare life. Little did he or I know, the romance had begun. From the minute those round, innocent peepers fixed on me I was head over heels.

Over the next several months, my little pal brightened many exasperating days for me.  While strapping on my blue, paper shoe-booties (a sanitation rule so as not to track gunk into the room, lest a curious baby decide it was a culinary delight), Wilson's smile would radiate out the front door and put a skip in my step as I entered. Many mornings I would find myself getting lost in thought, only to have Wilson snap me into the here and now. He went through an exploratory phase with my shoelaces- untying them when my attention was elsewhere. And let me tell you, tripping over one's converse certainly has a jolting effect. I would stumble in befuddlement, look down, and meet the gleeful gaze of my little blueberry boy. This trick always sent him into a giggle fit of knee-weakening adorableness. It also served as a humbling reminder to Ms. Danielle not to take herself too seriously. Which is one of my favorite aspects about working with children; they require you to exist in the present-no excuses, no anxious head-trips, and no restless daydreaming will be tolerated. In addition to keeping me in the moment, Wilson also kept himself extremely focused on the business of growing up. He breezed past eating solids in the blink of an eye. Which made me very happy; mixing together gelatinous contents of tiny jars with powdery bland cereal into a sickly green paste, was not exactly appetizing. I always felt  I owed little Wilson an apology as I strapped on his bib in preparation for an undoubtedly disappointing dining experience. He had a lust for life, and food that just could not be satiated by pre-packaged goop. He would finish each feeding, covered in slop and hungry for something different, more exotic....and just plain more!

One of my favorite moments with Wilson came when he was finally able to eat real food. Particularly, swedish meatball day. Ahhhh, meatball day- it's tucked away so vividly and warmly in my mind. I trudged into the baby room with very little umph in my step- I had been having a lot of trouble sleeping, and it was starting to show. My lackluster mood was lifted at the sight of the school menu- today was meatball day, and my buddy Wilson was about to become a meat-baller. And boy was I right. That kid went to town. He made a mockery of those meatballs- there was nothing left within 20 minutes. The sight of his greasy, satisfied face- completely devoid of self-consciousness and doubt, as he took down the entire plate was nothing short of inspirational. Later that evening, when the weight of my world -and all it's irrational anxieties had caused my shoulders to slope, I discovered a constellation of gravy splotches on my sock. I giggled- even in absentia, Wilson was still instructing me to lighten up. I kept the sock. Wilson is now getting ready to move onto the next classroom. Sadly, this means we will be seeing much less of each other. But whenever Wilson and I share eye contact- I can see that glint in his eyes, and he certainly can see it in mine. He will forever be my blueberry boy, and I will forever be his magical, goddess and bringer of meatballs.

Growing

My nephew Jackson started his first day of kindergarten today. I'm in serious danger of sounding like a blithering cliche, but it seems like only an hour ago that my stepsister brought Jack over to my house for the first time. He was a tiny little  bundle of flesh; a vague and fussy being that I wasn't sure how to interact with. I was terrified of holding him the wrong way and breaking him in some permanent sort of way.

Five years have passed since that curious November night, and so much has changed. He is going to "real" school now, and I comfortably interact with infants on a daily basis. I feel that we have both come into our own (so to speak). He has developed into a verbally sophisticated, and devilishly clever child. He  possesses an irresistible combination of rough and tumble boyishness, and snarky confidence. He manages to carry an exuberance for life and experience that could melt any jaded soul. But beware, this boy is sharp. He seems to absorb and imitate adult conversation and innuendo like a specialized little sponge. He also has that rare and wonderful appreciation for the outdoors; he's a nature boy (as the Talking Heads would say). One day he carried a sprightly grasshopper to his mother's open (and unassuming) palm. He informed her with absolute certainty "This grasshopper is so handsome, just like me." Needless to say, much revelatory laughter ensued. I have no doubt that he will charm the cardigan sweater off of any schoolteacher who might stand in his way.

My own personal progress has been quite the contrast. Jackson has grown-up, I have grown down. In the last two years I have learned the importance of play. I have learned the crucial need for absolute silliness; the need to make funny faces in the mirror- just to make yourself laugh. Blowing bubbles for the hell-of-it. Singing loudly to music, even if you don't know the lyrics. Crying when you feel sad. Dancing when you need to express yourself in all of your awkward glory. The joy of existence. As simple as it might seem, this joy was absolutely lost on me for a very long time. I can't exactly explain why, but in my younger years, I seemed to consider myself a serious person-with very serious motivations in life. While this might be the makings of an extremely impressive person- one bound for glory and success, in my case, it was a recipe for disastrous depression. I moped- hardcore-for years. I found the lifelong task of somberness to be a considerable burden. As you can see, I wouldn't exactly be a good fit to care for small children. However, last year I began working at a daycare center. This vocational shift aided greatly to my Dorian Gray-esque experience. Working with babies has slowed me down, taught me patience, and displayed my glaring blind spots. Their need for love and affection cuts me to the proverbial quick. It's so simple and basic- they smile at the sight of me. It blows my mind- the idea of being so emotionally dependent on others! I have developed such a neurotic, numb shell that I forget the sensation of raw living. I consider it a privilege and a gift to be able to nurture, play, and adore the babies I get to work with. They bring me back to the core of human reality.

Rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships...

Recently, while on a road trip with my boyfriend Matt, I found myself reminiscing about my old man. I suppose I should explain, my father and I are not on speaking terms at the moment. We tend to go through cycles of not-speaking every few years. It is usually the result of us being hurtful to one another...or non-commmunicative. My Dad and I have similar reactions to betrayal/hurt- we retreat. We retreat with a quickness, and we stay there solidly and stubbornly for quite some time. Then, our hearts begin to ache, and our resolve (thankfully) weakens. Anyway, my resolve is currently weakening. My emotional shell is thinning by the minute. I miss my Dad. There is something mysterious about the open road that frees my mind and opens my heart a little bit. Maybe it's the transitory sensation, but I find that my eyes water more readily and my feelings gain clarity. So on this particular drive, I caught myself composing a conversational love note to my father. Well, so it goes....

My father has a work ethic that could bend steel. It's true. The show "Dirtiest jobs" is like a visual representation of my Dad's resume. He has pursued back breaking labor to the fullest. He was a roofer, a car-hauler, and candlestick maker ...(well-okay, not the last one, but you get the idea).  The man didn't shy away from humble, sysphus-esque positions. He came home each day with the heavy smell of carbon paper and gasoline. I loved it. If there was a perfume that could perhaps capture those two scents, and maybe infuse it with something slightly feminine- like lilac- I'd be SOLD. I used to hold my nose to his pinstriped, collared work-shirts, and just inhale the aromatic cocktail that was my Dad. He also would spritz himself in jovan musk, for special occasions- of course. Which only added another element to my paternal, olfactory experience. It must also be noted, that I was a tried and true Daddy's girl for the first 6 years of existence. I would follow him to hell and back; not wanting to miss a moment of fun and spontaneity. I was the apple of Daddy's eye. When he spoke to me, it was as if I were his equal. He never underestimated my awareness or intelligence...regardless of their immaturity. He was an excellent partner in crime for a kid. He indulged my imagination with gusto. Dad's world was enchanting; full of sand-palaces, playdough civilizations, elegant tea-parties, frog-catching, and chalk masterpieces.  As I wistfully told Matt- "I thought he hung the moon".

In addition to delightfully trotting through my father's world of whimsy, he also taught me the grave importance of hard work. Pure and simple. He believed in the dignity of hard work. He always told me "I don't care if you work at McDonalds, just as long as your working with integrity". In my Dad's eyes, nothing was more despicable than an unemployed, able-bodied individual.

My very first, formal job was at a local pizza joint. With my brothers. The manager was a friend of theirs. Need I say more?  They put me through the crucible on that first day. I fled to my father's house after my shift, in tears.

"I hate it. I'm quitting tomorrow. Everyone hates me, and I feel stupid" I cried in angst.
"No you're not. It was your first day- what did you expect? It's work for a reason. You go back tomorrow and swallow your pre-madonna pride. Follow orders, and learn. As fast as you can."

This is the part where his hard-ass facade falters and he offers me a hanky from his back pocket.

"But they're all yelling at me, and I feel like I just get in the way. I didn't know what to do" I whined.
He laughed in disgusted amusement.
"Well, yeah. That was your first day. Welcome to the world dear. You go back with thicker skin, but my daughter is not giving up so easily. You have seen worse"

I sat for a moment, considering his position and attitude. He was right. Work is a challenge- it challenges the body and the ego. If one cannot accept this challenge, than they belong to a softer section of people- one that was unacceptable for me to join.

With snot running down my wrists and a newfound sense of fortitude I croaked
"I need to get tougher I guess."

He nodded.

On one of our first dates, Matt described me as being "rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships". I scoffed; I feel that I have grown quite wimpy at this point in my life- gone soft I suppose! But I think, if Matt is correct- this thick skin is brought to you by my brothers, and, of course, my old man.