Building anew

It's appropriate that today we got a new set of blocks for Grif in the mail. Today, I laid the foundation to build something new as well. Today, along with getting a million errands done and sending a boatload of emails, I followed up with something that has been at the back of my mind for about a month now -- today I met and committed to working with a personal trainer.

Nothing to do with resolutions (cuz if you remember, I don't really believe in them), more to do with just finally doing something more, today, now, finally, about toning up and getting better into shape. I won't be trite or silly and bemoan my current weight or how fit I'm not -- cuz I am, fit, that is, and not all that overweight. At the end of every yoga class, I give heartfelt, deep-seated thanks for my power, my strength, my beauty and health. I believe in those things -- I am those things. But for as much as yoga helps me maintain (and cleanse and renew and detox and relax), I needed (wanted) to do something a little extra to help me lose that little extra "extra."

Suffice it to say, I'm excited -- proud that I actually took this step and made this decision (and financial commitment) as opposed to just thinking about it or tossing it around as a "wouldn't it be nice if" idea. I'm anxious -- curious to see what kind of results I'll see in the next three to four months. I'm nervous -- to find out how either really behind I've let myself get or how crazy boot-campy my new trainer is going to be.

It's only once a week right now (but I can show up for solo cardio whenever I like), so I'm not expecting instant miracles or results the likes of which will drop me down to the dress size I was when I met Jim (but wouldn't that be cool?). But already, with this sense of accomplishment (and there THAT feeling is again!), I'm feeling stronger, straighter, leaner, lovelier. More powerful, more beautiful, more healthy, more happy. And isn't that what life should be all about?

I'll keep you posted. Literally.

Mornings, a study.

I feel divided about mornings. On the one hand, I despise them. My least favorite part of the day, the time when the darkness and warmth of my bed call me to stay just a little longer and put off getting up as long as possible. I've always been more of a sunset, twilight-time kind of girl. That relaxing of the day, the reflection, the pause, the settling as the day wraps itself up in color and quality, just before the night comes in.

On the other hand, I love the mornings. Not only for the times when I can sleep in (rare, but occasional), but because they usually begin with the light clomp-clomp of bare Grif feet, and a boy with an armful of bunny and dog silently begging me to open the covers and let him in, so we can snuggle for just a few more minutes.

I dislike mornings when I have to rush the boy to hurry hurry hurry to get ready, change clothes, eat breakfast, put on shoes and bundle up in your coat so we can go go go go!! I love mornings when I can doze just a few minutes longer with a boy and a pilot on either side, all of us tucked in the warmth of "we three" before reluctantly letting the day truly begin.

I dislike mornings as that's usually when Jim leaves us to go on a trip. I love it when he's home and I can sneak out for my favorite yoga class, which begins before most of this city has started to stir.

I dislike mornings as they often signal a time when I must leave the boy at school and make my way into work. I love mornings as they now represent just a fraction of the time I have to spend away from him, as opposed to last year's full-time commitment.

Mornings are usually mommy and Grif time, as even when daddy is home, he's slower to get moving and we often tiptoe out to let him sleep. And then there are the mornings for just the pilot and me, which remind me of when we first met and would lounge and watch TV and nap until noon.

Mornings -- so promising, often painful, but usually worth it, when it's all said and done with, don't you think?

The Boys

The language of fathers and sons... it's something special. Something obvious. I often hear about the singular connection between a father and daughter (I'm living proof, you could say), but in Jim's case, I think he could only have had a son. Which is not to say that if we'd had a girl, he wouldn't have loved her with his whole heart. Of course he would have. But for some reason I feel he was always destined to have a little boy.

It was Jim, in fact, who was ready for it all before I was. I was still terrified of even thinking about having a baby, possibly looking for, but never finding a solid reason not to at all. It was Jim who reminded me that in everything we had done so far together, we had been so very good. What made me think having a child would be any different? He was right, of course. He usually is.

We both were positive Grif was a girl. And both (secretly) trying not too hard to hope for a boy, afraid to voice to each other the near certainty that we would soon be looking at pink paint for the walls. This time, we were both wrong. Gloriously so.

From the very beginning, we've absolutely shared all aspects of parenting. And I mean all. Unlike many dads, Jim was able to take off more time than even I could, and we were a true team from the minute we drove to the hospital. I often say that in those first three months after Grif was born, Jim was hands-down the better mother of the two of us. Even now, because of his schedule and mine, Jim gets to be stay-at-home dad for days at a time while mommy goes to work. Something very few dads get a chance at, a blessing I know he values so very much, especially during the times when he's gone six and seven days at a time. Even now, he and Grif play together in a so much more connected, full way than the boy and me. And rather than being even the tiniest bit envious of that, I can't wait to watch it unfold. To the first time they "have a catch," to when Jim teaches him how to ride a bike, or fix an engine, or mow the lawn, or build a campfire, tie knots, train dogs, fly kites, wash dishes, do laundry, drive, fly, care for, love, live.

Just today in the car, Grif was dreaming of the future. When I grow up, I'm going to be a pilot, just like daddy. It was the first time that I'd ever heard him say all the words together, in a full sensical sentence (some days he's going to fly planes and be a pilot, others he's going to grow up to be a plane, or a firetruck or a train... as if he could grow up to be the vehicle instead of its driver). To be just like daddy. Hard not to love everything about that, right? My boys. My blessings.

Phases and cycles.

Not too many moons ago, the boy was hands-off. Don't touch me, mommy. Please don't pat my back (at least I got a please, right?). Don't hold me. Funny stuff, really, coming out of a three-year-old's mouth. What's really funny is how I often let it hurt my feelings. Especially now that that phase is over.

I come from a basically over-affectionate family. My mother is Mexican, the youngest of 13, most of whom married loud, boisterous, demonstrative Italians. Which means, that at every wedding, weekend dinner, funeral, reunion or casual visit, I would be expected to kiss and hug every single relative (and there were a lot of them), whether I knew them or not. It's just what we did. So very different than my father's very reserved Dutch upbringing. At times, I shied away from the over-affectionation, so to speak. I didn't know half my relatives' names, and I'm expected to do the double-kiss and hug? And mean it? Quite quickly though, the more I did it (under my mother's approving eye) it made me feel adult, like I belonged in some super-secret (vast) family that knew everyone intimately enough to welcome them in arms, even if this was the first time we'd met. It's part of my upbringing that has branded me deeply -- I tend to judge people not by the quality of their handshakes, but by the quality of their hugs. The tentative, half-shoulder squeeze just doesn't do it for me. I'm a two-armed, all the way around, bear hug kind of girl, regardless if you're family or friend. And I expect it in return. 

Consequently, I've passed some of that on to Grif. Perhaps sometimes unwittingly so. That boy we met at the park the other day? As we said goodbye, I told Grif to give Louis a hug and tell him thanks for playing with me. Which he did. Enthusiastically, genuinely, without pause. I ask him to do this frequently, obviously for close family, but really, for anyone with whom we've just spent a few hours... my friends, Jim's friends, a sweet boy we met at a park. He passes this on -- bunny and dog (his go-to companions) often give kisses, hug each other, cuddle with us. He pats their backs, rubs their tummies, worries about them. He worries about Thomas the Train, when we're watching DVDs and Thomas needs help. He constantly tells me how his Wocket is sad, although we can never fully figure out why. He fusses over his trains that have "bruises." His capacity for care, at just over three years old, stuns me. And heartens me. I so want him to grow up to be "good" -- courageous and considerate, strong and dependable. I want his heart to always be this full of compassion and love and simple, innocent goodness. And although I know that this is not totally possible (he will be a teenager someday), I hope that his heart will always be this big. 

Now, his ever-present litany is a request to be held. First thing in the morning, last thing at night. Mommy, will you hold me? Yes, honey, I'd love to hold you. 

Big, contented sigh.

Today, for what feels like the first time in eons, and in all honesty, is probably the first time since March of last year, I didn't have anything to do. No writing, editing or indexing projects hanging over my head, no resume favors left undone, no "work" work that I should have been working on pressing down my day or my heart. Nothing left outstanding, nothing to feel guilty about not doing.

Which is not to say that I still didn't have a ton to do. My side of our office is still barely controlled chaos. My hotmail inbox is horribly overloaded. Don't even talk to me about laundry, mountains waiting, and Grif's journal, still not updated. Today, there were veggies to cut up and freeze in prep for Super Bowl chowder and chili, breakfast to make for today and tomorrow, xmas decorations to take down, dinner and dishes and all the rest. But I had time to do all that, without guilt, without being pressed, without feeling like I really should be doing something else. These tasks were optional, leisurely even. Even more amazing, thanks to my pilot, I got to go to yoga today (where my favorite moksha teacher of all time was teaching class, and so it was even more fulfilling and challenging and good than normal), got there early, left late, and still got to take a nap when I got home. And for that I was so thankful. I felt accomplished. Contented. Relieved, relaxed, good.

Today, I had time. And so this is what we did. You want to come draw with me? Yes, honey. Absolutely. And I did it without watching the clock or being anxious about how much longer I could play with the boy before I had to rush off to finish some endlessly unfinished task. Today, I had time. And it felt totally, gratefully, permanently, amazingly, wonderfully good.

Good stuff.

I'll admit, this daily writing and posting thing is getting harder. I know, I know, it's only been a few days, but it's days like today -- when I'm well and truly exhausted, after three grueling (no, really, grueling) days of editing and indexing into the wee, wee hours, followed by a full day today of top-to-bottom cleaning and high-maintenance dinner prep (but, oh, that salmon and orange-ginger-butter cream sauce were sooo worth it) -- that I can see how easy it would have been to let this go, just this once, for today. I'm the kind of tired where it gets difficult to type or complete thoughts, and would have much rather just gone to bed than haul out this silly laptop.

But no. I have just a few minutes to be true to this challenge I've unwittingly, yet willingly, set for myself. And this one is easy. This one is in thanks for the good friends I have in my life. The ones who listen to my silliness, my woes, my real problems. Really listen. The ones who ask the questions I didn't even know needed to be answered. The ones who offer advice, laughter, understanding and love. This one is for my dear soulmates who embrace my child and take his energy and silliness (and demands) into their whole hearts, and genuinely enjoy him, in turn helping me take a fresh (more patient? more understanding? more joyful?) look at my sweet little boy. This one is for the people who see me, really see me, and still love and accept and support me. Without fail, without question. This one is for Kristy, who is all of these things. And for Jim too, as he is as well (and also possibly because he took care of the HUGE mountain of dishes and pots and pans and mess my colossal dinner made, as he always does). This one is for the good stuff. Cheers. Happy, contented, thankful sigh.

We are three.

There was a short period of time today where I wished Grif was a twin. It's a feeling that I have often when I watch him latch on to 3-year-old he's never met, and proceed to laugh his head off and play with him for the next two hours like he was his "best friend ever." He was meant to be a twin, with his silly high-pitched (amazing) laugh and his noticeably stunning blue-grey eyes. He was meant to be a twin, with his endless, no, really, endless energy. His love of other kids. His delight in playing with another being his size and age and temperament. His, "you want to come play with me?" attitude of pure, pure innocence and delight that infects everything he does.

And then two hours later, when he's having a screaming fit cuz he's worn out from the park, I remember that this was the reason he was not a twin. Solely in service to my sanity, cuz two of him would surely push me over the edge I approach all too often as it is.

In truth, I wanted two kids from the very beginning. In truth, I was terrified of having (and parenting) ANY kids, regardless of number. And then between a pretty horrendous delivery, and an overly challenging first three months, coupled with my (ahem) age, and a myriad of other pretty selfish reasons, we decided to remain three and three alone. And lord knows that there are many days when I am sooo thankful he's a solo. Until days like today. When it's nearly 55 degrees and we go to the park to burn off some much-needed energy outside in the glorious, sunny sunshine. When we meet this sweet little boy Louis and his mom, and it feels like we should all have met years ago, our families and situations (and humor) so immediately alike and compatible, our natural affinity for each other. Louis' mom was 3 months pregnant, and so excited, that I couldn't help but pause for a minute and think, hmm. Should we have? Should we still? Regrets? And resoundingly, rightly, the answer is nope, none. Except for the fact that I should've exchanged numbers with Louis and his mom so we could meet another day and do it all again.

Fit to be.

A consequence of my very (thankfully) busy last year was that I did not (as planned) continue to write down the funny sayings and nuances of a quickly growing Grif. I love and am soooo thankful for the extra time with him courtesy of my (no-longer-new) job, equally blessed with the overabundance of freelance work that fell into my lap (including the illustrious cookbook), but writing in the "Grif Journal" was one of the things that got abandoned by the wayside quickly as the year and ensuing craziness and fun unfolded. My plan is to pick it up again (maybe tomorrow?), and fill it in randomly, in no order, with all the silly stories and snapshot memories that I have of him in the last year. Sort of like a "best of," stream of Grif consciousness, you could say.

So as I pondered what today's blog and photo would be and bring, I picked up the boy from daycare, and immediately was branded "bad Mommy" because I had forgotten (legitimately) to bring the usual, obligatory pretzel/raisin snack pack that Grif usually inhales on the way home. In a word, he threw a fit. A huge one. He is three after all, and everyone (medical professionals included) assure me this is normal. So in an attempt to distract him, I pointed out the awesome colors in the setting-sun sky, to which he immediately responded, "I don't WANT to look at that sky." And which, of course, he did immediately. Three seconds later, the fit ended when he spotted a plane in that gorgeous sky, crying, "Mommy! Oooh! A plane! Ooh! Look! Over there! Behind those trees! A plane! Behind those trees!" His eagerness and excitement over the plane making his voice high-pitched and stuttery and repetitive, a reaction that has happened many times before.

Which brings me, I guess, to the point. How amazing his capacity for wonder and excitement is. How huge. How quickly it can turn on a dime, from a screaming, fit-throwing, seat-kicking, crazy child to a high-pitched embodiment of laughter and light. A lesson I would do well to learn, and certainly emulate more. More wonder and joy, less fits and anger. How's that for a motto?

So much.

Last night, as I went to bed, I felt the most amazing sense of accomplishment. Even though I still had a ton of work to do, laundry to sort and wash, and a whole house to clean, I felt good. Really, really contentedly good. Optimistic, satisfied, happy. This was in part due to the fact that I actually finished a good chunk of some writing I had to do, and totally despite the fact that I was waaaay behind in some editing and indexing still needing to be done (which I'm once again putting off for just a few minutes here as we speak -- I'll get to it, next).

Even more amazing, I woke up with the same take-on-the-world attitude. And it even carried me throughout my day, most pointedly through my (as usual) rough writing afternoon. Rough writing, by which I mean that I have a terrible time (frequently) both remembering that I am a (great!) writer, and also actually getting the (great!) writing done. Yes, I know, hard to believe, but I often sit in front of my computer at my (great!) job as a copywriter, totally despondent and dejected because I know that this will be the day when the words just won't come. Or even worse, that this is the day when I really don't feel like finding the words at all, because of the project, the client, my lunch, my lack of sugar snacks, my overindulgence in sugar snacks, my lack of sleep, you see where I'm going here.

But last night and therefore today, something changed. Shifted. Regardless of what I had done and what I had left (yet again) unfinished. I felt like I had done it all -- and even better, done it well. Maybe this is what writing and blogging have been all about, all this time. This continual building of energy and optimism and inspiration and drive. And maybe this is just the start of the rewards, both spiritual and mental, that I have only now begun to reap. Maybe this is what I have been about, all this time. How amazing.

I'm quite sure that this silly bliss will have its down days, or disappear for moments at a time. I'm a realist about that. But for now, I'll take the "high." This morning, minutes after a groggy Grif came wordless into my room, silently begged me to bend down and take him in my arms, I complied. We sat on the floor, we rocked, we cuddled. A little frog tucked entirely into my body, as I hugged him so very tight. Five minutes later, or maybe it was ten, he finally spoke his first words of the day, "Mommy, I love you sooo much." And I can only think now, that maybe this too is what it's all about. Amazing indeed.

365... err, 362, I guess.

Ok, so I'm not a huge believer in New Year's resolutions. The Universe slipped me a little note last year, that oddly (or not oddly?) is the one that I have passed on to so many others, but somehow cannot find (even after searching for the last 10 minutes)(coincidence? you know the answer to that, I'm sure). Regardless, its message is that there's no such thing as "starting new" or "resolving to make things better" now that the calendar year has turned. What's real, what's important, is believing (ALWAYS!) that what you wish for, what you want, what you wish to change or feel or accomplish or be is always within reach. That instead of starting anew, it's more of a re-energizing, re-affirming, re-believing, if you will, in yourself and everything your life can bring you (and already is).

I've been wanting to do a better job of recording the magic of Grif. His craziness, his antics, his everydayness. And one of my photographer friends is taking and posting a new pic of her kids every day this year, 365 snapshots into the joy of her life and her family. As soon as I saw this, it struck a vibrant chord with me. Yes! This is the answer I didn't even know I was looking for (I love how that's always the way, right?). The answer to both my dilemma for blogging more and simply recording more of the boy's life.

So here it is. Day 1 (which is actually 3, but whatever). This morning, Grif and I got a late start, compounded by the fact that I let him cuddle into my bed, covers pulled all the way up to his nose, to watch Curious George while I hopped into the shower. I was so struck by his little face, the way he was mesmerized by the cartoon, his full attention on it, and the way I could only see the top half part of his head from the nose up. His sweet little cute button of a nose. It was the nose that got me.

Then tonight, we were playing trains before bed. And he was telling me a story about the one -- calling it the Spo-ler Esspress (Grif-speak for Polar Express), HOO-HOO!!!-ing around in circles, and telling me it was headed to the mountains. Pause. And also. Pause. The North Pole. His innocence, his energy, his stillness and motion. His youth, his joy, his very boy-ness. Click -- a snapshot of both, in my head and on this page forever. And although this photo does not capture either specifically, it's the start for both.

I love new beginnings, don't you? Consider this more than my happy new year to you (and me, and jim, and grif). Consider this my Happy Always.