Thunder shower

I'm still polishing some newer pieces, but here's a snippet from what feels like a lifetime ago: one-year-old Christina greets a thundershower.

One summer evening - it must have been mid- to late-July - Christina and I were playing in the front yard.  It was a warm evening, an enjoyable break from the typical sweltering summer heat I still haven't grown accustomed to after a lifetime of living in southern Idaho.  I sat on the porch swing and swayed in the gentle breeze while Christina ran across the grassy yard chasing leaves that floated at the whim of the wind.
Just as I was calling to Christina to come a little closer to me - she had ventured deeper into the lawn, further away than this new mother was comfortable - a great gust of wind sent all of the leaves in the yard twirling skitter-scatter in the air, each caught in tiny little twisters, dancing around my baby and evoking shrill peals of laughter.
Soon after, the sky turned gray, but was quickly lit with a great flash followed by a tremendous ka-kra-boom!  A typical summer thunderstorm was brewing and I jumped up, ready to race to Christina's rescue and quay the fears and tears she was sure to have after such loud noises and bright flashes.  As I rose to my feet, though, the most surprising sight greeted me.  While my heart was racing and my ribs still rattling over the recent unexpected skylight, Christina was merely amused.  She stood in the yard, dancing - a motion which consists of bending the knees repeatedly while sticking her buns out behind her, arching her back, and smirking - and waving at the sky.  She wasn't frightened at all.  Apparently thunder storms were an invention God designed specifically for her amusement.  And, so long as the thunderbolts failed to pierce the rain clouds, I was more than happy to let Christina dance and wave at this new experience.

Lessons in Confidence

My babies are giving me lessons in confidence.  Let me explain.

I love watching my children play at the park.  I am continuously amazed at the way Christina makes friends.  You have long hair?  I have long hair!  You’re six?  I’m 6 ½!  Your knees are skinned?  Mine, too!  Let’s be best friends until it’s time to go!  I’ll race you down the slide, across the monkey bars, to the teeter-totter!  And laughter and merriment ensue, interrupted only to offer me staccato comments on their play, as though I’m not sitting on the bench watching her enjoy herself.  Mom!  My friend over there, he’s really fast and he likes running with me.  Christina runs off to chase her new friend.  Mom!  That girl over there has long hair like me.  Christina runs over to said girl, they hold hands while running to the slides.  Mom!  I found a girl.  She’s in first grade like me.  She has a little sister, too, only she’s three and Hope is four!  Christina gives me big hugs and kisses my cheek, then runs off to join her friend again.

Watching Hope feels more akin to my childhood social memories.  She enjoys playing with her sister, and plays with whatever other children Christina is playing with, but breaks away after a while to walk around and explore on her own.  Hope swings by herself, finds a pile of rocks to reorganize, feels the rough bark on a tree, swings a stick around to fend off some monster.  I take the stick away before she can whack someone.  She finds an older girl with a fistful of lilacs and asks to smell the tiny white flowers.  The girl gives her a group of them, Hope runs over to me and squeals over the flowers’ delicate beauty.  Insists I put them in my bag so she can have them forever.  Hope sees a woman with a toddler; wanders over to them and engages the mom in conversation.  I like your baby’s dress and her shoes.  The mom smiles and says thank you.  I like the look of your baby’s face.  The mom laughs.  Hope has a unique way of phrasing things sometimes.  Hope tries to play with the little girl; the little girl grabs fistfuls of sand and – before the other mom or I can prevent what’s about to happen – dumps it on Hope’s head.  The mom apologizes repeatedly, and I brush the sand away from Hope’s scalp as best I can.  The mom reprimands the toddler, the toddler cries, Hope looks confused – why did that baby dump sand on me?  Why is she crying?  The mom tries to get her little girl to apologize to Hope; the little girl refuses.  Hope tries to hug the little girl; the little girl screams louder.  Mom scoops up her child, apologizes to me again, and says she has to go.  Hope tells her Bye.  I like the look of your necklace and runs off to find Christina again.  They play some more, but Hope’s soon by herself again, walking slowly around, picking fistfuls of dandelions, singing made up songs.

Hope’s dance is different from Christina’s – Hope engages with adults, peers, and babies – though for Hope, anyone younger than three years old is a baby.  Christina focuses on who she considers her peers: six- and seven-year-olds.  Christina’s not mean or rude to children who don’t fit her preferred group, but she’s not excited about them, either.  She doesn’t squeal tidbits of information about the five-year-olds at the park.  Hope rarely interrupts her activities to seek my approval.  When she’s done picking flowers or sorting rocks or slaying imagined monsters, she’ll report to me.  She’ll share her adventures, but not interrupt them; she’s already confident in her four-and-a-half-year-old independence.  Christina's forging confidence; she flits back and forth between her newly-made friends and her mommy.  She’s flirting with independence the best way an almost-seven year old can, I reckon.  Putting her tender little self out there, sharing little pieces of her heart with her peers and trusting that they will find some common ground together.  And when – hooray, success! ­– common ground is indeed found, she runs back to me for confirmation, to hear that’s wonderful and I’m happy for you or I’m glad you’re having so much fun.

And it is wonderful and I am truly so happy for her, that she feels confident enough in herself to do those things that I struggle with today, have struggled with my entire life: giving another person an honest look at who I am, what I value, where my life experiences have taken me.  

Grandma

I can see her now, in the kitchen.  A pair of blue slacks like the sky on a clear day.  A flowery blouse – no sleeves – with a collar.  The only woman I can think of who wasn’t afraid to show her arms in her older years.  She was always proud of her petite frame.  We could have shared clothes in my teenage years, had our styles aligned.

I must’ve been about five that morning, maybe six.  No doubt still in my pjs, home-cut mullet still rumpled and ratty with sleep.  Morning breath probably thick in my speech – we never brought toothbrush & toothpaste with us.  Why would we?  We didn’t use them at home. 

Grandma never seemed to care, though.  I close my eyes and see her smiling at that ratty little girl, a big hug as she wished me good morning.  She was making pancakes.  She made the best pancakes – light and fluffy, wonderfully golden brown.  As many as we could stand to eat.  With warm syrups and bacon and hot cocoa, too.

The best part of pancakes with Grandma wasn’t the smell – melted butter and hot coffee, a freshly baked cake to devour after our evening dinner.  It wasn’t the pastoral setting – high on a hill, miles of pasture around us, not another house in sight.  It never occurred to me then that someone must’ve come out to tend those fields.  Grandpa never did.  I wonder about that now, decades later.

No, the best part of pancakes at Grandma’s was that Grandma could make pancakes in just about any shape you could ask for.  Stars, crescent moons.  My brothers teased her, asking for basketballs or watermelons – obviously she could do those.  My request was always the same, and she must’ve known what I’d ask for as sure as she knew the sun would shine down its golden warmth or that Grandpa would catch the most fish that afternoon.

Still, after a tight, morning-breath-drenched, I-love-you-this-much hug, she asked me, “What shape pancake do you want this morning?”

And her eyes twinkled with delight as mine surely must have, too, when I answered, “A bunny rabbit!”  I’ve tried, in my adulthood, to make bunny rabbit pancakes and they inevitably bear better resemblance to watermelons and amoebas.  I did, however, surprise my girls with heart-shaped pancakes for Valentine’s Day.  And I enjoyed, as Grandma must’ve, the amazed look on their faces, disbelief in their voices, “How did you do that?  How did you make these?”  Christina was convinced someone had taught me.  And as she and her sister devoured their holiday treats, I drifted back to that kitchen, the dining room with shag carpeting, and I saw a lovely lady in pants blue like a robin’s egg, a flowered sleeveless blouse, hot pink lipstick her only makeup.  Hair freshly curled in tight, short curls.  Soft eyes smiling over a coffee cup while her granddaughter devoured bunny rabbit pancakes and cocoa.  In that moment, watching my girls live out a moment of my history, I was intensely thankful that not all of my early childhood memories are sad ones.