So, not only is she a singer,

and not only is she wild about music,

but this kid of mine is now a songwriter, evidently;

For this afternoon, as we finished up our lunches and listened to some tunes,

she broke out into an original song, “Murry, Eat My Chicken Fingers”

to the tune of “Rocky Raccoon”.

So, yes. She will be on tour by next summer.

Just you watch.

2 stories.

When I was a Sophomore in college, I found myself on a weekend trip to a small and beautiful town in the Mid Hudson River Valley of New York. Since I was a child, I’ve spent weekends exploring similar places, first by my parents’ insistence (they loved nothing more than spending a weekend at an antique auction or sprawling flea market), and then by my own accord. I began to find the thrill in the treasure hunt and even started a collection of my own: antique salt and pepper shakers.

On that particular trip to New Paltz, I found an extraordinary treasure in the form of a small, worn magnet. It had the name I had chosen for my future daughter, something I always looked for in collectibles and read, “Lady _____: Made with Purity and Excellence”. That magnet stayed with me for years, packed away in the tiny, beautiful paper bag that they gave me at that little vintage shop. And now, as of last week, it is hanging on my refrigerator, holding up a photo of my daughter in a bubble bath. When people spot it, they smile. So do I.

****

Last night before bed, my daughter was being particularly delicious; trading kisses for hugs, engaging in epic tickle torture battles and blabbing up a storm. We knew it would take a lot to wind her down, so we rubbed her back and sang to her as we prepared to start the bedtime routine. We asked her about her day at school and in a slightly dazed and relaxed state, she sat up, looked at her daddy and said, “I paint a rainbow, baby.” And then she held up her hand, raised her two fingers slightly and, looking at him square in the face, said, “Peace, Man.” We nearly fainted from cuteness overload. And I realized, her free spirit may be, in part, credited to the two us, but should also be attributed to her very first Tribe of friends.

*

So, My lady: Made with Purity, Excellence and Hippie sweat.

Good Vibrations

In recent weeks, I have had the privilege of watching as my daughter’s obsession with music has soared to new heights.

She sings along to the radio.

She writes her own songs

(“Sunglasses. I want sunglassES on right NOW. Doggie wears sunglassES TOO. Mommy, sunglassES! Wear sunglassES to Zeydie’s offICE!”)

She plays notes on the piano in time

and turns everything into a drum

and asks for dance parties incessantly.

And I cannot express how happy this makes me.

But, I can’t say I’m surprised.

For as I spent this past Saturday night with my original Fab Four (Mom, Dad, Sis, Moi)

at the Beach Boys Concert

I realized, once again, that she has come by this trait honestly.

Because we (the four of us) lost ourselves in that show.

Like that old saying advises, we truly did dance like no one was watching.

When the Boys did their surfing set, I tapped my foot and patted my thigh, (like the good former drummer I am!)

as my sister swayed rhythmically to the melody.

The four of us belted the words to “Don’t Worry Baby” at the top of our lungs

and swayed, arm in arm, to “Good Vibrations”.

We each put in our right hand, clasped them all together, and waved them back and forth, as one unit, to the cover of “Why Do Fools Fall in Love”.

Fools in love, we were.

And we did The Swim. A lot of it.

We each found our own home in the music

and then joined together

in (what I can only describe as, so pardon the cliche,)

harmony.

It was the best concert ever.

So, the next morning, as we danced to “Wouldn’t it be Nice” in our pajamas,

fighting over who would get the chance to hold the baby as she bopped and swayed and spun around,

I realized that music isn’t just in her

it is in all of us. It’s another member of our family.

Good Vibrations, indeed.

Oh Happy (Mother’s) Day.

Oh happy day, indeed.

In the 23 months since I first began keeping this “baby book”, I have worked towards defining what it means to be a mother.

From scary moments to celebration,

dance parties to dress-up dates,

these small snapshots fit together to paint a cubist picture of a concept that is so precious,

so dynamic,

so colorful

that it is impossible to put into plain words.

But, this morning, on mother’s day, I got a bit closer;

You see, as we sat and ate breakfast

on our bouquet-covered table,

my husband asked my daughter what her mommy means to her.

“What does mommy cook for you?” he asked.

“Pizza. And birthday cake. And quesadilla!” exclaimed my daughter.

“And what does mommy do with you?”

“She plays.”

“What does she play?” he continued.

“She plays jungle.”

And that was that. In my daughter’s own words, what it means to be a mother. She was able to,

with her limited vocabulary,

define what “mommy” truly means.

And what that means to me I may never be able to express…

Except that it means everything.

 

So, it’s bedtime,

and the little one has been washed

and brushed

and lotioned

and jammied.

But, as we were heading towards the bedroom,

the finish line,

she heard music playing from downstairs.

And she perked up.

“Dance party, please, mommy?”

She wants to have a dance party with me.

She said please.

Now how can I argue with that?

So, I guess tonight we will have a different kind of lullaby.

(The very best kind.)

Scenes from The Bean/Happy Birthday, Twin!

So, I’ve been keeping a bit of a secret from you.

Actually, it’s kind of big…

(…at least in this land….the Land of Mom, that is.)

2 weeks ago, I spent my first weekend away WOB (without babe).

It’s taken me this long to share because

a) I had to find the right words

b) I had to process all that it meant to me

c) I have been terribly homesick for the weekend, and I was not yet ready to tap into all of the emotions that came along with it

d) I had many missed baby hugs to make up for

So, let’s start with a little question:

You have a baby, you spend every moment with her (save a few 8-10 hour stretches) for 2 weeks shy of 2 years. It’s time to leave her for the very first time. Where do you go?

I know what you’re thinking.

Duh! So obvious! (In the words of my girl, A,) Obviduh! You go see Twin!

So, after months of planning, (with a few moments of agonizing sprinkled in there) and a six hour train ride,

the husband and I arrived in Boston,

and, more specifically, into the arms of Twinny and Go Go.

It was perfection.

It was so us;

Wandering through Harvard Square, arm-in-arm;

Sharing bites of Grape Nuts Ice Cream and Anadama Bread

and sips of sparkling sake and gourmet hot cocoa;

Lingering in the Poetry and Children’s Books sections of the book store, reading about Haiku and Miro and Eric Carle;

Midnight dance parties and morning ebelskivers;

Our weekend meant so much to us. To all of us.

Our weekend made me feel light

and made me feel happy

and made me feel proud.

But, there’s only so much I can say in words.

So, here they are; Some Scenes from The Bean (and by scenes, I mean iPhone pictures of the food we ate…because that’s what you peeps really care about, right?!):

When I say that our weekend was delicious, I am not just referring to all of the sushi and onion rings and burgers and treats we indulged in during our stay. They were all great, yes, but nothing compared to the pure bliss of 3 solid days with my Twin.

And while it was hard for me to be apart from my little girl

(I missed a whole day of her life,

as that Saturday was the very first and only day of her existence that I missed seeing her wake up in the morning. It was weird, I tell you.)

it was also important.

Important for us (relationship us)

important for us (friendship us)

important for us (Twinship us)

and important for me.

Being a mother (for me) has meant giving all of myself to my little mini. But, in doing that,

in living the life of my dreams,

I lost some of my independent self along the way.

From the moment I became pregnant, my life was lo longer my own. Everything about me began to revolve around my daughter.

And so, our trip to Boston was rejuvenating. It was re-me-venating.

It was just what we needed.

And on that note, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the woman who was not only the Hostess with the Mostest,

but who, in the past 7 years of our Twinship,

has taught me what it means to be a sister, a friend and a golden, genuine, top knotch human being.

Happy Birthday, to my girl, way up Nahth.

I hope that you know how much better you’ve made my life

just by being in it.

I love you and am honored today, and always, to call you my twin.

Happy birthday, Happy Everything,

Happiness Always.

 

 

Oh happy day.

Thank you, my sweet friends,

(online, offline, and everywhere in between…)

for making me feel this special.

(Which, by the way, is SO special!)

Today has been a lovely a day

and it’s only 1pm.

So thank you, thank you, thank you.

(And, by all means, keep it comin’!)

Love and Macaroons,

The Bday Gal.

Some folks.

There are some folks who are born athletes

and others who must work at it.

Much like how there are some folks who take up jogging

and decide to buy new running sneakers…

while other folks take up jogging

and decide to buy new music.

Hmmmmmmm.

Bet you can’t guess which of these folks I am.

Oh. Sorry. I can’t hear you.

I have my headphones on.

Encore.

In recent days, I have watched as my daughter’s intense love for music has grown immensely.

It has grown, intensely;

Incandescently.

My girl now sings songs. Entire songs.

The guitar strums it’s first chord

and she knows the song, instantly,

and she begins.

And this is all wonderful.

But, it is her musical abilities that impress me so much less

than her musical soul.

Because, not only can she pick out songs,

but she can feel the music.

I can see it. She makes me feel it, too.

One of our favorite pastimes has become “Snuggle Music”,

a time during which she rests her head on my stomach and we play music from the computer;

everything from “Jolene” to “Jackson Five”;

I pick songs for her and she tells me how she likes them. Today she was into “Dancing in September” and the “Disco Man” animations playing during this Youtube version of Earth Wind and Fire.

We create a playlist, together.

We snuggle. We listen.

And if she’s really feeling music, she starts to sing. Without knowing the song, she just starts to hum along,

and then, her lips part and she begins to make a melody of her own and she sways to the notes and weaves in and out of the verses with the song she is hearing (and the one she is creating).

Today, I played this song for her.

This song is staggering in it’s own right.

And during the first few measures, my daughter protested, asking for “Disco Man”.

But then, I saw her succumb to the melody; to the pain in the piano’s notes; to the heartbreak in his voice.

And then, she began to sing along.

I lost my breath, as tears began to fall down my cheeks.

My daughter is a musician.

I am so proud to know it.

 

 

“Don’t dream it…”

Tonight, after a light dinner and cool walk, I watched my daughter as she saw the Intro to Rocky Horror for the first time…

as she studied the lips and whispered, “Wow!”

and then stuck a slice of cheese on her head, as a hat,

and then sang along (she learned the words to the chorus after her first listen)

and then asked for more.

And as I watched, I thought,

That’s my kid!

That’s my kid, alright!

And to that I say, Don’t Dream it, Be it,

baby. And don’t you ever forget it.

(Cheese chapeau and all.)

Setting the tone(/tunes).

Morning jams,

a prelude to a wonderful day.

(Hmm?

What’s that?

You’re like ‘Whoa! She’s so old school! She listens to songs on YouTube when her phone is literally an iPod!’

And to that, I say, “You’re right.” And this is not even the half of it. Just the other day my husband was poking fun at me for listening to my “Brutal Youth” cassette tape. )

Oh well. What can I say? Just how I roll.

Some girls have diamonds on the soles of their shoes

and others

have cassette tapes.