School days...

School started Wednesday.

It was an occasion met with mixed emotions. Not one of us really fancies the idea of a 6:30-7:00 a.m. wake up call. In fact, Adia and I decided that school would be much better if it ran from 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. instead of the 8:00 to 2:25 p.m. they have now. I don't think we'll get many takers for that idea.

Despite the early hour, and the looming promise of renewed homework, Adia was excited to start third grade. I am happy to report that she is attending the same school that she has been in. The assistant superintendent, along with the school principal, made a ruling to allow her continued attendance despite the enrollment numbers showing a full third grade there. In fact, the email and letter that I received from the assistant superintendent both referred to the decision being based what was in Adia's best interest. The letter was revised from what I had been sent earlier in the summer to state that transfer requests would be granted based on availability at the chosen school and/or the well being of the child. I was delighted and more than a little bit impressed with the school district's responsiveness. Adia is in class with the teacher she was recommended to be with, and one with whom she has a good standing relationship. I am hopeful that this year will prove to be a good one for her.

Not to be out done in the excitement department by her sister, Malaika was convinced that she was going to be starting kindergarten. Alas, she has another year of pre-K before she is old enough to be enrolled in public school. I am happy that the district started voluntary full-day kindergarten classes this year, and I hope to get her enrolled in one of those next fall.

Despite the lack of change in venue, Malaika was quite anxious to get to wear her new school shoes. From the day we brought them home, she asked me every morning, "Today I can wear my new shoes?" I told her that, no, she could wear them on the first day of Adia's school. On Tuesday, I reminded her that she could wear her new shoes the next day. I'm sure that the excitement didn't help this already bed/sleep resistant one on Tuesday night. She had trouble staying in her bed, in her room actually, and kept running in to bother her sister who truly just wanted to get some sleep. Eventually, though, the pitter-patter of little feet subsided and quiet snores could be heard from the blanket heap in the middle of the bed. When I went in to check on her before I went to bed, I saw something white sticking out from the covers. On closer inspection here is what I found: one four and half year old, fast asleep, with one shiny, brand-spanking-new sneaker on the foot sticking out of the bed. Her satin pj leg was pushed up to her knee. I had to peek beneath the comforter to see, and yes, indeed, there was the other shoe as well. I'm just sorry it was too dark to take a picture.

I did, however get the traditional first day of school pictures of Adia. No school bus pulling away from the house shot this year. It's the mommy bus, aka the Prius, that will be doing the school runs. No matter, she looks like she's ready to go, doesn't she?

The big bad wolf

Being the only parent is not fun. There is only me for the kids to be angry with, and they are angry. They are angry their dad isn't here. They are angry that I set limits and hold to them. They are angry they do not get their way with whining and crying and fit pitching. They are angry that I hold them to a standard of respect for adults and the rules of the world.

And there is no one to back me up. When a limit is being pushed, I stand alone while they hurl their best at me trying to make me bend and break, give in and take away the consequences. I don't. Still, it hurts. In fact, it breaks my heart regularly. I don't like being yelled at. I don't like being criticized and told how mean and uncaring I am. I don't like being accused of never, ever, ever doing anything nice for my children. I don't like being challenged at every turn. You would think I was running a prison camp the way they go on about it. The indignities of being required to make your bed and pick up the floor of your room. The outrageousness of being expected to carry your own beloved stuffed animals and your new clothes all the way upstairs to your bedroom.

The thing is, I know they are sad. And I know, surely better than they can imagine, how sadness that is difficult to feel is eclipsed by anger directed at any convenient and available target. I know that while they yell at me and call me names and tell me what a big bad old wolf they truly think I am, their little hearts are just filled up with too much loss. And I wish I could take it all away and leave them with more sunshine. I am doing my best to bring what sunshine I can. But nothing I do or say will bring their daddy back. And when they want him, I am a very poor substitute.

What they don't know, what doesn't get said - after all they are children and it isn't appropriate for them to think about - is that when they are tucked into bed dreaming of magical places, I am left with the echoes of their anger and sadness that I am powerless to assuage. I am alone with my doubts and my worries about whether or not I am doing the right thing or am being too hard on these girls that are still trying to navigate the loss of their father.

They want to act out and know that I still love them, to know that even in the midst of a tantrum that they will get a hug. They want to come out of their rooms ten times and beg me to come up and give them one more kiss, turn Ellie on one more time. They want to know that I am there, and they need that. And I am. I am here. I may huff and puff from time to time, but I haven't blown the house down yet.

Maybe the big bad wolf just wanted a hug, too.

Gratitude Lists

Malaika: Getting to go to Bunny Park, playing in the water, and I ate lunch.

Adia: Going to Bunny Park. Playing with friends. Getting to help carry things to the park. Going to the grocery store. Picking out something for the church picnic. Helping you make lunch and load the car. Helping you do the laundry.

Me: Fun afternoon in the sun with the girls and friends. Listening to the girls playing their make believe games on their new (plastic) phones. Cool breezes and big fluffy, white clouds. A shower that washes off the crunchy leftover sunscreen. The sound of rain against the windows lulling me to sleep.

Good night. Sweet dreams.

Girls Night In

It was a spur of the moment fashion show. My girlfriends who'd dropped by for the evening, the girls and I all congregated in my bedroom and while they gathered on the bed, I started putting on the dresses I'd bought at the Irish Festival. This is the kind of evening that the cool teenagers on tv spend with all their BFFs. I can definitely see the appeal. We had a blast.

I was in the closet changing outfits when I heard the girls squeal, I'm not sure about what. The next thing I heard was fits of giggles and laughs. Adia was nearly doubled over in laughter when I came out of the closet for another round of oohs and ahhs. My girlfriend said through her laughter, "Adia, you better run to the bathroom, You're going to pee your pants." Adia couldn't have run if the house was on fire. She was laughing with her mouth wide open, eyes wide and bright, and she turned and squeaked to my friend, "No I won't!" Which sent everyone into another round of giggling.

Laughter is hard for me to describe in words. It has been such a long time since I have seen and heard Adia laugh like that. She used to do it all the time, but the past year has been especially difficult for her. The sound of her full out laugh is lilting and bell-like. It rolls off her tongue uninhibited and her eyes dart and twinkle with mischief of the very best kind. She throws her head back and her smile is deep and wide showing the expanse of her mixed adult and baby teeth. And when she tries to talk it rushes out in great gushes of words that sometimes get lost in one another. If you ask her to repeat herself, she will only laugh harder in the attempt to do so.

Malaika's laugh was more of a squeal tonight, but she can giggle with the best of them, too. She has a variety of laughs, ranging from this squealy laugh to a little chuckle and on to full out belly laughs when she is being tickled. She is the most ticklish person I've ever known, and the best way to shift her out of a funky mood, be it sulky or angry, is to tickle her just a little. Laughter then replaces anything that was trying to keep a toe hold.

Laughter is a balm. Somehow, it sneaks it's way into those places where the hurts lie and loosens the grip on them just a little. It wraps itself around the angry places and leaves a gauzy film there that makes it harder to see and feel the angries any more. Laughter is a blessing.

Growing up, I never had girlfriends that I did this kind of thing with. When I shopped, I shopped alone. My bedroom was my private sanctuary and only the occasional out of town guest spent time there with me. I always had the sense that I was missing something. I'm glad I am not missing it any more.

Unlikely angels

Every Wednesday for over a year now, nearly without fail, the girls and I walk into Skyline Chili for dinner and kids' night. Hot dogs cooked on long rolling metal tubes, soft shredded cheddar cheese, monkey dishes full of oyster crackers and, best of all, a craft.

Green, pink, and blue plastic beads strung on a purple pipe cleaner make a bracelet. A paper plate face sports a blue pompom nose, gold glitter lips, and red pipe cleaner hair. The pink foam door hanger declares, "Adia Princess," complete with crown, green sparkle glue and a blue frog. Rainbows of construction paper illustrated with short black marker lines and a circular red scribble.

Every week it is the same thing. Adia eats four hot dogs, no bun, cheese on the side with Sierra Mist in a blue paper cup with a plastic lid. Malaika does the same, though she eats only two dogs. Last week they switched to drinking Root Beer. Most weeks we also share a plate of cheese fries. Dessert in the summer: red, white, and blue rocket popsicles. In the winter, it is individually wrapped two-packs of Oreo cookies. I vary my choices. Sometimes it's a small 3-way onion. Other times I prefer a cheese coney with everything and a garden salad. The blue cheese dressing is served in a cracker dish.

We are greeted like everyone who enters: "Hi! Welcome to Skyline!" But sometimes our meals are on the table before we get through the door and across the room. The assistant manager and the cooks have been there longer than we've been going. The servers change periodically, and sometimes they are gone for a while then come back. One night not long ago, a young man came and sat down with me while the girls were at the counter working on their creations. "How are you doing," he asked. "Do you remember me?" I told him I did and commented on not having seen him in a while. He proceeded to tell me about the hiatus he took as an underwear picker for Victoria's Secret. He wanted to pay off his car before starting college in the fall. We had a good laugh about the hog heaven it must have been, surrounded by Victoria's delights all day long, though the work was tedious. He was glad to be back in the kitchen and was looking forward to heading to Miami University (of Ohio) with academic scholarship money.

The assistant manager has worked his way up from cook and was proud to show me his manager's badge when he was promoted. He regularly jokes with and teases the girls, and has taught Malaika the art of the High Five: Up high, down low...too slow. He blows a lot of steam, but it has been fun to watch his transformation since the promotion. He has the face of someone who has spent plenty of wild times and sports a block O tattoo on his shoulder and, up until a few weeks ago, a long ponytail coiled up beneath a blue Skyline cap. After deciding he was serious about making manager, he had his long blonde locks corn-rowed, because he'd always wanted to try it, then he unbraided and cut the length of his hair off leaving a spikey short do in it's place. He seems more confident to me, less volatile and frustrated than when we first started going in. And he handles well the easy socializing that makes for a good manager in a sit-down fast food joint. He always takes a few minutes to sit with me and see how things are going, tell me of his latest misadventures, and chase the girls into peals of laughter.

This is not the place one would expect to find angels. But there they are. A tall lanky high schooler with an attempt at a mustache bends over the counter to help my four year old glue the pieces onto her work of art. The two cooks - strong, silent types - step out from behind the steam tables and chat quietly, if briefly, before returning to scoop huge piles of spaghetti onto plates and cover it with chili piled high with cheese. The pretty, shy girl who never says much but has an infectious laugh calls out, "Now, that's what I like to see!" as the girls giggle when a foam circle launched from a plastic fork by one of the servers bounces off her head. And tonight, showing a little more softening around those hard edges, the assistant manager does me the favor of taking the family portrait that I didn't think I would ever get.

Things I carry

The truth.
My shoulders back, head high and chin up.
Sole responsibility.
The final say.

The weight of secrets not my own.
False tales told with me as a supporting character.
Inside knowledge only a few believe.
The spectre of lies about which I am not yet aware.

M&Ms in a paper ice cream cup.
A handful of Swedish fish.
Organic lemonade in a plastic bottle.
A yellow binder filled with other people's memories.

Faith and doubt, in separate boxes.

Stones of betrayal.
A black and blue heart.
Breath-taking pain.
Buckets full of white hot tears.

Too much of a good thing

Spontaneity. I am beginning to think that it is the purview of adults.

Having finished the errands and details of the day by 3 p.m., I decided to spring the kids' from their summer program early, take them for ice cream, then let them spend some hot afternoon sun time in their new twirly sprinkler. They were jumping up and down squealing when we got into the car. Seems ice cream is always a hit. Adia practiced her reading skills and told Malaika all about initials while they ate their junior twist soft serve cones. (Don't worry, mom ate ice cream, too. Gotta love those Blizzards; today I tried Heath and Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies...mmmmm!)

At home, I changed out the old hose and hooked up the twist and twirl sprinkler (thank you, Aunt Toni!) while the girls got into their bathing suits, then the water was on. I think the grass was the only one happy about it. "Eeewwww, it's COLD," Malaika screeched. Adia just stood cross-armed and scowled at the water that danced through the air inviting her to join. She was having none of it. "I want it warm," she declared and tossed her head for emphasis.

I was in and out of the house busy, but the screams - not of joy - brought me to a stop on the deck. "What are you girls doing?" I'm sure that I planted both hands on my hips with my right hip probably cocked a bit higher than the left. The girls pointed at one another and in stereo, "She hit me!" I issued a warning and told them to get into the sprinkler. The grass, still, was getting the best end of that deal.

After about 15 minutes of backyard squabbles and grass watering, I went out and turned off the sprinkler. Adia ran after me hollering, "No, no, don't turn it off! Move it to the other side where the other side where the warm water is!" Apparently, she mistook the relief of a sprinkler in Saturday afternoon's hot for water from the hose being not so cold when it came from the other side of the house. Malaika stuck with, "No, I do! No, I do!" with a little rolling on her back in the grass to boot. She is still convinced that this move will eventually work, like Jerry Seinfeld's character from The Bee Movie, "Maybe this time, maybe this time, ..." I told them they could play, go out and swing, anything, but the water was off the table. When they kicked each other on the way to the swing set, I sent them both to their rooms for time outs.

Adia went kicking and screaming, but with a little back rubbing, she finally fell asleep. Malaika took hers quietly then came down and played with her happy meal toy at the kitchen table. I was able to make a couple of phone calls before the end of the business day. After the nap, things looked a little brighter and the evening proceeded without much ado.

I guess maybe the best bet is to save the fun stuff for the weekends. Either that, or I should don my own swim suit and go out and join in the twirly sprinkler's dance.

When Irish eyes are smiling

Some days, Mommy gets a present. After having a houseful of friends and fun and staying up late then sleeping in late, I got out of bed this morning and told the girls, "Get dressed. Let's go to the Irish Festival." The unspoken: Mommy wants to shop. The girls were happy to oblige and squealed their way into clothes. With our cereal bar breakfasts in hand, we headed to the car.

Being half Irish and raised with plenty of Irish tales and music, I have always loved the Irish Festival here. Miles of booths with scrumptious Irish fare; beautiful Celtic crafts, jewelry, and clothes; and stage upon stage with every kind of Irish music and dancing you could ever imagine. It is a balm to my soul and a joy to my heart to spend the day shopping, eating, and toe-tapping.

The best part of it all is that both of my girls are festival goers. This is one area where we all agree and we are game for whatever festival happens to be around. We love the food and the fun, and we don't mind walking and braving the heat to enjoy it.

In the beating of noon-day sun made our way across the festival grounds through the marketplace until we found a booth filled with beautiful Celtic style dresses. I honed in on a section filled with rich hues -- emerald greens, Caribbean blues, and deep, royal purples all decorated with Celtic knot and weave designs. To my delight, the dresses were sized and I quickly found a small and medium to slip over my shirt and shorts in the makeshift dressing room with woven Celtic blanket walls. The girls crowded into the little room with me and gave me their opinions on the dresses. I chose a purple one and one with a fanciful pattern of blues, greens, and purples with gold spirals scattered across.

As a reward, it was time for lunch. Adia has been eating, and loving, fish and chips since she was two years old, so we set out for the traditional fish and chip booth. Right beside it was an open picnic table shaded by a small tree where we enjoyed our fish - at least Adia and I did, Malaika turned up her nose and ate the chips - and listened to some traditional fiddle music.

Along with all the booth wares and music, the festival is chock full of teaching about all things Irish. Storytellers abound, traditional Irish dwellings and games are set up, and then there are the Celtic Canines. After eating, we traversed the grounds until we came to the canine village where there are dogs hanging out with their owners who are more than happy to share all the details of their particular breed with you as well as tales of their beloved animals. The dogs are used to and eager to greet and accept all the love and attention you care to shower upon them.

We made our way down the row, spending a good deal of time with the friendly Wheaton terrier, Fergus, who never met a stranger and licked our faces then let us scratch under his chin - his favorite spot, according to his owner. The red Irish Setter, Molly, glided through her space while we learned that this breed are pointers and used in bird hunting. Adia set the pace and we moved from breed to breed until, finally, at the end of the row, we were rewarded with her favorites.

From the time she could walk, Adia has always loved the enormous Irish Wolfhounds. Being raised with our Siberian Husky, she never had a fear of any dog and was happy to stand nose to nose with the gentle giants. She headed right over to a very large gray one laying beside his owner. We learned that he was 10 months old and his name was Davidson. Adia knelt at his head and Malaika at his tail with me in the middle. He was the largest, I think, of all the wolfhounds there at the time, and that included two adults nearby. I could only marvel at just how large this dog would be when he is full grown at age two. As we chatted with his owner, Davidson stretched out to his nearly three foot length and rolled onto one side, sprawling right over my foot and laying his huge head in Adia's lap. She looked at me and giggled and did not break her petting motion. There being adoreed by strangers, the giant closed his eyes and fell asleep. Adia could not have been more delighted.

At the informational session we learned that wolfhounds, in addition to having been traditionally fast and effective hunters of the Irish wolf, are very much people dogs. They want to be where you are, preferably with a part of themselves touching against or draped across you. We were also told that they meet a person once and from then on are fast friends. "They never forget a person," the speaker said.

With the educational program finished, we made out way back down the row of animals and we spent some more time with Davidson who was finally starting to wake up from his afternoon nap. I think Adia would have taken him home if he'd been offered. Each breed got another petting as we made our way out. And we were off in search of shaved ice to cool us down.

Traditional "fiddledy-dee music," as my Irish friend, Una, called it accompanied a shaded rest while the girls ate their rootbeer flavored ice. We followed the sound of the drum beat from there to the Celtic Rock Stage and whooped it up with a great band called, Scythian, until they finished their set. The girls clapped and danced and followed along with the hand motions as directed.

When there was a break for band changes, we headed over to another maketplace area where we found a fresh offering of Celtic wares. These cotton beauties were died in earthy tones of green, rust, and a beautiful merlot red that caught my eye. After pulling on shirts and a skirt then a dress, I left with I think it the most stunning dress I've ever seen, full of embroidered designs and lacey insets that made me feel elegant wearing it even over my day clothes.

After just a couple of songs from yet another style of Irish rock music, it was getting late and there were still a few chores awaiting me at home. Sadly, but without any shenanigans, we began our trek toward the exit. Our final stop was at a booth I'd spied on the way in that held, beautifully carved in a Celtic font, wooden signs bearing names and words and symbols of all varieties. Together, the three of us chose the first of what will be many welcome signs in multiple languages that will grace the entry way of our new home - Failte, flanked by the thistle on one side and the shamrock on the other. The perfect homage to my Irish and Scottish heritage.

We were hot and tired, and the girls were hungry again as we made our way to the car, yet in grand Irish tradition, we retold our favorite parts of our afternoon adventure as we drove home. Adia loved the music and the dogs. Malaika favored the rootbeer ice. And me? My favorite part was spending the afternoon sharing the things that I love with the two girls I love the most.