Two days before I left on my trip to Austin my mother flew in from the Midwest.  She came for two reasons, both greatly appreciated.  My trip was very close to my daughters birthday, for which my mom comes into town each year anyway.  But the timing, the early arrival was due to the fact that Mike and I were both heading to SXSW leaving no one here to care for the almost birthday girl.

Here enters Nana.

Of all the grandparents, and K has a complete set of 4, her bond seems strongest with my mom.  Now I’m not K or my mom so I can’t say for certain what’s behind the closeness of their relationship, but the two of them are a sight to see.  My mother’s complete adoration and affection for her only grandchild is not the only thing that drives her closeness to K.  I think it’s also that neither my brother nor I ever had a close relationship with our grandparents.  There were many reasons, all of them valid but none of them needing to be discussed here.  I know that she doesn’t want that to be the case with K.  And K, well she and my mom seem to have a lot in common.  Aside from their love of arts and crafts and Brendan Fraser there’s also slightly twisted evil sense of humor that they share and K revels in it.

That’s why when I left town without her for the first since she was born, we asked my mom to come and stay with her.

All I expected, all I asked from her, was to take care of K.  Oh, and to hem my new jeans and make all the final preparations for her birthday party.  And to clean my kitchen.  Oh and bake a birthday cake.  But that’s it.  Oh… wait no.  Laundry.  I had her do laundry too.  Oh and to take care of Morgan while I was gone.  And…. well never mind.

My point is that mainly I just asked her to take care of K for me.

But the day after she arrived, as I was doing the final pack on my suitcase my mom handed me a small baggy of safety pins.  She’d used them when she hemmed my jeans because she couldn’t find my straight pins anywhere and when she was done she packaged them up and gave them to me.  She told me to pack them just in case.  “You never know when you might need them” she said.

And so I put them in the bag with my leatherman, my extra gum and my rose scented bodywash.  All things I couldn’t leave behind.  There they were promptly forgotten until a few moments ago.

When I unpacked it was in a heap.  I just needed to get it done and get back to normal as soon as possible and so when I emptied the bathroom bag the safety pins made their way into, I didn’t give them a second look as I put them into the train case that holds my makeup and odds and ends.  But as s I opened it after my shower today to put away my glasses I saw them there, wedged between a compact and my powder brush and couldn’t help but smile.

I may have asked her to come all that way to take care of my child… but in truth she made the trip to take care of her own.

Every night has the same routine.

That doesn’t mean that every night is the same.  They all have their own special set of circumstances.  A different set of challenges.  Conversations.  A new story to read or a new chapter to begin.  The pjs change.  Sometimes the cats curl up at the foot of her bed.  Sometimes one curls up on my lap.

Sometimes she fights it.  Sometimes she bounds into her room climbs into bed and beams at me waiting.

But then I lay down beside her, my sweet girl that despite having just turned 8, is still little.  I climb into the covers and push her over.  I fluff her pillow and she lays down to hear a story, just like so many nights before.  I pick up the book from her bedside table and I read.

No.  I don’t just read.  I tell the story.  I make the voices.  I watch her face as the tale unfolds.

And then, just like the night before and the one before that, the story ends much too soon for her liking. Her lip turns down and she makes some plea or excuse and I close the book, setting it aside to put away or read another day.

She sits up and I fluff her pillow.  Again.  And just as she lays back down I scoop her up in my arms for a hug.  I give her a kiss.  Tonight, she gets an extra kiss just because.  And then it’s our own little series of kisses.  Sweet and silly that we’ve added to over the last 2 years, before she finally rolls on her side and breathes deeply.

Sometimes she fights and fusses.  Wiggles.  Knocks on her wall.  Plays with one of the many stuffed animals she’s squirreled away in her sheets or peers at me over too long lashes.  Sometimes though she’s ready and lets sleep fall over her in a moment.

In the end though, I always see her sleep.  Eyes closed.  Breath even.  A smile just tugging at the corner of her mouth.

My little girl, will always be little in her sleep

Eight years ago my life changed in the most amazing way.  I met the most remarkable person.  Someone who will be tied to my heart, my life, my existence for all time.  It was eight years ago today that my beautiful daughter K was born.

When I held her in my arms I didn’t imagine what she would be like 8 years later… I just gazed at her lovingly in a stupor brought on by 3 days of induced labor and painkillers.  As exhausted as I was though the last thing I wanted was to sleep.  I just wanted to hold that tiny little person in my arms and examine her face.  Listen to her little baby noises.  Watch as she scrunched up and released her tiny body.

Eight years ago she woke me up with labor pains.  This morning she woke me up with a giant hug and an excited reminder that “TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY”

She’s right.  It is.  And it’s a day to celebrate.  A day to smile and laugh.  A day to spoil her just a little more than usual.  And a day to remind me that she’s a person to be celebrated always.

Eight years old.

Aside from a few common physical characteristics that we share, I often find my daughter’s similarities to me to be among her most difficult traits.  As much as I am proud of her for so willfully being her own person, it makes her a difficult child to parent especially when we’re both so determined to have our own way.  Similarly disturbing to me is her sensitive nature which runs the gamut between unfailing kindness at the cost of her own happiness to pissed off trucker mouth railing against the world and all the perceived injustices within it.  Her complete preoccupation with her own reflection is another tell tale trait of mine, though since she’s still a kid and most children grow out of that phase, I’m holding out hope that her narcissism will come to an end more swiftly than mine.

Tonight though, over dinner, just the two of us, K shared with me her new love.

Writing poetry.

We were already having kind of a special night, she and I, but as she began telling me about her poems and then began arranging words on the spot,  my heart melted more than a little.  Since before she could read or write K has loved telling stories.  She would have me write them down for her when she was 3 years old and would ask me to read them back to her over and over again as she corrected her meaning or the name of some bunny that was off on an epic adventure.  But until tonight the story, not so much the words, has been the important thing.

She’s always loved poetry.  I started reading her poems long before she should be able to remember them, and it seems to have stuck with her.  She told me tonight that she’s no longer satisfied with telling stories or poems that rhyme, “They’re nice and all but sometimes it’s hard to say what I mean if the words have to sound the same”.

I asked her why she thought she liked writing poetry so much and she told me she’s pretty sure it’s because she’s my daughter.  Pretty sure that I love words so much that she got it from me.

That was the first of two times my darling little girl made me cry this evening.  Happy tears.  Proud.  Full of joy.  She’s been having a bit of a tough time lately, and though I know what the problem is, at the moment there’s nothing I can do to fix it. All I can do is be there to talk to her and let her talk to me.  We seem to be getting pretty good at it.

Between that and our shared love of boots, I think K and I are going to be just fine.

We all know that everyone dies.  It’s a fact of life.

The fact.

It’s what makes us all human.  Mortal.  Real.

That doesn’t make its sting any less painful.  Any less jarring.  It doesn’t stop you from missing someone that you love.  It doesn’t make knowing you will never see that joyous loving smile again any easier.

A week ago we went to visit Mike’s grandmother, she was near the end of her days.  The entire family knew she would die soon.  It was a deathbed visit and we all knew it.  On our way to visit her we stopped for flowers.  We thought it would be right.  The right thing to do to bring her something but anything permanent seemed silly.  We let K pick out the flowers.  Something for her to do, to be in charge of.  She looked at pink roses, peach ones, yellow ones and couldn’t decide between them…

During our visit Mike sat by her bedside holding her hand, K sang and danced for her, I kissed her hand and cheek and told her I loved her.  She slept as much as she was awake so we did most of the talking.  We thought of the day we were married and talked about my boots.  I wore a beautiful white gown but underneath I had huge black boots.  Irmgard laughed and clapped her hands when she saw them…

We went back a few days later to visit her and I saw that the flowers were still there, I worried then that the roses would outlast her.  I immediately felt guilty for thinking it, for considering her death.  For knowing it was almost time.  I watched her body strain as it took long hard breaths.

Around 4 in the morning on August 11th Irmgard died in a hospital bed in her daughter’s house.  Though I wasn’t there, I can’t help but think that on the dresser sat a vase of roses, pink, peach and yellow.

This Summer vacation has been filled to the brim with NOT being on vacation.  We’ve been swarmed with busies.  Engulfed by the things to do.  Inundated with important tasks… Well this weekend we said NO MORE!

It’s been a tough week.  Mike’s grandmother continues her trek to the end of things and that weighs heavily on all of us, though at the same time it reminds us that life is here to be lived.  After a visit with her on Saturday we took off and got out of the city for a bit.  What started as a trip to the Girl Scout GirlFest ended up being a trip to the Air museum in McMinnville.  We were so close to the coast we could taste it.  It would have taken us less time to get to the beach than to get home, but responsibility and love called us home to visit with Grandma again.  We made a decision in the car though… Sunday we were heading for the beach.

And that we did.  We were out of the house well before noon and with this family that’s a minor miracle.  We made it to Mo’s in time for lunch and then spent hours walking in the ocean and along the beach.  K and I let the water lick at our toes or ran into embrace it while Mike stayed just out of reach of the foamy waves.  Then it was time to head home, but not before a trip through town to see the little shops and find some salt water taffy.

The short time out of the city reminded us how much summer vacation we need to pack into the next month… and with our schedules it’ll take some doing… but hey, I’m a doer.

What?  I can be a doer if I’m not too busy doing nothing.

I had this big long post written up about something I did over the weekend but it needed some tweaking and a little touching up to keep me from sounding like a completely vacuous monster.

I kid. But not about that.

As I sat down to work on it and make my perspective more clear, life began to intervene and other thoughts pressed to the forefront of my mind.   Today all my laser sharp concentrated thoughts are being sorted and pressed aside to deal with some of the realities at hand.

Life is bigger than we are.  Sometimes that means great things, sometimes that means dealing with difficult things.  Today we’re dealing with the latter.  I’ve been fortunate in my life, I’ve had to deal very little with illness and death… but time, how she marches on.

We’ll head off soon to visit with Mike’s grandmother who, in broad terms, isn’t doing well right now.  What kind of immediacy we’re talking about, what state she’s in, I don’t know.  I can’t think.  I just want to go and sit and hold her hand and keep a brave face.   To tell a woman who has been a sweet and wonderful presence in my life for the last 10 years how much she’s loved.  By her grandson, by me, by her great granddaughter.  I want to smile and think beautiful thoughts and not worry that her heart has begun to weaken and that she’s tired.

The last time I saw her I asked how she was doing and she hugged me close and told me “I’m tired, Cami”…

I know what she meant.

But now I’m just worried.  And scared.  Dealing with dark times is something I can do, but not something I relish.  But now, for the first time I have to deal with this as a parent.  K loves her.  I’m torn between the absolute uncertainty I feel about what’s going on, the sorrow and the pride I feel watching K… so empathetic… so concerned… so sad and worried.  She is a brave and beautiful child who wants to comfort her loved ones… even when it frightens her.

But mostly what I think of is what she said to me,  “I’m tired, Cami”

I worry about just how tired she is.

Oh hell babies, there is a huge disturbance in the force here at the house of Kaos.

Did you guys know I used to be a barista?  I was.  I used to make people coffee… espresso… tea… variations there of. When I first started I drank a lot of espresso.  A LOT.

I’ve never been a coffee drinker, you know like just coffee.  The stuff you brew and then you just drink it from a coffee mug.  Maybe with a little milk or sugar.  I don’t like that stuff.  I used to try to drink it in high school when I was doing backstage work in theater but I put ice cream in it before I drank it so I don’t think it counts.

But then I met espresso in the form of mochas and shots of espresso.  We were really close espresso and I.  It was a good relationship because I was like, 21, and I went out drinking every night and then was super exhausted when I woke up after only 3 hours of sleep and had to give coffee to very sleepy grumpy people.

I loved espresso then.  LOVED IT.  But after a while it started to hurt my delicate little tummy so I switched to chai.  Chai, for the record, can do lovely caffeine things for you.

It can hop you right up.

But not like espresso can.

Lately the strongest caffeinated beverage I drink is iced tea.  I love tea.  It’s lovely and fresh and what have you.  But today my beautiful iced tea, it wasn’t enough.  I barely got any sleep at all last night.  I was in my bed, laying down, eyes closed, sheets above and below me.

My bed?  It is super comfortable.

But still sleep would not come to me until… 5ish.  I woke up at 8ish with a bouncy 7 year old and try as I might I never managed to fall back asleep.  I tried for 2 hours to nap but no dice.

Then 4PM rolled around.  It hit me like 10 pounds of sand from a disgruntled sandman.  I was dragging.  I was tired.  Tea wasn’t cutting it.

So I did what anyone would do, I took my kid down to the gelato shop and got a 16 oz espresso laden nonfat mocha.  So maybe that’s not what everyone would do, it’s totally not what I would normally do but it seemed like a really good idea 30 minutes ago or so when I did it.

No longer any risk of me falling asleep… until I come down from this SUPER TALL caffeine high.

tap tap tap

click click

pop pop pop

snap snap snap

clap clap clap.

Yep… I’m awake now, but totally and completely useless.

Today is all about the fun.  About the good times.  How much awesome stuff can K and I pack into one afternoon without leaving the house.  Those are the two most important parts of the day… FUN and NOT LEAVING THE HOUSE.

In a little over an hour I’ll take her to Music Camp for a couple of hours where she will play, sing and dance with friends and the music teacher from her school.  That’s the only outing there will be today, and with good reason.

When I pick her up at noon she and I will giggle and sing and hurry home through the lovely tree lined streets of our neighborhood.  We’ll come inside and make fresh pizza because that is awesome fun.  We’ll watch a movie of our choosing and when that’s over we’ll read books, sing songs, play puzzles and probably play dress up (which will result in me looking like a gypsy fortune teller… it always does).

And then at some point the carefully constructed veil will be shredded and her tears will flow hot and heavy down her face, soaking my chest and shoulder as her tiny frame sobs with abandon.

Today, Nana flew home.

As I type this she’s probably in Denver waiting for her next flight.  K got up at 4:40 AM to say goodbye to her.  We sat with her at the dining table and laughed and talked and then there were hugs and kisses goodbye.  Mike drove her to the airport and then I took K in my room to curl up.  We read a couple of chapters of a book (just like bedtime) and then snuggled into my huge bed with fluffy blankets and pillows and tried to go to sleep.

Every time I started to drift away to the land of dreams she had something to say.  She couldn’t sleep. Her stomach hurt.  Could she have a drink of water?  Was it time to get up?

Before I knew it Mike was home from the airport and my mom’s flight was in the air.  When K asked me if she could go watch TV I said yeah, sure, of course you can.  Mike got ready for work and I went back to sleep.  The first thing I remembered when I woke up was K’s question last night.  A favor she asked me right before she went to sleep…

“Mama, can we just play tomorrow and not talk about it?  That Nana went home?”

Of course.  We don’t have to talk about it…  until she starts to cry and tell me how unfair the world is.  But until that happens it’s going to be all fun all day.

My bet is it happens before dinner.