Baby girl is a mere week shy of 8 months old now. What a whirlwind these last few months have been. I feel like we're on the quick stumble towards a year and there's not holding her back. She's crawling now. Half the time she's dragging, the other half of the time she's moving her chubby little limbs in perfect sync. Either way she's getting around quickly, and getting into lots of mischief. I'm having to really carefully sweep the floor almost constantly as she's quite happy to put anything and everything in her mouth.
Speaking of food, she's now eating lots of solid food. As with our other kids, we're doing baby led weaning with great success. She can eat pretty much anything, although I'm doing what I can to keep her away from added sugars in cakes and sweets. The best thing about all of this is that she's still breastfeeding. I've never made it this far breastfeeding any of my three other children, and I'm so proud that I'm persevering. She still has a bottle to supplement once every day or so, but it's becoming more and more rare as she seems satisfied with her solids and the breastmilk. I only supplement when all else has failed. She's got two little teeth that are half-way out in her lower jaw, so I've had a few bites from her, but mostly when she's distracted or falling asleep. I've learned how to unclench her little jaw quick! Ouch! Even in the middle of that pain, I remember how lucky I am that I've had all the support I needed to breastfeed her. This morning as I cuddle up in bed with her for her morning feed, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of this moment. She's still so tiny, and yet so big compared to the newborn I struggled to build a breastfeeding relationship with. I held her a little closer and soaked in the sweet, trusting look in her eyes.
She still has so many milestone ahead of her, both big and small ones. I look forward to each of them but also wish I could hold her in this moment a little longer. She is such a ridiculously happy baby, and I know she'll be a (mostly) happy toddler and preschooler, but for now I'm treasuring her littleness as long as I can.
Friday, 13 April 2012
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
A Matter of the Heart
I remember the day I found out I was pregnant with my first child. In the mix of all the emotions was a fear. A tiny, unsettling, and lasting fear. Not fear of the daily duties of motherhood, or how it would change our young marriage. Not even fear that our baby wouldn't be healthy. I was afraid that although I might love our baby, that it wouldn't be enough. That I wouldn't be able to make room in my heart for another person, a person I could barely imagine. I did love the idea of our sweet little baby. Those two pink lines on the test somehow represented her heartbeat and mine, beating within my body. I just couldn't imagine, in that first flush of life as a mess of symptoms how I would learn to love this little person. That fear persisted, a quiet bit of unrest in the back of my mind, until the day our baby girl was born.
The second she was born those fears were washing away in a flood of her tears and mine. She came out pink, crying, and more beautiful than I could have imagine. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to sit quietly and hold her forever while I memorized every part of her. I wanted to drown in the ocean of her bright blue eyes, that searched my face for comfort in this new world she'd be thrust into. I loved her. So deeply and truely. There is nothing like the love you have for your child in those first moments. It's so tangible you can breathe it in. My months of fear seemed laughable in the face of my overflowing joy.
When I saw the two lines on the pregnancy test for our second child, I was surprised to feel that same nagging fear come back. A little voice whispered in my ear that there couldn't be enough love for another. That the amount of love I had for our first child could never find its equal. I feared I would either forget my love for our first child in my overwhelming awe of a newborn, or simply feel nothing or not enough love for this new little life. This new version of my old fear haunted me, woke me up at night, and perused me by day over my entire pregnancy. When I was in labour, I was able to reach down and touch the top of his head while he was crowning. In that moment of life in waiting, I knew like a bolt of lightning that this child I hadn't even seen yet had a place in my heart, and I easily love him as much as I'd loved our daughter the moment I first saw her. When I was finally able to see my two children together the last vestiges of my doubt fell away. I knew, absolutely, without a doubt, that I loved them both deeply and equally. There was no second best. I had simply found love multiplied, not divided.
Today as I held my 4th child in my arms, finally quietly sleeping after a very busy morning, I was reminded again of my old fears. I'm finally starting to understand that the heart isn't made of stone. Just like our womb, the heart has the ability to stretch beyond our comprehension to make room for love enough for however many children we have. There are days that my attention span or even my patience may not be overflowing, but through all of it I never for a second could stop loving any one of my children. I truly believe that even if I had another 10 kids I would make room in my heart to love each of them with the same overhwelming, intense, and personal love.
The second she was born those fears were washing away in a flood of her tears and mine. She came out pink, crying, and more beautiful than I could have imagine. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to sit quietly and hold her forever while I memorized every part of her. I wanted to drown in the ocean of her bright blue eyes, that searched my face for comfort in this new world she'd be thrust into. I loved her. So deeply and truely. There is nothing like the love you have for your child in those first moments. It's so tangible you can breathe it in. My months of fear seemed laughable in the face of my overflowing joy.
When I saw the two lines on the pregnancy test for our second child, I was surprised to feel that same nagging fear come back. A little voice whispered in my ear that there couldn't be enough love for another. That the amount of love I had for our first child could never find its equal. I feared I would either forget my love for our first child in my overwhelming awe of a newborn, or simply feel nothing or not enough love for this new little life. This new version of my old fear haunted me, woke me up at night, and perused me by day over my entire pregnancy. When I was in labour, I was able to reach down and touch the top of his head while he was crowning. In that moment of life in waiting, I knew like a bolt of lightning that this child I hadn't even seen yet had a place in my heart, and I easily love him as much as I'd loved our daughter the moment I first saw her. When I was finally able to see my two children together the last vestiges of my doubt fell away. I knew, absolutely, without a doubt, that I loved them both deeply and equally. There was no second best. I had simply found love multiplied, not divided.
Today as I held my 4th child in my arms, finally quietly sleeping after a very busy morning, I was reminded again of my old fears. I'm finally starting to understand that the heart isn't made of stone. Just like our womb, the heart has the ability to stretch beyond our comprehension to make room for love enough for however many children we have. There are days that my attention span or even my patience may not be overflowing, but through all of it I never for a second could stop loving any one of my children. I truly believe that even if I had another 10 kids I would make room in my heart to love each of them with the same overhwelming, intense, and personal love.
A Memory and a Tribute
I'm not really sure how I fell down this rabbit hole of memory. A bunch of little things I suppose: an old photo, a reminiscence with old friends, an email, a surprising movie title... Here I am, in the middle of an ordinary day, feeling like the kid I was at the age of 13. I can see myself sitting in a worn down old classroom, sitting at a shared rectangular desk with two other girls, listening in rapt wonder to the words of an old book coming to life in the voice of a seemingly unassuming man seated casually at the center of the room.
Every word, every phrase, is spoken with emotion and clarity. We are not "learning" or "studying", we are feeling the story out with this man as our guide. Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men is a short novel, with a moral worth discovering. A favourite of our teacher who seems both old and young all at once. When I had the same teacher again for my final year of junior high I was sick for the few days he was reading of Mice and Men to our class (yes, he read it to every class, every year), but as I sat at home, I could still remember every inflection, character voice, and pause he'd used to breathe life into the book. I still have a copy of the book tucked away on my book shelf, a living memory of a man who had changed the course of my life in a way so subtle yet deep.
We all have that one teacher. The one who taught us something about the world and ourselves that left us completely changed in our very spirit. This teacher was that to everyone he met. I've never met a person who he didn't change for the better. I think his greatest charm was that, besides the fact that he loved his subject, he was a comedian, and he wasn't so self-involved that he would spare even himself a few hilarious barbs. His eyes always had this wonderful sparkle, and he always had a joke ready for every occasion. Not to say they were always good jokes. He was the first person I'd met who was such a devotee of puns (my husband and father-in-law are always quite fond and skillful in this craft!) and one-liners. I've never met another person who could make the rules of grammar quite so clear while so comical. He could be hilarious and then deadly serious. He could engage in physical comedy (usually in relation to his tie as I recall) and then dive right into a moral discussion about euthanasia (or whatever topic was in the news) seamlessly and remain completely credible to his eager students.
These many years later I still remember so many details of my two years as his student. His fondness for a very particular brand of pen, his Comodore computer and digitised pictures of all his students, the poetry books he published of his students work every year (I kept mine, the first time my words were published), his print-out the of rules of grammar, particularly the one for commas, his miles-long final exam that he would invigilate with his trade-mark humour, and so much more. He kept in touch with any student who emailed or sent correspondence, myself included. I met him on the street years after our last class and he remember my name, and that of my best friends (one of whom I'd met in his class back in our first year at the school). The last email I got from him is still saved in my email.
The email is dated from 2005, not long before he passed away. This man, an inspiration in my life and that of so many others, succumbed to cancer that same year. The last email I have from him is full of reality mixed with his trademark positivity. Even though the cancer was taking away his strength, he talked about making a point to go out and enjoy the sunshine. His last lesson to me was so much like every other lesson he'd taught to me: life is worth living, even when things are tough. That dying shouldn't stop you from living life, even if it slowed you down a little.
Every word, every phrase, is spoken with emotion and clarity. We are not "learning" or "studying", we are feeling the story out with this man as our guide. Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men is a short novel, with a moral worth discovering. A favourite of our teacher who seems both old and young all at once. When I had the same teacher again for my final year of junior high I was sick for the few days he was reading of Mice and Men to our class (yes, he read it to every class, every year), but as I sat at home, I could still remember every inflection, character voice, and pause he'd used to breathe life into the book. I still have a copy of the book tucked away on my book shelf, a living memory of a man who had changed the course of my life in a way so subtle yet deep.
We all have that one teacher. The one who taught us something about the world and ourselves that left us completely changed in our very spirit. This teacher was that to everyone he met. I've never met a person who he didn't change for the better. I think his greatest charm was that, besides the fact that he loved his subject, he was a comedian, and he wasn't so self-involved that he would spare even himself a few hilarious barbs. His eyes always had this wonderful sparkle, and he always had a joke ready for every occasion. Not to say they were always good jokes. He was the first person I'd met who was such a devotee of puns (my husband and father-in-law are always quite fond and skillful in this craft!) and one-liners. I've never met another person who could make the rules of grammar quite so clear while so comical. He could be hilarious and then deadly serious. He could engage in physical comedy (usually in relation to his tie as I recall) and then dive right into a moral discussion about euthanasia (or whatever topic was in the news) seamlessly and remain completely credible to his eager students.
These many years later I still remember so many details of my two years as his student. His fondness for a very particular brand of pen, his Comodore computer and digitised pictures of all his students, the poetry books he published of his students work every year (I kept mine, the first time my words were published), his print-out the of rules of grammar, particularly the one for commas, his miles-long final exam that he would invigilate with his trade-mark humour, and so much more. He kept in touch with any student who emailed or sent correspondence, myself included. I met him on the street years after our last class and he remember my name, and that of my best friends (one of whom I'd met in his class back in our first year at the school). The last email I got from him is still saved in my email.
The email is dated from 2005, not long before he passed away. This man, an inspiration in my life and that of so many others, succumbed to cancer that same year. The last email I have from him is full of reality mixed with his trademark positivity. Even though the cancer was taking away his strength, he talked about making a point to go out and enjoy the sunshine. His last lesson to me was so much like every other lesson he'd taught to me: life is worth living, even when things are tough. That dying shouldn't stop you from living life, even if it slowed you down a little.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Stuff Parents Say
I was having a playdate with one of my fave lady friends the other day, and we got on the topic of the crazy stuff we find ourselves saying as parents. Not the usual talk of poop, umbilical stumps, pregnancy cravings or intense labour stories. We all saw that stuff coming (or if we didn't, it became normal so quickly it seems silly to dwell on). I'm talking about the completely random stuff. The "did I just say that?" kind of stuff. The stuff, that when taken out of context, sounds ridiculous at best or gibberish at worst. I've put the word out on Facebook and Twitter to hear a few of your favourite child induced rantings. Here's what I've gotten so far. I'll add more as it comes in:
"When dinosaurs are flying in helicopters it means clean up isn't getting done." from Nichole Bernier (@nicholebernier) [The author of the upcoming novel The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D, which, after reading the previewed chapter on her website, has me very excited that such an intelligent woman can write so well and still find herself saying hilariously non-sensical things.]
"A bellybutton is no reason to be upset!" I said this gem myself. Oldest son was crying at bed time. I went upstairs to check it out and he wailed "I don't want anymore bellybuttons! I want a shiiiirt!" and before I could think of something sensible these words slipped out. That's the last time I put him to bed in just pj pants.
"Apples don't belong in blankets, people! Come on!" There's nothing I can say to make this sound good or normal.
"Stop chewing the table/chair/any furniture!" I can't believe how often I say this to non-teething children.
"I hope that's chocolate on his face. Please let that be chocolate. Did you give him chocolate at nap time? Oh no. It's not chocolate. Oh God. It's everywhere." A messy diaper spreads its grief.
What is it about our kids that they can make even the most reasonable adult sound vaguely out of touch with reality? Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Or the hormones. Or the coffee high. Either way, keep it coming kids. If we can't laugh at ourselves, folks, who can? Actually, probably the kids. I'm pretty sure they're setting me up sometimes. Okay, time for more coffee.
"When dinosaurs are flying in helicopters it means clean up isn't getting done." from Nichole Bernier (@nicholebernier) [The author of the upcoming novel The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D, which, after reading the previewed chapter on her website, has me very excited that such an intelligent woman can write so well and still find herself saying hilariously non-sensical things.]
"A bellybutton is no reason to be upset!" I said this gem myself. Oldest son was crying at bed time. I went upstairs to check it out and he wailed "I don't want anymore bellybuttons! I want a shiiiirt!" and before I could think of something sensible these words slipped out. That's the last time I put him to bed in just pj pants.
"Apples don't belong in blankets, people! Come on!" There's nothing I can say to make this sound good or normal.
"Stop chewing the table/chair/any furniture!" I can't believe how often I say this to non-teething children.
"I hope that's chocolate on his face. Please let that be chocolate. Did you give him chocolate at nap time? Oh no. It's not chocolate. Oh God. It's everywhere." A messy diaper spreads its grief.
What is it about our kids that they can make even the most reasonable adult sound vaguely out of touch with reality? Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Or the hormones. Or the coffee high. Either way, keep it coming kids. If we can't laugh at ourselves, folks, who can? Actually, probably the kids. I'm pretty sure they're setting me up sometimes. Okay, time for more coffee.
Friday, 23 March 2012
Lover and Beloved
Recently my husband has been reading sections of the Bible and sharing his thoughts about what he's reading with me. It's one of my favourite things about our relationships. Lots of couples fall in love and then struggle to find a way to make faith work within the relationship. Everyone's relationship with God is different, and sometimes when we meet we're in different places in our relationship with God. One of the greatest blessings in our marriage (besides our abundance of adorable children. Seriously, I'm not just saying that. They gorgeous) is that when we met, we were seeking a way to give our lives entirely to God. As I posted earlier we had both joined the same religious community with the plan to become a monk and a nun. After we left the community and got married, we still had the same underlying hope for the course of our lives: to seek to do the will of God, to love Him and to share His love with others. I feel blessed that in all of the discussions about our lives that we had before we got married, God was never a question, but instead always a foundation. When we got pregnant the first time, the only real discussion we had about Baptism was who should be the godparents, not if we should have our baby baptised.
There have been times when we've been more and less good at accomplishing the lofty goal of living entirely for the glory of God. Sometimes having four kids makes it very hard to take the time to quiet ourselves to hear God's voice. As always, I find my wonderful husband leads the way. His work requires a lot of dedication and thoroughness, but somehow while creating beautiful cabinetry and furniture, he finds a way to use the silence as an opportunity to listen to the still small voice, and also to pray. I often will get little emails throughout the day about these quiet moments. They inspire me and make me want to take an extra moment while I'm completing a task to give thanks to God for all the blessings in my life. I'm usually interrupted from my thoughts by one of those little blessings chirping for something, but that's the reality of having four small children.
When they're in bed at night, we often find ourselves reflecting on the path God is taking us on, and the beauty of the faith we've inherited. Lately we've been talking a bit about the Song of Solomon (or the Song of Songs). Literally it's a poem of love written by Solomon about his bride, but it can also be read as God's love for his creations. Christ is the lover and we are the beloved. We see in the words of Solomon the love story of the ages, the love that leads to God sending His only Son for our Salvation. After my husband read the Song of Songs he found himself reading the words of Psalm 22. The Psalms were written by King David, the father of Solomon. In Psalm 22, we hear a familiar story. We hear the story of the Crucifixion, and even the words of Christ, suffering on the cross. Somehow reading about the suffering of the Messiah right after reading the Song of Songs gives perfect context to the words "Why have you forsaken me?". Christ took on all of the suffering and torture of the crucifixion for the sake of His beloved. He emptied Himself of all his Godliness because His love was greater than all the sin, sadness and hate in the world. Even though we were full of sin, Christ, always the lover, still saw us as we were intended, the beautiful Bride, and poured out His blood so we could be made clean again.
Perfectly, Psalm 22 is followed by the most famous of the Psalms. The imagery of Psalm 23 is the image of Heaven. "The Lord's my Shepherd, I shall not want. He makes lie in pastures green." After the suffering is done, follows the peace of Heaven. As Easter rapidly approaches, I find it fitting that God has led my husband and I to these three passages in the Bible. In all the drama and distraction of our lives, a gentle reminder that God loves us, gave everything for us, and has a plan for our good gives me the desire to keep trusting in Him. Suffering is but a moment, but at the end of all days, He will carry His bride over the threshold of her new heavenly home.
There have been times when we've been more and less good at accomplishing the lofty goal of living entirely for the glory of God. Sometimes having four kids makes it very hard to take the time to quiet ourselves to hear God's voice. As always, I find my wonderful husband leads the way. His work requires a lot of dedication and thoroughness, but somehow while creating beautiful cabinetry and furniture, he finds a way to use the silence as an opportunity to listen to the still small voice, and also to pray. I often will get little emails throughout the day about these quiet moments. They inspire me and make me want to take an extra moment while I'm completing a task to give thanks to God for all the blessings in my life. I'm usually interrupted from my thoughts by one of those little blessings chirping for something, but that's the reality of having four small children.
When they're in bed at night, we often find ourselves reflecting on the path God is taking us on, and the beauty of the faith we've inherited. Lately we've been talking a bit about the Song of Solomon (or the Song of Songs). Literally it's a poem of love written by Solomon about his bride, but it can also be read as God's love for his creations. Christ is the lover and we are the beloved. We see in the words of Solomon the love story of the ages, the love that leads to God sending His only Son for our Salvation. After my husband read the Song of Songs he found himself reading the words of Psalm 22. The Psalms were written by King David, the father of Solomon. In Psalm 22, we hear a familiar story. We hear the story of the Crucifixion, and even the words of Christ, suffering on the cross. Somehow reading about the suffering of the Messiah right after reading the Song of Songs gives perfect context to the words "Why have you forsaken me?". Christ took on all of the suffering and torture of the crucifixion for the sake of His beloved. He emptied Himself of all his Godliness because His love was greater than all the sin, sadness and hate in the world. Even though we were full of sin, Christ, always the lover, still saw us as we were intended, the beautiful Bride, and poured out His blood so we could be made clean again.
Perfectly, Psalm 22 is followed by the most famous of the Psalms. The imagery of Psalm 23 is the image of Heaven. "The Lord's my Shepherd, I shall not want. He makes lie in pastures green." After the suffering is done, follows the peace of Heaven. As Easter rapidly approaches, I find it fitting that God has led my husband and I to these three passages in the Bible. In all the drama and distraction of our lives, a gentle reminder that God loves us, gave everything for us, and has a plan for our good gives me the desire to keep trusting in Him. Suffering is but a moment, but at the end of all days, He will carry His bride over the threshold of her new heavenly home.
Retro Chic
I've noticed for the past couple of years the things of my youth have become "retro". Every fashion trend, hair style (anyone else noticing mullets are back amongst some celebs?), movie and kids show is making a come back. Often times I find myself rankling at the throw backs that aren't quite spot on. You know the ones I mean, you children of the 80s and 90s. The carefully "updated" re-release of My Little Ponies (why do they look like Bratz dolls?) and Strawberry Shortcake (why is she dressed like a hooker with a pageboy hat thrown on as a diversion?) certainly caught my attention. There was the new Smurfs movie last year and a re-boot of the Star Trek series (okay okay, I totally loved it. LEONARD NEMOY!!). I feel like network executives have set up think tanks dedicated to ways to re-sell my childhood to me now that I have kids.
For those of us who can't quite get behind Dora, Bratz dolls and every other temporary trend designed to sell toys (not unlike the old Hallmark drawings that became a show we know as Care Bears), the mere mention of our favourite childhood shows and toys gets our attention in the midst of all the noise. More often than not I find myself disappointed. My favourite childhood stories twisted and made over into something so strange, I wonder if my memory has betrayed me or if this is just stage of innocence lost. But sometimes, I come across something in the sea of neon, leg-warmers and Blossom jokes on popular sitcoms, that makes me feel like a kid again. Some great examples are the Horton Hears a Who movie (I loved that story as a kid) and the Curious George movie that came out a few years back (the TV show is a killer too. So cute!). Favourite childhood friends came to life in a way that was honest and unique, in a way that made me want to sit on the floor, nose as close to the TV as I could manage without going blind. These were movies I wanted to watch with my kids, without having to censor them.
This week, I finally found another movie to add to our retro throwback repetoire. I kinda love the Muppets. Like, for real. I watched every episode of the show as a kid, every movie, and even the Muppet Babies cartoon. We had toys, puppets, and sheet music. When the Muppets in Space movie came out when I was a teenager, I went with my big brother to soak in the sweet charms of the Muppets however I could get it. My favourite Christmas movie is, without a doubt, A Muppet Christmas Carol (seriously, we watch it year round. It's the best telling of the classic tale ever made). As you can tell, I'm nuts for the Muppets (and Sesame Street too, though in a lesser fashion). The Muppets has always been kid friendly but with a wink and nod to the parents watching. The Muppet Movie from back in the day never had a problem breaking the fourth wall to have a conversation with the audience, even if it made no sense to the plot. Kermit and the gang were masters of the running gag. Fozzie could make even the worst joke funny by simply saying "waka waka". I still laugh like a giddy 5 year old when Miss Piggy starts roundhouse kicking people. So when I saw that there was a new Muppet movie coming out, I was excited. Part of me was nervous because I was afraid that this was going to be a lame re-hashing of old gags just to make some quick cash on the back of my generation.
I did my research and got more excited. The movie was pitched and written by Jason Segel (who I love in How I Met Your Mother), not the brain child of a greedy executive. This is a movie by a fan, for fans. I don't want to spoil any of the movie for those who haven't seen it, but this movie is a tribute to the Muppets and their long history of comedy. A few running gags (I kept expecting a "Have you tried Hare Krishna?" gag, but that's not exactly current anymore), a healthy dose of cameos, an irreverence for the sanctity of the fourth wall, a bit of fan service, and a lot of good old fashioned Muppet fun. Seriously folks, go out and watch it. I'm gushing over here. Part of me hopes they merchandise this movie to death so I can get my kids a few Muppet t-shirts and the requisite Kermit puppet. If the folks in Hollywood could only make every movie with such deep respect for the integrity of the original. I think Jim Henson must be smiling down from Heaven knowing that his creations are still out there, making young and old smile.
For those of us who can't quite get behind Dora, Bratz dolls and every other temporary trend designed to sell toys (not unlike the old Hallmark drawings that became a show we know as Care Bears), the mere mention of our favourite childhood shows and toys gets our attention in the midst of all the noise. More often than not I find myself disappointed. My favourite childhood stories twisted and made over into something so strange, I wonder if my memory has betrayed me or if this is just stage of innocence lost. But sometimes, I come across something in the sea of neon, leg-warmers and Blossom jokes on popular sitcoms, that makes me feel like a kid again. Some great examples are the Horton Hears a Who movie (I loved that story as a kid) and the Curious George movie that came out a few years back (the TV show is a killer too. So cute!). Favourite childhood friends came to life in a way that was honest and unique, in a way that made me want to sit on the floor, nose as close to the TV as I could manage without going blind. These were movies I wanted to watch with my kids, without having to censor them.
This week, I finally found another movie to add to our retro throwback repetoire. I kinda love the Muppets. Like, for real. I watched every episode of the show as a kid, every movie, and even the Muppet Babies cartoon. We had toys, puppets, and sheet music. When the Muppets in Space movie came out when I was a teenager, I went with my big brother to soak in the sweet charms of the Muppets however I could get it. My favourite Christmas movie is, without a doubt, A Muppet Christmas Carol (seriously, we watch it year round. It's the best telling of the classic tale ever made). As you can tell, I'm nuts for the Muppets (and Sesame Street too, though in a lesser fashion). The Muppets has always been kid friendly but with a wink and nod to the parents watching. The Muppet Movie from back in the day never had a problem breaking the fourth wall to have a conversation with the audience, even if it made no sense to the plot. Kermit and the gang were masters of the running gag. Fozzie could make even the worst joke funny by simply saying "waka waka". I still laugh like a giddy 5 year old when Miss Piggy starts roundhouse kicking people. So when I saw that there was a new Muppet movie coming out, I was excited. Part of me was nervous because I was afraid that this was going to be a lame re-hashing of old gags just to make some quick cash on the back of my generation.
I did my research and got more excited. The movie was pitched and written by Jason Segel (who I love in How I Met Your Mother), not the brain child of a greedy executive. This is a movie by a fan, for fans. I don't want to spoil any of the movie for those who haven't seen it, but this movie is a tribute to the Muppets and their long history of comedy. A few running gags (I kept expecting a "Have you tried Hare Krishna?" gag, but that's not exactly current anymore), a healthy dose of cameos, an irreverence for the sanctity of the fourth wall, a bit of fan service, and a lot of good old fashioned Muppet fun. Seriously folks, go out and watch it. I'm gushing over here. Part of me hopes they merchandise this movie to death so I can get my kids a few Muppet t-shirts and the requisite Kermit puppet. If the folks in Hollywood could only make every movie with such deep respect for the integrity of the original. I think Jim Henson must be smiling down from Heaven knowing that his creations are still out there, making young and old smile.
Wednesday, 21 March 2012
Fabric of Our Lives
I'm one of those people that wants to capture the essence of my children, at every age, so that when I'm older I can look back and reflect on their childhood that I was too busy trying to survive to enjoy as fully as I wanted. There are times that I can sit and drink in the delights of their youthful exuberance, wonder, and simple beauty, but those moments are scattered between laundry, cooking and breaking up fights.
I remember when we were waiting for our newest baby, I brought up the boxes of boys and girls clothes to be sorted and prepared. We didn't know which we were having so I wanted a small collection ready because I knew in the haze of new baby I wouldn't have time to sort things out. Two other times I had brought out that box of newborn girls clothes, and two other times I'd quietly tucked them away. This time, however, I couldn't help myself. I unconsciously unpacked every item, nesting it in the little dresser that had only ever been used by our eldest daughter. As I took out all the little, impossibly small items, I was overwhelmed by the joyful memories I attached to each of them. Her newborn scent, which lingered in my memory like the perfume of my Nonna, a familiar friend long gone, rose up from each memory laden garment I pulled out of the box. I felt so silly, grasping on so tightly to the memories of the baby my big girl used to be. She was my first, the child who made me a mother. She was a dream child, the promise of a vision fulfilled in flesh before my eyes, always growing beyond what I could have imagined.
Today I was poring over baby pictures of our newest baby, our sweet and calm little girl. The day we took her home from the hospital, I had dressed her in one of those little dresses her big sister had worn as a baby. A pretty checkered dress that was a little too big for her, which highlighted her littleness. She was a full pound bigger than her sister had been at birth, but still managed to look tiny and helpless. My heart cried out as her scent mingled with the latent scent her sister had imprinted on the dress. There was a newness and an oldness in that moment. I was no longer a first time mother. I had three other beautiful children I longed to return home to. As I held my newest blessing and miracle close, I was still anxious as I had been with each of my three older children, wanting to do right by this little person entrusted to me.
It's funny how something so simple as a dress can trigger those memories. I guess I can't bottle these moments, but in the end the most important moments are woven carefully into the fabric of our lives, in items and photos scattered as guideposts to remind us where we have been, and how far we've come.
I remember when we were waiting for our newest baby, I brought up the boxes of boys and girls clothes to be sorted and prepared. We didn't know which we were having so I wanted a small collection ready because I knew in the haze of new baby I wouldn't have time to sort things out. Two other times I had brought out that box of newborn girls clothes, and two other times I'd quietly tucked them away. This time, however, I couldn't help myself. I unconsciously unpacked every item, nesting it in the little dresser that had only ever been used by our eldest daughter. As I took out all the little, impossibly small items, I was overwhelmed by the joyful memories I attached to each of them. Her newborn scent, which lingered in my memory like the perfume of my Nonna, a familiar friend long gone, rose up from each memory laden garment I pulled out of the box. I felt so silly, grasping on so tightly to the memories of the baby my big girl used to be. She was my first, the child who made me a mother. She was a dream child, the promise of a vision fulfilled in flesh before my eyes, always growing beyond what I could have imagined.
Today I was poring over baby pictures of our newest baby, our sweet and calm little girl. The day we took her home from the hospital, I had dressed her in one of those little dresses her big sister had worn as a baby. A pretty checkered dress that was a little too big for her, which highlighted her littleness. She was a full pound bigger than her sister had been at birth, but still managed to look tiny and helpless. My heart cried out as her scent mingled with the latent scent her sister had imprinted on the dress. There was a newness and an oldness in that moment. I was no longer a first time mother. I had three other beautiful children I longed to return home to. As I held my newest blessing and miracle close, I was still anxious as I had been with each of my three older children, wanting to do right by this little person entrusted to me.
It's funny how something so simple as a dress can trigger those memories. I guess I can't bottle these moments, but in the end the most important moments are woven carefully into the fabric of our lives, in items and photos scattered as guideposts to remind us where we have been, and how far we've come.
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