There was so much to do today.  Drop off library books, laundry; donate blood; make arrangements for spending the weekend at my friend’s fishing camp; buy wine glasses and cookbooks.  It was a loose script of a day; the kind Sun and I like.

As we drive into the French Quarter, the rain started to come down in buckets.  The streets began to flood as I was looking for a parking spot.  Rain in the French Quarter is something I LOVE.  It quiets and cleanses the streets.  It slows folks down even more.  After finding a spot close enough, we hop out of the car and immediately step in puddles over our ankles.  And the pelting rain is soaking our clothes.  We dash the block and into La Maison d’Absinthe.  Sun and I look at each other, each looking like we were fished out of the River, and laugh.  We look ridiculous.  And for what? Wine glasses.

Last time I was here, I’d spied these fleur de lis wine glasses that match the glassware we registered for when my husband and I married.  I bought the only two they then had and this was my return trip to get six more.  When the clerk gave me the total, it was too low.  I repeated the amount to her as a question.  She explained everything in the shop was TWENTY FIVE PERCENT OFF.  I swooned.

But for already having so many items from here, I’d have been in SERIOUS trouble.

Tara and Brian, this one’s for you two.

They had cool rock glasses similar to the wine glasses I was buying but with dragonflies on them.  Had they had them with the fleur de lis, they’d have been mine.

I kept scouring the store for anything that I may have overlooked in the past or that I now cannot live without.  Many items tempted me.  Mostly this one:

I don’t burn the sugar that goes into my absinthe.  I don’t always even include sugar.  But this cool match holder/striker, oh, how I coveted.  And now I am scratching my head as to WHY I passed it up.  Dammit.  Soon, it shall be mine. Maybe tomorrow? Ugh.

Once we had our glasses wrapped securely, the rain had stopped.  Of course.  We walked back to our car with the water glistening all over the Quarter.

I wish I could say our next stop, Kitchen Witch, was as equally decadent.  But, sadly, it was not.  I really, really want to love this store.  But their local collection is just so-so, and their customer service needs serious tweaking.  For example, if your website says you have a book in stock, and I cannot find it, and your clerk cannot find it, the proper clerk protocol is NOT to hand me a business card and tell me to call next week because you expect to order some soon.  And in the past, when I’ve called to check their inventory and they’ve had to call me back, THEY NEVER HAVE. Ever.  Yes, this has happened more than once.  In a world where we can find rare, out-of-print books online so readily, a brick-and-mortar store has one advantage: physical contact and thus the opportunity for top notch service.  Kitchen Witch is SO not that place.  They could be.  And I hope they want to be.  But will I be calling next week to see if the book I can order online came in? Sadly, no.  Not unless it coincides with my return visit to La Maison d’Absinthe; in that case, I MIGHT give them yet another chance.

For those of us who returned after Hurricane Katrina to the Gulf coast, and to New Orleans, we frequently get questioned: Why did you return? How could you have returned?  We evacuated to Little Rock on Sunday.  Monday, my husband flew to Philadelphia for his job; he returned two weeks later.  I spent much of those two weeks in a stupor, worried about my future, the future of New Orleans and the entire Gulf coast area.

Monday, September 12, 2005, Little Rock, Arkansas.

As I drove to the airport to pick up CS, I was barely able to keep the tears back.  I should have been ecstatic to be seeing him after a two week break, but, I realized, a lot of my emotions had been at bay with CS not around.  Now that the one person to whom my emotions could not be concealed was returning, my emotional dam was breaking. I think he assumed my stand-offish welcome indicated that I wasn’t as happy as him to be together again.  In truth, my heart was breaking anew and if I spoke of it in detail, the tears would come.

We returned to the hotel in relative silence.  I retreated into a hot bath; CS joined me.  I lay my back on CS’s chest; he snaked his arms and legs around me and buffered me from the outside world.  And in that steamy, watery cocoon, with the overhead heater whirring us into further isolation, the angst released from me.  I wept and grieved. I wailed and convulsed.  I dissolved into the bath water and became the whirring of the heater.

*     *     *     *

One hundred and fifty years ago, ancestors on both sides of my family traveled from Europe to America with little more than the clothes on their backs and hope in their hearts.  They traveled rough seas in steerage compartments of overflowing vessels.  They landed in New Orleans and put down roots.

I never knew WHY my ancestors chose New Orleans over, say, New York or Galveston.  But I do know they never looked back.  This became their new home.  They got jobs, bought real estate, paid taxes, married, lived, and died.

Five years ago, I returned to New Orleans alone.  My husband was working long hours in Little Rock and I felt I could be of better use back home.  There was no discussion of NOT returning: our home did not flood; our jobs remained in place; our mortgage was still due.

That Thanksgiving, we traveled to Taos, NM.  We were still bruised from Katrina but brave enough to venture out.  A clerk in a store inquired where we were from.  “New Orleans?” he snarled with a sneer, “I don’t know why they are bothering to rebuild. It’s not worth my tax dollars.”

I was stunned.  Or rather, stung. I quietly placed the necklace I was about to purchase down and walked out of the store.  Other customers apologized for the clerk and hugged us.

Now, when I get that question, “Why did you return?” I find it in poor taste.  It’s akin to “Why do you (not) believe in God?”  Sure, it may be a question you are curious about, but it’s certainly a tad rude.  The question itself condemns–suggesting that the thing done is unreasonable, miscalculated, and, downright wrong.  I no longer struggle to defend my decision; my city.  I no longer rally to win over people to love New Orleans, see her even, as I do.

How many years can a mountain exist before it’s washed to the sea?  ~ Bob Dylan (1963)

Wherever one lives, there are issues of weather.  Tornadoes, earthquakes, floods, volcanoes.  And hurricanes.  I’ve lived my entire life with hurricanes.  I even admit to liking them.  There’s something spectacular about Nature making the crazy world we live in STOP and take heed.  The water; the whirring of the wind.

We humans like to pretend Earth is something we possess.  I mean, we buy and own real estate as though that entitles us to possess that very earth forever.  But it is just pretend.  The Earth, New Orleans, doesn’t have the same footprint it had one hundred and fifty years ago.  In Louisiana law schools, they teach about alluvion land — how levees naturally enlarge and reduce; how borders and edges get claimed by the wetlands or are expanded by deposit of lands brought in from the rivers.

We Louisianians have always appreciated the ephemeral quality of the land and the water.  Maybe it’s the high humidity we have.  Maybe our lungs, upon close inspection, are more similar to gills. We are hardwired differently.  And you don’t have to be born and raised here to have this hard-wiring.  Countless people I know came to New Orleans as though she called to them in their sleep.

Why come back?  Why risk a life lived in a city doomed to be reclaimed by the sea?

In November of 2005, CS and I discussed leaving New Orleans.  Although where else in this country we’d live, we had no idea.  We’ve traveled to many U.S. cities. None are home.  But we resolidified ourselves to this city.  We choose to walk in her steamy wet summer days, risk seasons of hurricanes, endure mosquitoes biting on ankles, and houses built on shifting sands.

Why?  Because we can.  Because we know that one day every city will be washed to the sea.  And that our city’s time of offering us her gems is limited.  There would be no peace in wasting that limited time away from her and her gifts.

In those early dark, dank days, Tide recognized what I realized that night in the tub: Cleaning cleanses. Tide Detergent pulled into New Orleans when others feared to come near. They drove their Loads of Hope van housing 32 energy-efficient washers and dryers capable of completing 300 loads of laundry a day, and began the task that says Monday in New Orleans as loud as Red Beans and Rice: washing laundry. For free. For those who had no electricity or facilities to clean for themselves. And in that act of community, healing began.

Since Katrina, Tide has not been short on disasters, natural or man-made, to keep its Loads of Hope crews busy.  Hurricanes; wildfires; floods.  The disaster may be what’s marked in the books as historical, but it’s the survival of the people, the dusting one’s self off–cleaning and cleansing–and moving forward that is truly remarkable.  Hope remains in the Gulf coast.  As does Faith.  Faith Hill.  In recognition of the Fifth Anniversary of Katrina, Faith Hill has partnered with Tide Loads of Hope to give a free concert for the city tomorrow, August 24, at the Mahalia Jackson Theater for the Performing Arts. The Dirty Dozen Brass Band is the opening act.  Because even years later, we still need cleansing and healing.

This post was commissioned by Story Bleed as part of their *Hope Remains* carnival, sponsored by Tide Loads of Hope.

“Mom,” Sun sings as she steps out of the bathroom, clean and damp.  Her mother lay in her darkened room too tired to respond.  “Mom!” Sun happily runs through the rooms, seeking.  Still, her mother stays quiet.  “Mommy,” Sun insists as she leaves the front rooms, diligent in her search.  “Mommy. . . ” Methodically, Sun reaches her mother’s room.  Her mother smiles and opens her arms; Sun enters the embrace, never doubting her mother was steps away all along.

*     *     *

Potty training makes no sense.  How does a child learn how to listen to her body as to WHEN she needs to potty based on being placed on the potty every, say, 10 minutes?  Just because she in fact does sit on the potty when the moment strikes and she thus does pee in the potty, how does that translate itself in her head that the moments leading up to that are what she has to learn to feel next time?

For Sun, it’s not much different than other children.  She makes progress, then regresses.  But it’s two steps forward and one back.  She should be fully out of diapers soon.

I hope this is the best story I’ll have to relay to her when she’s older:

Sun was practicing with no diaper–just a skirt.  She came out of her playroom and explained that she “had spilled.”  We cleaned her up and replaced her skirt, socks and shoes.  She returned to her playroom.  “Poopies. Gross!” She exclaimed.  “What?” I asked, having checked where she had stood after her “spill.”  “The cat pooped!” she explained.  And there it was–three feet from where I thought she’d spilled.  A poopie. But clearly not from the cat.

Three years old and blaming smelly accidents on the innocent, old cat without as much as batting an eyelash.

A heart is not measured by how much you love but how much you are loved by others.

~ Wizard of Oz

Love is a funny thing.  It makes us do funny things.  But in my case, it tends NOT to bring tears to my eyes.

When CS got down on bended knew in a horse-drawn carriage under the blue shooting stars in Celebration in the Oaks to ask me to marry him, it was love.  He still rolls his eyes that I didn’t shed a tear of joy.  When he and his friend returned months before our wedding after a three-week trek in Europe, the friend’s girlfriend cried as she ran to her beau’s arms.  I just sheepishly smiled and ran to CS’s arms.

Don’t get me wrong, I love deeply, and my love for CS is unending.  It’s just, that, well, I’m not a warm and fuzzy person.  For example, if you are a friend and break down in tears in front of me, I WILL hug you, but I will say “I’m going to hug you” before I do so as not to startle you.

This is true for my love of my friends, my husband, my family.  I’d do anything for anyone I love, but give a big HUG or sweet little nothings?  Just not the way I roll.

With one exception.  Sun, of course.

When I first set my eyes on her in the operating room, I wept.  And I couldn’t even see her that well because my glasses weren’t on.  But all the concern I’d had for her growing in me, all the love I’d honed for those 35 weeks of pregnancy, all the overwhelming emotion welled out of my eyes and I cried unabashedly.

But that was SO three years ago.  I now have a toddler on my hands.  One that is learning to sometimes be sassy or rude or petulant or spoiled.  But who also has that innocence that only a child can possess.

I lay with her each night in her new big full size bed.  I read stories to her; I sing to her; I show her pictures of when she was a baby.  And it never fails, never, that my heart grows a bit each night.  My heart feels like a partially deflated balloon, and each night another wrinkle is blown taut.

I know that being three, Sun is still earning love for me to put in the bank that can be drawn upon when she’s older and testing me further.  But I cannot help but feel that she is the external manifestation of my heart.  And her daddy’s too.  And I suppose all parents of toddlers feel the same way.

Children are the best hope we have in the world.  They are our future.  And to believe in them; to allow the fullness of our love for them to be recognized; to wallow in the joy of their open-eyed wonder is a most precious gift.

I had a dream over the weekend, the kind that when you wake up you are pissed at your spouse over.  You know the type, right?

I dreamed it was the day of our wedding and we were at his house getting ready.  All sorts of family and friends were roaming around.  The house was not what our house really looks like, but that damn pool we need to have dug up was in the backyard, so I *knew* it was in fact his house.  The friends were commenting about a neighbor that too had a pool that needed to be dug up.

Anywho, I was in a spare bedroom getting dressed and went into the master bedroom.  It was familiar but not overly so.  On the far wall was a door to the master bathroom.  And near that was a door I had, yanno, never noticed before.  It was opened, and CS was in the next room.  I walked into the new room and was pleasantly surprised.  We need this space!  “What’s this room?” I asked CS.  “It will be my darkroom,” he answered.  I was pissed.  A DARKROOM?  We need space and he’s going to keep this whole room for himself? Errrg.

Then I see ANOTHER door leading to another new room from the darkroom.  I step into that room.  It is smaller, with a low ceiling near the window.  “And this room?” I asked.  CS responded, “My office.”  More of me being pissed. At CS.

*     *     *

Okay.   I was out of sorts Sunday when I woke up and tried to make sense of this dream.  But then I let it go.  Then it kept nibbling at my memory.   So last night I took out my Gayle Delaney dream materials to interpret my dream.  I had recalled she had mentioned that new rooms was a common theme in dreams.

So it went something like this.

Q. Do the rooms have a specific purpose?

A. Yes, Darkroom and office.

Q. Is there anything new going on in your life that has that purpose?

A. Dark.  Officey? Hmm.  Dark officey? Dark office. DARK OFFICE.

Me to self: ARE YOU FRIGGIN’ KIDDING ME?  Then I laughed at my psyche for being so OBVIOUS yet I couldn’t see it without SAYING IT OUT LOUD.

I started five days in the office yesterday.  And I may not be all that excited about it.  Guess you could say I may have even been a little mopey or dark about it. And maybe I wish my husband’s job was enough such that I didn’t need to work at all.  And that maybe I am feeling sort of that I may have reached the apex of my career.

YA THINK?

So what do I do with this information? What any sensible girl would do.  I took today off. Day Two.

Sigh.

(There’s actually other elements in this dream that could have more meaning, but this seemed right so I stopped.)

Sun will be three years old in a couple of weeks.  You may not remember when I first wrote about her birthmark, or when I followed up on her treatment when she was just over a year old.  If you do remember, or if you are new to this story, here’s another installment.

In October of 2008, Sun had an appointment with her dermatologist for another laser treatment. Since starting treatment, this was the first time I almost cancelled because I didn’t think it was necessary any longer.  But we kept the appointment.  When the doctor saw her leg, he surprised us and recommended we NOT do a treatment.  It was a huge relief.  Even better, he didn’t want to see her for a year.

So, after a year, we returned to her dermatologist.  He was delighted with her improvement.  Her case was closed.  He informed us that she’d no longer need any treatments, but that her skin would be puckery when it was all said and done and that if, when she was older, she was self-conscious about it, she could opt for cosmetic laser treatment at that time.

That was over six months ago.  And her mark continues to look lighter, to lay flatter, each month.  Here’s what it looks like now:

Amazing, eh?

Let me show you both legs together to compare:

If you don’t know it is there, you wouldn’t see it.  But *I* know it’s there.  And I still love that it reminds me of the day she was born and placed into my arms for the first time.  That mark is unique unto her and all her own.  I hope she comes to appreciate that it’s the differences among us that make us beautiful.  Because I hope she never wants cosmetic treatment to make it disappear entirely.

That question stops me in my tracks.  It makes the blood in my veins turn to ice.  It is the single most thing I have worried about, revisited, decided, started over, anon since Sun was born: Where will she attend grammar school?

For over a year, the decision has been at a smallish Catholic school near where she currently goes to daycare.  Let’s call it Academy of Nagging Gnawing STress (or ANGST for short).  It’s not our parish, but it had the right “feel” and all the appropriate awards, certifications, etc. AND an amazing library.  All the perks were in place–I like the staff, the other parents I’ve met, music classes weekly, etc.

But the one worrying doubt I have about ANGST is that I don’t known any child, or the parent of any child, that is a student there.  I’ve since met a few parents, but I don’t “know” them well enough to ask what their process was in selecting ANGST, nor do I know them well enough to have a high value of their decision.  If I had just one friend that I could get that resounding, YES, WE LOVE IT! I’d be done.

Instead, the few people I know that are “in” the grammar school world (ie, teachers, speech pathologists, administrators, etc.) say very little about ANGST.  It seems not to be on the radar.  Why is that? It’s so frustrating!

Today, in casual conversation with my sister’s sister-in-law, a speech pathologist that works with children, said she that several ANGST fourth-graders and up are her patients.  *Sigh*

This friend has young children, one with a slight hearing impaired problem.  Her older is in high school (one I’d happily send Sun to), and the younger (with the hearing condition) at a very small private school that is necessary for her special needs.  She mentioned a school I hadn’t considered because it is not close enough to our house.  She said that school was a “high school prep school.”  I’d never heard that expression regarding grammar schools.  Weren’t all “high school prep schools”?  Apparently not.

I tossed out the names of the other schools I’d batted about previously.  One in yet another distant suburb got good marks from her.  The others made her raise the question of whether I’d considered two schools that go from Pre-4 through 12th grade.  I’d honestly not even considered these.  And now I am.

And here is where I am now.  Struggling to pin down what it is I REALLY want in the way of education for Sun.  To say “I want the best for her” isn’t saying enough, or anything really.  In other words, what would I want for Sun’s education if location and money were not issues?  Let’s start there.  Without limitations, what would be the ideal school for her?  Would it be ANGST or would it be one of those prestigious schools that costs twice what ANGST costs?  If not, then am I settling for ANGST?  Is that fair to Sun?

I don’t know.  I have been to one of the prestigious schools but not two of the others.  The one I went to was not right for Sun, tuition aside.  Do I owe it to Sun to check the other two?  What if I get that warm fuzzy “it” feeling at one and realize we cannot afford it?  Do we send her anyway and cut expenses elsewhere?  Or do we admit that it’s a good lesson for her to learn to live within her means?

So here I am, back to asking: What do we REALLY want in the way of education for Sun?  Here’s my checklist:

1. A solid education;
2. To be educated in a grammar school that feeds to the very good high schools in the area;
3. To have friends that will hopefully be in her life for the rest of her life;
4. To have extracurricular activities that focus on being a child and not boosting your resume;
5. A school that is close enough to the house that she’ll easily be able to spend time with her friends after school and on weekends.

Ugh.  Am I overdoing it?  Is that even possible?  Do I settle on the decision I’ve already made for Sun to attend ANGST (next year) or do I go to Open Houses again this winter?  What can that hurt?  If I stay settled and two years from now realize ANGST isn’t a right fit, will it be detrimental to then move her  such that I’ll wish I’d have more thoroughly searched NOW?

CS is willing to look anew but feels that many schools are “good enough” and paying more may not do her any better in her life.  Top scholars nor top schools guarantees success.  Look at us, he’ll show as Exhibit A, we were moderate students in moderate schools.  And we are both considered successful in our fields, in our lives.

So what the hell do I do??!?!?!!

That is the title of the first “Treme” episode.  The series that starts tonight.  All of New Orleans is hyped about it.  And we hope it doesn’t disappoint us.

In my hotel room in Arkansas in the early post-Katrina days, my mind keep playing Louis Armstrong’s song “Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans.”  My mind wasn’t the only one fixated on that song.  It became the City’s unofficial anthem for while.

And five years later, things are more or less back to life without thought of Katrina.  Her scar will always be there, but it is no longer on the front of our collective brain.

Today, we went to the French Quarter Fest.  A most typical New Orleanian activity.  We ate brisket from Tujaque’s and had snowballs from Plum Street.  We listened to Jazz at the Louis Armstrong stage and saw art in Pirate’s Alley next to the Cathedral and we heard the whistles blow from the boats on the river.

While waiting for a friend to meet us, I walked Sun to the rail of the Moonwalk to see the Mighty Mississippi.  She watched cargo ships and barges go by.  She couldn’t take her eyes off of the river’s roiling muddy waters.  When our friend showed up and it was time to head to Jackson Square, we had to pry Sun away from the rail, with her wailing all the while.

“I know, Sun, I know.  That ole river is in your soul, isn’t it?  Don’t worry,” I told her, “It’s always here for you and you’ll see it again soon.”  Soothed, she allowed herself to be taken away from the river.

Even a going-on-three child Knows What It Means.

I lay in bed last night greedy in utter darkness. Since having Sun, we keep a nightlight on in her room and sleep with our bedroom doors open. It’s never dark enough for me at night anymore. Or quiet enough. Every time I stir in the middle of the night, I automatically look for that light and listen for the quiet to know Sun is soundly sleeping.

Sun spent the last two nights at my sister’s house, and I’ve had the luxury of darkness. And quiet. A quiet that is different from the quiet that comes from a soundly sleeping child. This quiet was of the knowledge that your child was soundly sleeping and that someone else with whom you have complete confidence is charged with the duty of listening for that break in sound sleeping. I didn’t have to keep my ears cued, my arms ready to welcome a Sun awoken by a bad dream (maybe of an evil witch in her fairy tales?), my eyes adjusted to having a light in them all night.

I lay in quiet thinking, “This used to be the quiet I heard every night.” And although at first blush it may sound the same as the quiet of a soundly sleeping child, any parent can tell you (while holding back a chuckle) that it is NOWHERE near the same.

I miss my Sun. And am delighted to be seeing her in a couple of hours. But, oh, how I miss my nights of darkness and quiet.

We love people for who they are on the inside: how they treat us and others and how they make us feel. We want so much to have that love in a tangible way—so we can touch it, feel it, know it is real—that we fall in love with the person’s very humanness: You love the gentleness of the soul and find that gentleness in the shape of their fingernails. You love the person’s capacity to forgive and see that in their deep, beautiful eyes. You love their voice, the words they say and find that beauty in the curl of their lips. You love how well they listen to you and find your fingers outlining the curves of their perfectly shaped ears.

When I fell in love with Captain Sarcastic over a decade ago and hitched my wagon to his star, the only regret I had was the knowledge that if this was IT, I’d never fall in love again. Sure, you re-connect and re-fall in love, but it isn’t the same as finding someone new and falling in love with their humanness for the first time.

No one ever told me that the romantic notion we have about falling in love is every bit applicable to the love you feel for your child. I smell Sun’s hair or milky breath, I hear her say “Nite, nite, Mommy,” I feel her holding my fingers and plucking my fingernails, and every aspect of her humanness, and my discovery of it, has my earth shaking beneath me. I want to squeeze her and never let go. And when her thin little arms snake around my neck and return my hug, I melt. There is nothing less in the skipping of my heartbeat now than when I first fell in love with my husband.

And THAT is the truest gift of motherhood.