So after the Saints’ execution of the Texans today, we went out and bought Sun a Cinderella costume. But NOW she’s bent on her daddy and me dressing up too. And, sadly, much of what is available for adult women is on the “naughty” side. You know, naughty nurse, naughty witch, naughty Alice in wonderland, etc. It’s actually pathetic that plain ole scary witch outfits are so outnumbered by the naughty ones.

Then I saw this and thought BINGO:

I shall go as the Cheshire cat. Brilliant, think I, of its minimalist qualities. Slap some cat makeup on my face and voilà!

As we are driving home from the costume store, Sun starts in on me. “Mom, you can’t go as the Teshire cat. It’s NOT a tostume.” To that argument, I pointed out that in the book, sometimes the cat himself was nothing more than a smile. I’d draw that smile on my face and have it PLUS ears and a tail. Score: Mom 1, Sun 0.

Sun, undeterred, argued on: “But Mom. You CAN’T go as the Teshire cat. I am not going as Alice. [Sun 1, Mom 1.] And if you want to go as a cat, then you need to go as Lucifer, the mean cat of Cinderella’s stepmom.”

Well, now, damn. That has the one thing I cannot out-argue: LOGIC. Which brings the final score to Sun 2, Mom 1.

I simply can wear black ears and tail and snarl at people all night AND be in step with Sun’s costume. So even though Sun out-argued me this time, I get to dress as a scary (not naughty) black cat.

And if you look closely, you’ll see that I’m grinning like the Cheshire cat.

I have hesitated to write in the moment of any particular upset because the upsets are not mine; they are Sun’s. Sure, they impact me, bear on me, effect and influence me. But I do not have the starring role in these dramas. And I know Mommy Bloggers the world over will snub me once and for all for stating that the details of my daughter’s ups and downs, as seen through my eyes, are not, in my humble opinion, blog-worthy fodder. Fertility treatment to get pregnant for Sun? Laser treatment for Sun’s birthmark? My woes with nursing? I don’t see these topics bothering Sun were she to read about them in ten or twenty years time.

But the particulars of why she struggled in her first days of class? And how that drove me off the cliff of sanity for a stint? I just don’t find that fair to her down the line. And although I have used this blog as a personal diary of sorts, it was of MY thoughts, fears, experiences.

I get that as a mother, I have my own thoughts, fears and experiences that relate to parenting. But it is a fine line between MY experiences as a parent and my daughter’s experience at, well, life. And me blogging about my parental observations of my child’s life experiences has been something altogether unappealing to me.

Maybe it’s the lawyer’s sense of client-confidentiality that’s kicked in. But as Sun grows and becomes more SUN and less MY DAUGHTER to the world at large, I find it increasingly more difficult to write blog posts, humorous or serious, about matters relating to her. And since my life currently is comprised of work and Sun with very little drinking-in-the-New-Orleans-lifestyle, I’ve found that I have less and less to blog about these days.

I’m not pulling the plug on my little corner of the internet. But I did feel it worthwhile to share WHY there’s less content on this blog for the time being. And although nothing would tickle me more than for this post to actually cause a dust-up among Mommy Bloggers, I know it won’t; they stopped reading me years ago.

I never fully understood WHY he moved out. Something about disagreeing with my parents about religion and school and other teenaged-angst-filled issues. I remember most that no one in the family talked to each other about it. Just one day he was no longer living in the house. And I was the only one that seemed even affected by it. I am sure, in fact, I was NOT the only one affected. But with all that not-talking, it’s what it seemed like.

Weeks after he left, there were still things piling up that were his. And every so often, the pile would disappear as he’d return to claim those piles. One shoebox full of cassette tapes got added to a pile. In that shoebox was Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America” album. When he came for his latest stash, I asked if I could have the Supertramp tape. He shrugged. And I plugged into that tape and have never unplugged.

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
a miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they’d be singing so happily,
oh joyfully, oh playfully watching me.
But then they sent me away to teach me how to be sensible,
logical, oh responsible, practical.
And then they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
oh clinical, oh intellectual, cynical.

There are times when all the world’s asleep,
the questions run too deep
for such a simple man.

I listened to the tape so much that first year that my third-oldest brother would tease me that when I died they’d bury the tape recorder and that album with me. And for the past 30 years, the thought of me alone in eternity with just “Breakfast in America” has given more comfort than I can explain logically.

I listened to it through high school, college, law school; the early days of my legal career; every romantic relationship I’ve had (when things got to the “Casual Conversations” level, it was always over); and now as a mother.

Ah, lately, I’m like a watch that’s over-wound.

Does it feel that your life’s become a catastrophe? Oh, it has to be for you to grow, boy.

But the song that brings the very un-religious me to my knees, if I but let it, each time, every time is “Lord, is It Mine.”

I know that there’s a reason why I need to be alone
I need to find a silent place that I can call my own
Is it mine, Lord is it mine?

When everything’s dark and nothing seems right,
there’s nothing to win and there’s no need to fight

I never cease to wonder at the cruelty of this land
but it seems a time of sadness is a time to understand
Is it mine, Lord is it mine?

When everything’s dark and nothing seems right,
You don’t have to win and there’s no need to fight

If only I could find a way
to feel your sweetness through the day
The love that shines around me could be mine.
So give us an answer, won’t you,
We know what we have to do,
There must be a thousand voices trying to get through.

The song offers no answer. It’s really a cry for understanding. But there’s something immensely powerful to me—this collective need we all have to be able to claim a quiet place as our own; that we all get weary; that hope can be cut to nothing more than a sliver; that it isn’t about being right or wrong; that it’s just about getting through when everything’s dark. That really it’s about having the strength of harnessing all the love in this world that IS directed at us and allowing that to carry us through the darkness.

So as I struggle to find that strength to harness that love, folks, these days I’m Just Another Nervous Wreck. But that’s okay. Because I’ve got the proper theme music as my arsenal and I am armed to the teeth.

They’ll run for cover when they discover Everyone’s a nervous wreck now Life’s just a bummer; they got your number We’ll give as good as we get now

Rise from the gutter, stick with each other We’ll drive ‘em over the edge now They’re gonna bleed, that’s what they need We’ll get together and blow their cover

I’ve super-glued that little fuzzy square back to the tape a dozen times; the cassette has warped from the New Orleans’ summer heat and itself been super-glued back together a time or two; my car tape deck had eaten the tape another dozen times—and I devotedly straightened out the thin ribbon and rewound it back again and again. Of course, I bought the CD and then even the MP3 and now can listen without fear of needing to doctor the tape any longer. But that tape has endured. Yes, worse for the wear. But isn’t that what enduring is really about? Surviving upon great use and not staying pristine with non-use?

Next month is Sun’s fourth birthday. We’ve all settled on her wanting a swing-set for her birthday. So today I asked if she wanted to join me to look at some — let her weigh in on which one she liked best. After a failed stop at Toys R Us, we regrouped and headed to Lowe’s.

Looking back, I am really not sure what had Sun so ready to explode. Sure, the trip to the toy store didn’t go the way she’d hoped, but it wasn’t epic. The tears had dried and she was happy as we hopped out of the car. It may be that she was still hoping to score a toy. As we entered Lowe’s, she said, “They don’t sell swings,” as she pulled me towards a Spongebob plant book.

I steered her away from the bookrack and to the outside plant area. She fought me the whole way, screaming she needed a basket. I insisted she didn’t since we were just LOOKING and I’d carry her if she didn’t want to walk. Which I did — carry her. As we went down the proper outdoor-furniture aisle, her eye spied the beloved car-basket. And she HAD TO BE IN IT. Problem was, a guy was using it. And the screaming began. She wrestled to get out of my arms and I fought to hold on tighter. And all the while her yelling escalated. And so did my resolve. I marched her right out of the store and to the car.

And this is where it got ugly. Out of earshot from other folks.

Sun: I don’t WANT to leave!
Me: Well, too bad. You weren’t listening and were screaming at me.
Sun: Don’t leave! I don’t want to leave! DON’T!
Me: Good. The fact that you don’t WANT to leave makes this better. Maybe next time you will listen and we won’t have to leave.

This escalated more along these lines–with her expressing simply that she didn’t want to leave and me telling her all that she did wrong, in not so kind, patient words.

And then that moment arrived. That moment that I KNEW I had my opponent crushed if I but squeezed. And, oh, I wanted to squeeze. I am happy to report that, today, I did not squeeze.

But here’s my dilemma. It’s in my DNA to argue to that crushing point. And I am TEACHING Sun to argue just as ruthlessly, no differently than my protege taught me — not intentionally but by experiencing the receiving end of it. And sometimes “crushing” isn’t the point, is it? There are many arguments I know I can win, I can crush it, but I will still lose. Sometimes they are worth the crush; sometimes as a parent, as an adversary, making the point, winning the argument, is all there is: no playing in traffic or with fire; no screaming in restaurants because all-of-a-sudden-you-don’t-like-toast; no hitting me because you don’t get your way. But there are other times when arguing MISSES the point entirely.

Why didn’t I just take the moment to look at the stupid Spongebob book? I know the answer is that had I looked, Sun then would have wanted me to buy it. And my message to her today was that not every time we step into a store is an opportunity for her to become an allegory of WANT. We don’t always get what we want; we don’t always get something we didn’t-know-we-wanted-’til-we-walked-in-the-store-but-now-that-we-are-here-I-must-have-it; sometimes we leave with nothing. And such a not-getting is NOT an excuse for a temper-tantrum.

So, what I really ask myself isn’t why didn’t I stop to have a four-year-old try to convince me why she needed me to buy her junk, but rather, why did I let this escalate to the moment where I had to stop myself from figuratively crushing her? I can all but see her on the couch telling her future therapist, “My mother was a violently angry person. And she saved the worst for those she loved best.” And she’d kinda be right. Because not every time will I be able to stop myself from the crush, especially as Sun, and her own mad arguing skilz, mature.

This is my toughest struggle as a mother: I must struggle with the urge to argue ’til I crush Sun. Crush Sun and our relationship. And I must struggle to keep Sun from learning from the best, as I did, how to argue so ruthlessly.

We returned to the camp and crabbed and fished some more. We didn’t catch a thing. But that wasn’t the point to begin with. Heck, Sun’s fishing pole is a Dora one that has a plastic fish at the end of the line. Sun just likes casting her line and reeling it in. Over and over. And me? I’m happy when I don’t snag a tree or an underwater log.

And then there were the gators. Three this time. One teeny baby and two bigger ones. They bobbed around, keeping their chocolate eyes on us the entire time. And when I released the one good-sized crab we caught, Sun learned a lesson when the biggest alligator slyly made her way over to the crab and ate him: Sun doesn’t want a gator as a pet because they eat too much.

We are different at the camp. Sure, there’s still whining and correcting; there’s still ways to annoy each other. But that bar is certainly raised. We are permitted to do nothing; spend all day crabbing with nothing in the way of dinner to show for it; run in circles around trees for no reason other than the sheer enjoyment of it; have staring contests with alligators of all sizes. The expectations are gone — all the home projects waiting for us that we get caught up about living in the said home? Benched. The day-to-day annoyances that come with cohabitation? Iced. At the camp, it’s freestyle. Do as you please. There is no judging.

Back home, Sun is adamant about wearing shoes. And socks. She wakes up and wants both on here feet first thing. And she keeps them on until bath time and then bed. On sandals, she says: I don’t want my toes to get full of leaves. So all year round, even NOLA summers, that kid has shoes and socks on. All. The. Time.

Except yesterday. She ran around outside, where there are burrs in the grass and gravel strips near the piers, in her bare feet. It’s unthinkable. If we’d have even suggested sandals, she’d have said no. But she decided for herself that it was a bare-foot kind of day.

And, oh, was she right.

We’ll return to the city and to that house that has an endless list of needed updates. We’ll return to the day-to-day annoyances, I am sure, and to having to wear shoes and socks ’round the clock. Except we are changed. We are rejuvenated, relaxed, and recharged. We are ready again to open our hearts just a little bit more and allow more love to flow in and out.

These types of blues will not be rushed. They move from one item to the next, sizing up my entire life, past, current and future.  What IS the point of life?  The priest at the funeral said it’s about the people with whom we spend our time. But I feel that’s a bit lame. I mean, isn’t HOW I spent my time at least equally important, if not more, as WHO I spend it with?

I feel that the meaning of life is different for different people. And that’s why it’s such a tricky question. What’s the meaning of my life isn’t necessarily the meaning of your life or of the life of those we respect.

So then how do we know the meaning of our own lives? What is it for which I want to be remembered or respected? My legal work? My parenting? This silly blog? No one thing rises to the top as THE central focus of my life.  And instead, I find myself measuring up short on any category taken alone. And on all taken together.

I am inspired to work harder, to love more, to be more alive–write, garden, cook, appreciate friends, visit family, LIVE. But it’s hard to do any of that when all I want to do is pull the covers over my head and delay one more day.

I sit on the floor
Near a drafty door
Wondering why I haven’t
sat here before.

When I dated CS, I sat on his sofa in the den we now share listening to Cowboy Junkies as I read the titles to the books on his shelves and he prepared dinner for us. My heart expanded right-then-and-there knowing it’d found its place in this crazy world.

Now, these many years later, I sit on the sofa in that very room and I don’t think anything at all.  I Twitter and I knit; we talk and play with our daughter.  The luxury of quiet alone time is as foreign to us as a carnival parade to a Nebraskan.

Except sometimes, when the television is off and the light hits just right, and I sit someplace other than the sofa, like, say, the floor by the door, it all comes back, breaking like a wave on the beach, drenching me in its fullness.

Driving over, I started to get that sick pit-in-the-stomach feeling over whether this was really, REALLY, REALLY the best school we can offer Sun.  It isn’t the most expensive; the most exclusive; or other such things to make it the MOST BEST.

We’ve been talking to Sun about how this will be her new school soon.  We’ve done this in an attempt to ease the transition this will be.  We’ve taken her to events here to let her see the school often so that it won’t be new and unknown when the time comes to switch.

All that doubt I had about this not being the perfect school bubbled up as we sat in the gym with terrible acoustics listening to the school’s band play off tune.  So when Sun announced she needed to potty, I was happy to escape all that evaporating air.

As we walked down the hallway of the pre-4 and kindergarten classes, with the oh-so-familiar art of snowflakes made out of palm impressions and snowmen made of cotton balls, Sun asked, “Mom, is this my new school?”  “It will be,” I responded.  Sun looked back at that hallway, pleased, and asked, “Where are all my new friends?”

Her question stopped me in my tracks.  I got down on my knees, looked Sun into her most trusting, open-minded eyes, and hugged her.  “They’ll be here when you start, honey,” I managed to squeak out as I held back tears.

Because, like parents, schools are not perfect.  The idea of a perfect school is a myth that serves only to foil parents’ efforts by making them feel they aren’t doing the best they can for their children unless they find the scholastic atmosphere of top academics, racial composition, character-building, friend-making, much-homework-but-not-too-much, feed-to-a-perfect-high-school-and-in-turn-college.

School is but one component that will contribute to my child being an amazing, successful, well adjusted adult.  And all of the few schools we’d whittled it down to will serve her well.  And if this school turns out not to be a perfect fit, we have the freedom to move her later.

I don’t recall ever having the confidence, lack of fear of the unknown that Sun has about starting this new school.  She sees this new experience as one filled with new friends and joy.  And if Sun gets some of those other elements that my husband and I found so important in selecting this school, well, then our homework will have paid off.

My muscles are getting softer and my bones more brittle.  Being the youngest gives me the ability to look ahead 2, 5, 6, 7 years and see what predicaments into which my body will be getting me.

My mother started to “shrink” about 15 years ago.  We laughed that we were all getting taller than her even though we were no longer growing.  Then arthritis, bursitis and bone spurs started to demand her attention.  Now she’s just undergone shoulder replacement surgery.  Overall, my family is healthy.  But there are certain, common, ailments that we are slightly more at risk over–like osteoporosis.

I feel like I am falling apart–that I will follow the slow road to decline if I don’t TAKE ACTION NOW.  I simply MUST exercise more, eat more green leafy vegetables, practice more yoga, walk my dog more often.  Because unlike my mother who has already lived to raise her children and see grandchildren and great-grandchildren, I must stay together just to be sure Sun gets through school with me still in tack.

I was not ready to be a mother until I became one, at the age of 38.  I have no real regret over not getting there sooner–it just wasn’t the hand I was dealt.  But being an older mother does bring with it a bitter-sweetness: I, personally, am a better mother BECAUSE I am an older mother–I am more mellow, wiser, more patient–but BECAUSE I am an older mother, I have great trepidation about Sun’s future without her parents.

In 40 years, when Sun in my age, she will have, at best, two elderly parents and no siblings.  When we die, she’ll be an orphan.  Not to be melodramatic, but coming from a large family, it greatly pains me to think of my darling Sun alone.  All alone.  When these thoughts creep in, and they do often enough, I push them away by having faith.  Faith that Sun will make the right kind of friends to see her through her entire life so that when we are gone, she’ll have her own family and a lifetime of good memories in which to seek comfort and love and strength.

But between now and then, I have GOT to get my ass in shape so that I can make the most of my life with the ones I love.

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.