There’s nothing like a close shave to remind me how friggin’ lucky I am to have a healthy whole child. (currently knocking on wood)

Avi fell plummeted off the back of the couch today.  A two and half foot free fall flat on to her back and, consequently, her head.

Within minutes she was lethargic, yawning and complaining of pain in the back of her mouth.  Twenty minutes later she was curled up on the kitchen floor after puking her guts out.

Her pupils were fine, but she was clearly not.  The doctor told me to watch her (duh) and if she vomited again, bring her to the ER but otherwise just hang in there until we could get in for an appointment.

It was a very long two hours.  For me, anyways.

I finally got her moved to the couch to watch a movie where she promptly fell asleep.

I struggled with myself for a few minutes as I watched her breath.  If it’s a concussion, aren’t I supposed to make her stay awake?  But the doctor didn’t say that and my nurse-to-be roomie said she would be fine sleeping as long as I could wake her up in a couple of hours.  But her dad told me I wasn’t allowed to let her sleep.

Fortunately, her dad called me right at that moment to tell me I could let her sleep.  He’d double checked.  He told me I should look it up too to make myself feel better.  I decided not to.  I’d rather trust the people around me and my gut which told me she really needed to sleep.

Over the course of the next hour and a half, I watched her face puff up in her sleep.  A small puffiness.  A little blotchiness.  No one but one’s own mother would notice.  But I worried anyways.  I left her side long enough to get a cup of tea and my knitting basket.  And then there I sat wondering if I had a long road ahead of me of watching my child scream through lab tests and get drugged up for CT scans and then I grew thankful for the fact that she has been so healthy so far.

She woke up on her own.  And within minutes was munching goldfish and giggling at the TV.  She was back to her old self and bravely said “ahhh” to the doctor when asked.

And did I bother to remind her of the lesson she learned about climbing on the backs of couches?  Of course not.  I was too relieved to remember to lecture.  Her dad took care of it by asking “What lesson did you learn today when you fell off the couch?”

To which she replied that she should not climb on the back of the couch.

To which he replied, “Yes, but more importantly, if you do climb things, you always need a spotter.”

So true.

My mom likes to tell the story of the day my older brother asked about skin color.  He stared at a black man in the grocery store and then asked very loudly, “Why is his skin that color?”  I don’t know how old he was, young enough that he could get away with this honest question without too much insult.

I’ve made an effort to place books and toys before my child that have people of all races.  The books she read are filled with all shades as are the many baby dolls spread throughout the house.  And since she’s a big asker of “why” I knew I’d be tackling the question sooner or later.  But, last night, she surprised me by asking the question not as “why” but as “what.”

She said to me, “Mama, what is the color we call our skin?”

And I answered, “Well, that’s a difficult question because there are many different colors of skin.  You and I have skin that’s sort of peachy pink I think.  Do you think it’s peachy pink?”

“Yes.”

“But not everybody has peachy-pink skin.  Your teacher, Mrs. K, has sort of golden brown skin.  And Mr. M. is so pale that he’s almost white.  What about your friend A at school?  What color is her skin?”

“It’s peachy-pink too.”

“Yeah, it is.  How about Z?  Is his skin peachy-pink?”

“No. It’s brown.”

“Yup.  Your doll Kevin has brown skin too.  And bitty-baby has what is called olive-tone skin.”

She surprised me again later when we were reading Girls Hold Up this World.  I pulled it out because it has nice pictures of all different kinds of girls (mostly darker than she and I) so we could talk about more skin color.  We got to the picture of a toddler who in my view has medium-brown skin.  Up unti now, we’d been placing our own arms up against the pictures to compare and talk about the differences.  Again, she held up her arm to this toddler’s face, but she happened to hold up her arm against the child’s cheek which glowed pale pink in the sunlight and declared that she had peachy-pink skin just like Avi.

Rather than “correct” her, I decided to agree.  Because it was true.  Even though I would have called this toddler a “black” child her cheek was, in fact, peachy-pink in the picture and very close to the skin on my child’s arm.

I am so proud that my three year old doesn’t question why we are born with different color skin and hair and eyes.  She simply wants a way to identify and name what she sees.  This, to me, means I’m off to a good start in raising a child who is non-descriminatory and welcomes all shades of people into her life.

• I get to dress up in goofy clothes and people think I’m cute instead of weird.
• Strange men sit on their stoops in pairs, drinking beer and handing out candy.  They love it.  The kids are hesitant.  They have an innate sense that something is not quite right.  The parents hover on the sidewalk wondering if this is a good idea.
• Everyone comes out of their houses to smile at complete strangers.
• High school boys get away with asking for candy without even wearing a mask.
• I get to carve a pumpkin.
• The lady across the street was bored since there were barely any kids around so she dressed up in her witch costume (broom too) and hobbled up and down the sidewalk.
• Everyone tells me my child needs a bigger treat bag.

Happy Halloween

It’s been two months since my last bad hair cut.
Naturally, it was time to get a another one.
So I don’t mind the rain today.
Because my hood is up to hide my stricken vanity.

Sung as she sat down for dinner.

Two little kitties running down the street.
They found a pizza and they ate it as a treat.

I love the smell of my child’s hair in the morning.

I love the feeling of her soft cheek on mine.

I love the way she wraps her tiny hands around my neck and tucks herself up against me.

I breath her in.

Our photographer captured this ephemeral breath last Sunday.  I never thought I would see an image of myself breathing in the spirit of my child and treasuring it.  And yet, here it is, in all its power, in all its vulnerability.

When I am fifty, I will show my child this image and she will marvel at my youth.  And I will marvel at her youth.  And I will say, “You see?  I have always loved you and I always will.  No matter where I am.  No matter where you are.”

While “working” on her XO.

Avi: Look! Mama!

She is typing ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

Mama: That’s called a semi-colon.

Avi: Oh, I thought it was called a zipper because it looks like one.

Mama: Hunh, you’re right! That’s a really good observation.

Avi: Wow! This is a dream come true!

It’s Blog Action Day.

To be perfectly honest, I’m a little suspicious of movements like this.  Because, frankly, what would happen if instead of all 7, 597 bloggers, 11,497, 083 readers and 139 countries writing about taking action we turned off our computers and walked out into the street together.  And then, what would happen if we looked around at each other and took action right then and there…picking up trash, turning off enormous lit signs, and parking cars and piling in for carpools.  And then, what would happen if we all committed to turning off our computers every night before we went to sleep?

I know there are all sorts of servers that need to stay up and running.  But there are also thousands of personal and work computers that needlessly stay on all night every night because we think we don’t need to turn them off.  We leave them on to heat up our desks, run our backups and then sit and hum in the dark.  Blinking their little green and red lights.

Turning off our computers at night may not stop the melting of the ice caps, but it will at least be proactive change, not just sitting on our arses and talking about the need for change.  As Moxy Fruvous sang in the ’90s, “Do you think you’ll have some power signing a petition?”

And, yes, I turn my computer off at night.  My printer too.

In my little world, fall is a time of reflection.

September arrives in a whirlwind of seasonal change, school, theatre, jobs, and loss of daylight.

My birthday looms precariously as the leaves begin to change.

My dedicated relatives send me little L’Shana Tova emails and I have to pause and re-visit my heritage.

And, heartbreakingly, my child celebrates a birthday.

This has, by far, been the hardest addition to this time of transition. This year, it knocked me over the head, sent me flying and then proceeded to bounce up and down on me for a while.

I spent about three weeks getting teary-eyed at babies, sighing to myself when Avi wasn’t looking, and weirding her out by saying things like “I’m so proud of you being a big girl, but I miss you being a baby.” To which she would smartly reply with a huge grin, “Your baby grew into a big girl.”  And I would swallow the tears and grin in reply and move on.

The fact is, having my baby become a kid was an unexpected slap in the face because unlike most of my married girlfriends with two and three children, this is it for me.

Oh, I know, I’ve “got plenty of time.”   But, for now, this is it.

And that makes me really sad.

I would love to have a house just busting with kids.  But I don’t.  And, right now, it makes me sad and down right jealous to see women and their new babies because I want a new baby (and the dazed dad to go with it, if I’m really being honest).

Blame the genetic code if you want but no matter how you slice it, I want a mewling, puking bundle of squishiness to keep me up at night, latch on to my boob for instant comfort and make all the day-to-day stress completely obsolete with the lift of a tiny soft pinky.

I’m pretty much over the teary-eyed weeks until next year but I still sigh about the rapid growth of my “big girl.”  It doesn’t help when she asks me complicated questions from the backseat like, “Mama, what’s Simple Twist of Fate mean?”  And that she actually seemed to understand my halting reply.

Many moons ago, when I was but a college child, I was in a play that defined insanity as “Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

It has stuck with me such that when I find myself hammering the same nail again and again, I check to see if it’s actually moving. If it isn’t, then I step back and re-examine.

It would be nice if I could remember this about expecting help from doctors who practice traditional American/Western Medicine. They don’t help. They don’t have a clue what’s ailing you unless they can pull it out of a test tube or prove you need to be sliced open. You’d think I would know this by now but I keep going back and thinking it will be different.

It never is.

Someday, I hope to notice the nail not moving before going to yet another “traditional” doctor. Maybe then I’d stop wasting my time, getting mad at them and start getting answers from people who can actually provide answers.

On the upside, Avi came home and taught me some Spanish.  That was cool.