... interdependence.

Today Lola brushed my teeth.  I thought it was remarkable. 

A few days ago I started brushing her two little chompers with a silicone tooth scrubber you slide on to the end of your finger.  Although she has had those two teeth for three months now I never felt the desperate need to brush them because she still doesn't eat anything that doesn't come out of my breast.  But I figure part of the reason she doesn't eat is because she isn't conditioned to having anything else in her mouth... Like her mouth is sensitive.  She never puts anything in her mouth.  She doesn't gum her toys, eat paper, chew on her fingers.  Besides my breast the only thing she seems to put in there is her bottom lip.  Sucking on it perpetually, like a living and breathing cabbage patch doll.  So I decided that perhaps I should try brushing those little pearly whites and see how she reacted.  It wasn't easy getting that brush in there but when I did she giggled and squirmed. I have repeated the process a few times over the last couple of days and let her play with the brush when she wants. Today she sat on my lap while I tapped away on my keyboard ...suddenly this little silicone cloaked finger was waving away on my lips.  It took me a few moments to register that what she was doing was trying to brush my teeth.  I opened my mouth and let her get in at them.  I shook my head back and forth so her finger would run over my front teeth in a brushing motion and the laughter bubbled up and spilled out. 

We looked at each other with a little bit of mutual surprise and pride.  She's figuring it out... She has a part to play in this relationship that isn't based completely on dependence.  Today was a red letter day.  One day soon she will learn that she can propel herself without aid and won't need me to get her where she needs to go... but until then this little gesture seemed like a big assertion into that world.

On Saturday we celebrated the spring equinox and Lola's 9 months on the outside.  I took a few photos to mark the occasion and began to write a tribute to this milestone.  I will post that in the next few days with photos.  I wanted to leave you with a photo of that toothy grin but in most of the photos she had that bottom lip sucked in over her little chicklets.  So here you go... this is what 9 months looks like over here.

...a freeze frame.

Yesterday Meg said, "I don't want Lola to ever grow up".  I wish I didn't have an ounce of melancholy in me.  I wish I could say that I don't feel the same way.  Hell, I wish I could truly enjoy the unfreakin'believable bliss that is my life as a mom in this moment without the underlying sadness that it can not stay like this forever.  I honestly could pinch myself at the sheer joy of parenting my two girls right now.  Meg as a six year old is... where to start?  Clever, funny, charming, beautiful, generous, adaptable, kind-hearted, ethical, soulful, inspiring and the best damn big sister a girl could ask for.  She seems so at ease with herself and so intouch with her moral compass.  I am a proud mama.  And I ask myself "how did I get so lucky?"  Lola is an incredible baby.  Mothering her is delightful.  My patience seems to be limitless with her.  She and I seem to be in a lovely, flowing dance.  I can't fully explain it but it feels so very right.  And all the while I have a little trickle of that melancholic angst rippling through me.  Like I am so happy I could cry, but it's not really a happy cry.... It's a cry for the fear of losing this.  It is my daily practice to be present to my joy and allow that to flow as freely as the melancholy.  Perhaps one day the joy will wash the melancholy away in a raging current of love...

...a sleeping beauty.

Tonight my big girl fell asleep on the couch before I could get her to bed.  I can count the number of times this has happened in her life on my fingers.  She was never the kid that fell asleep in her spaghetti or curled up in a nest of toys and blankets on the floor. I knew she was tired tonight.  She barely ate any supper and seemed very pleased to change into her pyjamas early and curl up under her blanket.   So I scooped her up off the couch and carried her up the stairs to her room.  As I brought my knee up to take each step up the stairs it would thump gently into her dangling legs.  Her feet swinging about, somewhere around mid-calf on me.  I cradled her head with one hand and held her up to my body with my other gently cupped under her bottom, just as I do with Lola.   How was it that she had grown so big?  Never needing to go anyplace that her own two legs can't take her?  Before this week I couldn't remember the last time I carried her anywhere.  But strangely this was the third time in as many days that I had her in my arms in that way.  What a stark contrast to the baby I hold in my arms for most of the hours of the day.  Sometimes I feel closer to the baby that Meg was now because I am reflecting on those months of her infancy as I go through the same things with Lola.  And then she says something so remarkable, pulling words into her vocabulary that sound years beyond her 6 year old self.  Or she accepts things with a grace and maturity that astound me.  Or I simply slow down and look at her. Her body moving with the sureness and agility of an athlete. Or I carry her up to bed... her feet coliding with my calf with each step.

...a hungry wolf.

I need to admit to the world that I was completely and utterly obsessed with the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics. I would get home from dropping Meg off at school and turn on CTV Olympic morning and watch all day long. It was perfectly timed with our two weeks of sickness and I wasn't leaving the house anyway. When I did though I was worried the whole time that I would miss a gold medal performance. And I did, I missed plenty. I would invest an entire afternoon watching ski-cross and have to leave before the final heat to go get Meg from school. One day I watched Clara Hughes lay down a record breaking skate in the 5000 meter and had to leave when there were two pairs left to skate. My mom obliged and texted me the bronze medal outcome. One Wednesday evening I had to take Meg to gymnastics during the Canada vs. Russia hockey game and found a website on my iphone that gave me a streaming, text, play by play of the game. It was intense. Both my kids had colds and I had Olympic fever.

The 17 days ended with an overwhleming sense of Canadian pride. I felt awed by the depth of spirit of our young athletes. Joannie Rochette, skating a bronze medal performance after the sudden loss of her mom only four days earlier. Now that is what I call grit. The true Canadian soul of a character like Jon Montgomery. He decided he wanted to be in the Olympics one day and then chose a sport. Only a Canadian would decide on a sport akin to toboganning. And one of my favourite moments of the games was when Charles Hamelin won gold in short track speed skating while his sweetheart, double silver medalist, Marianne St. Gelais, cheered from the stands. She was then gallantly helped over the gaurd rail by an Olympic volunteer to launch herself into one of the most genuine embraces I have ever witnessed. JOY!

We are all going through a bit of Olympic withdrawal around here. Meg is still wearing her official Olympic hoodie and mitts everywhere we go.  Dave is once again reminded of how crap North American television is.  I have been so inspired that I have taken to the sloppy, late-winter streets in my running shoes.  And Lola wonders why that box in the corner of our family room has fallen silent.  She seriously got used to it's constant glow and the sounds of the familiar adverts.  One of them in particular would stop her in her tracks and get her bouncing with joy.  It was a montage of cheering Canadian fans with a Celtic riff in the background.  I am sad to report that it was advertising Coca-Cola.

On the last day of the games I watched an interview with Donald Sutherland. He was fabulous, real and genuinely thrilled with the games and what it meant for Canada. I forget the context of this exactly but he told a story that I had heard before.  I was so happy to hear it again. I needed to hear it again...

An elder Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life. He said to them, "A fight is going on inside me.. it is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith."

"This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too", he added.

The Grandchildren thought about it for a minute and then one child asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"

The old Cherokee simply replied... "The one you feed."

Seems random, I know.  But it wasn't for me and my life right now.  It was as if Donald Sutherland was looking right at me out of my TV and saying "hey you, listen up".  Life is actually quite simple at the heart of things.  Just feed the right wolf...  What does this have to do with the Olympics?  Nothing.