Tales of a superhero kitty (raccoon) rescuer

Yesterday as Little Berry and I were heading out the door with the dog to take an early afternoon run, I saw a small shadow move under the door of our neighbor’s apartment. I *felt* something-someone? There, and at the same time I hadn’t seen our neighbor come home nor did I hear footsteps as I was listening. I made a big noisy show of locking the apartment (alright Little berry! I’ve got the keys here and let me lock the deadbolt so we can go!!) up tightly in case it was an intruder and then I took off, because I’m chicken brave like that.

As soon as I started jogging though, I realized it was just their cat. I’ve noticed kitty litter boxes stacked outside their door with their recycling a few weeks now and it made purrfect sense. I think she adopted a cat around Christmas. So in the end my fear of the axe bearing intruder was pretty far off.
But the whole thing reminded me of this time when I was a kid, probably about ten, when I thought I saw a cat in a tree on our property one early evening and set out to ‘rescue’ the thing. I grabbed a length of nylon rope and my pet hero rescuer face, and started up the tree. I was a great tree climber, but, come on, it was a big tree, and I wasn’t really as brave as I looked; so by about the time I realized It was a BLOODY RACCOON not a cat, I also realized I was BLOODY STUCK.

Of course, I was not only freaking out about it being a RACCOON I was also now panicking because I was stuck, and too proud to call for help because, let’s face it, that would be quite embarrassing. So I tried to tie the rope off on a branch so I could lower myself down, fashionably at least, but mostly I just used the rope to wave violently at the poor, shivering raccoon and warn it that I was not only ten, but I had fierce extendable wavy rope! So don’t jump on my please, BLOODY RACCOON.
Mostly I just fell out of the tree. There was very little lowering of myself down and pretty much zero fashionable about it, but at the end of the day there was no BLOODY RACCOON attacking me and so I was pretty pleased with my determination to live dangerously and bonus, I got to wear my pet hero rescuer face for an hour. Of course another bonus was a dozen bruises and not being able to ride my bike for a week.

My mom (hi mom!) asked for months why there was rope tied in that tree, but everyone denied having anything to do with it. We never did figure that mystery out :)

Overrun

Because little berry is an only child, she is pretty spoiled. I've always tried to keep her toys and books and belongings from overrunning the whole home, and I have had a few rules that help me keep the peace: no licensed character toys, because they usually dont inspire any imagination and are just noisemakers,
no toys that require batteries, though she has two of the latter, they get kept on top of the refridgerator for those times I need a real trick to distract her,
And that art supplies/books will be within her reach to play with whenever she wants.
And for a while, it worked. We have a great storage system in place for her toys and she knows how to clean them up because things go in the same place every time-and everyone was happy.
Then I started getting a nagging feeling. Looking around our living room, I thought: 'Wow. She really has a lot of toys.' And I would gently encourage her to clean up, and order was restored again. Then, small toys began wandering away, to this corner and that, a train here, a small marble there and there and there! And one night we brought home one more toy-a small broom& dustpan set for the girl who is ever copying mama's routines-and suddenly our space was TOO full. There seemed to be toys everywhere. I couldn't round them up, I couldn't corrall her things fast enough! I felt crowded and exasperated and she wasn't playing with things I knew she loved.
What I've done to change it:
I picked a big plastic basket and filled it with those tiny plastic animals, people, and other wonky toys. The ones that never get played with or were broken got tossed (which was a lot, actually). That basket goes in the bathroom-for bathtoys, and suddenly it seemed so much less daunting. I culled a few more toys, a few outgrown books, broken art supplies, sorted through each basket of toys she owns to clean/toss/ and make sure things were in their proper places, and voila! Peace again. Those toys are NOT the boss around here any more :)
What do you do to keep your child/ren's toys from owning your whole home? Or do you find them simply endearing?

Late night musings of an eternal mamma

I give her little face a kiss and she tucks her head into the crook of my neck. I smell like a mama, she smells strongly of bubbles and strawberries, a result of her affinity to sneaking the soap bar when she's fully clean and my hastiness to pull the tub stopper as the water gets chilly.

I knelt by the tub tonight, watching her soap her own toes and firmly refusing to brush her teeth. I swept a washcloth behind her ears, under her curvy chin, and wondered: how long she will need me yet? As I scooped water into the palm of my hand to rinse the day away, I glimpsed a bigger girl with memories and stories to spill out, with an eagerness and lightness of her father's and a the voice of a dreamer like me. Her hair swirled down around the top of her neck in a way I had never seen it do before, tracing rivulets down her spine and joining the bath again. My heart whispered: will I always know her this well?

The night is long at times, spent shuffling (those ever growing) little feet back under the blankets and getting up for water, worrying over my two dearest loves as they sleep, as if they were both my children, and I suppose in a very primal way they are. Both are sound in my nest all night, tucked around one another and oblivious to this mama's dually committed heart thrumming away, wanting to hold them both at once.

I fear her growing because I'm terrified I haven't got it down. I want longer to get it right before she will know that I am misguided, before she sees my faults. Eventually I'm sure she will recognize me as a pawn. I don't know the rules. I don't know the steps, I can't dance this fast and in these shoes.

As I scooped her from the tub and she pressed her face into the crook of my neck, we went in search of pajamas for the night. Pulling from the basket nearest me, I found my fingers wrapped around a tiny set of pajamas too small for any girl of mine. These were hers nearly two winters ago, just as we were seated deep in worry about our future, cold and jobless with no hope or vision for that to change, when there were too many hours each day spent sitting in classrooms waiting to graduate so I could hold my daughter whenever I pleased; hoping that my classmates didn't see my breasts leaking, at times wondering that they did not smell my fear that this route they celebrated with joy I counted as hell and yearned for it to end.

Darker hours in the shivering winter spent fighting with Pappa because my heart was never in school again, I could spare it all just to be a mamma. These were the pajamas she wore the morning we drove to the polls to vote for idealistic "Change," and the morning my sweet friend Jessy came to visit after her weekly Chemo battering. She smiled and yet looked faint, she sang to my wee babe about teething gums while I worried about my girl, who had immediately fixed herself on this splendid friend to investigate her thoroughly- I hope that my own girl will be as open-minded, loving and generous each step of the way as this beautiful young woman I am blessed to know.

This instinct to protect is not exclusive to the faces we see and love each day. It is not limited to the hands we hold or gently scold, and the tiny feet that pitter-patter and sometimes "THRUMP!" around, making tangible progress and marking the traits that will be theirs for life right before our eyes. It is for the children we don't get to hold, the ones we were ourselves, the ones we see on the television while their mother's wail. These children, these little sparks that flash for only a moment, that always have to face the cold with empty tummies, they are why my heart is breaking for my own. I stood in front of my mother when I was seven and told her I wanted to save all of the orphans, and asked her why we didn't try to help. Her reasoning was complicated and altogether simple at the same moment, yet her theory fell deaf to my ears and I am sure that day I stopped believing in universal love.

This is the joy called motherhood, I share it with many strong and willing women now, and before me. Surely more will come after me as well. Some bear a multitude of souls into the world and some never kiss a single tear frosted cheek, but all have willing, loving, open hearts. We swap tips and laughs and fears. We all dream big, and none of us wants our children to resist our open arms. This is the joy called motherhood. It is the voice of universal love.

Do something kind for another person today. Do it for your heart, and mine, which needs reminding that humanity is always embraced by mothers.

Missing Shoe

On the hottest days of summer..

I like to find the nearest water.

We tickle our toes in the grasses


Or fill the air with tinkling songs

Fill our tummies with sweet fresh foods



We seek out color


and we always wonder..."summer, won't you stay a little longer?"