Add to this the fact that Dan worked a 9-5:30 shift and my hormones gave me the gift of a swollen, bloated belly--well, let's just say I didn't much care about the day when I woke.  I just wanted to stay in bed with a heating pad and Young Miles. 

But there's nothing like having a six year-old to both force you to participate in a day and turn it around, pretty much all at the same time.  The Easter Bunny of course visited us last night, leaving his usual eggs full of candy in pretty much every room of the house except the scary parts of the basement (he filled them last night while watching The Vicar of Dibley Easter Special, I'm told), and left a basket full of high quality chocolate bunnies, sugar eggs, and a few toys, most notably the movie Enchanted and the doll Giselle from the movie.  Anna was already begging for the movie and the doll but had been told she had to wait for a better paycheck, so this was pretty much as good as Christmas for her.  Due to Dan's necessary departure at 8:30 and Anna's eagerness to hunt eggs in the pre-dawn hours, this resulted in our watching the movie, all three of us, at 6:30AM. 

I saw the movie with Anna in the theater last fall (or whenever it was that it came out), and I remembered being pleasantly surprised at how much I'd enjoyed it.  It was fun to watch it all three of us, and it did what a heating pad and a pile of ibuprofen couldn't--made me laugh and feel warm inside even despite the fact that physically I felt absolutely lousy.  I would later that morning slough off to church with Anna so she could color and hunt eggs with the other kids and attend a potluck which Anna was oddly eager for (we brought carrots and grapes, five pounds total, and it was completely spent by the time we left); I had to sit out of most of church because this was the sort of cycle where I had to quite literally fight off passing out.  I'd later sit in the chair in the TV room, having to take a nap because the three hours of sitting absolutely still in the chair reading a book had worn me out, and we'd have to order pizza when Dan came home because he was wiped out and I'd never gotten going.  But you know, I'm counting to day as a good day, and it's pretty much because of watching that movie at 6:30AM.

The movie gets a lot of points for me for redeeming Disney for me--it's the first purely Disney (no Pixar) production that I've honestly enjoyed all the way down for probably a decade or better.  I liked the way they poked fun but were serious and even (for Disney) proactive.  LOVED Giselle saving Robert at the end.  But the best message in the movie for me was the cute Central Park scene, "That's How You Know."  It's a killer scene (and bear in mind this is said by someone who DETESTS musicals) and a great song, and watching it just makes you feel good.  But after viewing it about a zillion times today with Anna and a good chunk of the rest of the movie on repeat--this is really what I believe, I realized.  Virgos are supposed to be about words, and I admit, I do need words and vows and promises and plans and plots and all that, and in EVERY aspect of my life, but you know, Giselle is right.  It really is the action that tells you.  Words are easy to say, if you're slick.  Actions betray your feelings, for good or bad.

It's made me think of how many ways not just Dan and I, but also Anna and I, and so many, many, many of my friends practice this.  Little things, like the way tonight Dan deliberately took the piece of pizza with the toppings messed up when a neighboring piece had been withdrawn, so I didn't have to take it.  The way he'll bring me a cup of coffee in the morning, and how if he hears that I've blogged he runs to it like it's the most important thing on the net.  How Anna will spontaneously bring me chocolate.  How I have boatloads of friends who are busy as hell but if I ask for a critique, an hour's email conversation, or a phone call, they drop it and come running.  How when I've been down for all sorts of different reasons I have almost literally had legions rise up from all corners of the globe, ready to slay demons.  I listened to Giselle's litany on how you know, and I realized that I'm loved a lot.  A very, very lot. 


Best, though, was watching the end of the movie, when everyone was getting their happily ever afters.  First they showed Giselle in her happy new career, but the very last frames before the credits were Giselle, Robert, and Morgan whooping and goofing and laughing through the apartment.  I watched that this morning, looked over at my family gathered on the red couch, and I realized with great humility and a lot of warmth in my chest that I was living that very happily ever after.  That's been the three of us so many mornings, evenings, afternoons--and even when we're dreading work or feeling gross or what have you, that's still our root base, that center of joy and love. 

So Dan probably wondered why I showed up at work on the way to church with a camera and made one of the techs take a picture.  This is us outside the hallway of the hospital pharmacy, but go ahead and imagine the three of us goofing around the kitchen, the living room, down the sidewalk, through Hy-Vee and Target, and next week, New York City.


They make me feel happy and whole just to see their faces, both of them.  That's how I know they're my loves.  And I just don't tell them enough.

So this is how they know.

Except I took that about half an hour ago, and now she has a cat on her lap.

The roses are my consolation to her for having to miss what was supposed to be a very fun day for everybody. Kari (known here as inkgrrl) is at this very moment in Iowa City, in town for a funeral. We were to meet her and her husband, and then Anna was to head off with the fabulous Aunt Hillari for a few hours while I caught up with Kari. We would get back by late afternoon in time to meet Dan on his way home from work, or so was the plan. What was decidedly not in the plan was Anna's waking temperature of 101.4 degrees F.

We had foreshadowing of this last night when, after a month of singing "The Star-Spangled Banner' wherever she went, her kindergarten class performed the national anthem at the opening of the high school varsity boy's basketball game here in town. She had been complaining of a sore throat and cough all day but kept shoving the sick aside to fully revel in the excitement of singing "with our class and Mrs. Cronin's and Mrs. LeBraun's and EVERYBODY!" And to be honest, she was fine when we dropped her off in the lobby--she mobbed her teacher like an A-list celebrity with the rest of her friends and bounced off to line up with the rest of the crew. I thought she looked a bit subdued while they were lining up at the edge of the court during warm-ups, but I wrote that off to nerves. No, it turns out it was sick. When we picked her up at the stairs after, she didn't beg to be able to stay and watch or get a hot dog or play with her friends; she just said, "My throat hurts. I'm tired. I want to go home."

I have to admit, part of me was half hoping we could have stayed, even just for a half an hour. I would have had to say no, because the plan had been to rise at 6:30 this morning to get to Iowa City by 9:30-10, but I was surprisingly enjoying myself. I am not one for sports, and I've never voluntarily gone to a sporting event in my adult life, but hanging over the balcony, watching the high school kids be goofs, watching everyone ramp up and get excited about the game--I admit, I became oddly nostalgic. It's odd, because most of my high school basketball game memories are lonely or traumatic, but I still missed it.

There's just something about that insulated little gym full of community. You belong there even when you don't. I remember being at so many of these things, and I never really felt like i was part of the crowd, never felt like this was my time, but even with that sense of isolation, I realize now that I was there. I cheered. I gossiped. I rode the pep bus. I arrived with my snacks in time to overhear someone saying something mean about me. I sat with my best friend and said mean things about other people. I watched the popular kids having fun and wished, with intense longing, that I could be one of them. I spilled popcorn. I held my breath and screamed at the scoreboard, truly thinking this would somehow help. I felt the rush when the cheerleaders led the cheers. I played in the pep band and shouted "Tequila!" even though the superintendent had told us not to.

I've found other communities since then, and I don't feel so lonely in a lot of them, but none are quite like that high school gym, and honestly, they can't be. We're never as insulated as we are in high school--if we're sad and lonely, we have no idea how wide the world is, how many people are out there more than willing to validate us where our home towns cannot. If we're happy and content, we have no idea how hard it will hurt when that community dies or how zealously we will try to recreate it or how painfully we will mourn it. Part of the charm and the hell of the thing is the fact that right then, right there, it fills the whole world. The star forward really is a god. The pretty cheerleader really is the goddess. The social outcasts really are the whipping posts. We leave it and see it was all fake, but right then and there, it isn't fake. It is.

I watched my daughter down there on the court, and I wondered what she would find in high school. I wondered if she would ever play in pep band or if she would even attend. Would she go goth? Cheerleader? Head geek? Would she be running a social network in the bleachers? Would she be following someone else? Would this be the happy bubble later to burst, or would it be the scar tissue she would shudder to remember later?

There weren't any clues, alas. There was, however, video.



Sorry you're sick, sweet baby. And whatever high school brings, I'll be here with the tissues, before, during, and after.

Earlier this week--two days ago--her godfather asked, tongue-in-cheek, what I was doing six years ago.  Sadly, I was in labor.  Yes, for two days.

She was totally worth it.


The year in highlights (as findable on my hard drive):

Trick or treat!

   

  
This is a picture of Anna and me from Saturday, from the beginning of the day rather than the end, which is why we are still smiling.  I don't know if it shows, but personally I was preparing for one of the Mother Martyrdoms.  I knew this dance recital would be at least two hours long, possibly up to three, and I knew there was another one in the evening.  I knew there would be a lot of family here, that we'd want to see them, but that also it would be tricky because there was so much to do.  I knew Sunday would be more craziness, and I knew I wasn't even remotely leave for a trip on Monday, and I was worried how little peanut would take all this crazy.  Anna, I think, was just riding the high, excited to go dance, feeling the rush of so many people.  She was also enjoying feeling a bit different, too--those pink outfits in the background are her studio classmates, and they all wondered why Anna was in a different costume and why she was so sparkly and fancy when they weren't. 

As usual, I didn't get to sit in the audience much Saturday.  I was up and down stairs, hauling out costumes, checking sequins--the help was actually very good in the afternoon, and I would have loved to be able to leave her with the others and go watch, but when I took her four places and no one quite knew where she should be because of her competition dance coming first, I just decided to stay with her until I had her established back with her class proper.  I did get to watch a good chunk of the show, and I even got to sit in the audience for one of Anna's numbers, not having to help her on, not having to make sure no one lost her backstage, not having to do anything but clap. That was nice.

Of course, the show ran 3.5 hours long, not 2, and we were looking at less than an hour to get out of the auditorium, eat, and return for another show.  We strategically sent Caryle and Jeff out to order pizza at a nearby restaurant--not the venue I'd quite wanted, but it would have to do.  We hustled there, ate, and I even had a beer--then I grabbed Anna and said, "Now we have to go back."  She burst into tears.

I nearly let her go home, but I had a weird compulsion to finish this out.  This would be her last dance in a long time, plus there's that Iowa work ethic thing going on--finish what you start.  And so we went, once again with me thinking, this should only be two hours.  Of course, once again, it was three and a half.

In the end, I don't regret it, even though it was awful, even though it was hard on all three of us. (Dan was in the audience for all these, which he says was a chore and I'm sure it was, but I point out he wasn't gluing on eye jewels and getting ragged by dance nazi moms and leading color-a-thons.)  The backstage time for the second performance was awful--it was to be the competition showcase, but nobody really thought about how to entertain the eight and under crowd, which is why I ended up with coloring pages and crayons and snacks--all which I'd brought for Anna--distributed like loaves and fishes as I suddenly became a teacher again, entertaining, encouraging, directing, reminding, and for a throng.  Occasionally "official" adults (I wasn't supposed to be back there except to change Anna's costume) would shush the kids or tell them to stop running, but other than that I guess the kids were to sit quietly for three and a half hours.  Sometimes I wonder if these people have actually ever seen real children or if they just watch them on TV.

But I don't regret it, because something happened with Anna and I during that ordeal.  She was really spent, and so was I, but we bolstered each other.  I told her she could do it and promised to stand by her, and she, frequently, told me I was the best mom ever, told me she was lucky because she had a mommy who stayed, and went up to the other kids telling them her mom was great.  Before I became the babysitter, she treated me to an interpretive dance of each number we heard through the curtain, prompting me with my script: I was to pretend Anna had a little sister who was in awe of big sisters' sparkly tights, amazing moves, and general grace.  She was spent, so was I, but that was so fun, so magic, so just for us.  She was dancing for her, but she was dancing for me, and I saw so much of myself in that little girl Saturday night, and she reflected so much on me--we glued together a little harder that night, and I wonder if, later, we will both subconsciously pull on the bond we forged at the Dance Recital From Hell.

At ten, finally, we were back home.  Dan swung by the liquor store on the way home and bought me a well-deserved fifth of Jameson's, which I drank to excess before falling into bed.

Sunday was a very different story.  Sunday I woke and prepped a few things, then woke Anna, and we got ready for the event she truly wanted to attend--the Capitol City Pride Parade, or, as Anna calls it, "The Rainbow Parade."  We were attending a brunch in the morning, which Anna wasn't wild about until she heard there would be "princesses" there.  She already knew the princesses were boys, but Sunday I crossed another bridge and told her the real name for those princesses were drag queens. She referred to them as such all day, proudly--and indeed, at the brunch was treated to a front row performance of a stunning queen with beautiful ebony skin, who I think was responsible for Anna's very nearly choosing "African American Bride" as her good-job-for-surviving-dance reward at Toys R Us, which came between the brunch and parade.  (Alas, not even a drag queen can compete with horses with moving heads and limbs and a bobble-head dog.)

Anna was not as on for the parade as she usually is.  She dressed the part, which you may witness here:



But she was so wiped that even when a lovely woman from Planned Parenthood at the brunch offered to let her walk with them in the parade, which had been her fondest wish ("I want to throw necklaces in the parade!  And play a trumpet!"), she had to decline because she was just "too tired."   She did catch a lot of loot in her custom-made fuzzy purple purse from Aunt Kathy, but she didn't have her usual enthusiasm, and she was just a little more distant than she's ever been.  She received tons of compliments and spontaneous presents from admirers, which always happens to Anna but ESPECIALLY at Pride, but she never asked to go meet a drag queen, which she'd also wanted to do.  She was just too, too tired.

Now she is off at Grandma and Grandpa's, and I won't see her until Wednesday.  I'm just a scant hour from leaving for Chicago with her dad, and I miss her already. While I'm thrilled to be with just Dan for three days, it's a little hard to let my amazing princess go when I just realized how similar we are, how amazing she is--I always knew, but this weekend I got to know her a little more.  I was never more honored to mother this wonderful creature than I was this weekend, and never felt more needed. 

She's a good girl, my little princess.  Not because she toes the line or because she is so easy, but because she's so precious.  I love her when she's too tired, and I love her when she's crazy.  But I realized this weekend that it's those private moments I live for, be it us screaming at each other as I try to put her hair in pigtails, her clinging to me as she is afraid, or me telling her it's okay to let the man give her the coconut glass with a straw just because he was touched by how decked out she was for Pride.  And above all, what I live for are the moments when she is my private dancer, when she shows me and me alone how wonderful she is.  Soon she will show you all, and you will be amazed, but sometimes she just shows me.  And I am never more loved than I am right then.

Have a good three days, Peanut Butter.  See you Wednesday.