Tiny Dancer

When Claire burst out of her dance class in tears, I rushed her to the bathroom thinking she had an accident. In between echoing hiccups, she told me that she wanted to go home, that she didn't like the class, that she missed me. Brushing back hair from her flushed face, I tried to coax out reasons for her sudden emotional transformation. The little girl who had earlier bounced through the doorway in her Disney Princess tutu was suddenly, inexplicably clinging to my neck.

In between stall door slams and squeals from Jenna, who was barreling around like a puppy off a leash, Claire hitchingly shared her woes: "The kids were mean to me." "They knocked me over." "I don't like my teacher." My mind raced as I rubbed her back and grabbed at Jenna. What really happened? I fought to stop the irritated look that flashed across my face as the bathroom door swung in. Can't you see we need some space?! Torn between reactionary maternal fury and polite, rational thought, I offered our intruders a small smile and quietly ushered my expressive children back into the public eye.

Holding tight to two small hands, one pulling away, one refusing to let go, I made my way back to the dance class door. Responding to concerned parent inquiries, I found myself saying, "Sounds like someone pushed her down but she's ok" and assuring them that "Oh no, I'm sure nothing happened. I think it's just one of those days" while inwardly wanting to shake the children - I had my suspects!  - who made Claire cry.

Never one to quit (even when I should), I convinced Claire to try again and promised I would stay inside the room, even though it was expressly against class policy. Watching her pick up her princess wand and crown and take a brave, deep breath, my heart twisted. She looked at me with her big brown eyes and said in a sweet, clear voice, "Thank you for staying with me, Mommy." My throat closed a bit, even as I shot a look at the teachers murmuring about my presence. To hell with rules - I wasn't leaving. That is, until Jenna - so my daughter - had a similar thought and decided she wanted to twirl with her sister.

Scooping up her squirming mass, I tried to ease out the door without Claire noticing. No such luck. Immediately, her face crumpled and she launched herself into my arms. Pointedly, I asked her teacher about the situation but received no insight. Manners once again trumping Mama Bear, I thanked her for her time, murmured apologies and have-a-great-weeks to all involved adults and took my screamers to the car.

Two car seat strap-ins and child-approved snack and beverage distributions later, I slid into the driver's seat and sighed shakily. The rear view mirror framed a pink-cheeked dancer, eyes still wet. "I don't want to go back next week, Mommy."

"We'll see, ok?" I offered, stretching a hand back to rub her leg. Jenna pointed a chubby finger at her sister and yelled, "Caaaaaaaaare!" sparking a little giggle between sniffles. As I drove home, I worked the worry wheel - This was her first class without me. If she can't do this, how will preschool be? Am I pushing her too hard? Was this a bad thing to try?

"Look, Mom!" Claire broke through my thoughts. "My crying is all done!" She pointed to her eyes and grinned. With that, the curtain closed on our dance class drama.

Later, Claire spontaneously shared with my mom, "I cried at dance class today, Grandma. There were too many kids," a comment that added clarity to her feelings. No one had pushed her. Cautious Claire just felt overwhelmed by all that was happening and needed to find her comfort zone again.

It has been incredible to be able to communicate with Claire. At three, she is a chatterbox; experiencing her thoughts and worldview through her words has been one of the greatest gifts of parenthood. There's this little person living with us who is like us and yet so her own person. The move from point-and-yell-for-the-baba to "What are we going to do today, Mom?" has been amazing and yet, even with all of her words, we know that she still can't make us see and feel all that she is seeing and feeling.

The recognition of Claire as an individual was a powerful a-ha for me. That tug between intuitive connection and inherent separateness is beautifully, painfully humbling. I can only imagine the feeling grows more intense as children grow older...

There is so much that is "big girl" about Claire and yet, moments like dance class remind me that she is still very much a little girl. Watching her lose herself in imaginative play, sleep hard all cuddled up with her Moo and twirl without abandon in a pretty dress at story hour, Jeff and I are as awed by the recognition of her tiny, individual little being as we were by her entrance into our lives.

It's Claire's world and we feel really lucky to be able to dance with her in it.
 

And Baby Makes More...

In the past few weeks, I've visited three different hospital rooms for the world's best reason: meeting a new baby.

My husband's best friend welcomed darling twins, a friend had her second sweet little boy and my sister became a mom for the very first time to my absolutely beautiful-in-every-way niece. While the anticipation in the drive-overs, elevator ride-ups and down-the-hallway scurries was delicious, nothing compared to the moment when that hospital door opened and the world changed forever.

There is something beautifully intimate about a hospital room holding new life. Somehow, amid the medical tangle of clinical smells and beeping machines and bustling staff, there is a cocoon for each new family. After the chaotic and overwhelming adventure that is childbirth, that fatigued, awed retreat to a private space is an immeasurable gift.

Admittedly, I am a bit baby-obsessed, especially when it involves loved ones. Jeff has had to, on more than one occasion, pointedly tell me to stay put until a more appropriate time for a visit. I just can't help myself. There is such pure joy in the welcoming of a new life - and even more joy in witnessing the transformation of a child's parents and family.

It is amazing to me that one day, there is a child to be born and then the next, there is this brand new life that wasn't there before. When a baby is born, so are parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters. Perspectives, sleep habits, relationships, beliefs, lifestyles change. The world grows in love.

As a new mom, and then new mom of two, sitting in that hospital bed, I was grateful for the fleeting moments where the world was as tiny as I could make it. For a day or two, I could pretend that there was nothing beyond that threshold and attempt to process the new life the new life in my arms had brought to us. Each visit amplified our happiness, as we watched our family and friends meet our newest love. And when the lights dimmed for the night and it was just our little family again, we got to revel in the purity of this new beginning.

Visiting "new life" rooms is a fantastic treat, as I get to witness all of the excitement without facing any of the work. I love hearing Mom tell her birth story, while Dad (always busy with his computer, sharing pictures, working on correspondence, taking care of life) chimes in with extra details. I love proud Grandma on the couch who graciously lets me hold the baby for a little bit, even though it is her turn to rock. I love the wonder on each parent's face, the fatigued scruffiness of Dad and the fresh-scrubbed I-put-on-makeup-to-feel-better-holy-cow-I-made-this-life shine in Mom's eyes. I love the sounds and smells and movements of a newborn, the teeny-tiny diapers and hospital-issued swaddle blankets. I love the quiet, even when it's not quiet, of the room and the seemingly impossible view out the window (because how can the world go on when life is changing so immensely?)

As doctor-phobic as they come, I know that hospital rooms are not romantic. We were more than ready to go home on our release days, as have been all of our friends and family. And yet, in the middle of real life, there are tugs of homesickness for those early days in a small room that baby first called home.

We drive by our hospital often in our daily comings and goings and Claire rarely misses the chance to point out where she and Jenna and her baby cousin were born. I nod and we wave to the hospital (we say hi to almost everything in town). Inevitably, I glance at those windows and wonder about the lives that are changing within. A hospital is a keeper of many stories, but I'm drawn irresistibly to the stories of births - of babies, of parents, of families, of new beginnings.

Drawn so much that we just may have to find our way back to one of those rooms ourselves someday...