A Whole New World

It’s a whole new world out there for girls. Sure, there are still some chuckle heads who believe women should live subserviently to men, but I really don’t have much time to ponder such numskulls. I’m too busy raising a kick ass girl.

I stumbled upon a fantastic source the other day that has me thinking about how to spread the word more effectively about all the amazing resources out there for our kids these days, specifically for our girls. While this blog is predominately a forum for my rambling mama musings – thank you for your patient interest! – I’m also interested in spreading the good word (and work) for girls. When I stumble upon a cool resource, I’ll pass it on. If any of y’all find something cool, please let us all know. Word of mouth is golden as far as this mothering gig goes, and I love tapping into the richness of what other people find helpful.

So the site I discovered happens to be a new interview Internet series called Smart Girls at the Party. It’s created and hosted by comedian Amy Poehler and her fabulous girlfriends. As Poehler describes, she and her feminist cohorts created the show as a forum for young girls to change the world just by being their fabulous selves. And let me tell you, it’s hilarious. Poehler interviews girls from ages eight to fourteen, and the conversations are both entertaining and enlightening. It’s awesome to see creative, spunky, smart young girls talk about things like feminism and yoga. It rocks. Enjoy, watch with your own girls and boys and pass it on.

Envy

Every moment is an opportunity to tumble and play for Stella. Every moment is an opportunity to laugh, to discover, to learn, to love. This list, like Stella's potential, is endless.

Parents aren’t supposed to admit that they’re jealous of their children. Or at least mature, well adjusted parents aren’t supposed to. But I’m wondering if feelings of envy stem from a natural and evolutionary inevitability – we look to our children for inspiration and often look forward with a sense of hope. That hope is energizing indeed, but it can also remind us of what we are not.

So at eighteen months, Stella already has me beat on a few fronts. I only begrudge her one or two (wink wink), and thankfully they’re the minor and superficial ones. But that still doesn’t prevent me from gazing upon her with wonder and a bit of envy.

Of the important things, I envy Stella’s innocence. I know, it’s the obvious one. But it’s true. Stella never battles cynicism at this point. She accepts life as it is, and to her this life is wondrous and fresh. Each day is an opportunity for exploration and love. Throw in a cookie or a new story and life is out-and-out fabulous. She’s confident and proud exactly when she should be, and she’s cuddly and quiet exactly when she needs to be. She looks at her body with true wonder, focusing on what it can do rather than what it is not. She (hopefully) feels little shame about her blunders and stumbles, and forgives without the urge to hold a grudge. She is open to the kind of love and kinship that, if harnessed by world leaders, would change this planet instantaneously. On my good days, I try to emulate this openness. On my bad days, I watch and study. I envy her these traits and am working tirelessly to help her retain these qualities as she grows. That’s what good parenting is, right? Recognizing who your child truly is and helping them become their best version of that self.

As far as superficial stuff goes, there are just a few things I envy. Stella has the bangs I’ve always wanted. I’ve wrestled with a cowlick more powerful than Niagara Falls for my entire life and have been relegated to the entirely respectable but slightly dissatisfied community of brushed-to-the-side-bangers. Oh, and did I mention she has the most beautiful curls when it’s warm out. She’s totally unaware of how many haircuts I’ve botched in effort to achieve her just-out-of-bed look.

Okay, I wish I had as cute a tush as hers.

Aside from her hair and her hiney, there are admittedly a few things I would not trade Stella. Her life is a lot more challenging due to her minimal verbal skills. And of course, her needs and desires are absolutely overwhelming. This is not a good combination. When she wants to sit on the counter, she’s willing to thrash about on the floor to get there. I guess feeling her feelings so deeply is both desirable and undesirable. I wish we were all so honest with our emotions. But I also see where crazed and unchecked emotional outbreaks can lead. Oh, and she’s pretty short right now.

I’m actually glad I envy Stella a bit. It reminds me, yet again… and again… and again, that we are most definitely different people, and I have a whole lot to learn from her. The cool part is that I don’t resent her for any of this. While I envy her innocence, her joy, her killer bangs, I do so happily. I honestly delight in the ways Stella is better off than me. I suspect this is me creeping into a whole new level of selflessness as far as parenting. I think I now get it when parents of older children suffer through ice cold nights on bun-numbing stadium seats to watch their kids jump hurdles or score goals. And I think I can see myself sitting through hours of ridiculously painful piano recitals just to hear my little one give Für Elise her best. It’s not that parents particularly enjoy these actual activities – anyone who tries to convince me that children’s tap is an enjoyable form of entertainment is automatically denied any dinner invitation to my house – but they do enjoy that sense of pride and, yes, envy as they watch their child move more bravely or gracefully than they ever could. It’s evolution, really, and I am loving that I will always have the front seat reserved for me as Stella's mama.

File Under Self-Esteem

I’ve only written one letter to a rock star in my life. Okay, so it was an e-mail . And she’s not exactly an über famous rock star. But it was a letter nonetheless, and she was important to a younger and star struck me.

What was super cool was this person unexpectedly wrote back. Go figure. There are gracious rock stars after all! She was appreciative and kind as she thanked me for my adoring note. The kicker came when she told me that she was going to keep my message in a special file she kept for bad days and planned to read it occasionally to remind her future self of the things she’s done right.

I need a file like this. Actually, I already have one, but it contains notes about my professional career as a teacher. I’m pleased to say it’s filled with sweet and heartfelt thanks for my commitment and compassion as a teacher, and I’ve peeked inside this file several times throughout my career for a little boost here and there. Students really are awesome.

But I think I need a new file, one regarding my life now as I tirelessly work in a profession that has been so rudely ill defined for me. As a stay-at-home mom (of a one year old, mind you), I hear many thank yous from my exuberantly appreciative husband, my supportive family and close friends. But I have to admit that I really crave a thank you from my more direct audience – Stella.

No matter how hard I wish, it’s not going to happen any time soon. Seeing as Stella is currently harnessing all her linguistic energy on the words “happy” and “helmet,” I suspect it will be a bit longer before she lays into an I-love-you-so-much-I-can’t-imagine-my-life-without-you monologue.

This whole need for a new file stems from a recent crummy day yesterday. My self-esteem plummeted for whatever reason, and I ended up feeling whooped and beaten. I put on the happiest face I could muster without being psychotically insincere, but it was a tough one. Fortunately, toddlers don’t really let you wallow in your own mud. So I was able to march through the motions of a normally happy and peaceful evening with the peanut.

As I was rocking Stella goodnight, I started feeling low again. I let go of my need to be calm and collected in front of her and let the unappreciated smallness creep in. And that’s when I had a totally cheesy movie scene moment that totally rocked my world. I simply looked down at Stella in my arms by the light of her obnoxious LED nightlight. She was glowing an eerily spectacular blue tone – skin perfect, lashes lush, lips cherubic – and that’s when I got my thank you.

See, I told you it was cheesy. But just looking at Stella slowly drifting to sleep in that soft blue glow and watching her drowsily wedge her frayed blanky up her left nostril was a thank you in and of itself. Because in that moment I saw her feel safe, warm and loved. And I knew that she knew it as well. Her obvious comfort in that moment demonstrated her gratitude.

I won’t lie. I can’t wait for handmade cards waiting for me by the tea kettle as I start gathering breakfasts. And I grow giddy thinking of all the ways Stella will tell us she’s happy as she grows. But this wordless exchange was good for now. And realizing I need to make the already substantial catalogue of thank yous in my life more readily available actually contributes to a little boost in the self-esteem department.

To Bink or Not To Bink

This picture is not what it seems. I know it looks as though I’m gazing adoringly at my beautiful daughter. And I’ll admit that I always look at her with a more than healthy dose of affection. But I guarantee you that one of the dominant thoughts racing through my mind the moment this was taken was “God, I hate that bleepin’ binky!”

Yup. The pacifier. The plug. The bink. It brings comfort to my child, but it just plain irritates me to hell.

But I’ve been schooled. And I feel better. Thank heavens.

I’m taking a weekly parenting class with Stella right now and love the feedback I’m receiving from the teacher and the interaction with other moms and toddlers. Hilarity quickly ensues when you throw ten or more toddlers and their mamas together. It’s a bit messy and a little nuts, but Stella and I dig it.

I asked our teacher, Miss Francie (all teachers should be named Miss Francie, right?), what she thought of binkies, and she quickly explained her theories of age-appropriate comfort aids. It all made sense, and I felt totally convinced after her speech. Let her have it. It's harmless. It's okay.

Well, then binky it is.

We will continue binkin’ around here, and I’m going to try my darndest to let go of my irritation. While Stella may impress me with her precocious worldliness and adventurous spirit, she’s still just a peanut. And peanuts need comfort. Since I don’t really care that she sometimes needs to sleep with the light on, or drag her blanky around when we run errands or read a bazillion stories before we get out of bed in the morning, I suppose I shouldn’t really care if my wee one – and she is so wee – needs a little extra comfort by way of the bink. Comfort is comfort. So be it.

Can you tell I'm talking myself into being okay with all this? I know. I know. This is all so silly. There are much bigger fish to fry as far as parenting. A friend of mine has eighteen month old twins and another baby due in a matter of weeks. Unknowingly, she always provides me with a wise perspective. With her hands literally full, full, full, she doesn't seem to bother herself with the little worries like whether or not one of her boys relies heavily on the binky. If it helps make him feel safe and comfortable in this crazy world, he can have it. Again, this binky stuff is amateur hour compared the the potential worries that lie ahead. Before I know it, I’ll be fretting over issues like dating and driving. I suspect sleepless nights will take on a whole new meaning.

But oh, this control freak stuff is hard to give up, isn’t it? Because that's what this is really about. It's not about binkies; it's about control. It rears its head in the most unexpected and strange arenas. And for some stupid reason, Stella wanting her binky a lot these days is kick starting my instinct to render control while I really should be allowing her the sense of control (and comfort) she gains from that ridiculous plug.

I hate admitting that I'm having an absurd power struggle with a one year old about a piece of plastic. Ugh. It seems so trivial. But I’m determined – as any good control artist would be – to deal with this head on. We’ll live a binky-friendly life here in our house.

We’ll be downright binkerific if we have to be.

The Secret Life of Toys: Part One

A friend of mine (with an incredibly insightful and hilarious blog of her own) recently wrote about a frightening toy given to her five year old for her birthday. This thing was unbearably grotesque. If it had been given to me at five, I would have completely freaked out and insisted that my parents throw it away. Better yet, I would have had them burn it before it turned all gremlin on us.

So as I chuckled and guffawed at this disgusting little toy, I realized that there’s a whole other world of toys that I’ve yet to explore. While we try to keep Stella’s toy chest full of playthings aesthetically and sonically bearable, there are still some quirky stories hiding beneath the surface. I’m sure of it.

I know I don’t have too much time on my hands. So I can only assume that I’m a bit batty, because taking on this new perspective – that of the secret life of toys – has been thoroughly entertaining and a little too engaging. Bear with me on this… I’ll try to keep it to only a week of posts. I’ll start with the simple story of a man and a woman.

Mama and Papa: A Love Story

Meet Mama and Papa.

(Stella immediately recognized Mama as me and claimed this fella as the Papa.

The resemblance is uncanny, isn't it? )

Oh well. I like to call them Doug and Sherry.

Doug and Sherry live in a suburban three story split level.

They have a roomy bathroom. (Sherry still regrets the all-purple theme. A bit much, for sure.)

And they have matching single beds (Isn’t that convenient!)

Doug is a dentist while Sherry works part time as a first grade teacher. They have a beautiful baby girl named Shaneequa. (Sherry gave birth right after teaching a thrilling unit on multiculturalism.)

Doug and Sherry entertain a lot.

They accept all kinds. (They voted for Obama.)

They love their neighbors, Tish and Demetri. (Although, if she's honest, Sherry is a bit jealous. Despite being a single mom, Tish always seems so put together. She bakes, sews and volunteers at the local food bank. On her bad days, Sherry doesn't really like Tish.)

Okay, I’m cracking myself up here. But not as much as Stella cracks me up when she plays with Doug, Sherry and their cohorts. It only took about a day for her to fully embrace the heterosexual paradigm of a mama, papa and baby. Sure, it’s what she knows in her own home, so it’s not a surprise at all that that’s what she would emulate. What has been surprising are the deeply passionate kisses Mama and Papa plant on one another when in Stella’s presence. Let me rephrase. Stella is pushin’ the sweet love when it comes to Doug and Sherry-. This is so funny to the Papa (the original Papa) and me because we weren’t aware up until now that Stella was really watching us as we displayed our affection for each other. After we stopped laughing, we kind of looked at each other with a bit of pride. While I’m not totally comfortable with my toddler slipping into potentially rigid ideologies of what a family should look like (I know, I’m probably over thinking this!), I’m VERY comfortable – elated actually – that she thinks of Mama and Papa (aka Doug and Sherry) as loving, affectionate and connected. That sure as hell beats an imaginary game of contentious shouting, right? It felt like a report card of sorts, and I think the Papa and I scored well.

Okay. Enough exposition. I apologize for possibly stealing thunder from Doug and Sherry. They really are a lovely couple.

Brad Pitt Is In My Kitchen

Most teenagers believe someone is watching them. No, not in a stalker-ish kind of way. Just an I-assume-everyone-is-interested-in-what-I-do-say-and-think kind of way. Psychologists call it the Imaginary Audience, and it’s a belief that usually peters out by the time we hit our early twenties.

But does it have to?

I’m dying for an audience right now. The other day, I confessed to a dear friend that I sort of wish I still had that imaginary audience following me around right now. Of course, it’s not about what I look like at this point. Considering I’m still trying to figure out a way that striped knee highs, yoga pants and Danskos can appear fashionable and dignified, I’m not really interested in how an audience would interpret my outside self. (And whew, what a relief it is to be inching past that stage of life, isn’t it?) It’s more about having an audience keep me in check for my behavior, my actions.

I lost it last week with Stella, snapping at her sharply for a millisecond, and have had a really tough time recovering for some reason. Perhaps I’m struggling a little because of the ridiculously extreme rains that have hit the northwest. Maybe I’m just wallowing in the post-holiday, post-fabulous adventure blues. Or maybe I’m just totally tuckered out because my darling daughter keeps waking up at five in the morning. Whatever it is, I’m feeling the winter right now, and I’m doing everything I can to find some lightness and, more importantly, some patience as I parent a very precocious peanut.

So this is where the audience comes in. I realized recently that when I’ve been having a really crummy day and am about to lose it, I completely shift into Good Mama Mode when an outsider enters the picture. A friend. A family member. A complete stranger. Their mere presence allows me to center myself and find that more patient and gentle tone I prefer as Stella’s mama. Actually, I think allow is too kind a word. Their presence sort of forces all this. But I welcome the force, Obi Wan. Bring it on.

This audience wouldn’t stand in judgment of me as a mom. (I suspect I heap enough of that on myself for one set of shoulders.) They would, however, simply serve as a checks and balances of sort. They’d quietly and kindly remind me that I actually want to remain calm and collected despite the temptation to morph into Cruella de Vil.

The tough part is that I really love my alone time. Having an actual audience around all the time isn’t really all that appealing (or practical). Stella and the Papa have wormed their way so deeply and lovingly into my heart, that I consider their presence more than acceptable when it comes to alone time. I crave our time together. But Stella and Papa are just too darn familiar to serve as an audience. I know. I know. They, of all people, should be the ones who inspire me to be at my best as far as mothering. And for the most part, they do. But there are moments – right? – where they sort of necessitate the audience rather than serve as the audience. And by they I mean Stella when she’s steeped in her it’s-a-good-thing-you’re-cute self. Plus, I trust them so intimately, that I’ve been known to let my not so best self out of the closet when they’re around. A conundrum, right?

So the challenge is striking a balance between surrounding myself with a loving and supportive audience on those tough days but also figuring out how to recreate the effects of such an audience when it’s just me and the peanut. In writing this, I think I’m really making a request of myself, that my best self, the one who comes out when others are around, shine through when my good mama juju has flown out the window. And as I think about it, it all becomes a little exciting (and a little wonky), because think of all the possibilities as far as audience members. I can summon the pros like all those What To Expect and Sears folks. And I can summon all the amazing mothers in my life as well as all those characters from books and movies I’ve admired over the years. (I know Atticus Finch isn’t a mom, but he makes the cut as far as patience and integrity is concerned.) I’d, of course, have to invite Mother Theresa if I really wanted to get it right. And I’d reserve a seat for my dad’s mom since I really think we would have gotten on well as fellow moms. And if I want to have a little fun with this, I could really put on a show. I mean, really. What would be the harm in inviting a few extra folks to admire my refined and poised mothering? Say… Paul Newman. Perhaps Ewan McGregor is free. Oooh, how about Daniel Day-Lewis?

I know I’m hedging toward Wonks-ville here, but this suddenly seems more do-able, doesn’t it? Who said we’re not allowed to have fun with this self-improvement gig? Of course, if you’ve all written me off as a nutter at this point, fair dues. But at least I’ll be the calm and patient mama with Brad Pitt in my kitchen.

Save Handmade

As a concerned parent, aware of the value of responsibly made non-toxic toys, I urge you to check this out. It’s alarming how a seemingly well-intentioned piece of legislation could literally wipe out any chance for success for responsible artists and toy companies. Three cheers for eliminating toxins in our kids’ toys, but let’s not totally squash already toxin-free crafters, artists and manufacturers in the process. Talk about a big ol’ duh!

Please take a moment to click on the above button, read the details and send a note to your congressperson. Thanks!

Little Sparks

What sparks growth?

Is it love? Encouragement? Stability? Challenge? Reflection?

Is it riding the Papa’s shoulders past flames and a surf board?

Hmmm. I suspect it’s merely time (Can you tell I’ve been trying to find some sort of story or idea that would connect to this photo? I tell ya, it’s been tough. This is the best I can do… for now.)

The Papa and I have been eagerly awaiting Stella’s entrance into the world of language for some time now. Of course, she’s only seventeen months, so it’s not like it’s really fair of us to be so giddy with anticipation. She’s frankly right on target as far as her language and comprehension skills go. But it’s been one of those developmental milestones that has had me stewing inside.

I think this has something to do with the fact that I, admittedly, can be… hmmmm…. well. Let’s just say verbose is a kind word. Or, as my brother has been known to call it - diarrhea of the mouth. Yeah. Thanks for that. Actually, yeah. Thanks for that. Really. It’s not like I support crunching your own personal communication style for the sake of conformity. But I do think we could all reflect a bit now and then as to whether or not our little styles are workin’ for us. Mostly, I think I do okay. I speak my mind, but I’m learning more and more how to step back and remain quiet. Okay, not a lot. But a little.

And that’s where Stella comes in. I’ve been noticing that as I shut my well-intentioned English teacher trap, she has more room to explore. I still ask her lots of questions – simple ones, mind you – and engage her with a lot of conversation, but I’m giving her more time to “respond.” And it’s working. She’s starting to communicate with greater confidence and enthusiasm. She’s starting to collect words like treasured souvenirs, and I can tell she understands far more than I could ever imagine.

(Verbally, at least, she understands quite a bit, and we’ve now entered the deadly don’t-you-dare-laugh-as-she-says-“shit” parrot zone. Case in point: I casually mentioned to the Papa the other night that our dear friends’ nineteen month old now says “F$*! it!” all the time, and Stella quickly followed suit. Oops.)

But let me set something straight, I don’t think I really have anything to do with all this wonderful, amazing and captivating growth. All my worrying about how “normal” her development is hasn’t sparked any growth at all. It’s only given me a headache. If I do say so myself, we’ve set up a pretty stimulating learning environment for Stella in our humble home. But as I learn more and more about what makes kids tick, Stella deserves my utmost respect for being a dynamic and precocious peanut all on her own. My increased silence may in fact allow her a bit more linguistic wiggle room, and that’s great. I’ll take a pat on the back any day. Even so, it’s not the sole spark. While we’d like to think that we have something (okay, everything) to do with her brilliance and beauty, I think the Papa and I realize Stella is marching at her own pace. And it’s far more fun to sit back and relax as we watch her march and stomp and learn and play.

Of course, we can always hold onto the notion that this scene, this crazy experience, had something to do with her ability to say “potato,” right?

Perspective

For me, blow dryers will always symbolize motherly love. That deep, unshakable nitty gritty mama bear love that swings you up sideways and smacks you silly when you first hold your babe. Yup, blow dryers.

I’ll explain in a moment.

Sleep has been a bit of a challenge in our house lately. After our big trip, Stella recovered beautifully, as she normally does. But then another round of teething hit, and all hell has broken loose. (Who knows why nobody ever prepares us for the fact that babies teeth for about, oh, three years straight. Why didn’t I know this?)

Granted, Stella is still sleeping fairly well. Considering she’s in a lot of pain, she’s coping like a champ. But part of how we deal with this whole situation is to rock and hold Stella a bit more than normal. I know, I know. According to a lot of experts, we’re supposed to be teaching Stella how to fall asleep on her own at this point. And really, she normally does. She’s one of the best sleepers I know – of babies and adults – and she usually dozes off with ease. But when my sweet girl is obviously hurtin’ and it’s my job to help her feel better, I’m gonna rock, by golly. Yes, sir.

So we’ve been rocking Stella a lot. I rock her before her naps, and I rock her before bed. And the Papa rocks her at night when she wakes all sweaty and sticky from a feverish teething battle. We’re a bit tired, but we’re also aware that this phase won’t last, and she’ll be back to her Super Sleeping Self in a matter of days.

And that’s what’s got me tickled (and ruminating on blow dryers). I have a perspective now that I didn’t have just one year ago. I have the awareness to know that all the tough stuff we go through as a family is essentially a phase. The tough stuff, thankfully, ends. The good stuff, thankfully, remains. Oh, how I wish I could have told myself this in those early first days, as Stella struggled to accept her new life outside my warm and cozy belly and as we coped with ridiculously little sleep and frayed patience. I wish I could have told myself that I would indeed get the hang of it all – the nursing, the sleeping, the soothing, the mothering – and I would eventually hit a groove and flow as a new mama. I wish I could have told myself that I would screw up, but Stella would still be okay. I wish I could have told myself to just relax a bit and just enjoy her smells and sounds.

The funny thing is that nobody could have told me it would get better. Actually, that’s not true. People told me all the time. I just didn’t believe them. Or maybe I just didn’t (or couldn’t) hear them. It’s not like we were living in a hell on earth. Despite feeling bone tired and emotionally wasted, we were also delightfully giddy about our new babe. But nobody can tell you how to feel. Or at least nobody can tell me how to feel. I’m a gotta-do-it-for-myself kinda girl, and my profoundest realizations usually stem from mucking around in the mess by myself. (I assume this is the case for most.)

So I was thinking about all this the other night as I was rocking Stella to sleep, affectionately looking forward to seeing myself evolve as a mama and gaining more and more of this kind of perspective. As I was listening to Stella breathe, I flashed to a memory of when she was about five weeks old, and we were still steeped in the exhausting frenzy of our new life. In this memory, I was rocking Stella in the same chair, in the same room, feeling a thousand times more exhausted as I am these days. Totally obliterated. And Stella just wouldn’t go to sleep, and she wouldn’t stop crying. After nursing her for nearly an hour, walking around the entire house, running the hair dryer as white noise, experimenting with different levels of darkness, singing everything from Hey Jude to Greensleeves and shushing her into oblivion, I was just about to lose it. And that’s when I pulled out all the stops. For some reason, in my completely wasted state, I came to the conclusion that Stella needed more darkness, more white noise, more movement and more shushing. That’s it. I just hadn’t found the right combination yet. This was going to work.

Go big or go home, friends. It worked. And it makes me laugh with great tenderness for myself as a loving, new mama that I sat in that rocking chair for another hour with a running blow dryer in an outstretched hand and a quilt draped over my head and the baby as I shushed and rocked, shushed and rocked.

I sort of look back at this version of myself and regard her as a little sister of sorts. Since I’m the youngest of four, I imagine this is what my siblings have often felt as they’ve seen me flail about in my own life. “Oh, look. Katherine’s figuring something out again. Poor, sweet dear.” But the thing is I look at this memory without pity or exasperation. I look at it with real tenderness for myself as a new mom. Because, if we’re all honest, I don’t think anyone knows what the hell they’re doing when they have their first child. It’s chaotic and exhausting and totally draining. But we all make it through somehow, sometimes with help and sometimes alone. And sometimes, we drag out the quilts and rockers and blow dryers to help us survive. This memory bolsters me right now since it’s not one of martyrdom or exhaustion. It’s a memory of the enormity of love that I felt for Stella during those first days. And it’s a reminder now of the ingenuity, creativity and goofiness necessary and inherent in this grand world of mothering.

Two Worlds

Each day we were on the beach in Costa Rica, we would see people passing us with smiles on their faces as they watched our tiny girl playing in the sand and surf. If I do say so myself, she did look ridiculously cute. Even the hardest of hearts would be charmed by a wee one in a bathing suit and floppy hat on the beach, right?

But on one night in particular, we realized people were out and out laughing at our girl.

And they were right to do so. She was pretty darn funny. Stella spent nearly two hours walking up and down the beach, picking up dry sand and carefully placing it in the rolling waves. Head down, arms swinging, back and forth. She was on a mission.

Who knows what task Stella was undertaking that night. I have to believe that she was summoned by some outside source or, if you like, some higher power. Did the snails and mollusks summon her? Was the Grand Sand Deity beckoning her to join the Formidable Beach Brigade? Could Stella hear miniscule sand granules calling out, “Help us! Help us! We must return to the sea.”

Whatever her mission, she embraced it with an industry and dedication only paralleled by professional athletes or surgeons. She was in another world – a sand world – and any distraction we threw her way counted only a pittance in comparison to the important work she was undertaking. Returning the sand. Returning the sand. Hallelujah and Amen. Returning the sand.

I love these moments. The ones where I catch small glimpses into what might be going on in Stella’s mind. It seems that at seventeen months, Stella inhabits dual worlds. She lives in a world – our world – where things are as they appear. It’s fascinating, sure, but it’s also very simple. Constant. Stable. But she also lives in a world – a world often ignored or negated by us big people – where things don’t have to be as they appear. It’s unlimited, astounding and enticingly creative. It’s this world that I catch Stella in a lot more these days. A world where she can hold “conversations” with her dollhouse figures and build castles with a pile of blocks. A world where she can fly on top of mountains as her Papa carries her around the house. A world where Vinnie and Cooper, our beloved cats, surpass the role of pets and serve as deep and true companions. And it’s this world that allows her to spend nearly two hours walking back and forth on a beach, picking up the sand and offering it back to the sea.

The funny thing about all this is that the people walking on the beach, laughing at Stella’s fierce determination in a seemingly futile and nonsensical task, were probably eliciting the same response in the likes of Stella and other wee ones. I mean what’s so important about surfing or beach combing or reading? There was sand to be carried, sand to be cradled, sand to be saved. All of us big people are so busy and distracted trying to make sense of what’s right in front of us that we often miss what’s just beyond the surface, that other world that fascinates, engages and feeds our little ones. Amidst all that sand and amidst Stella’s immersion in that other world, I suspect the joke was really on all of us.