Stages of Life

My mom and I were shopping a couple of weeks ago and happened upon a sign that describes my father's life fairly well at the moment:

The Four Stages of Life
1. You believe in Santa
2. You don't believe in Santa
3. You are Santa
4. You look like Santa

My father gave in this past year and stopped dying his hair and mustache. He made this decision somewhere between the time we dropped Kevin off at his house and he brought her to the hospital to come meet her little brother. Having a baby I could adjust to...seeing my dad actually look like a Grandpa was another thing all together.

I think one of the hardest things about growing up is watching your parents get old. My parents and my in-laws are both dealing with health challenges that we all thought were a good 15-20 years away. Suddenly our invincible parents aren't so untouchable anymore.

When I was little, I knew my dad was superhuman. He was the strongest, smartest, funniest man I knew. He could answer any question, solve any problem, and he always had the money for ice cream (even if he didn't spring for the idea of going to get some at Casper's). I never worried that he couldn't carry me to my bedroom if I fell asleep in the car or that he wouldn't be able to help me with my homework. He was the kind of dad that saved up his PTO and I didn't figure out until I was older that Dads don't automatically get your birthday and your school breaks off work. He came to every parent teacher conference, every recital, every ball game, every awards ceremony. He spent an entire school year driving me to middle school so that I could go where my friends attended. He checked my homework assignments, edited my Sterling Scholar portfolio, gave me advice about boys (which was usually just what I needed to hear). He scared off all the high school boys and helped me register for college. When I asked him how they paid for my brother's mission, he told me that if I wanted to go, they would find a way.

And so they did. It wasn't easy.

He taught me that it is okay for diabetics to eat treats and enriched pasta.

Though they probably shouldn't have done it, he found a way to leave home at the very worst possible time and take my mom and me back to Texas, where he got to meet everyone I loved and eat the three-dollar taco plate on Taco Tuesday at Rosa's. While we were there, one of the investigators I had been working with for over a year finally got baptized (I knew all it would take were some handsome Elders asking her), and my dad spent the whole time talking to her parents in Spanish and explaining what was going on.

A week after we came home, he helped me book a plane ticket to go back a month later so I could be at the Temple Sealing of one of the people I taught.

And somewhere in there, when Scott asked for my hand, he was man enough to say okay, even though he knew there wasn't a man alive good enough for his daughter.

He's also the one who turned on the child lock when we got to the Temple on my wedding day so I couldn't get out of the backseat.

Dads have a hard time letting go.

So do daughters.

Turns out, however, that me getting married just might be the best thing that ever happened to him.

Enter: Kevin.

His #1 Fan.

In a season of my life where I realize just how human my Dad is (and I love him all the more because of this), where I see him getting old and withering and struggling to do the simple things that used to come so easily, my daughter sees the very, very best in him.

To her, he isn't sick. He isn't aging. He isn't chronically tired and in pain. He doesn't have any other responsibility in life other than being her Papa.

He is her hero,

If her sunglasses break or her colored pencils are dull, the answer is always, "Papa can fix it." If we are out of purple paint, "Papa will get me more." If she can't sleep at night, "Papa come play me?" If her dad is taking too long to get home from school and her mother just can't handle her anymore, "I call Papa?"

Her pack-pack is continually packed for Papa's house. It's better than Disneyland (where she's never been) or the Temple (which is her favorite building).

She knows, without a doubt, that he loves her. That he will do (and frequently does) anything for her, even if it means setting her in the baby exersaucer that she is two years too old for. He plays dollhouse and babies, he takes her to see the pets, he feeds her crackers and cookies and ice cream. He reads stories and sings songs and rocks her to sleep and shows her love in a thousand different ways.

A few weeks ago, I was rocking and singing Sly to sleep when Kevin peeked her head through the doorway, excitedly whisper-shouting, "Papa sing me this song!"

For a week after we brought the baby home, she kept telling me that she was "borned at Papa's house." And she wanted to go back.

It would not surprise her at all if I told her that her Papa was Santa Claus, and not just because he has a ton of white facial hair. And it's more than the fact that Papa gives her way more presents than Santa does and he loves to eat cookies.

It's because Santa embodies all things good, and she knows there is truly no better person than her Papa.

You want to know why I believe in Santa?
Because he's my dad.

A Mother's Lament

A funny thing is occurring in our family at the moment. Today is my daughter's 1,000th day of life. In a few days I will reach my 10,000th day of life. And within the past two weeks, my husband has reached his 10,000th day and my baby reached 100 days old. That means, for this brief period of time, Kevin is ten times older than her brother and we, as her parents, are ten times older than her.

That's a lot of math for an English major...so let me tell you how this translates into words and feelings.

Yesterday I was snuggling with my sick little baby and watching Peter Pan Live! while Scott took Kevin Christmas shopping so she could pick out a present for me. 

Side note: I asked her what kind of present she was going to get me. She, of course, answered "Purple!" because everything is purple these days. I told her I would like a book. She told me she would get me a purple book. Seeing this as an opportunity to give her father another clear hint at something I really want for Christmas (the Dr. Seuss collection found at Sam's Club), I told her I would really like a "Cat in the Hat" book. A few hours later, after Scott had already loaded her into his car, he peeked his head back through the door and accused me of planting ideas in our daughter's head. "I just asked her what she wanted to get you and she said a Cat in the Hat book!" Good job, baby girl.

As I snuggled with my little man, watching the beginning of the story of the boy who never wanted to grow up, I thought about what a paradox growing up is--at least in the eyes of a mother. You want your children to grow healthy and strong, to learn and to overcome and to become successful contributors to the world. You can't wait to see what they make of the talents that you can see budding in them now. Part of you is excited for the day when you take your adult daughter out to lunch and hear her talk about her life (the same life that used to be yours, twenty-some-odd years ago). Part of you can't wait to see your son helping his dad with home improvement projects, dressed in a tux for Prom, offering to reach the things in the high-up kitchen cupboards that you can't get, even on your tippy-toes. 

What wonderful moments those will be!

And yet...

There is a part, and it is no small piece, of your heart that wishes they could stay little forever. You can't imagine the day when you can no longer pick her up or he no longer grabs fistfuls of your hair as you lean down to blow raspberries on his tummy. You want to always hear her little voice singing her own version of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and hear him cooing at angels when he first wakes up. You don't want to have to put another pile of barely-worn baby clothing in a too small pile, or break it to her that her favorite sparkle shoes no longer fit. You don't want to think about the day that she starts school or he no longer needs you to carry him from room to room, though you know those days aren't far off.

Your arms are tired, your shoulders weary, your head aches from all the screaming and crying, your feet are calling out for a rest, your eyes are fighting to stay open, and your heart...your heart doesn't want it to ever end.

In the beginning of Peter Pan, there is a line that goes something like this:

"All children grow up. They start to realize this at about age two. You might say, therefore, that two is the beginning of the end for children."

A truer statement has never been spoken.

Kevin's favorite thing to talk about is how she is getting old. Sometimes she will ask to do something and I will tell her that she'll be able to do it when she is a little bigger. Then she will look at me with a big smile on her face and say, "Wook at me! Wook at me growin!" 

Yes, sweetheart, I see you growing.

Then, to add salt to the wound, she will point to her brother and say, "Wook! Wook! He's growin too!"

It's a strange thing to notice, when you spend every day with your children. You are so wrapped up in their lives and involved in their growing, that you don't notice that something has changed until a grandmother points it out or you show off one of their new tricks. To her kindergarten teacher grandmother: "Look how she can count to ten!" To his strong Papa: "Look how he tries to sit up!" To her seamstress grandmother: "Look how tall she has gotten, all of her dresses are so short!" To his playful Pa: "Look how he smiles so big!"

And, in a way, though I am well into my twenties now, there is still a small piece of that two-year-old in me that is still telling my parents to "Wook at me growin!"

And, to our parents, there is still that piece of their heart that begs time to slow down and let me stay young just a little longer.