Wednesday, May 18, 2011

brave

She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she waaaaaaaaaaants to do. She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she waaaaaaaants to do. She is…

What are you singing, Bumble Bea?

A song I made up.

I like it very much.

Me too. She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she waaaaants to do.

I want to bottle her up. The song catches me at the oddest times—walking into a meeting, waiting endlessly at a jewelry counter, in the middle of the night.

She is strong. She is brave.

She runs now, all gangly legs and pumping arms. Up and down the house, jumping over the dog, under the table, singing her song. She laughs with her whole body.

She can do anything she wants to do.

I fix myself on her. She is magic. I am convinced. If I stare at her long enough, she might not disappear. If I keep her under my wing, tuck her behind my leg, tell her stories about princesses and ladybugs, brush her hair gently, touch her nose, smell her neck, maybe she will stay. Maybe she won’t trust the person she shouldn’t trust. If I just watch her chest rise and fall while she sleeps, if I study every crease on the bottoms of her feet, she won’t leave and never come back. The other one disappeared, and never came home. It seems a strange habit to try to control the passage of time by sheer will. I tattoo each moment on the sand of my neural pathways, only to watch them wash away with the tide. There she goes--my baby turns into a girl. My girl turns into a woman.

Ironically, the only permanent thing I know in my life is that Lucy is dead. Everything else I can hold in my arms is a lesson in impermanence and that scares the shit out of me. It humbles me, rather. Fear is something I am trying to let go of, though I am a house of cards built on fears. Time blows through the room. And suddenly, Beatrice is eating her sushi with chopsticks, and telling me jokes, and washing her own toes, and her brother’s too.

This morning, Beezus and I headed to the pediatrician for her four year well-visit. Just the two of us. We sit together and read books waiting. We are the first appointment of the day, and we are there for the long haul. Hearing. Vision. All of it. She follows the rules. To a tee. And she gets upset if others don’t as well. I am exactly the same way, so we sit together quietly nodding at the others waiting. We keep to ourselves. She is precocious in that way, and sometimes I forget that four is still so damn little. She pulled out her yoga mat before the appointment to stretch and then meditate. She never admitted she was afraid, just that she wanted to be calm before the doctor. I couldn't help but wonder when she became a little woman. She wore a bright yellow dress and a little bright pink sweater and bright pink maryjanes. She dressed up for the doctor she said, because she is a big girl now.

For a week she has asked me if she is getting shots, and I didn’t know. I really didn’t. But I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I don’t know, love. Maybe? 

Oh, okay. I’m just wondering.

Are you scared of shots?

No. I just want to know.

Four shots. The nurse gave her the option of taking two this year and two when she turned five, or all of them today, and she opted for all of them today. I just stood by her. I explained the choices again and nodded as she made her decision. The nurse asked me to put her on my lap, and she sat absolutely still for each shot. She didn’t cry, or flinch. She just remained still. And the nurse remarked on how good she was at following the rules. She remained staid, like a soldier almost. She is getting too big too fast.  

She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she wants to do.

And then the nurse looked in her face and saw something I couldn’t see with her back towards me. “Oh, Beatrice, it’s okay to cry.”

And she let it go.

Her face broke in a huge cry just as the nurse walked out of the room. The cry of my newborn, my one year old, my grieving sister, my little baby...What made Beezus think she couldn't cry? What made her wait for permission to be afraid? I don’t know. But when she started crying everything she held in for the hour and a half, maybe for the week before, came pouring out in torrents. She is still a baby. So delicate and little and I’m the mommy that wipes away tears and explains what bravery is—to be afraid and still do something. The song snuck into my head.

She is strong. She is brave. She can do anything she wants to do.

Indeed.

25 comments:

  1. Oh my...I'm in tears. This is so beautifully written Angie and you're such an amazing mother. And Bea is such an AMAZING girl. Thank you for sharing this story of bravery.

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  2. Oh, Angie. Oh, Bea.

    Thanks so much for sharing this post, this story. And thanks to Bea for her song.

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  3. Oh Bea. Sweet sweet Bea. What a brave little girl she is. xx

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  4. What a wonderful little person you are raising. I'm moved beyond words by this post. Big hugs for the two of you lovely, brave ladies.
    xo

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  5. I've been all out of sorts over what happened to that little girl up in Souderton. This post just sums up everything running through my mind about raising a daughter--much more eloquently than my inner voice, naturally.

    My C takes after her dad and seems to be growing into a tiny wolverine of a person. I can't help but think this is a tough row to hoe. But I have to let her figure it out.

    And Bea...oh my gosh, what a thoughtful, brave little thing she is! Just like mama, indeed.

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  6. I want to wrap Bea in a hug, she sounds amazing. You're a great mom, Angie.

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  7. Beautiful post as always Angie. "The only thing in my life I know is permanent is that Lucy is dead." So often you sum up in just a few words all that I feel. If I had to give one sentence to describe how losing Ezra has changed how I parent my living child, that would be it. Bea is amazing, and so are you.

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  8. What a sweet, brave, strong little girl. My younger daughter is four, which means I'm totally with you on the fact that four is still SO LITTLE. My older is eight and I have to remind myself constantly that eight is still little too. Because they are. They're little even when they're brave and strong. So beautifully written.

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  9. your brave gal still needs her reliable mama, and will forever.

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  10. Oh Bea sweetheart. I love her song, your little girl is so very brave and strong. The apple does not fall far from the tree as they say.

    And that strange muddle of the awful permanence of death and the ceaseless wind that blows the rest of our families along. Sometimes I think that will drive me to breaking, at others it is the only thing that keeps me going. To know that one, at least, will change, will grow and not remain the same.

    Such a beautiful post Angie. Thank you. x

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  11. As usual, I am amazed by your ability to write so eloquently and in a way that touches our very souls. This is a beautiful post. Thank you, Angie...sending love to you and all of your children today and always. ((Hugs))

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  12. I love her song. It might be her first hit. You two are so cute, I can get a great visual of you both sitting in the waiting room thanks to your awesome writing Angie.

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  13. You are raising a beautiful young person there Angie.

    All girls should sing Bea's song.

    xxx

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  14. What a lovely, strong, beautiful little girl! I love this post and can feel your admiration and awe of your Bea.

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  15. Here from the Roundup.

    I love this post! It is so true to what a four year old is like. Thinking for themselves, but still needing mom there with them for the scary stuff.

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  16. You are a great mother. Congrats on your brave little girl.

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  17. Here from Mel's Roundup...truly a beautifully written post. Your little girl sounds amazing.

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  18. Here from the round up. What an extraordinary post. I don't know what else to say. I'm literally speechless. Thank you for sharing this. Thank you.

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  19. I did think of something to say. Only that the uncertainty of life humbles me as well. For a long time I worried I wouldn't be strong enough for what life might throw at me. I was wanted to know that everything would be okay. Finally I realized that it was up to me, only I could decide if I'd be okay with my own life.

    During my own loss and struggles TTC I turned to Buddhism and found many of the answers that I felt Western culture did not provide. I continue to be humbled by uncertainty but I no longer feel paralyzed by it. I at least have hope that I could get through the difficult things if need be. That is something. That is more than I had before.

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  20. what a darling girl you have; she is strong, she is brave, she can do anything she wants. thank you for sharing her and for sharing your song.

    you are a beautiful writer and a beautiful mother. and yes... the only thing i am completely sure of, too, is that my babies are dead. and everything else is fear and anxiety. ((sigh))

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  21. This is one of my favorite posts of all time, Angie. Just beautiful. You are an incredible mother and an incredible woman. And this, "Everything else I can hold in my arms is a lesson in impermanence and that scares the shit out of me." It scares the shit out of me too. xo

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  22. I love this, especially the paragraph where you so wonderfully illustrate wanting to stop the passage of time by sheer will and viewing your girl as "magic". I so relate and just adore the way you put my thoughts into words. xo

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  23. I keep wanting to comment here, but each time I read this I have trouble typing through the tears. Love to you and that brave girl of yours.

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  24. Here from Creme. What a GORGEOUS post. Bless that nurse. Bea ROCKS!

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