"I Want Ariel!"

I'm not a fan of television. Movies are marginally better, but the sound of the TV still grates on my nerves. Unfortunately, my life has lent itself to rather more television/movie watching lately than I prefer. We have only a bare handful of animated, 2-year-old-friendly movies, among which are the Care Bears.

Ely is a Care-Bear-aholic. She absolutely adores watching the cute little bears bring love and caring into the world. This is wonderful, because of all the cartoons out there today, I'd much prefer she watch something with morals and meaning and storyline, like Care Bears. The problem with this is that we only have two, 30-minute tapes.

I am utterly sick of Care Bears.

So, imagine the depths of my joy when Ely declared "I want Ariel!" The best part about The Little Mermaid, as produced by Disney, is that there are parts of the movie which are hilarious to a two-year-old. I'm not talking about little-girl snickers funny, but deep, belly laugh funny. Few things gladden my heart as much as watching Ely laugh so hard her little body shakes when Scuttle uses the dinglehopper to fluff his hair, or when Max licks Ariel's face over the side of the ship.

This utter joy in the simple beauty of life is echoed when she observes the real world, too. This morning, as we stepped out of the house, she gazed up at the sky and said, light voice filled with wonder, "Stars, Mommy! Stars!"

I glanced around, and said back to her, "Yes, you're right! There are stars. Aren't they pretty?" all the while thinking how sad it was that only a dozen or so stars were visible in the city light.

It was then that I learned a very humbling lesson as she said, "Yes! Pretty! I like stars. Do you like stars, mommy?" I realized that she did not see what wasn't in the sky, she only saw the stars which were there, and she rejoiced in them.

Too often lately, I've been focusing on the empty spaces where stars should be, neglecting to notice the beauty that is there. I've been letting resentment and fear blind my eyes and keep me from trusting God.

I can't yet take her to the country at night, to show her how many more stars can be seen when observed from the right place. Yet, I ought to be able to remember that they are there, whether I can see them or not, whether I can share them with her yet or not.

And meanwhile, I can belly laugh at the simple silliness of life, and rejoice in the stars that can be seen from where I am now.

Beauty in Transience

One of the messages in the Last Unicorn is that although there is beauty in immortality, there is a far more poignant beauty found in things that fade and die.

Yesterday, my daughter spouted the line "leave me alone!" It affected me more deeply than I would have thought. I always knew she would someday leave me behind, but this simple statement of toddler independence nearly crushed me. It is the beginning of the end. It means that I will savor the scent of her hair when she cuddles me more deeply than I even did before. I will treasure every soft touch, and every sweetly concerned "don't cry, mommy."

It pains me to know that I am not capturing every second of being with her, holding it like a fluttering butterfly. I get too caught up in cleaning, cooking, unwinding from my day. How I try to freeze every feeling into a secret place in my heart, where the finger-tip memory of the feel of my dog's wiry fur is still tucked away, to bring out only when I need it most.

With a startling prescience, I see myself holding a pillow to my chest, alone in my room, closing my eyes and breathing in the remembered tickle of her soft hair. I can't imagine anything more precious. Even my whimsical mind cannot conceive of anything more beautiful than these moments, now, spent with her. Eternity cannot possibly be beautiful in the way that this is beautiful, because eternity does not die.

Full Moon

A few nights ago, the moon was full. I'm not sure what it is, but when the moon is bright enough to drown out all the artificial light I am surrounded with, it fills me with a shivery, silvery, quivery sort of power. Perhaps it is the string of women in my ancestry, gazing at the moon with that peculiar feminine connection. To me, the sun is always too harsh, burning my eyes and skin. The moon is soothing and gentle. I can see by its light without squinting. It doesn't suck moisture from me, leaving me headachy. I know it sounds a little new-agey Wiccan-esque, but I believe that it is merely enjoying a snapshot of God's creations with no sense of worship towards the moon. It delights me when the moonlight throws objects, worn by daylight's harsh mundanity, into mysterious yet crisp relief.

Sometimes I feel such a connection with the world around me, it seems I can almost tap into the power of God running through all things. Suddenly, I feel as though I am part of a vast living computer, not nearly as disconnected as I usually feel. When I feel that, for the briefest moment, I realize I am home.

Sneakiness

My daughter, whom I shall call Ely here, is developing her understanding of when she is in trouble. Today, as I was in the checkout line, unbeknownst to me, she grabbed a York Peppermint Patty and tried to taste it through the wrapper. I caught her in the act with an "Ely! What are you doing?" From the first syllable of her name, she hurriedly stuffed the candy back into the box and gave me her angel eyes.

"Angel eyes" is what I call it when looks at me with her wide, brilliant blue eyes and smiles sweetly. It is hard to be irritated with those eyes. I had to check the candy. Sure enough, she bit a perfect half-moon bite through the wrapper, and although the wrapper itself was not broken, I was certain no one would want to eat a York Peppermint Patty with indentations from Ely's teeth. I had to buy it, accompanied by firm verbal assurances to my daughter that her behavior was not acceptable.

The lady at the checkout stand disapproved of how I chastened my daughter. It embarrassed me, knowing I was having to discipline my child in public, but what choice do you have with a two-year-old? They don't understand discipline for something in the past. I am gaining more and more sympathy for mothers with small children, now that I am one.

After we left the store and returned to the car, I was strapping her into her car seat and lecturing her. "Lectures" for such a small girl consist of repeating "What you did was wrong. That candy did not belong to you. Candy, no. No touch!"

Upon hearing this lecture, my daughter lifted her arms and soulfully said "Kisses, mommy?" Of course, I gave her kisses and told her I love her, but I didn't let go that easily.

"What do you do when you see candy?"

"No touch!"

"Good! Good girl. You are very smart. Don't touch candy without asking mommy first, okay?"

"Yes! I love you, mommy!"

"I love you, too, honey." She is truly the light of my life, even in her mischief. It is difficult to keep the balance between love and teaching, but she helps me remember that I am not far different. I can see, now, why God sometimes does what He does in my life.

I'm not a big fan of York Peppermint Patties, though I can eat them. My husband categorically hates mint. Therefore, there is a York Peppermint Patty in my freezer. Perhaps I won't ever eat it. It reminds me that the world is a very different place to a two year old, where finding the beauty and intrigue in a pretty, shiny wrapper outweighs understanding of ownership. It reminds me that I don't know everything.

And there is no other Peppermint Patty in the world quite like that one, now.