She will be a mother.

Posted on September 27, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

So my big little sister is having a baby. I say big sister, cause she’s older than me. I say little because she’s smaller. Much smaller. Petite. Lovely. Fragile. Like a porcelain doll.

You know, the opposite of me.

And we’re all laughing around here because this woman, this ballet dancer who wears nothing but dresses and high heels and red lipstick, this woman whose wrists are about as big around as spaghetti noodles and who is the epitome of feminine, (you know the opposite of me) is having a boy.

Well, “it” hasn’t popped out yet, so I guess anything can happen, but you know, they are pretty sure…

This is a big deal around here, not only because it’s the first grandkid and it will be funny to see how it all turns out, with the trucks and boogers and snakes and noise and dirt and squirt gun fights that come with boys, but it will also be the first boy to have entered the picture since husband first started driving his Thunderbird out to see me when we were 15.

Poor pops.

Anyway, I have been an aunt now for a while to three wonderful little girls, so I know something about what it means. Like candy when they want it and projects that involve glitter and pink and taking them swimming and saving them from their mean uncle who makes them finish all of their macaroni and clean up their crayons. I know a thing or two about giving the kids what they want.

But I have to say, I wasn’t prepared for this: watching my big little sister–the one who forced makeovers upon me, who made me her own personal baby doll (until I was the age of 4 and I started beating her up), who baby-sat me when our parents were out of town and let me have popcorn and Oreos for dinner–preparing to become a mother.

I heard the news eight months ago and smiled, but the reality of this life-changing situation doesn’t kick in until you see her each day, her small graceful frame that treads so softly on this earth slowly taken over by a life. Each day, she glows a little more, each day her belly more swollen and her back arched a bit further, dresses stretched a little more snugly across her torso, until the one sad day when her husband outlaws her high-heals and we all know what happens next…

But she has never looked more beautiful.

And my big little sister has always been beautiful. Seven years my senior, there was this adoration, this mystery, this absolute intrigue that she would exude to me, an Olive Oyle-esc adolescent, all arms, elbows, fuzzy hair and bad t-shirts who wanted nothing more than to wander the hills alone picking berries and singing at the top of my lungs.

I was a wild child. My sister was civilized. I was a bit unkempt. She was polished. I was a tomboy who belched a little too loud and a little too often. My sister was a lady who I was certain had never even farted. I was an earth tone. She was sultry red. I loved dogs. She loved cats. I was a Pippy Longstocking. My sister was Marilyn Monroe.

We were perfect opposites, and even though I ridiculed and tortured every boy that she would bring home and complain when she would take too long in the bathroom, my big little sister never scorned me for my differences. Yes, there was the occasional bribe to let her experiment on me with makeup and eighties hair and she did pay me money to let her shave my gorilla like legs, but I think mom may have been involved in that one (God bless her).

But, she never made fun of my Garth Brooks posters, the 101 Dalmatian sweatshirt I wore until the seventh grade or my earthy, over-the-top poetry. No, she never made me feel ridiculous, she just embraced her quirky sister and took advantage of the fact that I had no problems playing the male role in all of her dance routines that we, unfortunately, captured on video (thanks to the filming capabilities of our much younger sister) …

Yes, I may or may not have donned a fake mustache and suspenders in many a home movie.

And that’s what I’m saying here. Those days don’t really feel so far away do they? I mean, wasn’t it just yesterday that we were arguing about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher? Didn’t she just get after me about tormenting our little sister? Didn’t I just eat the tuna noodle salad she always made for us when she was babysitting? Didn’t she just leave the house for college? Didn’t I just eat a piece of her wedding cake?

I know at 27 I might be too young for this type of nostalgia, but I guess these big moments, you know, the ones that change everything, bring it out of me.

And as we prepare for the little bun’s arrival, and big little sister cooks him a bit longer, and pops is planning ways to steal him away and mom is thinking about how she’s going to dress him, and little sister is vying for babysitting duty, I am standing here, mouth agape, watching helplessly as the world flies by at a thousand miles an hour.

Because I don’t know if I will ever be a mother. I don’t know if I will ever get to worry about what color to paint the nursery or who to choose as Godparents, how to dress the baby for his first Christmas, what sport he will play or if he can make it through his first sleepover. I don’t know these things.

And that’s ok.

But I do know one thing. I know my big sister, the one I used to beat up, the one who borrowed my 101 Dalmatian sweatshirt for “nerd day” at high school, the one who laughs at my stupid jokes and never gets a word in at the dinner table, is going to make all these decisions and more with the grace, style and compassion she has always possessed–just with a bit of spit-up on her dresses and boogers in her hair.

She will be a mother next month.

This I know.

She will be a mom to a little boy and I will bring the fake plastic snakes and squirt guns.

And I couldn’t be happier.

Thanks sister, for letting me splash your preggers self all over this page. And thanks for trusting me to capture this moment.

Be wild, child.

Posted on July 27, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

There was an invasion at the ranch this weekend. An invasion of pink and glitter and ruffles and frills and dresses and jewels and ponytails and princess paraphernalia–all of the things little girls are made of. And all of those glamorous, glorious things were smuggled in inside of purple and pink purses and bags on the shoulders of an almost 7 year old and an almost 5 year old (well, when the next July comes she’ll be 5). And in 5.3 seconds it was like Barbie’s mansion exploded in my tiny house, with no sign of Ken anywhere…not even a loafer.

And it was absolutely lovely.

Yes, the nieces came to visit for what they called “a vacation away from their baby sister” while their parents were in Belize for a wedding. But they also came to play in the mud, pick wildflowers, yell at the dogs, swat at bugs, ride horses and become bonafide, tried and true cowgirls. And in preparation for this adventure filled weekend they made sure that they told everyone who crossed their paths where they were going in three weeks..two weeks..one day..today.

And I bought them cowboy hats. Pink ones. Because a girl’s got to look the part you know.

And apparently looking just right is at the top of the almost-7-year-old and almost-5 year-old’s list. Because when I showed up at their doorstep, they were dressed to perfection in matching red and black cotton dresses with ruffles and well placed stripes and dots. Sporting brand new hair cuts, the little blondies were tapping their toes, clutching their princess backpacks nervously, and pacing back and forth, asking gramma “how many more minutes?” “when is she going to get here?” And while it’s so nice to be wanted, it’s not so great when you are running about 20 minutes behind and an almost-7-year-old and almost-5-year-old-next-July have been told a specific time to expect the much anticipated cowgirl adventure to begin. I am not sure gramma appreciated my road construction excuse, but it was legit.

Anyway, I made it. And I promptly began to pack into the back of my car what I estimated to have been about 1,550 pounds of everything a couple of little girls could possibly need for three days. I mean we were loaded down. But, as I always say, you never know when you’re going to need a pink toy hamster on wheels.

In our 75 mile trek to the wilderness we covered about everything. Who’s your best friend? What have you been doing this summer? What is your favorite color? What do you want to be when you grow up? Can we get ice-cream?

So we stopped to get ice cream.

“What flavor would you like? Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Strawberry”

“They don’t have strawberry honey. Only chocolate or vanilla.”

“Banana”

“No banana. Chocolate or vanilla.”

“Just regular then.”

Which I took to mean vanilla and we were on our way to a melty, sugary, delicious, wonderful mess.

And back on the road to the ranch.

When we arrived, the wonderment began. Not just for the two princesses, but for myself as well. In preparation for their visit, I tried hard to remember what it was like to be an almost-7 year-old and almost-5-year-old-next-July. What did I do for fun? What did I like to eat? When did I go to bed? I remember much of my young childhood spent in jeans, t-shirts and boots running around in the hills, making tree forts and pots and vases out of the wet clay in the buttes. I remember enjoying projects, like rock painting, which could occupy me for hours. I remember wanting to spend as much time as possible outside.

I don’t remember owning as many dresses as these girls packed for a weekend. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think I have owned that many dresses in my lifetime.

Anyway, I employed what I knew about entertaining young ladies, as I was once one myself (although I possessed a little less of the lady part) and the rest the almost-7-year-old planned out for me.

First things first, we found their jeans.

And then we made supper. I gave them their hats. They squealed with delight. We marched down to the barn and saddled up their horses and hoisted their itty bitty bodies up on the backs of these gentle beasts.

They were nervous. They were thrilled. They chattered and asked questions and giggled and told stories and took instruction quite well…and then forget everything about 3 minutes later. They wanted to go faster. And farther. They wanted me to let go of the reins and let them try it themselves. They wanted to go up the hills and through the trees and ride off into the sunset a full blown cowgirl. Alone. Without my help.

A bit jolted, I was reminded of what it really was like to be almost 7 and almost 5 next July. It was about growing up…every second.

In all of the play that was squeezed in between riding the horses and picking flowers and running around outside, every conversation and fantasy scenario was centered around pretending they were older. Pretending they were the big girls and the world around them was filled with things they were allowed to do, allowed to control and experience and excel at. And they pulled me into that play land where I was the mom and they were the teenagers, or we were all ladies putting on makeup and getting ready for a party, or wives in the kitchen baking for our husbands. And it was lovely.

But when I pulled the covers up to their tiny little chins at night, I wanted to whisper in their ears, “slow down little ones.” Slow down and breathe in the air around you and try hard to remember what the sky and the flowers and the bugs and the trees look like from down there. Take it easy and take note of how sweet the sugar tastes on your tongue right now, without any worries. I’ll worry for you. Let your hands dig in the dirt and mess up your clothes. Let your feet trudge up the hill and think about rolling down through the sweet smelling grass. Run as fast as you possibly can (and I know that it’s fast) and hear the wind whip through your ears. Sing at the top of your lungs the words to a song your can’t quite remember. Sneak up on a rabbit with every intention of making him your pet. Catch a frog, climb a tree, splash in a puddle. Be wild child. Be wild. And then tell me all about it.

Because as the big girl they are impatiently waiting to be, there are things I want to tell them, but I know these things can’t be said. Like, being a princess might not be all that Disney promised and sometimes you have to save yourself, and the prince (and then kick him to the curb). I want to tell them to be kind to their grandparents and hold on tight to their hands, because you never know when you will have to let go. I want them to know that there will be times you will curse your womanhood and scream at mother nature for being so cruel, but respect your body and understand that it can do great things–and push it to do so. I want them to know that they should rely on themselves first and make sure to learn to change a tire, fix a sink, check the oil and use a hammer, because it’s not a guarantee that someone capable will be around to do these things for you. I want to prepare them for the fact that they may not grow up to look like Barbie, and that’s a great thing. I want them to know that life will try hard to change you and mold you and break you down, but take a moment to look in the mirror and tell yourself you’re beautiful, without the sparkle, without the curlers, without the frills. And believe it. Wear your dresses when you want to. Wear your jeans when you have to.

I wanted to tell them all of these things, but I imagine they will get to learn them the hard way, just like every other woman. So as they drifted off to dream land, I chose to whisper a thank you to them instead. Thank you for reminding me to go faster and farther (with nervous squeals) off into the sunset and into a world that waits for three beautiful, muddy, thrilled and wild cowgirls who know a thing or two about how to really live.