6 and 8

I don’t remember being 8 years old, much less being 6. I don’t have old photos of myself here in NY to remind me of scenes frozen from yesteryear. There weren’t many of me anyway by the time I was born because my parents were probably far too busy to record our lives the way they did when my eldest sister was little where upon every breath she took, a Polaroid picture emerged.

My memories are less pictorial but more illusive like the one where I’d been feeding the back corner floor of the school bus my stale and limp buttered raisin bread to avoid the wrath of my eagle-eyed mother who would check my lunch box daily; or the night where I’d literally dry retched because I caught my parents kissing. Mostly, I remembered racing my older sisters to independence and longing the same privileges I’d assumed they were handed (which weren’t many on hindsight) with each passing year.

Chosen artwork (2nd down from top) displayed at the Corning Museum of Glass (11 May, 2011)

Birthdays marked my gradual pull away from my mother’s cautious grip. I wanted to hear more,"Yes, you may," rather than "No, you are too young!" Plus it got increasingly annoying being mistaken for being younger than my actual age. I couldn't understand my mother's glee over "looking young" when I felt it  was more of a scourge back then having to politely refuse the kids' in-flight party pack at 22 years old on board Quantas airlines.

Daddy's girl (19 May, 2011)

My babies have been asserting their independence from the first cry and those independent roots dig deeper like stubborn taunts.  So, I understand if Aidan’s dreams of world domination propels him to the moon and back in one breath but the 6-year old in him still makes him pause to steal another hug from me. Or the way Monique assumes the role of boss lady but is still vulnerable and sensitive to her friends’ unrelenting questions about her seaweed wrapped lunch. Eventually (and hopefully), their self-assuredness will rely less on the hubs and myself and like the proverbial 3 little pigs, they will set forth on their own.

Astro boy and his sidekick (28 April,2011)

They both turned 6 and 8 in April and May. Their joint ages probably marks the number of white hairs sprouting on my head but eventually, I will lose count of these numbers the same way I’m starting to lose count of the rapidly graying strands.

The reigning undefeated puzzle Master in our house (April, 2011). 

But, I don’t want to forget them at this age. I want to remember them just as they are today -- the scent of child-sweat mingled with grass and mud -- an endearing combination just shy of an adult stink. I want to remember the way they shine in their element because it will help me forget the nag they bring out in me and help me gloss over my struggles to keep patient when their back-chats niggle at my nerves.

Perhaps one day, they'll forget being 6 or 8, the way I did. That is fine. But, they will always be mine and when all else goes south and I'm cushioned in adult diaper, I want to be able to look through this blog and be reminded of scenes locked in time. I know it will put a gummy smile on my weathered face.

Salsera pequeña (8 May, 2011)

This one is for me when I’m an old woman.

The Birthday boy and his numerous expressions

Monique's rite of passage (1 May, 2011)