Keepsakes

A while back, my daughter blindsided me with one of the most profound questions I have ever been asked.

With all of the innocence of a six-year old, she sincerely asked me in her typical wide-eyed fashion:

                   "What are you going to leave me when you die?”

Huh? Crickets chirped as I tried to wrap my brain around the question.

Think, MOMA, Think...

What kind of question is that!?

Why in the world would she even be thinking about that?

Before I could even think of answering her question, I needed to find out where this question was coming from. Why was my six year old daughter concerned with what I was going to leave her when I die?

Upon digging deeper, my daughter explained that a conversation with a friend had sparked her interest months ago. On a recent trip, we had visited a friend who had lost her mother in death. My daughter was fiddling with all trinkets she could possibly get her hands on while exploring her house. My friend stopped her when she reached one trinket in particular, a beautiful glass bowl, and explained to her that that one was very special to her because it was from her mother. She gave it to her before she died. Ever since, my daughter has been fascinated with the idea of inheriting something special from me before I die.

Yikes! Talk about pressure. I did not see that one coming, and I have not thought that far ahead yet.

Not that I am not a planner. I LOVE planning.

I plan lots of things…dinner…parties…vacations. But…death? Hmm…No, not for me. I really would rather plan something else. Thinking about what to leave my daughter before I die means coming to terms with my own mortality. I mean, I know "unforeseen occurrences" can befall us all at any time, but I'm not ready. We are just not designed with death in mind.

Coming back to my daughter’s question, I did what any skilled public speaker would do to deflect a question and bide some time—I answered her question with a question...

"What if I never die at all?"

Ahah! Chew on that! Although not entirely satisfied with my question, my daughter did not pursue the topic any further.

But the question lingered. It haunted me.

I felt all the pressure of a Jeopardy contestant during final jeopardy-the hushed audience hanging on my answer in anxious anticipation. The Jeopardy theme song endlessly replayed in the back of my mind as I mulled over the question.

Well, after many hours, days, months of pondering and sleepless nights, I realized that there are so many things I want to bestow upon my daughter as an inheritance, although none of them are, in fact, “things” so much as they are intangible, precious truths and ideas I hold dear to my heart.

I decided to take my daughter to the library to share one of those things with her. I admit I was a lot more excited to go there than she was. Compared to the glamour of Barnes and Nobles, the drab exterior of the public library did not impress her at all. Unbeknown to her, that trip to the library was more than just a mere day trip. Oh, this was so much more than just a trip to the library. I was sharing a legacy with her.

As I entered that public library, I was firmly convinced of what one of those "things" would be that I would give to her before I die—a passion for learning, an unreserved openness to life, a never-ending hunger for more.

I want her to walk into a library or a bookstore and find the smell of books irresistibly tantalizing. I want her to look upon the endless shelves of books with the same lust a foodie would have for a gourmet buffet. I want her to never lose her God-given curiosity and maintain an insatiable desire to learn everything about everything.

We ended up spending over an hour at the library, reading various stories as well as sharing our own stories. By the way, if you have never read “Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus", it’s a must read, I don’t care how old you are—it’s hilarious.

I hope someday she fondly remembers how we giggled deliriously while we shared that book together.

As we exited the library hand-in-hand, I told my daughter that when I was little, I walked those very same steps with my father, and that the library was special to me because he used to take me there. I was reminded of him by a whale sculpture that sits just outside of the library.

I remember my father asking me if I knew what kind of whale it was. Of course, I did not know the answer, but he wanted me to think about it a little before he gave me the answer. It's strange how that memory just popped into my head out of nowhere. I was so surprised to re-discover that little shared moment with him that, at the time, meant absolutely nothing to me, but now, has so much meaning it brings tears to my eyes. I didn't know it then, but my father was sharing his gift with me, and now I have the privilege of passing that legacy along to my daughter. It's not a pretty glass bowl to remember me by, but I hope she treasures it forever.

Use Only As Directed

I experienced such a rude awakening this morning. My son woke me up in the usual fashion by rattling his baby gate like a trapped convict and begging me to open the door. As I stumbled up the stairs in a Benadryl stupor (I'm getting over a sinus infection), I heard him say something fear-inspiring: "I got lotion mommy," he proudly declared.

Instantly, I was awake. My feet hastened up the stairs as the adrenalin rushed through my body. It was worst than I could have imagined. The "lotion" that my son had generously lathered onto his face and hair was in fact, diaper rash cream, one of the hardest substances on earth to remove, as by design, it is supposed to be difficult to remove. There were goopy globs of Desitin everywhere.

On the door. On the floor.
In a book. In a nook.

Oh, Dr Seuss could have had a field day with this one. Only I think it would be more of a horror story than a children's book.

I realized that he must have used his new play table and chair set to reach up to the bin where I keep the Desitin hidden away to prevent something like this from happening. My eyes finally focused onto the completely empty tube of Desitin, and then wandered back to my son, who was so thoroughly covered in the sticky white substance that even his eyelashes were white. All I could think of was Casper the friendly ghost.

I immediately plucked Casper out of his room and swiftly ran into the shower. I had to jump in with him to hold him under the shower head. No matter how hard I rubbed and scrubbed, the Desitin was not budging. I poured handful after handful of expensive Burt's Bees baby wash into his hair and rinsed and repeated in vain. The only thing I seemed to accomplish with every scrub was to convince my son that I was trying to drown him.

I scrubbed. He screamed.

I scrubbed harder. He screamed louder.

I could not remove all of the cream from his hair, but at least I managed to get it off his face and eyes. I surrendered and dressed him, and retreated to the kitchen to get breakfast.

As I sat helplessly in my chair, my son tried to eat his cheese and crackers through choked-up sobs. He finally completely broke down from the traumatic shower experience and wailed ,"I need a 'ug!"

I need a hug too, I thought to myself. I opened up my arms and he climbed into my lap, and we just embraced quietly. I gently caressed and kissed his face, which distinctly smelled like a clean baby's bottom. I tried to run my fingers through his hair, but I kept getting caught in the matted clumps of diaper rash cream.

In that moment, we both silently resolved to put the whole "baby-butt-cream-drowning-in-the-shower-fiasco" behind us and move on with our day. In was in that very  moment that my clueless husband woke up and entered the kitchen to observe the quiet embrace...diaper cream-scented Casper the friendly ghost snuggled under a wet raccoon-my sopping wet hair dripping down my back, last night's mascara in streaky half moons under my eyes.

"Wow,  it sure is a quiet morning," he remarked in ignorant bliss.  Then he proceeded to ask me what I put in Casper's hair.

After seconds of steely silence and death-glares, I snapped...

"It's baby butt cream...AND I DID NOT PUT IT IN HIS HAIR!!! I tried to wash it out, but..."

I didn't even bother finishing the sentence. Just one look at the plastered white locks of hair on Casper's head and it was obvious that I could not wash it out.

"Do you think we should shave his head?" my husband asks in a matter-of-fact fashion.

Although I think the situation may have merited such extreme action, I didn't think my son could handle any further drama.

I still have not finished my coffee, so I'll decide how to handle the situation later.  In the meantime, diaper- cream scented Casper is going about his day as if nothing is wrong, and I am quite tempted to do the same.