“I’m glad you’re my daddy because you tell me stories. I like the superhero ones and the ones about Amber the toenail eating monster. Even though you say monsters aren’t real. I’m sorry that you can’t eat chocolate. It’s really good. I bought you licorice instead. Sissy said you like it. Oh, and I like that you’re silly.”
-Piper Mae, Father’s Day, age 4
I lost Piper tonight. For maybe three minutes. It was enough to make my mommy heart panic. We were downtown with friends listening to an outdoor Irish Rock band. It was a perfect summer night: kids were playing tag, parents stood in clusters drinking beer, we knew all the songs. And then. Just like that. Piper wasn’t in sight. She’d been told to stay on the grass. Between sentences I counted my kids. 1-2. 1-2. Sissy. Piper. Sissy. Piper. Sissy. Piper? I scanned the outlines of the grass. I walked from corner to corner peeking behind groups of kids. No Piper. I saw her Daddy cross the green lawn. “Where’s Piper?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m scared.”
“I’ll find her,” he said because that’s what he does.
We went in opposite directions and kept eye contact. The band started back up after their break. Piper wasn’t on the lawn anymore. Then it hit me. Piper would go hear the band. She would dance. I walked to the front of the band stand. She wasn’t there. Then I scanned the crowd for dogs. Because if Piper wasn’t up front with the band and she wasn’t back with the kids, she’d be with the dogs. Then I saw her. Her entire body was curled up on the cobblestone street spooning a huge St. Bernard. He was twice the size of Piper. She took off her headband and tried to put it on the dog. He licked her face. I grabbed Piper by the wrist and hauled her out of the St. Bernard’s lap. I told myself to calm down, to breathe, to be grateful. Piper was never in danger. My heart was.
“You scared me, Piper. You weren’t supposed to leave the grass. You can’t run off without telling me where you are.”
“I was right there,” Piper said, pointing to the dog. “I was right there.”
And she was. It wasn’t far. It was just too far for me.
I didn’t know what to expect when I started blogging. I didn’t know the blogging world existed. I had an idea and a double dog dare. I assumed it would be easy. Turns out it’s taught me more than I expected. Today is the 163rd day of the year. I’ve posted 156 piperisms. So far, so good. But to reach my goal of 365 piperisms, I’ll need to catch up a bit. Stay tuned. While you’re waiting, here are a few lessons I’ve learned from my brief foray into the blogging world.
1. Pay attention. I watch Piper with a keener eye for her funnies. They come rapid fire. Blogging has helped me be more in the moment as the moment occurs. Piper easily does about 10 things a day worthy of blogging. I try to capture what I can. Sometimes I’m too doubled over laughing to write it down. My apologies. I’ll try to take her more seriously.
2. Be patient. When I first started piperism I would often panic about the next day’s content. What if I can’t come up with anything to blog? What if I’m grumpy and can’t write funny? What if Piper is too busy throwing up, throwing a tantrum, or throwing things at Sissy to do anything blog credible? It hasn’t happened. Family and friends who have visited during the days of piperism know how this stuff just writes itself. I’ve learned to trust that the post will happen. It does again and again. It will tomorrow, too.
3. Appreciate your fans. My family and friends have been enormously supportive of piperism. They give me ideas. They tell me their own funny piperisms. They’re faithful readers. I couldn’t ask for more.
4. Be grateful to readers. I’ve made friends in the blogging world I’ve never met in real life. Frugalistablog, The Waiting, I’ll Sleep When They’re Grown, Elephants and Rutabagas, Mommysaidaswearword, and Excitement on the Side have been here from the start. These women crack me up. They cheer Piper on. They’re slogging through posts with me. I look forward to reading their blogs, and I’m grateful to have them on my side.
5. Do what you say you’re going to do. The commitment to piperism has helped my writing more than anything else. Every day I’m going to blog. Bird by bird. Step by step. I will write something, even if it’s just a few paragraphs. This summer I’m writing 1000 words a day in addition to piperism. The commitment toward a larger project has been easier more manageable since I’ve started piperism. I said I was going to write. I said it out loud. My bluff was called. Darn it.
Blogging, much like parenting a Piper, has been a welcome education. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I’ve been humbled by the process. At the end of this year, I’m going to have a cool blog book to give to Piper. Thanks for being a part of it, too. Piper and I are honored that you’re reading.
A Piper is observant. She goes through the day like Yoda sprinkling her wisdom.
After a nature walk and scavenger hunt this afternoon, we stopped for ice cream. Piper slurped up her melting cup and turned her attention to my cone.
“Can I have a bite of your cone, Mommy?”
I had been licking down the chocolate chip ice cream to the perfect cone bite. You know the one. I handed it over. Piper happily crunched the cake cone. She watched me get the next bite ready.
“Here. You can have my cup,” Piper volunteered. “I’ll finish your cone.”
I looked at the melted vanilla mess.
“It tastes better when you share,” Piper assured me. It didn’t. But watching her on a summer day eating ice cream may have been worth it.
After ice cream, Piper went swimming. Then she came home to a bath and dinner. While she was soaking the chlorine out, I leaned over the tub and Piper traced my face with her pruned fingers. “You know how come I know you’re my mom?” she asked.
“Because I’m bathing you and making your favorite ravioli for dinner?” I guessed.
“No. You have those lines on your face and those dark things under your eyes. All moms have those. That’s how I know you’re mine.”
Piper brought me flowers today. You may recognize them. They’re probably in your yard, too. Some people call them weeds. Piper says they’re beautiful; she thinks weeds are useful to hold up the really good flowers. When she thinks of me on her walk home from the park and comes trudging through the door with a fistful of these, my heart is full. It’s more than enough.
Piper has a history of buying me fragile gifts and then accidentally breaking them shortly after. She gets too excited. She loves the glass rose with the ‘I Love You, Mom’ ribbon and the sparkly unicorn she painted for me herself. She loves them so much that she wants to hold them and feel them and…oops. Then I’m consoling her for breaking the precious gift. There is an entire shelf in our china cabinet displaying the shattered pieces. They’re still beautiful. Piper and I like to take them out and remember when they were whole.
Thankfully, her gift this year is unbreakable. She told me so when she presented it.
“Look, Mom! I can’t even mess this one up. See? It’s a plastic plate. I made it myself!”
“I see the mouth,” I said, “but what’s all the colored stuff in the mouth?”
“That’s what my mouth looks like when I eat a rainbow lollipop!” Of course.
And the plate was put to good use when Piper brought me a menu bright and early on Mother’s Day.
I immediately ordered fresh crepes on my new plate.
Followed by a side of cuddles. They were both delicious.
We found a new park last weekend at Langley by the CIA building. It was designed to be completely handicap accessible, which really means it’s safe for a helicopter parent like me. See how close everything is to the spongy ground? It’s perfect. No death plunges or scraped knees for my daredevils.
It had an awesome carousel, too. A carousel is normally a huge hit with the Piper, but she declared that she’d only ride the horses that did not go up and down.
“The upping and the downing scares me,” Piper decided.
Her Sissy spent a few rounds scouting out which horses were stationary and which moved up and down the pole as they circled. A Sissy will do that for you.
And then she’ll climb on the nearest horse, even if it’s kind of plain, just so she’s close in case the Piper needs her. That’s love. It’s that simple.
You know what we need around this house?
More rainbow tutus. That’s what. Papa was visiting last week and he brought another round of frilly accessories. It’s the Papa prerogative.
A rainbow tutu makes the Piper feel like a superhero.
In a tutu, the Piper can fly.
That’s a good thing, right? I want her to do things like this:
Even I can spot the the brave girl in a pink tutu. Piper is the third one up from the bottom. Climb, baby, climb.
On a walk this morning Piper and I saw a worm. Water puddled on the sidewalk from the rain and the worm was slowly making its way across. We watched.
“Where’s it going, Mom?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe to the other side?” I said.
“Why? What’s on the other side?” Piper asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe the worm doesn’t either.”
We both stared as the worm inched its front forward and dragged its back to catch up. Repeat. Then it wiggled its front out until it dipped back to the pavement and began inching again. Repeat.
“What happens when it gets to the other side?” Piper asked.
“It probably goes into the dirt then. It’s dangerous to be out on the sidewalk.”
“Because of the birds? And us?”
“Yep,” I said. “In the dirt it’s safer.”
Piper sat down on the concrete and inched her way closer to the worm. She held her hand above the worm, almost touching it. She put her face to the pavement and squinted at the worm, assessing its progress.
“I’m glad I’m a Piper instead.”
Last night we went out for a favorite Friday night treat: Fro Yo. Piper’s daddy is a bit of a fanatic for the fruity frozen custard. While we were enjoying our dessert we got a message from Augie’s parents (see Soulmates and You Know You Have a Valentine’s Day Hangover When for Augie info) letting us know that he’d declared Piper his best friend in his preschool yearbook. Now it’s in print. Their soulmate status has reached a new level.
“You never know when you’ll meet your soulmate, Piper. Who knows?” Piper’s dad said.
Piper rolled her eyes, threw away her empty frozen yogurt cup, and climbed up in the chair with her Sissy. The new American Girl magazine was much more interesting than dad’s love lecture.
“I met your mother on a chance encounter at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial back in 1996,” dad continued, undeterred by Piper’s obvious lack of interest. “You just never know.”
“Dad,” Piper said. “Could you please stop talking about the love stuff? Thanks.”
piperism 