I'm a Barbie Girl in a Barbie World

Barbie Encounter #1:

"My First Barbie" circa 1980

You had just turned three and we were in the doll aisle at Toys-R-Us. A lady asked your opinion about the type of Barbie she should get for her granddaughter who was about your age. Of course, people began to gather as you spoke like an authority with the vocabulary and confidence of an adult, albeit it in that little confidential, whispery, cartoony voice we so loved.
You explained that "My First Barbie" would be a good choice as they had "simple clothing with easy snaps for tiny fingers and there were many different hair colors". You told her that you, however, liked the other ones because you had mastered buttons and shoes because you were an expert. She smiled and thanked you and chose the blond "My First Barbie". You looked at me and said, "She made a good choice!" Everyone was smiling and laughing but then, just as she began to walk away, you shouted in true Kenna volume style, "Oh, by the way, be sure to tell your granddaughter that real women aren't built like that!"  People literally bent over, kneeling in the aisle as you grabbed my hand to head off to the Legos.

Barbie Encounter #2:

Recently, I found the red, white and blue clad Barbie in your hope chest. When we first saw this "Barbie for President" doll in 1992, you merely asked,"Why doesn't it just say President Barbie?"  Period.

And even now, twenty years later, we are still left with this recent announcement that shows we have not come so far in the presidential field, "The “I Can Be … 2012 President Barbie doll will be available for pre-order beginning April 5 at mattelshop.com and at retail stores in August." Arrggghhhhh!

Barbie Encounter #3:
When Chana and I made the boy's t-shirt quilts this year, you had a Barbie shirt that proclaimed in gold lettering, "What a Doll!" on the front and "Barbie" on the back. Half went on Kenton's quilt and half went on Kameron's. Both were amused that she was represented!

Barbie Encounter #4:

I know it may seem silly at this point, but I bought you the World of Culture Museum Collection Leonardo DaVinci Barbie doll this Christmas because it looks like the painting Kenton and I are doing of you right down to the sly half smile on her beautiful face.

Barbie Encounter #5:

                                                   

I recently found the last Barbie I ever received. It was from you, of course. It's the Beatrix Potter Tale of Peter Rabbit doll. I know you got it for me because we shared a love of her personal story and her stories! I'm not a doll collector but it appears that I now have my own Barbie collection that just keeps growing with these appearances. I love that you knew I would like this connection to literature. Thank you, my sweet girl.

Someday My Prince WIll Come

These are the rabbit ears you wore in the play!

When Sue Toolan I wrote our first grade play about Cinderella (with a twist), you were the perfect choice to be "Rabbitrella. You refused to even pretend to kiss the prince because Sean had a runny nose. How I wish I had the tape of it. When you swept and danced with a broom and sang "Someday My Prince Will Come", you finished and realized you needed to take a bow during the unexpected applause, but didn't know what to do with the broom. So, in typical quick-on-her-feet-Kenna-style, you stuck that old broom between your knees, locked them together and took your well-earned bow. The applause went on and on.
Your favorite joke back then: "What did Cinderella say when her pictures had not arrived at the Photomat"? (You sang) "Someday my prints will come!"

'Nough Said

KWT 2012

 The only one in our family who had no tattoos,

                                 now has these to honor you.

                                           

Another Mother's Day

When is it not a mother's day? Mothers should celebrate every day.
We are mothers every day, forever.
This is my second one without you. And as much as I don't want to dwell on that, it seems impossible to ignore. Last year was hard and we just needed to get through all of those "firsts".  That first Mother's Day in what I logically knew would be many was unbearable. But this year, it is the one where reality sets it. This is how it will always be, Mother's Day without my Kenna, my daughter, my girl.
Sometimes people unintentionally make insensitive comments such as "Hasn't it been long enough?" or "It's been almost a year." or "When are they going to get over it?"
No one that has lost a child would ever, ever utter those words to one who had lost a loved one, especially a child or a sister or a granddaughter or a niece or cousin like you. Because the answer is "Never."
Time heals nothing. It just moves along. You are pulled along in it's tide, even when you don't have the strength or desire to move. You pretend, you smile, you laugh and try to enjoy the moments where you can, but it will never be "over".
I am so grateful for the love and support of my family and friends, but this is a lonely journey few can take alongside you and truly understand. The tears are always at the surface just waiting for anything to make them fall gently or pour like a waterfall. A song, a insipid commercial, a conversation among others, anything can set it off and there you are, not "getting over it". Ever.

I watered the garden last week and noticed the Yesterday, Today and Forever plant was close to blooming, just as it had last year at this time, precisely on Mother's Day. Today, I walked out to see if it had bloomed. Just as I opened the door, the first small white butterfly of the season flew near my face, hovered near me as if to say, "Follow me!" which I did. It flew around the garden and straight to the plant where it landed on the fully blooming petals of lavender and purple and white. Although it's not usually your style to be subtle, I thank you for coming to me so peacefully and quietly on this Mother's Day!

Down the Rabbit Hole

I had an appointment this morning at 10:00 AM downtown. I arrived early so I decided to drive around and look at the beautiful architecture of the old homes in old downtown Sacramento. On 23rd and S street was a yard sale sign. No reason to stop, no need to buy anything, no time to really spend doing that, but something pulled me. I looked at the small driveway and saw industrial type items, an old propeller, a metal chair, rusty tools. Don't even look, I told myself. Still, the pull. On thing I have learned very late in this life is to listen to that little voice in my head. When it whispers, I want to understand it. When it begins to grow louder, I think there must be a reason. Who knows? So I listened.
I perused the old objects and saw nothing of interest. Okay, I am just killing time before my appointment, I rationalized. Then, this lovely, sweet, happy man stepped out and said, "Oh, the art work is inside the house." "Don't tell me that!" I exclaimed. But of course I went in. The first thing I saw was a painting of a ski area that looked like June Mountain. Curious. Then I saw an antique painting of trees that looked like one of my mother's old paintings. Curiouser. And then, there it was, a beautiful hand painted watercolor of Paris that I wanted to get for Kameron and KC for their surprise (which may still take me years to do at this rate!). I thought it would be quite expensive for an original watercolor, but he said it might be a print so it was only ten dollars. I looked again and I said I thought it is an original. (I know, I should keep quiet sometimes!) He looked again and agreed but still said ten dollars anyway, for my honesty.

Another couple was looking at the beautiful original pieces of jewelry he had created decades ago. They offered what I thought was an insulting price for a beautiful large agate stone piece. He politely declined saying that it meant more than that to him. They again offered another insulting price and, again, he declined. "So, for a few bucks, you'll lose this sale and we will never return!" the man huffed. "For a dollar, I'd be happy if you never returned." he replied. Without thinking, I applauded. They left and we began to talk about the crazy way people seemed to be behaving recently in all areas of life. He then showed me beautiful dishes from the fifties, old LP's, all things of interest to me, to Kameron, to KC, to Kenton. But I tried to stay focused and not go crazy! I bought the Paris painting, the tree painting and a beautiful hand tinted picture for less than twenty dollars. He went to get change for me and I said no. I wanted to show him that what he had was worth it to me and that maybe I could make up for rude people, if only for that day. He smiled and asked if I was an artist. I said "No, but I play one on TV!" I told him about the true artists in our family, my mom, my Uncle Jim, my Great Aunt Edith, your drawings and writings, Kenton's music and art,  Kameron's musical ear and gift of knowledge. Then I shared the story of the only painting Kameron ever made. I still love that story. I had finally bought the very expensive tubes of watercolor that I wanted and knew the tiny tubes would last my entire painting career. I came home one day and Kameron had used them to paint a canvas in a colorful modern art design. It was quite good, but he said "Wow, Mom, these little tubes don't go far. They barely covered the whole canvas!" I smiled, complimented his creation, then told him never to allow the painting to get near water (as dried watercolors reconstitute!), but I believe it is hanging in their bathroom now. I was sharing this story as the gentleman was carrying the paintings to my car, when he sat them down and said, "Wait! I'll be back."
He returned after a few minutes of what he said was a "search" and handed me the largest flat tin of watercolors I had ever seen! He had opened it to show me the paints inside. It was probably from the fifties, and was used and messy and missing a few of the 76 color pots, but I didn't see any of that. He began to apologize for the condition and I was moved almost to tears. Almost. Then he said, "I think you and your children would enjoy using these." He closed the lid and then I was moved to tears that I could not explain to him. Curiouser and curiouser. I knew you were there and smiling and laughing and knowing exactly why my heart was bursting. He could not have known, but you did. And once again, happily this time, down the rabbit hole I slid.

This is the tin! (Picture from Christie's auction)