Another year

This weekend was my birthday. I'm officially 38. I can't even say I'm in my mid-thirties anymore. It's definitely late 30s. I figure the birthdays are gonna come no matter what, and I can be depressed and sad or happy and eat cake. I'm always up for cake, so I go with happy every single time.

Also, this year my birthday fell on Sunday, so in my book, the celebrating really starts at least on Saturday, if not Friday night. Saturday morning my big present was that I got to sleep until 8:00 a.m. Sort of. I didn't get to bed until 1:00 a.m. anyway, and Lucy wandered in at her usual early hour and blew into my face. I pretended I didn't know that happened and rolled over, and wonder of wonders, she climbed in next to me and was actually quiet for about 17 whole minutes. Then she started talking and I moaned to Darren, "You've got to get those girls out of here, it's my birthday and I need quiet for a present." So he took them downstairs and gave them breakfast.

Then in the afternoon, we went over to my parents' house because no matter how old you are, nothing beats having your mom bake you a birthday cake. Last year Darren bought me a Baskin Robbins ice cream pie, and while I loved it and it was great, it was all WRONG if you know what I mean. On the way into their house, Lucy whispered up to me, "Mom, I have a special surprise for your birthday! But it's a secret! It's a pin cushion. I made it for you all by myself with Manga! It has pins and needles in it so if you rip your shirt you can put one of my pins in it. But you can't tell anyone about it, OK?"

Later in the day, I took her back to the bathroom off of Mom and Dad's bedroom and she said, "Oh! You can't go in Manga's closet there, because that's where I hided your present. It's wrapped in paper that's Dad's favorite color, but I can't tell you what it is!"

Then we had lunch, which I got to request and my parents totally indulge me (because that's how it should always be on your birthday, right?!) My dad made his famous fried chicken (the only time in the entire year I let myself eat fried chicken), and we had potatoes and peas and fruit salad and Mom's homemade cinnamon rolls with it. [Side note about the cinnamon rolls: These appear at everyone's birthday no matter what. One year, Mom forgot to make them for my brother (who is now 40.) The cinnamon roll-less birthday that will never be forgotten might have been for year 27 or something. But he's never let her forget it.] Then she made my favorite poppyseed cake with caramel frosting and toasted walnuts on it. Everyone toasted me and my good health, and Darren gave a special toast for how thankful he was that it's my birthday 'cuz we get to have fried chicken.

I got lots of good presents, such as cheongsams (that fit! a long story for another time) that Mom made, DVDs, great books, and of course, the famous pincushion. It's the cutest thing. It's pink with little green frogs on it. Lucy stuffed it all herself, and it's set up in a little box. On the bottom of the box she wrote a message that my mom translated, "You're the best Mommy" and signed it herself.

One book that I got from Mom I sat and read all yesterday until I finally finished last night. I'll write more about that tomorrow because the book is at home, and I want to write down quotes from it. Darren was going to get me an MP3 player, but then I decided against it, so I'm still deciding what he's going to get me. I like to spin these birthdays out as long as possible, as I've said.

And...what else...nice friends and family members called me and sang and other nice friends sent me cards and e-cards, and really, what more could anyone ask for? How could I be sad to be 38?

Plus, if my shirt rips, I'm all set now.

Ode to Dad

This past Sunday while we were getting ready I said to Darren, "Do you remember your first Father's Day? I do. Because I couldn't walk yet at that point." Lucy was 8 days old. More than that first Father's Day, I remember him being in the LDR, being absolutely silent because that's what I required of him. I remember her delivery and him spooning ice into my mouth and cheering me on. I remember that he was unofficially voted Most Excited Dad ever by the doctor and nurses.

When I came home from the hospital, he bought me a porch swing and a necklace with the baby's birthstone in it. In those first few nights when we were wondering what we'd gotten ourselves into and she was screaming her head off and I couldn't figure out how to nurse her for the life of me and was bawling my head off too, he said, "You lie down and get some good sleep; I'll take her." And he walked up and down the halls and all around the house with her while I slept for at least 4 hours.

When Elaine was born, I can pretty much just say, "Lather, rinse, repeat."

He's been to countless doctor appointments, changed countless diapers, given countless bottles, and been thrown up on with the best of them.

He's the dad who works far more than a 40-hour work week in 4 days so that he can take care of the girls on Friday, rather than have them go to daycare.

He makes pancakes for breakfast and grilled cheese with ham for lunch.

He gives baths, takes temperatures, and runs out late at night to get Pedialyte/Motrin/amoxycillin.

He takes a little girl to ball games, and they eat nachos and drink Dr. Pepper. He goes on bike rides and takes her to band concerts.

He does bedtime devotions and reads untold number of books. He plays all the characters in "Curious George Makes Pancakes" and "Lyle, Lyle Crocodile" and talks in all the different voices.

He teaches and disciplines and gives lots of hugs and a few spankings.

He goes to swimming lessons and Christmas programs and Kids' Club.

Last Friday night, he woke Lucy up and got her out of bed. They got some books, went to the convenience store and got some supplies, then they camped out together in the tent in the backyard. He had set the tent up with a great air mattress, both their pillows, and a little table. They laid out there and drank grape pop and read stories and went to sleep.

He worries, cries, prays, and laughs over his girls.

That's just the kind of dad he is.

Happy Father's Day, Scooby. You're the best! I love you!

Overheard in the bathroom...

"Mom, I'm going to wash my hands with just water, not soap."

"No, you need to use soap."

"OK, I'll put on this honeysuckle soap here. Why is it called honeysuckle soap?"

"Because it smells like honeysuckle."

"Why does it smell like honeysuckle?"

"Because that's what flavor of soap it is."

" Why is there a picture of honeysuckle on the bottle?"

"So people will know what kind it is."

"Why is it what kind it is?"

"Because it just is."

"Why is it just is?"

>long pause< >sniff<

"Here Mom, smell my hands. They smell like dead honeysuckle."

The birthday girl

Whew. I'm tired. The last 2 1/2 days have been filled with feverish preparations for Lucy's 4th. I'm not a mom who can handle having huge "kid" birthday parties; we just have family. But since family is usually at least 13 of us, it's still a fairly significant production. Lucy and I made empanaditas and cinnamon chips and pineapple salsa for appetizers (we had regular chips and salsa too, but she missed out on that prep). She had a great time smearing tortillas with butter, cinnamon, and sugar, which I then cut with a pizza cutter and broiled. And not to be left out, Elaine clambered up on a kitchen stool, smeared her hands in cinnamon and sugar, and ate it.

The morning of her birthday, I was too excited to sleep and woke up around 5. I got the Strawberry Shortcake dollhouse and dolls (that I spent weeks on ebay trying to get) and set the house and furniture up in the living room. Then I put a doll and pet on each of the steps leading downstairs. I packed Elaine's Strawberry Shortcake-themed gifts that she had "picked" out in the dollar section of Target into a gift bag and put that outside Lucy's door. She got up at 6:45 despite going to be at 10 p.m. the night before because she had gone to Kids' Club, then to Wendy's for a Daddy/daughter outing. (Side note: She got a little cat on rollers with her happy meal, which she brought home, sneaked into Elaine's room, and put it in her crib so she would have it when she woke up in the morning.)

All four of us were in our bedroom while Lucy opened Elaine's bag. That would have been enough to make her day. She got flip flops, sunglasses, lip balm, a Strawberry CD, barrettes, and a headband. She hugged and kissed Elaine and told her thank you. Then in an unprecendented move, Elaine toddled (I say "toddled" but when she walks it looks sort of like a tiny blond Frankenstein lumbering around) over to Lucy and gave her a big hug. Of course both our cameras missed that moment. Darren tried to get them to recreate it. Hahahahahahahaha. Amateur. Screeching and unhappiness ensued.

Then we went downstairs. Lucy discovered a doll on each stair, and that too, would have been enough. I could not have asked for a more gratifying response when she saw all of them and then the house (fortunately, we do have all that on video). Suffice it to say, she spent the rest of the day playing with it and taking all of the dolls' clothes off and having them interchange outfits. Later on in the morning when I checked on her, she looked up and said, "Mom, I was never happy before until I got this Strawberry house!"

Family started arriving around 5, and everyone loved our appetizers. Lucy had asked for tacos for her party (read: lots of chopping preparation), and people seemed pretty happy about that too. After working hard in the yard all day and simultaneously watching the girls so I could do all the chopping preparation, Darren showered and changed into his hospital scrub shirt that has Lucy's teeny tiny baby footprints on it. He prayed a really sweet prayer for her and got a little choked up too (see Reason 7,685 why I love him).

Sometimes when you get family together it can be a volatile mix, but everything went really well. After dinner, I brought out her princess cake (she decided she wanted a princess cake the day after her third birthday), and she was thrilled. I was pretty happy myself--it didn't look as good as the picture (of course), but I had ordered the doll part from Wilton and it came with long hair. As a lifelong short-haired person with two short-haired girls, it was a major accomplishment that I put this thing's hair in an updo and even fashioned her a crown out of some of my old earrings.

After cake and ice cream, Lucy ran to the living room, then rushed back to the patio and said, "Everyone needs to come inside for presents!" Wow. Our families consistently overwhelm us. Chuck and Rome gave her the hardback collected stories of Eloise and a Strawberry Shortcake fairytale book (which we had to read 3 times to her before bed). Aunt Kimmie and Megan bought her a pair of Crocs with princesses. Then just to blow her mind, Mimi and Papa bought her sandals with princesses (that light up!), so she spent her present opening time changing back and forth between the pairs of shoes. She also got a lot of beautiful clothes and a pool with a canopy that both she and Elaine can play an advanced version of "Water" in. My mom made her an adorable dress and a matching one with a bonnet for one of her dolls.

Speaking of my mom, as I sat out on the patio with her, I said, "Mom, I thought of you these two days as I worked round-the-clock to put this together! I can't BELIEVE you used to do all this for us!" She just laughed it off. I'll say it again, I never knew how much my parents loved me until I became a parent. At least I have a six-month reprieve until I do this all over again for Elaine. My mom used to have to do it three weeks apart every summer.

So, now I am the mom of a four-year-old. I can't believe it. It's a happy-sad thing. Mostly happy, though. This morning Lucy called me at work (where I'm resting). She chattered on about how she stayed dry all night and how she's wearing her new, "What are they called again, Mom?" Crocs, and when I said, "I better go now, Baby" she exclaimed, "Not yet! I haven't asked you 14 questions!" My great big girl.

I'm figuring out exactly what "bittersweet" means.

Four Years Ago

Four years ago this week, this is what I was doing. While I had contractions every five minutes 24 hours a day, I spent my time alternately walking around the neighborhood by myself--it was eerily quiet since most everyone was at work--and sitting in the glider rocker in the nursery, emailing my friends and listening to John Mellencamp's "Trouble No More." The highlight of the week was Wednesday, my OB appointment. She said, "It's actually hurting me to look at you. Let's put you out of your misery." She set me up for Saturday (earliest available bed), and I spent the rest of the week waiting, but happy knowing the end was in sight.

Friday night we rented a Harry Potter movie, I'm not sure which one, and I don't remember anything about it. I couldn't sit still or lie still. Too jittery. I brought the ironing board in front of the TV and ironed every single thing we would be wearing in the morning (and those of you who know me know how rare that is) and checked and rechecked everything in my suitcase. I was bringing a lot of DVDs. I'm not sure when I thought I'd be able to watch "Sliding Doors" and "Four Weddings and a Funeral," but...I was optimistic. I might have fallen asleep for an hour or two.

I was up at 4:30 and in the shower. I said one last prayer. Not, "please let me be OK" or "please let it not hurt too bad" or "please let the baby be healthy." I just prayed, "Dear God, please let this baby be a girl." We got in the car around 5:00, and Darren had to stop at Dunkin Donuts to get his coffee. Someday I want to be in a commercial for Dunkin Donuts as the only couple who stopped on their way to the hospital to have a baby because Dad had to have his DD coffee. I saw a suspicious-looking guy walk in in a hooded sweatshirt with his hands in the pockets and was sure he would shoot everyone in there. I was so mad at Darren. How could he get killed on the morning his first child was supposed to be born? But I guess Mr. Sweatshirt was just chilly and wanted his coffee too.

It was foggy all the way to the hospital.

We got there without incident, parked, and walked in. Right outside the doors, near a bush, was a tiny baby bunny. We'd been calling the baby "Puppy-Bunny" (Puppy for a boy, Bunny for a girl). We looked at each other and said, "It's a sign!" I got all checked in and hooked up and monitored. Boring. Uncomfortable. The nurse kept asking me, "From 1 to 10, what's your pain level?" and I kept saying, "2" until I finally thought as I was dozing off, "Next time I'm going to say 3 1/2" when...Bang! Darren rushed out to the nurses station and said, "Her water broke! Her water broke!" They were a lot less excited about this than we were. Oh, and the next time she asked me about pain I almost punched her and said, "Five hundred thirty seven. Get.my.epidural."

The epidural man came around 12:30, and life got a lot better. I told him I loved him. I bet he's heard that a lot. I fell asleep. At 4:00, the nurse gently woke me and said, "Honey, it's time."

It's time.

An hour and twenty minutes later, the doctor said it's time for a C-section. She'd try with a vacuum, but the baby's heart rate is slowing. She said, "Give me everything you've got!" After an entire week of contractions, a day of Pitocin, and an hour and twenty minutes of pushing, I didn't have much left. But I thought, not "I can't wait to see the baby!" but: "After all this, you better believe I'm not having a C-section!" and I gave it everything I had and the next thing I heard was, "It's a GIRL!"

It's a girl.

Thank you, God.

Happy birthday, sweet girl. I love you even more today.

Love,

Mama

Too Busy Living

It's pretty bad when Darren points out to me that it's been almost two months since I've written in the blog (the blog he didn't like in the first place!) I can't believe it. I think it's just a combination of writer's block and just the craziness of life. We've been too busy enjoying the outdoors and walking and playing "Water" (this is when I fill the watering can up approximately 800 times while the girls pour it out into their sand toys and all over their feet and each other's heads). We've been working and visiting and going to the park and having fun.

I feel like our family has finally, finally hit cruising altitude. That doesn't mean certainly that we don't run into turbulence at times, but the lynchpin in this whole setup is that...and I'm afraid to even write this in case somehow my printed words will somehow fling themselves out into the cosmos and come hurtling back into our littlest one's brain but...shhh...Elaine sleeps through the night. She sleeps all the way through the night. We put her to bed at 7, and she sleeps until at least 6 a.m. Without waking up. Without needing a midnight bottle.

Right now you're probably saying, "Wait, isn't Elaine, like, a year and a half old?" Yes! She is! She'll be 18 months in a few days. She started sleeping through the night at 15 months. It must be some sort of world record! Good job, Mom! Almost as good as the milestone of potty training Lucy by age 4! Somewhere someone is thinking of nominating me for the Nobel Peace Prize, I'm sure of it. I aim high, people, I aim high.

The thing is, (in my defense), it's not like I didn't TRY at either of these two (apparently) Herculean tasks. With Lucy I tried potty training for two years. I read every book and article and scoured the Internet and asked anyone who would care to listen and got every single person's opinion and saw two pediatricians and knelt down by the side of my bed and PRAYED that my kid could go to the bathroom. For real. Oh, and saw a child psychologist, did I mention that? So, it's not like no effort was put forth. And for all those people who said, "Don't WORRY. It'll happen." Thanks. Thanks a lot. Because...that's exactly pretty much what happend.

And as for Elaine sleeping through the night, they don't call me the "Sleep Nazi" for nothing. Before Lucy was born, I read Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, and The Happiest Baby on the Block, and The Baby Whisperer, and I felt quite smug and successful when she slept through the night sporadically at 7 weeks and continuously at 15 weeks. We could go in her room, pick her up out of her crib, love on and talk to her, lay her back down, and she'd never wake up. Not old Smoochie. We started calling her "The Princess and the Pea." If one of us got up in the night to go to the bathroom, we couldn't even flush the toilet for fear of waking her. I logged her sleep patterns and tried all sorts of methods and even tried in desperation to let her cry it out (note to all: Elaine Frances does NOT "cry it out.") She finally just...did it. No more waking.

And I have delved in the glorious long-lost land of a full night's sleep. Eight hours and sometimes nine. Nine! Kah-razy. I feel rested and sooo much more patient with and loving of everybody. It's fascinating how much sleep affects all of us because, to use a well-worn but certainly true saying, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."

So, lots and lots and lots has happened. I've completely skipped over the fact that Elaine walks, runs, and climbs now (sleeping was much more important). She talks too. Lucy has probably said and done a thousand cute and funny things, and sadly, they'll be lost in the mists of time because I didn't bother to write them down. But...I'm hoping to do better. With the exception of periodic bumps here and there, this family is cruising now and it's all good.

Much Has Happened...Sort Of

It seems like a lot has happened in the last two weeks, but really then when I think about it, not so much. It seems as though at the end of March/beginning of April each year, we all give winter a big farewell by getting sick as dogs. Lucy and I both got the flu. Elaine got something that hung on for weeks. We were all supposed to go to dinner at the Aniol's house. (Lucy adores them.) About five minutes before we were supposed to leave (and as I had just gotten home from work), I took Elaine upstairs to change her. She felt a little warm. Then when I lifted up her shirt, I saw she was covered in little red spots. I yelled, "And...you didn't notice that the baby has chicken pox?" You can imagine how well that went down.

Turns out, it was hives. And a sinus infection that dragged on for weeks. We took her twice to the pediatrician--once to the on-call Saturday doctor and once to our new ped., Dr. Sroka. When Dr. Sroka was examining her, she turned and threw her arms around my neck and tried to climb up me like a frantic monkey. A howler monkey that is, because she roared deafingly into my ear as well. He did the best he could with her, and Lucy told him kindly, "Well, actually, I think she just likes Dr. Perryman better."

Then came birthday parties. My dad turned 75, and my mom threw him a grand party--filling the house with their good old Wheaton friends. Everyone laughed and talked and stuffed themselves, and he was in his element. We left that party and drove to Peoria to Aunt Kimmie's 40th. That was fun too, except that both girls were partied out and Elaine decided to stay up all night and cough and cry. And by all night? I truly mean all night. We took turns with her until around 5:30 a.m., when my sainted mother-in-law, who we are planning to put forward for canonization any time now, said she would take her so that we could rest. I planned to lay down on the bed for just maybe 30 minutes but actually woke with the sun streaming in the windows and Darren shaking me saying, "Al, Al. It's 8:30." We drove home, bleary-eyed, leaving the girls in their pajamas, and that was our auspicious start to Holy Week.

I'm not sure what else I did then, it's a blur. But on Thursday we had our first Seder dinner. It was modified of course, but really nice. Elaine went to bed early on, and then we could enjoy it more (sorry, Smoochie, you'll understand when you're reading this, I promise.) Lucy found the hidden afikomen, opened the door for Elijah, and asked Darren, "Father, why is this night different from other nights?"

Easter Sunday stood out as actually being colder than Christmas. The girls had gotten Easter haircuts (Elaine looks like a boy! It's the cutest thing ever) and put on their Easter dresses and bonnets (with winter coats over). We had a nice day with brunch at our house with friends from church afterward. Finally at about 4:30, after completing what felt like a 4-day cycle of cleaning / entertaining / cleaning / entertaining oh and then some more cleanup, I pulled on some pajamas, got a cup of tea, and sat down in the rocking chair, only to have Lucy come up with a glass of ice water, stumble, dump it all over me, and then start crying. (The other day when she did one of her ultra-early wake-ups, I said grumpily, "Dad and I are going on vacation soon. We're just going to sleep our heads off and never stop." She put her face close to mine and said tearily, "Don't tease! We want to go on baykayshun with you!" It's cute while I'm writing it, but man. I could totally write a scary Twilight Zone episode out of it.) Sometimes I don't feel cut out for motherhood.

But all in all...we're well. Sickness is lingering but slowly giving up. We got to do a lot of nice, meaningful things for Easter as well as see family and friends. And maybe someday we'll get that vacation.

The Games We Play

TV has somehow lost its enchantment around here. That's good. I promise, it's good. In my whole personal evolution of letting-go-of-the-dream-of-a-spotless-house-because-these-are-the-Tupperware-years (it's a process, people, it's a process), I'm having fun playing games with the girls instead. We pull everything out and spread it on the floor and make a huge mess and it's been great. I'm not even talking about board games, which sound like a wonderful idea, but after what seems like hours, when actually, sweet fancy Moses, it's only been about 4.5 minutes of playing Candyland and I'm ready to tear off my own fingernails--these are fun, imaginative games. Like Parade. Parade is this. Lucy takes both of my hairbrushes and a cardboard box. She's both the bandleader and the drummer (just like Daddy). We line all the dolls and stuffed animals up on either side of her--they're the spectators along the parade route (we throw imaginery candy to them). Elaine has several roles (because she'll only do something for a second or two). Sometimes she grabs a blanket and is the flag-waver (she's actually trying to play peek-a-boo and keeps waiting for us to say "Peek!" and laugh repeatedly). She's also the fire engine driver, which means she takes the little red rocking chair and pushes it around the room (she's actually good for that for at least 10 minutes). She's also the lead (and only) equestrian as she pushes and/or rides Dobbin, the rocking horse. I'm the parade singer. Whatever the band leader tells me to sing, be it several hundred verses of Old MacDonald or I'm Gonna Sing Sing Sing I'm Gonna Shout Shout Shout I'm Gonna Sing I'm Gonna Shout and Praise the Lord, I do it.

We also play Wedding. This is a strictly no-boys affair, which sort of makes it all moot, but we go with it. Lucy yells, "Dad, be sure not to come in here. It's No Boys Allowed. You can just watch your baseball game." (I know he's disappointed.) The girls dress in their Cinderella dresses, Easter hats, and Lucy wears my high heels (she's got about as good of balance as I do in them). Then we take their pink plastic phones and call up all the wedding participants--Janet, Harriet, Mrs. Blomberg, to name a few--and give them their wedding responsibilities. Then I put on the wedding music and we march together. I've already made it clear to them that the only acceptable wedding march is Purcell's Trumpet Tune, seeing as that's what Manga had, I had, and Tia had. They seem to accept that.

Another game I invented (I'm kicking myself now) is Restaurant. The girls sit at the island and order food from "Myrtle." (Myrtle talks through her nose, which they find hilarious and I just want to stop and be Mom again.) I come around with a pad of paper and a pen behind my ear and take their orders. They order macaroni and cheese, mandarin oranges, and goldfish crackers. (I guess there's sort of a color theme there, and I'm optimistically thinking we're covering most of the food groups in that meal. I read in someone's blog about their children snacking on tofu and miso soup and some sort of cracked grain/sprout crackers I've never even heard of, and I had to stop reading in despair. I think we're having a good day when we keep the jellybean quotient to a minimum.)

Elaine has her own games too. Her absolute favorite is when I'm changing her, to scramble away naked, climb up on the pillows on the guestroom bed so she can see out the window, and play with the blinds (I'm sure that's safe!) Her other favorite is to take her grocery cart (it used to also double as a car you can ride on, but I left it outside over the winter, and now it won't collapse but stays permanently in grocery cart position. Nice work, Mama.) and cruise around and around--through the kitchen, dining room, living room, little room, and back into the kitchen. Every so often I hear her bump into something and she says, "Whoa!" then keeps on moving. The dearest part is that most runs through the kitchen, she'll stop by me, hug my leg, then resume her rounds.

So, as I said, we're not missing TV that much these days.

A Little Dose of Reality

Here's some honesty. Sometimes I feel disingenuous. Sometimes I think if Lucy and Elaine go back and read all these entries when they're grown up, they'll think, "Mom, you painted this picture of a beautiful little world, and really sometimes it was so boring and also? You used to get mad at us too."

Last night, something kind of weird and scary happened. When Elaine woke up around 2 for her occasional late-night bottle, I had this strange sensation in my brain. My physical brain, the left side of it. It felt, for lack of a better term, fuzzy. Then when I got out of bed, I had a hard time keeping my balance. It stayed that way all the way until I got back into bed. I lay there with that strange feeling in the left side of my head, wondering, "Is this what an aneurysm feels like? Is this what a stroke feels like? Will I not wake up in the morning?" I'm not afraid of dying. But I am terrified of leaving my girls. What would they do without me? Lucy would think I had abandoned her. Elaine wouldn't even remember me. I fell asleep with these thoughts swirling around, and when I woke up I felt fine.

Now shouldn't that be a guarantee that I would wake up thrilled to be here, thankful for my good fortune, and above all endlessly loving and patient with my two little lambs? You would think. But I wasn't. I was so cross and impatient with them. I snapped at Lucy for hanging all over me and pulling on my pants. I shouted at them for arguing and screaming at each other during supper. I got irritated when they wouldn't stop splashing in the bathtub.

They were just so annoying and tedious, both of them. Lucy staged a major tantrum because I gave her lovely roast beef and potatoes for supper instead of a scrambled egg. "But that's what I picked out, Mama! You hurt my feelings!" Then Elaine has perfected this shrill siren-like scream whenever anything doesn't go her way. I just couldn't take it. Then Lucy summed it up after dinner, "Mom, when Elaine was a brat, that was her fault. And when I was a Selfish Sally, that was my fault. And when you got so cross and yelled, that was your fault."

Some days I just feel like a rotten mom. It seems like I'm just hanging on until 7:00 p.m. and I can get them in bed. Then I rush downstairs like a high school babysitter in search of Doritos, TV, and to check my email. I felt like the biggest failure tonight. Then my sweet Lucy looked up all me, all shiny and clean from her bath and said, "Mom, you're the best kindest mom in all the world!" I felt like such a jerk.

It's so humbling. It feels like I'm constantly taking one step forward, fourteen steps back. I hope the girls forget the tedious times. The times I lose it and snap at them. The times I'm a grim, impatient harpy, forgetting that they're just tiny children and that I hold their heart in my hands. I hope they can know that I lay awake at night, thinking about how much I love them, how I would give my life for them, and how I really and truly can't wait to see them every single morning.

Welcome back, robins!

Is anyone sick of me writing about spring yet? Well, it's here now! The First Day of Spring. We officially began seeing robins on Friday too. Every year after we see our first robin, we have a Welcome the Robins party. The first year we did it, my mom even found fabric with robins on it and made Lucy (then 9 months old) a dress. I'll see if Elaine can fit in it this year; she's quite a bit smaller than Lucy ever was. Then we make robin treats. This involves melting chocolate chips and butterscotch chips. Then you stir in Chinese noodles and form little bird's nests out of them. After they cool on wax paper, you put in 2-3 pale blue peanut M&Ms for the eggs. Then we have a tea party. I'm not sure how much the robins benefit from this, but it makes us feel good.

I love traditions. My friend Julie's husband laughs at us because he says if she and I do something one time, it automatically becomes a tradition. We like it though. We've been friends since we were 4, so we've collected quite a few traditions: celebrating anything momentous by splitting an entire box of sugar wafers; going out for fishsticks and apple pie in May because we like to make fun of Gwyneth Paltrow (who somehow got to be nicknamed "Fishstick" in the tabloids and then named her daughter that ridiculous name, Apple); calling anytime we sit around and chat a "frit"--(this should be accompanied with red licorice. For example: if we sit together and talk, it's called "sit-n-frit." If we talk on the phone, "Phone-frit"; email "e-frit" you get the picture. The only difference is if we take a walk, then it's called "walk-n-squawk.") (Reading back over this paragraph, all the traditions seem to involve food. But then, what good tradition doesn't?)

Anyway, traditions are important. I think they build up friendships and families, and they let you know who you are. I'm hoping the girls enjoy the traditions we have and also that they think up some of their own. This past Christmas, Lucy decided all by herself that on Christmas Eve, we should put on our pajamas, take candles outside and light them, look up into the sky, and sing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus. It was so nice, and I'm glad she thought of it. I've got some great resources for ideas of things to do the week before Easter, and hopefully I'll be able to write about those in the next couple of weeks.

Another sign of spring: Elaine is wearing her Chinese sandals for the first time. They have squeakers in the heels, and she's enjoying them hugely. She still can't walk by herself yet. Personally, I think she can, but it's a confidence issue. She still needs to hang on a bit. But with her squeaker shoes, she held my finger and took off in a run. Pretty soon she'll let go, and my baby will be walking all around.

So, the loooooong winter is over and if you could overhear at our house, you'd hear the sounds of a tea party and a little person making a lot of squeaky noises with her feet. And if you see a robin, give them a welcome back nod and smile!

Odds and Ends

The weatherman and the calendar say the spring is coming, and I'm choosing to believe them. Sure it's moving as slow as molasses in January, but I'm beginning to see and hear the signs. The cardinals are singing, the air has that sort of bad rotten smell mixed with hopeful fresh smell, and joy of joys, the first green shoots of tulips are beginning to push up through the dirt (partially covered with snow).

Lately, Lucy seems to take these jumps in maturity, and I swear, it happens overnight. Some mornings I'll go into her room to get her up (on the rare mornings that happens. Usually mornings begin with me scrunched under the covers. Then I hear a "Thump. Thump thump thump thump thump. >door open< >another door open<>Hands on my face.< "Mom. It's not night anymore, I promise. It's light out. It's morning. It's time to get up. Can I watch TV? Also, I'm hungry. Can I have breakfast?") But. On the mornings I do get her up, sometimes it seems as though she's grown in the night, not necessarily physically, though that too, but it's like she went to sleep saying, "Baa baa black sheep" and woke up discussing the gross national product of Great Britain.

Yesterday was the first nice day really. In the afternoon we decided to go for a walk. Despite the mud everywhere and dirty, melting snow and uncovered garbage littering the walks, it was heaven. Lucy took a deep breath and said, "Mom, it smells like the WORLD out here!" She kept up a steady stream of enjoyable chatter all around, and when we got home we still didn't want to go inside, so we jumped rope out on the patio. For me, I was quite chuffed with myself that I could still even jump rope (up to 25 jumps!) and then felt like I was going to have a heart attack. Her jumping rope (excuse me, she calls it "skipping rope") consists of galumphing around, dragging the rope with her. She had on a pink shirt and some fancy flowered, flared pants I bought her ("I look just like Coco Calypso!" she said when I brought them home) and was so dear. Elaine and I sat and watched her and finally she said in a voice that sounded for all the world like a circus barker's "And now I have a treat for you kids because you've been so good. I am going to do a ballerina high jump!" She galloped around some more, doing the same stuff she'd been doing all along, but Elaine and I applauded her wildly.

And Elaine. She's a hoot. I'm so used to my serious older baby who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, and here comes Miss Non-Stop Sunshine. Instead of just laughing at everything we do, now she tries to make us laugh. She reaches over (all of her own accord, I swear we didn't teach her this!) in the bathtub, grabs Lucy's foot, and says, "Tickle tickle tickle!" The other night I found her sitting up in her crib, her shirt pulled up, as she tickled her own tummy and said, "Tickle tickle tickle!" to herself.

Whenever I come in her room to get her, she's usually standing up, hanging on the rails of the crib, looking like some farm boy hanging over a fence. But when she sees me, she dives back down onto the mattress, curls up into a little ball, and laughs and laughs. The other morning, she was lounging in her (strap-in) rocking chair in the hall while I got ready in the bathroom. I could hear her fiddling around with a can of formula that was sitting on the floor (and that's all I need, to clean sticky white powder up from hardwood floors). So I said, "Elaine Frances, stop that." Abruptly the noise stopped, and then she began to cry (I didn't even need to see her to know that she stuck her bottom lip out first). Lucy, who was standing next to me, said with exaggerated patience, "Elaine, you really need to learn self-control."

So, these are my girls these days, spring is coming, we're happy and laughing (for the most part), and they're sprouting up faster than those tulips in the front yard.

South Africa update

This morning I talked to Elizabeth Rapuleng in South Africa. I wanted to find out how Moali is doing. The answer was not good. Three weeks ago, Moali wanted to kill herself. She can't take it anymore, living with a woman who is so cruel and abusive to her. It doesn't sound as though her social worker is either doing or able to do much to get her into boarding school. The money that we sent to help her is tied up in South Africa's very complicated banking system, and some of it will be subtracted by them before (or even if) it ever gets to Elizabeth. The good news is that she did get the packages and letters we sent to her.

I've got to say I am so discouraged today. I'm not sure I've ever felt so powerless and helpless in my life. The girls and I went to Wal-Mart this morning and picked out some spring clothes to send to Moali. I think it was just a feeble attempt to make me feel better than at least I'm doing something.

I've spent my (brief) alone time today, alternating between tears and prayer. This is not my battle. It's God's. I'm not sure what He's doing, but I'm asking Him to hammer on my faith in order to strengthen it.

I've been listening to this too: http://www.jamesmacdonald.com/classics_signature.aspx (#2: "The Way God Works"). If anyone stumbles across this blog, with everything in me, I wish you'd click on this and listen; right now it's the only thing really keeping me hanging on, and I'm betting I'm not alone in feeling frustration, desperation, and...who knows what else with life today.

I'm keeping this record of Moali in this journal because I think of her as my third daughter. I'm keeping it to show Lucy and Elaine because I'm believing this is going to have a phenomenal ending. It's not over yet; she's still here.

It's not over.

Stir Crazy

OK. I'm officially over winter. (Truth be told, I was over it on January 1st, but no matter.) Seriously, will we ever get to leave this house? I've got that feeling (and I love our house) that all the walls are closing in on me and every nook and cranny is being speedily filled with some sort of clutter--kind of like those time-lapse photos of kudzu growing or something. This is the time of year that I begin making spring cleaning lists, which project I'm going to do first. I tackled the kitchen last week and was absolutely ruthless. I ask, "Do we need it? Are we using it?" and if the answer is No, into a garbage bag it goes. I threw away 3/4 empty boxes of noodles, half-used packets of Lipton onion soup mix, packages of napkins bought for parties that have only 2 napkins left in the package...you get the picture. I actually THREW AWAY baby bottles. (In case you're worried about Elaine, have no fear. They weren't hers. These were Lucy's. You know, from 2004.)

It feels like we're slowly being overtaken by Happy Meal toys, pieces from Polly Pocket sets, mismatched socks, receipts for pizza, and magazines with ideas for a beautiful Christmas in them. It's all going to the curb. It feels very freeing. I need to start on the girls' bedrooms next, but they need to be gone for the day--at least Lucy does. She's still cherishing some sort of broken light saber from last 4th of July.

Last weekend, a vicious February storm made its way through. (As I type this, I started writing about Friday night and was actually boring MYSELF, so I'll move this along...) Saturday night we found out that church the next day was cancelled. There was a certain amount of satisfaction going to sleep that night, hearing the sleet click against the windows and knowing we didn't have to go out the next day. In the morning, I made the girls Hello Kitty waffles. Elaine sat in her highchair, wearing her penguin pajamas and saying, "Num, num, num, num." That was the highlight of day--the rest of the time, the four of us bickered with each other.

If you can't tell already, I don't really have much to write about. I spend my free time searching the Internet for lilac bushes (I want to plant one for each girl) and carpet roses (oh, and a dress to wear to a wedding at the end of March. The social highlight of my decade it seems.) I wander around Target, looking at spring clothes for the girls. One positive sign is that Easter candy is now available. So, I can while away the time waiting for warm weather by eating chocolate-covered marshmallow eggs.

That's pretty much it. Lucy is occasionally using a British accent for no apparent reason, so that's nice. We've started reading the Betsy-Tacy books together. And while I make it a practice to stay away from most potty-training conversations and any sort of scatalogical matters in this blog (I want them to enjoy reading this when they grow up, not cringe), this one is too good to pass up. I was bagging up a load of dirty diapers from the diaper pail, and Lucy said, "I think when the garbage man sees that he'll say, 'What a lovely bag of stinko diapers. I'll take that away for your family now.'"

He'll do that while admiring our lilac bushes and carpet roses, right?

TV or Not TV

The American Academy of Pediatrics says that children under the age of 2 should not watch any television. I can get behind that. I loathe that glazed, spaced-out stare kids get when they're watching TV. I don't like when all imaginary play comes from characters they've seen on television. I think television shortens the attention span and stifles creativity. I really do. Lucy watched no TV until she was almost 2 1/2. Now that she is watching, we've mostly limited it to DVDs so we can monitor her viewing habits closely.

OK, all that being said? Sometimes I just love TV. I refuse to exalt it into some sort of friendly, alternate teacher. TV is what it is. It's my babysitter. Sometimes, I need to clean the kitchen or get supper ready without someone under foot, rifling through the Tupperware drawer, filling every container with water from the bathroom, then spilling it all over the floor so I can step in it in my sock feet.

A year ago, right before Elaine was born, we bought a new car. We needed a family vehicle. So we bought one of those new station wagon/SUVs (we call it "the manwagon" since it's a wagon a man would be caught dead driving in). It has a DVD player in it. I'm so embarrassed. It's like driving your living room around. Seriously. What has the world come to? But...you know, we go on trips and have discovered that it is so incredibly nice to put in a DVD and not listen anymore to Mr. Henry CDs or Frog & Toad (sorry, Arnold Lobel) or carry on long verbose conversations about...whatever it is little kids want to talk about. We can listen to our own music and have our own conversations, while Lucy watches Strawberry Shortcake or Beauty & the Beast or, a favorite at our house, Maisy.

Do you know about Maisy? Maisy is a mouse, and her best friends are Charley the Alligator? Crocodile?, Tallulah the Chicken, Eddie the Elephant, and Cyril the Squirrel. They're simple drawings in bright, primary colors. Here's a sample of a Maisy book: "Maisy and Charley went shopping. They bought yogurt, tomatoes, bread, milk, and cheese. Good thing they brought Maisy's wagon. Now they're home and can have lunch. Yum, yum." This Lucy Cousins who writes them is laughing all the way to the bank. It's like Demerol for toddlers.

The movies are similar. The first time Darren watched one with Lucy he said, "Is there a plot to this?" I said, "Oh yes. Eddie is too big for the wading pool, and he makes a hole in it. So instead of swimming in the pool, Eddie squirts the water out of his trunk for Maisy and Tallulah, so it's like a sprinkler." "And...how long does this last?" Darren asked.

The movies all have this faux reggae music that is absolutely impossible to get out of your head. All the characters speak in grunts and squeaks. They're actually pretty cute, with the exception of Charley, whom I have a personal bias against. He's always showing up at the last minute and getting out of all the work but still getting the treats that everyone else gets. He's like that obnoxious guy in college who never brought his own pens and paper to class and always borrowed from everyone else. Another kind of weird thing about Maisy-world is that anyone selling or dispensing a service is an ostrich. The librarian? an ostrich. The person selling balloons at the park? an ostrich. The checkout lady at the supermarket? an ostrich. It's like there's some sort of bizarre ostrich merchant class.

We still don't let Elaine watch TV. But, oh, she loves Maisy. She likes the books, and she's been in the room when Lucy is watching. She likes to dance to the fake reggae music, their language sounds exactly like hers, and she'll probably date the Charley-like guy in college since she already has such an affinity for him.

Last night on the way home from St. Louis (which is supposed to take only 5 hours, but mysteriously took us about 17 it seemed), both girls were screeching and whining and having outbursts of bad humor. So, at our final gas station stop, Darren popped in the Maisy DVD. He asked, "Which episode should I play?" and I answered, "Hit play ALL." It was magic. As soon as the Maisy music came on, everything calmed down immediately. We looked back and saw Lucy with Rabbie and her thumb in her mouth. Elaine stared, glassy-eyed and began twirling her hair (don't think this doesn't alarm us just a little bit).

But it was quiet. Blessedly quiet. I'm not thrilled that I'm medicating my kids with TV. But, it's what my friend Alysa calls, "survival mode." Sometimes you gotta do what you've gotta do.

Letter to my girls...

Dear Lucy and Elaine,

Let me tell you a not-so-well-kept secret. Your mom is afraid. I know moms and dads are supposed to be the brave ones, but sometimes we're not. And with the case of your mom, it's usually not sometimes, it's always. What are you afraid of, Mom? you ask. I could give you a long, long list, but I'll tell you the thing I'm most afraid of: that something bad will happen to you or to Daddy. That you or Daddy will get hurt. That you or Daddy will die. I'll tell you girls, and maybe when you're both moms, you'll be able to understand this and you'll be afraid too--you'll wake up at night, and the fear will clutch your heart. The darkness will surround you, and it will threaten to swallow you whole. It's like taking a deep breath to face your worst fear and finding that it's so much more hideous and frightening than you ever could have imagined. Horrible things run, unhindered, through my mind.

I've been thinking about this a lot because of some things that have happened to you lately. Dear adventurous Smoochie, you tried to pull up on a floor lamp and instead pulled it over onto the floor, shattering the glass into thousands of tiny shards. When I swooped you up off the floor, I came up with a bloody finger. Those pieces of glass, they could have cut an artery, flown in your mouth, gotten lodged in your eye. But all that happened to you was a tiny cut on your cheek.

Lucy, you tried to walk backward down our upstairs flight of steps and fell all the way to the bottom, crashing down on the hardwood floor at the bottom. I saw you land, head down. You could have broken your arms, your legs, or your neck. Then if that weren't enough, Elaine, you went headfirst down the basement steps, hitting every single one and landing at the bottom--the basement steps with a huge, gaping space between the railing and the floor below. You could have plunged 12-13 feet, straight down to the thinly covered cement floor. Both of you girls--you had some minor cuts and bruising. That's all.

You might say to me when you're moms yourselves--what should I do, Mom? I'm so afraid. What if something happens to my baby? I feel like I can't even protect my own children.

Well, girls, I've got some wonderful news for you that I was just reminded of this week. Open up your Bibles to II Timothy Chapter 1. "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and of sound mind." That fear? That feeling that everything's out of control? It's not coming from God. Instead, He's given us power. He's given us love. And the best part, He's given us a sound mind. The opposite of that in the Bible is insanity or even a mind oppressed by demons (I think I know just a little bit of what that feels like). But God's given me power, love, and a sound mind to combat all that fear that comes to me.

And here's something else. I gave you girls to God. Rather, He lent you to me, and I gave you back to Him. He can take care of you so much better than I. My natural instinct is to hang on to you so tightly, but on October 12, 2003, and June 18, 2006, when each of you was baptized--I stood before Him and promised to hold you with open hands. You're His, not mine. And here's what else II Timothy says, "For I know Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've commited unto Him until that day."

You precious little girls have the brightest future! You belong to God Almighty! And sometimes He sends things our way, like falls down the stairs and broken glass, to remind your mom that she needs to pry her fingers off your lives and remember to Whom you belong. Even if something worse had happened to you, I still know Whom I have believed. He is able to keep you, Lucy and Elaine. No matter what.

I am not afraid, and you don't need to be either!

Love,

Mama

Waiting for Spring

David Benoit has a lovely CD titled "Waiting for Spring." The cover art is a winter garden with a snow-covered bench. It's so soothing and gentle as if one were just staring dreamily out the window each day at the softly falling snow, peacefully waiting for crocuses and tulips to pop out of the ground and for robins to appear. The music (also soothing, gentle, and peaceful) plays on our kitchen CD player as I pick up Cheerios from the floor, wipe two runny noses, make honey toast for breakfast for the nth day in a row...yes, indeed, we are WAITING FOR SPRING.

Don't get me wrong. Things are infinitely better this winter than last winter. I was a sleep-deprived, hormonally-challenged mess. I was up every night, all night with Elaine, then as soon as I drifted off to sleep, I would hear a small voice from the other room: "Mom! Can I get out of my bed now?" I was on maternity leave all winter. I couldn't even escape to work. I was a prisoner in my own home, my jail guarded by two tiny people in pink ruffled uniforms. I emailed a friend, "I'm entitling my life book 'The Long Winter.' Except, Laura Ingalls Wilder already wrote a book like that where she and her entire family were caught in a blizzard, then almost died of scarlet fever. So, whatever I write would not only be miserable, but anticlimactic in comparison."

Yea verily, I do get tired of static-y hair, dry skin, shocks whenever we touch anything, cold drafts, the endless donning of coats/snowpants/boots/scarves/hats/mittens, then trying to stuff each child with all that on into carseats and somehow mash the buckles down without pinching their little legs in the process (while they arch their backs and squirm and fish their well-padded arms out of the straps quicker than you can say "vacation in Barbados"). But there have been intervals of fun and enjoyment too.

Lucy wants to wear a dress every day. I like that about her; I like knowing her unique preferences. Plus it makes helping her to the potty much easier too. So, win-win. But, when it's eleventy thousand degrees below zero as it has been here, practicality requires that she wear pants. I was explaining this to her (oh, for the trillionth time) the other day. She put on her pants without a word, but as we walked down to breakfast, she was dragging her feet and had a frown on her face. I asked what was wrong and she said, "I'm sort of a little bit VERY mad right now. Because you said I couldn't wear a dress."

We enjoy baking and making things together too--that's a good indoor activity. The other day while doing a project she said to me, "Mom, you're better than big ol' Herod" (you know, King Herod of Judea fame). At least now I know what to aspire too--simply being better than a crazed, tyrannical despot. I can do that. Most days.

Then yesterday when I picked up the girls from daycare, it was so cute, I thought my heart would burst. Elaine caught sight of Lucy and began shrieking with joy and crawling as fast as she could to her. Lucy ran to her with her arms outstretched, and they had a happy reunion. It did my spirits good. (Of course, then Lucy hugged her as hard as she could until Smoochie began roaring, and Lucy said disgustedly, "Oh, simmer down, Elaine!")

Yes, overall, things are happy. We're cozy indoors, playing together, and occasionally we make half-hearted forays out into the world. And if you look in our backyard, it really does look like a lovely winter garden, and there is a snow-covered bench under a tree there too. If I had the energy, I'd put on their snowsuits, hats, scarves, mittens, and boots, and we'd go out, sit down on it, and have a little chat.

Riiiiiiiight.

A Moali update

A few months ago after I wrote my entry about our little South African girl, Moali, some amazing things happened. And I don't use 'amazing' lightly since I generally loathe when people use that word. First of all, my friend Melanie read the entry and decided to do a little sleuthing of her own. She managed to do in about 5 minutes what I hadn't been able to in a year. She got ahold of the writer of the Tribune article where I had originally read Moali's story. Then I was able to begin writing to her, Laurie Goering, too. She gave me the phone number for the woman who runs the drop-in center where Moali goes. I purchased an international calling card to Johannesburg, and before I knew it, after all this time, I was talking to Elizabeth Rapuleng in Soweto, South Africa!

Between our two accents and a not-so-great connection, it wasn't that easy, but I found that Moali is still in her same foster home. It's a horrible situation, though she didn't detail why. Her hope (and she is working with a social worker) is to get Moali into a boarding school. In South Africa, school is free, but the boarding costs. I told her that we will pay the boarding school fees. Over the Christmas holiday, I was able to write letters and send a care package and Bible to Moali. It's unbelievable--a year ago I had no idea where to find her--and this year we're actually able to talk to her and help.

I talked to Elizabeth again last week. Not much has progressed in the last couple of months. Moali is still living with her guardian, whom Elizabeth calls "a devil." (It makes my blood run cold.) She tried to visit her over the Christmas holidays, but the guardian had locked up the house and wouldn't answer the door. She's continuing to try to get her into boarding school where "she can finally breathe." She was thrilled with the money we sent for Moali and says it will help so much. I'm hoping that (sadly) money will be a little leverage now to helping remove her from this situation.

Another interesting thing about all this is all the people I've met. Through my search, I've made a new friend, Danny Lucas, who lives in Florida. He actually met Elizabeth when she came to the United States last year in search of funding for her organization (she didn't get any and left early because she missed all the kids so much). Through Danny, I've come in contact with another friend of Elizabeth's in Holland, who started an organization called Kuddlies 4 Kids. He collects stuffed animals from anyone who will donate and gets them to AIDS orphanages in South Africa. He says that often, this is the only toy most of the children will ever have, and they clutch them as they lay dying. I've met another woman who helps South African children, Maureen, and she seems to know the court system of SA pretty well. In addition, of course, Laurie Goering who does the incredible writing of some of these stories.

Last week, Darren called me on the way home from work to tell me to log on to Moody radio because they were about to interview a woman from South Africa. What an unbelievable story. She is a woman named Heather Reynolds. She used to be an atheist. One night she was driving down a hill with her baby in the backseat. She pushed down on the brake pedal, and it was completely gone. Of course, a car was coming through the intersection at the bottom of the hill, and she crashed into it, totaling both cars. Eventually, she realized that she was completely unhurt, but she couldn't even see into the backseat--it was a mass of mangled metal. She got out and said, "God, if my son is alive, I will love You and serve You for the rest of my life." She reached into the back, saw the baby's blanket, pulled on it, and out he came--not a scratch on him.

Then came the realization that she had totaled the other driver's obviously new Jaguar. She saw two tall men, wearing tennis clothes, coming over to her, and she waited for the inevitable verbal beating she was going to get. Instead, one of the men put his hand on her shoulder and said, "Are you all right? Is your baby all right?" when she answered affirmatively, he said, "Then let's pray right now and thank God that none of us was hurt."

Since that night, she has started a wonderful organization called God's Golden Acre. She houses, feeds, provides schooling and medication, and in general just loves on South African orphans either with AIDS or who have been affected by AIDS. She says in the name of Jesus, she never turns anyone away who needs help. All the children call her "Gogo" (Zulu for Grandmother). [And get this: after she began the organization, she knew she needed someone to run the financial aspect of it. One of her fellow workers came to her and said, "I have the most wonderful man and he's agreed to do it!" She said, "I can't just take on someone I don't even know, who is this man?" The worker gave the man's name, and it was the same man who Heather had totaled his Jaguar that night 20 years before.]

Well, this has become a long story and it's still unfolding. I wrote immediately to Elizabeth after hearing Heather's story, wondering if maybe Moali could go there (it's not far from Soweto/Gauteng Province). Another idea I've had is if Moali could come here on a foreign exchange program and live with us. I've found that the expense for that is really high, but...it seems like God has been doing some miracles here, so I just keep praying for more.

Stay tuned!

We love each other until we cry

I debated about what to title this entry: Sister, Sister? Sister Act? Nah, cliche and silly. So I went with what I find myself saying a lot lately about the two girls: "They love each other so much! In fact, they love each other until they cry!" It's true. They can't seem to resist each other, which in turn gets physical and usually somewhat violent. After a few minutes, they're either both crying or Elaine is crying while Lucy stands there with a "Who? Me?" expression on her face.

First of all, Elaine hates having her hands held. I secretly fear that it's some sort of obsessive compulsive thing. I took her to visit at a nursing home, and all the little elderly ladies did just what is natural when you see a baby--they reached out and tried to hold her fat little hands. She quickly snatched them back as if someone was trying to pour boiling water on her. It was embarrassing. At church, she comes in in her white coat and her white woolly hat that looks like a lamb, complete with ears, and with her rosy cheeks, she's just the dearest thing in the world. And everyone rushes to take her hands in theirs because she's utterly adorable, and she yanks them away rudely. I spend my time apologizing for the compulsions of my one-year-old.

Of course, Lucy has discovered how much Elaine hates this and she revels in it. Want some good fun? Hold Smoochie's hands until she cries! It's a blast! Also, if you're hanging on tightly to her hands, she can't reach out and pull your hair like she normally does! If ever I hear Elaine shrieking, I usually don't even run to check anymore. I just say wearily, "Lucy. Let.go.of.her.hands." This happens, oh, two or three trillion times a day.

We've explained and explained to Lucy. Elaine can't talk. When she says, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" in her angry voice and her face is all red, what she actually means is, "No, thank you, Lucy. Please don't hold my hands. I don't care for that at all."

I've never had a sister, so I'm learning all sorts of interesting things just watching these two. My brother was always sweet-natured, not that we never argued, but there never seemed to be any element of torture in his fraternal affection for me. I'm always making up little stories for the girls (don't be impressed, they're mind-numbingly dull), and Lucy asks me to tell them over and over. They're usually some variation of this: "Once upon a time, there were two little girls named Lucy and Elaine. Elaine was crying because she didn't have anyone to play with, so Lucy said, 'Don't worry! I'll play with you!' So they decided to dress up. Lucy wore a yellow gown with yellow shoes and a yellow crown. Elaine wore a pink gown with pink shoes and a pink crown. Mama was so happy they were playing together that she went into the kitchen and baked them two cakes. Lucy's cake was a yellow castle, and Elaine's cake was a chocolate puppy dog. Then the girls came downstairs and ate their cakes and drank lemonade. They sang [to the tune of Frere Jacques] 'We are best friends, we are best friends, we're best friends, we're best friends, we are Lucy and Elaine, we are Lucy and Elaine, we're best friends.' The End." Somehow, I hope these dreary, moralizing little tales sink in eventually. I want them to be good friends--those kind of sisters who bicker congenially but are the best of friends and go to lunch together. The kind you can always count on when you feel friendless in the world. (And, truth be told, who are united in amused exasperation with their mother.) So...that's my hope and what I'm aiming toward.

This past Sunday morning in the car, it was, for a few seconds, uncharacteristically quiet. Then I heard Lucy whisper from the back, "Mom, look! We're making a line!" I turned around and looked. Joined across the back seat in their carseats were those two sisters, hand in hand.

A Big Tray of Christmas Cookies

This blog is going to be chock full of holiday goodness I guess. It's OK though because I'm sure in January there will be long stretches of time when I could be writing, but really it would just be a repetition of "Stayed indoors. Didn't get out of our pajamas until 10. Made Mr. Putter and Tabby out of modelling clay. Ate mac-n-cheese. Went to bed." So I'll try to get lots of things down now so I can indulge in winter doldrums later on.

Since we've moved to this neighborhood, one of the best parts of the holidays is getting the tray of homemade Christmas cookies from our neighbor Jan. And when I say tray, I mean big TV-sized tray, not a little holiday plate. Last year I came home from the hospital, walked up the back steps, and the tray was waiting for us. I had just spent an emotional morning, folding up the tiny coming home outfit I had had so much fun picking out for Elaine, packing it back in my overnight bag, and leaving her behind in the NICU. That night, after Lucy was in bed and Darren was out on an errand, I sat watching TV and a Pampers commercial came on. It consisted of a woman softly singing "Silent Night" and lots of beautiful photographs of sleeping babies. I bawled and ate the ENTIRE tray of cookies. I think Darren and Lucy might have each gotten one.

A weekend or so ago, the tray arrived on the backporch again. Ahh, I'm in a much better frame of mind now. Darren took Lucy down to his parents' to see Megan's Christmas program. I stayed home with Elaine, and then we were snowed in. It was a real blizzard, and we were just stuck here. Fortunately we had plenty of food and heat (and cookies), so we spent lots of time playing on the floor together and sitting around reading. While she was napping, I took out some of the Christmas decorations--wreaths and garlands, nativity scenes and candles. I want to put out enough to look festive but not so much that I dread the hours it will take me to put it away.

When Lucy got home at the end of the weekend, she was overjoyed. She ran around the house looking at everything and was especially enamored with a little Christmas pillow I had hung on the front door handle. A night or so later, after I put her in bed, I came downstairs and saw, sticking out from behind the shutters in the dining room, a burgundy ribbon. I opened the shutters and the Christmas pillow fell out, its ribbon torn.

I went back upstairs into her room and held out the pillow. Her already enormous dark eyes got even bigger and she gave a half-sob and said, "I'm sorry, Mom! I broke your pillow!" I asked, "And then what did you do?" "I hid it!" she cried, "I was pulling on it, Mommy. I'm so sorry." And in the spirit of confession, she continued on with other things she knew she had done that she shouldn't such as "And I got up in Elaine's face!" These are the moments where, as a parent, you're just not sure what to do. Partly because, it was just so funny in a way. But I said, "Lucy, it's not so bad that you broke it, even though you know you shouldn't have been pulling on it. It's that you hid it. That's like telling a lie. And for that, I have to give you a spanking." Of course that made her cry even harder (even though Daniels spankings are two handswats on the sitter with clothing and diaper intact). After that I rocked her for a long time and we talked about how, even if she does something bad and gets afraid, she should come tell Daddy and me so that we can help her with it. Then I said, "It's time to get back in bed again. What story do you want to listen to?" and she said solemnly, "When Adam and Eve disobeyed and lied. Just like I did."

Oh my goodness. I'm never sure whether to laugh or cry. So I went downstairs and ate a lot of Jan's cookies.

Green eyes and random musings

I've sadly neglected this blog. I should have anticipated this at holiday time, but too much good stuff is happening and I need to get at least some of it down.

In short, living with Elaine is like living with Tigger. Bouncy, but tiring. Living with Lucy, is like living with a tempermental opera singer. Extreme high notes of happiness along with dramatic bouts of weeping. And a lot of dress-up and make-believe in between.

This is the first year she is really enjoying Christmas. The other day, we decorated the tree together. Last year we didn't put ornaments on the tree because I was having Elaine. We just put lights and then forgot to water the tree during the week of her birth, so when we got home it was a stick with lights--a genuine Charlie Brown Christmas tree. But this year I dragged out the boxes of ornaments, and Lucy was thrilled. She exclaimed over each one and distributed them all on the bottom branches of the tree (of course control freak Mama rehung them all during naptime, but she never knew the difference). She asked me to sit in a chair by the tree with Elaine and then said, "Mom, please say, 'Elaine, what is Lucy doing?' Then tell her, 'Decorating the tree, Elaine! Did you not know that she could do that? Doesn't it look so wonderful?'" [A side note: later on during snacktime, she decided to also decorate the tree in various places with...shredded mozerella. And yes, if you were wondering, it was lots of fun to clean up. Then we learned that if we have what we think is a fabulous idea, we should run it by Mama before executing our plans.]

After she was finished decorating, she gave a deep sigh of satisfaction and said, "We need to sing some Christmas carols now" and proceeded to give us her renditions of "Silent Night," "Away in a Manger," "Twinkle, Twinkle," "Once in Royal David's City," and "Jingle Bells." She informed us that Daddy had told her, "It's 'Oh what FUN, Lucy' because I was singing 'Oh what FARM.'"

We've been trying a new church, and she is practicing in the Christmas program. They've even given her her own line "...and the baby lying in a manger!" She marches around the house saying, "Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel has come!" and singing a mixture of carols. We're reading the book "Room for a Little One" where a Kind Ox invites each different animal in the stable and tells them "Come inside--there's always room for a little one here." Each night before bed, she stands before our nativity scene in her little footie pajamas and puts a different figure inside. Then she whispers, "Come inside! There's always room for a little one here!"

In case your teeth are aching from all this sweetness though, rest assured that just as all good operas have their tragedy scenes, so does our house--at least three or four a day. Yesterday was particularly trying. I should have been prepared that Elaine's birthday was going to be hard. We're always reading "A Birthday For Frances" where Frances the badger has such difficulty coming to terms with the fact that it's her little sister Gloria's birthday. "That's the way it is--your birthday is always the one that is not NOW!"

Maybe I should have prepared her more. But she seemed so excited beforehand and picked out a ball and some rubber ducks to give Elaine. She bounced out of bed in the morning and said, "Is it Smoochie's birthday today?" It was all downhill from there. By the time of the party, she was doing that thing that drives both Darren and me completely nuts where she acts as though each tiny sliver of food we've asked her to ingest is being shoveled in by a frontloader. She crumbles everything up and pushes it around and scatters in on the floor. I finally took her in the other room to have a little talk, and I asked her, "Are you having a hard time because we're having a party for Smoochie?" "YES" she wailed at the highest octave anyone's ears could possibly tolerate. "And I don't want to eat any of HER birthday cake!!! Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!"

She rallied of course for the cake and the ice cream, but the presents. Oh the presents. Elaine got clothes, a blanket, and her personalized book quilt. Boring. Then she got her own Groovy Girl. Then she got a dollhouse. Whatever Elaine got, Lucy wanted. Elaine can't snatch, but she can hang on with all her might. By the end of the evening, both girls were weeping copiously. Brenda Lee didn't sing, "It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To" for nothing.

After everyone had left and I was getting Lucy ready for bed, she was holding on to the new Groovy Girl for dear life. I said, "Lucy, you remember that that Groovy Girl is Elaine's, right? When are you going to let her play with her?" "Not tonight, Mom. She's not ready to play with her. Besides," she continued as she danced the doll around, "this doll says, 'I don't like Smoochie, I don't like Smoochie."

Oy.

But this morning they are happy together again. They're laughing and kissing each other. Elaine is playing with her new ducks and rubber ball, and Lucy is rerererearranging the furniture in the new dollhouse and undressing the new Groovy Girl, and all is well. For now.

Happy Birthday

Dear Elaine,

As I write this, you are looking over at me with your big grin, jumping up and down as high as you can go in your doorway jumper. You're making fierce growling noises, and we are laughing with you. What a difference from one year ago! On this morning a year ago, the morning after you were born, your ICU doctor came to my room to talk to me. I had seen you only briefly before they took you away because you weren't breathing right. I tried to keep the shaking out of my voice as I asked him if you were going to be OK. If you could breathe. If you had an increased risk of dying of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. After talking with me, a smile crossed his warm brown face and he said, "A picture is worth a thousand words. You need to go see your daughter!"

Your daddy took me to the neonatal ICU--he was a pro there by now. We scrubbed our hands and arms with this industrial strength soap that dried out our skin so much it almost bled. We put on clean hospital gowns, and Daddy took me back to where your crib was. I was worried that in the midst of all those babies, I wouldn't know which one was you. But then I saw you. You had a lot of tubes and wires connected to you and to a machine that monitored the oxygen in your blood. But you looked just like us! Unmistakable!

I spent those first days in the hospital with you--safely cocooned in our own little world of the NICU--rocking you and listening to the Christmas music the nurses had playing. Then came the terrifying first weeks and months you were home with us. You would choke and stop breathing and turn blue. You slept in your carseat and I slept by your side for the first three months. All through the night, I would reach my hand down and touch you to make sure you were still breathing.

And then, all of a sudden, we began to see your two dimples. A lot. You started out with a smile, quickly progressed to a giggle, and now our house is filled with your frequent belly laughs. Your blond hair began to grow, and now it's a rakish little mohawk. The last time I took you to the dr., he walked in and said, "Oh, someone's having a bad hair day today!" I was a little insulted on your behalf because that's what it looks like all the time. You've kept your bright blue eyes--you look like a little Nichols.

Let's see--in this year we've learned some things that you like: being rocked, smiling, a warm bottle in the morning, Spot the Dog books, the bathtub spout, swinging as high as you can in your swing and squealing, your big sister, being tickled, bouncing on the bed, giggling, blowing raspberries, a warm bottle before your nap in the afternoon, Lucy's Groovy Girl doll, rubber ducks, jumping as high as you can in your doorway jumper, African music, rocking back and forth in your highchair, sitting on Daddy's lap, a warm bottle before bedtime, laughing, your stuffed lambs, bouncing up and down in your exersaucer, Packa's plastic birds, your Winnie-the-Pooh tree, singing "Pop Goes the Weasel," dancing around the kitchen with Mama, being bounced on one of our laps, and a warm bottle in the middle of the night if you can convince one of us to give you one.

Some things you don't like: having your diaper changed, carrots, being buckled into your highchair, getting your tights put on, getting your shoes put on, being buckled into your carseat, having anyone hold your hands, not being allowed to watch TV, not being allowed to play with Packa's plastic birds, being put down for a nap, and finishing your bottle.

Last night we celebrated your birthday. You wore a green velvet and taffeta party dress, your patent leather shoes, and a little bow in your mohawk. You were mesmerized by the lights on the Christmas tree, and Mimi insists that you said "tree" not once but twice. You stood alone for the first time! Mimi said, "The only reason your Mommy and Daddy were so calm at this time last year was because they were in shock. We were all terrified!" and the rest of your grandparents agreed. We all talked about what a change it was from last year. We're all so thankful that that tiny little baby wrapped in tubes and wires has changed into the bouncy, ecstatic little girl we have here today. We sat around the table and toasted your good health.

I brought in your snowman cake and watched your little eyes illuminated by the light of one candle. Everyone encouraged you to blow it out, and Lucy helped you. I'm not sure what you wished for, my sweet little girl, but I thanked God for your good health; your joyful, exuberant spirit, and your sweet good nature. Then I wished you as much happiness in your whole lifetime as you've brought us in your first 365 days.

Happy birthday, dear Smoochie!

I love you.

Mama

First Word!

Elaine said her first word. ELAINE SAID HER FIRST WORD! Oh Elaine. I've been meaning to write a whole entry about her anyway. Lucy gets lots of press, but you know, it's harder to write about a baby because they don't talk. At least, mine didn't. But now she does. Did I mention that? Elaine said her first word.

She loves for me to sing "Pop Goes the Weasel" to her. I hold her and we slightly bounce until we get to "Pop!" then we do a big jump, and she laughs and loves it. Well, last night Elaine was in her holding pen aka the crib, while I bathed Lucy. She stands up now too, did I mention it? and is all blase about that. She stands in her crib and does a little dance or pounds on the wall, and when you come in the room, she loves for you to say, "WHAT are you doing?" because she's ever so proud of her newfound standing ability. Anyway, while Lucy was in the bath, I started to sing, "All around the cobbler's bench, the monkey chased the weasel, the monkey thought 'twas all in fun....POP! goes the weasel!" and from the bedroom I heard a joyous little "Pop!" Then I sang, "A penny for a spool of thread, a penny for a nee-dle, that's the way the money goes, POP! goes the weasel!" and I heard another little "Pop!" from the crib.

I ran into her room and sang it again, and each time she said "Pop!" at just the right second! (To be scrupulously honest, it does sound more like "Pah!" than a word with two p's in it. But, it's definitely still her first word.) Darren got home about the same moment, and I told him all about it and tried to demonstrate (but of course she wouldn't do it then) and he got on the phone to his mom and my mom to tell them all about it (I just love that about him). The grandmas were suitably impressed. Then I tried it again with her, and she did it! She seems so happy with herself and thrilled that I'm singing Pop Goes the Weasel and jumping pretty much nonstop for her.

Darren claims that she's really already said her first word: Mama, but she really says mamamamamamama. She does know that it's me, but still...I can't really count that. Though I will say, the other day I went into her room about 4:45 a.m. to get my clothes for work--she was breathing those deep breaths of sleep, and I didn't make a single solitary sound. Nevertheless, in about 15 seconds, I could see a little person in polar bear pajamas, sitting up in her crib in the dark, whispering, "Mamamamama?" (It was the whispering part that just killed me.)

Regardless, whatever she's doing, she's beginning to communicate verbally with us. And pretty soon this blog will be filled with all sorts of her witty bon mots. Soon we will have not one, but two talkers in this house. In fact, I can hear her up in her crib right now. So, I'm off for another chorus of Pop Goes the Weasel.

For Moali

About a year ago, I heard a sermon at church by a guest speaker. The title of the sermon was "Will You Give Jesus Your Lunch?" which sounds sort of funny. The premise though was the story in the Bible when Jesus fed the 5,000. He had been teaching a large crowd (and actually, 5,000 was the count for the men there. Probably, including women and children, it was closer to 20,000), and it had come time for food to be passed around--to feed all these hungry people. But there wasn't any food. The 12 disciples got together and tried to brainstorm, but all they came up with was a little boy who offered up his lunch--5 little loaves of bread and 2 fish. That tiny amount wouldn't have made much of a snack for the disciples alone, let alone 20,000 people. But Jesus blessed it, and everyone had as much as they wanted to eat, plus twelve baskets left over. The point of the sermon was that, with regard to world needs, we may feel like we have nothing to give. But if we place what little we have in God's hands, He will be able to do mighty things with it, things we could never dream of. At the end of the sermon, the speaker asked us, if we were willing, to hold out our hands, palms up, in a symbolic gesture that we are giving our time, prayer, resources, whatever little bit that we have. Well, even though we're in an EV Free church, I'm still a Presbyterian at heart, and we *don't* raise our hands. But...I kept turning the ideas over in my head long after we left.

A few weeks later, I was sitting at our kitchen island, reading the Chicago Tribune. There was a feature story on AIDS orphans in Africa. Ever since I volunteered teaching ESL to refugee pre-schoolers with World Relief, African children have been in my heart. I've actually read quite a few articles about the epidemic in Africa and have seen a number of news pieces. This one was different. This told the story of a 13-year-old South African girl named Moali Mthombeni. She had been orphaned as a toddler; her parents dead from AIDS. She had been living in various foster care situations. Her uncle had begun raping her when she was 10. Honestly, on the surface, as sad as that story is, there are thousands, millions, just like hers. But the article went on. At school, the other children laughed at Moali and wouldn't play with her because she wasn't a virgin anymore. I think it was at that point that I put my head down on the counter and started to cry. The rest of the piece said that she had been asked to leave school because she did not have the fees for her uniform, and at the end she said simply, "I have no one to help me."

I have no one to help me.

I sat at the counter with the tears flowing and I felt my hands kind of open up involuntarily and I said, "I don't really have much. I'm a mom in Rockford, Illinois. We don't have a lot of extra money. I'm pregnant. I'm totally overwhelmed. But Jesus, I give you my lunch. You are welcome to do with it what you will."

There was a picture of Moali accompanying the article. I cut it out, and it's been on our refrigerator ever since. Every time I open the door, I see her. I touch her sweet face. I say a prayer that she'll be protected from violence, that she'll be kept safe, that she will not get AIDS, that she will live without fear.

I've tried to find her. I've searched and searched and searched. And then I've searched some more. I've contacted world organizations and Oprah and anyone I can think of. Needle in a haystack doesn't even begin to describe it. She's one of millions and millions and millions of orphans in this world.

We have adopted her, in our hearts for the time being, as a family. Darren prays for her and Lucy, sweet little Lucy, prays for her "that she won't be sad anymore because she doesn't have a mommy and a daddy" and I pray for her without ceasing. I wish we could adopt her and bring her to live with us and be a part of our family. I'd like to make sure she gets an education. I'd like to buy her clothes and feed her and tuck her in bed at night. I'd like to talk to her and listen to her.

Right now I feel like we've done everything we can. I don't feel like it's enough, but it's our little lunch; we've offered it up, and so be it. God's ways are not our ways. There are lots of great organizations out there, and many that are helping orphans of AIDS in Africa. Every time I see an African child I think of "our" African child. We try to send money whenever we can, and any little bit that we can help one child is good, I guess. We do for Moali's sake. We do it for Jesus' sake.

Seasons

One morning in August, I heard ear-splitting screams outside the house. I had that automatic panic-stricken feeling "A child has been hurt." I raced to the window, only to see our 5-year-old next door neighbor, Bridget, walking down the street. Her shrieks were deafening. She walked on, the noise shattering glass in people's windows, setting off car alarms, and causing neighborhood dogs to bark. Her mother walked wearily behind, saying to onlookers, "It's her first day of kindergarten. She doesn't want to go to school. She doesn't want to ride the bus, even though her grandpa drives the bus. Bridget doesn't like change."

More and more I feel like Bridget, and I think, for better or worse, I've passed this along to both my girls. When Lucy was 14 months old, we took her on our first official family vacation to the beach at Saugatuck. She loathed every minute, other than the part where Darren swung with her in a hammock. The whole place was like a picture postcard: a lovely golden beach, gentle lapping water, striped beach umbrellas, happy families splashing in the lake. Lucy hated it. She cried when Darren tried to take her into the water. She cried if I sprinkled the tiniest bit of sand on her piggies. She cried when we took a walk. She cried when we tried to give her a bath in the bathtub at the cabin. Mostly what I remember about that vacation is being awakened every morning by her little hands grasping the soles of my feet--the cabin bedroom was so small, her portable crib was pressed up against the bottom of our bed. She was so relieved to go home to everything familiar.

Elaine seems to have the same dislike of change. When she was born, unless we were holding her, she never wanted to leave her carseat. I think it reminded her of being in the womb. A lot of it was understandable: she had reflux and would vomit if she laid flat on her back. She was premature and quite small, so the closeness of the carseat made her feel more secure. I tried to get her acclimated to her crib, but she hated it. I guiltily let her sleep in every night. I would lie in the big guestroom bed beside her, with her carseat on the floor so I could reach down randomly every few minutes throughout the night and check to see if she was breathing. This went on for almost four months. I began to have visions of her being 3 years old, still sitting in her infant carseat with great, long legs dangling over the sides. (These are similar to the visions I have now of having to pack a bottle in her lunchbox or Lucy having to go to kindergarten in Depends fastened with duct tape.)

Like I said, I'm not much different myself though. Maybe I am getting melancholy because fall has come, but it's such a bittersweet thing to watch my little girls and to just want to preserve these moments in amber so I can keep them and relive them whenever I want. Maybe that's why I write this journal. Like the way Elaine is playing on the rug now and she does a move that can only be described as yoga's "downward facing dog." Or how her blond hair sticks up in a little mohawk. The other night I was undressing her for her bath, she was scrambling around naked on the bed, and Lucy exclaimed, "Elaine! You look like a wild mouse!" And that's what we call her now; it fits so well, our little Wild Mouse. But someday she'll be a little girl with hair that lies flat, and we won't call her that at all--I'm already missing her wild mouse days and they're not even over.

And Lucy herself. I can't say I wish that all of age 3 would stay with us, but I want to keep forever moments like the other day when she and I took a walk around the neighborhood, hand in hand, savoring the crisp fall air and the changing colors. She said excitedly, "Mama! Look at the squirrel running and swooping up that tree!" When we neared home she said, "Can we get some apple slices and milk and sit out on the front porch together and sing?" So we did--several rounds of Take Me Out to the Ballgame, plus one she had composed herself (along with a dance), which consisted of numerous verses such as "I'm a little cherry/pear/almond, etc." She stood on the front porch, petted one of the stone lions, sang and danced completely unself-consciously, and I thought, "Now. Right now. I want to keep this forever and ever and ever."

Any sort of change makes me feel trepidatious and a little panicky. The night before we brought Elaine home from the NICU, I rocked Lucy on my lap in the dark and sang along with the lullaby CD that she has listened to before bed ever since she was an infant. We rocked and rocked and sang and sang and I kept thinking, "This is it. This is the last time I'll have only this little one in the dark with me. Starting tomorrow, everything will change. For better or worse, we'll be a family of four" until she finally looked up at me and whispered, "Mama? Can I get in bed now?"

Of course, most of the time, the change in my life and theirs is for the better. I know I would be sad if they didn't learn and grow. But sometimes, like this week when I had to put away Elaine's tiny baby outfits and buy her some new 12-month clothes, it almost becomes too much for me. I kept her in size 2 diapers for so long until Darren finally said gently, "Babe, she really does need size 3," and I wailed, "But if I do that, pretty soon she'll be going to seventh grade!" I was only half kidding.

One of the songs on the lullaby CD is called "Seasons," and (surprise, surprise!) it makes me teary every time I hear it, which is often because now Elaine goes to sleep every night with it. I guess it's how I really feel about change, even though I'm always fighting it. I sing it to my two babies and hope to gently guide them through this constantly changing world with its sentiment:

Seasons come and seasons go
Things will change and this I know
But these remain as always true:
God is good, and I love you.

Vacation and the Aftermath

Last week we took a long weekend and went to St. Louis. Darren's brother, his wife, their two boys, and soon-to-be due baby just moved there from Boston. I like St. Louis as long as it's not summer. We got down there late Friday night and went to their fabulous free zoo the next day. Our two nephews, Drew and Ryne, are delightful. I'm really glad both girls are going to get to grow up near their cousins. Drew is shy and quiet and smart. He loves babies. Ryne is....well, he's kind of a combination of Curious George and Animal from the Muppets. He and Lucy are inseparable.

I overhear them having long conversations, introducing Lucy to their Star Wars action figures ("dolls" as she calls them. She picks one up and asks, "Is this Jesus?" and Ryne says, "No, that's Hans Solo." "Well, it looks like Jesus," she asserts doggedly.) They take her by the hand throughout the zoo and sing Wheels on the Bus. I see passersby looking at them and smiling. We eat hot dogs and ride the train and go to the small petting zoo and brush the goats (Smoochie is in heaven). At night we have a fire and make s'mores.

The next day we visit their church, and Ryne takes Lucy by the hand and tells the teacher importantly, "This is my cousin Lucy. I'm going to take care of her." ("I'm sure that puts everyone's mind at ease" mutters my brother-in-law.) After church we head back to Peoria to spend a couple of days with Mimi and Papa.

After four days of non-stop fun and no naps, it's taking some time to bring Lucy back to earth. The first day back, I'm downstairs in the basement emailing some pictures of the trip to Darren. I know she's eaten a sucker (leftover parade candy) and I yell up the stairs, "Lucy, do NOT go near Elaine with that sucker stick!" "OK, Mom!" she bellows back. Seconds later, I hear Elaine crying, and it's NOT a good cry. I run upstairs and Lucy is standing in very close proximity to her, stick in hand. Upon questioning, she reveals that not only was she playing by Elaine with the stick, but she stuck it in her ear. Two swats to the bottom later, she's sitting on a chair. I calm Elaine and check her ears. I ask Lucy, "Which ear did you put the stick in?" "Both," she replies.

After giving an impromptu hearing test to Elaine (who, of course, is smiling by now), I call Lucy in. I tell her that I love her, but that is the naughtiest thing she has ever done. The consequences are no more treats the rest of the day. No parade candy, no candy corn. Her mouth starts to quiver. Then I say that after lunch we won't be reading books and she won't be listening to CDs during naptime. "But...I want Henry Huggins," she quavers. I go on: she'll be sleeping on Darren's and my bed with no distractions and...no Rabbie. Then she begins to cry. I talk to her about how she could have permanently damaged Elaine. I know that makes no sense, so maybe she'll remember a Rabbie-less day.

I let her cry it out, and we go upstairs to get ready for the day. A few minutes later I'm in the bathroom getting ready, and I hear a tell-tale sound. I go to the door of her room. She has her back to me, jumping on the bed (this is not allowed). As soon as she sees me, she plops down instantly. I say, "What are you doing?" A split second. "Trying to make my dolls laugh, Mama." I say, "What am I going to do with you, Lucy? You've already gotten into more trouble than you ever have in your lifetime. You already don't get Rabbie today. What should be your punishment?" The corners of her mouth turn down, her lip quivers, and she says in a half sob, "I just don't know! I'll obey you! Mama, I'll give you my life!" I have no idea where she got that phrase, but it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I end simply with "Get off the bed" and go take my shower.

Lucy took all of her punishment the rest of the day without complaining or fussing. During naptime, I gave Rabbie a bath, and she was thrilled to have him at bedtime. When I tucked her in bed, she looked up at me with those huge brown eyes and said, "Mom, do you still love me when I'm naughty? Do you still love me when I put a stick in Smoochie's ears? Is she not deaf anymore?"

In concert

I wish I could like, blog in real time. Something great happens and I need to write it down right away, rather than weeks later when the momentum is lost. This is particularly the case with the concert we went to a couple of Fridays ago. Lucy is in love with this group: http://www.myspace.com/selahonline. I periodically check their website to see if they're in concert, and lo and behold they were scheduled to be at Moody. I haven't been back since I graduated actually. I got tickets, and against our better judgment we took our 3-year-old to a concert that started at 8:00 p.m. In Chicago. We left our house at 4:00 p.m. and planned to eat near my work at Dave & Busters so we could play some games and kill some time before the concert. About the time we reached Schaumburg, the heavens opened and the worst storm I have ever been out in commenced. The works: green sky, wind, crashing thunder, streaking lightning, rain falling sideways, hail battering the car (don't think I didn't hope for just a little bit of hail damage seeing as we got $3,000 for such about three years ago). We inched along with our hazards on. We finally decided it would be more expedient to just go through the drivethrough--so we did, with an umbrella up and still got soaked. Lucy asked, "Where's the part where we play games?"

We got to Moody Church and in our seats at 7:40. Not bad. Because the concert was being broadcast on the radio, we got to practice our reaction and cheering before it even started, which was fun. Selah came out, we cheered for real, and they started with Lucy's two favorites. The whole thing was wonderful from start to finish. Great music, great group of people, no shame in singing along. Lucy sang loudly with everything she knew, some she didn't, and forgot she was a Presbyterian and even raised her hands.

Todd taught us all to sing in African, which was a highlight. Our whole family is touched by the situation in Africa; this is one of the major things that attracts us to this group in the first place. It was phenomenal to sing in their language and feel connected to people all the way across the world.

One of the highlights for me was one of their new songs "Follow Jesus." This is written for the particular section of the Congo where Todd is from. Their only claim to fame is that they are the most populous area. Todd's father (current missionary) wants their claim to be "Bandandu: people of the Bible." The most powerful part of the song is the middle where Todd calls out each province and people group, so that they know, when hearing the song, that they have not been forgotten.

The song is my prayer for my own girls and also the little African girl, Moali Mthombeni, who we've adopted in our hearts (more on her at a later date).

Anyway, the whole experience was transforming, and we left with Lucy saying, "Can we go to that concert again?"

My parents stayed overnight and took care of Elaine. My mom asked Lucy the next morning how the concert was and she said, "Good. I had chicken nuggets in a bag in my carseat."