Venus and Mars

They say blue-eyed humans are more sensitive to sunlight.  Something about the pigment in the cornea not being as capable of deflecting much light so it all funnels directly into the waiting pupil.  Maybe.  I've never actually followed up on any scientific reading of the matter.  My knowledge is assumption dressed up as confidence.  It sounds good, though, right? 

More important is my actual experience.  These baby-blues (er, north-sea-greys...) cannot stand to be without some protection.  If I'm going anywhere, I'm taking my sunglasses, and in wintertime it becomes a fanatical obsession.  Sure, the sun is further away from my northern hemispheric home, but the snow....the snow makes all things hyper-bright.

Including graveside services. 

Except, when I was on my way to a graveside service last week, I hopped into my husband's truck which did not come equipped with Sarah's Necessary Eyewear.  I didn't panic, and I certainly didn't turn around, what with Sarah's Perpetual Lateness being in full swing.  I just kept my squinted eyes peeled for a boutique or

I started writing all of this and then got disgusted with myself for taking so stinking long to get to the point.  It's exhausting being this melodramatic.  Here's what actually happened:




"Oh!  I keep forgetting I wanted to tell you this!"  I lean against the counter as Justin pours half-and-half into his coffee.  He looks at me sideways, ready to be amazed.

"When I went to that little boutique the other day and got those sunglasses?  This place is really charming and fashionable, right?  So the chick at the cash register is talking to me about the store, how long they've been open, their sales, all that junk...and I'm paying attention.  I'm in a hurry, but I'm acting like I belong there, you know?  Because I so don't."

Justin stares at me, eyebrow hitched to a say: whatever.  Trying to give the impression that Honey, you are as stylish and chic as any of those girls in that store.  He's sweet. 

"Anyway, I'm trying to pay attention, only I can't because I keep looking down at the lady's chest --"

Justin's coffee suddenly becomes very boring.  His head pivots toward me.

"-- because right at the top of her cleavage (which was overflowing, I might add) there's this gemstone thing. Like, pasted-on.  Like boob jewelry --"

Justin utters his first word of the conversation: "Oooohhh..."  He looks dreamy.  Like he's about to float away to a land of jeweled cleavage. 

"Wait...what?  I was telling you this because I thought you would laugh with me.  I mean, boob jewelry?!  Seriously?"

He shakes his head, as if knocking a chunk of mud off his lusty boots.  "Sorry.  That came out wrong.  I meant to say Ughhhhhh!"

I narrow my eyes.  He stirs his coffee. 

Boys are gross.

With a Pause and a Stutter

She runs across the yard to me, arms waving and eyes wide: there’s a story about to unfold.  At four-years-old, there’s always a story about to unfold from her lips.  Each day is thrillingly filled with enough information and experience to keep her mind spinning out of control.  And her mouth follows suit. 

“Mama!  I…um…I just was over by the…um…the forest, and…and…and,” she swallows, glancing back towards the fence.  “And under the…the…that log, well I was there because I followed…that…um…a butterfly…but it’s gone now and…”  She rolls her hands in circles, as if trying to roll the story into coherence. 

I have a feeling I know exactly what she’s trying to say; I can see a turtle’s shell nestled beside a fallen branch.  I raise my eyebrows and feel quite ready to offer her experience up in my own words.  “You followed a butterfly to that log and found a turtle hiding beside it?”  It’s on the tip of my tongue.  My throat aches with the unsaid sentence.  But I squelch the urge, holding my patience in check while she continues to falter and ramble towards her roundabout point. 

It’s often like this in our household: a child tells a story to an exhausted adult who simply wants to hear the punch line.  We’d push the fast-forward button if we could, just to save all the stuttery half-words and false starts.  But for the storytelling or the wondering or the dreaming child, there seems only to be slow-motion, as my daughter is now demonstrating. 

She halts and collects her thoughts, which are spilling willy-nilly from her brain.  As I struggle to keep from leading her to the conclusion, I picture those thoughts as headless chickens, flopping and tripping in unchoreographed pandemonium.  And as much as it pains me, I don’t rush her into order.  Those headless chickens are accomplishing much with their disorder, it turns out.

Stumbling over a straightforward story isn’t a sign of trouble, but a sign that a child’s brain is clicking away at great speed, just as it’s meant to be doing.  When kids have trouble spitting out their words, it isn’t because they’re not intelligent enough to speak clearly.   It usually isn’t even that they’re not paying attention.

In fact, the way they seem to flounder in their focus is all wrapped up in their brain development.  Their thoughts are running on a speedier plane than their mouths.  Their minds know what’s happening, but their language is slower to develop, so what emerges instead of measured sentences can sometimes be a jumble of starts and stops. 

Thoughtful and clever preschoolers need time for their mouths to draw alongside their brains, and the process of weeding out what needs to be said helps train them for just that eventuality. 

By the time my daughter is in elementary school, I expect that hearing a story about a discovered turtle will take just as long to tell, but be filled with descriptors and emotions instead of faltering hesitations.  We’ll be wishing for silent breaks then, I’m sure, as nonstop chatter will surely fill every empty moment. 

Until then, we wait.  Wait for verbosity to catch up to brainpower.  For mouths to catch up to language.  For headless chickens to line up in logical order. 

And for four-year-olds to finish their stories. 

I settle down comfortably, enjoying the play of emotion across my daughter’s face as she recounts her surprise.  A turtle discovery has never been so captivating. 

[Originally published at The Joplin Globe]

An Evening Cuddle

10:07 PM

Sarah lies on the couch under a fleece blanket, eyes dozing, half focused on the television.  Justin lounges on the love seat.  The movie ends and Justin turns the TV off.  Sarah stretches.  Justin rises from the love seat.

"Wait..." Sarah says.  "What are you doing?"

"I'm coming to snuggle with you."

"But I was just about to go get a bedtime snack -- don't...I mean, I don't want to..."

Couch cushions are tossed aside.  Justin wedges himself behind her and steals half of her blanket, wrapping one arm around her torso.

"Aw, come on!  I'm falling off now!  Sarah fidgets and sighs.  "Fine, but I don't want to snuggle long.  I'm hungry."

"Why do you hate to snuggle?  It's so warm and nice."

"I don't hate it, I just like to have my own space.  And I told you: I'm hungry.  And tired.  And if I fall asleep here, I won't remember to wake up so I can feed Landon before bed."

"Just a few minutes, then."  Justin sighs and gathers her closer.  "You know what I like to imagine sometimes when we're cuddled up like this?  I pretend we're wedged into the cliffside of a high mountaintop.  There's a precipitous drop right here, and we have to hold tight to stay safe.  And it's cold, with the wind whipping around the rocks, so we have to be close." 

Sarah laughs and wiggles closer; Justin's imagination is halfway romantic.  She threads her fingers into his.  "How did we get stuck on the side of a mountain, anyway?"

"We climbed up here, of course.  And it was nightfall, and we had to find shelter, and this little cutout provided itself.  Just enough room for two people.  The sky is filled with stars for miles, and it's quiet -- except for the wind."

Sarah tucks her feet around Justin's calves and smiles.  She closes her eyes and soaks up his heat.  His hand scratches hieroglyphs onto her ribcage.  Their breathing begins to slow in tandem.

"Well as long as we have to be stuck on a mountainside, I guess I'm glad you're holding me so close.  But why are we up here?"  Sarah can almost see the diamond stars glittering behind her eyelids and feel the gusty wind on her face...

"We're hiding from the zombies."  And Justin starts to snore.

With Listening Ears

She stands as still as her excitement will allow, dancing from foot to foot, swinging arms and hands in punctuation of her ever-faster flow of words.  She is three-years-old, and she has a story to tell.  Her eyes widen and narrow as she makes important points.  In her exuberance, she trips over every third word, making the story nearly impossible to follow.

Something about a house made out of rainbows and a queen with a green cape…maybe. 

It may be a difficult story to follow, but it is easy to read her enthusiasm in the telling.  Her creativity and joy.  Her willingness to speak and desire to be heard. 

If I turn my head away for a moment, she notices.  She repeats her last sentence, so important it is to her that I be fully invested in the story.  If I interject a question, she takes her time to answer at length.  If I ask her to get to the point, she’ll surely be confounded; the telling IS the point.

So I listen, often because it makes me happy to do so, but also because she is talking to me.  And there will come a day when she won’t have the same free-spirited attitude towards conversation with her mother.

It can sometimes be challenging to listen to a young child’s thoughts in truly attentive ways.  They have so much to say – so many questions about the world and their place in it – that their constancy of words can be either hilarious or grating, depending on the circumstances of our own day.

But we have to remember that we’re setting the stage right now for our relationships with our children as they grow.  Every time we choose not to take their spoken thoughts or stories seriously, we are making a small but lasting impression.  And when we reply with sarcasm to an honest fear, doubt, or revelation of the heart, we’re teaching our kids something that they’ll never forget: their feelings are worthy of little more than being made into jokes. 

To show our children that we regard their thoughtful honesty as inconsequential is to show them how to create distance from their parents.  None of us wants to be confronted with the reality that our own lack of interest in hearing what our little ones have to say has helped create a teenager who doesn’t trust his parents with his thoughts. 

Just as there are endless ways to demonstrate our desire to not be bothered by a child’s stories or questions, there are plenty of ways to show our respect and interest.  Ways that will foster a relationship that can hopefully weather the teenage years of independence and rebelliousness without losing the ability to communicate.

No matter the age of the child, we must hold eye contact while they are speaking, acknowledging the importance of what they have to say.  We must be active in the conversation, asking questions when warranted and giving feedback as needed.  We must listen without judgment and hear without bias.  We must take their words seriously, refraining from sarcastic comments and devaluing statements.

Our kids can tell when we are present in the conversation, and they will know when to seek more willing ears to burden with their thoughts.  Which is when we’ll wish we’d taken their juvenile attempts at conversation more seriously. 

So I’ll continue to listen to my three-year-old’s rambling stories.  And I’ll encourage her to never let them reach their end.    

Do you ever struggle to maintain interest with constant conversation from little ones?  Do you have older kids who can prove my theory that if they're listened to with respect as children, they'll be willing to keep talking as teenagers?  How do YOU keep the lines of communication open?

[Originally published here.]

A Demonstration on the Differences Between Boys and Girls

Mia is standing on the front sidewalk, ready to ride off into the almost-sunset on her pink and white scooter.  She's quite a good scooter-er, now.  Speedy and fearless with her hair flying backwards, a super-hero cape of many strands.  The boy from two houses down is on his new bike.  He is her neighborhood playmate, and a sweet, energetic boy.

Their conversation is definitely worthy of eavesdropped attention, but I make myself known, instead.  (This time.)  I park myself on the top step and listen to the way Mia's voice changes from dependent and questioning towards confident and knowing.  She holds her own with this second-grader.  I marvel at her assurance.  Was I ever so outgoing with kids at that age?  I must have been -- I did have friends and I remember being wildly silly -- but the overwhelming feeling I get when remembering childhood is one of personal insecurity. 

But Mia, she is strong and tall and straight.  The boy, I fancy, is in love.  How could he not be?  (Probably all kinds of ways, but when I see my girl, I fall in love, myself.  She is exquisite.  Even on this day, with tangled hair and a mouth stained red from too much Valentine's candy.)

He is telling her about his bike -- a truly wonderful story of generosity and hope: bikes were donated to every child who used to attend a now-demolished, tornado-destroyed elementary school.  I smile and shake my head.  The outpouring of gifts and time and love our community has seen is powerful to behold.  And we behold so much of it, every day.

He talks about his old scooters, his Valentine's Day party, his long-ago trip to the hospital for the flu.  Somewhere in the middle of medicine and overnight nurses, his eyes light on our pumpkin.  You remember, right?  The pumpkin I talked about doing away with a month ago?  The one that's been sitting on our front stoop since before Halloween? 

That pumpkin. 

Feel free to imagine its state of decay, because I'm not sharing a current photo.  Perhaps the shame from our laziness is a deterrent..  Anyway, you're welcome.  It's not a pretty sight, with its orange faded to a putrid, foggy yellow on top, just where a few slight snowfalls have dampened its crown.  It's begun to cave-in like the lip of a too-wide volcano. 

"What do you think of our pumpkin?" I ask.  There is a twinkle in my eye.  If I'd asked this question to my daughters, which I have, the response I'd receive, and have received, would be a mixture of dramatic, downturned faces and belligerent declarations of disgust.  Super fun to watch.

But this boy.  He is not a girl. 

He stares at the lump of softening, pulpy matter, eyes wide with appreciation, and then...

"Can I shoot it?"

I am left completely speechless at the pure, unabashed boy-ness of his response. 

I feel a great and pressing urge to brush up on my boy-survival skills now, if you'll excuse me.



Note: Said boy later proceeded to carry the rotting pumpkin to the woods beside our house as a valiant favor.  How should I thank him?  Fresh cookies?  A round of BBs for his gun*?  Free access to all future rotting organic matter?

*I have no idea if he does, in fact, own a pumpkin-slaying weapon.  Maybe he wanted to shoot it with a light-saber.**

**Do light sabers shoot?

NoteII: See above reference to brushing up on boy-survival skills.  I need help.

Bigger Picture Moment: Holding Hands

"Look at this, Sarah: he keeps pushing his hand into mine.  He's starting to know how to touch things."

Oh, that's adorable!  Hold on, let me grab my camera.

"Did you ever think...what was it?...almost 12 years ago?...when we met, that one day we'd have all these babies?  Or that it would be so LOUD?"

Or that we'd love them so much? *click*  Hold still!  *click*

"Daddy!  I want my hand on your hand, too!"

Alright, climb on up here.  Mama, take him for a minute?

"C'mere, sweet baby.  Now you have to hold very still, okay, Lauren?"  *click*  "Perfect!  Come see!"

Hey, what are you guys doing in here?  Hey, what's that...HEY!  Take my picture, too!  See how long my fingers are?!

"They're long just like mama's, Mia.  So very pretty." *click*

Mama, hold YOUR hand up, too.  And...but who can take a picture?

"Here, Mia: hold it in this hand....good...now get a little closer...like that.  And when you're ready, push this silver button.  Right.  Okay, ready?"

*click*  I did it!  Daddy, I know how to use MAMA'S camera!

"You did great, baby."

Now can we look at all of them again?

"Everyone hop on Daddy's lap."

LauREN! You're on my hair!  Scoot...scoot!

"I AM SCOOTING!"

Now, see?  Here we all are.





This month for Bigger Picture Moments, we're encouraging you to explore the beauty and simplicity of LOVE. Let the Valentine's hearts and rosy colors cloud your words as you share your moments -- a memory, a confession, a proposal, a feeling -- and link up.  Hyacynth is hosting today; please head over to share your moment and read others from friends as we live intentionally through February!

It's Kind of Like a Predator, Only More Infuriating

The apple corer lay in a glistening puddle of juice on the kitchen counter.  Bits of pulpy, crushed apple poked from its center, and a few blackish-brown seeds tumbled into the puddle. 

Mia and Lauren sat crunching on apple halves.  While I cleaned the kitchen -- a task that is never actually complete around here -- they talked.  About birthday parties and pajamas and stories.  Then, before I could get the apple's remnants wiped away, Mia piled all of the seeds into a group.  She held them in her palm, poking at them.

"Mom, what's inside an apple seed?"

I hate it when she asks questions I don't know how to answer. Which happens on a daily basis.

"Hmm.  I think it must be all of the ingredients that are needed to grow an apple tree."  There.  Hope that sounds detailed enough to be believable but simple enough to not confuse me later if the questions continue.

She walked around for a few minutes, seeds in hand.  Little bits of promised fruit.  Her favorite fruit.

"You know what?"  She'd come to a stop before the door to the hallway, her head tilted with a plan.  "We need to plant these and have our OWN apple trees!  We'll wait until it's a hot, hot summer day, and then dig a few holes, and plant the seeds.  Doesn't that sound like a good idea?!"

"It does!"  I got an improbable image of a tiny orchard popping up in our back yard.  Dropping warm apples on our September lawn in a few (like a few dozen) years.

"Yeah!" she continued.  "But we'll have to be very careful to do it only in the summer, when no animals are out looking for food.  We'll dig them in niiiiiice and deep.  That way, no creditors will find them."

I was genuinely puzzled.

Until I realized how closely creditors rhymes with predators. 

Then I nodded, imbuing each bob of my head with the wisdom of a sage.  Of course we'd be careful of the creditors.

We all know how much they'd love to steal our hard-won apples.

The Most Important Thing

“What’s the most important thing humans need to have to be alive?”

My kindergartner’s eyes twinkled across the dinner table as she anticipated stumping me with some newfound knowledge. Since beginning school, she’s taken a know-it-all thrill in relaying her newest educational conquests each day.

“Did you know that baby bats…” she’ll begin. “And the quarter has Washington’s picture…” she reminds me. Quite often, she relays something I’d either forgotten or never knew in the first place. (Bats, by the way, are fascinating creatures.)

There are also times she offers a scrap of information with such joy, I can’t bear telling the truth: I already knew that. I figure that even if I’m being somewhat disingenuous, she’s reinforcing her education by teaching others what she learned that day. And she’s adding to her excitement over what she might learn next.

But part of me (probably the know-it-all part which she has, indeed, inherited from me) wants to stump her once in a while. I want to be the one to bring scraps of awesome information on which she can sharpen her mind.

Since my daughter is usually skeptical of any knowledge I might presume to assert, I find myself trying overly hard to convince her of my intelligence. If we’re talking about an upcoming event, I try to work in a discussion about the event’s topic – something fascinating, of course. Or I’ll insert a sneaky lesson into every instance of conversation. If she asks for a story, I’ll do my darndest to make it address a current issue we’re working to resolve at home, like sharing or compassion.

While she does love learning something new, she almost never sits still long enough to hear my pretentious story when all she wanted was a bit of imaginary entertainment.

So much for bringing an awesome scrap of information, eh? Now, if I’d invite her to add bits of creativity and excitement to the story, then we might be getting somewhere.

As it is, I’ve had to train myself to not be quite so intentional. I don’t mean as a parent in general; I wholeheartedly believe that it’s my job to think ahead about how I should be parenting my children. But at least in these moments of excited discussion, I need to take her lead. Let her be intentional. Let her be interesting.

When she asks a question about what’s necessary to sustain life, that’s probably not the time to wax philosophically about how much the human race depends upon peace and love in order to thrive. It’s probably not the time to list, in decreasing order of importance, all the parts of our world that keep us alive: water, food, shelter, medicine, oxygen, etc. And it’s definitely not the time to show just how intelligent I, as her mother, can be. 

I have nothing to prove.

Except, perhaps, just how much I love the second-hand experience of her joyful learning. So as she sat across the table from me, waiting for my answer and expecting to tell me something of which I was sure to be uninformed, I tossed aside any moral lesson I might’ve wished to impart.

Instead, I guessed an answer, as she so desired. And I guessed wrong.

“No, mom!” she crowed with good humor. “Humans need AIR to BREATHE! That’s the MOST important thing!”

And, schooled in the way to interact with her in these moments, I smiled. It was the simplest answer all along.

 

[Originally published here.]

On Serving Her Majesty, Queen Mia, a Royal Breakfast

HMQM: Oatmeal!  I want oatmeal for breakfast!

Me: Good choice!  Do you want it white or brown?  (Royal code for 'made with milk or water'.)

HMQM:  White!  And I want it to be three inches of sweet, okay?  If it's only ONE inch, just add a cup of brown sugar.  Then, if it's only TWO inches, add another cup.  Then when it's THREE inches, it will be sweet enough for me to eat it.

Me: ...okay...

HMQM: And I would like some fresh, cold, ice water and I want to have breakfast in the living room so I can watch my Barbie Christmas movie.

Me: ...bowing...scurrying to complete my task...wondering how to measure inches of sweetness...

The Tattler

Nobody needs to know I'm still wearing the t-shirt I slept in last night...I thought.

We were on our way to gather Mia from school; Lauren in a dress-up costume, buckled in next to Landon who was half asleep and half indignant at being placed into the evil car seat again.  We were a motley crew. 

The wind blew up a ruckus outside, shoving new-fallen leaves every which way, and I was glad for the warmth of our car.  And, yes, glad for the warmth of my pajama shirt.  It reminded me of my cozy bed.  When there's an almost 4-week-old baby in the house, though, there's not much that causes me to take my mind off my cozy bed. 

I pulled the van around the circle drive in front of the school.  There was Mia, hunkered into her soft, grey coat, with her hair twisting in the wind.  Tangling in the wind. We reached the front of the line as Mia's teacher escorted her to our door.  I smiled and greeted my sweet girl as always.  Her teacher took a few peeks at little Landon under his blue, knit blanket, and said hello to us in the car.  Mia looked at me...

"Mom!  Why are you still wearing your pajama shirt!"  She giggled at this ridiculousness.  The kind-hearted kindergarten teacher laughed at the precocity of children.  I melted into my leather seat.  We drove away.

And now I've learned my lesson: even though you may not ever leave the sanctuary of your vehicle, somehow, SOMEONE will out you to the world if you choose to forgo the luxury of clean clothing in the afternoon. 

At least nobody needs to know that I have yet to brush my teeth today, I thought....

The Hazards of Tropical Fruit Shopping

I went in to get a pineapple. 

Because: pineapples, right?  I've been popping bites of acidic fruit for days in hopes of jump-starting my labor.

Because: I've never been this pregnant in my life.

In my shopping cart, Lauren sang herself a song while I tried to keep a calm face.  There was no pineapple to be seen.  The entire, beautiful produce section was void of tropical fruit (for some reason; not that October has anything to do with it.).  I was very nearly distraught; a common habit for me this week.

From between the pumpkins and the grapes, a well-dressed lady smiled at me.  A very pretty lady.  One who made me want to waddle back home and at least apply some mascara or put on a pair of clean jeans. 

"Hi, how are you today?!" she chirped.

"Good, thanks."  No need to tell the poor girl the truth, right?  She seemed nice.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?"

Uhm...I peeked over my shoulder, sure there was somebody else she'd rather be speaking with.  "Sure," I stammered.

"Great!"  She was clearly elated.  "We're asking people about their produce purchases today; do you ever buy organic?"

"Oh, yeah." I answered.  "I mean, sometimes."

"Why only sometimes?"

"Well it just depends on how much I think I can afford.  Organic is somewhat out of our price range in the grocery store."

I wanted to talk to her all of a sudden.  I wanted to allow my mind to detach from my non-laboring body -- from the moments ticking past that will allow me the natural childbirth I so hope for -- and latch onto other interesting things. 

I wanted to explain that buying from the farmer's market, while not always guaranteed to be organic, feels less like buying from a factory so if I can get to one and it has what I need, that's my preference.  I wanted to tell her that I'm usually willing to pay more for organic, free-range meats and chicken, and I like that my favorite store now sells cage-free eggs.  I wanted to tell her that organic is really wonderful, but sometimes discouraging: who can afford such extravagance?

She nodded and smiled encouragingly.  "That's what we're hearing a lot of lately.  Would you mind if I interviewed you?"

"Okay.  Or...wait.  Like, an on-camera interview?"  A young man had materialized by the lady's side with a piece of equipment.  He nodded.  She nodded.  "Oh, gosh...I would but..."  I pictured my puffy face, red nosed from bouts of anxious tears all morning.  I pictured my unwashed hair.  My chapped lips.

And suddenly, I was saying things again.  "I really would love to, but I'm just not feeling my best right now.  Today's my due date, and as you can see, I'm not having a baby yet.  So I've been a wreck for days, especially this morning.  I'd rather not talk on camera; I'm sorry!"

Tears were pooling on my lower eyelids.  I hadn't said a thing about organic produce, like I had intended.  Instead, I'd backpedaled onto my ever-present belly.

The lady looked overwhelmed.  (Understandably so -- sheesh.)  But the camera man, he was nodding sympathetically.  "I remember when my wife felt that way -- I completely understand."

I wanted to hug him.  But that would have made me cry some more.  So I apologized again, and walked away. 

To beg the produce-man to find me a pineapple from the back room.

Which he did.

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About An Almost-Due Baby, According to His Big Sisters

"Boy, my tummy's full!  I ate TOO much dinner, didn't I girls?!"  I patted my belly with conviction and the girls laughed.
"No!  Your belly's full of a BABY, not dinner!"  They tried and tried to convince me, to no avail.  I was sure the bulge in my middle was due to overindulgence, and failed to see their reasoning.  A rousing conversation unfolded.

"But, if there were a baby in my belly, I would SURELY know it," I said.  "Like, for instance, don't babies cry?"

Mia was ready with a response.  "Of course babies cry!  But you just can't hear it right now, because it's inside your tummy.  And you have so many bones in the way, that you can't hear!"

"Yeah!" piped Lauren, nodding her head vigorously.  I could see that she'd be easily swayed by whatever arguments her wise, big sister would provide.  And luckily for us, that wisdom kept on flowing.

"No, no, no," I assured them.  "Even if I can't hear it, I MUST be able to feel a baby, right?  What would that even feel like?  To have a baby in your tummy?"

"Well, it sometimes makes you feel like you're going to throw up," said Mia.  "But you won't, so don't worry.  You'll just feel like it."

I pretended to consider this, tapping a finger on my chin.  "I don't think so.  I don't feel like throwing up at all right now.  Plus, a baby would move around in there, probably.  And I would notice that, don't you think?"

"Yeah!  You would feel it!"  Mia was certain.  Therefore, Lauren bobbed her head in agreement.  "Sometimes, it just rolls all over the place, and you'll notice that!  It rolls around and hits any place -- " here she demonstrated, headbutting my abdomen with wobbly movements.  "But it doesn't know where it's hitting."

"Well," I was starting to concede that there may actually be a baby in my belly after all.  This was all just so sensible.  "But, if there IS a baby inside me, what does it look like right now?"

Of this part, Mia was in total posession of absolute knowledge: "Oh, well you could go to the Doctor's office and look on the computer screen and it'll look like a fuzzy kind of...of...oval.  But then when it's born, it will look JUST like a newborn.  Have you ever seen a brand newborn before, Mom?"

"I believe I have.  A time or two."  My eyes lit upon those two newborns, now perched around the kitchen in various positions of repose.  Those newborns are huge now.  "What kind of a newborn will it be, though?  What will it look like when it's born?"

Mia had some serious reservations here.  It's just so up in the air -- so unknowable.  (I understand: I lie awake at night trying to visualize...it's rough.)  "We just have to wait and see.  It might be bald or have lots of hair or have long fingernails or not...we just have to wait."

Such a difficult thing to do, waiting. 

"So, I think you might be right.  I think there IS a baby in here."  I nodded with certainty, rubbing circles on a belly that nudged back on occassion.  Mia's confidence was catching; even the baby in my womb was in on the game.  "But I have one last question."

"What?!"  Mia and Lauren gave each other looks that said what kind of a mother did we land here, anyway?! 

"I'm just curious....how will I know if the baby's a girl or a boy?"

"Oh, that's easy!"  Mia's eyes were alight with pleasure at being able to teach me a thing or two.  Across the way, Lauren paid close attention.

"A girl will be wearing a little BOW in her hair, just stuck on her head.  A boy's head won't have a bow.  See?!  You'll know it when you see it!"

So that's what I plan to be doing soon. 

Checking for bows in all the right places.

And enjoying the conversation in the meantime.

I Wonder While I Wander

Mia, tell me something about your Kindergarten day!

"Mmmm...I just...I don't want to!"

Well, how about this: did you get to go to the library today?  Or what was the lunch room like?  And did your teacher read you any books?

"Yeah.  And we had an assembly in the cafeteria.  That was our second one."

Second?!  I didn't even know about the first!  What did they talk to you about in the assembly?

"Well...they said...I don't want to tell you!"

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This is what I do all day: think of ways to draw Mia out in conversation about her day.  I want intricate, messy, specific details.  I want to be walking by her side as she makes a new friend.  I want to see her face when something excites her and hear her laugh at a new silly song.  I want to be in the middle of it.

She comes home, happy and glowing with another victorious day.  We only have a one-minute drive home, so my queries are limited.  Once in the house, she hugs and kisses on her sister and they run off to play in the bedroom with dress-ups or dolls or colored pencils.

I wander around the kitchen, wondering where the day went.  Or, more accurately, where the years have gone.


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Around the dinner table, we chatter.  With so few hours to have both of my girls together in the same space, I find myself less distracted.  More present and willing to go slowly.  More able to see how precious these girls are and how fleeting these moments will have seemed.  The moments where potatoes are smashed into the wood-grain of our dinner table and booty-jokes are passed like hot buns (heh) across the kitchen.  The moments where one girl needs more water and the other girl steals my next bite. 

So we linger.  Or, I linger.  They shoot forward without regard for my wist. 

Mia, did you get to see Laney today in the hallway?

"Yes!  That made the FOURTH time!  I've gotten to see her four times so far, and she smiles and waves EVERY time." 

I am happy with this morsel.  The moments are good.  They are normal, but I appreciate them better these days.  I hope to hold on to that feeling, not squandering it once we reach the middle of mundane.  I smile and watch my girls eat their dinner.  Then --

"Mom!"  Mia's head shoots up from her plate as if she's had an epiphany.  She's remembered something.  "What was your day like?" she asks. 

I'm taken aback.  She thought of me?  In the smash of new and fast and early, she thought of me.  Maybe once.  Maybe more. 

And so I tell her.  I tell her every last detail, in the hopes that opening the channels of conversation will feed her desire to tell me more.  I explain my shopping trip and the weirdly-shaped fruit I saw at the store and the way I had to step around a mom trying to calm her child's tantrum.  I tell her about how Lauren's preschool day happened.  About the brave way her little sister didn't even need her blankie.  I tell her about waiting in line at the after-school pick-up and being so excited to see my big-girl's pigtails bobbing as she waited.

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I forget to mention the way the house was so quiet that I couldn't understand what my next task should be.  I don't say that I wished I could come pick her up at lunchtime.  I leave out the part about seeing her blankie abandoned on the kitchen floor (right where every good blankie belongs, you know) and stopping in my tracks to gather it into my arms and press it to my face and breathe-in the still-there smell of Mia.

And those are forgotten, for a moment.  Because across the table from me, my daughter is reaching for my hand, and her sister is singing a new song. 

And I don't want to miss that, now do I?

Bigger Picture Moment: Waiting for Rainbows

Mia and Lauren are in the back seat.  I'm driving with the air conditioner on full-blast to combat the searing sliver of sunshine that slants onto my lap, and I'm still sweating.  I'm grumpy.  And I know you already know this if you've been reading my blog for any length of time this summer, but I'm just not handling this excessive heat well. 

I try to joke about it, but the truth is that when every day this week is forecast to be above 105?  I die a little.  (See?  Still with the jokes.)  It's absolutely sapping me.  I can think of nothing to do that doesn't involve misery, at least in small bursts.

So enters the boredom.  The grouchies.  The endless days of same-old, same-old. 

Buckled into their seats on our way to Target, the girls are deep in discussion.

Mia hems and haws over what her favorite color actually is.  Yesterday it was green.  Last week it was turquoise.  Last month it was blue.  She's busy wondering if she can have a favorite group of colors since the whole 'pick one' thing isn't working out for her.  "Lauren, I really like blue, green, and yellow now.  Those are definitely my favorites."  (Last week, she said the same thing of blue, silver, and white.)

Lauren isn't so scattered.  Her true favorite is simple and timeless: pink.   "That's fine if you want lots, Mia.  I just like pink for my favorite.  Pink bubblegum, pink kitties, pink flowers.  Pink is the beautifullest.  Is that fine if I just love pink, Mia?"

Her choice is graciously affirmed.  "Yeah, that's fine.  But...Ugh!  Why can't I just pick one favorite!"  She throws her hands in the air to emphasise her irritation.  "Alright, alright: I'm not picking one color.  I just love them all.  They're all my favorites."

They continue to chatter, distracting me from the wilted day.  My wilted mood.  I'm cheered up for seconds at a time.  Only a drop in the pond, but still...drips leave tiny wakes and spread to the shore eventually, right?  I cling to the simplicity of their words.  And of their conversation. 

They don't mind the endless days of heat.  They don't care if the car's interior steals their breath upon entrance.  There are other things to think about. 

So I let my mind wander.  What color do I love best?

I love the orange plaids on Mia's sundress that make her blue eyes burst into brilliance.  I love the white ruffle on Lauren's shirt that compliments her pink-flushed cheeks after a bit of outdoor play.  I love the blue of the pool-water's mellow waves.  I love the green of the resilient, old sycamore tree's leaves and their pale barked trunks.  I love the faint, shimmery purple of the marks that are beginning to decorate my belly.  I love the golden glow of my daughters' hair -- shadeless and indescribable.  I love the color of laughter -- bright and bouncy and lasting.  I love the rainbow that dances on the sprinkler's spray as I set it under our baby tree in the backyard....

Like a rubber-band snapping back into place, the glare of noontime sun off the car in front of me snaps me back from joyful contemplation.  I shift in my seat to avoid the blinding flash.  I switch lanes to pass the offender.

The clarity lasted but a moment.  If I can pause long enough throughout the day, I can maybe recapture its brilliance?

It will come again to me, in short bursts, and for today, that will have to be enough.  Sometimes the beauty in the mundane is vaporous and elusive; to forget that is to forget that the beauty itself is stunning and precious.

Some days, all we can do is wait it out.  And that's okay.  It will come around again.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join here today! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage those before you as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Beastly Hot Picnic (What?)

Today is the kind of day that calls for an indoor picnic. 

We could go swimming, but the trek to the pool would see us melting into bubbly puddles and nobody likes it when that happens.  We could run errands, but each time I turn off the car, I cry little tears of desperation that we have to exit to a black-topped parking lot.  We could play in the sprinkler, but the needly grass is so sharp that to slip and fall would surely amount to severe trauma. 

So, we stay in.  Again.  Watching the thermometer rise.  Again.  (Yesterday, a friend informed me that her poor, beleaguered air conditioning unit actually caught on fire.  It just couldn't keep up.  Threw in the towel.  Assumed it would be cool on the other side of the A/C-unit veil, and bid adieu to this cruel, overheated world.)

(And this is why August is not my friend.)

But today, all of my reasoning leads me to believe an indoor picnic is just the thing.  Blanket spread on a cool floor, ceiling fan working like mad to keep the air moving, lights down and movie on.  Yes, indoor picnics around here require movies.  Today, it's Beauty and the Beast.  Mia gave her best brave, big-sister speech to Lauren before we began.

"Lauren, you know that if you get too scared, you can just close your eyes until the scary part goes away, okay?"

Lauren gave this some consideration as she crunched on a carrot stick.  "But I'm not really going to be scared, Mia."

Mia persisted, telling her all the different parts in which she might be tempted to cover her delicate eyes; the wolves in the forest; the Beast in the dungeon; the Beast catching Belle in the forbidden west wing...

Again: "That's okay, Mia -- I WON'T be scared."

This was met with sighs of disbelief, but what could a big, brave sister do, after all, but sit back and wait for the fear to assault her darling sister?  They watched and munched.  Asked for extra cheese and another peanut-butter sandwich.  Tipped their plates accidentally onto the picnic blanket. 

Scary parts number one and two passed with little ado; neither sister was openly afraid.  Then came scary part number three: The Beast roaring at Belle as she sneaks around the forbidden room.

Quick as a flash, brave, big sister darted behind the couch, covering her eyes redundantly to keep the fear at bay.  Little sister Lauren peeked over her shoulder as Mia abandoned ship.  She took a relaxed bite of sandwich.  She shook a wisp of hair from her brow, with totally calm nonchalance.

So the picnic was an excellent idea; it made me laugh.

A hard thing to do when I'm busy nursing a grudge against this insanely hot summer.

Sports According to the Heavenly Girls

Mia:  Lauren!  Let's play baseball!  Do you know how!
Lauren:  Yeah, I do -- you just HIT the ball!
Mia:  No no no.  You don't just hit the ball.  You have to have someone throw a ball, and then another person can hit the ball before they run run run run run...run around to one, two, three, four...um...five bases.  All five bases.
Lauren:  Oh.  Hey!  Look at this!  My dress has a flower on it!
Mia: Oh!  That's so lovely!  Can I pick it?


It must be noted that this 'baseball' conversation was spurred by the Dora doll Lauren's been loving these days.  She's wearing a little pink skirt and shirt.  And holding a tennis racket.  Thus, obviously, she's known around these parts as Baseball Dora.  Try to keep up.

Reactions From This Heavenly Surprise

Justin: quietly in the dark bedroom --  Today's the day!  You ready for this?!
Me: rolling over in the warm bed --  Mmmhmm.  Ready.
Justin: Only a few more hours!  Woohoo!

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Me: So Mia, what kind of baby do you think is in mama's belly?
Mia:  I don't know!  But I want it to be a girl baby.  If it's a girl baby, I'll just love it SOOOO much!  *sigh*  But...if it's a baby boy, I'll still love it a little bit. 

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Me:  Lauren, are you excited to go to mommy's Doctor appointment?

Lauren: Yeah!  And we will see pictures of that baby in your belly and I will say Hi little baby girl!

Me:  But what if it's a baby brother?

Lauren:  NO!  It's just a girl!

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Ultrasound Tech: Observing the girl-filled room.  So we're hoping for a boy this time?

Me:  Maybe!  We just want to see!

Ultrasound Tech:  Let me just take some measurements and things first, then we'll play around a bit...

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Ultrasound Tech:  Okay, I've got all I need, now...let's just move...

Me: Gasping; unbelieving.  WHAT...IS....THAT?!?

Ultrasound Tech: Laughing.  That is your baby BOY!

Me:  Aaaaaaaah!  Tears dripping into ears.

Justin: YES!!  That's my BOY!!

Mia:  Smiling; giggling.

Lauren:  Force-frowning; sweetly.  I don't like boys.

THE END.

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THE BEGINNING.

Correct Me if I'm Wrong...

It's bedtime and Lauren's room is, of course, dark.  Remembering her preference, I switch on a nightlight...
Lauren: But my Lambie doesn't like the darkmess, mama, remember?
Mama: I know, honey -- don't worry, I fixed the darkness.
Lauren: DarkMESS, mama.


Mia pulls a new book from a kid's meal bag full of warm take-out food...
Mama: Wow, Mia!  That book looks really cool!
Mia: This is a HOT book, to be exact.


Justin is wrestling with the girls; Lauren is perched on his back, looking down into his ear when I hear him yell in disgust...
Mama:  Lauren, we don't put our boogers into other people's ears, okay?
Lauren:  No no no no...I just dropped it in there.


I'm calling Justin on my cell phone after leaving my OB checkup....
Me:  I'm so excited!  I only gained two pounds since last time!  I was sure it would be worse!
Him:  Nuh-uh -- that can't be right...those scales must need to be recalibrated.


(I personally think he deserved MORE boogers in his ear after that last comment.)

Quickies

Mia: Dad, have you ever had perfume squirted in your eyes before?  (I have no idea how this thought entered her head.)
Daddy: Yeah, I have.  Didn't feel very good.  But it wasn't perfume, it was cologne. 
Mia:  What's that?
Daddy:  Girls wear perfume; guys wear cologne.  They're really the same thing, though.
Mia: I think your provolone smells pretty, Dad.

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Hear no evil....(when will a drive throught the car wash become less than terrifying?) 

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See no evil...(oh the drama of a five-year-old and her affronted imagination.)



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Speak no evil....(simply because her mouth is too full of frosting to protest.)



Happy weekend, my friends!!

On Secrets and Bottoms

Fresh from a sweetly-scented bubble bath in which Lauren only received a terrifying face full of bubbles twice, the girls lie on the bed, shivering.  They're wrapped in bright, yellow towels.  Ever helpful, Justin and I rub frictional heat over the towels covering their backs and legs: Mia squeals with hyperactive, bedtime glee; Lauren stiffens and begs for me to stop. 

In turns, the girls are swathed with lotion.  Sotto voce, Justin makes an innocent observation: Mia's little backside looks just like her mama's -- I swear you two are carbon copies.

But we've forgotten a recently learned lesson: sotto voce is worthless around Mia's ears.  She's developed a keen sense of eavesdropping, but she doesn't yet understand that she's supposed to pretend ignorance in those situations. 

Laughing, she responds to Justin's observation: No!  Mama's bottom is WAY much bigger! 

She giggles, Justin heaves, Lauren wonders what just happened, and I refuse to smile.  It's not funny, after all.

Not very funny, anyway.