Queen Kelley

As my husband explained in his post for today, it’s VBS week at our church, so my posts will probably be brief like this or absent altogether. With both girls to keep me occupied during the day and my work time slashed due to late evenings at the Z, I’m finding little time to focus on my editing assignments, much less to write for fun. Bear with me, and keep coming back! Hopefully by the week’s end I’ll have something substantial to say. (Special thanks to the Queen Mother, who is here to help us get through these crazy days!)

I said I’d never do it. I promised myself that they would only clutter my home further and that they weren’t the greatest of examples for my daughters. After all, I never had them as a child, and I am fairly well adjusted. Even so, it has happened. Butterfly has three Barbie-like dolls in her possession and is clamoring for more, along with the outfits that go with them. Recently, we visited a friend’s home and she discovered the vast array of accessories available for her dolls, including a car, camper, furniture, and even a mini pet shop. It’s over. I’ve failed.

I have to admit, though, that the two of us have enjoyed playing with the dolls. It’s actually fun to dress their impossibly proportioned plastic bodies in their impossibly tiny (and at times uncomfortably revealing) clothes. We invent scenarios and role play various experiences, from tea parties to dangerous musketeer missions. The girls (Belle, Aurora, and Pocahontas so far) may be skinny, with ridiculously arched feet and dainty, open hands, but never fear. They can defend themselves from assorted villains and find their way out of difficult situations.

This evening at John’s parents’ home, we had a tea party for the dolls. GG played a hilarious and annoying Pocahontas who spoke in a nasal voice and asked too many questions of the host, Butterfly. My Aurora was more subdued, while poor Belle said nothing at all. They dined on “cheese platters” and “cupcakes” while John took pictures for posterity. At one point, Pocahontas asked one question too many, and Butterfly leaned into the doll’s lovely brown face and scolded, “Pocahontas! How many times to I have to tell you? It’s not ready yet!”

No worries, though. A little while later, John constructed a suitable block bed for the gals, lined with luxurious old washcloths, and put them to bed. Butterfly fluttered off to brush her teeth (actually, I had to threaten her and then carry her into the bathroom to get the job done). When she reentered the room to kiss everyone good night, GG pointed toward the dolls snug in their bed. “Shh! Don’t wake them up!” GG said. Butterfly leaned over to take a look, then stood tall again and began stepping slowly toward the bedroom. Giving GG a narrow-eyed look, she said, “GG, they’re just plastic.”

Let no one think that my child is out of touch with reality. Impossible body proportions and flawless beauty notwithstanding, these dolls can’t fool Butterfly.

None of us know. And yet all of us know. Even Butterfly, my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, whose conception of God comes from Sunday school stories and my rather ambiguous statements about our Creator, knows. Today, I asked her to draw a picture to mail to our friends, thanking them for an evening of fellowship this past Sunday. She sat down and went to work, and this was the result:

She titled her crayon drawing “God in the Sky.” I won’t attempt to apply anything profound to her creation that isn’t there, but I was struck by the matter-of-fact tone in her voice as she told me about the picture. After she made the figure, she turned a blue crayon on its side, a technique I’d never seen her use before, and proceeded to shade in the sky all around.

Truthfully, my little girl’s perception of God isn’t so different from my own—somewhat abstract and indefinite, yet colorful and inviting. The day will come when Butterfly will think of God in terms more complex than any words she knows right now. Even then, though, I pray that she will still perceive God as One we cannot fully describe with words or pictures, yet One who invites us to live abundantly and to continue widening our understanding of Him (and/or Her!).

Just a brief post to say happy birthday to my amazing husband, the King, otherwise known as the Shallow Thinker, Daddy, and John. Butterfly and I created a storybook for him today, which she presented to him this evening after a taco salad dinner. She was also most proud of the red rubber bug she chose for him at the Museum of Arts and Sciences during our trip there this morning. “Touch it, Daddy,” she said, stretching it nearly to the breaking point. Ladybug offered frequent kisses and spoken “hap buhdays” to her father. We all enjoyed a yummy dessert recommended by Aunt Jamie. You can’t go wrong with crescent rolls, apples, and lots of butter and sugar—especially when you top it with vanilla ice cream. Needless to say, we’re still stuffed at 10:00 pm. I am incredibly thankful for the King, thankful that he was born 29 years ago, thankful that his parents and siblings and the other special people in his life influenced him to be who he is, thankful for his ambition and motivation, for his deep love and affection, for his sometimes ridiculous and often intelligent sense of humor, for his unending desire to know more about God, and for his unwavering faithfulness to the girls and me. We love you!

My preschooler has taken on a new trade. Not only does she design and model gotta-have-it fashions, create elaborate dramas with her dolls and stuffed toys, possess a to-die-for rock and shell collection, and form fabulous hidey-holes in the sand, but she now inks her own arm—and would be glad to do yours too. Butterfly and I sat at the kitchen table to exercise our creativity with watercolors. While I painted two children on a swingset, Butterfly dabbled in abstracts with large splotches of various colors. I was so intent on my work that I didn’t notice she had taken a different tack. ”Look, Mama!” she exclaimed, and when I pulled my eyes from my own masterpiece, I saw her proudly holding up her arm, which now bore its own watercolor designs. After a brief “mommy” moment when I told her she shouldn’t make such a mess, I observed that the artwork on her little arm was actually quite beautiful and decided to take a picture. Who am I to stifle such brilliance? Who knows what this means for her future? Perhaps she can add “body artist” to her already long line of possible trades. This is one mama who wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Having children takes a toll on one’s quality of sleep. There’s no doubt about it. Ask any parent. I keep thinking that once my kids get into grade school and are able to get up and go potty all by themselves and self-soothe after nightmares, I’ll get a decent night’s sleep. I’m not entirely sure I believe it, though. The thing about having kids is that once they become yours, they’re YOURS. You love them so completely and so intensely and so possessively that they basically take over your brain. Because of this, even when I’m not with my little girls, I think of them. They are a constant presence in the room of my mind. I can go nowhere that they are not. Even a weekend getaway when they sleep in a different location will not remove them from my thoughts. As many of you know and some of you can imagine, this is a bittersweet experience.

Sleep has been particularly elusive for the King and me lately due to both girls suffering various illnesses. When they have stomach bugs, I tell myself there’s nothing worse (at least among everyday illnesses) than your kid throwing up repeatedly in the middle of the night. Then, when they get persistent coughs or ear infections, like now, I tell myself there’s nothing worse than your kid coughing her head off until she’s barely able to pull in a breath. The truth is, a sleepless night is simply bad, no matter how it happens. The funny thing is that, when we are finally able to settle them into relative silence, I lie in bed with those little marathon runners of my thoughts setting new records trying to outdo each other. I simply cannot clear my mind. This is why I think I need to learn to meditate.

We spent two nights with my family and enjoyed most waking moments—the swimming, the eating, the catching up, the laughing, the eating. We did not enjoy my girls’ whining, clinging, coughing, snotting. We did not enjoy our nights in someone else’s bed while our littlest one tossed and turned and could not sleep. Neither could we.

Even so, I think the trip was worth it. To visit my dad’s brothers, whom I rarely see, my aunt and cousins, even my great-great-aunt and great-great-uncle (I think that’s right). To hug my grandmother and grandfather (Mom and Pop), who have been such a constant in my life. To spend time with my parents and sister, viewing photos and hearing stories from their recent trip to Scotland. To remember my beloved great-grandmother, Nana, whose birthday we celebrated every July 4. To watch my girls, overtired and ill as they were, being adorable with all my relatives. It was worth it.

It’s sometimes tough for me on Independence Day. I can’t appreciate the sacrifice of so many United States service men and women without also thinking of the sacrifice of untold thousands of Native Americans. I can’t be grateful for my freedom without remembering the capture and domination of those people who first cared so deeply for this land. I can’t enjoy fireworks and barbecues without mourning in my heart those early peoples’ loss of the life they knew. So I am incredibly appreciative of those who have served our country through the years, winning us independence and keeping us that way. I am overwhelmingly grateful for the freedom we have to worship, speak, work, and live as we choose. I certainly enjoy all the celebratory aspects of our nation’s holidays, including fireworks and good food. But I also remember the original inhabitants of our land, and my heart is sad for them.

“Frog,” said Toad, “let us eat one very last cookie, and then we will stop.” Frog and Toad ate one very last cookie. “We must stop eating!” cried Toad as he ate another. “Yes,” said Frog, reaching for a cookie, “we need will power.” “What is will power?” asked Toad. “Will power is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do,” said Frog. “You mean like trying not to eat all of these cookies?” asked Toad. “Right,” said Frog.* 

I don’t know about you, but I can identify with good old Frog and Toad. Put a baked good or a tub of ice cream within my reach, and I’m sure to consume several servings in one sitting. If not in one sitting, I’ll eat it in bits throughout the day, consoling myself with the thought that I’m having “just a little bit more.” Take last week, for example. I found a tempting cookie recipe in my quarterly Kraft Food and Family magazine (which is full of propaganda for Kraft, but also offers easy cooking ideas).

“Look, Butterfly! Want to make cookies?” It’s great to have a small child with whom I can justify baking fattening treats. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Together, we mixed the devil’s food cake mix, 1/2 bar of cream cheese (actually, it was neufchatel, which is lower in fat, you know), 1/2 cup peanut butter (completely natural with no sugar added, thank you very much!), and 1 egg. When I say Butterfly worked with me to make these goodies, I mean that she begged to taste every separate ingredient aside from the egg. She did concede to helping me roll the dough into small balls and dip them in sugar. She most enjoyed licking her fingers afterward.

True to the recipe, the finished cookies were “incredibly chewy.” The serving size? Two cookies. Sounds like plenty, especially when you add a glass of milk to the mix. And it was . . . for a few minutes. Then I thought, “Just one more.” After consuming my third, I decided it wouldn’t be too bad to eat two more. After all, they didn’t have any butter or shortening. Of course, by this point my stomach was uncomfortably full and I began berating myself for mindless eating.

Such is the story whenever we have something particularly yummy around. Like my amphibian buddies, I simply don’t have enough will power. Or any will power, for that matter. My solution? Simply keep the goods out of my house. This way, I only overindulge on occasion. (And I am extremely grateful to those who offer me that opportunity by treating me with their delicious desserts.)

*Arnold Lobel, “Cookies,” in Frog and Toad Together (New York: HarperCollins, 1971, 1972).

Is your coffee cup feverish? Has it been shivering lately? What about your hands? Are they weary of clenching a paper coffee cup covered in a paper sleeve that you merely throw away after using? How many thousands of such sleeves do you imagine get tossed each week? Well, of course, I have the solution. For those of us growing ever more eco-conscious and concerned with preserving our beautiful earth, there is a way to save a few trees. Check out coffeecover.net for an innovative product that both helps the environment and makes your coffee cup look gorgeous. 

Those who know me may question my endorsement of this product, as I don’t drink coffee and rarely visit a Starbucks, but I still think it’s a great idea and an interesting find. Also, Erin wanted to support her cousin Mandy, who is co-developer of this new venture. Erin is a former coworker and sometimes reader of my blog, so, as you can see, my endorsement is not entirely selfless.

Now, all you coffee lovers (and hot chocolate lovers and those who simply love to dress up your cups) go get your coffecover (or two or three)!

My trip to the dentist this morning reminded me of a recurrent dream I have on occasion. In it, my teeth break apart and fall out. The dream is real enough to jolt me from sleep, and I awake madly feeling around with my tongue to be sure my teeth are still there. You wouldn’t believe the relief I feel when I discover my teeth intact and in their proper locations.

I don’t recall ever enjoying a trip to the dentist. Throughout my childhood, the dentist filled cavity after cavity until I ended up with the back of my mouth full of silver. Back then, the office my family used took photos of children without cavities and posted them proudly on a bulletin board. I have only one picture from those days. They also ironically awarded toothbrushes to caries-free kids and withheld them from the rest of us. Obviously, this was not a positive foundation for my experiences with the world of dentistry. 

As insult to injury, I have developed gum disease over the past several years. My kind periodontist assures me that I’m simply unfortunate in my genetic makeup, that I’m doing a fine job brushing and flossing, and that I’m unfortunately going to have to work harder on my teeth than the average individual. (Take the King, for example, who never flosses and has perfect teeth.)

Needless to say, going to the dentist is not my favorite activity. Today, though, I had to make the idea pleasant because Butterfly went along with me to undergo her first dental exam. She made me proud, playing happily on the floor with a treasure box full of cheap plastic toys during my entire one-hour checkup. Then, when it was her turn, she relaxed in my lap as we lay back. She opened her mouth widely and never seemed frightened. To her credit, Wendy the hygienist was excellent with my daughter, calling the suction tube “Mr. Slurpy” and explaining that he likes to drink all the water out of our mouths, using raspberry toothpaste to polish Butterfly’s teeth, and constantly emphasizing what a good job my girl is doing with her teeth. Butterfly escaped with no cavities, two toys, and a brand-new toothbrush. Hopefully, we’ve begun a better dental foundation with her than the one I’ve struggled to build upon through the years.

This morning I took Ladybug to the doctor for her 15-month well visit. It’s tough to believe she’s at this mark already. She’s so vibrant and energetic and loving—and, as they all do, she’s growing too quickly for my liking. She showed her true spirit while sweet Nurse Mandy measured her height and head circumference, screaming loud enough for the whole office to hear. Fortunately, Ladybug had calmed down by the time the doctor entered, and, sitting on a chair in only her diaper, she was all smiles and giggles. “Bear!” she said, pointing at the room’s wallpaper border. “Wow!” exclaimed the doctor. “She speaks so clearly! Does she identify her eyes and ears and other features?” I nodded and decided to demonstrate. “Ladybug,” I began, “where’s your nose?” My girl promptly wrinkled her nose and grinned, reached around to touch her behind, and proudly said, “Boo-dee!” I tell you, she gets this from the King. And I have more evidence right here.

After a brief hiatus due to travel, visitors, and low motivation, I’m back. My husband still rocks. The kids are still cute. All is well.

More along the lines of cute kids, I’ve found something that is possibly cuter than Ladybug’s early walking: her pillow plunge. She is indebted to her daddy and sister for this latest discovery of wild fun. For several months now (maybe even more than a year), one of Butterfly’s favorite activities with her daddy is to construct “pillow houses,” which are—well—houses made of pillows. This activity has provided secret hideaways perfect for a dragon and princess or a “fadder” bear and his baby bear. The pillows have sheltered storytimes and pretend picnics. They’ve formed the walls of extravagant tunnels. Not long after Ladybug learned to walk, she discovered the joy of pillows as well.

Lately, the girls have devised a new game—one that doesn’t require their daddy’s genius engineering skills. Butterfly gathers the numerous pillows that fill our upstairs bedrooms and tosses them into an enormous pile. Then she starts at one end of the hall and runs toward the pillow mound. Once she reaches it, she hurls herself into the softness. Butterfly, of course, is a master at various landings. She even climbs on our bed and jumps down into the pile, rolling and giggling.

Ladybug’s landing is a bit more straightforward. Awkwardly dodging her sister as they both hurry down the hall, my little bug weebles and wobbles in her cute run toward the pile. When she reaches it, she flops down face first—no hesitation, no fear. Then she rolls over, gets up, and cackles like mad.This routine plays for both girls again and again. Sometimes they even get down to their undies and diaper (greater freedom of movement, you know). Then, finally, Ladybug’s all done.

I challenge you to find a more entertaining way to spend the evening.

After watching a preview that ran at the beginning of one of Butterfly’s DVDs, the two of us decided we needed to rent Pooh’s Heffalump Movie. Since we rented it on Saturday, she’s watched it at least five times. (Bad Mommy Alert: Yes, I know that’s probably too much screen time.) The premise behind the film, which stars Lumpy, the most adorable stuffed elephant I’ve ever seen, is that the Hundred Acre Woods creatures fear the mystical “Heffalumps” and vice versa. It turns out that “heffalump” is simply Pooh’s mispronunciation for “elephant.” It also turns out that the heffalumps, though they speak with British accents, look big and strange, and live in another land, are actually quite similar to Pooh and friends—they enjoy having fun, love their family members, and delight in making friends. The first one to realize this is young Roo, who goes out in search of a heffalump with the intent to capture one and bring it back to the Hundred Acre Woods. Of course, he meets sweet Lumpy, and the two become fast friends and share many saccharine moments together.

After watching the film with Butterfly on one occasion, I talked with her about the theme: “They each thought the other was scary because he was different. But it turns out that they’re a lot alike, and they can be good friends, even though they don’t look the same or live in the same places. A heffalump is really just an elephant, right?” Well, Butterfly had her own opinions. ”Mommy, Lumpy is an elephant, but there are bad heffalumps out there! Let’s pretend to catch a heffalump.” And off she went to find string for rope and an object to use as a gun. Apparently, she wanted to kill the heffalump! No amount of my explaining otherwise could deter her mission. So off we went hunting heffalumps. (At first I wondered how she knew what to do with a gun, but then I remembered her recent obsession with Disney’s Pocahontas, in which John Smith and his other English comrades wield guns against the “savages.” Sigh. At least these Disney films have been fodder for conversations and make-believe play.)

Really, though, just look at Lumpy. How cute is he? Just wait until you hear him talk and sing.

On Saturday morning, as we watched out the kitchen window while the King struggled with the bird feeder pole, Butterfly turned to me and asked, “Mama, is this the weekend?” “Yes!” I said excitedly. “Yippee!” she replied. “That means Daddy can watch my movie with me!” It’s like this every weekend. When Butterfly learns we’ve reached that precious part of the week when her daddy will be home from work for two whole days, her eyes light up and she starts rattling off all the things they can do together. Ladybug is just as excited, clinging fiercely to her Daddy or following him around the house. They enjoy their daddy every day, but it’s extra special when they know he won’t have to go away to work.

They feel this way about my husband because, when he’s home and in their company, he’s 100 percent present for them. My mind tends to wander, thinking ahead to what’s required for lunch, for naptime, for our outing in the afternoon, for bath, etc. I’m sure John thinks of other things when he’s with the girls, but his thoughts aren’t visible in his face and actions like they often are in mine. He is on the floor building “pillow houses,” twirling around with his little Cinderellas, telling fantastic stories that go on and on, playing the guitar and letting them dance and sing. His attention is priceless to them.

As the King said, we had a great Father’s Day weekend, enjoying time together as a family. John and I even planned for an in-house movie night, which we enjoyed after the girls went to sleep (along with microwave popcorn and Whoppers, I might add). We also had a blast with our close friends, Rickie and Sheri. (Rumor has it that they will have a blog of their own soon. Stay tuned.)

Here’s what I wrote to the King in a book we gave him (I hope he doesn’t mind my sharing it): “I can’t think of many times when you’ve been too busy to stop and dance with your Cinderellas…or their mother! You truly are an amazing father to our girls. I believe that, because of the time you devote to them and the genuine way you play with them, they’ll grow up knowing you’re a daddy they can trust with anything. Thank you for your incredible love to all your girls!” He truly is a treasure to us all.

I thought of my own father often over the weekend. He, along with my mother and sister, are away in Scotland with their church group, ministering with some of the Scottish friends they’ve met over the past few years. My family has never been this far away from me before, and it feels strange. They’re enjoying themselves immensely, though, and exhausting their bodies and spirits every day. Daddy was far away, but I still wished him a happy Father’s Day and felt grateful for the way our relationship has changed through the years. He still takes care of me, and his love for my daughters is a joy to watch.

I appreciate my grandfathers and my father-in-law as well—for the strong presence they have been and for the deep care they have shown. You’re all loved beyond words!

Buy a Wendy’s Frosty this weekend (June 14 and 15) at participating locations, and support the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption. I learned about this on Jim Houser’s website. As manager for Steven Curtis Chapman, Jim has updated regularly about the family and about his own grief over little Maria’s death three weeks ago.

This weekend, I can’t think of a better reason to go enjoy a yummy Frosty (or two or even three) than to support adoption. I hope you will too!

Monica and Robin let me know of two goodies from one of my favorite authors. The first is a handwritten card created for Waterstone’s, leading bookseller in the U.K. The company is holding a contest in which writers 18 and over can submit their own brief story. Those who win will be published alongside authors like Rowling, Doris Lessing, and Neil Gaiman in a “postcard” book scheduled for an August release. (No, I didn’t enter the contest. I like to think I’m creative, but I’m not THAT creative, and the deadline is June 19. However, any of my writing friends who read this and decide to go for it, good luck!) To read Rowling’s amusing story about Sirius and James, go to this link, click on “read our author’s stories,” then click on JK Rowling.

The other treat is an outstanding commencement speech Rowling recently delivered for Harvard graduates. She is funny (even throwing in Harry Potter tidbits now and then) eloquent, and, above all, thoughtful and bright. I encourage anyone to go to the link and listen to it or at least read the transcript, as it’s an important reminder to all of us about what we can learn from failure and the power of the human imagination. The most meaningful line to me is, “Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.” The significance of this ability cannot be overstated. When it comes to reaching out to others, serving others’ needs, and caring for others, the human ability to empathize is essential.

On this late spring day, I look out the large window in my kitchen and see a blue sky, sunlight filtering through the leaves and creating wavy patterns on the grass, and a gentle breeze making the branches sway. It’s deceptive. The temperature on this spring day is a suffocating 101 degrees Fahrenheit. Around 10:00 this morning, I took the girls to the backyard for some outdoor play. It was 85 degrees then, at least bearable, especially in the abundant shade our many trees offer. We enjoyed the sand, the playset, and the riding toys for one hour, at which point Butterfly had to potty and I gladly hauled us all back inside. We won’t venture out again, unless a wading pool is part of the equation, and even then not until 4:00 or later. Even breathing is difficult at this temperature, and I can’t even imagine what my friends in Arizona feel when they walk into the 105-plus heat. Oh, and my in-laws who serve as missionaries in Africa. I think they survive 100-plus temperatures most of the year. It’s all relative, I suppose.

I guess I’m holding with the “old fart” theme that has consumed my husband and me for the past few days. I’ve actually had the thought that it didn’t get this hot when I was a child. Also, it rained nearly every day when I was growing up. I remember the latter because my siblings and I were forever battling thunderclouds right when we wanted to swim the most. Today, just like every day in the past several weeks, there is no storm cloud in sight. Can I say it? I miss the good old days! And I am more and more grateful for that little invention we call the air conditioner.

One of the springtime activities I’ve enjoyed with the girls is visiting the strawberry patch, otherwise known as Elliott Farms. Now that spring is taking her bow, with summer breathing hot and heavy over her shoulder, we likely won’t go often. While the weather was mild, though, we and our best friends spent three separate days there, first picking berries, then picnicking, then exploring the farm.

Both girls could pick berries all day. Being a paranoid mama, I never let them eat directly from the patch, even though I overheard the field’s owner assure my friend, “Oh, there’s nothing on those strawberries but dirt!” Well, it’s the dirt I don’t necessarily want my kids to swallow. Even so, Butterfly took great joy in searching for the reddest berries and plunking them into her white plastic bucket. On each visit, she worked until she filled it to the brim. Ladybug enjoyed picking too, and she didn’t care whether the berries were hard and green-white, or so red and ripe that she merely had to grab one for it to turn to mush in her fingers. (Note to Mama: Don’t dress the kids in school clothes for a day at the farm.) 

After we paid less for the berries than we would have at the grocery store (and I usually added a jar of local honey or a few squash to the purchase), we had a snack lunch in the grass. There’s nothing like dining on a picnic blanket with goats eyeing you from behind a fence only a few feet away, or with the wailing calls of the peacocks startling you as you sip your water. The ambiance is unbeatable. Lunch was, of course, not complete until we all enjoyed the delectable homemade soft-serve strawberry ice cream. I don’t even like strawberry ice cream, but this…mmmm.

Once we cleaned up our mess, we traipsed around the farm, studying the various animals—the goats (one got his head stuck in the wire fencing), the peacocks (one actually flashed his breathtaking tail feathers at us), the burro (he brayed frequently), the hens and roosters and baby chicks (they’re all quite smelly, but Ladybug enjoyed chasing after a rooster), the horses, the cows, and the huge pig (quite an expression on that one, eh?). We even got to see and pet a gray baby goat, who seemed to delight in the attention.

Elliott Farms has offered great fun for all of us, and we look forward to trying the corn maze in the fall. (Actually, we just look forward to the fall, no matter what we do then. It’s getting HOT!) You know you’ve had a good day at the farm when Ladybug picks up a small round pellet of manure and sucks her fingers after I slap it out of her hands. You know it’s been a fun morning at the patch when Butterfly is actually brave enough to attempt feeding a horse, even though she dropped the hay before his lips touched her palm. You know you’ve had a great time with the girls when all of you leave the farm with feet blackened from the dirt, hands stained with strawberry juice, and hair damp with sweat. We’ll definitely go back.

Apparently, this is what I’ve become. If you ask my husband why, (other than my thirtieth birthday last fall) he’ll probably tell you it’s because of what he saw on our kitchen counter yesterday evening. Taken separately, the two items are likely innocuous–one recently came in the mail from amazon.com, and the other was a groomsman gift the King received. When stacked together, though, the King says they say, “Old Fart.”

Of course I beg to differ. We’ve had this feeder outside our home for nearly a year, and he and Butterfly have both delighted in keeping it filled. All of us, even little Ladybug, have enjoyed watching our feathered friends nest and dine. It’s only natural that I decided we needed a way to identify these funny creatures. And, when I received the book and began flipping through to find our most common visitors (brown thrashers, cardinals, house wrens, mourning doves, and tufted titmouses [titmice?]), it was only natural that I needed a way to see them more clearly. The King promptly brought me his binoculars. Butterfly and I had a good time looking through them and trying to figure out the intricate feather patterns on the birds. Well, I had a good time doing that. Butterfly kept looking at me through the wrong end and saying, “Mama, you look really tiny.” When it was time to clean off the table after dinner, I stashed my bird gear on the counter. That’s where the King found it and had his realization. It’s made for a few jokes at my expense. I’m not helping matters much, though.

This evening, when the King was heading to his workout at the gym, he noted that I was watching Antiques Roadshow with my mother. I fully intended to turn on a movie, but I’ll be honest. The roadshow rocks. Someone presents a hideous piece—a vase, a rotting trunk, a strange sculpture (look at that piece! better yet, look at its owner!) a painting I could do with my eyes closed—and the appraiser rattles off the rare qualities. The suspense builds until, finally, we learn that the item could sell at auction for several thousand dollars. Inevitably, the owner nearly faints with greedy joy. Or, someone presents a nice-looking piece, and the appraiser gets brutal. “This’ll net maybe twenty dollars. Sorry. It’s just not authentic.” The owner’s face? Appropriately grieved. And it goes on and on. Who can beat that?

Signing off,

The Old Fart (and proud of it)

Ps. It needs to be recorded here that the King set out a bowl of water for the birds. It seems that this Old Fart has found a hobby that everyone in the family enjoys!

And now we know. This fulfilling, sometimes heart-wrenching episode allowed us to say goodbye for another eight months, wrapping up some stories and starting others, and most importantly, offering an answer to a season-long question. Who’s in the coffin?

1. I’ll start with the obvious—John Locke is the man in the coffin. (Kudos to all who theorized as much!) We saw Jack come to the unofficial “funeral” for the unidentified individual back at the season’s beginning. Now we know. Somehow, the man whom Ben left in charge of the group of Others is dead and off the island some four years later. This is after he initiated contact with at least some of the Oceanic 6 under the alias “Jeremy Bentham,” presumably to protect his identity. Of course we all want to know what happened. We’ll just have to wait. I, however, believe that Ben has everything fully under control to design the outcome he desires.

2. On Doc Jensen’s teaser, I read this quote from executive producer Carlton Cuse: “Our characters’ fates and our story for the season all come down to this: Who’s right about the island? Jack the empiricist or Locke the man of faith?” Did anyone think that question was answered in the finale? On first thought, I’d say Locke, the man of faith, was right. Jack is desolate in his life off the island, separated from Kate, addicted to painkillers and booze, and relentlessly attempting to get back. But then, we were shown Locke’s body in the coffin. Why did this man, who truly loved the island, apparently leave it? Or did he? Did he acquire the ability to time travel? Is he really dead? Time will tell.

3. Once again, Michael Emerson’s acting completely convinced me that Benjamin Linus is in total control of what is happening on this show. He has been surprised a few times—one, when his daughter was killed, and two, when he learned that Keamy’s arm could signal a bomb aboard the freighter. Even when surprised, though, he quickly regains the upper hand. He is a master at appearing innocent at one moment and showing icy madness the next. I’m not certain exactly what motivates him. He doesn’t seem to love anyone. Even with Alex, their relationship seemed to be possessor and possessed. Ben pined for Juliet, but he completely creeped her out by killing her beloved, Goodman. What is behind his actions? It can’t be money. He’s obviously got access to plenty of that. When we look back at his childhood—basically killing his mother through his own birth, then being hated and constantly berated by his father—we can see the beginnings of a man who wants no one to manipulate him. Instead, he wants to be the manipulator. And boy is he good at it. Before he even went down below, why did Ben say to John, “We’re going somewhere cold”? He didn’t allow John to go, so who’s “we”? There was one moment in this episode when Ben was alone. He had climbed down into the icy chamber below the Orchid and was about to turn the huge wheel, when he looked up and said, “I hope you’re happy, Jacob.” Almost as if he were talking to God. Someone please tell me what this means. When Ben turned the wheel, the island moved. It was quite a sight for those on the out-of-fuel chopper…and for me…when the island was swallowed by the sea. Where did it go? (As for the island disappearing, I can’t believe the poor survivors had to endure another crash when the chopper fell into the sea.)

4. Poor Daniel Faraday. His would-be girlfriend Charlotte chose to stay on the island. What a mystery. Miles saw within her that she has been on the island before. As they said goodbye, Charlotte reminded Daniel that she has been “looking for where I was born.” Hmmm. Miles is staying put, too, so hopefully we’ll get some good information on these two next season.

5. What is going on with Sun in the off-island future? She has become a powerful, wealthy, controlling woman. What is her motivation for working with Charles Widmore? Indirectly, he was responsible for her husband’s death. Which brings me to dear Jin. It appears that he died when the freighter blew up. What a heart-wrenching scene to watch her screaming for him! What an unreadable look she threw at Jack when he told her “he’s gone.” Later, we learn that she blames Jack for what happened to Jin. Does Sun think Jin might still be living? Is she hoping to do some time travel to reverse the events? Is that even possible? Does she simply want to find his body?

6. The ageless Other Richard Alpert and his crew ended up helping the Oceanic 6 get off the island—for the hefty price of rescuing Ben from Keamy and his baddies. Why doesn’t Richard appear to age? Why didn’t John Locke appear to recognize Richard back when he first went to the Other camp (when they had his kidney-stealing father)? Surely you can’t forget a face like that, even if you meet him when you’re a child. What are the Others doing? Where are they living? What do they plan to do with Locke as their leader? What do they do, exactly?

7. Mr. Indestructible Keamy did eventually die, resulting in a blown-up freighter and, supposedly, a dead Michael (given passage into the afterlife by Christian Shephard, nonetheless!) and Jin. Keamy died because Ben had a Psycho moment of revenge for Alex’s death, even though he knew killing Keamy would kill possibly dozens of others.

8. We got to see teenaged Walt when he visited Hurley at the mental institution. I hope the passage of time will explain how old he looked. I’m not sure when that scene was supposed to have taken place. Kate told bearded Jack at one point that it had been three years since he’d left her and Aaron, so by the time Jack goes wack, they’ve been off the island for some four years, perhaps. Was this when Walt came to visit? And when was Sayid’s late-night visit to Hurley, interrupting his chess game with an invisible Mr. Eko to urge him to come along to a place where they’ll be safe? “We’re being watched,” Sayid insisted. Why are they all in such danger?

9. Kate’s dream was downright terrifying—a supposed intruder, only to become Claire, who warned Kate not to bring Aaron back to the island. Later, when Ben startled Jack at the funeral parlor, and just before we saw Locke in the coffin, Ben said he had some ideas about how to get them all back on the island. Then he added, “I said all of you. We’re gonna have to bring him too,” and nodded at Locke. Does “all” mean the six, plus Locke, and possibly plus others? Don’t I remember someone saying there were others who left the island? Or did that mean Locke, aside from the six?

10. Can I just say I’m glad I get to enjoy Sawyer for a few more episodes, at least? After his plummet into the sea, I wasn’t so sure, but his bare-chested return to the beach, after swimming what could have been a mile or two, made me feel better. (: How could we do without that Southern drawl and the plethora of hilarious nicknames? (Lapidus=”Kenny Rogers”!)

Okay, my husband just sighed and went up to bed. Clearly he thinks this “report” is running too long. I took about a page of notes while I watched. It has been so much to process. And still, still, still I have more questions than answers. I suppose that is the genius—and the frustration—of the show. Until next year…

All of us have some small something we need in order to get through the day. For my husband, maybe it’s his car keys. He’s got to get to and from work, after all. I shamelessly admit I require a little piece of dark chocolate right after my breakfast. Ladybug has to have a fresh diaper…or ten. For Butterfly, though, it’s got to be her stuffed Mickey Mouse. Not just any stuffed Mickey, either. Exactly the right one. And you can’t fool her. Trust me, we’ve tried.

When Butterfly was about seven months old, she had developed the habit of falling asleep for the night with her tiny hand clenched tightly to her daddy’s finger. Of course, he didn’t mind the sweetness of these moments, but we knew the habit probably wasn’t one we needed to continue. (Can you imagine the laughs she’d have gotten in her college dorm room?) I scrounged around the house for a small stuffed toy and found a Mickey Mouse I’d bought at Disney World on a family trip with my own parents several years before. He fit perfectly tucked under her arm, and for the most part she settled down well with him. Just like that, an intense attachment was born.

When that particular Mickey, after enduring several trips through the washing machine and many rough playdates and nights, literally nearly lost his head, I stitched it back on and hid him away in my cedar chest for posterity. Then my husband found her a new Mickey, complete with his own Minnie. Surprisingly, Butterfly accepted him right away. Only in the months to come did she talk about her “old Mickey” and wonder where he was. This new Mickey, though, quickly became old himself after much love. He’s still her favorite pal and a necessary companion at certain moments of the day, but never more than at bedtime.

This is why, last night around 8:15 when I desperately needed to work on an editing assignment, I combed every corner, container, and drawer of the house searching for that special Mickey. Never mind that Butterfly was already asleep, surrounded by an assortment of other Mickey Mouse Clubhouse friends, including, I might add, yet another small Mickey. All that mattered was that the King and I find that one essential Mickey before Butterfly awoke to potty and realized he was still missing. After all, she’d only conceded to sleep after I promised to keep searching for him. (That’s Essential Mickey at the top left, cuddling with Big Minnie.)

We looked so long that the King opted out. I started concocting a tale to offer her in the middle of the night. “Ummm. He went to Disney World. He’ll be back soon.” Fortunately, after forty-five minutes of fruitless looking, I entered Ladybug’s room. She was sound asleep, and I quietly laid on my belly and swept an arm under her crib. At the last instant, I felt him: the all-important Mickey! Why he was there or who put him there is a mystery. I actually think he may have crawled beneath the bed to rest for a while. Regardless, I picked him up, left Ladybug’s room, and entered Butterfly’s, where I gently laid her precious Mickey beside her. The King was kind enough to help her potty at midnight, so I’m not sure if she had Mickey then or not, but when she woke us at 6:30 this morning, he was definitely in her arms.

Let’s just hope he holds together for a few more years.

No matter one’s stance on political issues, opinions about war, or expectations of American government, this fact remains: through the centuries of our country’s life, untold thousands of men and women have lost their lives while serving in the military. On this day, we honor the sacrifice made by those people and their beloved families and friends. May we remember them and strive to do our part as citizens of the United States, for their very lives paved the way for our freedom.

And while we remember those who perished fighting for our own country, let us not forget the thousands upon thousands of others who have died around the world, fighting for their countries. They, too, all have causes, and though we may be against some of them, it is essential to respect that even one human life lost is a high price to pay for our disagreements.

I resolve not to continue to lurk in the depths of despair in my posts, but I’d be lying if I said Maria’s death hasn’t been on my mind. There simply cannot be greater pain than that caused by the loss of a child. I would never minimize the deep sorrow felt by those grieving any lost loved one, but there’s something unique about the death of a child. It goes completely against our natural expectations of the order of things. We’re born, we grow up, we marry, and we either have children or we love someone else’s children. We take pride in watching them grow up, achieve, possibly marry and have their own children. Eventually, we die. Then, much later, they die. This is the cycle of life we trust and expect. When something happens to rip us from this perfect, right pattern, it shatters our spirits.

As I think of the Chapmans’ five-year-old Maria, who died suddenly in a tragic accident, I think also of the Wilkins’s four-year-old Catie, who died of cancer complications after a battle with disease that lasted more than three years. Whether sudden and completely shocking or drawn out and perhaps inevitable, death has a way of upending our lives–and even more so when it takes a child.

My human tendency to ask why is never greater than when I hear stories like these. It’s difficult, to say the least, to comprehend why a God I’ve come to know as loving and compassionate does not always (or even frequently) intervene in the way we so desperately want. Does that make God nonexistent? I don’t think so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t feel so hurt and angry with Him. And I wouldn’t feel, deep within, that mystical “peace that passes understanding” (Phil 4:7). It sounds dismissive, like saying such words smoothes it all out and makes everything better. As a struggling, doubting, often unbelieving “Christian,” I’m here to tell you it doesn’t. And maybe if I didn’t question so much, my intense pain over this issue would eventually dissolve. But I don’t think so. 

God created us to feel deeply, to love fully, and to give our all to the people around us. When we do that, we are bound to hurt with grief beyond words. However, we are also bound to experience joy beyond measure, laughter without restriction, and hope above explanation. In such a time as this, when my heart is heavy and my thoughts inevitably fall on my own two priceless daughters, I pray that I will live the abundant life I’m created to live (John 10:10)—focusing not so much on the dozens of items on my to-do list, which constantly run through my brain, but on living in this moment.

I’ll close with these lyrics from Steven Curtis Chapman (from “Miracle of the Moment”), which bear repeating on my blog:

‘Cause we are who and where and what we are for now
And this is the only moment we can do anything about

So breathe it in and breathe it out
Listen to your heartbeat
There’s a wonder in the here and now
It’s right there in front of you
And I don’t want you to miss the miracle of the moment….

And if it brings you tears
Then taste them as they fall
Let them soften your heart

And if it brings you laughter
Then throw your head back
And let it go….

This morning brings horrible news about one of my favorite singer/songwriters and his family. My husband called on his way to work to tell me that Steven Curtis Chapman’s five-year-old daughter Maria was killed when her teenage brother ran over her in the family’s driveway Wednesday. I’m sure the King will blog about this at some point too, because he’s always been the one warning me to keep an eye on the children outdoors. (Edit: He did)

According to this article and all others I’ve scanned, the incident was a complete accident—as are most instances of children getting killed in their own driveways. The news is so sad. I can’t imagine the emotions the family is experiencing right now. I can’t imagine being the son…or the parent. Now the man who wrote such songs as “With Hope” (about saying goodbye to children who die too soon) and “Cinderella” (about reveling in the moments with your child, as they are all too fleeting) has to face the death of one of his own little princesses.

I write this post as a call to prayer for this amazing man and his family. They face some very dark, guilt-ridden, grief-filled days. I also write as an alert to all of us who are charged with protecting our innocent little ones. I know how free-wheeling my Butterfly can be, twirling around, floating through her own world with no thought to anything around her. Let us all be especially vigilant, even in the driveways of our homes. Even when we are the ones who are driving.

Empress Katie doesn’t get enough credit on this blog. (In the first picture, Katie is on the left. Clearly, I was pretending to be nice.) I tend to talk about grandparents and friends but not my siblings. Truthfully, they’ve both been amazing with the girls, but seeing as my brother, Mr. Park Ranger himself, is married to a fabulous gal and busy living his own life in Carrollton, my sister’s been the one to spend time with my kids. (The one on the left is our cousin John. Clearly, I was trying to kill my sister and smiling all the while.) Katie comes to our castle frequently, and I immediately take advantage of her presence by showering or even just using the bathroom all by myself—with no little people calling out for me or bumbling around at my knees. When we visit the grandparents, she’s a significant part of the package and always devotes plenty of time to entertaining both Ladybug and Butterfly. Both girls love her, but Ladybug has taken a special liking to her. Perhaps they share a sense of identification.

See, I was the oldest as Katie and I grew up. Born only a year and one month after me, she was subject to a childhood full of my teasing and taunting, my pushing and shoving, my bossing and intimidating. Of course, there were plenty of hugs and kisses as well, but it’s likely that she remembers the mean stuff more. I would. Now, when I watch my girls, I find myself constantly having to implore Butterfly to “stop pushing her!” “let go of her arm!” “watch what you’re doing!” “quit teasing her!”

Even at three and a half years old, she already nudges Ladybug just to witness the baby’s reaction. I remember doing that with my sister nearly every day! I don’t know what it is about us oldest siblings that makes us controlling and obnoxious, but I hereby apologize to Empress Katie for any long-lasting damage I may have caused. (But let me remind her that she was quite the little whiner and that Mama favored her because she was cuter.)

It’s always odd for me to think of my mama and daddy as grandparents, but that’s what they are. Once they were the folks who dealt with my mood swings and kept me in line, and now they’re the ones who visit my kids bearing trinkets and promising hours of entertainment. They never fail. The girls and I just spent a couple of nights at Nana and Pappy’s house. I think Ladybug and Butterfly had the most fun with a box of costume jewelry from our collections through the years. They donned faded gold-plated bracelets and various gaudy necklaces and pranced around the room. Later, Pappy took them to the pond to feed the ducks. Nana had a tickle fight with Butterfly. Pappy tried to show them a train pulling through the rail yard, but we were a few minutes too late. No matter, though, because at the playground afterward, a train passed through the woods nearby, and Ladybug finally got to see the invisible “choo choo” that she could hear at her grandparents’ house. The girls even got to enjoy a birthday party for their great-grandfather “Pop,” complete with chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. Visits like these make me wish we lived a bit closer than a 70-mile drive, but it makes for a nice trip on either side. I’m continually grateful for both my parents and the King’s; they focus on my children completely and love them fully. Visits with the grandparents are always what they should be—pure joy! And then, as my parents say, they get to hug and kiss goodbye, and the King and I get to go and do the dirty work.