Queen Kelley

Recently, I wrote a post about “going green,” a phrase that frankly is losing its power as it grows in popularity. Let’s just say my family and I wish to take better care of our bodies and our world. What we eat, use, and throw away affects not only us but people all over the earth—now and in the future. Folks can debate the political and religious implications all day, but the truth remains. Where our food originates, how farmers nurture and harvest it, and how far it travels matters. What we buy, the way we handle the packaging materials, how much waste we create, and where it goes matters. I simply don’t understand how anyone can disagree with this.

Being better stewards isn’t necessarily easy because our society is set up to make life instant and convenient. Helpful steps like home-cooked meals with whole foods take a bit more time and planning than shoving a store-bought entree into the microwave. Rinsing and sorting various recyclable items takes more effort than simply tossing everything into the kitchen trash. Even so, I think many families can begin taking small, comfortable steps and work their way to a level that suits them. That’s what we’re doing.

Here are our recent steps on the road to more environmentally sound and physically beneficial ways of life.

1. We recycle aluminum, paper, glass, and plastics. We are fortunate to have a curbside pickup service for these. Some parts of our area aren’t serviced in this way, and it may require extra effort to get items to the local recycling center.
2. We buy more whole foods. This means I try not to purchase so many mixes or prepared items: no taco seasoning, store-bought bread, frozen hash browns, pre-made cookie dough, etc. Amazingly enough, this amateur cook who can’t even separate eggs has been making these things herself!
3. We strive to buy produce, dairy, and meats that are either organic or harvested in less harmful ways—less or no preservatives, pesticides, hormones, or other chemicals. These foods are more expensive, but I find that I actually use all of them rather than letting fruits and veggies go bad or leaving meat in the freezer for much too long. My friends and I have joined a group called Organics to You, which delivers local and/or organic produce and grassfed beef right to your doorstep each week. (We’re only in our first week, but we’re hopeful that this will work for us.)
4. We use washcloths instead of napkins and paper towels. I still buy napkins, but only for times when we have guests and I am embarrassed by my stained washcloths.
5. The girls and I are experimenting with more naturally sound toiletries. We use either Avalon Organics or Burt’s Bees shampoo and conditioner and Tom’s of Maine bar soap (all available at Wal-Mart). I purchase my homemade mineral makeup online from All Natural Face, and I am very satisfied with it, as the cost is comparable to or less than what I paid for Cover Girl, and it covers/accentuates well. I use Avalon Organics Vitamin C cleansing milk to wash my face. Lotion and deodorant are tricker. We need a strong lotion for Butterfly’s eczema. After checking Skin Deep, I found that our fragrance-free Curel ranks a 3 for hazards, so I’m okay with that. The Tom’s of Maine deodorant I tried made my skin burn and did not keep me dry, so for now I’ll stick with a fragrance-free, sensitive-skin product from Dove.
6. We use unbleached, unbromated flour from King Arthur for baking. Specifically, I’ve discovered a white whole wheat with the same nutrients as traditional whole wheat but a lighter flavor. It’s delicious in pancakes, waffles, cookies, and even brownies.
7. I actually bake our bread, finally using the bread machine we received as a wedding gift 8 1/2 years ago that, until recently, sat in the bottom of my pantry. Thanks, Heather, for showing me how easy it is to use! We haven’t bought bread from the store in more than a month.
8. We switched to pure butter rather than spreads* and to full-fat natural cheese rather than shredded and bagged low-fat cheese, which has pleased the King in particular.
9. I continue to strive to conserve water and power.

Every family is different, and we can all make small steps that suit us. I want to do more—get better with my cooking, perhaps even make my own yogurt (!), eventually move to safer dairy products. Maybe you, like us, can begin by taking one small step. Eventually, you may move forward to do even more.

* Ingredients in my tub of Country Crock: water, vegetable oil blend (including partially hydrogenated oil), tricalcium phosphate, salt, vegetable mono and diglycerides, lactic acid, potassium sorbate, calcium disodium edta, soy lecithin, polyglycerol, esters of fatty acids, zantham gum, vitamin E acetate, vitamin A palmitate, beta carotene for color, artificial flavor, cholecalciferol, whey. I don’t know what half of that stuff is.

Ingredients in my sticks of Land O Lakes unsalted butter: sweet cream, natural flavor. The taste is fabulous. Need I say more?

When Butterfly was a young toddler, we noticed a blue tint around her lips after she finished eating. It went on for several weeks until I decided it warranted a mention to the doctor. It all culminated in a highly traumatic sonogram of Butterfly’s little heart. Though the procedure didn’t hurt, she hated being made to lie on a table while strangers put goo and an odd contraption on her chest. No problems were found.

A few weeks ago, our Ladybug started coughing yet again. She’s used Xopenex nebulizer medication six times since her birth, and it usually helps soothe this cough. But when we medicated her only to have the cough return a week later, we grew concerned and consulted her pediatrician. It all culminated in an X-ray of her lungs. Fortunately, Ladybug took it in stride and refrained from crying. She did, however, sit shirtless on that steel table with a fearful look in her eyes that went straight to my heart. Again, no serious problems were found—only a confirmation of the bronchitis that her doctor already suspected.

It’s tough to find the line between caution and overreaction, to navigate the boundary between responsibility for your children’s lives and irrational hypochondria on their behalf. Yet, as the primary caregiver of our girls who spends hours with them each day, I notice the unusual. I saw my baby’s blue lips. I heard my toddler’s wheezing breaths. In both situations, I made the decision to get treatment for them and go the extra step to labs for tests. Fortunately, the girls were fine.

It is so difficult decide when something needs attention. Right now, Butterfly has another issue that seems relatively minor, but doctors think a test will help them decide the best treatment. They base this decision only on my reports. Noting the symptoms I listed, they are choosing to go a step further and get conclusive results. I imagine the whole thing will be at least as traumatic as Butterfly’s tornado cat incident, and it is likely that the examiners will find no serious problems. My girl may endure this just to calm her mother’s inner worries.

Of course, I hope that’s what happens: that it merely calms my nerves rather than finding a problem. Still, it’s on me. And that’s tough.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading the Twilight series. I sighed with romantic glee as I read about Edward—his beauty, humility, and chivalry. I saw myself in some of Bella’s longings, in the way she let love take precedence over friendship, in her unhindered focus on the desire of her heart. I also saw myself in Bella’s friends, who questioned her devotion to such a strange and possibly dangerous boy and felt hurt by her withdrawal from them. The fifteen-year-old girl I used to be remembers these things well.

Though time and distance make me a bit more objective about certain situations, I will never completely lose sight of my teen self. My feelings raged so powerfully that I could barely contain them—frustration with my parents versus my deep love for them, powerful romantic love versus the ache of a broken heart, a desperate need for my friends versus a desire to be alone. If Stephenie Meyer does anything well in these books, it’s the way she portrays the roller coaster of the teenage heart. In reviewing the first film adaptation of the novel, NPR’s Kenneth Turan says, ”…the film of Twilight…treats those high-pressure high school emotions with unwavering, uncompromising seriousness; Laurence Olivier essaying Shakespeare didn’t approach his material with more reverence than is on display here.” He’s right. Meyer never pokes fun at the emotions, hopes, dreams, and yearnings of young people. That’s what struck me most about her books. (Well, right behind my head-over-heels fantasy love for a certain 104-year-old vampire, which was later challenged by my intrigue over the 16-year-old werewolf in book 2.)

The book series, translated into more than a dozen languages, has sold millions of copies and garnered mostly positive reviews. (See “Booksellers Find Life After Harry.”) Overall, I’ve viewed it positively as well. Recently, though, someone proposed the idea that maybe teen girls are taking away something unhealthy from these books. It’s all well and good for a grownup to read them with perspective, but what are they saying to young women?

What do you think, girls? Do these books/films inspire you to gravitate toward the “bad” boys? Do they support the idea that pining away for the one you love is acceptable when you’re 17? Are they suggesting that such powerful love and desire are okay when you’re still in high school? Do they make you seriously consider finding the love of your life and getting married right out of high school, not to mention pregnant? What do you think of Edward’s morals? Is he truly concerned with treating Bella respectfully, or does his inherent danger as a vampire outweigh his care? What do you think of Jacob’s words of caution to Bella? Is he right to insist that she takes Edward way too seriously, or do you think he simply wants her for himself and tries to make Edward less attractive?

I want to hear from you, Twilight fans! I’m especially interested in what teens and young adults have to say, but I also welcome comments from those like me who are decidedly NOT teens. Let the discussion begin!

The “green” life has interested me for a while. I’d love to grow my own vegetables, use homemade compost for fertilizer, collect rainwater in barrels, and take reusable shopping bags to Wal-Mart. Heck, I’d love to stop going to Wal-Mart altogether and frequent only local farmer’s markets. I’m not there yet.

Our family tries, though, to take the following environmentally friendly actions as consistently as possible:

1. Recycle all acceptable items (in our area, this includes glass, most plastics, paper, and cans).
2. Use washable cloths rather than paper towels (I still haven’t let go of paper napkins).
3. Use cleansers derived from natural sources (such as Method, my personal favorite).
4. Turn off lights when not in use.
5. Switch on the television only when people intentionally watch it.
6. Shut down our computers each night.
7. Keep the thermostat set at energy-saving temps (at least, the recommended 68 or below in winter; summer is a different beast here in central GA).

Inspired by a dear friend, I am also looking into toiletries that don’t contain harmful chemicals. Sweet Southern Belle pointed me to this site where you can look up your favorite products and see how they rate on a danger scale from 1 (safest) to 10 (most dangerous). Like her, I’ve ordered homemade makeup from All Natural Face on Etsy and tried a few organic hair and face products. We’ve used our regular products for years and years with seemingly no ill effects, but at the same time, it appears that many people suffer from cancer and other diseases whose causes aren’t necessarily known. I know the connections aren’t certain, but it stands to reason that if we pour these chemicals into and onto our bodies, eventually some harm will result. At any rate, I figure the safer products are worth a try.

How do they compare? Well, I miss the delicious smell of my regular shampoo. I didn’t mind Avalon Organics Shampoo’s lavender scent so much until my husband pronounced that it reminded him of wet paint. The texture also takes some getting used to, but my hair has nearly adjusted. I’m still waiting on my makeup to arrive, but the samples my friend gave me looked great and felt clean and fresh. Next up? Maybe deodorant and toothpaste.

I also want our family to try more whole foods and organic products. Still, how can we be certain the “organic” label isn’t merely a ploy for more money? Is anyone else trying these things? What are your thoughts?

As I’ve written elsewhere today, five years ago I was holding a chipmunk-cheeked, pointy-headed, chubby-limbed baby girl. It’s been a treat to watch her grow into a lovely little lady. Butterfly turned five years old at 8:37 this morning. Like all parents do from time to time, I stand in awe of her today, marveling that five years—some 1,825 days—have actually passed since the first moment I laid eyes on her. It’s humbling, overwhelming, and gratifying. The magnitude of responsibility I feel as her mother weighs heavily at times. What kind of teenager will she grow to be? Will she feel that she can talk to me about anything? Will she learn to make wise choices? Will she grow to treasure the mystery that is God? Will she treat other people and the earth with kindness and care? How greatly do I affect how she turns out in these areas? If I think on it too long, I get short of breath.

For now, I will save my dreams of the future for spare moments. Mostly, I’ll live hugely into the present. Butterfly is five years old! My artist who creates endless pieces that I can’t bear to throw away, no matter how high the paper pile grows. My dancer, not exactly graceful but robust with energy and delight as she twirls and leaps and stomps. My learner who asks endless questions about the world and people and life, who takes in information readily and shares it eagerly. My “reader” who can sit for long spans of time listening to the stories I tell her from picture books or from my own mind. My “writer” who draws a series of pictures and dictates tales to go along with them. My struggler who is working hard to put words to her emotions. My child of passionate emotions who bursts out with riotous laughter almost as easily as she dissolves into noisy tears.

Oh, how I love her. Happy birthday, my sweet girl!

I’m dropping by on this week full of birthday cake (three parties, including my own!) and the anticipation of a fun Halloween to promote Jay’s Hope, a local organization that helps families of children with cancer. The King and I, along with Sweet Southern Belle, are participating in the 5K (John will run; Heather and I will walk) on Halloween morning. After our “race,” we will meet up with our kids and enjoy the family festival. For a $5 wristband, children can participate in a number of carnival-style games and inflatables. If you’re in town and want to join a worthy cause, even as a phantom runner or festival participant, go here and print out a flyer: http://www.jayshope.org/pdf/Raceregform09.pdf. Spread the word! (image from jayshope.org)

Surely I’m not the only parent who engages in an internal wrestling match with myself when trying to decide whether a kid’s symptoms warrant a doctor trip. Just this morning, the match went like this:

- Butterfly’s cough sounds worse this morning.
- It sounds the same as it’s sounded for the past two weeks.
- Two weeks? Has it been that long?
- Yes, and you took her to the doctor for something else and asked about the cough. The doc cleared her and said she has allergies.
- But that was two weeks ago. The cough seems “juicer.” And is that snot coming from her nose?
- The cough has barely changed. She doesn’t cough at night. She says her throat itches, not hurts. She has no fever.
- But her preschool teacher gave me the LOOK on Monday. When Butterfly went out the door, she coughed hard and Mrs. Teacher looked at me.
- You told her Butterfly saw the doctor, and the teacher herself then guessed, “It’s just allergies, isn’t it?”
- Yes, I guess so. Still, maybe I should take her back to the doctor just to be sure. The cold might have moved into her chest.
- You really want to go to the doctor? There are people there. In the waiting room. And they breathe in. What’s worse, they breathe out. Do you want your kid to catch swine flu before she even sees the doctor?
- Swine flu! Oh no. One of the symptoms is a persistent cough. Two weeks is persistent. And now her nose is running a little. And she’s whiny this morning.
- Fever?
- No, no fever.
- Body aches?
- Not that she’s mentioned.
- Flat on her back and feeling as though she will die?
- Not at this point.
- Then it’s not swine flu.
- Okay, I’ll send her to school.
- But you already told her she was staying home today.
- She’ll want to go. It’s show and tell this morning.
- Don’t be so sure.

Unfortunately, idiot mom that I am, I had indeed told Butterfly that she’d probably see the doctor this morning instead of attending school. For some reason, she seemed excited about this idea, though she loves 4K. Then, her Disney princess computer game had the audacity to freeze in the middle of her playing time. A fit commenced. I consoled. The fit continued. I spoke firmly. The fit escalated. We both screamed. She shut herself in her room. I finally told her she was going to school after all, and the fit began anew, though this time in soft, whiny protests.

By the time we dropped off Ladybug and reached Butterfly’s classroom door, she seemed happy to go and ready to share her beautiful Barbie that we recently found at a yard sale. As Mrs. Teacher smiled a warm welcome, Butterfly turned back to me and said, “I want to stay with you.”

I took her aside and we performed our secret kiss (each of us tells the other what kind of delicious kiss we’d like–we both chose peanut butter chocolate this morning–and then we blow the kisses at each other), and she hesitantly entered her room.

At home now, my internal battle continues.

- She’s probably coughing her head off and freaking everybody out. I bet her nose has started running in earnest.
- She seemed fine most of the morning, aside from her fit.
- But she was emotionally compromised. I should have followed through with my earlier statement. I should have kept her home.
- You’re a terrible mother, you know that?
- And this afternoon, I’ve got to take them both to get their flu shots.
- To the doctor’s office?
- Yes.
- With all the breathing people?
- Where else?
- You’re sinister.
- But I’m going to take them for ice cream afterward.
- I’m sure the employees spit into the ice cream bins. Maybe you should just stay home. Always.
- Sigh. Maybe you’re right.

Over the years, my Butterfly has given me several boosts of self-confidence. You may recall the time she told me my black bra looked like it belonged to a certain sea witch. Once she narrowed her eyes at the wrinkles in my forehead—which appear ONLY when I raise my eyebrows, mind you!—and delightfully pointed out my “rainbows.” Later, she drew several pictures of me with colorful rainbow foreheads. On another occasion, as I did my business in a public toilet, she exclaimed, “Good job, Mama! You tee-teed!” I can still hear the snickers from surrounding stalls. On Monday after school, she happily told my friend that I don’t wear a shirt when I work out at home. She neglected to mention my sports bra. A few moments later, as I turned to buckle her into her car seat, she told me about studying “Mr. T” in class. This is not the man of A-team fame, but an inflatable letter person who apparently has tall teeth. She watched me respond to her, looking closely at my mouth. “Mama,” she said, “did you know your top teeth are much bigger than your bottom teeth?” I nodded and explained that when her baby teeth fall out, her grown-up teeth will look different too. Then she proceeded to inform me, with a completely serious expression, “You kinda look like a goat or a beaver or something.” What does a mama say to that? With only a hint of sarcasm in my voice, I answered, “Why, thank you, sweetie. How very nice!”

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, a month set aside to inform the general public that childhood cancer is a serious disease in our country (CureSearch says it’s “the most common disease-related cause of death for ages one to twenty”). At any given moment, parents and their children face the ever-present nightmare of pain, tests, treatments, separation, isolation, fear, and uncertainty. At any given moment, parents and other loved ones deeply miss a child whom cancer took from them.

I often mention my friend Jenny, whose daughter Catie died of brain tumor complications at age 4. There are hundreds and even thousands of others. Joshua passed away a few weeks ago. Kate is 5, just a little older than my Butterfly, and endures terrible stomach pain from brain tumor treatment. JB, age 8, and his mother live at St. Jude miles away from the rest of their family while he undergoes cancer treatment. (Click on the links to read about them.) These children should run, play, attend school, and have fun. In most cases, they can’t.

No one likes to think about childhood cancer. I certainly don’t. But I do. I am ever mindful that life can change in a moment. If you wish, see Curesearch.org for information on the Virtual Walk for 12,500. You can contribute money. You can give your time at Ronald McDonald Houses and similar places around the country. You can pray for peace, direction, and comfort as families cling to hope, doctors treat these children, and researchers work tirelessly for a cure. I am always hoping for a brighter future for these families and little ones.

It was mid-afternoon on this Wednesday, about an hour after Ladybug, age 2 1/2, woke from her nap. The three of us were upstairs, me sitting on my bedroom floor tackling a mountain of laundry, the girls being cats—nuzzling, mewing, “sleeping,” “eating.” Then Butterfly, age 4 3/4, wanted me to take the “cats” to the park, otherwise known as her bedroom. “Let me finish this laundry first,” I said, keeping up a running commentary on their antics as I folded. She went down the hall and then returned. “It’s a tornado!” she exclaimed, and proceeded to hurl herself back down the hall, a cat caught in a twister. She entered my room again, her sister trailing behind her, and asked me once more to join in the game. “Let me finish this job,” I said firmly. The tornado whirled her away.

Then I heard it. Whack! “What was that?” I said. Butterfly answered by screaming. When I saw the gash, nearly an inch long between her nose and right eyebrow, my stomach dropped. The next few moments passed in flashes—I yelled, “Oh, baby,” grabbed a washcloth from the nearby linen closet, pressed it to her eye to stop the blood, scooped her up and hurried downstairs while Ladybug stood bewildered in my bedroom, struggled to explain the situation to the King while Butterfly’s cries drowned out his voice on the phone, asked sweet Ladybug to get the beloved Mickey Mouse from Butterfly’s bed, loaded Ladybug into the car (wearing one pink flip-flop and one brown one), came back for Butterfly, got her buckled, retrieved a wet washcloth and cup of water, and finally headed to the ER.

We chose the smaller, closer hospital and were glad to find an empty waiting room. The King arrived to corral Ladybug, and the big girl and I headed back. During the next two hours, I cuddled her in the small bed as they poked and prodded the wound (which was surprisingly deep), bound her arms to her side with a pillowcase and tight sheet, injected anesthetic, and sewed up my kid’s head. How did the two of us survive it? With stories. As long as I kept up a running narrative, Butterfly made it through the frightening and painful experience. She was amazingly brave. Somehow, I was too. (In the photo, a bandage covers most of the wound, which stretches about a quarter inch or so above her eyebrow.)

I guess all parents whose children have such accidents replay the incident in their minds and wonder. What if I’d taken her to the “park” when she asked instead of concentrating on the ever-present laundry? What if I’d run from the “tornado” with her when she wanted me to? What if I’d noticed how quickly she was hurtling herself down the hallway, eyes closed and completely oblivious to the corner where the two walls joined? What if…? All unanswerable questions.

I am so grateful to live in a place and time that offers relatively fast, highly clean, and overwhelmingly kind emergency care. I’m thankful for a gentle doctor who asked my daughter about her favorite Disney princess, confiding in her that, if given a choice, he’d marry Belle. I’m glad for the nurse who gave Butterfly her own piece of foam tape, which she applied to her stuffed Mickey in various places as we waited.

Butterfly’s forehead is marred with four or five black stitches (with dissolvable ones reconnecting the second layer that was split beneath). She will likely bear at least a slightly visible scar. Her head will hurt for a few days. My heart will hurt much longer. But she is healthy and whole, and after a thirty-minute nap, a hearty omelet dinner, a big bowl of ice cream, and fun time with her aunt Katie and Katie’s boyfriend Murray (hereafter known as the Scottish Pirate), she happily went to bed.

We survived. And it was a tangible example of the fact that bad things happen in life, but, with a positive, honest outlook and a good story, we can make it through them.

WARNING: SPOILERS GALORE

After waiting far too long for a delayed release, I’ve seen it twice, and I’m hoping for a third viewing in a few weeks. Yes, it was that good. Here’s what I liked and what I didn’t like about the long-awaited film, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince:

What I liked:
- The three main actors. Emma, Dan, and Rupert have portrayed Hermione, Harry, and Ron for nearly ten years now. Watching them grow, both physically and as actors, is a treat. Increasingly over the span of six films, the chemistry between them radiates from the screen. In this one more than any other, each actor seems completely at home in his or her role.

- The adults. As always, an outstanding lineup of British actors portrays the roles of professors and Death Eaters, and they’re all brilliant. Three stood out in this film: Gambon as Dumbledore, simultaneously communicating confidence and uncertainty; Rickman as Snape, whose delivery of his lines is perfectly chilling and yet indicative of his inner conflict; and Broadbent as Slughorn, expertly showing us both his nervous guilt over a secret from his past and his greedy delight over various “collected” students.

- The teen angst and romance. The actors obviously had a blast portraying the ups and downs of teenage emotions. Jessie Cave was hysterical as Ron’s love interest Lavender Brown. Hermione’s jealousy was palpable, as was Ron’s smug attitude. Harry’s side glances at Ginny were amusing, as were Cormac’s revolting advances toward Hermione. The scene between Hermione and Harry after Ron kisses Lavender is touching and wholly believable.

- The Weasley Burrow. It’s always fun to walk through the Weasley’s magical home, with its impossible staircases and passages. I enjoyed seeing Arthur’s shed full of “Muggle artifacts.”

- The Felix Felicis scenes. Dan’s portrayal of Harry after he drinks “liquid luck” and follows its lead to discover Slughorn’s secret is excellent. The change in Harry is immediately evident: he’s confident, smug, and brash. His interactions with Slughorn are hilarious.

- The memories of Tom Riddle. The two actors who played Tom were spot-on—creepy, arrogant, confident, chilling. I truly believed those youngsters would grow up to be Voldemort.

- The cave scene. Both frightening and heartbreaking, the scene in the cave is well done. Dumbledore’s struggle to drink the potion and uncover the suspected horcrux was horrifying to watch, and I felt Harry’s urgency and agony as he forced his beloved headmaster to swallow until the liquid was gone.

- Draco’s inner battle. Tom Felton did a fine job of showing Draco’s conflict over doing what the Dark Lord required of him and being true to himself. For the first time, I was able to feel sorry for Draco, and that’s saying something.

- The scene at the tower and the pursuit. It wasn’t long enough, but it was superbly acted by all—Bellatrix’s madness, Draco’s struggle, Snape’s reluctant intervention, Dumbledore’s convincing pleas, and a wide-eyed Harry watching it all from below. Then came Harry’s anger as he chased Snape and charged him to fight back, effectively communicating both rage and grief over what he had witnessed.

- The tribute to Dumbledore. It wasn’t what I expected, but the raised wands that blotted out the Dark Mark in the sky, the genuine tears over the immense loss, and Harry slumped over Dumbledore were incredibly moving.

What I didn’t like:
- The attack on the Burrow. Like a few other unnecessary added scenes that took time from more important segments of the film, I thought this contrived attack was melodramatic and unbelievable. Enough said.

- The reaction to Dumbledore’s death. I noted above that the wand-raising was moving, but I still needed more closure to the loss of such a fascinating individual. Aragog the spider got a funeral. Why didn’t Dumbledore? I hope the seventh film offers a bit more reaction. It would be a fitting way to open part one of the Deathly Hallows.

- Ginny’s interactions with Harry. I’ve always enjoyed Bonnie Wright’s portrayal of Ginny, but it strikes me that she really hasn’t had much of a role thus far. In this film, when she needed to step up and prove herself a powerful force in Harry’s life, one strong enough to attract him to her, I think she fell a bit short. She’s a lovely girl, but I didn’t feel that she communicated Ginny’s fiery passion. At all.

- The omission of Tom’s family history. I thought we needed more of Tom Riddle’s background to understand the last two films. As my friend Monica said, Harry’s certainly going to need his friends’ help to find the remaining Horcruxes since he missed so many essential memories about Tom.

- The length of the climax and the absence of the battle. It’s been long enough since I read the book that I can’t fully remember the climactic events at the end of it. Even so, the confrontation on the tower and the following brief interaction between Harry and Snape, though brilliantly acted, weren’t quite enough for me. I knew something was missing, and I needed more.

Overall reaction:
Fabulous adaptation of the sixth part of Harry’s story, even with its glaring additions/omissions. Strongly acted, beautifully scored, and powerfully moving. How long until November 2010?

I like lists, both making them and reading them. When I get to the end, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. For today’s list, I thought about sharing what with you. Then I figured why is a lot more interesting. So here’s my list of why, part 1.

1. Why I prefer reading and writing children’s literature. By children’s, I mean anything from picture books to teen fiction. I’ll admit I haven’t read much adult fiction, so my opinion is definitely biased. From the few pieces I’ve read, though, I have to say that children’s literature seems to offer more imagination, hope, and freedom to dream. Whether it’s fantasy, coming-of-age, or some other kind of tale, I’m completely pulled into books about or directed toward young people. In the best of these books, the characters are palpable, the life lessons subtle, the humor abundant, and the endings nearly always hopeful, if not necessarily happy. I enjoy writing for this age group for similar reasons. I’ve found that I don’t need explicit descriptions of sexual encounters to sense passion between individuals. I don’t need long, drawn-out, brutal death scenes to appreciate depth of loss. I don’t need excessive profanity to understand the fire behind a character’s words. The bottom line is that I simply think children’s literature is more fun and fulfilling to read. With limited reading time, I go with what I love.

2. Why Harry Potter is an obsession of mine. My infatuation with all things Harry Potter ebbs and flows with the book and movie releases. Recently, I’ve rewatched movies 3 and 4 and will soon watch 5 to get ready for the release of 6 next month. Of course, the books trump the movies any day, but time constraints don’t allow me to reread them in the way I’d like. As for Harry, there’s something incredibly moving about witnessing him transform from a small, awkward, and unaware young wizard into a force that defeats the wizarding world’s greatest enemy. Perhaps most fascinating is that he doesn’t actually evolve all that much. While his perspective on life and death and good and evil greatly matures, he is still Harry at the end of the series—awkward, slightly unsure, not at all self-glorifying. There are things to complain about regarding some of Rowling’s logic and lack of editing, but overall the series is powerful, captivating, and enduring. I look forward to reading the books with my kids in a few years. (As for the religious controversy over the books, I say it all comes back to Glenda’s question in The Wizard of Oz: “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?” Clearly, Harry is good, as hard as it is to be good in a world where evil is so tantalizing.)

3. Why I put my kids to bed at 8:00 every night. Plain and simple, they need the sleep, and the King and I need the time to ourselves. Additionally, my children wake up by 6:30 nearly every morning, regardless of when they go to bed, so why not get them down early and extend the night for everyone? Although you can never be certain of a family’s reasoning, I still cringe when I’m at a grocery store at 9:00 pm and see small children gallivanting around with their parents. Put them to bed already!

4. Why I believe in God. Science intrigues me. The more I learn about our amazing universe, the more I feel certain that there is a Higher Power behind it all. I simply can’t accept the fact that everything, from the enormity of the sun that sustains our life to the tiniest particles that make up our cells, randomly exploded into being. As for the particulars of how, when, why, and exactly what, most days I’m content to discover those things as God chooses to reveal them. I know many intelligent, logical, reasonable people disagree with this belief in a Supreme Force. But I believe. I’ve found that I can’t do otherwise.

5. Why I’m a Baptist. I’d like to say it’s because I admire Baptist principles like freedom of interpretation, separation of church and state, priesthood of the believer, autonomy of the local church, etc. Those are indeed lofty principles when applied to the way one worships God. To be honest, though, I’m a Baptist because I was born into it. Who knows how it would be otherwise. I might just as easily be a Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Catholic, some other religion, or not a believer at all. I’d like to think I’d be attracted to the Baptist faith as an outsider, but my particular denomination of Christianity has a poor reputation these days. However, being mature enough now to explore other groups, I choose to remain a Baptist mostly because of the historic principles listed above.

6. Why I give money to childhood cancer research/support organizations. Everyone needs a cause—a place to direct his or her money, time, and passion. For the King and me, it’s childhood cancer groups. Our main inspiration appears occasionally on my blog. A little girl with a big story, Catie Marie Wilkins battled medulloblastoma (aggressive brain tumor) for nearly four years. She passed on at age four in January 2007, just a week before her younger sister’s birth. I still follow the family’s journey, which Catie’s mother Jenny writes beautifully on her blog. What these children face is beyond horrifying. What their parents endure is unimaginable. The strength they all exhibit is breathtaking. The King and I are committed to caring for these kids and their families as much as we can, and hopefully we can increase our support and involvement as our own children mature.

7. Why symmetry drives me crazy. My husband is an engineer. For his work, symmetry is essential and even at times a life-and-death matter. However, he brings this into the home. The rugs must be completely straight, the pictures perfectly aligned, the colors mirror images of each other. We laugh about it because my instinct is to bump things slightly askew, to scatter the colors, to break the reflection. It makes life more interesting and unpredictable. Of course, John would say just the opposite.

8. Why I wear my seatbelt and switch off lights. It’s my dad. From the time we were small, he insisted that we buckle up while riding, and this was before seatbelt use was the law or even popular. Luckily, the habit stuck with me even through my teen years, when many of my friends considered seatbelts annoying and uncool. Now I have the law on my side, so I will accept no excuses from my own kids. As a Georgia Power engineer, my dad also nagged about us leaving lights on in unused rooms. At this point, I probably use more energy than I conserve because I flip off the lights even when I leave a room only for a few minutes. Thanks, Daddy. (:

9. Why I care about the Earth. I have a hard time understanding why anyone, especially those who believe in God, think caring for the Earth is some liberal, new age way to live. For me, it merely makes sense. When I think about the technological advances that have consumed our world in the past century, our progress blows my mind. Accompanying our advances in America is, unfortunately, a tendency to produce more waste that takes years to decompose (if it ever does), to collect material possessions in excess of anything anyone would ever need, to use our resources as if they are limitless (they’re not), and to disregard the fact that people across the sea still can’t count on clean water, much less electricity to power their lives. Why any Christian would think it’s not important to care for the Earth is totally beyond me. I can’t do it all, but I’ll do my best to recycle, reuse, and choose my food and products carefully in this little corner where I live.

10. Why I take a break from reading to read. The King simply shakes his head at me when, after a couple of hours of nightly editing, I crawl into bed to open a book and read for a few minutes. Let me assure you that there is an enormous difference in reading  someone’s writing in order to correct it and reading someone’s writing in order to enter another world. There is nothing—not movies, not vacations, sometimes not even time with friends—like sneaking away into the world created by a fiction author. I’m so thankful for books and only wish I had more time to read them.

To be continued….

I promise I’ve asked this question a hundred times in the past four days. We decided to introduce Ladybug to underwear this week. Not plastic, diaper-like pullups. Not even thick, padded training underwear.  Real underwear, with the likes of Elmo and Ariel plastered all over them. Beginning Monday morning, off came the heavily soaked diaper, and on went the undies. Ladybug was proud to wear them, proud to display them, and proud to soil them. Even with Nana and Pappy’s presence and encouragement, it took her a while to accept the repercussions of relieving herself without sitting on the toilet first. We even brought out the baby potty, which I despise, because she asked for it. After all, the little girls in her two potty-training books (Ashley and Prudence of My Big Girl Potty and Once Upon a Potty, respectively) got their own tiny potties. My preference would be to go straight to the toilet, albeit endowed with a smaller, cushiony potty seat. At least then Ladybug’s productions could go right where they belong. But no. My child has to use the little potty. She used it in the den. She used it in the kitchen. She even used it outside by the sandbox. Why is it that I can wipe this child’s bottom without grimacing for more than two years, but when I see the same stuff in a white plastic pot, I can barely keep from heaving?

Tuesday was a great day for Ladybug with many potty triumphs and only one accident. On Wednesday, though, she woke up with no apparent memory of the previous day’s accomplishments. And of course that was the day Nana and Pappy (my parents) chose to leave me all alone with the stubborn learner and her overzealously helpful big sister. It was a hot day, as June days tend to be in middle Georgia. We went out to the kiddie pool in our shady backyard. I asked Ladybug a dozen times if she needed to sit on the potty, which, conveniently, waited in the shadow of a nearby tree. “No,” she responded every time, and went back to making mud with pool water and the sand that blankets the playset area. (No one actually played in the kiddie pool.) Shortly thereafter, while I was chatting with my dear King, she squatted in her frilly Ariel swimsuit, looked at me, and said, “I poo poo.” I quickly hung up on my husband, hoping to catch her before she smushed it all into a goopy mess. (I didn’t.) What fun it was to try to clean her and her swimsuit and the floor where, of course, the swimsuit fell offending side down as I struggled with Ladybug. She was upset, and so was I. Finally, I regained control of myself and assured her, “It’s okay. Everyone has accidents.” Then I hugged her tightly and told her she was doing a great job with the potty. (She wasn’t.)

Thursday started off badly, with a urine spot on the floor in three different rooms before lunchtime. I nearly gave up and slapped a diaper on her. Fortunately, it was almost naptime, when she wears a diaper anyway. The day ended well. Once she awakened from her nap, she had no more accidents, even with the distraction of house guests. This morning, she seemed to be in the same mindset, in tune with her body, but eventually she forgot and had three accidents. Fun. We’ll try again after today’s nap. Maybe I can do this. Or maybe not. Either way, Ladybug doesn’t seem to care one iota.

I had planned to write an eloquent plea for donations to Catie’s Cure Classic, a golf tournament organized by my friend Jenny and her husband Tre’. They do it in memory of their sweet Catie, who died at age four from complications of medulloblastoma, a cancerous brain tumor. The tournament raises funds for CURE Childhood Cancer, an organization that helps finance research for innovative treatments and also directly supports families in emergency situations involving their sick children.

I’ve no need to write an eloquent plea, though, because my dear King did it for me. Please read his post, “Dragons that Won’t Fade,” and consider supporting this cause, even with a few dollars. Or, as the King says, if you aren’t already, get involved in caring for children in some way. It makes the world a much better place.

Since the beginning of the year, the King and I have attempted to refinance our home. After weeks of miscommunication with the various agencies involved, we finally completed the process and received enough cash back to remodel our kitchen. The most heavily used room in the house offered worn linoleum, damaged laminate countertops, and outdated stained wood cabinets. We didn’t need a makeover in the kitchen, but we desired one, and fortunately we were able to do it. The actual remodel involved about a month and a half of steps, including the temporary relocation of essential appliances like the stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher (yes, the dishwasher is essential in my house!); the removal of cabinet doors for sanding and painting (which made finding items so easy that I was tempted to leave them off); four days that the girls and I spent with my parents while a contractor laid the tile flooring; one day in which contractors installed the new quartz counters and sinks; and two days for the King and I to paint while the girls spent time with his parents. At long last, and thanks to many people (the Baucoms and Heather for decorating assistance; the grandparents for their babysitting), our country farm kitchen is transformed into a crisp, clean, useful, and pleasant space. All that remains is caulking, a few paint touch-ups, and the construction of a special cabinet/shelf to hold art supplies and cookbooks. I am truly grateful!

I love going to the movies. Before I choose a film to watch on the big screen, I check reviews. Yes, I’m one of those annoying people who says, “That got terrible reviews. The critics hated it!” or “The reviews were good. Most of the critics seemed to like it.” Then I’ll go a step further and shell out my hard-earned bucks ($8.00 a ticket!) for the ones the “professional movie watchers” like. Recently, though, I’ve only gone to the theater for movies I know I’ll enjoy, at least a little. Here are my thoughts on the last three I saw on the big screen:

1. Inkheart. This film is based on author Cornelia Funke’s brilliant trilogy (Inkheart, Inkspell, and Inkdeath) about a girl whose father can read characters out of (and, unfortunately, can read people into) books. The novels are lengthy, fully developed sagas packed with fascinating characters, suspense, life and death, and even romance. Translating the first book into a film seemed to me a daunting task. It turns out the critics were right about this one. Though the cast, including Brendan Fraser as the father Mortimer Folchart and Paul Bettany as Dustfinger (a character Mo reads out of a book), was well chosen and talented, the script fell flat. Full of cliches and special effects, the movie completely doused the passion in the novel, and the ending was terribly redone. I don’t want to see it again, and I’d like to ask the filmmakers to kindly leave my favorite books alone.

2. Star Trek. Unfortunately, I missed the Star Trek ship when it took off sometime in the late 1960s. I remember seeing bits and pieces of the entertaining/somewhat hokey TV show as my parents watched it. They moved on to the later series, meeting characters like Data and Wesley Crusher and Captain Picard. I did not. At first, I felt indifferent about this movie, but after its release, when the critics gave it rave reviews and many of my friends agreed with them, I decided to see it. It was, in a word, awesome. My sketchy Star Trek memory served me well as I recognized the young characters—Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Scott, Chekov, Uhura, Sulu. This film, which reveals the origins of the initial Enterprise crew, tells the story from a new perspective that leaves previous films unaffected. The clever writers and director can now build a series that hopefully won’t alienate lifelong fans. I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. It made me laugh and it made me think.

3. X-Men Origins: Wolverine. I didn’t like this movie as much as I wanted to. My mother read the comic book series and enjoyed the first two X-Men films, which tell stories about mutant humans who are mistreated because of their strange powers. Neither of us appreciated the third, The Last Stand, which heaped on the special effects at the cost of the story’s soul. Wolverine, the first film in what will supposedly be a new series, did the same. Even the presence of Hugh Jackman couldn’t compensate for the shallow story, hollow character development, and over-the-top special effects. The movie lacked intelligence. I felt played to as an audience member. Sure, it was fun to watch, but overall a disappointment. And you know what? The critics agreed.

Maybe these mysterious critics have some benefit after all. Or am I simply influenced by them so that I go into a film biased? Either way, I still love going to the movies.

Butterfly looks forward to our nightly book reading. Of course, we read at other times of the day too, but without fail, we close each evening by reading three books together. Over the past few months, our selections at the library have grown wordier. The King opened one of Butterfly’s choices last night, gasped at the pages and pages of words, and promptly informed her that it was a “daytime” book. I’ve done the same thing, but it is meaningful to me that my little girl loves reading as much as I do. I can only hope that her taste for books increases as she learns to decipher the letters for herself. Oh, what worlds that gift can reveal!

A couple of nights ago, I was doing the reading, and I pulled Shel Silverstein’s A Light in the Attic from the shelf. I thought Butterfly and I had exhausted the contents months ago, but we discovered a few poems we hadn’t yet read. This was one of them:

Put Something In

Draw a crazy picture,
Write a nutty poem,
Sing a mumble-gumble song,
Whistle through your comb.
Do a loony-goony dance
‘Cross the kitchen floor,
Put something silly in the world
That ain’t been there before.*

“Shel knew my daughters,” I thought. The truth is that Shel knew children. He knew they like gross things, strange things, silly things, wild things. And he wrote poem after catchy poem about such things.

I don’t know about the kids who fill your life, but I know my girls draw crazy pictures (especially Butterfly), create nutty poetry, sing nonsense songs (especially Ladybug), and dance like loonies. They constantly “put something silly in the world.” Their sense of humor, their ability to see the “funny” in almost everything, delights and inspires me. They haven’t yet learned to add cynicism to their humor or tell cruel jokes. I wish they never would, for this innocent source of all our laughter is one of the best things about life with children.

*Image and poem text from Shel Silverstein, A Light in the Attic (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1981).

Last night before climbing into bed to escape into a fabulous fantasy book, I looked at my alarm clock. I haven’t actually used it as an alarm clock in nearly four and a half years—almost to the day of Butterfly’s birth. Curious, I pressed the “alarm” button to see what time it displayed: 6:41. I’m not sure why I chose that rather random time to wake up for work, but just seeing those numbers reminded me of the terribly unpleasant jolt the clock gave when it yanked me from sleep. I don’t miss it at all.

Of course, I still wake up around 6:40 or so every morning, but now it’s to the chattering voice of Butterfly, our “morning glory,” who comes tiptoeing into our room until she stands right beside my face. Then she proceeds to say, “Mama,” and immediately begins a drawn-out explanation of the outfit she’s chosen or the stuffed-animal “scene” she’s created in her room or her plans for the morning. I can’t say it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, because most mornings I groan and fight the temptation to pull the pillow over my head and turn away from her. Even so, Butterfly’s voice beats the alarm clock any day.

No, I don’t miss that blaring alarm. I don’t miss having to hop out of bed and rush into getting ready for a day at the office. I don’t miss carefully choosing my ensemble and putting on makeup and fixing my hair just so. I don’t miss leaving my home for eight hours only to sit in one spot all day long and stare at a computer screen. I don’t miss the pressure I felt to fit everything else into a few hours after work—exercise, errands, dinner, leisure time, bills, attention to my dear husband. I don’t miss any of it. And I simply can’t fathom doing it with two small children in my life.

I like working independently, sitting comfortably on my sofa with my MacBook open in front of me, listening to my older daughter ask question after question about her “rest time” movie, getting up whenever I wish, and arranging my own schedule.

I get tired. I miss adult interaction. My girls frustrate me with their newly developed skills of arguing with each other. (See “Two Approaches to Conflict.”) My “me” time is extremely limited, since my days consist mainly of caring for the girls, editing intensely a couple of hours each day, cleaning house, doing laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, forgetting to get gas for the van, attending storytime or playdates, hauling the kids to preschool, paying bills, caring for pets, and loving on my man (yes, unfortunately my dear King often comes last in a long list). This is why I treasure those 20-minute sips of novel each night before I drift off to sleep. These days are not easy, and I am often exhausted and weary. I sometimes lose myself.

But this morning, as I watched Ladybug attempt to turn somersaults on the floor of my room while I folded laundry (she finally did it and then couldn’t stop doing it), and as I struggled for the hundredth time to portray a good enough “Rolfe” to suit Butterfly’s “Liesl” (she’s developed an affinity for The Sound of Music), I begged myself to soak it in.

Instead of wallowing in self-pity for the me that I sometimes miss, I want to soak in my little girls while they are little. While the days are ours to explore and discover, while our schedules are not yet packed with extracurricular activities and homework, while they still delight in my company, I want to soak it in.

There will come a time, not too far down this road, when I’ll have to start waking them up in the mornings, rushing them around to have breakfast and get dressed and out the door for school, carting them to different commitments, pressuring them to get their work done, struggling to fit in a family dinner, and steering them toward a healthy bedtime so we can do it all over again the next day.

Sure, I’ll be alone while they’re at school. If I have it my way, I won’t ever go back to an outside office. I might finally find the time and the muse to write that dream novel. But I’m sure, on occasion, I’ll miss those little giggles and voices. I’ll miss my tiny companions.

I won’t dwell too much on what’s to come or mourn too much when these days have passed. Instead, I’ll just soak it in. Right here. Right now.

1. See that your sister has something you desire or is doing something that irritates you. Either snatch the item angrily, or loudly shout “no!” When these tactics (inevitably) don’t work, use physical force. Punch, pinch, pull hair, scratch repeatedly for maximum effect. Refuse to stop until someone intervenes. Afterward, scream at the top of your lungs and punch, pinch, pull, and scratch the source of intervention. Continually attempt to escape your time-out spot with no pretenses of secrecy. Act indignant when your parent returns you to the spot. Finally resolve to drop crocodile tears and pout cutely, and say in your sweetest voice, “I ready to talk now.” Nod appropriately when asked if you will henceforth conform to expectations and not attack your sister. Inwardly commit to trying the same method at the next opportunity.

2. See that your sister has something you desire or is doing something that irritates you. Sweetly attempt to negotiate for said item by offering something less desirable in return, speaking in an attractive voice so as to distract your sister from the differing values of the items. Or, in the other case, begin to whine and plead with your sister to stop. Calling for Mama is sometimes helpful. When these tactics don’t work, either grab the item while forcing the one of lesser quality into your sister’s hand, or yell at the top of your lungs. In both cases, bursting into an impressive show of tears complete with a wailing voice and repeated pleas for the rightness of your case are essential. Continue the weeping as you sit in your time-out spot and struggle to prove the innocence of your actions. Finally, agree, wet-faced, to comply with expectations in the future. Inwardly assure yourself that your parent will one day realize that you never do anything wrong and will choose to side with you at all times.

Question: Can you figure out which of my daughters goes for which approach? They handle conflict very differently.

First of all, I’ve gotten helpful feedback from several of you—readers I didn’t even realize I had. Thanks for stopping by and especially for commenting about some of my more recent subjects, sensitive as they are. With the school issue in particular, it’s good to hear from various perspectives, but I feel especially encouraged by those who either attended public school or are sending their kids to one. Patrick said, “You’re always going to worry.” I’ll certainly agree with that! I thought I was a worrier BEFORE I had kids. Imagine me now. Even so, I find that I’ve been able to put my worries in perspective in a way I never thought I could.

As for the mysteries of this journey we call “Christianity,” “religion,” “faith,” “seeking,” or various other labels, I’m comforted to read that a couple of you are in the same boat with me on all this—or at least in the same river. I think some who “believe” are too quick to judge others as wayward when they dare to deviate from the party-line truths we’ve learned since childhood. I’m finding that this spiritual journey is much bigger than a narrow set of concepts with particular names. The magnitude of it—the sheer number of ways the Higher Power communicates with individuals—takes my breath away. What an honor it is to seek, to study, to learn, and to relate alongside all of you. I pray that we never make God too small, that we never think we know it all, that we are always willing to consider another’s perspective on this incredible, mysterious journey, even if it sounds completely crazy at first. We never know when God will reveal another aspect of God’s self to us.

As for my favorite television show, I simply can’t commit to my previous weekly analyses. I wish I could! It was helpful for me to rehash the details and pose my questions. Be assured, though, that my time is limited but my television is always on ABC at 9:00 on Wednesday nights! I haven’t missed an airing of Lost yet. Some amazing show, isn’t it?

Anyway, thanks again, my faithful handful of readers (and those who stop by occasionally), for offering your thoughts.

I leave you with this quotation used by the author of a recent work I copyedited:

Is openness to other ideas infidelity, or is it the beginning of spiritual maturity? What is it that can possibly take us so far afield from the initial believing self? How do we explain to ourselves the journey of getting from there to here, from unquestioning adherence to institutional answers, to the point of asking faithful questions? It took years before I realized that maybe it is belief itself, if it is real, that carries us there. Maybe if we really believe about God what we say we believe, there comes a time when we have to go beyond the parochialisms of law. …When we develop a spiritual life that is beyond some kind of simple, unthinking attachment to an inherited canon of behaviors, the soul goes beyond adherence to a system to the growth of the soul.

Joan Chittister, Called to Question: A Spiritual Memoir (Chicago: Sheed & Ward, 2004) 12, 13, 19.

Today, a dear friend told me he’s ready for Jesus to come. “I have a lot of questions,” he said. This man, who has lived a couple of decades longer than I, has already experienced a lifetime’s worth of misery, horror, and disappointment. Despite this, he’s neither sullen nor depressed. He’s actually quite jolly and a big kid at heart. He’s also a deep thinker, one who ponders the mysteries of life without fear and poses the unanswerable questions just for the sake of starting a meaningful discussion. He believes, even in all his uncertainty and wonderings, that when he dies he will go to be with Jesus, that he’ll get to ask all the questions that plague him.

On this Easter Sunday, listening to my friend, I nodded. I, too, have a lot of questions. I could write a list of them here, and they would make for a lengthy post indeed. They are the questions of many people, of the believers and the seekers and the curious and the wonderers. Most of these questions are unanswerable, at least on this side.

A disciple of Jesus—one who spent hours with him, ate with him, watched him interact with people, and heard his teachings on the great mysteries—had his own questions. Some call him “Doubting Thomas,” seeing his desire for proof as a negative characteristic. As recorded in the Gospel of John, he didn’t believe his friends when they told him they’d seen Jesus, alive and well, only days after his lungs stopped working while he hung on an instrument of torture. Thomas knew they’d put Jesus’ dead body in a tomb and sealed it. Despite his master’s hints along the way, he didn’t get it. Neither did they. Neither do I.

I don’t think Thomas was a habitual doubter. I think he doubted because of the overwhelming events he had witnessed. Limited in a human body just as we are, confined to a finite moment in time, he had difficulty understanding what Jesus meant by his teachings. I think he had a bold desire for the truth. I think he wanted to see for himself rather than basing his faith on hearsay. He had a need to connect with Jesus personally and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his Lord was truly alive again. I’m with him.

Fortunately for Thomas, he got his chance this side of the afterlife. He saw his friend, his master, his Lord—Jesus. In the flesh, in person, face to face in a real body. He even touched him. “Do not doubt but believe,” Jesus told him. Then comes the comment that pains me: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” (John 20:24-29)

For most of my life thus far, I’d have placed myself in the latter category. I have never seen Jesus Christ in the flesh, and yet I believe. As time rolls on, though, and as my list of questions grows longer, I find that I long to see him so I can believe more fully, more deeply, more certainly. 

I will continue to believe in a Higher Power, and I will continue to believe that part of that Power is Jesus. As for the details, though, I find that my brain mulls them over and over. I yearn for clarity. I know that, one day, I’ll either get clarity, or I’ll find that clarity doesn’t matter at all.

Is anyone with me?

Growing up, I lived in a small town in which there were three public schools: Smalltown Elementary, Smalltown Middle, and Smalltown High. I attended all three of them, and many of the kids who started with me at one of the few church-affiliated preschools journeyed through the next twelve years and sat with me at graduation. We weren’t all friends, of course, and kids left and new kids came, but we knew each other. We’d seen each other through the early years of runny noses and potty training, all the way through body hair and other major changes. Girlfriends, boyfriends, ridiculous fights, entertaining parties. We knew each other.

A couple of private schools also served our little county, but those of us in the public school tended to think poorly of the students there, calling them derogatory names and assuming they were all a bunch of snotty rich kids. I’m sure the other side thought no better of us.

I stand on the brink of sending my Butterfly to kindergarten. She has one year of preschool left. One last year of only going to school three days a week, three hours a day. Just one more year to enjoy long, unscheduled weekdays in which we explore the community libraries and playgrounds with no thought of homework or carpool lines. I’d be lying if I said I’m not scared out of my mind at the prospect.

Certainly, most parents feel wary about sending their firstborn children off for that initial school year. As long as I don’t fret too much or project my concerns onto my gal, I think we’ll make it. Like any change, this one will be difficult, but eventually we’ll adjust and live into a new normal.

It’s been tough to come to terms with where Butterfly will attend, though. Most of my friends, most of the moms at the preschool—most in my social group, I suppose—send their children to one of the numerous private schools in the area. It’s true that our county’s public schools have a poor reputation. These parents’ choices are understandable as they strive to provide their kids with the best education available. For us, it’s not an option. At least not yet. The King and I have decided to give the public school system a try. We hope that, by being as involved as possible, we can help our bright Butterfly thrive. We look forward to connecting with other families we might not encounter otherwise. We anticipate Butterfly’s meeting new friends. If need be, we are open to other options in the future.

Truthfully, I envy my best friend, a gifted teacher who will homeschool all three of her children this fall. I’ve watched her during this past year with her oldest daughter, heard them talk about the vibrant homeschool community in our area, seen them take advantage of museums and libraries and other weekday opportunities, and recognized the way their lives are being refreshed, relaxed, and revitalized as they set their own schedules. I have no doubt that my friend’s intelligent, creative children will do well with their mother as their teacher.

This too, however, is not an option for us. I shudder to think of the detriment I might cause to my girls’ educations if I chose to teach them at home. I shudder to think of my personal sanity. My gifts are simply not suited for homeschooling.

Some parents will send their kids to private schools, and that’s okay. Some parents will homeschool their kids, and that’s okay. Some, like us, will send their kids to public schools, and that’s okay too. We must choose what we think is best for our children, devote time to them, and express strong hope for their futures.

Yesterday, we celebrated our sweet Ladybug’s 2nd birthday again. I say “again” because her big party took place last Saturday, complete with Thomas the Train decorations, an amazing train cake made by my friend Heather, and many of the people we love all under one roof. Yesterday was no less exciting, as we, the grandparents, and aunt watched big sister dance at the Cherry Blossom Festival (she did well!) and then enjoyed the frisbee dogs and a few rides at the park. Oh, and the cotton candy, which we devoured in a matter of minutes. Last night, we ordered BBQ and sang happy birthday once more over an angel food cake iced with Cool Whip and fresh strawberries. We figured we’d had enough of delectable buttercream icing and heavy cake for a while.

Front and center was the chubby, soft-skinned, blond-haired little girl who entered our lives two years ago. She fills our days with the sound of her singing—and her screaming. She entertains us with her cute sayings, like the time she glanced out the window at the sleeping dog and said, in that adorable tiny voice, “Poor Pippin. He’s so tired.” She loves us with hugs and kisses and slaps at us when she doesn’t get her way. She enjoys reading books together and playing in the sandbox. Swings thrill her and baths excite her. She wants so badly to do what Butterfly does, and yet is fiercely independent in the next moment. We love and treasure her deeply. Happy birthday, precious Ladybug!

Today I sent Ladybug to school with a cute shirt I bought at a recent consignment sale. Bright yellow, the shirt bears a large smiley-face applique complete with blond fuzzy hair and orange bows. “Lil’ Mischievous,” it declares. It suits Ladybug to a “T.”

Now I think I need to find a similar shirt for Butterfly. On our drive home from the preschool, she told me how hot she felt at school—both on the playground and in her classroom. This child’s internal thermostat mirrors her daddy’s completely.

“I was so hot sitting on the rug that I spit into my hands and wiped my face with them,” she said proudly.

“Butterfly, that’s gross! You shouldn’t do that,” I exclaimed.

“Well,” she replied, “it did help me feel cooler.”

Just call her “Lil’ Resourceful.”

Ask Butterfly what the world looks like on Christmas morning, and she’ll tell you it’s covered with snow. Her vision fits well with the dozens of Christmas stories we’ve enjoyed together that depict children playing in the snow—woolen hats, mittens, and all. We talked about snow angels and snowpeople and footprints in the snow. She imagined how snowflakes might feel as they fell on her skin. Along with Ladybug, we even duplicated a preschool art project and made several of our own snowpeople to decorate the kitchen wall. Of course, we got no snow on Christmas. It was even warm enough for short sleeves.

But finally, at long last, a cautious weather report hinted at the possibility of snow in our southern town. I scoffed at first and tried to convince my little girl that, even if snow fell, it wouldn’t stick. Even so, after a couple of teases, the snow fell in earnest Sunday afternoon. I immediately bundled up Butterfly and sent her out with her daddy to explore the fresh, new world. As soon as Ladybug woke up (with my subtle help), I put on her snow clothes (such that we have, seeing as we NEVER get snow) and hurried her out.

I found the King and Butterfly happily enjoying the snowfall. Butterfly leapt around in the bed of the old truck, scooping up handfuls of white fluffiness and tossing them at her daddy, while the King kept rubbing his hands together. Both were red-nosed and pink-cheeked. Ladybug was more hesitant to join the fun, but soon I followed her as she trekked across the front yard, amazed at the tracks the created.

Snowfall has its own special sound. It muffles the rest of the world in a magical way. Covering the mud from the previous day’s rains, decorating the tree branches with a white fur coat, smoothing out the pitted yard, it made our neighborhood look like a dream. Thrilled beyond expression that my girls finally got to see this wonder of nature, I encouraged them to soak it in—build a (albeit teeny) snowman! throw snowballs! make tracks! form a snow angel (though Daddy doesn’t want you to get wet)! taste the snow!

The girls gladly obliged, twirling in the falling flakes, hitting me with a few well-packed and not completely comfortable snowballs, constructing a mini snowperson (and promptly squashing it), stomping their shoeprints into the slush, and generally echoing my own glee with the unexpected delights of a southern snowfall.

Of course, we only got a couple of inches. Of course, the temperature never dipped below 30 that afternoon. Of course, hard ice later replaced the soft snow, then melted into an unpleasant mush. Of course, by Monday, little was left for play. Of course, they girls may not see snow again in these parts for several more years.

But none of that matters because, for one totally magical afternoon, they got to enjoy one of the greatest delights of nature. We all played in the snow, and we have more than 200 pictures and film clips to remind us that it really did happen.