Queen Kelley

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.

The girls and I enjoyed a quickly planned visit today from members of the “G” family (see their blog in my links list). Cheryl and her two boys spent the morning and lunch with us while husband and father Fadi did some work in a nearby town.

Cheryl’s little man, who just celebrated his first birthday, bounced from one item to another, curiously exploring his new surroundings. Fearless and enthusiastic, he boldly toddled down the steps from our kitchen to the den, tasted every object he picked up, and entertained us with his babbles. All the while, his precious big brother slept either in his stroller or snuggled on the sofa. If you read the family’s blog, you’ll learn that their first son was born with brain abnormalities. Now, at age 3, he functions on an infant level and, sadly, can neither hear nor see.

It’s a journey I don’t know, a path I haven’t walked, a trial I can’t fathom. But Cheryl handles it with such grace. Since the beginning, she and her husband have struggled with the “why” questions and learned how to tame them, faced curiosity from strangers who wonder about their boy, and advocated for their sweet son’s health and quality of life. Through it all, at least by my own observance, they’ve managed to maintain a strong marriage and demonstrate both deep love for each member of their family and a steady faith in God.

It was great to spend time with part of this family today, to laugh at the baby’s antics as he followed my Ladybug around, to run my fingers through big brother’s beautiful dark curls and touch his smooth skin, to talk to Cheryl about everything from the difficulty of parents finding time for friendship to the results of her oldest son’s latest surgery.

For me, it was a time to be with a friend. It was also a time to reflect on the many different journeys we take as parents. Some parents travel down roads that seem so haunting to me. It doesn’t make sense that we can’t all travel the sunlit path. Though this path still has its storms, at least they’re predictable. I suppose the hardest thing about living in this world is encountering the unpredictable. Truthfully, none of us ever know what side roads our journeys will take. For me, this is why faith in a Higher Power, in God, is essential. I don’t know about everyone else, but it’s reassuring to know there’s something constant in a world of unknowns.

To people like Cheryl and Jenny (mother to a cancer angel) who sometimes stop by and read what I write, I say thank you for letting me into your lives. I’m an outsider, and there’s no way for me to comprehend your journeys as a parent. And to be honest, I don’t want to be an insider. Even so, I’m grateful that you share your lives with me. It’s a reminder of what I have and a conviction of what I need to do. God has shown me much through you.

image from www.ew.com

Last week’s episode was much more low key than recent shows. The focus narrowed to Jack for the majority of the running time, and I felt myself getting antsy for more drama.

1. One of my constant questions was finally answered, though: Why does Locke see Jacob as Christian Shepherd? Apparently, it is because Jack gave Locke’s dead body something that belonged to his father. While the serene-looking corpse lies way too still for a man like John Locke, Jack slips his father’s shoes onto John’s feet. This is the only way Jack can recreate his original flight to the island—to have a body in a coffin that retains something of his father. Doesn’t this answer the question, then? Locke and Shepherd are inextricably bound, and thus Locke sees Christian when he encounters the mysterious Jacob.

2. The Oceanic 6, by some strange twist of events orchestrated by Mrs. Hawking of the swinging pendulum and certainly by Ben, all ended up on the doomed plane again. I guess the rest of the season’s shows will explain how each one was convinced to get on the flight. Frank Lapidus as the pilot was an interesting touch.

3. So where are Sun, Sayid, and, most importantly, Ben, when they finally appear back on the island? And how exactly DID they get there?

4. Does anyone else feel extremely nervous watching plane crashes on TV?

5. How did Jin get from standing by the absent well in the previous episode to wearing Dharma gear and driving the van in this one? And it’s a pity that Sun wasn’t with Jack, Kate, and Hurley to greet her resurrected love.

6. Did anyone else find themselves saying, “Just read the darn suicide note already, Jack”?

This week promises to focus on John Locke, and I can’t wait!

Daniel, Charlotte, Sawyer (image from eonline.com)

Okay, so no more extensively detailed posts that offer my most confused musings on each episode. Last night rocked, though! Here are some quick points.

1. Did you notice Sun’s expression when Ben revealed that Jin lives? I had wondered if there were more to her vendetta than Jin (not that he wasn’t reason enough), such as something involving her daughter or some kind of crazy plot connected to Whidmore, but I was glad to see her unabashed love for Jin in her eyes.

2. Speaking of Ben, Michael Emerson nails him every week. He’s such an intriguing and disgusting character. I have no doubt that he is in complete control of just about everything on the show. And that’s frightening.

3. What is the deal with Daniel Faraday? He seems thoughtful and sympathetic one minute and sinister the next. Now that his mama’s identity is confirmed as Mrs. Hawking, aka Queen Creepy who works directly with Ben, I expect more to unfold about his true motivations.

4. Wasn’t John Locke’s scene deep underground moving? He asked for help, and when he didn’t get it, you could see all the struggles, doubts, hopes, and fears of his life flash across his face. And who wouldn’t be moved when he pulled himself up, protruding leg bone and all, and made his way to the donkey wheel. What a hero! Even if he’s wrong, clearly he thinks he’s doing what’s best for everyone.

5. Poor Charlotte. At least her last moment seemed pleasant.

6. Smoky’s back! Was it not incredibly spooky when the black smoke monster dragged the Frenchman through the jungle and deep into the dark hole? As for the French, now we know that Rousseau’s team did not, as she told the castaways a few seasons ago, die of some strange sickness. Rather, they began acting strangely possibly due to their association with Smoky and she (age 16 and pregnant, no less) shot most of them. I am curious as to how Ben ends up with her daughter.

7. Don’t you just love Sawyer? Okay, maybe I’m partial.

8. Kate’s pretty ticked at Jack, so it’ll be interesting to see how they go from ice-cold anger to heated passion by next week’s episode (at least as indicated in the preview).

9. I think Jack should be scared of Sayid. Don’t you?

10. It seems that Whidmore’s little group of scientists—Daniel, Charlotte, and Miles—had all been on the island before. We’re still awaiting confirmation of Miles’s presence in the past, but I’ll bet it’s coming.

11. Why in the world is Christian Shepherd personifying “Jacob”? I’ve been wondering that for a while now.

Looking forward to more!

Something had to go. When I spent the majority of Lost episode 3 taking notes to help with my blog post later, I realized that was not the best way to enjoy one of my favorite shows. Also, I simply can’t keep up with the posts this time around. Too many other tasks pull at me when I open the computer. Anyway, I’m fascinated and wonderfully confused by the season thus far, loving the characters and their intricacies, and excited about what will come next.

If you, like me, need some kind of recap to help you process what happens each week, I’d suggest reading “Doc Jensen’s” articles. He likes to go down rabbit holes, so prepare to skim certain paragraphs if that kind of thing bores you. You’ll find him at this Entertainment Weekly site. I’m heading there now to get a refresher course on episode 4. Happy “getting Lost” tonight!

Ever read another mother’s account of something her kid did and thought, “She nailed it”?

To start at the beginning, I’ll say that my heart goes out to families with sick kids, and I frequently get to know such families through their powerful blogs. Somehow I found “MckMama.” When I first landed on her site, she was pregnant with her fourth child (in four years) and had been told that the baby would surely die at birth due to irreversible heart failure. Now, this little boy is three months old and appears to have no lasting complications from his illness in the womb. Aside from being a photographer who posts breathtaking photos of her children, food, the ice and snow of the frozen tundra where they live, and anything else she finds interesting, MckMama is clever, witty, and entertaining. I’ve read her “Have a Question? Check Here First!” articles on the left side of her blog. In many ways, her approach to rearing kids, her marriage, and God differs greatly from my own. In other ways, of course, we’re on the same page. Regardless, I enjoy her updates and empathize with her about life, even as I wonder how in the world she does it with so Many Small Children (MSC, as she dubs them).

This post is a case in point. Any mamas and daddies who click on this link and read it (and any aunts/uncles/cousins/friends of little ones who’ve been there and can vouch for its validity), let me know if you can identify! Note: MckMama identifies her four children by McDonald’s menu items.

What? It’s fun! And clever. Clever, I tell you.

Finally, at long last, our favorite bewildering show returned Wednesday night. And finally, nearly a week later, I am sitting down to reflect on it. The two new episodes that aired last week continued the Lost trend of raising more questions than they answered. But they did offer some answers.

1. We see that Asian Dharma guy has a wife and kid. It all seems so normal until he sits in front of the camera to record one of his instruction videos (needing no script) and then begins to get visibly agitated by interruptions. That is, until he realizes his workers have found the energy field of the Island. He mentions the possibility of time travel, and we see the image of the wheel, so we know this is where Ben turned the crank. Additionally, Daniel is there! What more does Dharma guy know?

2. A few scenes later we get our first real glimpse of time travel this season, as the Island moves in time, along with the people on it. Our heroic survivors face one difficulty after another, ranging from the loss of their camp and supplies to being shot with fiery arrows. It appears that they will soon die, either of a strange sickness or attacks, if the 6 fail to return. The messianic figure of Locke is separated from the others for the majority of the airtime, meeting people like Others Ethan and Richard “the Ageless,” each of whom further define his role in saving the island. Apparently, he has to get the Oceanic 6 back and will die in the process (as we know from seeing him in the coffin). Does the concept of time travel make anyone else’s brain hurt like it does mine?

3. Sayid springs Hurley from the asylum only to put him in grave danger. Eventually, Ben comes for them both and Hurley is so freaked that he turns himself in to the cops staked outside his home, admitting to murders he didn’t commit. Kate flees to LA after lawyers come to test her relationship to Aaron (in a scene complete with a creepy dream in which Claire tells her not to take Aaron back to the Island). Sun is intent on killing Ben with Widmore’s help. Clearly, Ben’s little roundup game isn’t going as well as he planned. Will he be able to get them all to comply? If he does, what will happen to everyone? Is Ben intending to reclaim his role as Island leader? After all, what is there for him in the off-island world? And who is the butcher woman who offers to keep Locke’s body safe for Ben?

4. The show ends with a scene between Ben and the Hawking lady we’ve seen before. She says the event window has been determined and that Ben has 70 hours. “What happens if I can’t get them all?” Ben asks. “God help us all,” the woman replies gravely. Indeed.

It will be interesting, to state it mildly, to see what the show’s writers and directors have in store for us this season. I, for one, am grateful for the consistency among the characters. Consider Hurley. He’s always funny, even when he is suffering or confused or frightened. Who else but Hurley would see Ana Lucia in a hallucination? Who else but Hurley would fling a hot pocket at Benjamin Linus? Who else but Hurley would give his mom a Cliff’s Notes version of the craziness that happened on the Island? Consider Sawyer. Even in the middle of a battle for his life, he can think of new nicknames for those around him. Even in the confusion of time travel, he looks great shirtless. Consider Kate. She’s still awkward as a mom. She’s still running. Consider Jack. Like last season, he thinks he has everyone’s best interest at heart and struggles to do the best thing for all. He’s probably wrong, of course, but you’ve got to give the guy credit.

Anyone else looking forward to tomorrow night’s episode?

To my loyal friends who check my blog frequently and come up short, I thank you for coming and apologize for not updating more frequently. Somehow, this simple outlet for my writing and thoughts has suffered neglect in the past month or two. Blame it on the holidays, Facebook, or a heavy workload. All of them apply from time to time. Anyway, I hope to post more often. (I dare not say “I resolve”!)

My cyber friend and young adult author Robin Brande recently issued a challenge to us aspiring writers, especially those of us who have never truly completed a novel. In this post, Robin challenges us to write not one, but three entirely new novels by June. She advises us to choose our favorite escapist genre. What kind of book do I pick up to get away from life? When I have my few moments to dive into a story before nodding off at night, what do I choose? Robin says to put aside the book we’ve labored on for so many months, struggling to perfect it and flesh it out and finish it, and start a completely new tale in our favorite escapist genre. She says to bang out a book from start to finish with no thought to the details, then put it aside, bang out another, put that aside, and bang out a third. Then, she says, when we’ve finished three, we can choose our favorite and work to improve it.

Three novels? Three novels, on top of two kids, a husband, friends, parents, a house, The Dog Whisperer and The Office and Lost, Bible study, Facebook, blogging, church, bills, grocery shopping, a shower at least a few times a week (!), not to mention more editing deadlines and projects than I’ve had in quite a while? Three? Is she crazy?

Robin’s thought is that one of the biggest hindrances to decent writers is never finishing a project. I can certainly vouch for that. I get so caught up in what I’ve already written and what might need to come next that I lose all the wonder and excitement of writing a good story. Maybe her challenge is exactly what I need.

I don’t want to be overly ambitious, though. Not with two little ones to care for and all the other plates spinning rapidly in my life. Maybe I’ll commit to one novel. That challenge, for me, is formidable enough. I’ll simply have to set aside some 20-30 minutes a day (at the very least) to get going. I’ll try to keep you posted on my (non) progress. And I’ll try to limit my other Internet time. We’ll see how it goes….

You thought I was going to write a poem, didn’t you? Well, that’s not my forte. Still, I thought the title was fitting for my subject matter. Right now, here’s what I like about my husband, the not so shallow thinker:

1. He kissed me yesterday and said, “Do you realize it’s been ten years to the day since our first kiss?” What?! Who keeps track of that stuff? I shouldn’t be surprised, though. This is the same man who delivered a half-dozen yellow roses to me nine and a half years ago and said, “Happy six-month anniversary from our first kiss!”

2. He kicked his Mountain Dew habit through a careful plan of reduction. Impressive. I’d like to follow him and kick my dark chocolate habit, but alas, the stuff’s simply too good. And doesn’t it contain, like, antioxidants or something?

3. He now gets up at 6:00 am to walk our dogs. A few weeks ago, he and my dad watched an episode of the Dog Whisperer (another post in itself!). The King culled the tips and began teaching them to our slow-witted canines. Never mind the fact that we recently taught Butterfly to stay into her room until 7:00 just so we could sleep a bit later.

4. He reads enthusiastically to Butterfly, even when the three books she chooses are the longest in the collection and the 8:00 bedtime hour is breached.

5. He bathes, diapers, wipes, sings to, feeds, chases, swings, dances with, cuddles, constructs with, does art with, holds, and deeply loves our daughters. He also embraces, kisses, holds hands with, spends time with, goes on dates with, talks to, and deeply loves me, his wife. In short, he provides our girls with an example of the best a man can be.

6. He sincerely tries to live a healthy lifestyle. (See numbers 2 and 3 above.)

7. He makes people laugh.

8. He knows how to explain complicated information in a way that most people understand.

9. He realizes that the more we know, the more there is to know, and that applies to many aspects of life—especially God.

10. He respects what and how people believe about various things, but he is bold in presenting his own views.

11. He never says no to Marble Slab ice cream.

12. He kindly tolerates the numerous visits and gatherings that take place within my family.

13. He understands my love of books, even when I use my feet to hold the pages open while I floss my teeth before bed.

14. He believes in my dream to be a novelist. And he keeps reminding me that I need to write!

15. He still finds me interesting after seven and a half years of marriage. And I feel the same about him.

I love you, my King.

As my King mentioned on his post about our gift-wrapping date last night, we watched the Mel Gibson movie The Patriot. I decided that, rather than renting movies we think we want to see, we might as well utilize our significant DVD library and rewatch a few proven favorites. It will be fun to see how they look on the new TV. When I mentioned my list of possibilities to the King, he was keen on my war and special-effects suggestions but slightly less interested in the ones that featured Johnny Depp or Brendan Fraser. Hm.

Anyway, we popped in Gibson’s flick about a motherless family during the Revolutionary War. The movie is not without a large helping of cheese. It’s full of moments contrived simply to make one feel a big dose of American pride. (Though, as I watched the scenes with the African American soldier, I couldn’t help thinking, “This brave man is fighting for a country who won’t give him true freedom until the 1960s, at which point the damage will be so entrenched in the lives of his descendants that they’ll spend years struggling for equal treatment.”)

Even with its problems, though, there’s no doubt that this film, and others like it, pull at my emotional heartstrings and make me ever grateful to those who serve our country, then and now. I may not agree with the initiative for our current war, and I honestly don’t advocate war as a way to solve problems, but the fact is that our world is fallen, and war is the way we deal with our issues. As long as that’s true, women and men will continue to leave their families and journey to a faraway place. They will risk their lives daily in hopes that their many sacrifices will somehow help the world.

The most memorable quote from the movie last night came from Benjamin Wallace (Mel Gibson’s line paraphrased): “Why do we think we can justify death? Is it because we’re arrogant?” I thought about that. We do try to justify the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people who have been killed over the centuries on both sides of our wars. And it does indeed seem like arrogance.

But we’re human, and we need explanations for the horrors in our world. This Christmas, I can’t explain why a young girl will lie in bed missing her mother, why a teenage boy will sit in a tent somewhere writing a letter to parents on the other side of the world, why a mother and father will weep at the sight of an empty chair at their traditional dinner. This goes for all “sides” fighting in the war.  I can, though, say thank you to these families and individuals. I can remember them. I can choose not to take their sacrifices for granted. I can light a candle to honor them and say a prayer to a God whom I believe advocates the way of Peace.

Happy Holidays to all who sacrifice for their countries! May you be blessed no matter how far apart you are from your loved ones.

You know, in this world full of the objectification of females—panties marketed for four-year-olds with phrases like “hot” and “sassy” written across the rear, revealing attire worn by women in most media, and impossibly shaped dolls—I’ve discovered something refreshing. The Barbie company, at least, plays it equal. The jeans they manufacture for their male dolls are just as revealing as the dresses made for the females. While Barbie’s entire bare chest is visible above the tiny strip of fabric they call a tube top, her guy friend’s whole bum shows above his low-rise jeans, especially when he sits down. There you have it, folks—equal opportunity in the world of Barbie dolls.

Our experiences with both of our girls and their frustrating sleep habits have taught us an important lesson: do not go to them at night unless we know for sure they need us. We follow this rule most nights, letting Ladybug chatter or cry out without sweeping in to soothe her. (Butterfly is a different matter now, as she sleeps in a “big-girl” bed and comes to our room to disturb us as she pleases. We plan on keeping the little one caged as long as possible!)

Without exception, though, each night as we head to bed, one of us checks on the girls. After all, it’s usually been a good two or three hours since we got them settled. And I always love watching them sleep—so peaceful, so calm, so silent, except for the sweet sound of their steady breathing. Last night’s checkup nearly backfired, though. After turning off Butterfly’s glowing Christmas sign and cracking her door again, I entered Ladybug’s room quietly, or so I thought. As I neared her bed to look at her, though, she started mumbling. Oh no! I thought, and quickly shifted closer to the changing table/cubby shelf so I’d be at her feet rather than her head. I stood there, frozen in the dim glow of her Christmas lights (which stay up as a year-round valance over her windows), hoping she wouldn’t turn her head my way or, worse, sit up in bed.

She remained on her belly, kicking her legs so that her toes slammed repeatedly against the mattress. She called her sister’s name, then started saying, “Mommy lap. Mommy lap.” Eventually, she rolled to her side, facing out into the room, and let out a few sobs. I was standing a mere two feet away, just waiting for her to notice the mommy figure haunting her night. Somehow, she didn’t, even when she rolled onto her back and started waving her stuffed Elmo in the air. She sobbed a few more times, sparking a debate with myself: -Should I pick her up? -No way! She’ll never go back to sleep! -Still, she’s sad. She needs me. -DO NOT PICK HER UP. Stay still. 

I stayed still, hardly daring to breathe. Then, to my horror, she sat up. I knew I was done for. Amazingly, though, she simply turned toward her undersea lullaby machine and pressed the “on” button. After that, she flopped back down on her belly, turning her face toward the wall. I took my chances and hurried to the cracked door, crouching at the foot of the nearby twin bed so I could make sure she slept before I escaped into the light of the hallway. Heart pounding, I peered around the bed corner and saw her lying there with her bottom in the air, silhouetted by the wavy blue light from her toy. With a huge inward sigh of relief, I quickly left the room.

In our bedroom, the King looked at me questioningly. “I got stuck in there!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were rocking her,” he said. No. That would have been much too logical. I proceeded to explain my covert actions at Ladybug’s bedside. The King was impressed by my stealth. I could see it in his eyes. “Did you cover her?” he asked. Are you kidding me? It was all I could do to get in and out without starting the neverending night. (Yes, Ladybug really is that difficult to get back to sleep.)

I think I’ll let the King check on the girls tonight. He can be the one to watch their innocent sleeping. As for me, I’ll just go to bed and hope for the best.