Queen Kelley

How do you prepare a five-year-old child for a colonoscopy? You don’t say, “Sweetie, the doctor needs to check your colon for growths, bleeding, or other irregularities. He will sedate you through an IV and stick a thin, flexible probe up your rectum so he can take pictures and biopsies. In order for him to do this, your colon needs to be completely clean, so Mommy and Daddy will deprive you of food for more than 48 hours. You can only have clear liquids, gelatin, and a limited number of popsicle flavors during that time. Oh, and you’ll also have to drink an over-the-counter laxative every two hours until your bowel movements are runny and clear. Okay?”

No. Instead, you say, “Sweetie, the doctor wants to take pictures of the inside of your tummy. We want him to be able to see everything, so your tummy has to be clean. It can’t have food in it. This weekend, you get to have special things like all the juice you want, popsicles, and jello! We’ll mix a special medicine into your juice to help you go potty. On Monday, the doctor will help you fall asleep so he can take pictures, and then we’ll go home and you can eat! Okay?”

The King and I bore the burden of knowledge for more than a week without telling our daughter. We wondered how she’d take it. I, for one, am grateful for a husband who took Butterfly aside on Saturday morning, cuddled her in his lap, and gently relayed the news to her. From her reaction, you’d think he’d offered her a trip to Disney World.

GG, the King’s mother, came to take Ladybug away for two nights. Without her sister’s competition for attention, Butterfly thoroughly enjoyed her two full days of having Daddy, Mommy, and Nana (my amazing Queen Mother!) all to herself, complete with new activity books, food coloring to mix into shaving cream, a new movie, a fresh box of colored chalk, and plenty of one-on-one time with each of us in turn. She drank her Miralax-laced juice like a champ, handled the resulting potty trips with grace, and suffered through a few bites of jello and sips of broth. Only on Sunday evening did she begin to complain of an aching belly.

By the time we made it to the hospital on Monday morning for our 8:30 check-in, our girl was puny. She rarely spoke, grew listless, and fell asleep several times as we waited in our little corner of what eventually became the recovery room, along with five other children getting upper GI scopes. One by one, the kids went away, got their IVs, and returned, only to leave again on their rolling beds for their procedures. A kind nurse came to give and get information, noted Butterfly’s condition, and quickly ordered fluids for her IV. The King carried her back for access, and later he reported that once her beloved Mickey Mouse got his IV, she took hers well. Apparently, the “magic cream” they rubbed at the site made the needle stick painless.

The fluids perked her up a little; she watched the Disney Channel while we waited for her turn. Nothing prepares you for witnessing powerful drugs put your little one to sleep. Even so, Butterfly (and her parents) did well. After the brief procedure, the doctor (whom I’ll call “Dr. GI”) spoke with the King and me, telling us about his findings. Unfortunately, Butterfly has some form of colitis. We are waiting for results from the biopsies Dr. GI took, which will help him determine between ulcerative colitis or Crohn’s Disease. He thinks colitis is the most likely diagnosis, which involves less of the digestive system than Crohn’s.

We were all surprised, considering Butterfly’s healthy weight, eating habits, and active lifestyle. Dr. GI said the lining of her colon bleeds easily and sloughs off. We saw pictures, and the problem is obvious. Basically, this is worse than we expected but not as bad as it could be. Medication can help control the chronic condition, and she will likely have a thriving adulthood. With good treatment, Butterfly can avoid any complications from the disease. I know enough about childhood afflictions to be grateful for something treatable.

The King and I are still trying to process what we learned. Of course, our consult with Dr. GI once the results come back will help. For now, we enjoy watching Butterfly as she enjoys life—creating her artwork, making “soup” outdoors from various nature items, playing with friends, telling us about her days at school, and aggravating her little sister. For now, we live.

Yes, it’s been a long time. Personal writing is not a priority in my life right now. If it were, I’d take time to do it more often. The good thing is I’m okay with that. For now. On to the post…

We’ve all been there: bearing a burden for days at a time, maintaining relative control of our emotions, moving through life as usual despite the knot in our stomachs. And then we reach the boiling point.

For me, it was last Friday morning. In December, I wrote generally about a medical issue Butterfly faced. Since then, the King and I have debated whether to go through with the recommended test. Meanwhile, Butterfly continued to have sporadic episodes of diarrhea and bleeding. We finally realized that the colonoscopy, a test most people don’t think about until they’re fifty, was necessary for our five-year-old. (Check back for more regarding the test and results.)

So there I was on Friday morning, after a week of knowing the scheduled date for the scope, mentally preparing myself to deny my daughter food over the weekend, and it all boiled over. The girls were dressed for school, and I looked forward to the much-needed three hours of work time before the trials of the next days. We needed to leave in ten minutes. Then Ladybug, nearly ready to claim her place in the “Trying Threes,” refused to let me comb her hair. She also refused to comb her own hair. She whined, she resisted, and she attacked. Eventually, I calmed her. At the door downstairs, though, she refused to put on her shoes and had another meltdown. After buckling a placid Butterfly into her booster seat, I returned to the house to get my wailing younger daughter. At long last, my heart pounding in frustration (it was, after all, 9:00, and we were supposed to be at school), I sat at the steering wheel. Unbelievably, the car wouldn’t crank, apparently the result of a door left open for hours the day before.

That did it. For perhaps the first time, my girls saw me cry. It silenced their argument. I tried unsuccessfully to phone a friend, and then I just sat there struggling to compose myself. Several minutes passed, and then Butterfly said calmly, “Why don’t we just get out of the car?”

We did. We went inside. I was able to reach my friend, who graciously came and drove us to the preschool thirty minutes late, where dear, sweet teachers welcomed my girls with smiles and open arms. I got more than two hours to finish editing an overdue book for my supervisor.

For some, exceeding the boiling point is healing. It was for me. I spilled out the rough bits and discovered smoother waters beneath. Thanks to the physical release of sobs and the rescue of a priceless friend, I was able to move ahead with the path awaiting me. Sometimes we have to reach the boiling point before we can go forward. When I do, at least I have a little observer who puts life into perspective. Check out the picture Butterfly drew to capture the moment. Ladybug sits in the back seat. I’m in the front. Butterfly, my hero, stands outside the car, using her long super arm to try to push the vehicle out of the garage. “It didn’t work,” she told me. But look at her smile. She reminds me that, even when it doesn’t work, it will be okay.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

It’s been difficult to keep up with the blog lately, mostly due to a heavy workload. It seems that since our Wicked weekend, we’ve faced one thing after another—whether it be a deadline for an editing project, necessary overtime for the King, a UTI for Butterfly, or my own little stomach bug this week. I enjoyed my birthday weekend (I turned 31 on Sunday). We spent it attending the party of my best friend’s little girl, enjoying the company of the fabulous Macon grandparents (who aren’t really grandparents but certainly act like them), and eating chocolate cake. I even got money, some soft pajamas, and a precious homemade card from my Butterfly. Who says birthdays aren’t important once you turn 30? I try to milk them for all they’re worth.

Monday went by normally. The girls and I spent a quiet day in the house, as it was too cold and windy to venture out. We all need downtime, days when we expect nothing of ourselves but relaxed, spontaneous playtime together. By Monday night after dinner, though, I had a mild stomachache, which graduated to intense pain after the girls drifted off to sleep. As the King noted in his post, I felt too awful to leave the couch at my own bedtime and ended up tossing and turning downstairs throughout the night. Of all common sicknesses, I think a stomach bug is the worst, whether it happens to me or my kids. It’s just the worst feeling! Fortunately, I have an incredible husband who stayed home most of Tuesday, even though his workload triples mine right now. He spent quality time with the gals, allowing me to rest and read when I felt like it.

This morning, my appetite is slowly returning. I’ve missed it! The girls are playing calmly, and we’re thinking about heading to the library for storytime. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll make it to this much-anticipated Halloween and also Butterfly’s combo birthday party Saturday, which she is sharing with her best friend. Maybe….

Reluctantly returning to the real world after a fabulous weekend, I think I know the moral of the story: “Never underestimate the importance of a trip—even a short one—alone with your spouse.” The King and I left the girls at their GG and Pawpaw’s home in Jefferson Friday afternoon. Looking at each other and breathing a sigh of relief as we played OUR music, we headed to the Mall of Georgia. We spent several hours there scrounging up a few Christmas gifts and eating too much at Ruby Tuesday. Afterward, we relaxed in our room at Fairfield Inn—that is, until we decided to head back out for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. We consumed more than 1,000 calories and 64 fat grams between us, then breathed more sighs of relief as we enjoyed quiet reading and TV time.

Saturday morning was the best, though. No little feet tiptoed into our room; no pointy finger tapped our shoulders; no small voice expressed its readiness for breakfast. No. We awoke at 6:00, looked around, then relaxed into sleep again. Around 8:00, we decided to crawl out of bed and check out the continental meal offered downstairs. My husband even made me a waffle! Then we headed back to our room and spent the next couple of hours in unhurried, completely restful bliss.

Finally, it was time to get dolled up for our trip into Atlanta. After managing a couple of awkward timed photos outside the hotel, we were off to find cheap parking near the fabulous Fox Theatre ($10!). We walked down to the Old Spaghetti Factory, where we enjoyed various pasta offerings and I sipped a blackberry Italian soda, all while surrounded by enormous chandeliers and a peaceful atmosphere. As the clock ticked toward 1:00, we finished our meal too quickly by habit, then strolled back up the street, where we were surprised to see the hordes of people already gathered at the theater in anticipation of the afternoon’s show.

We met our friends and then settled down for three hours or so of slack-jawed amazement as incredibly talented performers told us the little-known back story of the Wicked Witch of the West. The show was absolutely astounding—everything people had told me and more. The vocal stamina required of most characters bewildered me. How do they do it? Wicked the musical is a beautiful story of friendship, love lost and won, the trouble with power, the plight of the oppressed, and the ability of an individual to effect change, accompanied by a moving score and breathtaking sets. Sprinkled throughout the show are hilarious tidbits that explain pieces of Frank Baum’s original tale. For any who love the theater, and for those who, like my husband, could live without it, I can almost guarantee that you’ll be entertained and amazed.

The beauty of our night away was matched only by our reunion with the girls Saturday evening. Full of excitement after more than 27 hours of one-on-one attention from GG and Pawpaw, they still gave us the best hugs ever. The King and I are grateful to his parents for the getaway we so desperately needed. Hopefully, we’ll aim to get away more often in the future.

Okay, I’ll admit it. My King was a teeny, tiny, little, miniscule bit right when he suggested our money (sixty dollars!) might go to better use at a place other than the fair. And, as he describes in his post for today, Ladybug presented an enormous challenge as we struggled to keep her safe from manure-filled wood shavings, the powerful hind legs of resting cows, zooming golf carts, and the enticing mashed cigarette butts lying on the road. Her protests whenever we tried to redirect her were loud enough for half the attendees to hear. She much preferred to push the wagon than ride in it. And big sister, as sweet as she was the entire time, cared little for the wagon as well, so the thing ended up being a huge burden in itself. (Thank goodness for Aunt Katie and Friend Erin, who were of tremendous help!)

Despite my earlier predictions, the weather still felt a few degrees too warm, especially in the direct sunlight. The cheese on the pizza I helped the girls eat was a bit rubbery from sitting out too long, the usually delicious roasted corn sported a mushy black spot the size of a quarter, and the funnel cake had enough powdered sugar to make a miniature Christmas village atop the picnic table. My back and arms ached from lugging Ladybug around, and my shirt grew damp in the heat. The parrots were unbelievably loud at the petting zoo (where, as the King noted, my girls did NOT pet the animals!).

Even with all the negatives, though, something in me knew it was right to be at the fair. It’s simply tradition. Four years and four pictures of Butterfly devouring funnel cake (her sister, smart gal, wouldn’t touch the stuff), little girls pointing at all the sights with wide eyes, Ladybug exclaiming at the size of a lazy black cow, Butterfly holding my hand and listening intently as I described the various animals at the zoo, the kids having a blast on the playground display, Ladybug blowing kisses at the rather frightening and enormously tall robot, Butterfly describing the rides Daddy took her on, and just plain old people watching—this is the essence of the fair.

Again, I’ll admit it is way too expensive. I imagine, though, that the King and I will have the same argument again next year.  And what a gentleman he is to indulge his wife’s whims on occasion. Bottom line: the fair isn’t as fun when you have to take fiercely independent toddlers, but somehow it’s still fun. At least for me.

Last night, as we drove home from church, Butterfly commented, “I just love it when it’s dark!” The 7:30 darkness is new for her, as the days are finally shortening with the arrival of cooler weather and the fast approach of fall. A few moments later, while the King was rattling off a fabulous story for her, Butterfly blurted out, “Look! I see the first star.” I immediately began reciting, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight….” I didn’t make it to “have the wish I wish tonight.” In Butterfly’s excitement, she exclaimed, “I get to make a wish! I wish I would have everything I wanted.” She thought for a second and then added, “Amen. Now back to the story, Daddy!”

Don’t we all wish for everything we want? How many of us follow it with an “amen,” with a “so be it”? I imagine what Butterfly wants consists of ice cream for dinner, a movie night, a trip to Disney World, and every desirable toy she might spy. For me, it’s a little more complicated. I want health and long life for my family, more time with my husband, a completed novel that sits on a bookstore shelf with my name as the author, an end to cancer and hunger and economic woe, understanding and humility among the various groups of faith, and…and…and…. The list is too long for a blog post. Sometimes I wish my wants were simpler, like ice cream and Mickey Mouse. Those are a bit easier to acquire. Maybe I can at least try to find contentment with where I am now, even as I strive to make my one little corner of the world a better place. Amen?

It’s nearly that time again, and I can’t wait! For the past several years, the weather at the Georgia National Fair required shorts and tank tops. The sun beat down ruthlessly, and it was difficult to get into the spirit of fall with sweat trickling down your face. Kids quickly grew hot and tired, and parents chose to leave early rather than wait for the midway lights to shine in the night. This year, however, may be different! According to accuweather, the temperature may range from the low 70s to the low 80s—fairly perfect, I’d say. I’ve almost convinced the King that going to the fair will be a good idea this year. With Ladybug at 18 months, wide-eyed and curious, and Butterfly already a veteran of kiddie rides from our recent trip to Dollywood, they are at prime ages for a few enjoyable hours. We’ll pull them around in their wagon, pointing out the cows, horses, and pigs, letting them at least look at the rides, and buying them some cotton candy and funnel cake. We’ll enjoy looking at pumpkins, haystacks, and scarecrows, huge tractors, and various wares. We’ll let the girls climb all over the playground display and release their sugar energy. I’m sure it will be an evening to remember.

Blech! It was time to get that nasty roach off the top of the page. And what better thing to replace it than candy corn? Specifically, this new, incredibly yummy caramel candy corn by Brach’s. While perusing the tempting candy shelves at Wal-Mart yesterday, Butterfly and I oohed and ahed over the various offerings. “Let’s choose one thing,” I kept telling her, while secretly pining away for five or so different bags. “Candy corn!” she shouted, and I agreed. It’s long been my favorite Halloween-season candy. The King prefers the pumpkins, which I’ll admit are tasty, but the candy corn can be eaten by the handful, which is a significant criterion for me.

Anyway, I skipped the regular bags at first, searching instead for what I thought was a smarter choice—a large bag full of individually wrapped packets of candy corn. This way, I reasoned, our consumption would be limited, at least as long as our will power held out and we didn’t open a second packet. I found the trick-or-treat bag of candy corn and dumped it into the cart beside a delighted Butterfly. Then something new caught my eye. Brach’s has released a couple of new candy corn flavors, including caramel, caramel apple, and chocolate. I found the caramel especially attractive. Going against my earlier logic, I added a bag of it to our cart.

Later, while heading back to the house, I listened to Butterfly lick her fingers as she finished her tiny packet of regular candy corn. (Ladybug asked to “hold it,” and I let her have a small piece, but she soon spit it out. She hasn’t yet displayed my weakness for manmade sweets, though she’s a glutton for fruit.) In the driver’s seat, I tossed a couple of caramel corns into my mouth and enjoyed the supremely sweet, creamy, buttery caramel taste. Both Butterfly and later the King thought they were too sugary for their liking. This is okay by me. I could easily consume the whole bag within a week…though I really will try to eat only the amount that would fit into a tiny plastic packet. Really, I will. And then I’ll eat another. And perhaps another.

Steven Curtis Chapman is gifted with the ability to step into someone else’s shoes and see life through that person’s perspective. Many of us can do this, but few of us do it often enough or express it with as much grace as Steven does. Of course, in the past several months, the shoes of difficulty have belonged to Steven and his family, as they’ve mourned the passing of their young daughter. But as I listen through this incredible musician’s latest album, This Moment, which was released in 2007, I find treasure after treasure.

Recently, on a rare car ride alone, I heard Steven sing “One Heartbeat at a Time.” Spoken to moms and female caregivers, its lyrics resonated deeply with me. This job, this everyday, 24-hours-a-day job, of rearing my precious princesses is trying, to say the least. I’m frequently exhausted, sleepless, harried, guilt-ridden, overworked, stressed, bothered, and worried. Thanks to an amazingly supportive husband, great friends, and loving parents and siblings, I’m able to walk through these days with a sense of their significance. And, most of the time, I’m able to couple the negative aspects with the positive—I’m frequently in awe, breathtakingly in love with my girls, fascinated by their outlook on the world, inspired, amused, proud, honored to be their mother, free-spirited, and ultimately at peace. (Queen Mother, if you’re reading this, I hope you were able to feel some of those positive aspects when we were small. I may not be changing the world right now as an adult, but at least I’m influencing my tiny corner of it!)

Steven’s words that night were another reminder of the importance of being a parent, even on the toughest of days. I pray that I will remember, through every fleeting moment, that I’m actually “changing the world…one little heartbeat at a time.” It sounds ridiculous, but when you think about it, it’s true. And it’s a high calling indeed.

One Heartbeat at a Time

Lyrics by Steven Curtis Chapman copyright 2007, Sparrow Song/Peach Hill Songs

You’re up all night with a screaming baby
You run all day at the speed of life
And every day you feel a little bit less
Like the beautiful woman you are

So you fall in bed when you run out of hours
And you wonder if anything worth doing got done
Well maybe you just don’t know
Or maybe you’ve forgotten

That you, you are changing the world
One little heartbeat at a time
Making history with every touch and every smile
Oh you, you may not see it now
But I believe that time will tell
How you, you are changing the world
One little heartbeat at a time

With every “I know you can do it”
And every tear that you kiss away
So many little things that seem to go unnoticed
They’re just like the drops of rain
Over time, they become a river

You’re beautiful, so beautiful
How you’re changing the world…

Of all household tasks, the one I despise the most is actually the most essential: cooking. I’ve tried all the shortcuts and helpful hints and busy-mom advice. In the kitchen, a white particle-board shelf holds a daunting stack of magazines designed to offer simple weeknight recipes with only a few ingredients (Simple and Delicious and Cooking Light among them). Each week via email, I receive a newsletter from Aviva Goldfarb’s Six O’Clock Scramble, also created to offer easy, healthy recipes for busy cooks. A folder on my computer desktop contains a document titled “favorite recipes,” where I’ve typed out the tried-and-true instructions for meals my family actually likes. Last count? Maybe 20 meals. That sounds like a lot, until you’ve eaten nacho chicken and cheeseburger rollup twice in the span of two weeks and would really like something new on your plate.

I even choose five or six recipes every two weeks, list the dishes in a “menu,” type out the ingredients needed, and take a shopping trip to acquire everything necessary to make the meals. This way, there’s always something I can cook. 

I make do with these strategies. The family eats. We survive on what is sometimes less-than-healthy fare. Every now and then, I attempt something fresh, which usually gets quietly rejected. Of course, my testers aren’t exactly those of mature palettes. I have a 3 1/2-year-old who balks at the sight of any vegetable (despite my careful attempts to vary her diet and cast veggies in a positive light), a 17-month-old who takes one look at meat and says, “No,” and a dear husband whose food groups are meat, cheese, and potatoes. Add me, someone who thinks a meal should have a small amount of meat and carbs coupled with a hearty serving of brightly colored veggies, and you’ve got a family who’s difficult to please all at once, to say the least.

Bitterness is not my cup of tea, and resentment is not a sweet cookie, but I have to admit I have my share of both a few times a week in relation to my unwanted job as the family cook. Truly, preparing food is simply not something I enjoy, regardless of how easy it is. Even so, with the goal of keeping us somewhat fit and slightly healthy, I’ll keep struggling on. Maybe one day I’ll actually enjoy this requirement of household life. If I don’t, at least I’ll make sure we only eat fast food a couple of times a week. (:

For my anniversary gift I’m getting a Carrabba’s dinner. Even better, I’ve already gotten a so-called “sappy” letter from my beloved husband. It reminds me of our early days—the ones where we were friends who longed for more and communicated mostly through the written word. We met at college, ministered together in a singing team, enjoyed a close friendship for a year, and then decided it was time to call our relationship what it was and declare ourselves officially “together.” John’s letter highlights a few of our most memorable stops along our journey thus far—from our email chats to the first time our hands touched to, yes, our first kiss. He adds our marriage, which we celebrated in a ceremony seven years ago today. He mentions our wonderful dogs and our precious princesses and, appropriately, ends with a word about our unknown future, noting that he looks forward to it.

I share these bits of his letter not to blab about private things but to highlight how treasured he makes me feel. There’s no doubt in my mind that, while we each may have dozens of potential mates, John and I chose our best possible matches. We have enough in common to look ahead together in mostly the same direction, but we are different enough to balance each other’s weaknesses and strengths. I am incredibly grateful for the presence he is in my life and, like him, I look forward to our future. With the strong foundation we have built in these first seven years, I can see us enjoying contentment, riding the swells of adventure, and even facing dark days—all with a commitment that we will continue to keep as solid as possible. 

I love you, John! And I hate to break it to our readers, but you’re not the least bit shallow.

I’ve finally reached the close of a hectic week. Not only did I hang out with kids at Vacation Bible School Sunday through Thursday evenings, but I also had a particularly overwhelming workload to cram in before falling exhausted into bed each night.

For those who don’t know, I work as an independent editing contractor and also do freelance editing from home both to be with my children and to avoid the monotony of office work. I’m incredibly grateful to my company for making this opportunity possible. Most days, the arrangement works beautifully. While Butterfly no longer takes naps, I can at least squeeze in a bit of reading while she “watches a movie” (translation: throws nearly all the cushions off the couch to construct elaborate obstacle courses and pesters me repeatedly for a snack) and Ladybug snoozes. The bulk of my work, though, takes place at night after the girls go to bed. Add to this the fact that I prefer a 10:00 bedtime if at all possible, and it doesn’t equal much work time. Throw in a schedule change like VBS, and, were it not for the much-appreciated assistance of the King, the Queen Mother, and Empress Katie, I would have spontaneously combusted. I’m sure of it.

Aside from the stress, VBS went well. A friend and I worked with the 4th and 5th graders—an energetic and curious group. They enjoyed acting out the various Bible stories and playing a Pictionary-style game. They especially liked recreation, though we all entered the choir room afterward drenched in sweat from the 90-degree heat.

A heavy dose of joy came to me during the week as I watched my Butterfly enter the closing assembly each night with her little group of friends and then commence to dancing wildly to the theme song from the front row of seats. I found it difficult to take my eyes off her and focus on my own group. Even better were our car rides home as the sun set, when she would excitedly tell me about her evening. “We played Red Roses!” “You mean Red Rover? ‘Red Rover, Red Rover, send Butterfly right over?’” “Yes!” I didn’t even know that game was still allowed. Something about broken arms?

I’m grateful to one of my best friends, Heather, for loving on my little girl all week. I know that Heather was able to teach the basic truth of God’s love through fun and crafts, not through indoctrination and rote recitation, methods that frustrate me. 

I know Butterfly learned something. She asked me to retell the story of Easter morning while we rode home Wednesday evening. I told her about Mary, another Mary, and Salome, who tried to anoint Jesus’ body with spices but were deterred by the angel, who explained that Jesus was alive and had gone (Mark 16). Then I began to draw the story to a close, when I was interrupted by a little girl’s voice in the back seat:

Me: “The women left to go back to the town—”

Butterfly: “and they took a wrong turn and went to Disney World! And Jesus went too!”

Let it never be said that my child believes in a somber Jesus. Can’t you see him on Splash Mountain?

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

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

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

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

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