Queen Kelley

That’s the date when I meant to write this post. It’s been on my heart ever since. On that day three years ago, our Ladybug was born. I look at our little blondie, with her still soft, chunky body, and notice that her legs are lengthening. At her well visit this morning, the doctor exclaimed that Ladybug gained five inches in height in one year! She stands beside her big sister and lacks only a few inches before people confuse them as twins.

I think about the other ways she grew this year. Her silky blond hair that falls straight no matter how I style it now touches her shoulders. Her face, though still round and smooth, is more expressive. Her hands gained amazing dexterity that allows her to cut impossibly small shapes from paper and scatter them all over the floor.

Ladybug is a package of contrasts: adorable and rowdy; physically loving and abusive; sweetly quiet and deafening; curious and indifferent; daring and fearful.

She is a fascinating balance (and sometimes unbalance!) to her more observant, cautious sister. She makes us laugh, and she makes us wring our hands. We love her deeply, fully, and unconditionally. Always. Happy belated birthday, my spunky three-year-old!

Ulcerative colitis (UC). When I told Butterfly she has it, she giggled and said, “That’s a silly name!” She’s dealt with diarrhea and minor bleeding for nearly a year, so the introduction of a name makes little difference to her.

Yesterday, I received a call from Dr. GI’s assistant, who told me the definitive diagnosis. They want Butterfly to begin taking a maintenance medication called Apriso, whose purpose is to keep a person in “remission” from UC. This means people take it to keep their symptoms at bay and control inflammation. In two weeks, Dr. GI wants to see the three of us. If he thinks Butterfly has made no progress, he will put her on a short-term steroid to get the condition to the point where we can maintain remission.

Of course, we’ve consulted the great Internet to research this disease, explore its implications, and learn more about the treatments. As with any health problem, treatments and symptoms range from mild to extreme.

We are glad Butterfly’s problem is diagnosed so early, but also sad that she will likely live with this condition and be on medication for most of her life. We are grateful that UC is at least treatable and, with good care, not life-threatening, but we are heartbroken that our little girl has to deal with this at all.

I let my mind wander into the future, when her digestive issues may cause her emotional as well as physical discomfort and embarrassment. I think about the possibility that she may have to undergo surgery in her adult years. I wonder what kinds of side effects the medication may cause, even years from now.

Believe me when I say we are so thankful for a happy, otherwise healthy child who is blissful and relatively oblivious to the seriousness of her problem. We know that much, much worse illnesses and diseases strike too many children to name. Even so, please understand that we still grieve for what she has. To one who dearly loves a child, any problem is one problem too many.

Thanks again for everyone’s comments, support, prayers, and love. We’ll take care of Butterfly, and she’ll be fine regardless of any obstacles her condition might put in her path. And I have no doubt that she’ll take care of us too. She already does.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At home now, my internal battle continues.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My brilliant, energetic, creative, and beautiful older daughter, my sweet Butterfly, turned four years old this morning at 8:37. Few words can describe what it’s like to be a parent and watch your baby grow before your eyes. Right now, at four, this is Butterfly.

FAVORITE ACTIVITIES: reading books with a beloved grownup, listening to stories, playing with her assortment of Barbie and Disney Princess dolls, creating artwork from various mediums, sculpting scenes in her sandbox, “flying” around the backyard, attending dance class and preschool and mission friends, playing with Ladybug and pals, enjoying a good meal, spending time with her grandparents and aunt

FAVORITE FOODS: most sweets (she’s just like me in that respect), pizza with black olives, baked ziti, black bean and beef tacos (with plenty of cheese), fuji apples, goldfish crackers, pancakes with syrup 

FAVORITE SONGS: several selections from the Wicked musical soundtrack, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” “I See the Moon and the Moon Sees Me”

MOST PRIZED LOVEY: still Mickey Mouse!

DISLIKES: brushing her teeth, washing her hands, having her hair washed (really anything involving hygiene, but we make it work); going to my work office with me; suffering through a trip to Wal-Mart when she isn’t allowed to look at the toys; cleaning up

FAVORITE BIBLE STORIES: the tale of Joseph, the tale of Moses, Jesus’ birth

These few things certainly can’t summarize my oldest daughter, but they offer a clue into her personality these days. Passionate about being independent but shameless about whining for assistance with the most basic tasks, adoring of Ladybug and impatient with her little sister’s carelessness, overwhelmingly loving and alternately hateful, amazingly creative—that’s our girl. And I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Happy birthday, Butterfly!

[The cake in the photo above was made by my incredibly talented best friend, Monica. Butterfly was able to celebrate her birthday at a double party Saturday that included Monica's daughter. The two girls were born nine days apart and have been friends basically since birth. Our party welcomed both girls and boys as fairies and Indians to the Neverland of our backyard. The children had a fabulous time!]

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….