Queen Kelley

Yesterday was my thirtieth birthday. I’ve never been one to obsess over numbers, but I’ll admit this one seemed fairly monumental to me. Thirty years, though relatively a brief span of time, is actually quite a slice of someone’s life. In thirty years, I learned to walk, talk, read, write, do math, be social, draw, sing, love, ride a bicycle, rollerskate, make friends, be obedient (and disobedient), drive a car, meet deadlines (or not), say goodbye to dying loved ones, live with siblings and then roommates, edit books, use the internet, type, recognize the perfect conditions for a rainbow, enjoy the company of dogs, spend quality time with the people I treasure, be a wife, go through pregnancy, mother my girls, worship my God. What a full life. And in only three decades.

Here’s to the next three! Perhaps a published book is in my future.

I don’t go around thinking about how something threatening could happen to one of my kids in an instant. It’s no way to live. But sometimes, the threat does sneak up on me, and in an instant my heart is in my throat and I hit survival mode, trying desperately to think clearly and solve the problem quickly. It could be an active ant bed, inches away from Butterfly’s bare feet. The water in Ladybug’s bathtub, so tempting to her that she leans forward until her face nearly touches it. A neighbor’s dog, usually friendly but a dog all the same, and maybe not so tolerant of a little girl running wildly toward it. The stairs in our home, which Butterfly has navigated expertly for months now, but which still surprise her small feet now and then.

Today, the threat snuck up on me in the freezer section of Wal-Mart. I was pushing Ladybug safely in the stroller, urging Butterfly on as she stopped to look at every interesting item. I happened to move beside the stroller in an effort to lead Butterfly to another aisle, when I heard the unmistakable sound of Ladybug’s gagging. I looked down, and she was choking, her face red, her body stiff, leaned forward slightly as she tried to dislodge the mystery item from the back of her throat. In a split second, I thought three things: What in the world could it be? What’s that red stuff on her lip? Oh my God! I tried to grab her out of the stroller, forgetting the seatbelt that contained her so safely. Then, after noticing the bit of red, at first thinking it was blood, I saw a large red object on her tongue. I leaned her forward further and pulled it from her mouth, then hastily unbuckled her and picked her up, sweeping the small red bit away and comforting her as she cried. These things happened so fast that Butterfly was oblivious. But, as I held my baby to my chest, rubbing the back of her soft, fuzzy head, my heart pounded unbearably.

The red object was a 1-inch rubber square she had managed to tear off the stroller. It was part of a hook intended to secure an infant car seat to the stroller frame—a feature I’d never used. A useless piece that I had barely noticed, except to see that it had torn and part of it was coming loose. I’d fastened Ladybug into that stroller tightly, so she wouldn’t slip out. I’d hooked teething toys to her seatbelt strap so she’d have something to do. I’d talked to her as I pushed, trying to keep up with Butterfly. I thought she was safe, and yet, in an instant, her life was threatened.

It’s not wise to dwell on what-ifs, but most of us at least consider them. What if I’d been in a more crowded and noisy section of the store and hadn’t been able to hear her gagging? What if we’d been walking along the aisles, and I’d been so consumed with not losing Butterfly that I didn’t notice Ladybug struggling? What if the piece had been lodged more deeply and I’d had to try to dig up first aid/CPR skills I learned more than ten years ago and haven’t since renewed?

And, a more possible what-if now that she survived the choking incident: What if she swallowed some of the red rubber? Will it pass without harm, or is it wreaking havoc on her little system? The wise voice in my mind tells me she would certainly show signs of difficulty by now, but the fearful voice seems stronger. I suppose that’s natural for a parent.

I’m grateful that my major what-ifs didn’t happen. I’m thankful that I heard my precious girl, saw her choking, and kept my sanity long enough to help her. I’m ever respectful of the fact that life is sometimes altered in an instant.

Sometimes all the good things happen at once. With the passing of September into October, the air immediately grew cooler, the sky became bluer, and hints of color appeared at the tips of the trees. Fall came sneaking in. The girls and I have spent many afternoons relaxing on a blanket in the front yard, marveling as the wind takes the leaves on a wild ride, whirling them round and round until they fall and create a crunchy field for Butterfly to trample.

We spent an evening at the fair, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells–Ferris wheel cars slowly rising and falling, country music sung by amateurs, manure and popcorn and hay. Butterfly and I shared our favorite fair treat, funnel cake, licking the powdered sugar off our fingers.

Saturday, Butterfly’s friend had a fall festival birthday party, complete with ring toss, bowling, beanbag throw, duck pond, and rocking horse “pony” ride. There were even prizes, a popcorn machine, and bags of cotton candy. Everyone who attended was delighted.

My parents, also known as “Nana and Pappy,” are spending this weekend with us, and today we took Butterfly on her first boat ride. It was another beautiful blue-sky day, not too hot or cold, as we zipped across the sparkling water. My daughter was exhilarated by the speeding boat, and then she fell asleep, not even stirring as we bumped over other boats’ wakes and crashed back into the water. Ladybug thrilled to her ride in the swing at the beach-side playground. She giggled and cooed as I pushed her.

Tomorrow, we’ll dress the girls in orange and black and take them to the pumpkin patch. Butterfly will run up and down the orange rows, finding big ones, small ones, and even medium-sized ones. Ladybug will sit by a big pumpkin and pat it over and over with her fat little hand. We’ll take more photos, breathe in more fresh fall air, and make more memories.

Sigh…the good things all at once.

This week my little Ladybug, six months old, has figured out her lips enough to make consonant sounds. The first one I heard melted my heart: “Ma ma ma ma.” After months of wide-open “Ahhhhhs,” seeing her tiny mouth work like that was surreal, reminding me of that freaky Baby Bob whose computer-generated lips made him talk at six months. Once we started reacting to her, answering with our own “Ma ma mas” (or, in the King’s case, with “Da da das”), she grew delighted with her new skill. She practiced it often today, that impossibly cute baby voice bringing out even more of her personality. Ladybug already recognizes a few words we say (”eat” and “Daddy” top the list). Soon she’ll connect her own sounds to actual people and objects. And then, bless us, we’ll have two little know-it-alls talking their heads off. There’s not a sweeter sound in the world.

I’m not a runner. I’ve tried. It’s not for me. The excruciating pain I felt from my chest heaving, my back stiffening, and my legs cramping proved that speed walking is the way to go.

I wish I could run, if only for the fact that I might sometimes need to get away quickly. Take, for instance, my speed walk two evenings ago. I left the house around 7:00, just as the sun had dipped below the horizon. Night follows quickly this time of year, but the atmosphere seemed perfect for a quick walk around my neighborhood. At first, I thought the bats were exciting. I saw one or two far overhead, initially mistaking them for birds, but then noticing how quickly they flapped their arched wings. They added a small element of spookiness appropriate for the coming season.

Then I saw more. I turned onto a dead-end road, intending to walk down it and back up before returning to my house. At least three different bats flew over me one by one, each seeming to get closer to my head. Then they began to divebomb. Thankfully, they were several feet ahead of me when they did this, but they dove hard, circled back up, and flew over my head again. I did what any sane person would do. I turned and ran.

Even with the coming darkness, enough light remained in the day for anyone in the numerous homes to see me out their windows. So I tried to make my running look intentional, smooth, calm, professional. Like I do this all the time. I made it to the end of the street and slowed back to a fast walk, glancing behind me for any sign of bats. They were gone. Then I heaved and panted and nearly passed out trying to get back to my house.

I don’t know if the bats were really after me. Maybe they divebomb randomly every night. Regardless, I hope I never truly need to run from something. Or, at least, I hope I get a major rush of superhuman adrenaline if I do.