Queen Kelley

My trip to the dentist this morning reminded me of a recurrent dream I have on occasion. In it, my teeth break apart and fall out. The dream is real enough to jolt me from sleep, and I awake madly feeling around with my tongue to be sure my teeth are still there. You wouldn’t believe the relief I feel when I discover my teeth intact and in their proper locations.

I don’t recall ever enjoying a trip to the dentist. Throughout my childhood, the dentist filled cavity after cavity until I ended up with the back of my mouth full of silver. Back then, the office my family used took photos of children without cavities and posted them proudly on a bulletin board. I have only one picture from those days. They also ironically awarded toothbrushes to caries-free kids and withheld them from the rest of us. Obviously, this was not a positive foundation for my experiences with the world of dentistry. 

As insult to injury, I have developed gum disease over the past several years. My kind periodontist assures me that I’m simply unfortunate in my genetic makeup, that I’m doing a fine job brushing and flossing, and that I’m unfortunately going to have to work harder on my teeth than the average individual. (Take the King, for example, who never flosses and has perfect teeth.)

Needless to say, going to the dentist is not my favorite activity. Today, though, I had to make the idea pleasant because Butterfly went along with me to undergo her first dental exam. She made me proud, playing happily on the floor with a treasure box full of cheap plastic toys during my entire one-hour checkup. Then, when it was her turn, she relaxed in my lap as we lay back. She opened her mouth widely and never seemed frightened. To her credit, Wendy the hygienist was excellent with my daughter, calling the suction tube “Mr. Slurpy” and explaining that he likes to drink all the water out of our mouths, using raspberry toothpaste to polish Butterfly’s teeth, and constantly emphasizing what a good job my girl is doing with her teeth. Butterfly escaped with no cavities, two toys, and a brand-new toothbrush. Hopefully, we’ve begun a better dental foundation with her than the one I’ve struggled to build upon through the years.

This morning I took Ladybug to the doctor for her 15-month well visit. It’s tough to believe she’s at this mark already. She’s so vibrant and energetic and loving—and, as they all do, she’s growing too quickly for my liking. She showed her true spirit while sweet Nurse Mandy measured her height and head circumference, screaming loud enough for the whole office to hear. Fortunately, Ladybug had calmed down by the time the doctor entered, and, sitting on a chair in only her diaper, she was all smiles and giggles. “Bear!” she said, pointing at the room’s wallpaper border. “Wow!” exclaimed the doctor. “She speaks so clearly! Does she identify her eyes and ears and other features?” I nodded and decided to demonstrate. “Ladybug,” I began, “where’s your nose?” My girl promptly wrinkled her nose and grinned, reached around to touch her behind, and proudly said, “Boo-dee!” I tell you, she gets this from the King. And I have more evidence right here.

After a brief hiatus due to travel, visitors, and low motivation, I’m back. My husband still rocks. The kids are still cute. All is well.

More along the lines of cute kids, I’ve found something that is possibly cuter than Ladybug’s early walking: her pillow plunge. She is indebted to her daddy and sister for this latest discovery of wild fun. For several months now (maybe even more than a year), one of Butterfly’s favorite activities with her daddy is to construct “pillow houses,” which are—well—houses made of pillows. This activity has provided secret hideaways perfect for a dragon and princess or a “fadder” bear and his baby bear. The pillows have sheltered storytimes and pretend picnics. They’ve formed the walls of extravagant tunnels. Not long after Ladybug learned to walk, she discovered the joy of pillows as well.

Lately, the girls have devised a new game—one that doesn’t require their daddy’s genius engineering skills. Butterfly gathers the numerous pillows that fill our upstairs bedrooms and tosses them into an enormous pile. Then she starts at one end of the hall and runs toward the pillow mound. Once she reaches it, she hurls herself into the softness. Butterfly, of course, is a master at various landings. She even climbs on our bed and jumps down into the pile, rolling and giggling.

Ladybug’s landing is a bit more straightforward. Awkwardly dodging her sister as they both hurry down the hall, my little bug weebles and wobbles in her cute run toward the pile. When she reaches it, she flops down face first—no hesitation, no fear. Then she rolls over, gets up, and cackles like mad.This routine plays for both girls again and again. Sometimes they even get down to their undies and diaper (greater freedom of movement, you know). Then, finally, Ladybug’s all done.

I challenge you to find a more entertaining way to spend the evening.

After watching a preview that ran at the beginning of one of Butterfly’s DVDs, the two of us decided we needed to rent Pooh’s Heffalump Movie. Since we rented it on Saturday, she’s watched it at least five times. (Bad Mommy Alert: Yes, I know that’s probably too much screen time.) The premise behind the film, which stars Lumpy, the most adorable stuffed elephant I’ve ever seen, is that the Hundred Acre Woods creatures fear the mystical “Heffalumps” and vice versa. It turns out that “heffalump” is simply Pooh’s mispronunciation for “elephant.” It also turns out that the heffalumps, though they speak with British accents, look big and strange, and live in another land, are actually quite similar to Pooh and friends—they enjoy having fun, love their family members, and delight in making friends. The first one to realize this is young Roo, who goes out in search of a heffalump with the intent to capture one and bring it back to the Hundred Acre Woods. Of course, he meets sweet Lumpy, and the two become fast friends and share many saccharine moments together.

After watching the film with Butterfly on one occasion, I talked with her about the theme: “They each thought the other was scary because he was different. But it turns out that they’re a lot alike, and they can be good friends, even though they don’t look the same or live in the same places. A heffalump is really just an elephant, right?” Well, Butterfly had her own opinions. ”Mommy, Lumpy is an elephant, but there are bad heffalumps out there! Let’s pretend to catch a heffalump.” And off she went to find string for rope and an object to use as a gun. Apparently, she wanted to kill the heffalump! No amount of my explaining otherwise could deter her mission. So off we went hunting heffalumps. (At first I wondered how she knew what to do with a gun, but then I remembered her recent obsession with Disney’s Pocahontas, in which John Smith and his other English comrades wield guns against the “savages.” Sigh. At least these Disney films have been fodder for conversations and make-believe play.)

Really, though, just look at Lumpy. How cute is he? Just wait until you hear him talk and sing.

On Saturday morning, as we watched out the kitchen window while the King struggled with the bird feeder pole, Butterfly turned to me and asked, “Mama, is this the weekend?” “Yes!” I said excitedly. “Yippee!” she replied. “That means Daddy can watch my movie with me!” It’s like this every weekend. When Butterfly learns we’ve reached that precious part of the week when her daddy will be home from work for two whole days, her eyes light up and she starts rattling off all the things they can do together. Ladybug is just as excited, clinging fiercely to her Daddy or following him around the house. They enjoy their daddy every day, but it’s extra special when they know he won’t have to go away to work.

They feel this way about my husband because, when he’s home and in their company, he’s 100 percent present for them. My mind tends to wander, thinking ahead to what’s required for lunch, for naptime, for our outing in the afternoon, for bath, etc. I’m sure John thinks of other things when he’s with the girls, but his thoughts aren’t visible in his face and actions like they often are in mine. He is on the floor building “pillow houses,” twirling around with his little Cinderellas, telling fantastic stories that go on and on, playing the guitar and letting them dance and sing. His attention is priceless to them.

As the King said, we had a great Father’s Day weekend, enjoying time together as a family. John and I even planned for an in-house movie night, which we enjoyed after the girls went to sleep (along with microwave popcorn and Whoppers, I might add). We also had a blast with our close friends, Rickie and Sheri. (Rumor has it that they will have a blog of their own soon. Stay tuned.)

Here’s what I wrote to the King in a book we gave him (I hope he doesn’t mind my sharing it): “I can’t think of many times when you’ve been too busy to stop and dance with your Cinderellas…or their mother! You truly are an amazing father to our girls. I believe that, because of the time you devote to them and the genuine way you play with them, they’ll grow up knowing you’re a daddy they can trust with anything. Thank you for your incredible love to all your girls!” He truly is a treasure to us all.

I thought of my own father often over the weekend. He, along with my mother and sister, are away in Scotland with their church group, ministering with some of the Scottish friends they’ve met over the past few years. My family has never been this far away from me before, and it feels strange. They’re enjoying themselves immensely, though, and exhausting their bodies and spirits every day. Daddy was far away, but I still wished him a happy Father’s Day and felt grateful for the way our relationship has changed through the years. He still takes care of me, and his love for my daughters is a joy to watch.

I appreciate my grandfathers and my father-in-law as well—for the strong presence they have been and for the deep care they have shown. You’re all loved beyond words!

Buy a Wendy’s Frosty this weekend (June 14 and 15) at participating locations, and support the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption. I learned about this on Jim Houser’s website. As manager for Steven Curtis Chapman, Jim has updated regularly about the family and about his own grief over little Maria’s death three weeks ago.

This weekend, I can’t think of a better reason to go enjoy a yummy Frosty (or two or even three) than to support adoption. I hope you will too!

Monica and Robin let me know of two goodies from one of my favorite authors. The first is a handwritten card created for Waterstone’s, leading bookseller in the U.K. The company is holding a contest in which writers 18 and over can submit their own brief story. Those who win will be published alongside authors like Rowling, Doris Lessing, and Neil Gaiman in a “postcard” book scheduled for an August release. (No, I didn’t enter the contest. I like to think I’m creative, but I’m not THAT creative, and the deadline is June 19. However, any of my writing friends who read this and decide to go for it, good luck!) To read Rowling’s amusing story about Sirius and James, go to this link, click on “read our author’s stories,” then click on JK Rowling.

The other treat is an outstanding commencement speech Rowling recently delivered for Harvard graduates. She is funny (even throwing in Harry Potter tidbits now and then) eloquent, and, above all, thoughtful and bright. I encourage anyone to go to the link and listen to it or at least read the transcript, as it’s an important reminder to all of us about what we can learn from failure and the power of the human imagination. The most meaningful line to me is, “Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.” The significance of this ability cannot be overstated. When it comes to reaching out to others, serving others’ needs, and caring for others, the human ability to empathize is essential.

On this late spring day, I look out the large window in my kitchen and see a blue sky, sunlight filtering through the leaves and creating wavy patterns on the grass, and a gentle breeze making the branches sway. It’s deceptive. The temperature on this spring day is a suffocating 101 degrees Fahrenheit. Around 10:00 this morning, I took the girls to the backyard for some outdoor play. It was 85 degrees then, at least bearable, especially in the abundant shade our many trees offer. We enjoyed the sand, the playset, and the riding toys for one hour, at which point Butterfly had to potty and I gladly hauled us all back inside. We won’t venture out again, unless a wading pool is part of the equation, and even then not until 4:00 or later. Even breathing is difficult at this temperature, and I can’t even imagine what my friends in Arizona feel when they walk into the 105-plus heat. Oh, and my in-laws who serve as missionaries in Africa. I think they survive 100-plus temperatures most of the year. It’s all relative, I suppose.

I guess I’m holding with the “old fart” theme that has consumed my husband and me for the past few days. I’ve actually had the thought that it didn’t get this hot when I was a child. Also, it rained nearly every day when I was growing up. I remember the latter because my siblings and I were forever battling thunderclouds right when we wanted to swim the most. Today, just like every day in the past several weeks, there is no storm cloud in sight. Can I say it? I miss the good old days! And I am more and more grateful for that little invention we call the air conditioner.

One of the springtime activities I’ve enjoyed with the girls is visiting the strawberry patch, otherwise known as Elliott Farms. Now that spring is taking her bow, with summer breathing hot and heavy over her shoulder, we likely won’t go often. While the weather was mild, though, we and our best friends spent three separate days there, first picking berries, then picnicking, then exploring the farm.

Both girls could pick berries all day. Being a paranoid mama, I never let them eat directly from the patch, even though I overheard the field’s owner assure my friend, “Oh, there’s nothing on those strawberries but dirt!” Well, it’s the dirt I don’t necessarily want my kids to swallow. Even so, Butterfly took great joy in searching for the reddest berries and plunking them into her white plastic bucket. On each visit, she worked until she filled it to the brim. Ladybug enjoyed picking too, and she didn’t care whether the berries were hard and green-white, or so red and ripe that she merely had to grab one for it to turn to mush in her fingers. (Note to Mama: Don’t dress the kids in school clothes for a day at the farm.) 

After we paid less for the berries than we would have at the grocery store (and I usually added a jar of local honey or a few squash to the purchase), we had a snack lunch in the grass. There’s nothing like dining on a picnic blanket with goats eyeing you from behind a fence only a few feet away, or with the wailing calls of the peacocks startling you as you sip your water. The ambiance is unbeatable. Lunch was, of course, not complete until we all enjoyed the delectable homemade soft-serve strawberry ice cream. I don’t even like strawberry ice cream, but this…mmmm.

Once we cleaned up our mess, we traipsed around the farm, studying the various animals—the goats (one got his head stuck in the wire fencing), the peacocks (one actually flashed his breathtaking tail feathers at us), the burro (he brayed frequently), the hens and roosters and baby chicks (they’re all quite smelly, but Ladybug enjoyed chasing after a rooster), the horses, the cows, and the huge pig (quite an expression on that one, eh?). We even got to see and pet a gray baby goat, who seemed to delight in the attention.

Elliott Farms has offered great fun for all of us, and we look forward to trying the corn maze in the fall. (Actually, we just look forward to the fall, no matter what we do then. It’s getting HOT!) You know you’ve had a good day at the farm when Ladybug picks up a small round pellet of manure and sucks her fingers after I slap it out of her hands. You know it’s been a fun morning at the patch when Butterfly is actually brave enough to attempt feeding a horse, even though she dropped the hay before his lips touched her palm. You know you’ve had a great time with the girls when all of you leave the farm with feet blackened from the dirt, hands stained with strawberry juice, and hair damp with sweat. We’ll definitely go back.

Apparently, this is what I’ve become. If you ask my husband why, (other than my thirtieth birthday last fall) he’ll probably tell you it’s because of what he saw on our kitchen counter yesterday evening. Taken separately, the two items are likely innocuous–one recently came in the mail from amazon.com, and the other was a groomsman gift the King received. When stacked together, though, the King says they say, “Old Fart.”

Of course I beg to differ. We’ve had this feeder outside our home for nearly a year, and he and Butterfly have both delighted in keeping it filled. All of us, even little Ladybug, have enjoyed watching our feathered friends nest and dine. It’s only natural that I decided we needed a way to identify these funny creatures. And, when I received the book and began flipping through to find our most common visitors (brown thrashers, cardinals, house wrens, mourning doves, and tufted titmouses [titmice?]), it was only natural that I needed a way to see them more clearly. The King promptly brought me his binoculars. Butterfly and I had a good time looking through them and trying to figure out the intricate feather patterns on the birds. Well, I had a good time doing that. Butterfly kept looking at me through the wrong end and saying, “Mama, you look really tiny.” When it was time to clean off the table after dinner, I stashed my bird gear on the counter. That’s where the King found it and had his realization. It’s made for a few jokes at my expense. I’m not helping matters much, though.

This evening, when the King was heading to his workout at the gym, he noted that I was watching Antiques Roadshow with my mother. I fully intended to turn on a movie, but I’ll be honest. The roadshow rocks. Someone presents a hideous piece—a vase, a rotting trunk, a strange sculpture (look at that piece! better yet, look at its owner!) a painting I could do with my eyes closed—and the appraiser rattles off the rare qualities. The suspense builds until, finally, we learn that the item could sell at auction for several thousand dollars. Inevitably, the owner nearly faints with greedy joy. Or, someone presents a nice-looking piece, and the appraiser gets brutal. “This’ll net maybe twenty dollars. Sorry. It’s just not authentic.” The owner’s face? Appropriately grieved. And it goes on and on. Who can beat that?

Signing off,

The Old Fart (and proud of it)

Ps. It needs to be recorded here that the King set out a bowl of water for the birds. It seems that this Old Fart has found a hobby that everyone in the family enjoys!