Queen Kelley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As my husband explained in his post for today, it’s VBS week at our church, so my posts will probably be brief like this or absent altogether. With both girls to keep me occupied during the day and my work time slashed due to late evenings at the Z, I’m finding little time to focus on my editing assignments, much less to write for fun. Bear with me, and keep coming back! Hopefully by the week’s end I’ll have something substantial to say. (Special thanks to the Queen Mother, who is here to help us get through these crazy days!)

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

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

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

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

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

None of us know. And yet all of us know. Even Butterfly, my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, whose conception of God comes from Sunday school stories and my rather ambiguous statements about our Creator, knows. Today, I asked her to draw a picture to mail to our friends, thanking them for an evening of fellowship this past Sunday. She sat down and went to work, and this was the result:

She titled her crayon drawing “God in the Sky.” I won’t attempt to apply anything profound to her creation that isn’t there, but I was struck by the matter-of-fact tone in her voice as she told me about the picture. After she made the figure, she turned a blue crayon on its side, a technique I’d never seen her use before, and proceeded to shade in the sky all around.

Truthfully, my little girl’s perception of God isn’t so different from my own—somewhat abstract and indefinite, yet colorful and inviting. The day will come when Butterfly will think of God in terms more complex than any words she knows right now. Even then, though, I pray that she will still perceive God as One we cannot fully describe with words or pictures, yet One who invites us to live abundantly and to continue widening our understanding of Him (and/or Her!).

Just a brief post to say happy birthday to my amazing husband, the King, otherwise known as the Shallow Thinker, Daddy, and John. Butterfly and I created a storybook for him today, which she presented to him this evening after a taco salad dinner. She was also most proud of the red rubber bug she chose for him at the Museum of Arts and Sciences during our trip there this morning. “Touch it, Daddy,” she said, stretching it nearly to the breaking point. Ladybug offered frequent kisses and spoken “hap buhdays” to her father. We all enjoyed a yummy dessert recommended by Aunt Jamie. You can’t go wrong with crescent rolls, apples, and lots of butter and sugar—especially when you top it with vanilla ice cream. Needless to say, we’re still stuffed at 10:00 pm. I am incredibly thankful for the King, thankful that he was born 29 years ago, thankful that his parents and siblings and the other special people in his life influenced him to be who he is, thankful for his ambition and motivation, for his deep love and affection, for his sometimes ridiculous and often intelligent sense of humor, for his unending desire to know more about God, and for his unwavering faithfulness to the girls and me. We love you!

My preschooler has taken on a new trade. Not only does she design and model gotta-have-it fashions, create elaborate dramas with her dolls and stuffed toys, possess a to-die-for rock and shell collection, and form fabulous hidey-holes in the sand, but she now inks her own arm—and would be glad to do yours too. Butterfly and I sat at the kitchen table to exercise our creativity with watercolors. While I painted two children on a swingset, Butterfly dabbled in abstracts with large splotches of various colors. I was so intent on my work that I didn’t notice she had taken a different tack. ”Look, Mama!” she exclaimed, and when I pulled my eyes from my own masterpiece, I saw her proudly holding up her arm, which now bore its own watercolor designs. After a brief “mommy” moment when I told her she shouldn’t make such a mess, I observed that the artwork on her little arm was actually quite beautiful and decided to take a picture. Who am I to stifle such brilliance? Who knows what this means for her future? Perhaps she can add “body artist” to her already long line of possible trades. This is one mama who wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Having children takes a toll on one’s quality of sleep. There’s no doubt about it. Ask any parent. I keep thinking that once my kids get into grade school and are able to get up and go potty all by themselves and self-soothe after nightmares, I’ll get a decent night’s sleep. I’m not entirely sure I believe it, though. The thing about having kids is that once they become yours, they’re YOURS. You love them so completely and so intensely and so possessively that they basically take over your brain. Because of this, even when I’m not with my little girls, I think of them. They are a constant presence in the room of my mind. I can go nowhere that they are not. Even a weekend getaway when they sleep in a different location will not remove them from my thoughts. As many of you know and some of you can imagine, this is a bittersweet experience.

Sleep has been particularly elusive for the King and me lately due to both girls suffering various illnesses. When they have stomach bugs, I tell myself there’s nothing worse (at least among everyday illnesses) than your kid throwing up repeatedly in the middle of the night. Then, when they get persistent coughs or ear infections, like now, I tell myself there’s nothing worse than your kid coughing her head off until she’s barely able to pull in a breath. The truth is, a sleepless night is simply bad, no matter how it happens. The funny thing is that, when we are finally able to settle them into relative silence, I lie in bed with those little marathon runners of my thoughts setting new records trying to outdo each other. I simply cannot clear my mind. This is why I think I need to learn to meditate.

We spent two nights with my family and enjoyed most waking moments—the swimming, the eating, the catching up, the laughing, the eating. We did not enjoy my girls’ whining, clinging, coughing, snotting. We did not enjoy our nights in someone else’s bed while our littlest one tossed and turned and could not sleep. Neither could we.

Even so, I think the trip was worth it. To visit my dad’s brothers, whom I rarely see, my aunt and cousins, even my great-great-aunt and great-great-uncle (I think that’s right). To hug my grandmother and grandfather (Mom and Pop), who have been such a constant in my life. To spend time with my parents and sister, viewing photos and hearing stories from their recent trip to Scotland. To remember my beloved great-grandmother, Nana, whose birthday we celebrated every July 4. To watch my girls, overtired and ill as they were, being adorable with all my relatives. It was worth it.

It’s sometimes tough for me on Independence Day. I can’t appreciate the sacrifice of so many United States service men and women without also thinking of the sacrifice of untold thousands of Native Americans. I can’t be grateful for my freedom without remembering the capture and domination of those people who first cared so deeply for this land. I can’t enjoy fireworks and barbecues without mourning in my heart those early peoples’ loss of the life they knew. So I am incredibly appreciative of those who have served our country through the years, winning us independence and keeping us that way. I am overwhelmingly grateful for the freedom we have to worship, speak, work, and live as we choose. I certainly enjoy all the celebratory aspects of our nation’s holidays, including fireworks and good food. But I also remember the original inhabitants of our land, and my heart is sad for them.

“Frog,” said Toad, “let us eat one very last cookie, and then we will stop.” Frog and Toad ate one very last cookie. “We must stop eating!” cried Toad as he ate another. “Yes,” said Frog, reaching for a cookie, “we need will power.” “What is will power?” asked Toad. “Will power is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do,” said Frog. “You mean like trying not to eat all of these cookies?” asked Toad. “Right,” said Frog.* 

I don’t know about you, but I can identify with good old Frog and Toad. Put a baked good or a tub of ice cream within my reach, and I’m sure to consume several servings in one sitting. If not in one sitting, I’ll eat it in bits throughout the day, consoling myself with the thought that I’m having “just a little bit more.” Take last week, for example. I found a tempting cookie recipe in my quarterly Kraft Food and Family magazine (which is full of propaganda for Kraft, but also offers easy cooking ideas).

“Look, Butterfly! Want to make cookies?” It’s great to have a small child with whom I can justify baking fattening treats. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Together, we mixed the devil’s food cake mix, 1/2 bar of cream cheese (actually, it was neufchatel, which is lower in fat, you know), 1/2 cup peanut butter (completely natural with no sugar added, thank you very much!), and 1 egg. When I say Butterfly worked with me to make these goodies, I mean that she begged to taste every separate ingredient aside from the egg. She did concede to helping me roll the dough into small balls and dip them in sugar. She most enjoyed licking her fingers afterward.

True to the recipe, the finished cookies were “incredibly chewy.” The serving size? Two cookies. Sounds like plenty, especially when you add a glass of milk to the mix. And it was . . . for a few minutes. Then I thought, “Just one more.” After consuming my third, I decided it wouldn’t be too bad to eat two more. After all, they didn’t have any butter or shortening. Of course, by this point my stomach was uncomfortably full and I began berating myself for mindless eating.

Such is the story whenever we have something particularly yummy around. Like my amphibian buddies, I simply don’t have enough will power. Or any will power, for that matter. My solution? Simply keep the goods out of my house. This way, I only overindulge on occasion. (And I am extremely grateful to those who offer me that opportunity by treating me with their delicious desserts.)

*Arnold Lobel, “Cookies,” in Frog and Toad Together (New York: HarperCollins, 1971, 1972).

Is your coffee cup feverish? Has it been shivering lately? What about your hands? Are they weary of clenching a paper coffee cup covered in a paper sleeve that you merely throw away after using? How many thousands of such sleeves do you imagine get tossed each week? Well, of course, I have the solution. For those of us growing ever more eco-conscious and concerned with preserving our beautiful earth, there is a way to save a few trees. Check out coffeecover.net for an innovative product that both helps the environment and makes your coffee cup look gorgeous. 

Those who know me may question my endorsement of this product, as I don’t drink coffee and rarely visit a Starbucks, but I still think it’s a great idea and an interesting find. Also, Erin wanted to support her cousin Mandy, who is co-developer of this new venture. Erin is a former coworker and sometimes reader of my blog, so, as you can see, my endorsement is not entirely selfless.

Now, all you coffee lovers (and hot chocolate lovers and those who simply love to dress up your cups) go get your coffecover (or two or three)!