Bad Blood

A benefit to writing your own story is you get to be the hero if you want!  Which, of course, I do.  SuperC! Saving the day by changing the baby with one hand and sticking a bandaid on the preschooler with the other, while answering the gradeschooler's questions about why a / is used to denote fractions.  Tum-ta-da!

But every good hero has nemeses. One of mine, is Kidzbop.  

This diabolical entity is many things.  But in my life it takes the form of a Pandora station that plays all the crap pop songs you have never heard of because you are not a 12 year old girl, and then plays them in re-mixes performed by Alvin and the bleeping Chipmunks.  

I have Little One's Kindergarten teacher to thank for this monstrosity.  Apparently, she liked to play it in the afternoons and let the kids dance around to such educational gems as "all about that base".  The Disneyfied version.  She let Little One set it up, so Little One knows all about how to get Kidzbop on any device.  And She is. OBSESSED.  

It is all Kidzbop, all day.  Every. Day.  And so, SO loud.  

In my effort not to already be the curmudgeonly older generation (too much) I mostly try to just plaster on my haunted grin, and bear it.  Though sometimes it feels a little like the CIA is probably playing a joke on me, spying to see how long it will be until I crack under the torture.  

Sometimes I get into it and dance along. But really, guys, as a general thing?  

Chipmunks singing Katy Perry??? Why????

Every time I think I win a battle against this villain, playing something else, or hiding the iPad, it's little minions find a way to blast it again. 

Last month I arrived in Ethiopia, allllll the way across the world, in a place where there is no Pandora.  No Spotify.  No iAnything.  No Kidzbop! And what do I see. 

 I CAN'T ESCAPE!

Both Sisters are into this stuff.  

But at least I have my uncorrupted baby. 

Last night, I was washing Little Mister in the tub.  He started singing. 

Mr: "ya wa ga baaaah bod! ya wa ga baaaaah bod!"

He's so cute! Right?  So cute, all innocent and tiny, singing in His sweet little voice in the tub.  Singing His cute little made-up song.  

His sisters hear Him and start giggling.  A little too something, those giggles.  

They clap for Him and say, "Yes! Yes that's right!"

Then they start signing.  They start singing: "baby now we got bad blood you know we used to be bad love..."  

And I realized my sweet baby was singing some violent, angry, girl-drama Taylor Swift song.  

He learned Bad Blood before the ABCs.  I die.  

Kidzbop Strikes again.    

Living The Dream

There's a thing about my job with this charity.  It's amplified, I think, by every heartbeat with which I truly believe in what I am doing, in who I am working for.  It's this inability to keep work and life separate, at all, because the two things live together in my heart.  They share real estate, so there isn't such a thing as moving from one to the other at the end of the day.
There's not such a thing as leaving anything at the office, because for one thing my office is my house, so I'm literally always in it.  But for another, the work isn't about place, it's about what's taking up space in my thoughts, in my heart.  I have a photo above my desk of the AFC kids when they were small.  It's tacked up with the little handmade cards and pictures they've given me over the years.  So that when things get hard, I can look up and be forced to remember why.
I read something lately about this "do what you love, love what you do" mantra.  I believe in that concept in a sense.  But it sounds so breezy, like doing what you love means you're just hanging out riding on endorphins all the livelong day.   That would be some strong kool-aid.
This past weekend we had a big fundraiser in Los Angeles, and there were so many wonderful things about it.  I had the chance to work with some really good people, to share a story and cause I wholeheartedly believe in.  The team there did a good job and people came and understood the mission and supported and that was great.
I also missed a lot of sleep, missed my kids, missed the only weekend J has off this month.  As happens in life, there were also glitches and issues and problems, and in the end I'm home still dealing with those things and I'm entirely exhausted.  I'm feeling a little defeated, discouraged, overwhelmed.  In all honesty?  I feel like quitting.  I want to pack up and go be a hermit on a mountain somewhere and stuff my fingers in my ears and sing "LALALA!" to just completely drown out the world.  I would bring a lot of chocolate.
Haven't we all had those days? Maybe not the hermit thing.  But days when it feels like your best is not enough? Like there's never going to be an end in sight where it will be enough? When we feel like quitting.
I feel about this job much the way I feel about parenting.  I love it.  I love it.  I love it deep down to my core, out my fingertips and toes and through the atoms of each cell in me.  I want to be here.  I asked for this, and I jumped for joy when it happened, and I feel it is my great privilege and honor and joy to get to do this with my one life.  I. Love. What. I. Do.
But that is the easy part.
The hard part is not the loving.  It's the doing.  It's the part where even when I feel like quitting, I just... don't.  It's the part where I'm so tired, in my body, in my heart, that I can't get out of bed in the morning.  But- for the things I love- I do.  It is rehashing the same issue with the same people on the phone for hours and hours when I was supposed to be at dinner with my family.  It's staying up all night going over the books and the math again and again.  It's telling my son for 500th time to please sit down in the bath tub.  It's cleaning the pee off the floor.  It's enforcing the rules when I'm too tired to talk, and wondering what I'm doing wrong that I really have to explain again why we don't jump on the trampoline with pencils in our hands.  It's laying down finally at one am and popping right back up to soothe a nightmare. It's stopping what I'm doing- even if it's something very important to me- to ooh and ahh over the leaf She found with the orange spots, because that's something that is important to Her.  The hard part is doing what I love.
No matter how big and how sincere my Love is, for my work, for my kids, for the people and things I care about, there are times I fail them.  There are times I feel like I have no business doing anything for anyone, and times I really think the hermit thing with the chocolate has got to be the way to go.  Things are hard sometimes. Even the ones I love. Maybe especially those.
I won't do everything right or take everything in stride, and I certainly don't expect to be kicking back with my kool-aid riding those perpetual endorphins anytime soon.  I'm tired and I have heartburn and someone else's snot is in my hair and I've been yelled at a lot today.  But when my alarm clock goes off in the morning, I'll will get up, and just start moving.
Because I love what I do, I do what I love. 

News From The Ark

Well hello there.
It seems that every time I post here, I start out with some iteration of "it's been a long time".
It's like a person who loves to cook grand, multi-course meals, whose life speeds up so fast they realize one day they've had nothing but drive-through take-out for months.
Me, I like to write overly involved stories about things that are important to me, trying to preserve these gorgeous, fleeting moments, but it's come to a point around here that Instagram is about as good as it gets.
But the busy cook-at-heart would surely stay up late stirring spices into a pot from time to time, for the sake of remembering who they are, right?  And now and then, even though I should be doing other things, I pop in around here.
Hey.  It's been a long time!
But we're all still around.
This has been a rough year in some ways.  In the last six months, we lost J's remaining grandparent.  And his father, unexpectedly.  We lost my Nana, as I've mentioned.  And then, just a week later, my grandfather.  My grandaddy was a really, really important and special person to me.  I think I just shut down for awhile.  But I'm just carrying on, as we do, and missing him quietly.
We have also been adjusting to not only having J in residency (with the erratic, stressful schedule that entails) and having me go back to work (from home, mostly, with the erratic, stressful schedule that entails), but doing both at once.  We've had some struggles with Little One and school, plus, you know, Life.  Waah wahhh wahh.
The last year almost, it's felt like our little family was sailing through a storm.  We hunkered down, getting tossed around and soaked and bumping our heads on the rafters and just riding it out.
But, slowly (and with the help of J's parents and my mom, bless them), we've adjusted ballast so that, even though it's still windy out there, we've got a pretty even keel and strong sea legs.  Balance.
I returned from a trip to Ethiopia just in time for the last week of school, and all that fun and chaos. Little One had one more snow-day-make-up on today, and now we are FREE for the summer.  Freeeeeeeee!
It is possible that this change will knock me sideways again for awhile, but I have to admit I am incredibly excited to have long days spread before me with all my littles home.
Here are a few updates on those little monkeys, since it's been awhile:

Little One
Well for one thing, She lost another tooth tonight.  The growing up just will. not. stop.  It's crazy.
Little One has had a great year at school with friends, and a rough year with the learning part, but She handled all of it like a star.  I'm so proud of the way She has faced Her challenges and been a good friend and not stopped hugging me goodbye at drop-off yet.  She might be a little boy crazy.  But this is not really new.

Miss
Missy has traveled light years in Her ability to express Herself and handle Her emotions.  She is still our drama queen, no doubt. But She's able to reassure Herself that the world is not actually ending if She can't find Her favorite shoes.  She was the darling of Her preschool teachers, who really truly will never believe that I could call Her dramatic or accuse Her of refusing to get dressed for school in the morning, leading to Her arrival at school in nothing (I mean nothing) but a bathrobe.  She painted Her way through preschool, but somehow learned to read. It's because She quietly notices everything. She's the most cuddly, loving, kissy Little of all time, and also hilarious.  Mostly on purpose.

Little Mister
This guy.  He has his moments.  Moments in which He is hangry, and then gets frustrated, and reacts by throwing Himself backwards with all His might, whacking His head on the floor, and then, every time, freezes for a moment- in complete shock, as if it's never happened before- and then cries because, you know.  THAT HURTS.  In those moments I can only look at Him blankly and wonder if maybe I drank heavily during pregnancy and forgot about it.  But most of the time, most of it, He is sweet and fun and adorable.  He talks all the time, constantly, and we are realizing that He is actually saying stuff.  We can make a lot of it out now, and He's pretty funny.  He loooooovves His sisters.  He loves raisins.  And shoes.  And, ok, all the things.  He loves all things.  Except the ones He can't have.  Those things are WAHHHHHAAAAHHH!  Lucky for Him, with two doting Sisters wrapped around His pinky, there aren't a lot of those.

J
Not a Little.  But he counts right?!  I hear he's doing fine.  If you see him, you can ask.  I'll have to take your word for it.  Kidding, kidding.  Sort of.  J is working long hours and long weeks.  But he's still making time to be superdad, and I'm trying to accept the extra housework and kid-wrangling he's been picking up lately as we adjust that ballast.  It's funny how difficult it can be for a person who considers herself to be a feminist to allow someone else to do the laundry.  I just bite my tongue really hard, and breathe deeply in a quiet place for awhile repeating, "it's ok that he sorted into only two piles. If they all turn out pink I can buy all new clothes. Let it go. Let it goooo".   That Frozen movie song really applies to mis-sorted laundry.  Which never turns out pink.  He's basically a champ.

Me
Well I have a laundry problem, clearly.  But I'm thankful that J is so supportive of the new balance we are finding as a family.  I'm thankful to have a job I believe in that I can do without hiring help with my Littles, and that our moms step in at crucial times when I otherwise would have had to hire help.  And I'm especially thankful for this time when my Littles are all going to be with me all day, all summer. And like it.  At least, hopefully they'll like most of it.  I know these days are finite, I know they are precious.  I take none of it for granted.  And, despite the rough waters at times (that's life!) I am thoroughly enjoying the ride.  

With Chocolate and Kleenex

We have been s-ICK over here.  The last couple of weeks have been a toxic slurry of nose goo, coughs, fevers, and the dreaded pink eye.  "When can She go back to school?" I ask the doctor.  "How about when She stops looking like an extra in a zombie movie?" Ok then.
After a week and a half of un-planned vacation, we have stir-crazy children and a behind-at-work mama.  Luckily, the Sisters have come around in the last day or so, and my mom is here to save the day. (!) So Mister has a lot of love to soothe His oh-so-pitiful self, and we are determined to have a happy Valentine's Day.
Now, in the case that tomorrow I'm the next one hit (I hear that if you get slimed by a zombie, you turn into one), or in the case that we are all well and having too much Valentine fun to stop, or in the (most likely) case that I fall into a chocolate coma, here is a happy, happy Valentine wish for YOU from the Littles.
We may be far, I may not check in often enough, and we might not say it as much as we think it, but it IS true, Peanuts.

We love you.  

One Fish, Two Fish

Little One recently developed a love of rabbits.  She asked for one for Christmas, and was valiantly thankful when She got one- that was plush and stuffed. "Fluffy" has become a favorite, but She still kept asking for a real bunny.  To be Her very own, to care for and love.
Soon Missy was drawn into pining for a pet, and their little hearts were just bleeding all over the place making a huge mess.  So J and I had a powwow; we needed a plan.
Soon after, I surprised the Sisters with a visit to the aquarium store.

We oohed and aahhed over all the exotic creatures, and then stopped and fell in love with the stand of vivid, flowy betta fish.  I pulled them aside and presented The Deal.
IF they earned all the money needed to buy the fish, AND all the stuff fishes need, and IF they promised to take care of the fish and understood that I really, seriously, no seriously, would take-the-fishes-right-back-where-they-came from-so-help-me in the case they weren't being taken care of, THEN they could have a fish.  Of their very, very own.  To be In Charge of, to love, to name, and to keep.
Well, Little One mused, it's not quite a bunny.  But still super great! We had a deal.
They patiently listened to the pet shop guy preach about all that would be needed to care for this menagerie of one.  We added up the cost.  And went home to the chore chart.

All of those flowers are responsibilities the Littles are expected to complete each and every day.  But in the little basket there are stars with extra chores they may do to earn money.  There are plenty of options, but since they have not yet figured out how to form a union, the wages for these tasks are quite low- a quarter to vacuum, 10 cents to polish the fingerprints off the chairs.  They did lots of extra chores to add to their piggy banks.

Chopping veggies

Working hard for the money

Mister wanted to help too

Baking brownies from a recipe.  All I did was put them in and out of the oven. And eat them.  I did lots of that.

Plus, they have both been hoarding money since forever.  They each spent some money at Christmas buying presents for each other and for Mister, but otherwise they've scrooged it up in their room every time they find a penny on the sidewalk or rake in cash from selling their old toys at a yard sale.

They also pooled their resources, both in terms of labor and cash, and decided to share a jar of fish food and water conditioner, to save on overhead. Wise financial planning.

Also, all my cheap ways have rubbed off on them. Rather than buy the pricey glass bowls and marbles at the fish store, they chose to shop for these supplies at the thrift store.  They carefully compared prices in the glass isle, and chose less expensive options.

So before we knew it, our little laborers had saved up all they needed.  They were just a little excited about reaching their goal.

Finally, the big day came.  The bowls and rocks were clean, filled, and temperature acclimated.  The pennies and nickels were counted and packed up.  When I got home from yoga class, the Sisters were at the window, and were jumping into their shoes and jackets before I got through the door.

We drove to the aquarium store and the Littles explained their purpose (by which I mean shouted it while jumping up and down giggling), and the manager was all about it.  He told them all about how wonderful they were, and gave them a veritable college course in betta-fish ownership.  They listened, they nodded.  They asked a few questions.  And then.  Drumroll please.

They got to pick out the perfect fish.  It took a good long time, but in the end they were certain they had chosen just the very exactly perfect, right fish for them.


Little One chose a robust and vivid blue fish with red underfins which swam and swirled quite like a peacock.  Blue like the ocean, She named it "Wave".

Missy selected a slender, docile, pale pink opalescent fish with a few purple spots.  She'd had the name ready a long time- "Smiley".

We've brought them home, released them from their dixie cups into their new, slightly larger habitats, and they have been quite doted upon already.

Smiley and Wave have joined us at the dinner table, they've been shown countless drawings made just for them, they have been sung to and talked to and cooed at.  They are each read bedtime stories by their new girl, and placed on the bedside table to "almost cuddle" through the night.

It will be very interesting to see how these relationships play out.  For now though, I'm happy to think that some message about work ethics and economics must have filtered in through the excitement, I'm happy to have had so much laundry sorted for me, and I must admit they are pretty and fun to watch.  Mister and I spent half an hour sitting together today, peacefully eating banana slices and watching them swirl.
Of course, part of that time I was thinking, "What are we doing all I need is another two creatures to keep alive around here".  But after laying in bed this morning, listening to Missy croon love songs to Smiley, and after Little One whizzed through Her homework yesterday with Wave's "help", I confess it's true.  The more, the merrier!

The Selflessness of Selfishness

A couple of months ago, I was having a rough night.  I was shuffling around.   J was working night shift, I was home with three fussy kids, all with colds.  The Littles were finishing up dinner, I was at the stove.  I was getting more for someone?  I was starting to clean up? I don't remember.
What I remember is a sudden shooting pain, from my heels my shoulders.  Like lightning.  Like fire.
I went rigid, I drew a sharp breath.  And then, I had no legs.  They were gone.  It felt as though someone had actually pulled them out from beneath me; they simply were not there.
Without legs to stand on, I fell.  I tried to catch myself on the edge of the stove, but I wasn't strong enough.  I crumpled to the floor, took a moment to get my bearings, and was shocked to find that I still had no legs.
The Sisters could see me from the dining room; they were asking if I was all right, if I fell down.
I was telling them I was ok, I'll be there in a minute, and my voice sounded strange in my own ears.  Disassociated from me, like the lower half of my body.
I stayed there awhile. 10 minutes that felt like hours. Finally, I was able to grab onto the bar of the oven door, and pull myself up.
I was able to shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the water.  I got Mister into the tub.  But it was hard; it was very hard.  I carried Him from the high chair to the tub on Faith. I carried him inches at a time, with great effort, telling myself all the way- my legs are there; I see them.  I can do this; I'm fine.  I put Him in the bath.  I could tell now, that my legs were not gone.
But my legs and my back felt strange.  Weak and heavy, sort of transparent. My arms began to feel heavy, like I was lifting them through thick mud instead of air.  I tried to pick Mr up out of the tub and found that I couldn't.  I just could not.  I may as well have been trying to lift the house itself.
It wasn't because it hurt, I just couldn't make my arms lift Him.  I began panic.  But what about my kids?  Because they were watching, I didn't get hysterical.  Because there were there, depending on me, I didn't have the luxury of that.
So instead, they got a very, very long bath.
I waited.  Eventually, with my direction, Little One was able to get Mr into my lap, where he held onto my neck like a little monkey. From there I stood up and was able to get Him to the changing table, put Him to bed.  Because they are so independent now, I was able to get the Sisters into bed, and then I laid down too.
By the morning,  I was as good as I had been before the lighting at the stove.
Which was really only kind of ok, actually.  I'd been having numbness in my feet and hands for weeks.  So much so that once I'd been holding my flat iron with my finger on the plate and not noticed until I smelled burning skin.  So much that I'd gone out and bought flat shoes because I could no longer balance in my heels.  I stopped going to yoga because I kept falling down. So I went to a doctor.  I had bloodwork, MRIs, lots of tests.
It turns out I was lucky.  I apparently had Guillon-barre syndrome; a problem in which the immune system reacts to a mild illness by attacking the cells of the nervous system.  Only a third of people who get this remain able to walk at all.  Many people become totally paralyzed; in some even their heart and lungs stop.  I had a really mild case, and the best thing about this syndrome compared to other things I was tested for, is that (as long as you don't die), it goes away.
It can take a long time, I'm told, for nerve cells to heal.  But they almost always do, eventually, heal. I'm already a whole lot better.  I still have some numbness and tingling in my hands and feet; I still cannot feel my big toes even if you were to stick a needle in them, even if you put them in ice.  But I will, in time.
Looking back now I feel stupid.  All those weeks of struggling to braid the girls' hair, of dropping everything, of straining to walk the kids to school, before even making an appointment to see my doctor.  I think of that night at the stove and am horrified.  It could have become so much worse than it did- it's incredibly lucky that it didn't- why on earth did I not call for help?  What if it had become worse- and my kids were there alone in the bath.  
The thing is.  At the time, I wasn't so much worried about the problems I was having as I was ashamed of them.  With my new job, J's residency hours, the kids' new schools, and getting used to a new home, I was stressed out and missing a lot of sleep.  I would stumble or drop something and think, "wow, I am just really not handling things very well".  I was disappointed in myself for not being able to pull myself together.  I just needed to try harder, to manage time better and get more rest. The night I couldn't lift Mister from the tub I was scared.  But more than that, I was angry at myself for being so weak.  For making such a big deal out of a strained muscle or something, for not being able to make myself push through it and look after my kids.
As a mother, the primacy of caring for your children can become so overwhelming that you start to forget yourself. You stop being able to see yourself as a person, start to forget that you need things. As your focus shifts to the people who need you, it's easy to feel less human and more like the machine that keeps the conveyor belt of life rolling.  How many times have I packed well-balanced, allergy-safe, carefully planned-out snacks for three kids for an all day excursion- and not even thought of bringing an apple for myself?  How many times have I insisted J take a nap after a long shift- yet after staying up all night with sick or fussy kids, when have I ever asked for a nap? I have cancelled lots of plans and pushed plenty of deadlines because someone was sick or tired and needed to be in bed- but I've never skipped gymnastics practice, story time, or field trips because I had a fever or headache.  Machines are not supposed to take sick days, or naps, or even bathroom breaks.
Usually, it's not my line to complain about those facts.  I believe that parenting requires sacrifice and prioritizing my kids needs over my own, and I'm good with that.  I don't resent anyone when we are in our sixth hour of Smithsonian museums and I'm starving while the kids munch organic apples dipped in home-made soy-yogurt.  It's no one's fault.
But mine.  Because sacrifice implies that you are giving something up for the good of others.  Prioritizing kids means doing the best thing for them.  Is it really for their good, is it really what's best for them, if I get hungry or exhausted and can't quite be at my best?  Or if I get sick and sicker and end up unable to get my baby out of a bath tub?
This whole experience has left me feeling extremely fortunate.  Because it wasn't bad enough to have caused any permanent damage.  But it was bad enough to shock me into reassessing the way I see myself, and into realizing that the way I take care of myself directly and profoundly impacts my ability to take care of everyone else.  Sometimes toughing it out and ignoring yourself to be there for others isn't brave or valiant or generous.  It's just stupid.
As I recover from that bizarre episode, I feel a lot like Mister, discovering the joy of movement and abilities.  I go to yoga and I'm grinning through the poses that burn- because I can do it without falling over!  I put on my old shoes and do a little dance in them.  Because I can! Everything seems like so much fun; things I had taken for granted are significant again. I'm practicing french-braiding the Sisters hair, I'm mending things by hand, I'm cutting stuff out with scissors.  And.
I'm eating breakfast, even if we will be a little late for school.  I'm locking the bathroom door.  And today (after tucking in two post-scary-dream Littles and soothing one who bumped His head in the middle of the night) even though the kitchen was messy and there was work to do, when Mister took a nap, I did too.  It may seem strange, but for my New Year's Resolution, I'm going to try to take better care of my family- by being a little more selfish.

Always

C: "Little One, can you turn on the light?" 

LO: "Um, sure, I think so mom."

She reaches, it's too far.  

She hops.  She jumps.  

Again and again, throwing Herself up the wall with Her fingers stretched waaaaaay up, trying to hit the switch.  

She's six, but She's little.  She's still so little, and the light switch is just too high.  

I watch Her a few more times, then offer, 

"Little One, would you like a little help with it?" 

She doesn't slow down.  She's jumping with all Her might now, running out of breath.  

"Just-a, few-more, times, mama-"

"Ok, love, no hurry.  Just let me know."

I look on as She jumps again.  Five times, ten. Twenty? I don't know how many.  

Then-  

She gets it.  

The light flashes on.  

She stops, panting, Her hands on Her hips, beaming as bright as the bulbs.  

I'm grinning too.  

"You did it!!"

Little One smiles, She wiggles Her hips in a little victory dance and chants, 

"Always believe in your self."

This is  one of the most beautiful things about being a parent.  Getting to witness these little moments, these trivial things, that are not little or trivial at all.  

Mary Had A Little Lamb

Mary had a little lamb. But Missy has a little dog.
Well.  Not that little, really, at 50 pounds, but Her dog seems to have other things in common with Mary's lamb.  Like being soft and fuzzy.  And wanting to follow his mistress to school.
We are lucky enough to live within walking distance of both Sister's schools.  Today Miss and I had dropped Little One off and were heading to preschool, when we were surprised at being charged by a big brown dog.  Who happened to be ours.
I told him to go home, at which he looked surprised, but turned to obey.  I watched him run across a green space and up a hill, where he made a valiant effort to get back into our yard through the hole he had dug under the fence.  He tried, but could't wriggle in.
So he just looked at me helplessly, a little guiltily, until I sighed.  "Ok then, X.  Come on."
He bounded over like he had just won christmas.
Little Miss, who had been complaining of the cold, of her feet being tired, of "please-carry-me-I-need-be-unner-yoh-ja-cket" was suddenly and miraculously cured of Her ills.
We backtracked a block to pick up his leash, and then he followed us to school.

X has never been a runner.  He is the dog who, as a puppy, stayed in our front courtyard during the day.  One day, a parcel deliveryman left the front gate open while J and I were at work- all day. When we finally got home, there was X, wagging his tail on the doormat.

There have been times he has jumped fenced before.  Always to get to the front door, where he waits expectantly to be invited inside, where he knows he belongs.

Until he developed a serious grouchiness with other dogs in his middle age, we never even bothered walking him on a leash.  He likes to be near his people.

The great tragedy of X's life was Little One's asthma.  Little One is allergic to dogs (of course).  A lick in the face gives Her a swollen eye that could compete with a bar fight injury.  She does pet and cuddle Her doggies, but always at the price of sneezing, wheezing, itching, and hives.  Dog time is always followed by wash time.
When She was three, She began to have serious trouble with asthma.  It was the dogs.
Numerous doctors have told us, in no uncertain terms, to "get rid of them".  But we couldn't.  Just couldn't.  So we tried everything; we restricted them to one part of the house, away from Little One's room.  We shaved their fur and bathed them every week, washed their beds every few days, vacuumed the house twice a day, and had HEPA filters all over the house.  Little One took a daily inhaler and a daily allergy medicine.
She was still needing Her rescue inhaler a couple of times a week.
So with heavy hearts, we built them a dog house in the back yard.  Within two weeks, Little One stopped having asthma attacks.  Soon She didn't need any of those medicines.  We couldn't argue with that.
So X and E became something none of us ever expected- outside dogs.  In Virginia they had reign over the yard and garage, but this house has no garage.  There is a storage room in the basement, and when we moved in it became the "dog room" for them to sleep in at night or during bad weather.
But just a few weeks in, Little One began having breathing trouble again.  Just having the dogs walk through Her playroom twice a day to get in and out was enough to affect Her health.
So we have converted the shed in the back into a behemoth dog house.  We fitted it with a dog-door, and they have their beds, their bones, their basket of toys in there.  They will have heated pads to curl up in when the weather gets cold.  But we still miss each other.
With the all-consuming life of babies and toddlers, we are sure they have felt quite neglected for some time.  But we've found a new turn of events now that the Sisters are six and three-and-a-half.
The dogs still don't get anywhere as much attention from me and J as they did before their banishment.  But, like all siblings in large families, they now get it from the other kiddos.
Miss and Little One play with them in the yard, throwing things for them, running with them, playing around and cuddling them.  They are now old enough to walk the dogs, holding the leashes themselves while I hold Mr, making their attendance possible on family strolls.  They seem to be reintegrating into the family in a new way, and the bond between the dogs and the children is pretty sweet to see.

It's why our otherwise well-behaved, never-been-a-runner dog X plotted an escape- to walk his girl to school.  It's why he greeted Miss first when he ran up to us.  And why he wagged his tail all the way to drop off- and whimpered all the way home.
Yesterday, Little Miss spent two hours in the back yard mixing mud and decorating a beautiful, elaborate "cake" for X, to celebrate his tenth birthday.

It's hard to believe it's been a decade since I held a tiny flop-eared puppy on my shoulder and whispered him a promise that I was taking him out of that county shelter and would take care of him forever.

Looking back over those years, I remember how he stood guard at my bedroom door every night when I was pregnant with Little One.  I remember how he herded her into the room with us when she was toddling around, how he he loved going down the slide with both girls at the playground and letting the neighborhood kids throw sticks for him or mob him to wash him together in the summers. I remember that time a foster puppy got out and I could not catch her- then I let X out and he rounded her up and shepherded her home.

X with the foster puppy he rescued

 
 There have been times I've watched a Little lean into his fur and cry quietly, and know that it helped them because I've done the same.  I remember the time all the houses on our row of town homes got robbed one night- except ours.  The time when J was deployed that he and E barked so ferociously in the middle of the night, and then the police knocked to tell me that a neighbor had seen a man trying to break in- who didn't.  I realize that while I've kept my promise to feed and shelter him, maybe he's the one who has taken care of me.
On the tenth birthday of the member of our family who was sort of our first baby, I maybe should have scolded my dog for digging a hole under the fence and wriggling through to chase us to school.  But I can't help thinking that he wasn't doing something wrong, so much as righting a wrong.  After all, he ended up right where he should be.
By our side.

 

Flap-jackie Chan

I'm entrenched in a ridiculous drama in which GoogleVoice has abducted my cell phone number and refuses to give it back.  It terrorizes me, Peanuts.  It's a mean, scurvy pirate.  One of the ways it messes with me is by randomly transcribing voicemails and sending them to me as a text that would take all of the Pentagon's cryptologysts to decipher.
I was picking up Missy from school one day, when one of these encoded nonsensical messages came in.  I wasn't yet familiar with this phenomenon, and so for a minute I just stared at it dumbly, wondering which one of us was crazy.  It made no sense, guys, none.
But I could pick out three words:
school
daughter
allergy
Which were the only ones I needed to see to turn my stomach inside out.  I smiled at Miss, who I had been unsuccessfully beguiling away from the sandbox, walked over to Her calmly, picked Her up, and sat Her on Mister's lap in His stroller.  I measured my words out like sugar in a teaspoon, "There is an emergency, so we are leaving right. now.  Hang on love!"
And I hauled our three tushies down the path, up the road, past the park and through the parking lot in record time, dialing the school as we trucked it.
She was ok.  She was looking scared and embarrassed, but She was breathing normally.  Other than some hives on Her face, She looked fine.  Except for the eye.
Her left eye looked as if She'd jammed a ping-pong ball under Her lids.  It was big and puffy, swollen and red.
The school features pancakes for lunch (got to start those healthy habits early).  One of Little One's friends was eating pancakes with her hands, and reached across the table to get Little One's attention. She touched Her face.  That's it.  That's all.  That's all it took to blimp up Her eye like that and freckle Her with hives.  The nurse had washed it out and put ice on it, but it was still swelling.
I was relieved.  It could have been so much worse than a swollen eye.  I was just getting my heart to start beating normally again, when She took off the ice pack to let me look.  The white of Her eye was bulging.  The whole eyeball was swollen and eerily fat, and a lima-bean sized pouch was extruding from the white sclera and swelling up and over the iris, covering the color of Her eye.
Eyes, Peanuts.  Heebiejeebie.  Eye stuff is ick.  It was the one part of EMT school I cringed in.
So because I was worried about the eye, and because it was only getting worse, we left kindergarten and spent a long afternoon in the ER.  Little One got some medicine and a cold compress, and after a couple of days was just fine; good as new.
But the scariest part of the story, to me, wasn't physical at all.  It was that when Her eye had started bothering Her, She covered it with one hand, and kept writing.  When Her teacher asked if She was ok, She lied and said yes.  She excused Herself to the bathroom.
She didn't come back for a long time, and so the teacher checked and found Her hiding in the bathroom, embarrassed by Her freakish look, rinsing Her eye in the sink.
Her teacher had FREAKED OUT.  The nurse said she was hysterical.  When she spoke to me, she was angry at Little One for the lie.
I didn't talk to Her about this until we were home, I knew She was ok, and we'd all had a chance to rest and decompress.  Then I filled J in, and we talked to Her together.  We told Her the truth.
"Little One.  It's lucky it was just a pancake and a swollen eye.  Because you need to know that if it had been maybe a nut, and you had gone off and hid like that...you could have died in the bathroom.  You could have stopped breathing and no one would be there to help you.  You HAVE to tell your teacher.  It is the most important thing." 
The silver lining is that when these things happen I don't get brushed off as the over-dramatic mom as much.  Now that Her teacher has seen Little One get a freaky fat eye from one roundhouse-kick by a pancake molecule, She is much more interested in asking me to read labels for snacks and keeping Little One away from spills.  Between our chat and missing a birthday party to spend hours in an ER waiting room, I'm hoping Little One has learned something, too.
The struggle between caution and level-headed moderation is a line as thin as the blade on a double-edged sword.  On one hand, we don't want Her to be paranoid so that She is living under a constant shadow of fear.  We want Her to go out into the big world, have adventures, live.  We don't want Her to be sheltered in a bubble of parental protection to the point that She doesn't learn how to navigate the reality on Her own (after all, the great majority of deaths from allergic reactions occur in teens and young adults- basically as soon as children outgrow their parent's reach).  And we don't want to ignore how real the social pains of food allergy can be at Her age; isolating Her and pointing out Her difference and making Her friends uncomfortable being around Her.  
On the other hand.  There is this story of a seven year old who died at school when a friend gave her a peanut on the playground. And this one, where a girl died in her school cafeteria.  Or this boy, who had two cardiac arrests, despite being given his epipen, when teacher forgot and gave him a hazelnut  candy in one of those dreaded birthday crap-eating fests that happen in Little One's class every other week.  This one, who nearly died after building a gingerbread house in school.
And many others.
Because talking about food allergy sometimes seems to get across about as well as that text message I got from the nurse. People are so attached to and in love with food. It's like hearing that your best friend goes around and axe-murders people at night- "cookies? really?  cookies are harmless! My cookies could never hurt anyone! It's just a cookie."  People seem to almost take offense.  When I was discussing Her food allergies with Her teacher at the beginning of the year, the teacher seemed a little annoyed- "obviously, I want to keep Her safe."  Yes.  No one is saying you are going to tie Her up and force peanuts down Her throat.  No one is calling you a sadist.
But something that is inherently nice, nourishing, even comforting to you, is- believe it! It's true!- deadly poison for some of us.  It is that big a deal to hand out a treat that "looks ok" without reading the label.  Or to expect that a little child not only have the 100% infallible judgement to stay away from allergens "because they are old enough to know better", but also to expect them to have superhuman psychic powers and know what ingredients were used in every processed cracker or home-baked treat brought into school, or that someone spilled milk on their chair yesterday and it wasn't washed with soap and water.  Or that the girl eating pancakes across the table is about to reach out.
A kindergarten teacher tasked with a bunch of crazy mini-people who have various special needs, language abilities, and behavior problems can easily view a food allergy as just one more kid issue to add to a long list.
Especially when my child does know better, is personally responsible beyond Her years, and classroom days go by smoothly without incidents.  It starts to feel like, hey.  What's the big deal?  She  must not be that sensitive, because every time we've bent the rules and let kids with peanuts/eggs/milk sit next to Her at the table so far, it's been fine.
Until it isn't.
It may seem harsh to tell a five-year-old that She could have died on a bathroom floor.  Or to tell it to Her teacher.  But it's true.
It's a strange world, as a parent, when you spend a whole afternoon in the ER, when your child gets a big swollen eye, and you feel thankful.  But I'm dance-a-jig, shout-to-the-stars, prayers-of-thanks grateful for that ugly swollen eye.
Because even though She had a couple of really bad days- She's still here.
As for the nurse and the teacher, of all the info I've showered them with since before school even started, this episode I think had the effect on them that those three intelligible key words in the transcribed text had on me.  It was just a swollen eye.  But, I hope, it was enough for them to get the message.   

Magical

Isn't it great when babies learn new skills?  It's so magical.
Except, maybe, when they learn how to take off their own diaper, while they are crawling around the living room and you are in the kitchen.  Because you're hastily packing up snacks for a long day of doctor appointments and it's TIME TO GO and then you turn around and- oh look! Little Mister has learned how to take off His diaper.  Which was full of poo.  And He has crawled right over it, like a monster truck going over a mud pile, and distributed it- two elbows and two knees at a time- around the whole. room.  Magical.  And then Miss (who is practically phobic about getting dirty) steps in it, freaks out, and RUNS.  What would you do, Peanuts? What do you wash first? You have three minutes to get out the door into car seats.  GO.
Bathe and dress two kids, wash out the cloth diaper, keep the third kid out of the monster truck arena, clean the entire living/dining/kitchen floor, start the washer, pack up snacks, bags, coloring books, WASH YOUR HANDS, buckle them in- under five minutes.
Like I said.  Isn't it great when moms learn new skills?

Brave

Monday will be the first day of Kindergarten.
It's true that Little One has been going to school for three years now, but this will be public school.  All day school.  With hundreds of kids.  With lunch time. It's a whole new thing.
Tonight Little One and I walked through the drizzling evening to attend the "back to school" info session.  It was mostly hum drum, mission statements and conduct codes and pick-up schedules and such.  It was late (and boring) and Little One leaned on my shoulder, lacing Her arm through mine.
When the teacher got to the part about lunches and snacks, I perked her up to listen.
Hearing the talk about how all the kids get milk, about the class eating breakfast each morning in the classroom,  class-provided snacks (the ubiquitous goldfish crackers being the example),  the various options for lunches on long tables in the cafeteria, caused knots to form in my stomach, slowly tightening with each paragraph.
One parent in the back asked, "is this a nut-free school?"  
"No, no it isn't" answered the teacher.
At that, she got the biggest reaction from her listeners she'd had all night.
"YES!!" exclaimed several parents in the crowd, one pumping his fist in the air.  "Awesome!" "great!" "Oh that makes everything easier!"
Everything easier? Really?
Now, I am actually not an advocate for nut-free schools.  There are nuts in the world, and kids like mine have to learn to navigate that fact.  I also understand the fairness issue with asking many to be inconvenienced for the sake of one.
But it is, after all, the sake of one life.  
How can I explain this to someone who doesn't live with life-threatening food allergies?  Imagine the teacher saying that all the children would be allowed to carry loaded handguns, and all the parents going, "Yes! I'm sending mine with a semi-automatic!"   Only worse.  Because if kindergarteners did carry guns, at least they might have been told to be careful with them.  At least the teachers would know they were dangerous and would instinctively supervise to some degree.
But for my kid, the peanut butter sandwich and the cups of milk are just as dangerous.  And no one handles pizza with caution.  Meaning that the burden of staying safe in an actual minefield of danger, all day long, will fall on the shoulders of a five-year-old.
Hearing all those parents exalt over getting to send nuts into the place my Little One will be spending the majority of Her time,  watching Her innocent little eyes get big and round, feeling the delicacy of Her hand pressed into mine... I felt a wave of real terror.
I put my arm around Her shoulders as if I were sheltering Her from an attack; for a moment I thought I was going to be sick. I can honestly not remember the last time I felt so afraid.  And that's me.
How must She feel?
I squeezed Her hand and the talk moved on to folders and homework.  Afterwards She thanked the teacher and we started for home.  By now it was late, late enough to be dark out.  To get home, we take the short-cut around the back of the school, behind the baseball field and down a little path through a wooded area.  But we've never walked it at night.
As we turned the corner of the school, the back was unlit, littered with broken chairs, flat basketballs, and overflowing dumpsters.  The thought was just flashing through my mind, that this was pretty sketchy looking and I was a bit uneasy about it, when Little One stopped short and grabbed my hand.  "Um, no way Mom.  No way we should go through here, it's too dark! I'm scared.  This looks like a place where Bad Guys come out from."
I looked again.  It did look like a scene that might be accompanied by creepy music.
But it was the way home.
"Little One, it's ok.  This is our own, safe neighborhood.  I have a flashlight, and we know the way.  We are tough and brave, and I am right here.  We're just going to keep going." 
She looked a bit doubtful.
"If a bad guy jumps out, I will whack him with this umbrella. I'm not afraid of anything. Let's go!"
She held my hand tight, and we walked.
Even though what I said was true, that it was a short familiar walk in our own, safe neighborhood, if I'd been by myself, I might have run through the dark part, or gone the much longer way through the lit streets.  But sometimes when you're mom, you don't have the luxury of being scared.  You have to be rational, you have to be brave.  Because it's one thing to teach my child to be cautious, and another to make Her afraid of the dark, of Her own shadow.
So I walked with confidence; I smiled and pointed out the lovely song of the crickets, the beautiful pattern of the moon through the leaves.  I kept a careful watch and I held onto Her hand- but we walked right into the dark and kept walking until we were home.
I wish I could walk Her like that through life.  I wish I could hold Her hand in every darkness.
Kindergarten and school and the wide frightening world are right around the corner.   They are shadowy with Unknowns and there are dangers to navigate.  I would give anything to make every back alley and lunch room safe and sunny for Her! But I can't, and there's no way around it.
Still, even if I can't always be there with Her, I will always be there for Her.
All we can do is hope things aren't so dangerous as they seem, to navigate as smartly as we know how, to walk into the darkness and keep walking.  And be brave.

Inside Joke

On long driving days on this trip, we play games, do art, and enjoy the scenery in the morning.  But if we're still driving in the late afternoon (or if we did a hike early and then logged some miles after lunch), we let the Sisters watch a movie in the car.
We let them choose from a selection we brought along, and for some reason, they formed an obsession way back in Indiana and have chosen the SAME movie EVERY time.  Disney's "Cars".
The repeated viewing of this gem (They've probably watched it five or six times now) has ingrained it into their soft little brains in a way that is eerily impressive.  It's kind of cool (wow! How can they remember all that?!) and kind of disturbing (wow.  HOW can they remember all THAT?!).
We sort of wish we'd brought along a video of the theory of relativity or something instead.  They'd be applying to Harvard right now.  It has also given rise to the first notable existence of a new phenomena.
We were driving one day and the Littles were chattering.  Suddenly, they both hollered, "AND MY NAME IS NOT CHUCK!" and broke into insane peals of laughter.  J and I gave each other the "huh?" look, and turned to see what the heck.  We could see no signs of Chuck.
But it became a Thing.  One of them would randomly say, "Adios, Chuck." And the other would shout, "AND MY NAME IS NOT CHUCK!".  Crazy laughter.
After a while, and quite a few "huh" looks between me and J, I suddenly gasped.  "Ohmygosh!"
J did a double on his "huh?" look.  "What?" 
"I just realized.  They have this joke.  They have a joke, and they get it, and we are the un-cool parents and we DON'T get it.  We don't GET it, J.  It's their first inside joke!" 
J was quiet for a moment.  "It is."
It was!
After careful attention, and thanks to a five-year old who (thank you Lord, and let it last forever) can not keep a secret from Her parents for long, we realized they were repeating their favorite line from the movie.  Apparently that part is, like, reeeaaallllyyy funny.
Once we were clued in, it became the family inside joke. Now, any one of us is likely to suddenly say, "Adios, Chuck!"  leading to a chorus of "AND MY NAME IS NOT CHUCK! AHhhahaaahah!"
They also quote a ton of other lines from the movie.  including, most unfortunately, such gems as "what-a-heck?!" and (this one makes me freak out EVERY time for just a sec) "Ho-ly SHOOT!"
Thanks, Mater.  You've corrupted my innocent babies.  Now they say "holy shoot".  What-a-heck?!
Little Miss, also, has a thing for the "low-ridah" cars featured, likes to go around saying, "What UP? What Uuuupp?"  And even, upon seeing a sleeping person at my grandfather's nursing home, "Looks like we got ah-selves a NOd-dah!" 
Ok, see the movie if you don't get it.
Except for the holy shoot parts, it's pretty cute.  And, if you re-live it 5000234541 times, as we have, you will grow a special fondness for it.  Trust me.  You might even drive the country, looking out for cars that resemble the characters from the movie, and find random junkyards in Nowhere, New Mexico, really awesome because there are, like, 10 Maters and 14 Doc Hudsons in there.  Trust me.
At any rate, while I have heard each scene rehashed and dissected as nauseum, and while what-the-heck and holy-shoot are phrases I could live without a few years longer, I appreciate very much the fact that J and I were let in on the Sister's first inside joke.
There will be more- many more- and we will soon be left with our "huh" looks and nothing else.  As it should be.
But maybe, one day, when they are laughing at something that makes no sense to us, and they refuse to clue us in, J or I will holler at them- "Adios, Chuck!"  And, years having passed, the Sisters will give each other the "huh?" look, and J and I will laugh hysterically.

A Day In My Perfect Life

The day of the funeral for J's grandma started early.  Darn early.  Strong coffee in the dark early.We packed up the car and carried disoriented, pajama-ed Littles to their car seats and strapped them in.  We drove almost four hours, we arrived.
I hauled the disheveled crew into the church bathroom and got them changed and brushed, braided -and warned.  This was going to be a quiet time.  It was important that we be patient.  Respectful.  Haven't I mentioned how seriously Catholics take their churching? They needed to be on their very best behavior for the length of the service, and then there would be a reception. With a kids table!  They nodded, we went in.
Our family was seated in the first pew.  The very front, Peanuts. In a church that was jam packed all the way through the vestibule and to the door. Generations of family, and friends from other families, who have lived in that town and attended that church for not just generations, but hundreds of years.
It started out all right.  The Littles were a little tired, a little hungry.  But their second cousin came to sit with us, and that helped.  At first.
After awhile, though, the boredom began to eat away at their sanity.  Missy, in particular.  In fairness to Her, She was not exactly misbehaving.  She was not cranky, She was not fussing.  She was just admiring the flowers, noticing a bird out the window, wondering if it was lunch time.  Out loud.  She wasn't screaming, or whining either, but in that little chapel in the hush of a funereal crowd, Her sweet little voice was as obtrusive as a locomotive letting off steam.  I kept Shhhing Her.
All the kids began to squirm a little.  Not to worry! I am a prepared Mama, am I not, Peanuts?  I plan ahead, I know what I'm doing here, amiright, Peanuts?!  I saw the antsy-pants and headed off the meltdowns with my genius solution- crayons.  And coloring books.
This magical combination has served me well in many a pinch.  It has even been the key to breezing through entire Catholic masses!  So of course, I had great confidence.  Except.  Constantly turning pages and scribbling hard over a hollow wooden pew turn out to be noisy activities in a certain setting.  Not to mention three very sweet children who would not stop sharing - 
"Can I have the blue one? Thanks!" During the invocation and "Here! You want this pink and green one?"  during a bible reading and "Hey I'll trade you these three for your yellow!"
Who would not stop enjoying themselves- "Hey that's a really great rainbow!" when everyone was tearing up and "MOMMY! Look at my dol-pins they ah jumping ina ocean!" during a moment of silence.
And then, of course, the occasional "PLINK!...Roll....Roll....roll-roll-rollroll-rooooolllll" of a crayon to the back of the church, beneath somber feet.
So the thing is.  Despite the fact that Miss wasn't doing anything particularly wrong, per se, She was constantly and with increasing agitation getting SHUSHED.  This was annoying.  So annoying, that finally, She'd had about enough of it.  I mean.  Her sister was all engrossed in coloring with the cousin, Her dad was holding Her sleeping brother. Poor Missy had no one to play with but me and I was being an infernal killjoy.
She was telling me all about Her picture, and would. Not. Stop.  So I scolded Her as quietly as I could, admonishing Her to PLEASE be quiet.  And it was the Sshh that broke the camel's back.  The hands, Peanuts.  The Missy hands went to the hips.  This began a domino reaction.
The hands to the hips, the hips swung to the left, they cocked the head, which swished the pigtail, just over the forehead which furrowed and frowned above the eyes, which glinted and glared, highlighting the grimace on the little mouth, which opened to emit- the holler.
And the holler said, "NO!" 
I knew that Missy would repeat this answer as many times as needed until I learned not to interrupt Her.  So I picked Her up, and stepped out of the pew box.  She knew, in that moment, what was happening.  That She'd lost. And so She LOST it.  I am talking an all out, kicking legs, screaming at the top of Her lungs, world class, grade A tantrum.
And so I got to carry this thrashing siren.  AAaaaalllllllllll the way down the isle of the church.  Through the packed vestibule.  Out into the parking lot.
Having a small child is like Russian Roulette.  Every time you see a child having a tantrum in public you think- it's not me! This time.  But then one day.  One day, guys.  POW! You're That Mom.
And, if you're really lucky, it happens in the front row of a church.  During a funeral.  
Miss and I had a really, really serious talk in the church parking lot.  A come-to-Jesus, if you will.
After which I got to carry Her aaaaaaallllllllll the way back up aisle and into the front row to finish the service.
The talk worked, and the rest of the morning passed without any incident other than Little One beaming a cousin in the back of the head with a snowball.  Which I was actually a little impressed by.

But then, there was the lull between the service reception and a family dinner.  In the lull, we met J's cousin and Her family at a museum.  We got there first.  We soon realized that the museum was closed for the season.  We realized this because Missy suddenly took on an expression of horror and announced that She wasn't feeling well.  I was feeding the baby and J just grabbed the kid and ran.
A little later I looked and saw J's head stooped over some shrubbery.  In the garden of the museum courtyard.  Not 3 yards from the locked front door.
I grabbed our portable travel potty and ran like I was on fire squeaking "J! J!! You can't- She can't- this is a muSEum!"  He looked up at me, exasperated, holding the hem of Missy's skirt.  "What was I supposed to do?!" He asked. "It was BAD."  Poor Miss.  She was very upset. And very much a mess.  I had to use plastic bags to attempt to decontaminate the landscaping and to dispose of some clothing.  We went through a lot of wet wipes, and I kept looking over my shoulder for security cameras or police, or judgement day.  But in the end we got everyone decently sanitary and into extra clothes.  We met up with J's cousin's family and set out on the walking trail to take in the scenic lake and historical structures.

Along the way, the kids found a duck.  It was one of those decoy things duck-hunters use on the lake, and had been left laying around.  The kids loved it.  I mean, it looks just like a real duck! I don't know if it worked out for the hunters, but the children certainly thought it was worth flocking to.  They played with it, toted it, dragged it on it's rope like they were walking it on a leash.  In a few short minutes, it had become a family pet.  When we stopped for a break outside the open gift shop, Little One made an announcement.
"Ours duck needs a name! Lets name it!"
The other littles cheered and nodded in agreement.
"Yes! Ok! We will name it a good name- Hey! I know a name! I know a name what rhymes with duck!" 

 . .
----

Can you guess, guys?  Can you guess what name.  Rhymed with "duck".
For the second time that morning, a sound emitted from the mouth of one of my children caused all adults within earshot to fall into immediate and total silence.
"Oh! Uh..." -I had to say something Peanuts- "Uh, um, hey.  Hey, how about LUCK?  That rhymes! How about Luck duck or lucky duck instead!"
Little One was offended.  Why did I have to micromanage everything? Why did I have to steal all the thunder?
"No, we already named it.  It's F*#@.  F*#@ Duck. That's his name." 
The adults began to cringe and protest.  Little One was so baffled.  She didn't know what everyone's problem was, only that it was really annoying.  The more we tried to coax Her into choosing another name, the more adamant She became.
"F*#@!  FU#@!  It's F*#@  F*#@  F*#@  the DUCK!  F*#@ DUCK!" At the top of Her frustrated little lungs.  At the museum.  With J's family.
Finally I managed to pull Her aside and whisper to Her that I knew She didn't understand, and She wasn't in any trouble, but that word had a grown-up meaning, and it wasn't nice. We don't use that word. She was totally miffed.  She shrugged me off with an "ok" and was a little sullen and grumpy with me the rest of the walk.  Finally we arrived at the lake and the kids all got cooed at by a couple on the beach.
"Oh! How cute! You have a duck! Is that your duck? It IS? Awww! What's it's name?" 
The adults in our group froze. We stared.  We waited with baited breath.  We were all on the verge of stepping in! Little One looked at the decoy.  She hesitated a moment.  And then, a little reluctantly answered, "It's Lucky.  Lucky Duck".  The strangers "awww"ed and the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief.  After a while we headed home.

With the car in sight and our good-byes said, we were ready to go to the family dinner at the restaurant.  I was ready, still in my dress clothes from the funeral.  Walking to the car I half-joked to J, "Well. At least we made it."  At that very moment, Little Mister woke up from His nap, having been peacefully held right up to me in His sling.  He looked at me with shining, innocent eyes.  He smiled.  And then He pooped an epic, gale-force, poo.  He had not pooped in three days.  Three.  Days.  He had saved it all.  For that moment.  The diaper exploded.  The sling became a linen goo-pool.  Mister and I both were covered.  Back in this parking lot of the closed, no bathroom museum.
Someday when I die, if I go to heaven I will look around.  I will find the person who invented wet-wipes.  I will kiss them.

Much later, we finally got home and *bathed* and into bed at J's aunt's house.  She helped me tuck in the kids and showed me Her fancy "white noise machine" that helps her grandkids sleep.  She turned it on so we could enjoy the magic.  It worked great! It drowned out all background noise! It worked so well, that late in the night when Little Miss awoke in a dark, strange room and was too scared to get out of bed, I could not hear Her calling for me.  I could not hear Her at all.  Until finally, I did.  And found Her sobbing in the bed.  Soaking wet.
I gave Her a bath and dressed Her in Her dad's TShirt.  I made Her a little nest on the floor next to me, so I could hear Her.  I washed the blankets and the sheets and cleaned the mattress.  I fed the baby and climbed into bed around four in the morning.
Some days, I go out with my children.  I wear white and come home clean and tidy. I get compliments from strangers on how lovely and well-mannered my children are.  Some days I like to pat myself on the back a little.  Hey! Doing all right! Some days it seems easy, or at least workable, and it seems like we are on a roll.  And then some days. Some days we have this hot mess.

Life is all about balance, isn't it?  It's all about ups...and downs.  But as bad as that day got, come on.  It was kind of funny.  And the silver lining?  The good thing about all this happening on that particular day, the day of a funeral?  It's that no matter how much literal and figurative crap one I go through in this life- it is life.  I'm lucky to have it.  I'm happy that I get to have these days where my family is all together and if it has to be crap we're going through, at least we go through it together.
J's Grandma, from what I knew, was a lady with a fabulous, ready smile, and quite the sense of humor.  I'm still a bit in shock that she's really gone, and I'm sad about it because I liked her a whole lot, and she was very kind to my kids.  But it makes me feel a little better thinking that if she was watching, from somewhere, as we tried to pay our respects, I'm pretty sure she got a good laugh out of us.

New Years

Yep, still catching up.  "come on, guys, one more game? You're not going to bed already?!", and I looked at her with bloodshot eyes and knew that, yes.  It has happened.  My mother is too cool for me.  As much as I wanted, for the honor of the memory of my high-school self, to fight on and party (or at least play board games) until dawn (or at least midnight), I was beaten.  I could not.  Could not do it.  Sorry, Mom.  I can't keep up!
This year we rang in the new year at like ten.  (Because people who get up and nurse every one to two hours don't give a rat's pacifier about fireworks or balls dropping.)  It's only because we tried really hard and rode part of the way on the coat-tails of my mother's never-ending energy that we made it that far.  And then, in a great thunder-clapping moment of cosmic justice, my mom said,
J made some awesome home-made eggnog, so at least we had a good toast.
And the next day, to celebrate 2014, the Littles joined us in a champagne toast!  Cheers!
Ok it was actually sparkling grape juice but They begged to call it champagne because that is so much fancier, and I acquiesced.  Which will surely bite me in my 2014 behind when They go to school all giddy and inform Their  teachers that Mommy liquored them up.  This year I resolve not to be investigated by social services.

Be Optimistic

Our Little One was born with Her arms stretched wide, greeting the world at the top of Her lungs.

I know, now, that She was singing.  

She's rarely stopped since.  A chance whim of mine to let Her watch Mary Martin's Peter Pan  during one of Her fevers, at two, hooked Her deeply and forever on musicals and broadway show tunes.  This genre, never present in our home before Little One, has become a permanent Pandora station, and in a way serves as background music for much of our last few years.  

Some time ago, I accompanied the Little's lunch (soup) with a song I recalled from childhood (concerning monkeys and rabbits that loop the loop), and the giggles it produced compelled me to play the original version for them on YouTube.  

There was Shirley Temple, tapping her toes, bouncing her curls, and singing away to adulation.  Little Miss loved it.  She couldn't get enough.  As for Little One?  She seemed to see in Shirley a soul cut of the same cloth.  They both fell in love.

Who hasn't?  I remember watching those curls bounce and trying to tap along when I was little.  I remember my mother humming along, surely transported to her own childhood dreams of the good ship lollipop.  And one of my dearest memories is of sitting in the guest room with my grandmother, as she reverently brought out the Shirley Temple paper dolls she had played with as a child- and saved all those years, they were that precious.  We played with them for hours; Shirley Temple could close the gap of two generations so simply.  

She's hemmed in another generation in this family now, too, encompassing my children.  We keep a lookout for Shirley in the movie section of the library, and even though there are no animations, no special effects, sometimes not even color, they easily compete with the flashiest modern productions for a place in my Little's interest.  

Most recently, we watched (and re-watched, and again) Little Miss Broadway, and a part of that movie twirled out of the screen and affixed itself to our daily lives like a sequin on one of Miss Shirley's flouncy dresses.  

It began with Little Miss.  You are familiar with Missy?  Of the world-infamous frowny face?  There was one episode in which this face which was particularly stubborn and I could not seem to remove it, no matter what solvent I tried.  Then Little One swept in- Her own curls bouncing- regaling Missy with their favorite song from Little Miss Broadway.  

"Be optimistic!" Little One crooned at Her sister, "Don't you be a grumpy! When the road gets bumpy, just smile!"

Like a magic spell, Missy broke out in laughter.  It has been our lucky charm ever since.  Whenever one of us begins to pout or get cranky, someone pipes up with the little song and, if you can believe it, we just about always end up all smiles, the lot of us.  It's a silly, old fashioned song.  Which is just the point.  You can't hear it or sing it without laughing.  Try it!  

I'm not much for the worship of celebrity.  I mean, I don't know these people, and I find it odd to be transfixed by someone I've never met.  So I can't say that I'm personally affected by the death of Shirley Temple Black, as a person.  But I can say I feel a gratitude for the uncommon manner in which she managed to serve as a positive role model her entire life.  And I do have a tenderness in my heart for the idea of Shirley Temple- the idea of generations of people cherishing innocence and simple fun despite themselves. 

So, to commemorate this legacy and honor the ray of sunshine her childhood curls have reflected into my own family's life, here is our Little tribute.

Seven

You might not believe it.  But really, you can ask J, his mom, teachers, friends, and many random strangers we've been in elevators or standing in lines with.  And they will tell you it's true.
For months, Little One has been announcing to everyone who would listen: "Mommy haves a baby boy in hers tummy! It's a brother! He's coming on December 7."  
We would gently correct Her; He's due on the 12th, love.  Not the 7th.
"But that's when He's coming." 
We figured She guessed 7 because it's the day of the month Her own birthday falls on.  Or maybe She confused the date with the AFC Charity Benefit, since we'd told Her I'd be traveling to DC that day to volunteer, as I do every year.  Whatever the reason, She stuck to Her prediction. On December 6th, as I prepared for my trip, we all joked.  Wouldn't it be so funny if She was right and the baby suddenly came the day of The Event?  I mean.  What are the chances.
On the 6th, I woke up full of energy.  I had a lot to do to get ready for my trip.  All day my Mother In Law kept saying, "Don't you ever stop?  Won't you sit down for just a minute?!"  But I didn't.
I emptied and scrubbed and vacuumed the inside of the car.  I rearranged the car seats; one, two, three.  I cleaned out all the the kids' closets, organizing by size and season, folding and hanging.  I did six loads of laundry.  Organized the pantry. Took out the recycling. Cleaned the house top to bottom, hauling the vacuum up the stairs.  Hauling it back down.  I got out all the baby stuff from the garage; I washed the bottles and the teethers and the crinkly toys.  Cleaned up and swept the garage while I was at it.  I finished up some wrapping and decorating, I started the holiday cards.  I painted my toenails.  At- no kidding- 9pm, my generous MIL accompanied me shopping so I could wrap up a gift for the birthday party the Littles were attending later that weekend.  I just needed to get stuff done.  All the while I noticed that the Braxton-Hicks contractions I've had so many of this pregnancy were a little stronger than usual.  But I didn't think much of it, until around the time we were walking the store that evening.  "You've dropped," my MIL noticed, "like, way dropped."  I did feel like I was waddling around.  I did feel a lot of those practice contractions. 
Hmm, I thought.
Nah.
But then, ouch.  Hmmm.....
By around eleven PM I was writing them down, timing them.  Just to see. 
"Is it today?", J asked.
"NO.  It is NOT today.  I'm going to DC in the morning.  I'm going to the event."
J gave me a certain smile.  "Ok."  He said.  But, like Little One, he knew.
By midnight there was no more denying it.  The contractions were strong and the list I'd been keeping read one every ten minutes like clockwork.
"So.   Today?" 
"Maybe."  
I walked around the house awhile.  The list read- five minutes, five minutes, five minutes.
But guys.  It was late. And after all that productivity all day, I was dead tired.  I mean, SO tired.
I laid down.  They spaced out again.  All night, the contractions got stronger and more painful.  But the timing didn't budge- ten minutes, ten minutes.
I tried to rest between them, but it was a long night.  As the sun came up, I was struggling through each one, wondering how long this was going to take, for goodness' sake.  The Littles came bounding in, bubbling with hugs and cuddles and can-we-please-have-waffles-it's-Saturday! And looking at me funny when I would suddenly sit up straight and take deep breaths.
J took them down to eat and kept checking in on me.  I was sitting in bed, just waiting out contractions. They were really strong, now. 
"Why don't you take a hot shower?" J suggested.  "It helped you the other times." 
"Ok, but will you stay?  I'll call out when a contraction starts and you can help me keep timing them."
I stood up.  I had two contractions just walking across the room.  That was weird.
I got into the hot water.  But, just like that, the contractions had gone from 10 minutes apart to two minutes apart.  I was in the shower yelling- "another one! ....And now!... NOW!" After about ten minutes J came in and told me to get out.  But I didn't want to. 
"The hot water just helps so much though."
"GET OUT. GET DRESSED." 
J does not often, in fact basically does not ever, outright order me around.  But he knew. Thank goodness for J.
I got dressed and, because I am apparently myself even when in transition-stage labor, stood there putting on my mascara and brushing my hair with contractions coming one minute apart.
"GET IN THE CAR!" J was almost yelling now.
I put on my favorite new maternity/nursing dress, so I could wear it at the hospital, after.
"GET. IN. THE.CAR."
I got in the car. A contraction came on, stronger than ever.
"Whoa...J.  J!! We're not going to make it.  We're never going to make it!"  
"I know! That's why I said to get in the car!"
"AHH! J! Drive faster.  DRIVE FASTER!"
J was racing along the freeway, thankfully free of traffic for once.
A contraction would hit and I would start hollering,
"It's too hot in hereTooHotTooHot!!!"
He rolled the window down.
"NOOOOO!  NO NotGoodEitherThatIsNOT GOOD EITHER!"
It would pass.
"Sorry.  Sorry J.  Yelling helps.  It just does."
"I know."
"Don't pay attention I don't mean to yell at you"
"I know that, love, it's ok."
"AHHH!  WHY-IS-IT-SO-HOT-DRIVE-FASTER!"
And so it went.  It became very real to me how close to having a baby we really were.  I remembered Little Miss, and began to become seriously concerned that this baby was going to be born in the downtown tunnel.  
But He wasn't.  We made it to the hospital and parked the car.  And then, because this is how patient-friendly this hospital is, I got to walk.  Across the parking garage.  Down the long hallway.  Through the pharmacy, where the pregnant lady and her friend stood with their small children cooing to them, "Look!  Look, guys, that lady's going to have a baby!  She's having a...yikes don't have it here in the hallway."  
I was not yelling, now. I was walking, very slowly.  A contraction would come on and I would stare at the floor and take a deep, silent breath, and think to myself, "Keep walking.  Keep walking. Keep walking."  And I did.
At the elevator, the mothers let us on first.  "Go ahead, we'll take the next one. Good luck!" 
Some hospital staff person got on with us.  "I'm guessing four?" She said.  Labor and Delivery. 
We nodded.  The doors opened and we got off.  I was squeezing the bajeezus out of poor J's hand.
We realized it was the wrong floor.  The lady had gotten off on three.  We waited for the elevator again. We finally made it to labor and delivery, though, and I could (TMI alert) actually feel the baby at this point.  We walked up to the window where the nurse was sipping a coffee, looking at a computer screen.
We stood there.
She sat there.
We stood there.
contraction.  "HI! Hi, hello?"  Deep breaths.
"Yes? Can I help you with something."
I looked at her like she had five heads.
"I'm having a baby."  Deep breaths.  Deeeeep breath.
"ok....?"
I started wondering which one of us was crazy.
"This is labor and delivery, right?  I mean..." contraction. "I'M HAVING A BABY RIGHT. NOW!!!"
She got annoyed with my rudeness.  She took a sip of her coffee.
"Ok, well, if you'll just take a seat over there, I'll get your paperwork together."
I could feel the baby's head.  I pressed my hands on the counter.
"I don't think you understand."   contraction.  "I REALLY THINK YOU SHOULD LET ME BACK! I REALLY NEED TO GO BACK NOW!"
J tried to calm me down, he stepped to the window to try to talk to her. 
She blinked twice, very slowly.  She handed J a clipboard.
"If you'll just complete this paperwork,  then I will let triage know you have arrived."
Triage.  Triage?! I looked at the form.  I could barely see through the blur of pain from another contraction, but the thing seriously had like 50 questions.  It might as well have been a biochemistry final exam. J's pen was flying over it and I was ready to kill people.
"NO! NO!  THIS BABY IS COMING! IT'S COMING NOW!"  
The nurse looked at me and sipped her coffee.  She didn't say a thing.
This is the point when some kind of instinctive delirium took over.  I felt the baby coming and I knew it was time and any slight grasp on reason or logic I'd been clinging to was gone.  I went over to the locked double doors to the delivery deck and began screaming.
"HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE! PLEASE SOMEONE HELP!!!" 
The doors swung open and some visibly annoyed nurses rushed over. 
"Ok, ok.  Calm down, please.  Lets get you into triage and- " contraction.
 "AH! THE BABY IS COMING! IT IS COMING!"
 "-and we will see if you are dilated.  Do you need to use the restroom first?"
This was such an insane question to me at that moment that it totally threw me off.
"What? No! Wait yes.  No.  Yes. NOOOOOO!!! THE BABY IS COMING HELP!"
They pulled me into triage and as I climbed onto the bed, my water broke.
It was the end of that lovely dress I'd bothered changing into.  
Suddenly, there was a rush of activity.  I was flying down a hallway and someone was yelling out "Meconium! Meconium!" and I was looking around for J and calling "Is my baby ok? Is he ok??"  We got into the delivery room and they were telling me to get off the stretcher onto the bed. 
These people, guys. I had been doing everything within my power, I mean everything,  since the moment we left the house to hold that baby in.  But we'd made it to the delivery room.  And the fact that they were asking me to get up and move told me they were all freaking insane and would never get it, and I decided in that moment: the hell with you people. And I stopped trying so hard to hold him in.  I just closed my eyes and did nothing.
So, as the nurses were lifting me from the stretcher to the bed- literally in midair- the baby's head popped out.  The moment I was on the bed someone said "ok push!" and I did, and the rest of the baby was out.  We had made it just in the nick of time.  We had a son.
Born after almost 14 hours of labor, yet all at once.  With a fairly dramatic entrance, weighing exactly seven pounds.  And born (with no regard whatsoever for my weekend plans, just as His sister predicted) on the seventh.
Did I ever tell you?  Seven happens to be my lucky number.