A Goose Chase Ending At A Farm

Waking up this morning, I had the feeling I was lifting the page in a long saga. 

It was a new chapter in the story Bernice has enriched my life with.  When she died, and all of her odds and ends fell into my hands, I didn’t know what to do with them.  I left them in their boxes, her scrawl fading on the masking-tape labels, stuffed in a closet for a long time.  Then one day, packing for a move, I poured myself a drink, sat down on the floor, and dove in.   It was almost all papers; address books, letters, church bulletins.  Stacks  of notes scratched out to herself in her final decade.  I read them all.  It was like a tragic chronicle of her decline.  The notes she wrote became increasingly desperate and despairing, and it was clear that she knew full well the abyss she was sliding into- financially, socially, and mentally, as her memory slipped away.   Not all of it was heartbreaking.  There were cassette tapes of her singing with her husband, a musician, and news clippings with him posed and smiling with hi ukulele.  And in her address book, there was a page labeled: “relatives”.  

It’s funny how alzheimers erases memories more or less in order, from the present back; like a tide flowing out to a grey and fathomless sea.  Bernice couldn’t remember the years she’d written those notes to herself.  She could only barely, on a good day, remember the husband she’d been so proud of and devoted to.  But she could remember her childhood- her parents and brothers, “our farm” that she’d grown up on- clearly, any day.  From the many stories she’d shared over years of lucid moments, I recognized some of the names on her list instantly.  The name of her older two brothers had notes dashed in at the corner of the entries- “died” and the year.  But her younger brother had no such note, and there he was, his address and phone number. 

I called.  I had been told that she had no family, none.  No living relatives at all.  And yet, when the phone was picked up, it was her brother.  He put his wife on, and we talked.  They were quite elderly and perhaps memory failures were a family affliction; I told them that Bernice had died, and was never sure if they understood what I was saying.  In the end, they were just confused and asked me to contact their daughter instead; they gave me her name. 

After some time on the internet, I found an address for her.  I sent a box of almost everything, and a letter.  In the letter, I explained that I had her original birth certificate, wedding certificate, and high school diploma.  Printed on vellum, bound in velvet or leather, in a time when such documents carried a reverence.  I thought they belonged with her family.  The niece wrote me back, just as I moved.  In the turmoil, the letter was lost.  By the time I found it, she had moved, too, and all the googling in the world brought me no closer to finding her again. 

But her letter had mentioned that her father, Bernice’s brother, had died and she was planning to take over the farm.  The same one Bernice had grown up on and told me stories about.  In Indiana. 

So, when we planned this trip, we marked out our route in such a way that we would pass through the town she’d grown up on.  And this morning, I took those documents, a picture of Bernice, and the crinkling page of her address book, and drive to the house number she’d listed under her brother’s name. I didn’t know what to expect.  I didn’t know whether I’d end up disappointed or whether something wonderful would happen; whether anyone lived there at all, whether this niece, who would be nearly 80 now, was even living.  But I knew I had to try. 

I left J and the kids to swim at the hotel pool and followed my GPS deep into rolling rows of seedling corn.  The morning was crisp and sunny when I pulled onto a dirt road and saw a pretty little white farm house nestled into a bend.  That was it. 

I pulled up and saw the sweetest, tidiest little farm.  The white house backed to a sturdy barn and a silo crept over with strands of ivy.  There was a little patio off to the side, and a garden patch, freshly weeded.  Redwinged blackbirds flitted from the lilacs and the sound of frogs and crickets rang from the fields all around. 

I walked up and knocked at the door.  I waited and held my breath.  I waited some more.  I knocked again, a little louder this time, just in case. 

I waited, to be honest, a little longer than a person who doesn’t want to be creepy ought to wait.  And finally, had to retreat down the porch steps.  I sent a message to J that no one had answered.  Next I meant to ask at the post office, to see if she still kept the PO box that was the return address on her letter those years ago. 

Just as I was leaving, he answered, “is there a mailbox?”

“Yes, but I can’t really know who lives here”

I didn’t want to leave these precious documents in some random person’s mail box. 

But that J, he’s always thinking for me when I’m too emotional to do it myself. 

“Is there a name on it?  People used to put names on their mailboxes”. 

I hadn’t even thought to check.  So I pulled over, and looked.  And there it was.  I wrote her a novel of a note, slid the items into the box, took a picture (I mean I’d been parked outside this house for 20 minutes, what’s a little more creepy at that point anyways), said a little prayer, and that was it. 

I so wish I’d met her.  Had a chance to talk to her, and ask about the farm, about Bernice before the tide of her mind went out.  But I still consider it a minor miracle that I was able to find this relative that supposedly didn’t exist.  I am thankful that Bernice’s last few treasures found their way back to where they began and belong. 

And for me,  it was really something to see the farm I had envisioned so often, to know that a hundred years ago, Bernice had played where I was standing.  It was like getting to step into those stories, into that mysteriously clouded mind, and see something even more clear than the memories.  It made me happy to see it looking so well.  Somehow, even though it may have been a bit anticlimactic, it felt like a good way to end the chapter.  Like a full circle had been made.  But in a way that was gentle.  Like her. 

Great American Road Trip- So Far

Today on our Great American Road Trip, we spent our morning exploring the small town where the Littles' Grandad grew up, and took our time meandering through the middle of America.  We took scenic drives in Kentucky, played at a park and checked out some memorials in rural Ohio, had an awesome lunch at a funky cafe in Cincinnati (even scoring a vegan chocolate cupcake for the Sisters), and saw some sights in Indianapolis.  The girls watched Cars on our way through Indiana, and we talked about races and race cars.  We had a picnic dinner at the edge of a wind farm and took a walk through a baby corn field.  It was a long time before we checked into a hotel and the kids hit the pool, but that's because we took our time, going out of the way if something seemed interesting and stopping whenever we felt like it. We took in some gorgeous sights, played paper dolls and read stories, chatted about all kinds of things and had fun being together.  It's a wonderful thing how flexible kids can be.  I'm all about structure and consistency at home, but I absolutely love the way my kids can adapt when they are out of their element, and enjoy the moment we are in.  Of course, we are just getting started.  But- so far, so fun!

No Ifes in Kentucky.

After Mister's baptism, we left in the morning for a long-haul drive to kick-start the road trip.
We made it all the way through Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, and into Kentucky.
When we passed an encampment of confederate soldiers, we just had to stop and look around.

We stopped at an overlook to stretch our legs.

And arms

Other than that and a few snack breaks, we just enjoyed the changing scenery from the car.
The kids all did really well.  We did art, watched a movie, and played some car games.  I gave Little One a sheet of stickers, one for each state, and She was very into the license plate game.  She collected quite a few!
Little Miss joined the fun, too.  We played the "noun game" where we try to spot an object starting with each letter of the alphabet.  She was pretty good! At one point, we were kind of stuck on "i".

Missy: "I know! How 'bout we look for an Ife! Ife stahts with a "i"." 

LO: "Um, yeah, yeah good Miss. It DOES start wif a "i".  Um.  But, it isn't a word though. It's isn't a thing."

Miss (indignant): "It IS too a thing! It's an IFE.  Little One.  Don't tease me.  You know what's an Ife." 

LO: "I do not.  Mom? Is a Ife a real thing?"

C: "Hmm.  I'm not sure about that.  Miss, can you tell us what it is?" 

Miss: "Yes! You know, mom.  An IFE.  Like to cut things with, like at dinnah you use an ife to cut up some food. Ife."  

 We never spotted any Ifes.  Or knives, either.  But we did see lots of birds and farm animals.  Who knows what we'll find tomorrow?

The first leg of our journey led us back to familiar territory.
I have mentioned before the church that the Sisters were baptized in; it's the same one J (and much of his family, all the way back to the 1700s) got baptized in.  Naturally, to carry on the tradition, we wanted Little Mister baptized there, as well.  Unfortunately, we had a really hard time making it happen. It's a long story, but the problem was some red tape.  Catholic red tape is particularly red, after all.  A deep, dark red. Blood-into-wine red, you might say.  After months of trying to get through it, we finally were able to schedule His big day- so long as it was yesterday.  Good thing we didn't have anything else going on, like a move or a big family vacation or anything.
The morning of the baptism, we woke in our hotel to blinding rain.  So much rain, that the place J was supposed to leave his car during our trip was flooded. Yikes. So we ditched it at the airport, sat for two hours at the entrance to the tunnel (good riddance to you, Virginia Beach tunnels!  You, I will not miss.  Not even a little.), and finally made it to the church.
The family that was able to get off of work at the last minute on a Friday was there, and the priest who baptized Miss drove all the way from his new church in DC just to baptize Mister.
Even after a long, hard day, Little Mister was every bit the angel during the whole thing.  Ever the little water-bug, He actually smiled and cooed as the cool water was poured over His head.  During the parts where the priest asks questions of the parents and godparents, Little Mister congenially joined the conversation,  goo-ing and giggling and blowing raspberries.  He grinned at His adoring fans.
He got baptized, we took some pictures, and celebrated it all with a dinner out at a favorite family place on the water, right by the house J lived in as a child.  We stayed with J's aunt, and Little One stayed up WAY past bedtime playing with Her cousin.
It was worth all the trouble it took to make it happen, and turns out to have been a great start to our trip, despite the most thoroughly exploded diaper imaginable, thankfully at the very end of the day.   Oh, well, Peanuts.  Hopefully His soul stays cleaner than His fancy white outfit.  As for J?  Who picked Him up out of the car seat?  I guess you could say he got "baptized" too.  Who says the Big Guy doesn't have a sense of humor?

It was pretty funny, wasn't it Mr?


Photos from the day:

Ready to get some baptizing on

"Bathtizing" each other with holy water. Puppy got bathtized, too. 

Playing at the restaurant

These two crack each other up.  And me.  

She looks a little different since he baptized Her, two and a half years ago!

Our sweet angel boy.  

Phase One Complete

Well, Peanuts.  We somehow survived the pack out.
People always say, "oh how nice! How nice that they pack for you! That saves you so much time and effort!"  Yes.  It is and it does.  But.
I have learned from experience now, that sitting back with a cocktail as the (lowest bidders for the job) packers do it all for you, is a decision that will only necessitate a great many cocktails on the other end of that move.  The packers are about speed; they see something, dump it in a box, move on.  So if, for instance, you have a little box of pins in your sewing drawer, it will be all kinds of interesting unpacking the box they got dumped into when you get to the new place.  Like your own welcome cactus in a box!  Or if, for instance, you are me and you like things to be organized and so you put everything into little labeled boxes and baskets and such, you are going to be silently listing all the expletives you know when you see that the packers took aaaallllll the categorized, organized toys in the whole playroom, and dumped each box out together in one big box, and then put all your boxes in another box. Why?  Why commingle the barbies with the trains?  Why all the legos all mixed in with the monopoly game pieces and hundreds of puzzle pieces?  Did I insult someone's mother?  I mean, why?  Imagine how fun it is to have a whole house to set up, and have to spend an entire afternoon sitting on the floor....playing puzzles. And jewelry. 20 little chain necklaces all in one giant knot.  That will take two afternoons.  If there is trash in the wastebasket, it's getting dumped in a box (with other stuff!) and packed.  If there are wet washcloths hanging, you are getting a box of mold on the other end. And so.  I have learned the importance of pre-packing.  This time around, with J's help, I managed to get it all done in two (very long) days (and most of the night).  Here are my tips for military movers:

1) Have a yard sale and/or donation cleanse first.  I think it helps the transition to involve the kids.  We went through all their stuff and made a pile of things that "someone else might love to have".  On yard-sale day, I spread out two big blankets, gave them a cash box, a stool, and an box for a counter, and let them set up their "store".  They spent half the morning working on their displays, putting shoes here and books there. They were in charge of setting prices, negotiating with buyers, collecting and counting money, and giving back change.  The rule is, whatever money is made from the sale of their things, they get to keep.  This is a pretty good motivation to let things go.

2) Go through all bottles of shampoo and such and either ziplock them or be sure those lids are closed and tight.  The packers do not always care if the shampoo is open and upside-down.

3) Tiny things like needles, thumbtacks, paperclips, and jewelry have to be placed into a container that will not open.  For jewelry, I fold each necklace or pair of earrings into a handkerchief; roll, place another in, roll, etc. to keep them padded and separate.  Then I put the rolled handkerchiefs into a jewelry bag zip it up, and wrap it.

4)Movers wrap is my best friend.  It's basically a ginormous roll of really strong saran wrap.  All my little boxes and baskets, all the puzzles, and so on get wrapped up in that stuff.  This time I wrapped an entire cabinet of little drawers.  Because I am not separating dress-up shoes from tiaras all day in July.  I would rather have the moving guy look at me funny.  I explain in the beginning that if it's wrapped in plastic, it goes as is.  Some packers hate me for it (takes up a lot more boxes), some love it (most of the job is done for them).  But it's the difference between unpacking a room in one day, or taking a week to sort things out.  I've even taken drawers out of dressers, wrapped them, and had them pack the drawers into boxes.  When I get there, I just stick the drawers in and I'm done! It's easy to wash a drawer at a time and put a whole load back in one place, rather than re-sort everything.

5) Make signs.  I empty a closet or two myself, then put everything I don't want packed in there and make a "do not pack" sign on the door.

6) Because things can be handled roughly, lost, or stored in uncontrolled conditions, go through and take out anything that is really special, or can't be replaced (like old film photo albums, little clay baby handprints, old family things, and a hard-drive with photos and videos), and pull it out.  Usually we put them in our trunk and drive it to the new house ourselves, but since that would mean hauling it around for six weeks (and I have to admit I have a ton of old photo albums), we left it with a friend this time.  We also had a generous friend collect and babysit our house plants until we can pick them up.

7)Anything you don't want dirty (throw pillows, sofas, anything) or that is really fragile, wrap yourself.

7) Do ALL the laundry, empty wastebaskets, wash ALL the dishes, and keep people from using them.  So hard with little kids who are in the routine of throwing things away in certain places.  And changing their outfits five HUNDRED times a day.

Not to mention, all the stuff in high cabinets or shelves has to be brought down, all the stuff on the walls taken down, swing sets and play houses dismantled, electronics unplugged and serial numbers listed, hardware labeled, etc.

So even though it truly is a huge service to have packers come and do the heavy work, it's not exactly a breeze, unless I want to pay for it later.
We arranged to have the Sisters stay late at school on those days to keep them out of harms way, and after the packers left I would move things around to make their room safe again.
Coming home and seeing all your stuff gone and a bunch of boxes in its place can be upsetting for little ones.  To help ease the pain, we bend some of our rules during moving time.  We let them watch a movie on a school night (bonus of keeping them entertained safely, away from towers of boxes that could topple if climbed), have popsicles, and stay up late for extra cuddles.  I also gave them a sheet of "This box belongs to me" stickers to put on their boxes so we can find them right away when we get there.

And the last night, we got to go to a hotel with a swimming pool.  Oooohhhh.  Aaaaahhhhh.

So far Missy actually seems to be loving the adventure of it all, and until She collapses from the lack of naps at the end of the day is extraordinarily cheerful.  Little One is very, very sad to leave friends behind, and to leave the familiar, and alternates between being happy and excited, sad and tearful, and moody and obstinate.  Frankly I'm pretty much the same, so I get it.  Moving is hard.  It takes a lot of work and is, in every sense of the word, unsettling.  The one I'm looking to as a role model in all of this is Little Mister.  Mister has had some protesting over the disruption of His perfect schedule.  But overall He is dealing with it all better than any of us.

He doesn't care about our stuff being boxed up, or whether it will arrive in one piece, or at all.  Who cares about a bunch of stuff?  He doesn't care that His fancy play gym is gone and He has to roll around on a flattened box, playing with some sunglasses and a random plastic lid.  Why not be happy with whatever we have in this moment?  He doesn't care that we are leaving places and people behind. Why not focus on Now, on the sound of the birds in the trees and the warm breeze through the window and the amazing entertainment of our own toes? Really, so long as He has His most basic of needs covered and is with His loved and trusted family, He hardly cares what else goes on.

I have cleaned, sorted, padded, wrapped for our move.  I have packed, labeled, planned, back-up planned for our trip.  I have good-byed, thanked, and KIT promised many friends.  Ok.  But now?  Now is the time to be like Mister, and let it all go.  Now we set off on our next chapter, and take it day by day, moment by moment.  Despite all of it, things will get lost.  They will break.  Vacation failures will happen and some friendships will fade.  But we have our most basic needs covered, and we are all together.  We really couldn't ask for more.
Of course, swimming, warm baths, The Magic School Bus, and a pizza party in our hotel room aren't bad bonuses at all.

Budhism

Missy: "Moooommmy! Hee hee! Hee! I think tha dolly llama is FUnny. An' SIlly!"

C: "You do? Why?"

Miss (cracking up): "Cause of his silly wuhds!"

C: "Silly words? What do you mean?"

Miss:  "Tha dolly llama...hee hee... hee!  BOOTYism!"

Not Afraid Of Heights

When I was sixteen, I wore a floor-length, silver gown to my senior prom.  I went out and got my hair done, and I was all careful not to mess it up.  I went with my friends and my date and had a normal prom; dancing, chatting, dancing.  But when we walked out of the building and took a stroll down the walkway, there he was.  Some guy, selling tickets for bungee jumping.  Guys.  I had never been bungee jumping.  So, obviously, there was only one thing to do.  Borrow someone's shorts to slide on underneath, and then jump in my prom dress, hanging like a giant silver bell with that skirt up over my head, and then springing up and down, showering bobby pins everywhere.
Lately, I've been reminded of the jitter that washed over me back then, as stepped to the ledge and looked down over my toes.  A moment of wocndering whether this was really going to be fun, or scary, or awkward, or worse.  And then bending my knees, jumping up! and that moment right before gravity took hold.
Now that our celebration of the past two years is over, my little family is setting our sights on the road ahead.  Which I mean both metaphorically and literally.  In less than two weeks we will be setting out on a six week adventure through 21 of our great American states, seeing sights, visiting family, and spending so much intense quality family time together that by the time we get to Maryland and J dives into residency, we will be so sick of each other we won't even care.  We're getting all our family time for the next two years in one lump sum.
I've been packing things up, folding daily outfits into labeled ziplock bags and such. Because it takes more than a swiss army knife and a flashlight to survive weeks of camping with little people, guys.  It takes rabid organization.  Even then, it's going to be a bit dicey.  But, barring any actual harm of course, catastrophe is part of the thrill of an adventure.  We have planned out places to go, things to see, and art projects to while away the driving hours with.  But the real fun will be seeing what pops up, what we improvise when it rains (or snows), or a road is closed, or who knows what?
Driving off into unfamiliar territory is a lot like picking up and moving to a new town, a new life.  There are a lot of unknowns.  A lot of "what if"s.  It's good to try to plan ahead, to make things go as smoothly as possible. It's also good to realize that things will go wrong, the plan will be thwarted at times and have to adapt, and so will we.
There's a fine, fine line between adventure and disaster.  Where exactly that line falls is often a matter of perspective. I'm looking at this trip- and the move- as a thrill ride to jump on.  The Unknown can be frightening.  Or it can just be a bunch of awesome waiting to happen.
I looked like a fool and ruined my expensive hair when I jumped on prom night, but it was so worth it.  I know that on this trip and in this life, I will look foolish and get messy plenty.  But when the Navy says jump, we say "how high?" Because the higher the better! Bring it on.

Sea Ya Party

Well, Peanuts.  the countdown is on.  Less than two weeks until we ship out (ok, drive out.  We're driving.  But since the Navy has instigated the whole ordeal, we're going nautical. Mateys.)
To say a big goodbye to the friends we've made here, we got some of them together in our yard over the weekend and celebrated.  Nothing soothes the pain of leaving like some cupcakes, amiright? Chocolate is the answer to everything.

Well, actually.  Good friends are the answer.  It's a pretty great day, when we get both.

Excuse The Mess

You know how some people wear their heart on their sleeve?
I'm not that into fashion.
But I do wear my head, on my house.
That might not make total sense.  It's because my head is a hot mess right now.  You could tell that, if you came over.  The best way to tell how I'm doing, really, is to look at the inside of my house.  It's pretty much always an accurate reflection of the state of my mind.  If my home is neat and tidy, organized with maybe some fresh flowers on the table, all is well friends.  When it's looking unkempt,  you can bet that I'm feeling scattered myself.
At the moment, this place is an actual disaster.  I am half expecting FEMA to knock on the door one of these afternoons.  There are mounds of (at least clean) laundry on the sofa, piles of papers on various surfaces, stuff everywhere.  Peanuts.  I have not cleaned the upstairs bathroom in over a week.  True story.  It's that bad.
It might have to do with the fact that in the last month, the following:

*Miss's birthday party
* Trip to Maryland for the funeral
*We found out that we are moving back to DC (oh, hi, by the way- we are moving to DC. In two weeks.)
* Two trips to DC for me and Mister to look for schools and houses
* Two houseguests
* Easter- including hosting an Easter brunch and egg hunt at our house (because why not)
* Family trip to DC for school interviews and orientation
* Yard Sale (meaning- I tore the house apart ferreting out things to get rid of, stockpiled them in the garage, then organized, folded, labeled everything, and sold it.  Because I'm crazy.)
* Some birthday parties for the kids' friends
And now we are:
*Preparing for a big goodbye party so we can say a farewell to our local friends.  At our house of course.  I suppose I'll have to feed the FEMA people, too.
* Packing  and planning for MOVING in TWO WEEKS, which really snuck up on me there.
* Packing and planning for a six week road trip (yes, I said that) in between here and moving in.  A road trip so epic, it includes packing for both snow and 110 degree temperatures.  Not to mention enough rattles, sticker sheets, books, and snacks to keep three Littles happy along the way.  And the camping gear we will be living in much of the time.  Have I mentioned that with three car seats in, we have about 12 inches of trunk space?  What could possibly go wrong?!
* All the One Last Things that one feels compelled to do just before leaving a place and it's people for good.

This wasn't my favorite duty station.  Frankly, I think I never really forgave it for being the place I had to survive in while J was deployed.  But it's grown on us slowly, and we have found some friends we are really going to miss.  But such is the Navy life.  We move on.

And anyways.  We have to move before the house is condemned.  You know, one really nice thing about the prospect of having no house to live in for six weeks, is the prospect of having no house to clean for six weeks.  Freedom is coming, Peanuts!

The amount of things I need to organize and take care of first are piling up in my brain like the laundry on the couch.  I don't know how either will ever get in order, but I know now, from experience, that they somehow just will.
In the Navy, sailors learn that there is a calm before a storm.  But their spouses are more familiar with the inverse phenomenon that occurs here on the home front- the storm before the calm.  While we ride this one out, forgive the fact that it looks like a hurricane has hit my living room.  And my hair.  In a couple of too-short weeks, the mess will be packed up, so will I, and I'll be logging stories from the serenity of the open road.
Even a neat-freak like me has to admit it; sometimes, especially when it means an adventure is closing in, getting messy is fun. 

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.

It's A Fine Line Between Vegetarian and Cannibalism.

We were discussing- delicately- where our food comes from.  It is a relatively recent revelation to our children that meat not only comes from animals (an ambiguous term; I am realizing they had the idea that friendly pigs mailed bacon to people), but in fact is animals.  Little One is grappling with the ethics of this information, and Missy is just trying to put together the startling duplicity of it all.
So, at dinner:

Miss: "So, tuh-key is made out from tuh-keys, dadah?"

J: "Yes."

Miss:  "Chickin is made from some chickins."

J: "That's right."

Miss: "Right.  Right! Chicken is made from chickens.  And tofuh-key is made from toes." 

Horn, Tusk. W-w-whatevah.

Little Miss is a talker.  She's a great one- She can tell you "all 'bout it", no matter what it is.  Her vocabulary is extensive, and the only verbal vestige of Her babyhood is the "R"s.  Little Miss can say Her Rs, but She mostly doesn't.  Generally, She omits them altogether, giving Her speech a unique mixture of Boston and southern belle.  She pahks the cah.  She gets Her heh done.  And Her fingah nails.  Words that start with R pose a particular difficulty, and tend to become Ws.
Combine this quirk with Miss's distinctive tenacity and, well.  For example:

Miss and J were playing with a sensory toy, in which objects beginning with the same letter are grouped together.  They were working on W.

J: "What's this one?"

Miss: "A W-w-wAHgon."

J: "Yes! And this one?"

Miss: "A W-w-wAffle."

J: "How about this one?"

Miss: "uuhh, that one? Hmm.  Oh! I know.  It's a W-w-wi-nocerous!"

J: "But it has to start with W."

Miss: "Yes it IS start wif a dubbah you.  W-w-winocerous."

J: "Um...no I think it is a walrus."

Miss: "Dad.  A walus isn't a aminal.  That's. a. wi-nocerous."

Little One Found Jesus. He Was Wearing Sequins.

Have you ever been to a Catholic Mass?
We're Catholics around here.  For you nons, let me tell you. It is serious business.
It's largely the same every time; stand up, sit down, kneel, recite, pray.  The message of each service changes but the structure does not, and the seriousness does not.  We do not mess around.  Nobody can get a witness in a Catholic mass.  We shush and listen to the man in the dress.
J and I, we're some Catholics.  Some of us more somber than other.  (ahem...J). 
But we've never really found a "home" church here.  So we haven't attended much mass in Virginia.
BUT.  As every lazy Catholic knows, skipping Mass is one thing.  And skipping EASTER Mass is another.  Easter is the one time each year that all the closet Catholics get dressed and make an appearance.  We take for granted that we will at least go to church on Easter.
We decided, though, that since we're hosting a brunch tomorrow, we would do a Saturday evening Mass instead of Sunday morning (totally permissible by Catholic standards).
And.  Since we don't really have a special church, and since Little One has been asking since we moved in to go to the church down the street, and since it was, after all, right down the street- and had an earlier evening service than the nearby Catholic place...we decided, what the heck?  Let's try something new. Let's go to the big church with the billboard and the waterfall.  It isn't Catholic.  But it's Christian. Tomato, Tomahto.  Right?  Right.
So.
Peanuts.
We walked in.  This church, it had a gift shop.  And! A coffee shop.  Whoa.  And it was huge.  And had movie theatre seats.  With a big stage in front, all fancy with fire and stuff.  Little Miss was like, "Um...what are we doing?  I thought it was for chuh-ch?" We rolled with it.
By the way we are all dressed up.  Fancy Easter dresses and such.  Someone asked the girls if they's recently been flower girls.  Nope, lady.  We just get formal when we're Catholic.  Nice leopard-print tights, though.  Also awesome.
The girls came with their "church bags"; little purses with crayons, notebooks, stickers.  I even included a lollipop I was so concerned they hush during Easter Mass.
Little did we know.  Not only was this a very different sort of church than we're used to (different is good, you know), but unbeknownst to us, it was not going to be "church" at all.
It was going to be.  A musical.  
Yes.  It was going to be a TWO AND A HALF HOUR musical play about Jesus- manger to ascension.  The pastor got up at the beginning and we all prayed for the lighting and sound crew.  The  Littles looked at me like,  "What the communion is going on here?"  The live band plugged their electric guitars into some  *VERY POWERFUL* amps, and the show began.  Little Mister's eyes got very large.  But He sucked away at that pacifier and kept quiet.  Not that you could have heard Him if He's screamed; my ears are still ringing.  Despite the decibels, Missy began to nod with Her lollipop candy (it broke off the stick) in Her mouth. It terrified J and I until She finally chomped it up and went to sleep in the second act.  Mister went in and out the whole time- mostly out.
But Little One.
I mean, it was a *musical*.  In the bathroom at intermission (all my Catholics are like, "at the WHAT now?!") yes, at the intermission, Little One excitedly told me, "Mom! I love this! It is so NOT-boring, I don't even need all my crayons and stuff! I don't even need any-thing! It's so a'citing!" 
Yes.  She was excited for the whole thing.  She asked lots of questions and payed close attention.  She did a little bounce, a little sway, when the gospel songs got rocking.  She may have held a hand up, every now and again.
At the end, the pastor got up and did some talking. He asked if anyone was coming to Jesus tonight.  If anyone was feeling the spirit.  People raised their hands.  Little One raised Her hand.  Miss and Mister continued to sleep.  He asked everyone who was finding or re-finding Jesus to come to the front.  I let Her go.  I saw Her fly down the isle in a blur of silver-pink dress and billowing hair.
But the crowds got so large I began to worry.  So, with Little Mister asleep in my arms, I made my way down to the front of the seats.  Little One was in the VERY front, both Her hands raised high, listening to the pastor and not caring, particularly, whether I was there or not.  But I stayed.
The the guy said that all of us in the front, who had just found Jesus, would be counseled. And suddenly! There was a woman at my arm asking my name, address, and email.
Um.
Ok, so.  I figured, they won't hound a little kid, right?  So I panicked and threw mine under the bus.
"Um...I....I-I....ask Her!"  I pointed to Little One.  "I.....I just...followed Her up here." 
I dunno, guys.  I kind of thought she'd leave it alone if it was just a little kid.  But no. The lady asked Little One to spell Her name and address and took it all down.  I was just trying to get out of giving out my phone number and email, when Little One saved me by pulling at my dress and plaintively begging, "Jesus! Jesus!!" 
She'd asked me earlier, so I knew.  And I explained to the address-lady.  "She said She really wants...to meet Jesus." 
She did, guys.  She  had been begging since the crucifixion.  She wanted a photo with him.
Lady was touched.  She said,  "You want to meet Jesus?  Let's meet some Jesus."
And she took Little One's hand.  And without even acknowledging this over-protective parent, off they went.  Backstage.
A moment later, J popped up cradling a sleeping Missy.  I was cradling sleeping Mister.
"Where's Little One?" He asked.  And I could only answer,
"She... She...She's gone to be with Jesus."
She had.
A friendly usher ushered us backstage, too, and there She was.  Jesus, who had been Risen and exalted, was standing there in his stage make-up and purple, sequined Jesus gown.  Little One had stars in Her eyes. At Her bequest, we snapped a photo and about a dozen people remarked on the adorable piousness of Little One as we made our way out.
Even though the length of this production put even a Catholic Mass to shame (no easy feat) I'm glad we went. For one thing, I believe that trying new things and different things is important.  And this thing was about as far from a Catholic Mass as you could fly and still say "Jesus".
For another, the kids had a great time; it was like going to a loud, slightly off-key broadway show.
Also, though, it told the Christian Easter story like no book ever could.
At one point, listening to the dialogue, Little One asked me, "Mommy, what's a 'sacrifice'?" 
Do moms ever know the answer to that one.
In the end I think She actually got a lot out of it, and J and I had to laugh just a little as we hauled our Littles back home to bed. Because of course.
Of course  if Little One is going to find Jesus- She would find Him onstage.