True Love

My young daughters have already begun to choose their future husbands.  I find it a bit odd since who I was going to marry was pretty much the farthest thing from my mind in  preschool, but this seems to be a common practice now.  I’ve found it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it might, likely because I breathe a sigh of relief at all of their choices.

Lilly proudly declares, “I get married with Luke.”  Luke being a boy from our church.  He’s a very appropriate 2 years older, one of the cutest little boys I’ve ever seen, and just the right amount of ornery.  He makes me laugh just to look at him, and he comes from a good family.  And it just so happens that the girls are all good friends with his twin sister, so the families could just merge seamlessly.  Good choice Lilly.  Please remember this in high school.

Catie picked Carter, the son of some friends of ours.  Or possibly Isaac, their other son.  Either way, I’m good with it.  Another great family, great kids, super cute.  She & Isaac might be too similar to make it work, but thankfully they have a few years to iron out the details.  Thumbs up.

And then there’s Annie.  She is 7 and going into 2nd grade, and she wants to marry her best friend.  So far, a very solid plan.

What makes Annie’s choice so special is who her best friend is – a little boy from her class who is severely autistic.  They sit beside each other, and from day one Annie has adored him.

She never noticed that their skin is a different color.  She never cared that he is largely non-verbal.  Instead, she began checking books out of the library on sign language.  It wasn’t for 5 months that I realized she was doing this so she could learn to communicate with him.

She never cared that he throws fits of frustration.  She didn’t mind recently when he hit her on one such occasion.  In fact, she dismissed it immediately when I asked her about it, afraid he would get into trouble.  “It’s okay mom, he didn’t mean it!”

She carries tissues in her backpack so that she can use one of those if the need arises, because he doesn’t like everyone to use the tissue box.  He wants it to be his personal tissue box, and Annie is happy to comply.

She’s even gone so far as to re-arrange her bathroom schedule, because he doesn’t like it when she goes to the bathroom right after lunch.  She never questioned why this bothered him, she just accepted it.  And she loves him enough to change even that, just to ensure his happiness.

The first week of school, she told Catie about her new best friend.  “He has autism” I heard her say, and my ears perked up. 

“What’s that?” Catie asked.

“It’s just part of him, like you have blue eyes, and Lilly has big feet.  It’s part of what makes him him.  He’s really cool Catie, I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

And that was all she ever said about it – she’s never mentioned his autism since.  But him?  He gets discussed every day.

Their desks are together.  They line up together.  She holds his hand in the hallway, and she likes to sit with him at lunch so she can open his milk.  Sometimes they make swaps with their food, which works out particularly well for him since Annie eats like a bird.

She loves him with a heart that is pure, and she loves him from a place that is deeper than most adults I know. 

She has a completely normal, ordinary, everyday friendship with him, and I love this about her.  That she overlooks all that is different and notices only what is alike.

Recently I accompanied her class on a field trip, and I was pleased to see how kind she was to him.  She didn’t run off and leave him because things were new and exciting and he couldn’t keep up.  She still held his hand.  She still opened his drink.  She still looked after her buddy.

In fact she ditched me on the bus so she could ride with him instead, and she helped him do Mad Libs on the way.  That he didn’t understand ‘adjective’ or ‘adverb’ was no deterrent at all – she just found a way to make it work.  When he got out of his seat, she showed him the sign for ‘sit’.  When he was restless, she gave him my phone to watch cartoons.  And mostly, she gave him hugs.  Lots and lots of hugs.

I was so proud of her, and I told her that evening that I was happy to see how nicely she treated him, and what a good friend she was being.  At this she screwed up her little face, gave me a strange look and said, “I’m not his friend to be nice to him.  I just love him.”

And she does.  She just loves him.

I wonder how many times in his life he will experience that kind of blind, unconditional love.  I wonder how many times I will. 

I wonder how many times I offer that same selfless love to others.  Especially to those who aren’t family, to those who are different, to those who lash out at me in frustration. 

How often do I love purely, without expectation? 

How often do I overlook everything that makes someone different or difficult, and just. love. them.?

My daughter has the most amazing spirit I believe I have ever encountered, and praise God for it, because certainly it comes in spite of all the ways I fail her.  I very often feel she is the one setting the example for me. 

Today, I will strive to love like Annie.  It’s a lofty goal, but I have a great Teacher – in more ways than one.

A conversation with Catie

We live less than 3 miles from Catie’s preschool.  2.63, to be exact.  And the sheer number of words that she can squeeze in during that 5-minute ride never cease to amaze me.  How do her vocal chords keep up with her mouth?  How does her mouth keep up with her brain?  And where does her brain come up with this stuff?

What follows is an actual conversation with my almost-five-year-old.  I recorded it for posterity.

Catie: Turn on the radio.

Me: I will Catie, just a minute.

Catie: Can you turn on Leaving on a Jet Plane, I don’t know when I’ll be back again?  I like that song.  I know all the words.  Want me to sing it to you?  I’m leeeavin, on a jet plane…

Me: I don’t have that CD with me.

Catie: Aw, mom! Why not?  I love that one.  Can you put in Power in the Blood?  Or Nothing but the Blood?  I like songs about blood.  Are there any other songs about blood?  Why do they sing songs about blood?  Isn’t that kind of yucky?

Me: Well no, honey, because those songs are about Jesus.  His blood is special.

Catie: I’m special too.  My teacher said that the Bible says all of us are special, but she didn’t know where it says that.  I think maybe she made that part up just to make us feel good.  But I bet God still loves us, even if we’re not all special.  It would be really hard to make all of those people and have every one different.  Do you think everyone is really different? 

Me: Yes I do.

Catie: Why?  Twins aren’t different.  They might look different, but they aren’t always different.  Luke and Addy are different because they are boy and girl, Luke is a boy and Addie is a girl.  But some twins are both girls and they look exactly the same and that is dental and then they are the same, and I guess probably boy twins can be dental too, but I don’t like that kind and I only like girl twins, because the boy twins that go to my school, I don’t know their names but they are boy twins, and they throw wood chips.  (pause)  That smells bad.  What smells bad?  What is that smell?  Do you smell something stinky?  I smell something stinky.  Lilly do you smell something?  Hey did you know that Seth’s dad goes hunting?

Me: No I didn’t.

Catie: Has dad ever gone hunting?

Me: [snort] Not hardly.

Catie: Have you ever gone hunting?

Me: Yes.

Catie: Did you go with Pappap?

Me: Yes.

Catie: Will you take me hunting some day?

Me: We’ll see.

Catie: I’d like to go hunting.  I don’t think I want to shoot a gun yet.  Maybe I can just watch.  When I’m bigger I will shoot a gun.  Do we have any guns?  I like guns.  Not for shooting people, just stuff.  Like cans and animals and stuff.  That guy on tv shot a can.  Plus you shoot cans in that game at the fair.  I want to hunt when I’m a grown up.  I’m going to hunt cows, because I like steak.  Have you ever hunted for cows?

Me: Well, no.  You don’t really hunt cows, honey.

Catie: Why not?  Cows are easier to hunt than deer.  Seth’s dad goes hunting for deer but I don’t know why.  Deer run from people so they’d be hard to hunt.  Cows just stand there.  Plus they taste good.  And farmers could just go hunting whenever they want.

Me: I think you’re missing the point of hunting, Catie.

Catie: Isn’t the point to shoot something so you can eat it?

Me: Well yes, but…

Catie: (interrupting) Can we go to the zoo for my birthday?

Me: Why? Do you want to go hunting at the zoo?

Catie: No. (pause) Can you do that?

Me: No.

Catie: Why not?

Me: Because zoos try to keep animals alive.  I don’t think they’d like it if you came in shooting them.

Catie: But you can’t eat if the animals are alive.  They have to die sometime.  What are we going to have for lunch?

Me: I don’t know yet.

Catie: Can we have soup, and can we eat it at Grama’s house?

Me: You can’t just invite yourself over to someone’s house, Catie.

Catie: I can if it’s Grama.  Do you love your mommy?  She is the best Grama ever.  When we were over there yesterday she gave me tea and I got to put my own sugar in, and she let me put in as much as I want.  And she gave me a treat, and she didn’t even yell when I stepped on her foot.  I think she loves me.  So I want to go to her house for lunch and I want you to tell her that, because I know it will be ok.  Ok?

Me: We’ll see, Catie.

Catie: Call her and tell her I said that.  And tell her about the hunting.  And also, can we have steak for dinner?  Except Annie would like crab legs I think, because she doesn’t like steak.  Can we have steak and crab legs?

Me: No.

Catie: You always say no.  Grama never says no.

Me: She did when she was my mom.  And she didn’t give me steak and crab legs for dinner, either.

Catie: When you pick me up, can you bring Grama with you?  And can you come in and see my teacher today?  And I want you to read me a book when I get home ok?  We’re painting today.  I’m going to paint with Anna Jean, because she helps me and because we don’t like to sit next to Teresa because she says bad words.  Also she sticks her tongue out at me, whichly is not nice, and also one time Seth said butthead.  And he threw his apple in the wrong place and I saw him and I knew he was wrong but I didn’t tell Miss April because you said not to be a tattle-tale, but I watched him and I knowed it was him that did it and he was being naughty.  He didn’t do what Miss April said.  I think his mom needs to teach him better manners.  Maybe he needs his bottom spanked so he wouldn’t say butthead anymore.  He isn’t very nice but I still like him because I have to because Jesus said we have to like everyone, but if I didn’t have to because Jesus said to, if Jesus didn’t make me, I wouldn’t like him and I wouldn’t want to be friends with someone who said bad words like butthead.  Except I have to on account of Jesus.  But that’s all.  That’s the only reason.  Did Jesus really say that we have to like everyone?

Me: You have to love everyone, but you won’t always like everyone.  It’s complicated.

Catie: What does complicated mean?

Me: Hard to understand.

Catie: Oh.  So do I have to like Seth or not?

Me: Yes.

Catie: Then I’m going to tell him that he better be glad for Jesus, because if there wasn’t Jesus no one would ever like a meanie like him.

Me: Don’t you dare say that to him.

Catie: Ok.  But I’m still gonna think it.

Me: Caitlin Boyd!

Catie: Mommy mom!

Me: Child, you wear me out.  Please do not say anything like that to him.  It’s not nice.

Catie: I told you I wouldn’t.  But don’t you ever think things in your head that aren’t nice?

Me: Yes. But a good person tries to stop thinking bad things, and think about things that would make Jesus happy.  I don’t think it would make Jesus very happy to hear you telling Seth that no one likes him.

Catie: That isn’t what I said at all.  I said no one would like him if Jesus didn’t tell us we have to, which means we do like him, so I don’t think that’s the same at all and I think it’s ok, but I won’t say it.

Me: Catie! <sigh> Have a good day. And stay out of trouble, ok?

Catie: -ignores me because she’s already started talking to the carpool lady-

Me: -drops head to steering wheel in exhaustion-

A conversation with Catie.  I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Breaking up is hard to do

I’ve never been good at the Break-Up.  And by not good, I mean horrifyingly bad.  It’s like a train wreck.

I’ll spare you most of the gory details, but I will embarass myself share one example.

I was in college, working in a restaurant, and for reasons I now fail to remember, I agreed to go out with a guy I was waiting on.  A complete stranger.  It was very unlike me.

I didn’t even consider the unwise nature of this decision until we were eating dinner.  Actually just before the actual eating – more in the cafeteria-style pickup of said meal.  (Even this cheapness wasn’t an instant turnoff.)  The turnoff came more when Tolly Ho found out I’d never been there before and shouted through the microphone that I was a Ho Virgin.  Suddenly, I started questioning my own judgement.

The questioning continued during the longest, slowest, most painful dinner [lack of] conversation of my life.  And although we lived only 1/2 mile apart, he just ‘had’ to stop off at his place to get something before he could take me home. 

I panicked.

I don’t remember the exact details, but I know it involved me making up some bogus medical emergency, which completely backfired because once he got me back to my apartment he wanted to come up and make sure I was ok.  I panicked again, and the fictitious medical emergency escalated into something bigger. 

You might be thinking I needed to go to the hospital.  You are thinking that because you are quicker on your feet than I am. 

Slow brained me?  I had to go buy milk.

I’ll give you a second to let that fully sink in.

I broke up with someone by faking a medical emergency which required immediate milk intervention.

True story people.

As embarrassing as this lameness is for me, how much worse is it for him?

[Personal note: Hey crazy dude - In case you run across this, so sorry about the totally pathetic milk story.  I was young and immature and unsure how to tell you that you scared the living daylights of of me.  And also I thought that perhaps I shouldn't be so painfully honest with a scary stranger who knew where I lived alone. My bad.]

[Personal note 2: I hate 'my bad'.  Why do I say annoying things when I write that I wouldn't say when I speak?]

Moving right along… the Break-Up.  Not my forte.

And if I’m that bad when it comes to relationships, you can imagine that I’m probably not much better when it comes to friendships, either.  Thankfully, I’ve only had one very notably necessary friendship break-up.  I’ll call her Not-So-Undercover Racist Mom, because that pretty much sums up the whole story without me really needing to rehash it.

My modus operandi with NSURM was avoidance.  The first time she made her comment I was speechless and said nothing, because I was too stunned, and as we already know, I am not quick on my feet.  In my own defense, though - given a few more minutes, I’m sure I could have come up with some sort of milk-laden diversity rant.  

The next time I saw her, I brought it up, and told her that I was very upset about it and uncomfortable with her attitude.  She never made any other unsavory remarks to me, but the feelings never went away.  I felt dirty in her presence.  She needed to go.  And thus the avoidance.

She didn’t get the hint, though.

Unreturned phone calls – check.  Re-arranged schedule so we never had to encounter one another – check.  Moving an hour away and never giving out my new address or phone number – check.

Didn’t stop her though.  Over a year with no reply from me, and NSURM was still not over me. 

She had her kid write me a guilt-trippy letter. 

Are you kidding me?  I have guilt over things that happened hundreds of years before I was born, and I still did not have guilt over this.  What I had was annoyance that I was being pestered to death.  How obtuse can one be?  Did I really have to be so blunt as to say, ‘Hey, I’m so sorry, but that whole white supremacy thing you’ve got going on?  Just doesn’t work for me.  I’ve been hiding from you on purpose because I think you’re a jerk and I was trying to be polite and not have to say that, but now you’ve forced me to rudely come right out with it.  I do not like you.  Go.  Away.”

Thankfully, I *think* the ignored letter was the end of it.  And while I’m glad that’s over, it certainly was not handled well.  I need to do better.  So how is the Break-Up done properly?

I’m just not that into you?

It’s not you, it’s me?

Let’s just not be friends?

What does it?  What is the right way to ditch a friend?

In reality, I think it’s hard to say what is kindest.  I mean, I thought that just not calling NSURM back was being kind, since it meant she didn’t have to hear what I really thought of her.  Ditto creepy college guy.  But it didn’t work.

So is it better to come right out with the real reason you need them to go away?  I mean sure, that might help them in future relationships, so they don’t make the same mistakes over and over again and blah blah blabbity blah, but come on!  How hard is it to do that?

“I’m sorry, but I need to not be friends with you anymore.  You are smothering me.  You’ve tried to take me from acquaintance to best friend to some sort of moderately alarming, Fatal Attraction-esque stalker situation in which I am a female Michael Douglas, whom incidentally I have never really cared for, and now I am prepared to change my identity to make you stop.  Please, for the love of true friends like Milo and Otis, I beg you to just leave me the heck alone.”

Uncomfortable.

So tell me friends, how do you break up?  Are you smooth?  Are you blundering like me? 

How would you want to be broken up with?  Do you want to hear the cold, hard truth, or would you prefer that your ex-friend drop you fast and furious like Sandra ditched Jesse?

Would you get the hint?

Inquiring minds want to know. 

And I might need some ideas for next time.

Makeover Monday – Side Table

Ok, so this week isn’t exactly a makeover.  It’s not even close.  It’s just a little table.

But if you look closely, you’ll see that it’s actually a lot more.

It’s actually my daughters’ own creation (with the help of plans from Ana, of course).

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do let my kids play with tools.  I encourage it.

Anyone who knows me would laugh at the suggestion I am a feminist, but I suppose in this one way, maybe I am just a little.  I want my girls to be able to do anything.  Everything.  I don’t want them to stick with traditionally feminine roles.  I want them to be smart and confident and know that actually, they can fix things and build things and get dirty, just like the boys. 

Better than the boys.

I think Ana is an inspiration in that regard.  If you have ever seen her, she’s not exactly how you’d picture a female carpenter.  She’s teeny tiny and absolutely gorgeous.  She’s a femme fatale weilding a nail gun.  How cool is that?

I want my daughters to know that they can do what they set their minds to do.  And yes, I do hope that leads them to build things.  Because it feels really, really great to look at something you created.

And also it feels great to save money.

This side table was created with wood I had left over from another project.  However, if you’d like to build one yourself, it would cost around $15 in lumber.  Not bad for a $199 Pottery Barn knock-off, eh?  You can’t even order a swatch of wood from Pottery Barn for that price!

And every time I look at our table, I get to appreciate the kind of beauty that Pottery Barn can’t sell.

The cuts that aren’t quite straight

The holes that Lilly filled with caulk instead of wood putty

The love (and mess) that went into the paint job

The end result?

You can still see a few gaps.

The cuts weren’t perfect.  The paint isn’t perfect.  They were too impatient to sand properly.

Yet it’s still the most beautiful table we own, if you ask me.

Pottery Barn sells Perfect, no doubt.

But Knock-Off Wood gave us a pretty perfect day, and that’s worth a whole lot more to me.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Annie and the Bee

My Annabelle is in 1st grade, and she has signed up to compete in a spelling bee.  She found out about the bee on Friday – and it is this Tuesday night.  Not much time to prepare, but she’s up for the challenge.

More challenging is the fact that this bee is open to the entire county, not divided by age, and it includes kids through the 8th grade.

[Actually the rules state that it is for kids through 8th grade or 16 years of age, but somehow I'm thinking that if you're 16 years old in the 8th grade, a spelling bee probably isn't your thing.]

I’m really proud of her for taking this on. 

Don’t get me wrong – we don’t think she’s going to win.  In fact, if you ask her she’ll tell you that she’s entering the first round of a spelling bee.  We figure if she can get through the first round, the rest is gravy.

She’s a great little speller, but a 7 year old against a 16 year old is hardly fair.  I blame the organizers for not having a better system.  But I give lots of credit to my spunky little girl for wanting to do it anyway.  She isn’t afraid to go up against kids more than twice her age, even knowing she’s going to lose.  Once she saw Akeelah, she mapped out her path pretty quickly.  “I’m going to do that some day,” she told me.  And I have no doubt that she will.

Gumption, she’s got. 

She’s so smart, so brave, so confident.  She’s fearless.  There’s nothing she thinks she can’t do and do it well, and she always, always goes for it.  She never gives up, never backs down.  She’s so tiny for her age, and yet so scrappy.  So determined.  So much wiser than I am.

Once upon a time, I was like her.  I would put myself out there.  Once upon a time I, too, would go for it.

I lost that somewhere along the way.  I lost my confidence and my courage.  But I look at this little girl and I admire her tremendously; she makes me think I could get it back.  She inspires me to do better - to be better.

In many ways, my young daughter is a role model for me.

On Tuesday night, I’ll be the proudest Momma in the building, regardless of the outcome.  The first round of the spelling bee this year is just practice for next year – the year that she wins it all. 

I know she can do it.  And even better, she knows she can, too.

Smart girl.

Lucky me.

The Table

All great change in America begins at the dinner table.  -Ronald Reagan

I am a person with guilt.  Often over little things, like the time I threw a fit because my mom bought be the wrong clippie stuffed animal.  I believe I was 4 at the time.  I still have guilt over that.

I’m also a person with regret.  I don’t generally dwell on things, but there are a few that I can’t let go of, and my grandparents’ table is one of them.  Or rather, the table they used to have.  They are both gone now, making that long-lost table seem all the more precious.

Many years ago they moved from their lifelong home and auctioned off many of their possessions.  I knew at the time that I wanted that table, but I was a college student with a small apartment and no space for a second table.  Like an idiot I kept mine (from Value City Furniture – good call Heather) and let theirs go, and to this day I feel sick to my stomach when I think of it.  It’s no antique; in fact, it was a cheap table in mediocre condition with absolutely no monetary value.  But if I had any way of knowing where that table was now, I’d pay top dollar to have it back.

I’m thinking of it tonight because I found a paper I wrote in college.  The assignment was to write one page about a perfectly ordinary, inanimate object and make the reader care.  And to this day, I care very deeply about that table.

—————————————————————————

The Table

There is a table at my grandparents’ house.  This plain, brown, worn-out old table is a treasure to the two beautiful people who own it.  No one in the world means more to me than them, and no thing in the world means more to them than that table.

The furniture itself is not the treasure; the table is a symbol of love and family.  The backs of the chairs are worn and faded from years of heavy use.  On hot summer days their finish softens, and shirts cling to the moist varnish.  The arms of the chairs are worn down from years of rough treatment and not-so-gentle hands pushing them back under the table.  The table’s legs are nicked and scratched, and it is by no means considered beautiful.   Appearances aren’t everything, though.  Few material possessions could hold more beauty than does the table in Grama’s kitchen.

Pap doesn’t fully understand why she won’t let it go.  The table, or half of the other furniture that Grama loves so dearly.  To this day I can hear them bickering over the old ironing board, so well-worn that it must be propped up on the counter to be used.  My father’s clothes were ironed on that same board forty-odd years ago.  Pap says that they should buy a new one, but Grama refuses.  “For memory’s sake,” I can hear her explaining over and over again, but Pap just shakes his head.  No one really understands like Grama.

For every aging piece of furniture that she clings to there is a story.  There is a story that makes the ironing board worth putting up with, and the ugly table worth holding on to.  I can remember when Grama decided to put a new cover on the stool in the kitchen – the one that sits in front of the paper plate drawer.  It always sits in front of the paper plate drawer, most inconveniently, and for no reason other than that’s where it’s always been.  For years, every time their decor changed, the stool cover changed, one layer on top of another.  Not so long ago the covers all came off.  Everyone laughed at the dozen or so different layers of material, but not Grama.  No one else quite understands.  A new cover went on, and the stool is now at home in a new corner of the kitchen.  It’s just not the same.

The table is the most talked about, though.  Everyone laughs, and they say they can appreciate her sentiment, but no one really does.  No one knows like Grama.

Twenty years ago, two beautiful little girls crawled underneath that table and decorated.  There are still pencil scratchings bearing the names of Amy and Beth, joined years later by the artwork of their little sister.  The family laughs at the mischief and moves on.  No one understands.

Two other little girls have joined the family since then, and I wonder where their names are.  Some may call it destruction, but to Grama it’s making memories.  Maybe we should show them where to write.

Maybe no one understands, but there is no denying the love in my Grama’s treasures.  What some look at as just ordinary furniture are some of her most prized possessions.

And to tell the truth, I think Pap does understand.  Sure, he’s not as vocal, not as teary-eyed or sentimental as Grama, but he also overestimates his ability to hide his emotions.  For all of his harassment, I know that Pap must understand or new things would have moved in long ago.

But still…no one understands like Grama.

We all appreciate that someone cares for us so deeply.  We love the comfortable, homey feeling of Grama’s house.  But no one really understands like she does.

I want to.  I want desperately to understand, to have the same memories and the same sentiments that my Grama does.  My parents told me once that I inherited her heart, and there is no bigger compliment that they could pay me.

Just thinking about Saturday mornings with Pap and Grama, Coco Wheats and bacon, riding through Seven Creeks in the back of Pap’s pickup, playing Trouble, sneaking into Pap’s Twinkies, and falling asleep on their shaggy brown carpet can make me cry.  I know nothing better in the world.

There are a million moments with my grandparents that I treasure, a million memories and a million hugs that I could never forget.  But nothing feels as good as going ‘home’ to their house, and no thing will ever be as precious as that old kitchen table.

————————————————————-

I ache with longing to see them again.  To sit at that long-gone table and share one more meal, play one more game.  I would give almost anything to have that table today.  But I don’t, and I can’t change that.

The only thing left to do is create a table of my own, one memory at a time.  And today, that is exactly what we did.

The anniversary of the day my life began

Seven years ago tonight, I became a mother.  Seven years ago, my entire world changed.  For the better.

As I tucked her in to bed tonight, I told Annabelle once again the story of the night she was born.  How I waited anxiously all day.  How it was such an easy labor that I even napped in the afternoon.  How Aunt Beth and Erin flew all the way from Kuwait, arriving only 2 hours before she was delivered.  I only pushed once and out she came – she was easy right from the start.  She was an almost-9-pound baby, which is ironic considering how petite she is now.  I told her how I slept with her in my arms for days, because I loved her so much I couldn’t tear myself away from her.  And I told her about Dr. Buck, who kissed my forehead and said ‘Congratulations.  You’re a momma now.’  The most simple, profound words I’d ever heard.

Seven years ago tonight, this little angel of a girl changed my world – and one day she’ll change the rest of it, too.

On a lighter note…

We celebrated today with a skating party.  Catie got to invite her friends, also.  Since she has a summer birthday, she’ll never be able to have a party with school friends, so she was super excited about sharing in Annie’s big day.  All told, about half of the invited kids were able to come which, given past turnouts, was a pretty good number.

Annie wanted to have a Phineas & Ferb party, but unfortunately I couldn’t find anything available to make that happen.  Which is quite odd, if you ask me.  The show’s been out for two and a half years and it’s wildly popular.  What gives?

Anyway, I was able to order this edible icing creation off of eBay, so at least she had a proper cake:

The skating rink always has a limbo contest, every time we have been there.  And every time, Annie has won.  Every single time.  I think it’s because she’s so tiny she hasn’t even hit the bottom of the growth chart yet, but hey, at least it pays off in the form of chintzy plastic toy prizes.

On an unrelated note, have you ever noticed that skating rinks universally seem to have been decorated in the 80s and never updated?  Neon and blacklight – totally rad!

My sassy little Catiebug:

And a semi-decent picture of Lilly, who next to never looks at the camera.

After the party, my husband’s family came to our house for presents.  Annie got a salon chair which was a big hit, and Uncle Mike was a very good sport about getting a makeover:

And she also got the new bike she’s been eyeing ever since she ditched her training wheels.  A super sporty Barbie bike that has a miniature bike on the handlebar so that her doll can ride along with her:

See that green tee and jeans behind her?  That’s me.  Enjoy the view of my hip there, because that’s about as close as we ever get to me being in a picture.  I’m usually manning the camera, and on those rare occasions when my husband does apparently he doesn’t care to snap a pic of me.  Humph.

I wish the story ended happily there, but unfortunately later Annie was screaming in pain with an ear infection.  And the only pharmacy still open was out of the antibiotic we need, so we have to wait until tomorrow morning to start treatment.  I’m anticipating a long and sleepless night.  Hence the reason this post is so terribly late in the day – yet, I’d like to point out, still on February 13th (with a few minutes to spare).  NaBloPoMo, still going strong.

Johnny Depp once said that “Anything I’ve done up till [the day she was born] was kind of an illusion, existing without living.  My daughter, the birth of my daughter, gave me life.”

I feel exactly the same way.

Happy Birthday Annie Mary.

xoxo

Very Fun Indeed

If you’re one of my 6 loyal followers you might have clicked on the yummy treats link yesterday.  In which case, you might have seen a website called Making Things Fun.  This blog is the brainchild of my soon-to-be-7-year-old.

It is completely her baby.  She has learned how to click all the right links, answer her emails, and even tweet about her new posts.  She’s worked really hard on her posts, too - since she isn’t a great typist, it takes her forever to get one done.  Occasionally she’ll let me help with something mudane like a hyperlink, but for the most part she wants to do it all herself.  And I love her determination.

She has a couple dozen idea posts saved up in drafts, and every day she writes down a new one.  I’m not sure how this project will pan out, but I admit to having the occasional fantasy that this is the beginning of her child-prodigy entreprenurial career.  She is destined for greatness in one way or another – maybe this is it.

Regardless, I think it’s a worthwhile endeavor.  She’s practicing her writing, spelling, and grammar.  She’s expanding her computer skills and becoming a better typist.  And she’s making her little 6-year-old dream come true. 

She came up with the name herself (and the domain was available – score!).  She sifted through hundreds of templates until she found the perfect design.  And she’s seeing her world in a whole new way.

Instead of just doing her chores, she’s looking for a way to make them fun so she can write about it.  Instead of flying through a craft on her way to the the next activity, she’s slowing down to take pictures of each step.  Instead of going through life on autopilot, she’s pausing to take note of the details.

We all need to appreciate the details.

So check out Making Things Fun when you get a minute.  Follow her on Twitter, too – @MakingThingsFun  And drop her an email or leave a comment if you can - she loves that.  She responds to everyone!  And if you have a family-friendly blog and you’d like to join her blogroll, let her know that too.  We’d be happy to add your button to her sidebar.

A perfect day

Yesterday we had a snow day.  It doesn’t snow very often in Kentucky, but when it does, it doesn’t take very much of the white stuff to bring the state to its knees.  As long as I have lived here, it’s still rather amusing to a Yankee girl.  This might be the only way I am decidedly UN-southern.

I can remember as a child getting a foot of snow overnight, and we’d have a 1-hour delay for school so they could put chains on the bus tires.  I remember walking home in blizzard-like conditions.  And just so you don’t think I’m an old lady who has lost perspective, I readily acknowledge that I was walking DOWN the hill.  It wasn’t all bad.  But it was definitely very different  than the childhood memories my children will have.

We woke up to about 3 inches of snow, and it continued steadily all day.  Annie very excitedly declared that this might be the most snow she’s ever seen in her whole life.  Wow.  Kiddo is missing out.

Nonetheless, it was an exciting day.  Unlike most other moms I know, I love snow days.  I miss my girls all day every day, so having them all home with me again is a special occasion indeed.  And one worth celebrating.

We made a snowman (with snow that doesn’t pack)

and attempted a snowball fight (again, snow that doesn’t pack)

and we did a little sledding.

Snow angels were made

fears were conquered

and cheeks were rosy.

We played ’till we dropped

enjoyed hot cocoa

and even some yummy treats.

The dogs enjoyed their day as well.  Molly played with the girls

and Cooper napped on the [defecation-free] deck

Napping in the snow because he was so cold, no doubt.  Some people.

We’ve done lots of other fun stuff, too, but I’ll have to tell you about that on another day.  Right now a fireplace is beckoning, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs is in the DVD player, and 3 gorgeous girls are waiting to snuggle with me.  It’s a very ordinary, extraordinary day, and life is good.

Please don’t hold this against us

Annie’s 1st grade class is working on a pen pal project.  In 21st century style, though, it’s not really about the pens.  This project also involves audio, video, a school tour, and a smartboard.  It’s pretty cool, and the kids have been really excited about it.  The principal thought the project was so unique that she called the local paper to do a story on it. 

This is the first time I’ll point out to you that we live in a small town. 

So one day last week, a reporter came out to the classroom to take pictures and ask questions about the project.  He asked the teachers if they had a particularly expressive child that he could interview, and wouldn’t you know, my little Annie was the one he talked to.  ‘Expressive’ is definitely a word that suits her.

I was told to look for it to run in the Sunday paper.  And as it turned out, being a small town, this story was worthy of the front page.  Pretty impressive, right? 

Well.

So I read along to find my girl, and I come across this lovely little tidbit.

Student Annie Roberts-Nault has already found out about several similarities she shares with her pen pal, Emily.

“She likes to play in PE in school … I told her PE was my favorite class, too,” Roberts-Nault said.

Dogs are a common feature in both households as well, with her pen pal having one pup while Roberts-Nault’s family has three. According to Roberts-Nault, however, more does not necessarily equal better as one of her pets, Rigley, possesses a bad habit. The canine has a tendency to poop on her family’s deck, a definite defecation no-zone.

Props to Annie for landing us on the front page of the newspaper with a story like that.

I would like to clear up a few things now.

• Wrigley is spelled wrong.  Cubs, people, it’s the Cubs.
• She is not my dog.
• She is 9 years old and this has only happened twice in her life.  It’s true that I can’t stand the dog, but even I can say that this is not her major problem.
• She is a 25 pound black lab mix, up to date on all her shots, and ready for a new home at any time.

Did I mention we’re a very small town?  A last name like ours really doesn’t blend in.  Not to mention Annie’s such an extrovert that half the county knows who she is already.  Absolutely no chance of anyone not seeing this one. 

How great for us to now be known as the family with defecation issues!

I am, of course, still proud of her.

And, of course, concerned about her inability to filter for appropriate content.

At least she didn’t tell them about the time Daddy kicked Mommy and Mommy was crying on the floor of the closet.  [Catie actually told this to her pre-school teacher.  That the kids are still in our possession at this point is remarkable.]

So it could have been better, but it definitely could have been worse, too.

The article ends by stating

Technology, it seems, no matter how advanced, is never perfect.

It seems the same could be said for my Annie.

~Read it (and laugh at us) for yourself here.