A letter.

Five years ago tomorrow, I woke up with a start at 6:30am. I wondered if I was possibly in labor, dinked around our apartment, showered and wondered if it was The Day. 39 weeks and 2 days pregnant, I was afraid to get my hopes up. I called a friend at 9am, she said she was even in town and that she would take my girls. Managers of an apartment complex, we had an appointment with the constable to do a lock-out on a non-paying tenant that morning at 11am. Surely we had time.

By the time the constable was finished and gone, I was quite certain it was going to be a birth day for our third child. We headed to the hospital an hour away, stopping along the way to get bagels, sure it was going to be a long (food-free, once admitted to the hospital) day. While Blaine was in the bagel shop, the first hard contraction hit and I was suddenly quite glad we were on our way. We got to the hospital around 1pm, and about three hours later, our first son made his appearance. At 9 lbs. 2 oz., there was a lot to him.

At 7 months old, we found out he was to be a big brother. At 12 months, he crawled for the first time. At 19 months, he began walking. At 4, he got a little brother. Always careful, waiting to be sure of himself, he’s quite the boy. He dresses to match his daddy, desires real tools for his birthday – none of this plastic stuff he’s been dealing with up to now. He’s recently discovered tree climbing, loves fences and fixing things and excels at math.

He loves to blame things on his sisters and defends them when someone else tries to pick on them. We’re working on his habit of leaving household chores up to his sisters. It’s a slow process. He leaves his shoes everywhere and always seems to think I should know where they are when he wants them. He loves to talk his sisters into doing his jobs. He’s pretty convincing. He wants to be a helicopter pilot when he grows up. He also wants to grow sugar. He really likes sugar.

My oldest son kissed me tonight, the last kisses he’ll give me as a four year old. After confirming that I love five year olds too, he told me not to be too sad. Someday he’ll be forty, and that has a four in it too. He promised me he’ll still kiss me when he’s fourteen too. I told him I was going to write that down, so he wouldn’t forget. He says he won’t, but I’m writing it down anyway.

Happy birthday, dear son. I love you more than life itself.

Love,

Momma

Does is matter?

Sterling asked me this afternoon why bugs don’t like to die. We got into a discussion about the fight for life God gave each of us.

“But we all have to die, when we’re old, because we sin,” Sterling said.

Contemplating this heartbreaking reality from a mother’s perspective, I sat there quiet for a minute.

“But Ruby sins the most.”  Earth to Momma. Quiet ponderings over, I laughed. And laughed. And pondered instead the story of whose sin is greatest and why it doesn’t matter, since sin is sin. By the time I’d figured out a way to explain this, Sterling was off and gone and the moment was over.

I’m still laughing that he thinks Ruby’s the biggest sinner of them all.

Modified English.

Teaching simple subjects and simple predicates to a somewhat confused Eden this morning, the conversation went something like this:

“My dress is pretty. ‘Dress’ is the simple subject, the noun. ‘Is’ is the verb, the simple predicate” I said.

Ruby was listening in, and she piped in, “My dress is pretty. Dress, pretty, and thank you for making it, Momma. That’s what you should say, Eden.”

That’s exactly what I was going for, Ruby. Exactly. Great English lesson.

Hair Dilemma.

Two of my dear daughters,

one who apparently wants to remain nameless

stood in line for my scissors yesterday.

The face painting was not of my doing. I am not that talented.

Ruby wanted her hair as short as Sterling’s.

Um, no. But how’s a couple inches?

Liberty wanted hers cut too. I made her wait a few days because she’s been working on growing it out for so long. She changed her mind. Since she combs her own and doesn’t get food in it, long is ok with me. Eden’s hair always does what I want it to, and she’s always game for whatever I want to try. Ruby – Ruby gets a lot of food in her hair. Or hair in her food. Three is a messy age. Maybe a short cut like Sterling’s would have something going for it. But, no. Girly is good.

Is it still an accident when she forgot to pull up her dress and pull down her panties but sat on the potty and peed through them?

I’m saying no. Another accident-free day. Charlotte is my hero. You know, as much as an easily potty-trained kid can be a hero. She made my life easier, and I needed that right now. A lot.

Number of times I heard a blood-curdling scream today: 13.

Number of times I saw blood today: 0.

The boy who cried wolf doesn’t have anything on my kids.

Potty Talk

After a couple weeks of working on this at home, this sweet baby girl just completed (without accidents!) her first day as a diaper-free 19 month old in public. Hooray!

Just in case though, we took four pairs of extra panties for Charlie, three dresses for Charlie… and a clothing change for momma too. I am happy to report none of our luggage was necessary.