Bloom Quest

The azaleas are in bloom.  WOW! Are they ever in bloom!!  I love them at this time of year, when all the pretty pinks and whites are so showy all over Shreveport.  You can’t look in any single direction without seeing them.  They are so fluffy and impressive! The problem is, I hate them for the rest of the year.  I find that when they are not blooming, they look scraggly and unkept.  Some owners prune them into hedges and such, but then they look too confined when they do bloom.  I love their messiness in bloom, but can’t stand it otherwise.  Perhaps if they could just bloom for, say, 3 or 4 months at a time rather than 3 to 4 weeks a year.  And they only stay really pretty if the spring rains stay away.  A good hard storm can kill the beauty of the azaleas overnight. 

The one remaining azalea in my yard blooms on approximately one-third of its branches, which means I get about three flowers in the spring.  The rest of the year it looks like the stepchild of yard ornaments.  I so need to cut it down, but I feel just a tad, well, disloyal in doing so.  I am a true-blue home-grown Southerner, shamefully despising my poor little azalea bush. 

My grandmother recently told me that she had purchased the Encore Azalea, which is supposed to bloom repeatedly throughout the season.  I was thrilled at the news of this hybrid, and excitedly asked if they really did bloom as advertised.  “Well, no.  Azalea blooms aren’t supposed to last very long, you know.”  I felt so deflated.    

I bought an Endless Summer Hydrangea yesterday.  Their large happy leaves look good even when they don’t have many blooms.  I hope it can curb my azaleas-in-bloom lust and ultimately redeem me as a Southern garden enthusiast.  Even though I know that’s a lot to ask of a plant… 

How Do You Solve a Problem Like the Mabel?

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning and I am locked in the computer room with the dog. The newer dog. The “I’m not supposed to be a puppy anymore, but still chew things up” dog. And the barking. Oh, my dear Lord…the barking!!!! Here’s how the day has gone:

Mabel woke Dom up at 5:15 this morning, for no other reason than to be awake. At probably 6:45, I could hear her barking from the backyard. And considering that my bedroom is on the front of the house, that’s saying something. We don’t want her disturbing our neighbors, so Dom ushers her in. But here’s the problem: It’s now daylight. She can see from the inside all the squirrels and birds frolicking outside in her yard. Yes, in HER yard. So she barks to go out. She runs outside, at full I’m-going-to-catch-you-and-eat-you-for-breakfast speed, scares all the critters out of her yard, runs back to the door, body slams it, and barks until we let her in. Within two minutes of coming back inside, the cycle starts all over again.

Now, gentle people, consider from whence we came: Mason is now 10. Huge and yellow and full of love, he only considers that every living creature is put on this earth to either play or peacefully coexist with him. He once gave a kitten a big ol’ happy slurp-kiss, and didn’t understand why the kitten wasn’t happy about it! He’s our gentle giant. Truthfully, one day five squirrels were playing in our yard at a moment when I needed to let Mason outside. As I opened the door, all five squirrels directed their attention to the door and froze! Mason sauntered out, and the squirrels breathed a collective sigh of relief and resumed their activities in the yard. It was almost as if they were proclaiming, “False alarm, everybody! It’s just Mason! Carry on!” I sort of think Mason can let squirrels and birds enjoy the backyard because he knows his place is in the house.

But for the last year and a half, it’s been a different story for the poor critters that use our yard as a playground. There’s a new sheriff in town. And she rules with an iron paw! At least until Daddy gets tired of her antics and locks her in the computer room with Mommy. Oh, but curse me for leaving a curtain open…she now spies a bird…and is barking.

Fairy Tale Life

The other night Victoria asked me, “Mommy, do you believe in fairy tales?

“Are you asking if I believe Cinderella is real? Or are you asking if I believe that fairy tales can happen to real people?”

“Fairy tales happening to real people,” she confirmed.

So I took this opportunity to share my thoughts on life and expectations. I explained to her that I believe in Love above all else. And that love is honest, and that it takes a lot of work. Nothing happens in real life as easily as it happens in a 30 minute bedtime story (much to every little princess’s dismay…I just don’t want her learning it too late.) I told Victoria that two people who love each other, like the people in the fairy tales, have to work at their lives together and sometimes it’s not a lot of fun. Sometimes you have to give up things you want, be a little less selfish in order to help the one you love. But if the prince and the princess are both honest with each other, and talk about their differences, and truly love each other, then yes, Victoria, their lives can – on some days – feel like a fairy tale.

Labels Astray

While on our family walk this evening - a ritual we have re-instated due to warmer weather and the need to remind Mabel why we invested in her training - we came across another dog on the loose. Mason was quite interested, while Mabel surprisingly ignored the scruff-meister. I thought the dog looked a little intimidating, but it stayed somewhat within the boundaries of its own property, so I knew it already had more cultivation than Miss Mabelline.

As we got further away from the dog, Victoria announced that she sure was glad that wasn’t a straight dog.

Excuse me??? (She has a tendency to make me do frequent double-takes.)

“I’m glad that’s not a straight dog!”

My first question (aside from what in the world have I been letting you watch on tv?) was “How in the name of Peppermint Patty do you identify a straight dog?”

“You know…one that doesn’t live anywhere and just roams all around everywhere and probably has rabies. At least that’s not a straight dog!”

“STRAAAAAAAAYYYYYY, baby. STRAY dog,” I said, fighting back the urge to burst into laughter.

“Yeah, that’s what I said!”

Morning Checklist

I don't know if I've mentioned this lately, but I am a list maker. I make all kinds of lists: grocery, to-do, wish… you name it, I have a list for it. Not that I ever return to the list, mind you. See, part of the reason for all of my lists is that I misplace them as soon as I write them. Thus, the need for yet another list…

One day I was cleaning the counter of all the mail and papers that had piled during the week when I came across THIS list. Aaron’s Morning Checklist – prompted, I’m sure, by my verbal list of instructions each morning before school, and the inevitable shouting of, “WHY must I say everything TWICE?!” I was intrigued by the detail he put into the list, and I got the greatest enjoyment out of the “optional” items. Incase you can't read the photo above, this list reads like this:

Get dressed
Shirt
Pants
Belt
Socks
Shoes
Turn fish light on
Feed fish
Brush teeth
Brush hair
Eat breakfast
Pack lunch
Get iPod (optional)
Put binder in backpack
Put lunch in backpack
Bring blanket (optional)
Put jacket on
Put backpack on

He is so very much like me…

Sometimes Parenting Sucks

The week had begun rather well, but the weekend was downright awful. I had promised to blog about this particular event in our lives, and knowing it to be an event I’d rather not repeat, the lessons learned are best captured in print…so I can remind myself that I possess the uncanny ability to torture an entire household, lest I forget the lesson and doom myself to repeat it…


To provide some history: Victoria has been wanting hermit crabs for over a year now. Her first grade teacher had them as a class pet, and Vic got to bring them home for a weekend while she was Student of the Week. She has begged for her own ever since. They were cute enough, and I probably would have relented earlier had she not lost one of Mrs. Scott’s crabs in Aaron’s room. Just the thought of a crab being loose in my home made medication look appealing. We found the crab after only a few minutes of panic – in Aaron’s bed, under the sheet. From that moment I vowed we would not be host home to hermit crabs ever again. I was irreversibly scarred.

But, the passing of time is a great healer of wounds, and I recently found myself wanting to let the kids have “room-pets” – something they could keep in their own rooms and take care of, like a fish, or a…fish. Well, the argument ensued over who had to suffer the injustice of owning a betta fish and who got the privilege of housing “real” fish in the only small tank that had a filter. Aaron wanted guppies so badly he couldn’t see straight. Vic wanted guppies too. But Aaron REALLY wanted guppies. So of course, Vic REALLY wanted them too. The conversations went like this for quite some time in planning the trip to Petsmart. Finally, from the backseat, I heard Aaron relent, taking one for the team in his selfless and loving nature, sighing "OK, Vic, you can have guppies. I’ll get the betta fish.” Vic happily responds, “OK.”

No, “Wow, Aaron, really? Thanks a lot!”

No, “Oh, but I know how much you want them; you’ve loved guppies for years.”

No, not Vic. “OK,” was all she had to offer, and that was just gonna be that! I asked Aaron, “Is that what you really want, Aaron? You’re willing to give up the guppies so Vic can be happy?” He was honest with me and said, “Well, it’s not really what I want, but it’s the best way for everybody to get something, and I’m just tired of talking about it.”

Immediately, I had a brainstorm. Something like, say, hermit crabs don’t need a filter. Wouldn’t that solve everyone’s problems? So I threw it out there. Like a raft with no rope, once it was said out loud, I couldn’t take it back. Aaron could have guppies in the filter tank, and Vic could have hermit crabs in the non-filter tank. Compromise. Bliss. Peace.

As we pulled into the parking spot at Petsmart, I was mentally guessing how much I might spend on this venture. We already have the tank, after all. Most fish (that I would buy) are around $2-3. Crabs are probably the same. Well, I quickly learned the small ones are actually $5. But Vic was convinced that one would be lonely by itself. So now I’m in $10. Then, while talking with the associate inside Petsmart I learned that we needed sand, food and water containers, extra shells to grow into, and some playground equipment for them. Some what…???

FORTY-FIVE DOLLARS LATER, we leave Petsmart and head home. I called Dom to let him know, in our movie-quoting fashion, that “the Independence crew is on board and accounted for. We’re even heavy two hermit crabs…” He laughed.

Once we got home, the tank was assembled and the rules were declared, ala Moses with the Ten Commandments:

THOU SHALT NOT turn the hermit crabs loose in my home!

Second to that came the edict that every hand that touches the crabs must be washed and disinfected before touching any other God-given, man-made or spontaneously-combusted matter. Wash hands, wash hands, wash hands!

And with that, Squirmy and Smiley became members of our family.

But, like I said earlier, I have the uncanny ability to torture an entire household. The crabs may have been family, but they were not necessarily dear to my own heart just yet. Especially not after my Facebook post announcing our newly acquired hermit crabs, and my friends’ reactions, warnings, and tales of ultimate demise. Blech. What had I gotten us into? Thinking I had a way out of the crab business, I began associating the crabs’ place in our home with Victoria’s conduct grade at school. At our lowest point, when the conduct grade had become unbearable, I bargained with Vic that she could only keep the crabs if she maintained a B in conduct for the next entire week. After that, our 14-day no-questions-asked return policy would expire, and I’d be in it for the long haul.

I will say this to myself many, many more times in the future: What the hell was I thinking?

Vic maintained an unprecedented A+ for the first two days of the week. Then on Wednesday, the bottom fell out. D in conduct for talking too much. This from the child who didn’t speak until she was 2. As she reported the news to me in the kitchen that night, and as I shook my head and reminded her of the consequence, she peered up at me with the saddest, brownest eyes and softly pleaded, “Mommy, won’t you please give me one more chance?” At once I heard SuperNanny, reminding me that consistency is just as important as consequence. And immediately following, my inner voice said, “How can I preach forgiveness to her if I am not willing to show her how it is done?”

Our next bargain went like this: Vic could have one more chance, but the stakes were higher. She had to keep an A for Thursday and Friday. Well, I guess you know by now that if we had been successful at that, I might not be writing about it. Friday night I was out and about when Dom called to read me the note she had taped to her bedroom door.

“Dear Mom,
If I’m sleeping or not take my crabs away because I got a B in conduct so take them away.
Love Victoria
p.s. Sorry”

I wish I could say it ended there. But I absolutely had to follow through with the consequence. As painful as it was, I knew that if I caved, I’d lose my footing forever. The next morning we loaded up the crabs and drove them to Petsmart with our receipt of purchase. Victoria held the tank in her lap, and held her gaze out the window for the entire ride. The only thing I recall her saying from the backseat was, “I knew I couldn’t be good.”

I instantly knew the depth of the lesson I had just learned. I had slowly been learning that Victoria talking in class might be something I shouldn’t punish at home. But the greater lesson was this: Never, ever, ever make a pet the subject of consequence. I took the little living beings Vic was responsible for nurturing, and I snatched them away from her, teaching her a far more cutting lesson than I ever intended. I realized that I might as well be giving Mabel back. And how would that feel?

Pretty freaking crappy.

All You Need Is Love...Really.

I got it. I finally outright got it! The meaning of life…our reason for being.
Love.
D’ya get that? LOVE. Here’s how it shakes down:

1. God is love.

2. God loves us.

3. God wants us to love him.

4. God wants us to love each other.

(Not too offensive yet, huh? That whole “God” thing… no one’s hitting the red X on the off chance I go religious-fruit-loop on ya?)

Well, as I see it (and this is my blog, so I can post it any-ole-way-I-see-it) we are put on this earth to LEARN TO LOVE EACH OTHER THE WAY THAT GOD LOVES US.

Come again?

Yeah, see point #2 above. I believe this is what it means to be “made in his image.” Doesn’t mean we have the same nose, or that our skin matches God’s (really? Skin???) It simply means we have a HEART capable of LOVING as God loves.

Wow…

Allow me to illustrate…

Who is the worst person in the world I can think of? I’m thinking…and in my rude and judgmental way, I have someone in mind. You do too, I’m sure. Now…who made that person?

Satan, of course! 
Bzzzzzzzz!! Satan doesn't create; he destroys.  Try again.

Uh, God??

Right. Don’t be afraid…Shout out the answers when you know them!

Who made you? (Little easier to answer, huh?)

Now, for my spiritually-challenged friends, you were very well created by a swirling mass of electrons and energy and formed from a million-years’ evolution of organisms as a result of your mom and dad having a “thing” for each other…I’m just sayin’…still could’ve been orchestrated by God. But I digress…

Back to the bad-ass no one likes. We have established that God made this person, just as he made you. Furthermore, if you are Christian (and you do not HAVE to be for me to appreciate you) but if you are, then you believe God died for you, right?

And he died for Mr./Ms. Bad-Ass too, right?

Oh, hold on, Lori. That’s pushing it a little far. I haven’t, like, killed anybody…of COURSE God loves me. But Mr. Bad Ass, well, he’s…bad!

Ahem! Yeah…kinda my point. God loves Mr./Ms. Bad Ass too…enough to die for them. And us.

And we hate each other…why?

See, even when we suck at our mission, God still loves us. He still wants us to love him. And he wants us to love each other. Period. He didn’t have a checklist at the cross, “Oh, I’m dying for this girl, but not this one. Have you seen how she dresses?!” No checklist. And I’m glad, ‘cause Lord knows my name wouldn’t have been on it. Yet he knows my name. He knows Mr. Bad Ass’s name. And he loves us both the same.

So I need to love Mr. Bad Ass. ‘Cause God thinks he’s worth loving. Who am I to not oblige? After all, I already know God gave me the ability to do this...the rest is up to me. 

If we succeed at nothing else in this life but learning to love every soul on earth with the same gusto that we want to be loved, then – and only then – will we have truly lived.

(Now pass the plate.)

sh-sh-sh-SHINGLES!

So there I was, convinced I had a sinus infection, my upper teeth on the left side hurting. And then that crazy rash on my face, the one that made co-workers speculate whether I had come into contact with poison ivy, or was reacting to a medication. The original mis-diagnosis on a Monday, three days into the rash, was aggravating enough, since I didn't feel the doctor heard a word I said, aside from “tooth,” at which he promptly sent me to my dentist. But when I spoke with MY doctor's receptionist on Wednesday morning and explained my symptoms, she said, “Oh, girl, it sounds like you got shingles!”

Oh, noooo. Nooooo, nooo, noo. Perhaps I didn't explain myself. See, I just have this little blistery part up in my hairline, and well my nose is all rashy, but no, shingles are caused by stress, right? And I mean, I'm not stressed…not me.

“Gurrrrrl, you got the shingles, I bet!! You come on in around 1:45 and we'll work you in today.”

And so began my three-week battle with shingles, the residual effect of those 5 blooming chicken pox blisters I had at age 8. You mean to tell me this has been laying dormant in my facial nerve for 30 years and chose NOW to resurface?!! I truly do not feel “stressed.” Certainly not like, I need medication, stressed. If ever there was a time in my life when I feel illness should take advantage of me, this is not it. What about those two weeks in 1996 when I got married, moved, changed jobs and lost my grandmother all at the same time? THAT was stress!! Or what about celebrating my son's first birthday knowing I'm pregnant with a second child, and not sure I'll be able to handle it? THAT was stress. I have friends who hit life twelve times harder than I do, so how is it that I am suddenly the poster child for overworked-freak-stress-anxiety-disorder? (Not that that's a bad thing…)

So this has caused me to pause (and completely pass out given the right meds) and take stock of what my life comprises, in an effort to understand how, when I thought I was at the top of my game, I was actually weak enough to be overtaken by a devilishly painful virus.

1.  The dog has an ear hematoma. (I hear Arnold Swarzenegger's voice every time I say that word - hemaTOHma. I don't know why.) Basically, this means Mason shook his cute little head so hard that he busted a blood vessel in his cute little ear. It is repairable only with surgery… a very expensive surgery with no guarantees that it won't happen again. And here, only a day after getting the stitches removed, I fear it has happened…again.

2.  We are having some necessary repair done to the ENTIRE exterior of our home, a project which has taken longer than I expected, but we are pleased with the work as it progresses, even though I am not completely sure what the final tab will be. My dermatologist pins the shingles on this one, hands down.

3.  I do worry about Victoria as she experiences 2nd grade. She is sooooo extroverted, and I am sooooo not. It's hard for me to relate to someone who talks when the teacher says not to. I was the quiet, nerdy girl in the front row of every class I ever took. So the thought of my daughter “not listening,” “not practicing self control,” and “not using time and materials effectively” admittedly sends me into orbit. And yet I want to allow her to be who she is…

So this act of taking stock of my situation leaves me with little answers. I love my job, am happy at home, have the best husband on earth, and am greeted every day by two joyful children and two waggly-tailed dogs. Am I really freaking out over what color to paint the entry hall and how long my tires will last? Are junk mail and rush-hour traffic starting to affect my biorhythms? I would not have thought so…

But I also didn't think I'd get shingles.

Victoria: Like it or lump it!

You always know where you stand with Victoria. She is honest to a fault, and readily admits her shortcomings. And she is not one to butter you up just to get something she wants. Relationships with Victoria have to be honest or she is not interested in them. She has begun to have a rough time with her teacher lately. We have heard Vic complain that her teacher does not smile, and always seems unhappy. Trying to give the teacher the benefit of the doubt, my mother suggested that Victoria make the teacher smile each day by greeting her with, “Good morning, Mrs. __! I hope you have a great day today!”

Victoria eyed my mother for a short time, and then dryly said, “I just don’t think I can do that.”

Victoria: Temporary Tattoo

At dinner the other night, I glimpsed ink-penned words on Victoria’s forearm. As I imagined her writing her spelling words on her arm, or something equally deviant, I sharply asked what in the world she had written. Her explanation made perfect sense given the situation of the past couple of weeks…Victoria had been reporting to me that she received conduct marks for other people talking in class. Not for one second believing she was innocent, I would tell her each time that other people talking when they are not supposed to does not giver her the right to talk. “But Mommy, I’m telling them not to talk to me, and then I get in trouble!!” To which I would reply, “DO NOT TALK if you are not supposed to!!” So as she lifted her arm to show me this temporary tattoo, I saw for myself her attempt to heed the rules: she had written, “TALK TO THE ARM!”

Kindergarten Graduation Picture by Victoria

So this is the picture for Victoria's Kindergarten Graduation. I have shared this story with so many people... now I share the picture and the story together. When Victoria went to school the morning of these pictures, her hair was "styled" in a partial pony-tail, possibly with a ribbon or bow, since I was told ahead of time that no "caps" would be worn in these cap-and-gown pictures.

I had no idea any other adornments were on her person to be memorialized in photos. BUT APPARENTLY, we should have named her Victoria Stealth, because the "jewelry" seen in this picture was sneaked onto campus in her backpack. On the evening that these proofs came home, I anxiously examined them and was at first struck by how professional she seemed to look. My thoughts lingered momentarily on her hairstyle, but since it looked nice, I didn't dwell. But, she's wearing a necklace, isn't she? What is that neckace? Is it a choker? It looks so familiar...I've seen it before. It's not mine. Was it a gift from someone? No. Where do I know that necklace from?!! Why, wait a minute...it's not a necklace...it's all coming to me now...it's...it's...IT'S A TOY DOG COLLAR FROM BUILD-A-BEAR WORKSHOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!! VICTOOOOOORIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was instantly furious, but by morning, I found the whole thing hysterically amusing. The bracelet on her arm is her ponytail holder. And, as several friends pointed out, she does accessorize quite well. ;)

Reading Ruckus

As I recall the situation, Victoria was just learning to read at the end of her Kindergarten year.  She resisted reading so much, and was so unlike Aaron in this regard.  One night, we were all piled on Aaron's bed encouraging Victoria to read our bedtime story.  I was sitting between Aaron and Vic holding the book, and Dom was standing across the room.  Vic struggled with each word, punctuated by whining and huffing as I gently corrected her on those she was missing.  Finally, she mis-read the word "red," calling it "rod."  Aaron, who had been following along, and sweetly encouraging her despite her grumpiness, had reached his limit.  "The word is 'red,' Victoria.  R-E-D, RED!"  Victoria never even looked up from the book.  Her left arm bulleted across me and her fist struck Aaron in the side of the head. Literally before he knew what hit him, Aaron was laying on his back on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling.  His pride was wounded more than anything, and Victoria was punished for hitting her brother.  But we all learned a little something about our princess that evening.  When she has had enough, no mater how much she loves you, watch out!!

Webkinz

Last night as we were preparing for bedtime, Victoria informed me that ALL of her classmates have “webkins” and she must have one too! We discussed what Webkins are (since I did not know) and I told her that she has a birthday coming up and that might be a perfect time to seek such a toy. Besides, who are ALL these people with webkins? “Everybody in my class!”

“Like who? Give me names.” She proceeded to name three kids. Out of the 21 who ALL supposedly have webkins, we narrowed it down to three who actually have them.

Fast forward twelve hours. We are preparing to leave for school; Dom has already arrived at work and calls to tell me that there is an accident on my route and to plan a little extra time. I weigh the options of going the usual way, or finding an alternate route to avoid the hassle. I tell the kids that we are probably going to go a different way to school, and that it might take us a little longer than usual. (They are BIG backseat drivers, so I try to give them the gameplan early – saves them from freaking out when I take an unexpected turn.)

As we drive, however, I determine that our original route is unblocked, and we proceed as usual. Still stuck on “it might take longer to get to school,” Victoria complains that all her friends will already be at school by the time she arrives. Oh, please. I ask, “Who will already be there?” She replies, “ALL my friends! Everybody!”

With as much sarcasm as I have ever heard him use, Aaron asks, “Who?! Those three kids who have webkins??!!!”

Good to Go to Mexico (Thanks for the title, Toby!)

In the car this morning, driving to school through thick fog, Aaron asked why it was so foggy. I launched into an explanation of hot-air/cold-air and what happens when they meet. Aaron contemplated my answers, and pondered aloud a new question: "I wonder if it's foggy in Mexico." (I wouldn't know.) And then, as if a new realization had suddenly struck him, "I've never BEEN to Mexico!"

From the sidekick next to him (Victoria): "I have."

Aaron quickly corrected her. "No you haven't!"

"Yuh-huuuuhh. I have TOO been to Mexico!"

Now, Aaron cannot stand to hear Victoria fib, and is quick to call her to task when he senses her losing loyalty for the truth. So, through clenched teeth Aaron reprimands, "Victoria, YOU HAVE NOT BEEN TO MEXICO!!!"

To which she stubbornly replied, "Well, I've been to TACO BELL!"

Why?

A child died this week in our community. His funeral is beginning just as I write this. Through complete accident his little life ended at two years, and though I did not know him or his family, I mourn with them. I know that I have been blessed far beyond what I deserve, and at times like this I wonder why bad things happen to good people. I wonder how on earth his parents and family will ever be able to move forward from his loss. I pray for them that they will find peace and joy again in the future. I pray and cry, and pray and cry, and wonder how many times I could have stood in the shoes of anyone who suffers as much, "but by the grace of God..."
I believe that "all things work for the glory of God." I believe it, but I don't see it. I was driving away from work yesterday pondering this issue, and I thought of Dom's fraternity. They had a t-shirt printed one year with their greek motto emblazoned across the back, and underneath it was the phrase, "We don't expect you to understand." I used to laugh at their arrogance (sorry, guys), but as I thought of this t-shirt in light of all my prayers for this family, I wondered if God wasn't saying the same thing to me. "Lori, I don't expect you to understand." I am not expected to see the inner workings of God among us...I can't possibly identify the good that will come out of this terrible situation. I cannot know each person's heart, each person's struggle, and each person's relationship with God. Suffering brings some people closer to him, and I see some people pull away from him in times of loss. But I cannot possibly understand why this baby died, why his parents have to suffer the enormous tragedy of their situation, and how this is all for the glory of God.
No, he does not expect me to understand. But he does expect me to trust. And, trust I will. I know that he sees far more of this life than I do. So, I have to believe that there is something good that will spring forth from this tragedy. I may never get to see it or identify it, but I know it will be there. Just as he is. I will pray some more, I will likely cry some more, but I will trust.

Reflections from Easter 2006

Just prior to Easter, in an effort to point out that the Easter Bunny's pending visit was not the crux of the holiday, I ventured into explaining the Trinity to Aaron and Victoria - a lesson I knew would be over their heads, but important nonetheless. We sat on my bed talking about how the Three are also One. I admit I did a lot of repeating myself because Aaron was wiggling and restlessly sprawling all over the bed as if to say "yeah, we get it. Can we go now?" Victoria punctuated every sentence I said with, "But why?" and in a feeble attempt to answer her, I kept droning.

When I was finally satisfied that I had said all I could say on the subject, I asked if there was anything they wanted to add about the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit. Victoria replied, "He's on my shoulders."

What?

"He's on my shoulders."

Who?

"The Holy Spirit!" (duh, Mom!) and she touched both shoulders as she completed making the Sign of the Cross. I gazed at her, smiling, and she proceeded to cross herself again, this time saying, "See? Father, Son, Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is on my shoulders!" How amazing, I thought. Is that what it means? Did my four-year-old just educate me on what should have been obvious? The Spirit was left, after all, to continue showing us the way. Is He poised like a protective parent, hands on the child's shoulder to keep the child from straying too far, perhaps leaning to whisper in our ear the way we should choose in our daily decisions?

As I contemplate the Sign of the Cross now, I am renewed with the vision of God in our thoughts, Jesus in our hearts, and the Holy Spirit gently guiding us by the shoulders. Thank you, Vic, for your wisdom. I love learning from you.

Reading with Grandmama

Aaron has reading goals now that he has started Kindergarten, so Grandmama set aside some books on her bookshelf for Aaron's enjoyment. Grandmama was letting Aaron read to her tonight when Aaron started losing interest in the activity. He wanted Grandmama to read more and more of the pages, so Grandmama said she couldn't see the words, in order to make him read it instead. He jumped up and left the room. Grandmama said, "Are you going to the potty?" He replied, "No, I'm going to get your glasses!"

Incentive Chart Part 2

As Victoria had trouble with the incentive chart concept the first day, it's only fitting that Aaron have his moment to bemoan the reward program. They were sitting at breakfast this morning and Aaron had a small craft project going on next to his cereal bowl. What's new? He needed an item (scissors, probably) that Victoria had. Without him really asking for it, I overheard her sweetly say, "Here Aaron. You can have this." I immediately told her how nice it was that she was sharing, and for that sweet gesture she had earned a sharing heart to put on her chart. Aaron thought the heart was so cool, and he wanted one too. He had already grasped the concept that the good deed had to be done unprompted by me, so he suddenly turned to Vic and tried to give her something...something she didn't particularly need right then. I overheard, "Here Vic, you can have this."
"I don't want it."
"But I'm SHARING with you. Here, take it."
"I don't want it."
"Mommy, Vic won't let me share with her!!"
When it starts out like that, it's gonna be a long day.

Incentive Chart

Aaron and Victoria have new incentive charts to keep them on track with daily chores and good behavior. There are 8 things they must do during each day, and they can get extra incentives for good behavior items like sharing, using manners, and being helpful. On the morning that I introduced the charts, Aaron was thrilled to know he could earn a smiley face on his chart if I heard him using his manners. Ever the quick study, he was quite prompt in asking, "Mommy, may I please have something to drink?" I applauded the great use of manners and produced juice and a smiley face for his chart. Victoria, who was having a testy morning, to say the least, quickly shouted, "I want a smiley face!!!" Aaron leaned close to her and advised her to use manners. She responded in a huff, "I want a smiley face PUHLEEZE." The magic word was tainted with exhaustion at having to stoop to such a level, so I maintained my gaze into the pantry as I overheard Aaron instructing, "No, Vic! You have to use your manners and ask for something else." Her reply: "I want SOMETHING ELSE, PUHLEEZE." More whispered instruction from Aaron, "No, Vic!!! Ask for a juice box and use your manners." Victoria: "I want a juice box, and I used my manners!" Not quite, sweetie. Aaron prompted her this time with the entire correct request. Finally she caved, and sweetly asked, "May I have a juice box..." and then "PUH-LEEEEZE!" Close enough.

Loyalty of a Sister

I had taken the children to a local park one sunny summer afternoon to play.  Victoria was 3, Aaron 4.  Aaron was interested in the slide, where two older boys (probably age 6 or so) were playing.  The other boys were putting sand on the ladder of the slide, and when Aaron would try to climb, they would push the dirt onto his feet.  They weren't overly abusive, but I recall wanting to say something to them in an effort to relieve Aaron of the burden.  He obviously wasn't going to speak up for himself.  After about three rounds of sand distraction and bully-laughs from the other boys, Aaron decided playing on the slide wasn't worth all that after all.  One of the boys finally made an offending comment to him, and he just stood there, not sure what to say or do.  As I was just about to spring to my feet, Victoria came from out of nowhere, plopped herself in front of Aaron facing the other two boys, placed her fists on her little hips and hollered, "YOU LEAVE MY BROTHER ALONE!!" 

I love that girl!!