Road Trip

Big accomplishment today: We booked our vacation. After weeks of hemhawing and trying to decide on the "perfect" place, under the guise of we-really-don't-care-we-just-want-to-relax pickiness....Well, it is the ONE WEEK out of the year when we get to do something totally fun, random and responsibility-free. And it's the one week out of the year that we fling a bunch of precious cash and time at something all in the name of togetherness. It needs to be goooooood. Also, this is technically the first time we are going on a "family" vacation, that is just the four of us for a whole week, and no work for Daddy. All week. No kidding! It's very exciting! What will we do? What will we talk about? Where will we go? What will we eat? How will we make everyone happy? Oh, it's just ever so much pressure!! But it's done. A week in the mountains on a lake and near a bunch of cool, mountainy adventures that mama and daddy experienced in their growing up years and are now excited to share with the offspring. I think it will be just the ticket. Even the dog is going. Now if I can just get rid of the lately ever-present "planning" headache and "can I go back to bed now" fatigue.

Deep and Shallow Thoughts by Jack Handy

I haven't blogged in so long, they insisted that I type in one of those funny, wavy passwords when I came online. And that is so hard when it's late, late at night, pitch black in your office and your brain is foggy. It's hard to spell too. But who cares. I am quite thrilled to be thinking about my friends, who left on a mission trip to Kenya today, and who are approaching the halfway mark of their trip as we speak! Just another hour to go. Dreams come true, you know. ...What a thrill to see God work.

Dreams come true for little girls too. For instance, one of my little girls has spent the week with a bunch of smelly horses at riding camp. I love picking her up in the afternoon - covered in dirt and who knows what else, hay in her hair, boots up on the table like she's been there her whole life, a radiant smile on her freckled face. I know she has encountered a trial or two and yet... she preserveres. She is making her way in the world. She is gorgeous.

We talk to them sometimes about the husbands we pray they will have one day. Someone who loves them, someone who is nice like Daddy. Recently, as Small Fry and I were flipping through the channels, we came across a commercial for an exercise program. A buff, muscular man hawked his product, shirtless and magnificent. She pointed at him, and without reservation or hesitation, proclaimed - that is going to be my husband. I ask her, "How do you know that one will be nice to you?" She replies, "I don't know, but that is my husband." Her daddy says that girl is going to be trouble. I'm beginning to wonder if he's right.

Forget it

I love the post-PreK pick-up (like that alliteration?) conversations. It is one of the things I will most miss next year when Small Fry and Big Stuff burst Kramer-like into the house together, talking at once and fighting for my attention after school. Last week, the thoughtful conversation topic was the phenomenon of diverted attention. Small Fry said she was really happy that her sister helped her the other day when she was crying. Big Stuff told her she was sorry that she felt bad (Go empathy!), and said "Let's read a book together." Small Fry said, "I took that part of my brain that was thinking about crying and threw it away. And then I put the book into the place where the crying was." Utterly impressed with her self-analysis, I asked, "Who told you about the brain thing?" She said dreamily, "Oh, I just thought about it myself."

Today our conversation began with Small Fry declaring that she really, actually thinks that we should move to another house, in Florida, where we can raise racoons and squirrels (raise??) and some other animals. I said, "Oh, well Big Stuff says she's going to have a farm of her own when she grows up. Maybe we can go visit her racoons and squirrels and horses and dogs." To which Small Fry asks, startled, "You mean Big Stuff isn't going to live in our house anymore when she grows up?" Right, says I. She is silent for a few minutes, ruminating. Then she says, "Mama, can we just forget that thing you said about Big Stuff living in another house? I love her, and I want her to live with us always." Consider it forgotten, sweet girl. Consider it forgotten.

Little Princesses

Reading this today, reminded me that I did something horrifying on Saturday. It just goes to show I'll do anything for my kids. We had Small Fry's birthday party at the theater (say it like this ...theeahtah...but picture a teeny hole-in-the-wall overrun with adorable child actors and stage-moms-turned-face-paint-artists). Part of the deal was that Small Fry got to get up on stage and have the audience sing Happy Birthday to her. I was seated next to a loquacious 5-year-old by the name of Talky McTalkerson. Talky is just about the cutest little thing you've ever seen in your life - long dark ponytails, a delightful, bubbly personality and an amazing conversationalist, let me tell you. After the birthday song, during which Small Fry stood in the spotlight with a peaceful and satisfied look on her face as if to say, Yes. Yes. Now, this is living....the master of ceremonies informed us that they were holding auditions for a new play called A Little Princess. He tells us that the lead character is a spoiled little girl who frequently throws tantrums. To which my sweet Talky whispers, what's a tantrum? Obviously she is much too sweet and angelic to have ever thrown one so of course she doesn't recognize the word. I mime to her, you know... a tantrum...and I clench my fists and stomp my feet a little to demonstrate. The gentleman on stage continues to talk and then asks, Now who out there knows how to throw a tantrum? To which my sweet, darling, precious Talky shouts out - SHE DOES! and points at me. I am called up on stage and asked to throw a tantrum. For everyone. With a spotlight on me. It's strangely like every nightmare I've ever had. Except I am wearing my clothes. And as for dear, sweet Talky? Well, that girl is dead to me now.

Wow

One of the most beautiful blog entries I've read lately....

News Flash

Did you know that there is a cruel and appalling thing that happens to mothers called mylastbabyisgoingtokindergarten? The ogres in the school system actually force this information down your throat in FEBRUARY, for pete's sake, even though you've been studiously avoiding thinking about it since last August. This really is happening, and apparently there is nothing I can do to stop it. When the ogres informed me of this completely unfair and unwarranted eventuality, I cried for a day and a half. I actually could not keep from crying any time I thought about it. I don't remember the last time I couldn't keep from crying....I'm thinking the year was 1985, and it involved some unfortunate 15-year-old failed romance. Since then, I have stopped crying but there is a lump in my throat the size of Texas that I cannot seem to swallow. Every time I look at her (oh the chubby cheeks, oh the eyelashes to die for, oh those sweet fingers and toes), the lump grows little bigger. Every First with Big Stuff feels like a great adventure, but every First with Small Fry is also a Last that I know will never pass my way again. I guess it is very unfortunate for her, to have the burden of all her mama's lasts. I think I do a good job of faking my enthusiasm....Oh what a big girl you are, how wonderful it will be to get on the bus and go to school, yippee.... but I wonder if she has any inkling of just how much the thought of all this is twisting my heart inside out. Thankfully, the Lord has given her the kind of compassion that astonishes sometimes. So perhaps she will forgive me. We have long established a conversation about growing up...I tell her she's growing up too fast, and it really must stop. I threaten to put a brick on her head. She tells me she's not a baby, but she will always be my baby....This has sufficed well in the past, but I think the next few months are going to call for more. Drastic Measures, I'm thinking. Such as Avoidance of the Truth, Living in a Dream and Pretending Kindergarten Doesn't Exist. Wish me well.

Snow Day

Snow days are a rarity in the South. Just when we think we've happily left winter in our collective dust...And we begin to obsess over the idea of sitting by the pool, lake, ocean or some other body of water...with our toes on the deck, dangling off the side of a boat or buried in the sand....And we are exploring vacation spots on the internet and sighing deeply at the sight of palm trees and water parks...Well, that's when March sneaks up behind us and shouts, Surprise! You're not done with with me yet! And before you know it, children are newly obsessed with finding two gloves, the art of layering and the making of the perfect snowman. No matter that the snowman's body consists mostly of wet clay, dead grass and pine needles. This is fun, fun, fun!
And yet soon our personalities, quirks and genetics begin to show. It's too cold, mama. I'm wet, mama. My hands are stinging, mama. But I don't waaannnna to come in, Mama...wails one. While the other happily persists in making the clay-grass-snowman, tasting the enormous snowflakes and crafting perfectly spherical snowballs.... until finally she looks up and realizes her thin-blooded, warmth-loving family has flat-out deserted her. Puzzled, she stands at the door and says, What are you doing? Come out and play. But alas, the moment has passed, and we are all back in our places by the fire and space heaters observing, from a distance and from the inside out. As it should be if you live in the Deep South, and it insists on snowing one fine March day.