Team Anderson - 4andersons

"We should really get outside in this great weather."  Either Brad or I commented during our lunch in the Jewell cafeteria.  A long fall weekend was in front of us and the weather was sunny and beautiful.  We wanted to avoid sitting in our apartment in front of the tv wasting it away.

"Let's teach Rory to ride her bike."

That was a loaded statement.

Rory had been given her bike for her 4th or 5th birthday (I can't remember...I'm not proud of that).  Wanting to let her pick it out for herself we built up the suspense by telling her we were headed to the store to get her present.  We walked to the bike aisle and she looked at us and said, "What."

"Surprise!  You're getting your very own bike!  You get to pick one to take home today!"

She looked around and despaired, "I don't want a bike!"

"Welp, that's a bummer...because that's what you're getting."

Luckily a Disney princess bike saved the day and she was somewhat excited to take it home with us.  But she had absolutely no desire to ride it. 

At times we could talk her into trying it out.  And she teeter-tottered between exhilaration at the excitement of the activity and utter and complete fear of falling over.  Eventually the thought of making a turn, and tackling the transition from sidewalk to road, didn't send her into fits of tears and we could enjoy a walk to dinner while she rode her bike. 

And at that stage Rory would have been happy to remain, a little girl with her four wheeled bike.  Until one day not too long ago we noticed that only one of Rory's training wheels was dirty.  She was leaning entirely to one side as she rode...and that little wheel was feeling the burn.  It started to loosen constantly and she was practically riding sideways as it succumbed to the pressure of the growing 7 year old.

And so it happened that teaching Rory to ride a two-wheeler became our goal that fall weekend.  We bargained with her as, not surprisingly, she was less than excited about our plans.

"If you give us two hours of drama-free bike practice, you can pick a special treat after." 

Brad took the training wheels off the Disney princess bike and informed Rory that they'd never go back on.  She made it through those two hours and even progressed to a few seconds riding on her own before wobbling. 



We touted the day a success and packed up the bikes to continue training during a visit to Brad's mom in St. Joe. 

It was at almost the same spot that years ago Brad learned to ride a bike sans training wheels, that Miss Rory practiced her little heart out and mastered not only riding, but starting, stopping and turning corners.  A huge victory!  She was loving it and we couldn't give her enough applause.  In one fail swoop we watched her go from fearfully dependent on (at least one) training wheel, to a kid enjoying the accomplishment and excitement of riding a bike on her own.



And little E was having none of it.  Her big sister leaving her behind?  Unacceptable.  She decided that riding a two-wheeler was of the utmost importance and begged Brad to teach her as well.  And after some very dramatic moments of being pretty upset at not catching on quicker, she did it. 



We now have two bike riders, and it is so great.





In honor of their achievements (including the daddy who taught them how to ride) we hit up Kris & Kate's for some ice cream treats.  Because nothing says congrats on learning to ride a bike like a visit to a massive pink ice cream cone. 



I'd say Emme's dance moves prove it.

Confession:
I couldn't log in to my own blog. 

I couldn't remember the password.

I had to resort to resetting it.


Now that that's over...

Our most recent family adventure was a trip to the theatre in St. Joseph, MO.  Brad's mom got us tickets to see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang...and she is very anxious to see the photos of Rory with the characters afterward.  So I cleaned the cobwebs out of the blog-writing corner of my mind and remembered how to upload a photo. 

Rory with the Baroness (My absolute favorite character of the show.  She made me laugh out loud multiple times.)


Rory with the Toymaker (We've become somewhat regulars at St. Joe productions...and now recognize actors from show to show...we've seen this guy at least three times now.)


Rory with the Child Catcher

Don't be confused by the next two photos.  They may look like the same kid (same outfit, same lunchbox, same steps).  But they are in fact, R and E on two separate first days of school.  Emme has this thing right now where she feels strongly compelled to copy everything her older sister does.  This brings intense frustration to Rory.

Here's the scene:  We're in the school supplies section of Target staring at shelves full of lunchboxes.  The girls are taking in all the options and Emme is picking up a few and examining them closer in her hands.

Every once in a while she'd ask Rory, "Do you like this one?" 

"Ummm, no."  Rory would reply.

Emme would then place the lunchbox back on the shelf. 

"Emme, if you like that one, why don't you get it to take to school?"  I'd encourage her repeatedly to make her own statement.

"No.  I have to get exactly the same as Rory." 

Rory rolls her eyes and says, "Mooooom.  Tell her not to." 

"Well, Rory, just be thankful she already picked out her own backpack."

“In class I raised my hand and said my favorite part was Colorado.” 

 

Emme blurted out in the car as we waited in line to pick up Rory.  It was her first week of preschool and as she wiggled around in the car, feet up on the dashboard, staring out our sunroof, she shared bits and pieces.

 

“You did?  Were you telling what you did this summer?”

 

“Yes.  We were on the carpet and I said my favorite part was Colorado.”

 

“Oh!  That’s so fun!  I liked Colorado too.  What was your favorite part of Colorado?”

 

She stopped for a bit and thought. 

 

“Hmmmm…..living there,” she said confidently with a slight nod of her head as if there was no other possible answer to the question.

 

Couldn’t have said it better myself. 

 

She has recently asked if we could go back and “do everything exactly the same as last time.”

 

The last week of July sent the Andersons on our first family vacation since Rory was one.  We have gone on extended weekends during a friend’s wedding, etc.  But this trip was purely for fun.  Simply to explore and experience a new place.  To fill our daughter’s heads and heart with shared memories.  Still dreaming about living in Colorado someday, Brad and I were hoping Rory and Emme would fall in love with the state as we have.  What’s a family vacation without a little bit of parental manipulation?

 

We began advertising our plans months ago and tried to sell many of the people we love on the idea of vacationing together.  The Ferguson family was brave enough to take the plunge and we set out together late one night from the Liberty Quik Trip to drive through the night. 

 

Our girls woke up to a new state and eventually spied the outline of mountains rising on the horizon. 

 

One day Brad breathed deep and said, “I’ve missed this weather.”  Colorado is one of our favorite places, and on this trip we added Steamboat Springs and Fort Collins to our list of reasons that the state rocks.

 

We filled our days with adventures.  The alpine slide, a gondola ride, gemstone panning, miniature golf, hiking, parks, and waterfalls.  I tasted the best cinnamon roll ever and ate dessert with every meal.  We roamed the streets of new towns and took pictures to remember them by.  Brad searched house listings and we redecorated our new Colorado homes in our heads. We even met someone famous!

(Bohannons, If you’re reading this, your new home is on our “to visit” list for next summer.  You’ll have a fair chance to convince us of Portland’s appeal.)

 

I heard one time that a “vacation” is something you go on without your kids.  When your kids are with you, it’s called a “trip.”  To be fair, I’m making a conscious choice to edit out the moments that were…well…let’s just say you wouldn’t have wanted those trip pictures.  Like the day that the decision of whether or not to let the girls take off their shorts as they waded in a pool of water was heavy enough to cause Brad and I to snap at each other.  Forget politics and the environment, how the h*** are we going to get these shorts dry!?  Never mind that we had planned ahead and put swimsuits underneath their shorts. 

 

Now that I think about it, we haven’t seen the Fergusons since we returned…hmmm, maybe we went a little too True Hollywood Story on them?  The peek behind the Anderson curtain might’ve been a deal-breaker.

 

From our perspective, we are convinced that traveling together is a hit.  And if we’ve scared off the Fergusons, we’ll work our way through every group of people we hold dear until we’ve exhausted all resources and are forced to advertise on Craig’s List for friends.

These days when someone asks how old my kids are, my response is just as much to convince me as much as it is to inform them.

"The youngest is four, and the oldest just turned seven."

Wait, what?  Seven.

Pardon the cliche, but it seems like just yesterday we were giving this baby her very first bath at home.  (Thinking nothing of snapping away while our child lay naked on the kitchen counter.)



I know what you're thinking, "She couldn't find a picture of Rory as a newborn so she snagged this one of R a few weeks later and is pretending it's her first bath at home."  Nope.  I gave birth to an 8lb 3oz baby...and only pushed for five minutes.  It's oddly on the short list of lifetime achievements that I'm most proud of.  Babies over 8lbs just look like that...big and round.

Emme was 9lbs.  That upward climb in birth weight of our children is yet another reason we stopped at two.

But Emme will get her shot at the spotlight in September...back to Rory. 

Before we knew it, we were singing happy birthday to her for the 7th time.  (And no longer taking photos of her in her "birthday suit.")



We celebrated at Schlitterbahn water park and brought home sunburns as souvenirs.  Check out the new album with pictures from the festivities.

We love our seven year old so very much.  She is creative, sensitive and very smart.  Sometimes I'm amazed that together we made such a cute kid.  Golden hair like something out of a Disney movie, big blue eyes, and freckles that perch on her cute little nose and cheeks.  And while I'm glad she's cute, I am grateful her insides are cute too.  She loves people, tries her best, and is always thinking.  She cares deeply for those around her...sometimes even her sister. 

Welcome to your eighth year of life, Miss Rory.  I feel so lucky to be your parent.  I really like the person you're growing in to, and can't wait to continue building a friendship with you.

(check out the new album on the pictures tab)

When my sister, Kaitlynn, graduated from high school we had a celebration at my mom and stepdad's house.  My brother, Nikolaus, got up and spoke about the many talents of Kaitlynn, and then ventured into the unique talents of each sibling.  Realizing he had yet to speak about me he looked my way and said, "Sam, I guess you're the funny one."

My spot as the "funny one" was further solidified this week when my sister opened the doors of Kaitlynn's Deli & Ice Cream Shop.  She now adds business-owner to her life experiences.

The girls and I gathered up Brad's mom and aunt and headed to Brunswick for lunch and a sweet treat.  I had roast beef on pretzel bread with lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers, banana peppers, spicy mustard and mayo, sea salt chips, and a big pickle.  Deli food is right up my alley so I savored every bite.  The pretzel bread is seriously scrumptious.

After a quick shopping jaunt on main street we headed back in to Kaitlynn's for dessert.  A Dusty Miller for me (vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, marshmallow and malt powder), Huckleberry ice cream in a dish for Emme, vanilla in a waffle cone for Rory and Bunny Tracks for both Gay and Kris.  YiaYia (what the girls call my mom) even invited Rory and Emme behind the counter to make their very own fountain root beers which were quickly sucked down.  It pays to know the people in charge.

The food is tasty and the decor is just perfect.  I can't wait to go back again for another bite.  I am so proud of my sister and the rest of my Brunswick family.  They have worked diligently for so long to make this dream a reality, and now it's here.  An impressive space out of which Kaitlynn can share her yummy creations. 

I love that my kids will grow up seeing a capable young woman be the boss as they watch their aunt live out a dream.  Kaitlynn's value as a role model for my children is not lost on me and I expect to take lots more trips to Kaitlynn's Deli & Ice Cream Shop with my girls.  They already can't stop talking about the jobs Aunt Kaitlynn has promised them.

If you make the trip someday you just might find Rory working the register and Emme scooping your ice cream.

St. Joseph, MO is full of all kinds of "we're big enough to have a Target and Cheddar's but we won't let go of our small town on the river banks roots" attitude.  And although a trip to St. Joe isn't really complete without a sit down at Cheddar's, I am an even bigger fan of the numerous old neighborhoods, big porches, brick buildings downtown, and the colorful stage theatre. 

We love it when Brad's mom calls and announces, "There's a new show in town!  Do you think the girls would like to see it?"  Our most recent viewing at the Robidoux Resident Theatre was Honk!.  A deeper look into the life of the Ugly Duckling. 

After the show in the entryway, the audience gets a close up look at the cast.  Here's R with the villain of story, the cat who was constantly trying to eat the ugly duckling.



It was a long evening, as nights at the theatre tend to be...in case someone from Honk! is reading, perhaps a few more upbeat songs?...and Emme fell asleep for a part of it.  But, as always, we were glad we went.  I love live shows and luckily married a guy who appreciates them as well (and took me to see West Side Story early in our dating days).  Rory seems to be catching the bug, and at six years old already has on her "seen that" list: Annie Get Your Gun, High School Musical, Mulan, and now Honk!, thanks in large part to a MeMa who keeps her eye on the local productions.  Now if we can just get Emme to stay awake to catch the whole plot...

Up next...Pinkalicious.

We have a pretty fantastic group of friends from church.  They make us laugh, challenge us, pray with us.  We play together in our free time and eat meals together after church.  Recently a couple church friends got married and we danced it up at their reception.

It was such a fun night.  Epic really.  Look at Brad and I in that photo, pure joy on our faces.  When our group talks about it we use the phrase, "that was so fun!"  And then the rest of us agree and shake our heads as we stare into nothing with a smile on our faces remembering the fun we had.

I think there's probably a long list of qualifications that make for quality church friends.  I sure am glad that our list includes "can kill it on a dance floor."

I'm one of those moms...the kind that spends hours super-gluing her fingers together as she assembles valentines for her kids' school Valentine's party.  And before you roll your eyes, yes, I am aware that this is highly annoying.  I get it.  But it's just a show.  My home isn't full of homemade decorations, and delicious dinners full of new tastes don't grace my table each evening.  I just like making those crazy cute valentines I see in the magazines. 

And one more thing...it kind of annoys my kids too.  I think my girls would rather tape a piece of candy to a good ole' valentine from one of those skinny boxes covered with their favorite cartoon characters. 

This year in honor of the Gnomeo & Juliet movie I made Hershey's kisses into gnomes.  The girls chose the felt color.



I was in charge of Rory's party.  We found Valentine hearts hidden throughout the room, decorated heart pins to be worn by their Valentine, saw who could stack the most jumbo conversation hearts in one minute, and ate cookie cake.

For Emme's party I was in charge of juice boxes.  I always love watching how my kids interact in their school world.  Here's Emme with some of her buddies.

Sometimes on your way to dinner you find a snow fort that some college students built.

Sometimes it's a big deal when dad comes home.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how I need to push myself to be more...
...present,
...loving,
...forgiving,
...edifying,
...educating,
...patient,
...memorable.

I need to be more of all those things...as they relate to my kids.

Time is passing.  They are growing.  Hair lengths travel down backs.  Legs move swifter when running.  Shoes need to be replaced midway through the school year.

And while I look excitedly toward the adventures I'll have with my girls as they grow, and the friendship I hope to nurture with each, I have recently been asking myself, "What about today?"

What everyday adventure did you grab hold of today?  Did you stop and look into their eyes while they were talking?  Did they go to bed feeling like a priority...that they were more important than any task on my list?

I'm saddened by the answers I'd have to give on most days.  I have squandered much of my time with them.  Abused even.  Harsh assessments maybe, but not undeserved.  I am, at moments, an absurdly terrible mother.  God's grace and forgiveness is a blessing I have called upon often in my weaknesses and mistakes. 

I desire more.

Rory and Emme deserve more.

I mean have you met my kids?  They're fantastic.  One of my biggest fears is that, through a mistake of mine, those two will not grow into the wonderful creations that God has made them to be. 

The weight of parenting.

I am actively changing my behaviors, tendencies, habits.  Choosing to be patient.  Using an appropriate tone of voice.  Looking at them when they say, "Mom, look at this."  Choosing lightheartedness when possible. Humor in the everyday. 

And as I did earlier today, I will choose to put down the iPhone and play with my kids while we wait in a small room for a doctor.  For a few minutes, those outside our door heard laughter rather than bickering sisters.  Who knew my attention could have such an impact?

Tonight we played with Zhu Zhu pets and counted piggy bank money.  And in the midst of typing this post, Emme asked for my attention, checked again to make sure I had actually said that I would, in fact, stop what I was doing to play with her, ran to get something from her room, and set up a fake picnic next to me on the couch.

These little moments.  Moments that, if I'm being completely honest, I don't really look forward to.  I can give you a lengthy list of things I'd choose over playing with Zhu Zhu pets.

Recently, I've had the chance to peek into the life of a new mother through one of the many blogs that I follow.  My own memories come flooding back as I read her words.  The high hopes of how I would be as a mom.  The tearful prayers as I held my baby.  The blank slate.  I also read a blog of a woman who is struggling with her path to parenthood.  The goal of having a child has been a road filled with many pains for her and her husband.  And I realize what she wouldn't give to be interrupted...annoyed even...by the voice of her child.  How she would like to replace the worries of "Will it happen for us?" with "How can I best parent this little child of mine?" 

Who am I to squander this experience?  This honor.

Lord, I beseech you.  Keep the devil out of my parenting.  Strengthen my resolve to love my kids when it is difficult to love, when worry overcomes, and business chases throughout the day.  Remind me of their priority.  That they need gentleness as much as they did when they were newly born.  I beg you replace my failings in their memories with my new efforts.  And that the moments when I have (by your grace) excelled, would take up more space in their hearts.  Above all, I pray I would invite you to walk beside me as I steward your creations, Rory and Emme.  They are, after all, some of your greatest work.

And please Lord, when I turn in response to yet another, "Mom, look at me!", may I still be met by faces like this...

Uncle Mike and Aunt Jen (Brad's brother and his wife) have a good reputation of finding fun and clever gifts for the girls.  They introduced Rory to one of her favorite literary characters, Franny K. Stein, and years ago gave the girls a Melissa & Doug wooden cupcake set that they still choose to play with to this day.

This year they came through again when Rory unwrapped the present pictured above.  She looked perplexed and we could tell that she wasn't quite sure what she had in her hands.  Aunt Jen explained, "It's a straw set.  You can design and make your own straws.  And there's enough in there to make two so you can each play at the same time."

Brad, his mom, and I all oohed an aahed at how "cool" it was, and "wherever did you find it?" 

When the excitement died down Rory said, "I thought it was Barbie plumbing.

Like so many other families, part of our holiday celebration is opening new pajamas on Christmas Eve.  This year, through a series of sentences that I actually don't recall, the rather simple act of unwrapping the gift before bed, grew into a visit from "PJ the Elf." 

And even though I'm pretty sure neither Brad or I suggested the idea of PJ, Rory looked at us suspiciously, cocked her head to the side and said, "I know these aren't from an elf." 

How much longer do you think we have for Santa?

This year during group family photos Rory piped up, "Let's all do reindeer antlers!" 

They turned out to be my favorite pictures of the bunch.



Above is Brad's extended family on his mom's side.

Below is the Reichert group (my mom, stepdad and my siblings), along with an international student from MU who was staying with them during Christmas. 


Love that Rory and Emme never got out of their Christmas pajamas...and Rory's face.

I put up all our holiday photos on the Pictures tab and eventually will share the stories that go along with some of my favorite moments we captured. 

The photo below is from Christmas morning.  Now that our girls are a bit older we can take them shopping for each other and they really understand the concept of giving gifts.  Rory organized the shopping trip by compiling each family member's wish list and distributing them to the "teams" of shoppers (me/Emme and Brad/Rory).  We split up in an extremely crowded Toys 'R Us and set out in hopes of finding a great gift for a sister. 

This is Emme's reaction when opening Rory's gift to her.

Genuine excitement.

Serious gratitude.



Funny story from Toys 'R Us...Emme was a bit grumpy when we headed inside.  She was frustrated that we couldn't look at toys for her too, and perturbed that we were not planning on purchasing anything for her.  She refused to acknowledge that Rory and Brad were somewhere else in the store picking out something special for her.  We found her gift to Rory (of the Zhu Zhu pet variety) and took our place in the looooong line to check out.  As we stood there, I looked closer at the box and saw that it was crushed on one corner.  So I left our cart in line (along with my purse and coat...I'm way too trusting...really didn't want to lose our spot) and rushed back about 15 feet to where we picked up the toy in the first place.  Emme was taking her sweet time so I brushed by her quickly and she exclaimed, "Hey!  Stop hitting me!"  I told her I didn't mean to hit her, that I just was trying to get by so I could grab a new toy really quick.  She then planted her feet and loudly announced, "I am not going to shop with you anymore!  You already hit me two times!!!" 

Stifled chuckles from those around me...just grateful they chose to laugh rather than dial Child Protective Services.

Brad later said that he heard the announcement from a couple aisles over...knew it was Emme...and chuckled.

I'm just now getting the pictures up from Thanksgiving.  The highly anticipated (by my mother-in-law) Christmas photos are on their way.  :)

My friend, Lacey Crough, is a very talented photographer.  Often she invites me to second shoot with her.  She and I work really well together.  She trusts me...I think maybe too much...and lets me throw in ideas.  I have learned so much from her as she is a true natural talent.  Back in October, Lacey invited me along to shoot Andy and Heather's engagement photos.  These two became special to the Andersons while Heather was an RA on my staff in Melrose.  She lived just down the hall from our apartment, and Rory and Emme spent many an hour curled up in her pink chair watching a Disney movie.  Heather was around for lots of fun that year...one of my favorite moments being the impromptu Thriller dance lessons we had in my apartment late into the night.  Andy and Heather have been dating since high school and they love each other a whole lot.  Take a peek at the new album on the Pictures tab and see their sweet photos.

(Lacey, often I'm jealous of your big fancy camera and flash.  But Brad, my photography Santa, recently bought me a brand new camera (not quite as fancy as yours, but definitely enough for me), a flash, and a bigger memory card.  I'm armed and ready for wedding season this year.  Can't wait to see what we capture, friend!)

When she was younger I called her that.  She would take things apart.  As a tiny person it looked a lot like random destruction.  Board books didn't stand a chance against her.  A little older, she turned to an strong compulsion to take everything apart.  Nothing was safe. 

I have tried to take the less savory habits my daughters exhibit and put a positive spin on them.  It's very possible that stubbornness, or extreme independence, or a desire to take everything apart could serve her well someday.  So I decided that "little scientist" sounded better than "destructive."

Emme's strengths include pretend play and imagination.  These games often lend themselves to putting things together rather than taking them apart.  The other day she made the above sculpture out of moon dough.  She told me it was a birthday cake.  Look closely and you can see the candles. 

I really love watching her mind at work.  I wonder what she'll grow in to someday.

We've been in weddings, ministry, and school together.  Running, studying, and games in college.  Now talks of career and homes, kids and life.  Melissa loves her family well, and genuinely laughs out loud when her husband, Brad, says something funny.  Serving in Young Life together I was amazed at her speaking skill.  She could captivate an audience of teenagers with scripture and storytelling.  She's a scholar who loves to read and learn.  She's that mom who makes homemade granola bars for her kids' lunch boxes, and doesn't freak out when they make a mess.  Brad is a great cook.  He has a big personality and people are drawn to him.  He's keenly aware of how important he is in the life of his daughter and never misses a chance to compliment her.  He has a heart for the mission of Young Life and has been diligent in that path through both good times and struggles.  They protect their family and each other. 

Their kids are smart and happy and know that their parents love them unconditionally.  Caedmon, the oldest, calm and intelligent.  Zeke, the middle one with quite the spirit.  Mack, the youngest, sweet and ornery. 

Capturing their family photos on a strangely warm October day was an honor.

(see the photos from their family shoot in the Pictures tab)

Brad is back.  The Jewell's women's soccer team made it to the final 8...the men to the final 4...of the national NAIA tournament.  It was bittersweet for him to make the trip back.  We all would've really loved for Jewell's teams to play in the championship games.  But, I'll admit, it's been so great having him home. 

For a couple days after he was back, one of the girls asked each morning, "Where's daddy?"  I answered, "At work."  And even though him leaving before we start our morning routine is the norm, I think they were just making sure...

We're back to sharing.  Bedtimes routines, parenting, and answering the "can I's."  We're a team.  We have different strengths.  We have different breaking points.  Together we can cover things like keeping calm, keeping things in order, remembering the details, helping with homework.

The girls are healthy.  The morning he returned, Emme was jumping all over him on the couch and I said, "I hope you don't think I was faking their sickness?" 

It's nice to sit on the couch together again.  It will be really nice once we finally put up our Christmas tree this weekend.

The Reicherts had a staycation on the family farm recently.  We ate at the local steakhouse (so good!), shopped for antiques, checked out the progress on Kaitlynn's restaurant, ate some more, shot guns, rode the 4-wheeler, and played football in the yard. 

Emme had more touchdowns than me. 

We accompanied Wonder Woman and Super Girl (pink edition) trick-or-treating this year.

(photo above from Emme's preschool fall party...new album in Pictures tab)

Emme Genevieve is sick.  Every time I think she is turning the corner, her little body retaliates.  Coughs so hard she vomits mucous, makes her chest heave for each breath, or my personal favorite, diarrhea that hits and leaves no time for making it to a toilet.

Rory got sick on Thanksgiving Day.  We were all bundled up and in the car on our way to the Plaza Lighting Ceremony.  Rory hadn't been feeling terrific, had gotten worse, and said to me, "Mom, I don't think I can go."  We headed home instead and sat on the couch.  Day after Thanksgiving Christmas decorating had to be postponed so she could recover and enjoy it with the rest of us on another day.

Then Brad left us. 

Don't worry.  He's coming back. 

As the goalkeeper coach for the Jewell soccer program, he was on a bus early Saturday morning headed for NAIA national tournament in Alabama.  His return to be decided by the success of our teams.

He's still there.  Go Jewell!

At least one of my kids has been sick since he left.  Emme got hit worse than Rory.  Whatever virus has taken up residence in my short people settled in Emme's lungs.  Monday night she woke up struggling to breathe.  I watched her chest cave dramatically with each breath and was terrified.  A doctor visit the next morning left us with a prescription for amoxicillin and an inhaler to ease her breathing woes.  She has been a coughing, wheezing, raspy-voiced, sicko ever since.

I thought she was getting better.  Hadn't hacked up part of her lung in 24 hours, slept at least until 5:30 am this morning.  I jumped at the chance to drag her around so I could get some work done.  As we left my office this morning she had a coughing fit, and vomited on the sidewalk.  Then we went back this afternoon for a quick errand...she pooped her pants.  I thought it was potty at first.  I was wrong.

I took our Little Green cleaning machine back to my office to clean the tiny spot that got on the couch. 

This week has been less than fantastic.  The girls and I had to enjoy Jewell's beloved Lighting of the Quad tradition without Brad.  None of us have slept a full night.  We're tired of each other and patience is wearing thin.

Thank God I haven't gotten sick.  Huge blessing.  I'm also not blind to the other blessings we've encountered this week.  Friends who offer to bring lunch, and while dropping off lunch offer to bring dinner.  Offers to watch the girls even though they're sick.  Friends who take the not sick kid on a fun excursion that she would've otherwise missed because of a sick sister.

I wish I could say that heading into the weekend means that we can sit on the couch in our pajamas until Brad comes back Sunday.  I wish.

I have heard a form of this inquiry multiple times in my years as a Resident Director. 

What do you do? 
It's kind of hard to explain. 
Are you like a dorm mom? 
Well...I guess...but there's so much more. 
Do you live with your husband? 
Yes, we have our own apartment so we all live there together. 
Well...that's interesting. 
Yes, I'm never wanting for good stories. 

I'm used to this question.  I know my job is confusing.  To be honest, I'm in my fourth year and I am still learning so much about how to be effective in my position. 

But one of my residents said this recently.  To my boss.  In disgust. 

She was angry with me because of an interaction we've had.  An interaction where, in an attempt to resolve an issue, I told her to "stop whining and avoiding me and simply tell me a time you can meet."  She replied with, "Are you even allowed to talk to students like that?!"  Then proceeded to reference how "mature" her RD was in her facebook status. 

In my days as an RD, I have never been so openly disrespected.  So obviously avoided for the sheer fact that I am her authority figure.  

It was difficult.  I am very aware that although some of these girls will become my friends, they can't be my friends first.  They have to first be my residents...and I, their RD.  I have to be in authority, trusted, steady.  I have to be that to create a safe home for them.  But, I choose to also be in relationship.  I choose to like them.  To know them.  To prop open my apartment door for them to drop by. 

I didn't choose this job because I have some unfulfilled desire to be a police woman.  To catch them in the act.  Enforce policy at all costs.  To make sure nothing happens on my watch.  No.  I chose this job to share life with Jewell students.  To be a part of the story that means so much in my life.  The Jewell story.

Sometimes my job is really tough.  People are always knocking on my door...always.  I'm an extroverted person, but rarely is that knock anything more than someone with a need.  When I open that door the need can be anything from a student looking for an egg to bake a cake, someone worried that her roommate is going out to meet a stranger she met online, or scared that her roommate can't stop throwing up.  I have driven students to the hospital, and taken a student to be admitted into a psychiatric unit for short term observation.  I have to have tough conversations, figure out if people are being truthful, and say uncomfortable things.  And even these parts of my job that are decidedly difficult, I wouldn't change.  If you desire a job with relationships, you can't forget that relationships are not without bumps.

But I also go to the pumpkin patch (photo evidence in the new album on the Pictures tab). 

I dance with them.  Act goofy for them at meetings.  Work with "my t-shirt guy" to finalize a kick-butt t-shirt that they will wear to proudly show that they live in Ely Hall.  I cheer at games.  I am honest about how short is too short for a Halloween costume.  ("You look like cute, slutty, bugs."  "Sam!")  I play Bananagrams.  I gab about the latest episode of GLEE.  I scream alongside them at Homecoming.  I drive them to the pumpkin patch and turn up the radio whenever they squeal, "I loooove this song!" 

Sharing life with these students is an honor.  An exhausting and joyful honor.  An honor that includes hugs, and "We love the Andersons!" notes on my dry erase board.  Letters kept in a file that say things like "appreciate" and "thanks." 

I believe wholeheartedly that the work I do as an RD is an extension of the classroom education students obtain at Jewell.  I teach here too. 

I hope that someday they look back on their Jewell days with fondness at least in part because of the efforts of "whatever" it is I do.

Emme says she wants to be in the circus.  I think it might be because we recently sat front row when the Kelly Miller Circus came to Brunswick, MO.  Mom packed a picnic breakfast and we went into town early to watch the chilly raising of the tent.  If I remember correctly, the Kelly Miller Circus is the only circus in the northern hemisphere that still uses elephants to raise the tent poles.

At the show later that day, the girls got their faces painted and rode an elephant.  They were also just nervous enough for the ladies doing the high-flying tricks. 

Which is why Emme says that when she joins the circus she won't "be up high.  But if I want to, then I will go up high.  But only if I want."

I'm thankful for...
a husband, who because he'll be out of town next week, says, "Sit down.  I'll clean up since you'll have lots to do next week."
a daughter who even when she's sick says clever things like, "I don't think they should call it Biggest Loser.  "Loser" isn't a nice word.  Maybe they should call it Biggest Weight Lifter?"
our family, both extended and immediate.
a four year old who doesn't like being called "my baby" anymore, but who daily walks up to me saying in a baby voice "mama, mama" and wanting to be held.
a job that challenges me, is never the same, doesn't leave room for detachment, and i love doing.
new friendships that spring up, and others that continue to grow.
a warm home.
a small home that keeps us from accumulating too much stuff.
the desire to adventure, experience.
being married to a man who desires adventure and experience as well.
two daughters...and the potential for close friendship between them through the years.
remembering that although sometimes they talk my ear off, i am grateful that right now at least they want to talk to me.
an able body.
a new dream teaching job in a daunting market for my brand new teacher husband.
knowing people who inspire me.
our God...desperately thankful.

We went back to the KC Pumpkin Patch in Gardner, KS this year.  It seemed a bit more crowded, but the jumping pillow was still bounce-able and the slides still slide-able.  We splurged on a snack of kettle corn and little pumpkin donuts on a warm fall day.  (Photos are on the "Pictures" tab.)

On a particularly pleasant October day, Brad took the girls out for a photo walk.  You can see the shots they captured in the most recent photo album on the "Pictures" page.

We're kind of the best at watching parades.

I'm serious.  I think it's safe to say that I've never seen a group of people better at watching parades than the three other people I live with, and our good friend, Kayla. 

I'm a sucker for a festival.  Even have seriously joked with our church small group about how fun it would be to organize a "festival tour" of all the small town festivals within driving distance.  Could still happen...

Hailing from a few different small towns myself, I know that every small town has a claim to fame.  And thus a reason to party. 

Brunswick, MO (where I graduated high school in a class of 24) has the pecan.  We are the pecan capital of the state.  Even have the largest statue of a pecan ever.  One year I was the first runner up in the Pecan Festival Queen contest.  Just missed the chance to be the queen of the nuts. 

Marceline, MO (where my dad was the postmaster and I spent a large portion of my childhood) is the boyhood home of Walt Disney.  But the festival I remember most wasn't centered around Walt, but rather the fourth of July.  The week leading up to the firework bonanza a carnival pulls into town and sets up shop in the town park, which quaintly sits right off Main Street.  I have countless vivid memories of running through that park, laughing with friends, finding my dad and grandparents' where they had parked their lawn chairs for the evening to ask for a few more dollars for more fun.  (Funny thing...I've taken the girls back to my beloved carnival a couple times...I swear the town park has shrunk.  It seemed so much bigger when I was a kid.)

Who doesn't like a good town party?  One of the best parts...the parade.  Which brings me back to my main point...we're kind of the best at watching parades.

My thought, "It's a parade, people!  Why are you just sitting there staring?  Did you mistake this for a game show where you win if you never crack a smile?!  Let's cheer!" 

So we do.

We scream for each and every vehicle, group, band, business, and politician that parades by.  We scream like we're long lost friends being reconnected.  We scream like they're famous.  We scream like we're going to vote for them, or use their dry-cleaning services, or enroll in their karate class.  We scream like they're our favorite.  Because they are.

At least until the next thing rolls by.

I think that makes us the best.  We're happy to be there.  We appreciate the people taking the time and energy to wave at strangers for the next 30 minutes.  A parade is like a moving party.  For goodness sakes, show some enthusiasm people.

You know what else?  Being the best at watching parades means that everyone in the parade wants to give you their candy.

You should see us when we actually do know someone in the parade.  Wow.

This morning, as I sat at a stop light staring at the taillights of the car ahead of me, I thought to myself, "What if we should've had three kids?" 

I blinked.  Looked around and took stock of just how odd it was to have that particular thought at this particular moment.  And shuddered just a little.  But not for the reason you might expect. 

Normally my shudder is out of rebellion against the idea.  More kids?  Certainly not.  We are done.  We decided long ago we were done.  We have good reasons.  Let me list them for you...

This time the shudder was a seemingly normal reaction, but for a reason I didn't expect.  I shuddered at the thought that maybe Brad and I had made a mistake.  

Questions began rolling.  What if two isn't "enough?"  What if we were really were supposed to have one more?  Two more?  Let's not get crazy.  Maybe just one more.  But we seem so sure of our decision.  What would we do with another?  We're kind of squeezed into this life of ours with just four.  Could we do it with five?

I felt myself getting anxious.  But why?  It's not as if I am incapable of getting pregnant.  If we were to decide to try, we could most likely have a third child.

Isn't that it though, it's not that I can't have a third child.  It's that we chose long ago not to.  We climbed a mountain called Offspring Dos and staked the Anderson flag firmly in the soil at the peak.  That decision.  That life-altering decision.  That choice of direction.  To me it seems paramount.  Like I had an option for a turn off long ago, made a decision to stay on my track, and now must relegate myself to the fact that I'll never pass that way again. 

Maybe it was my logical self.  My reasonable self.  The self who realizes my numerous weaknesses as a mother.  Maybe it was that self speaking loudly inside my head.  Shouting opposition so that my wondering self would just agree and stop thinking about such things already.

Poor Brad.  Can you imagine his face when I tell him this story later today?

I'm that mom.  The one who wants to be at every party and tag along to every field trip.  I love seeing her in her school world, and putting faces to the names of "my friends" as she's started calling them.

Emme's school recently visited an apple orchard.  You can see from her outfit that the fall weather hadn't arrived.  We were sweating, traipsing through the orchard to find the trees where we were allowed to pick apples.  We crawled on a trailer for a hay ride.  Enjoyed some quality time with a couple terrified kittens.  Fed the goats.  Saw a beehive and learned about bees and honey.  Nervously held chicken feed and knelt in a semi-circle waiting for the coop doors to be opened up to release the many hungry fowl inside.  (One of the scarier moments of the trip.)  And ate lunch in a barn.

And although you can't tell from Emme's face in the photos, it was fun.  At that time she was in a stage of angrily opposing any and all pictures I tried to take of her.  When I informed her that my intention to take pictures wasn't up for negotiation, she showed her opposition by refusing to smile. 

Pictures of her looking miserable are better than no pictures at all right?

Check out the newest video on the "Videos" page.

Our girls love to dance.  Their favorite stage might be the over sized windowsill in our living room.  It's just big enough for two little people to stand up and shake it.  Oh, what I wouldn't give to be a passerby that window.  However, we do have the best seats in the house on our couch...that is, when we're not up shaking our groove thangs as well!

The video is from a recent Jewell event, a dance during homecoming week.  Rory wore her Halloween costume since the homecoming theme this year was "Jewell's Time to Marvel."  (A nod to Marvel comics, and superheroes.)  She was Wonder Woman, complete with "arm cups," (what she kept calling the wrist cuffs). 

First of all, let me say that I am fully aware how big Rory's personality is.  I've watched her sing a solo in front of hundreds of people, hold the attention of a group of college students, and enchant many with her conversation.  Her fantastic-ness is not lost on me.  But, I must admit that even as I filmed the video, I was in shock.  She was fearless.  She had moves I had never seen before.  She was on beat.  She did the robot.  It was amazing.

Watch and enjoy.  And maybe even pick up a new dance move or two.

The fourth birthday has come and gone.  She is finally old enough for preschool and gymnastics.  She runs quickly and can ride a bike with training wheels.  We can send her in the bathroom by herself.  She converses with us.  Requests from us.  Asks to "snugglebug" and to "play in my bedroom?"  She's smart and funny and loves school.  She is developing her own friends and talks about who she'll invite to her next birthday.  She passes her time playing with Barbies or Playmobil.  She likes to cut paper and glue it together.  She draws animals with a few too many stick legs, and signs her name perfectly to her creations.  She anticipates and remembers.  We can see her little body growing and can see the evidence of her mind expanding as well.  She's remarkable and we love her so.

I don't know how I'll cope when her little behind grows.  Seeing it whenever she puts on a pair of her beloved leggings is sometimes my only reminder of how tiny she still is.

I call it our "friend weekend."  A few years back, four couples connected through college, fraternity, and weddings, decided to gather each year.  We knew each other well...and wanted it to stay that way.  We quickly learned that a long weekend at the lake would be even more fun if we found sitters for our kids.  :)  Grandparents were generous with their time, and kids had probably just as much fun at Camp Grandma as they did with us.

There was discussion though that we did desire for our kids to know each other...to grow up knowing each other.  So we added another weekend to our list of annual reunions (and a fifth family to the mix) and decided to gather again in the fall for a weekend with kids.  We started with St. Louis and the zoo, but realized that separate hotel rooms meant that at least one parent was stuck in the room once the kids' bedtimes rolled around.  And once when we tried to rent a "cabin," we ended up in a double-wide trailer. 

This year we got it right and discovered the Bass River Resort.  It was quite a drive, but worth it to get to all stay together in one big nice cabin that slept 20.  There was walking, throwing rocks, horse-riding, bonfires, a birthday party for Emme, and s'mores.  Plenty of memories for the short people in our lives to share.

Here they are.  The eagerly anticipated (mostly by grandparents) first day of school photos from the two shortest Andersons. 

Back to school outfits were one of my favorite childhood traditions.  I still remember the outfit I wore on my first day of 4th grade.  I felt so cool walking in to class with my shirt and skorts covered in Scottie dogs.  I had that outfit ready for days.

I remember mom telling me as a teenager, "I hate that shirt."  It was a green on green striped shirt with the texture of long underwear.  I wore it all the time....loved it.  Interesting, since now hunter green is one of my least favorite colors.  I didn't wear it because mom disliked it.  I really liked the shirt, and since I had paid for it, and it wasn't inappropriate...well, she couldn't do much about it....but cringe every time I came downstairs sporting it.

I'm seeing glimpses of this with Rory.  It seems as if the tiny girls' section is splattered with classic patterns and beautiful colors.  Pieces that I would totally wear had they been created with enough fabric to cover my body.  But venture into the world of older child fashion and my eyes begin to ache.  Out of control colors, sassy slogans, and an all too often unfortunate use of the bedazzler.

Luckily I'm still footing the bill, so I don't have to be a silent partner in the business of clothes shopping.  Boy would Rory like that though.  Finding a first day of school outfit together was something to be cheered.

We landed on Hello Kitty.  Just enough sparkle for her, just enough class for me.  She has been saving for the second half of the summer for a pair of Twinkle Toe shoes by Sketchers.  Every inch of the shoe is covered in pink, sequins, and silver studs.  It was like the designers used our six year old for inspiration. 

There was a little anxiousness on Rory's part.  She kept asking, "What if the kids laugh at my clothes...my shoes...at me?"  It breaks my heart that she's beginning to recognize the concept of being cool, and that not everyone likes everyone else.  I knew this would be an unfortunate lesson of public school...I just thought we'd have longer to learn it.  Each time she's asked how she likes first grade, I wait along with the questioner to hear her response.  "Not so good."  "Great!"  "It's not terrible."  You never know what she'll say.  Her first day found her sitting at a table with all boys.  She was less than impressed, and complained that one boy kept distracting her, and that none of them helped pick up at the end of the day which left her to "pick up their table and push in all the chairs" by herself!  :)

Emme has been waiting for this all summer.  You can see her cute little skirt and shirt combo above.  But really, she could wear anything with those shoes and be a hit.  Brad and I are jealous of her snazzy Adidas tennies.  I've got to admit, when she picked out those shoes, she was my favorite for just a split second. 

I picked her up from her first day yesterday afternoon.  She was excited to tell me all about it.  And as we walked out the door she said, "That was fun for me!"

It has happened enough that we have started to call it "card bombing."  I gave the girls a bunch of old greeting cards with sound.  The card pictured above plays "Rhythm is Gonna Get You" by Gloria Estefan. 

Unexpectedly this song has become laced with fond memories as this card has become a source of entertainment for my girls.  I like watching Emme sing along, faking the attitude til she has some life under her belt to merit such attitude. 

But it's Rory who started card bombs.  She carries the card sneakily around our small apartment looking for a suitable target.  This morning, she lined me up in the cross-hairs as I sat at the table eating breakfast.  (Breakfast of toasted cinnamon raisin bread.  Procured at the Liberty Farmers' Market, and sliced thick with butter.  Yum!)  Suddenly, I heard a familiar beat behind me.  I turned around to find the card open on the stove top. 

This might be one of my favorite things she does right now.

I hope they remember nights like this.  Summer nights.  Attempting to eat with chop sticks.  Live music.  People watching.  And beginning what will surely be a long relationship with a new dessert spot. 

Emme opted for "plain vanilla!"  Not even endless toppings could deter her.  "I only want sprinklers!"  (Translation: sprinkles.) 

"Oh...and M&M's." 

Rory chose cheesecake yogurt, I think in part to honor her Aunt Kaitlynn who makes gourmet cheesecakes.  Brad eventually cut her off from the toppings bar.  Strawberries, cookie dough bites, jelly beans, mini chocolate chips, marshmallow fluff and a cherry.

Rory must've inherited Brad's taste buds.  Although he stuck to one topping, he too opted for a super sweet yogurt, birthday cake.

And I have started a new love affair with red velvet yogurt.  It's been only 3 hours since I first tasted it, and I've already started scheming a way to get back for more. 

It was an end of summer date.  School starts very soon.  First grade for Rory, preschool for Emme, teaching 7th grade math for Brad.  First day of school outfits have been chosen (for the two shortest Andersons) and are tucked away in my closet. 

Ask Rory if she's excited to start school and she'll reply, "Well...I'm not really jumping up and down screaming about it.  But, I do think we'll do fun things in first grade." 

Emme's teacher came to our home last week to meet Emme and go over some paperwork with us.  Perhaps when she's in the classroom, sans her extremely verbal older sister, Emme will actually get a chance to talk to Miss Margaret.

We now live in Ely.  Furniture has been rearranged.  Surfaces painted.  Friends have visited.  Stuff has found a place.  It's our home now.  The girls dance on the windowsill in our living room.  Then they jump to the ottoman.  And even though I can hear the springs weakening with each landing, I let them do it.  Because I hope they remember things like this.

How much is too much? 

The question has been sitting on my mind lately. 

Nothing is perfect.  Yet how much of that imperfection is appropriate for public consumption?  I write about my life.  And most often I write happy stories.  Funny quotes.  Fun experiences.  Memorable moments.

But not always.  I try to pepper in truth.  The good and the bad.  The summer when I felt very alone while Brad was working full-time and going to school at night.  The few days when Rory wasn't sure she loved me. 

But even then.  Those stories are relatively safe.  I'm being vulnerable, but not revealing much of my private life. 

What about the times when I've looked at Brad and wondered how we'd make it?  Realizing what "those people" were thinking when they chose divorce over going through the mess for each other.  What about the times when I feel desperately self-conscious?  When I struggle identifying my strengths.  When I wish I was someone else. 

I'm typically willing to be vulnerable.  My gate is relatively easy to open.  It's not locked, I don't stand guard, and usually a simple question will gain most anyone entry.

I feel very strongly that this type of vulnerability...a willingness to show faults...is good for humanity.  It's good for community.  It helps others feel less alone.  And it transforms my weaknesses into a connection with others...making them somewhat of a strength for that moment when I'm able to relate with another.

However, vulnerability isn't an effective way to protect your heart.  Leaving you open for hurt and disappointment, it doesn't always lead to closer relationships.  There is a good chance it will just leave an individual feeling exposed. 

But even then, I think the chances of payoff outweigh the risks involved. 

But he's the reason we were in Branson.


My brother graduated from College of the Ozarks.  My family rented a cabin and we all went down to cheer him on as he walked across the stage.  We also cheered on his girlfriend, Alicia, who we really like.

We hit up the Branson Landing where the girls scored lollipops as big as their faces, and I got entirely too excited while cheering the North to victory at the Dixie Stampede.

We're really proud of you, Nikolaus and Alicia!

She's six.

She's got six years of life under her belt.  Smiles.  Drama.  Giggles.  Dancing.  Golden curly locks.  Freckled cheeks.  Singing.  Learning.  And three and half years of being a sister.

Rory has grown into quite a girl.  In some ways she is incredibly easy to parent.  She's intelligent.  School comes easily for her.  She rises to the challenge of leadership.  She is concerned for others (well..others besides Emme).  She is funny, creative, and easy to talk to.  But the flip side of most of those strengths makes her a challenge as well.  Her incredible intelligence lends itself to lots of analyzing and tough conversations.  Her bent toward leadership and the spotlight can be difficult to foster when considering her sometimes overwhelming fear of being watched and laughed at.  Her concern for others is currently causing her to say "I'm sorry" entirely too often.  How many parents have to remind their six year old to not say "I'm sorry" unless they've intentionally made a bad decision?

Rory can be a conundrum.  Parenting her is often a balancing act.  I consistently wonder if I'm doing it right.  My daily thoughts usually land on this topic and I am continually wondering what to do next.  How to wake up the next morning and best grow her up. 

We love her.  We are totally and completely in love with her.  In a room full of children I am always grateful that I get to take her home with me.  She is fantastic in so many ways.  I look forward to her growing not only as my daughter, but as a true friend.  God didn't reign Himself in when creating our little one.  He gave her extra doses of all things good, and we pray we're taking good care of his handiwork.

The following pictures are for a friend.  Sometimes pregnancy does crazy things to your body.  And sometimes we still look pregnant even after the baby is born.  Here's personal proof.

I was so very swollen with Rory.  Brad saw this picture and started laughing.  I look like I'm in pain right?  I was...my toes were like sausages and I couldn't walk with my hands down to my side because they got even bigger!


Our two friends holding Rory are so cute that you might miss me in the far right corner.  Or...my stomach that is.  I remember looking at myself in the shower and thinking, "What the heck?!  I still look pregnant!"

...Rory Grace Anderson was born at 7:51 am, weighing in at 8 lbs 3 oz.

When my body was ready the nurse taught me how to push with the contractions.  And as she readied the room for our daughter's arrival she casually told me that it usually takes first-time moms about 2 hours to push. 

I looked at Brad a little frantic and said, "It doesn't take that long on A Baby Story."

I was only half-joking.

At that point I asked to be moved into the C-section room.  Seriously.

But, seeing as I have french doors for hips, my time spent pushing was much shorter.  And after only 10 minutes we met our girl.

The doctor held her up and I exclaimed, "She's so tiny!"  He looked at Rory, and then back and me and said, "This is not a tiny baby." 

We spent the rest of the day staring at her.  Examining and discovering the things that made her unique...like her one little crooked toe.  During the night the nurse brought her in for a feeding and I sat there staring down at her.  I was overcome with love.  A love that literally made my heart hurt.  Tears started falling on her little cheeks and I prayed for God to make me good at being a mom.

...I went back to the hospital.

After being sent home that morning, I spent the day in bed breathing through contractions.  Having been told I wasn't really in labor, I was pretty scared to go back.  I didn't want to look like a fool.  But by the time the night arrived I knew I wanted to spend the dark hours in a hospital rather than in pain next to a sleeping husband.

This time I was wheeled up from the Emergency entrance because I was having trouble walking.  Upon arrival they checked to see if my labor had progressed.  I was dilated to a 5.

Now we all believed it was real.

...they sent us home from the hospital.

With a baby still in my stomach.

After a half-conscious night of "rest" sponsored by pain-killers, the nurse said condescendingly, "Sweetie, most first time moms go a week past their due date.  This isn't real labor.  We'll see you back here in a few days." 

I told Brad that if this wasn't real labor then I didn't know how ready I was for this to get real.

...the contractions had started.  Brad and I spent the day up in Kansas City (to be closer to our hospital).  We walked the mall, watched a movie, ate spicy foods.  Waiting for the minutes to quicken so we could get to the hospital already. 

We arrived at the hospital late that night.

For the first time...

Hands. Grabbing. Holding. Pondering. Examining eyes. Voices. Auctioneer calls. Silent battles for items.

This scene was played out repeatedly at the auction located on my grandparents' property.  The place they called home.  The place I visited as a child.  The site of countless family Christmases...upstairs in the living room that only really saw action during holidays.  The place I picked strawberries with Grandma.  The patio where I silently willed the adults to visit so I could spend time on the porch swing while I listened to their grown up conversations.  The barn where all the kittens were born.  The tv in the downstairs living room, in front of which I sat entirely too close...until we discovered I needed glasses.  The night air in which my grandfather motioned for me to hush so we could listen for the call of the whippoorwill bird.

My grandparents' stuff laid sprawled out on tables.  A lifetime of items collected, some precious, others frustrating to sift through.  "Why did they keep this!?"  The torsos of strangers gathered around each table as the auctioneer took his spot at one end.  Their hands would pick up something, turn it over, and assign a value.

Most of the day I stayed inside.  Due mostly to the constant rain pattering outside.  The mud between each blade of grass became more and more visible as the feet of buyers trudged through "our place."  But eventually the rain died down, and I posted up next to one of the tables as it's contents were sold.

I stood next to only one table that day. 

My heart started racing.  I wanted to tell them not to touch, these things belonged to my grandparents.  "That's my Grandpa's gun...ask him, he'll tell you all about it.  He knows the story behind everything on this table.  You shouldn't be touching it.  It shouldn't be out in the rain."  But I remembered.  "Grandpa has been gone a while.  And Grandma will never live on her own again.  This is a logical step.  What's happening here today isn't bad.  It may be hard to watch, but it's not bad."  I stood there, knees locked, having this conversation in my head.  I stood silent.  Glancing away only when I could feel my bottom lip begin to quiver.  A deep breath and I could look back again. 

At one point I stopped looking back.  Why was I watching anyway? 

I brought Rory and Emme along.  I can't quite explain the reasoning, but in my heart it was very important that they were there that day.  The last day that this place would be "ours."  I explained to Rory that someone else would be buying the house that day.  That we would no longer be visiting this place.  She replied with the honestly that only a child can pull off, "Well, that's a bummer."

My dad has been a shining example of a loyal son throughout my grandparents' decline in health, my grandpa's passing, and the important, but difficult, step of taking care of the house and belongings they accumulated.  I was grateful for the chance to be of some support, and found a couple weekends when I could come back without the girls, and get dirty alongside him as we dug through the years of stuff.

One day we ventured into Grandpa's workshop.  I walked inside and was overwhelmed by the smell of sawdust.  Before I knew it I found myself crying.  Tears welling up.  Very few smells do that to me.  But, sawdust...well, that's Grandpa.  And I instantly wanted to be small enough to crawl under his work space and "build" with the scraps of wood.  To listen to the buzz of saws and machines while he created and brought new life to beautiful pieces of furniture. 

It was poignant.  Perhaps cleaning out his workshop represented finality.  I knew he was gone.  I had mourned his loss.  But as long as his shop stood...then a piece of him stood as well.  Which is silly truly.  His legacy is in the stories we tell, and the intense love my grandmother still holds for him.  But, that place, that smell, it brought him back in a very real way...and I would've been completely content to leave that place intact.  Chaining the door so it couldn't be disturbed.

Slowly, sometimes almost painfully slowly, the auction progressed through the property.  Around the house, through the barns, behind the shed.  Even selling the house and land.  Emme fell asleep in my arms.  Dad instructed me to head into town to he and my step-mom's house.  To let the girls rest.  He came home late that night. 

As we sat watching t.v. in the sunroom I admitted, "That was hard for me to watch today."

He replied, "Me too."

A college friend, Anna, invited us to her home recently to see a couple baby horses that had been born at her neighbors' farm.  Not only were they babies, but they were miniature horse babies...cute overload. 

A couple weeks ago Emme put on her "wedding dress" and walked down the aisle.  She was the flower girl for one of our college friends, Caitlin.  Caitlin was an RA on my staff for the past two years in our residence hall.  Rory took the news of Emme getting to be a flower girl pretty well.  It wasn't until the day of the wedding that she became sad about E getting to put on a white dress and don a new barrette.  But she soldiered through and both girls were invited to help the bridesmaids hand out bubbles after the ceremony. 

Emme practiced walking down the aisle a couple times right before the ceremony.  But, when the real moment arrived, she refused to throw any of her petals and walked down the aisle with her head slightly hidden behind her uplifted arm.  But she walked...which in my mind was a victory.  (Especially considering the fact that she trapped her finger in our car door upon arriving at the church.)  No matter the circumstance, it's pretty impossible for that kid not to be adorable.

The flower girl even shared a couple spins on the dance floor with the groom, Carl. 

And now, every once in a while, she remembers "her wedding."

Municipal Auditorium misspelled the word "commencement" on their marquee.  (Photographic evidence above.)

"Graduation!  Nooooooo!"

The yells came in unison from Rory and Emme.  They had been to Uncle Nikolaus' graduation from College of the Ozarks one week prior.  In their minds the definition of graduation was "a boring, terribly long, and confusing ceremony where people wear strange robes and no one is allowed to be loud or have any fun."

We didn't sugar coat it.  I mean really...does anyone like graduation ceremonies?

"You're right.  It probably will be boring and not much fun.  But, Daddy worked really hard to finish his master's program, and we're going to support him.  And, graduating is a big deal...we're going to be there since it's such a big deal."

The girls were champs.  The grandmas snagged front-row seats just around the corner from the bathroom while we parked cars.  The extra space gave us a few more inches to move around which made trips between laps easier.  Being closer to the action held shorter attention spans just a tad bit longer.  We cheered when "Bradley Charles Anderson" was announced over the microphone, and got a hug from the graduate as he made his way back to his seat. 

Three hours later...seriously!...it was over.  We walked in with Brad, and walked out with Master Brad.  He kept repeating, "I'm done.  I can't believe I'm done."

All the work paid off as we found out the day before that next fall, Master Brad will be teaching math to 7th grade students at Liberty Middle School.

Which made him repeat another phrase over and over.  "I have a job.  Sam, I have a job."

No matter how much I hear it...it still sounds sweet.

You can see it on her face.  Looking toward the sideline...she doesn't want to be on the field.  She's struggles.  Her legs are the shortest.  The ball almost goes up to her knees.  Fast footwork is a whole lot different with her dimensions. 

A couple friends organized a soccer "team" of sorts.  It's a handful of kids, mutual friends of the married couple coaching the kids.  We all gather at a local park on Tuesday evenings and for 45 minutes our kids learn soccer basics. 

We bought new soccer balls, and shin guards.  Soccer shoes and knee socks with pink stripes.  We laid out the rules before the first practice.

"Rory, there is no crying in soccer."

"Okay, Mom.  But what if I get hurt?  Can I cry then?"

"Yes.  If you get hurt."

"And Rory, you can't run off the field if you get frustrated.  You have to stay out there and try your hardest.  Practice makes what....?"

"Progress."

"That's right.  Practice makes progress.  Just try your hardest."

"Okay, Mom."

"And you aren't allowed to say 'I can't do it.' in soccer.  You can say it's difficult and ask for help."

"Okay."

Organized sports have been surprisingly beneficial to Rory.  To be fair, I might be the only one surprised buy this in our duo.  Brad was raised in sports.  The "boy next door" childhood of his had him playing all kinds of sports.  As children, he and his neighborhood friends even organized a tennis tournament...and got real trophies for the winners.
 
Sports are peppered throughout my past.  I played softball as a youngster, when I was still too young to really care about the competition.  But once while throwing the ball around in my front yard, a ball fell short, hit the sidewalk in front of me, and bounced right up in my face.  I lost all desire to see a ball flying toward me ever again.  I ran track in jr high/high school.  I showed promise (read: the relay team I was on might have qualified for state if we'd progressed as expected), but a weird injury to my hip put out those hopes.  Random therapies at the chiropractor and a frustrated coach (who'd rather I just suck it up and run) instilled a fear in me.  I liked running.  I liked being cheered instead of being the cheerleader.  But, with competition comes expectation...responsibility.  I don't think I handled the mental game very well.  Later I tried a "comeback."  The pain in my hip returned and I bowed out for good. 

I want my girls to be confident in their physical skills.  Brad jokes that "Rory inherited my sporting ability."  It may be that I look like a 5 year old child when in competition, but I think it's mostly because I never honed any skills.  We intend to give Rory and Emme that chance.

Rory has really taken to the game.  She enjoys practice.  During scrimmaging she cheers for her teammates and gets in there in the battle for control of the ball.  During hydration breaks she reports breathlessly on how many goals she's made and if her team is winning.  Each time I ask her, "Are you trying your hardest, Rory?"  So far she's responded, "Yea, Mom."  "Good! I'm so proud of you, Rory!"  Typically bent toward dramatics and emotions, on the field Rory is able to control herself.  She deals with the frustrations of missed shots on goal, or losing to the other team.  I watch her play those emotions out on her face, but she stays on the field.  I'm impressed, and convinced organized sports need to have a permanent place in Rory's life.

Emme puts on her soccer gear as well each week.  Her knee socks, which easily reach to her thighs, run right into her teal Umbro shorts.  She's obviously the smallest one on the team.  She'd often rather be on the sidelines petting a dog or playing with a baby.  When she glances at us from the field I tell Brad to look away, thinking maybe if she doesn't make eye contact with us she won't ask to leave the field.

I was sick the first week of practice.  One of the other moms told me that Emme ran off the field and said woefully, "I'm just so small!" 

It's true.  She is.

But you don't have to be big to know that post-practice snacks are one of the best perks of soccer practice.  So, for now, the promise of soccer snacks is enough to get her on the field.

Kara,
I'll update soon.  :)
Much love,
Samantha

Four days.  That's how long it took before Rory told me she loved me after saying she was unsure if she loved me or not. 

Thursday Rory said that she wanted to show me something she had made at school.  It was a drawing of our family.  Above it she had written "I love my family.  They help me."  I pulled her onto my lap for a hug and told her that is exactly what families do for each other...help each other.  In the middle of a smile she jumped off my lap.  Standing in front of me her face changed from contented smile to anxious worry.  She brought her hands to her face (something she does when she's nervous) and said, "Mom, I'm not really sure if I love you...or even like you."

The world stopped.  Not wanting to overreact I said, "You're not sure if you love me?  Do you know why?"

"I'm not sure.  I just don't know."

"Did I hurt your feelings?  Have I said something that made you sad?" 

"I'm not sure mom.  I just don't know if I love you." 

My heart started racing.  This was sticking.  I know Rory.  She doesn't let things go.  She ponders.  Last year we had quite a few consecutive conversations concerning death.  Most of them ended with her in tears.  Her little mind couldn't let go of the worry.  I knew the "I'm not sure if I love my mom" worry was going to be a longer road than I might be ready for.

I told her that it hurt my feelings to hear that she didn't love me, but that it was okay, and I loved her no matter what. 

I don't know if it was the anxiety of the conversation we had just had, or the fact that it was approaching bedtime, but she was particularly rough with her sister as they got ready for bed.  I saw anger on her face as she spoke to Emme.  Brad was gone at an event, and in a moment of weakness without my teammate I said to Rory, "I don't want you to speak any more.  You are using your words to hurt people tonight and it's not okay." 

She started crying.  A broken cry.  I know Rory.  She's very sensitive.  And although she can be  cruel to her sister, she is often aware of how her actions can impact others.  The thought that she was intentionally trying to hurt us was too much to handle...on top of the worry.

We finished bedtime routines and I looked each of the girls in the eyes and said, "I love you.  I'm glad you're mine" as I've done hundreds of times before.  Emme responded, "I love you.  I'm glad you're mine."  Rory smiled sheepishly at me.

Later that night I recounted the story for Brad through tears.

The next morning Rory came and sat next to me on the couch.  "Mom, I'm still not sure if I love you." 

"That's okay, Rory.  You can't help the way you feel.  But you know what?  I will always love you.  There is nothing you can do to ever make me stop." 

She smiled and rolled over so I could scratch her back.

I had decided that the ONLY way I could respond to my little girl was to reassure her that no matter what she could never lose my love.  Inside I was mentally preparing myself.  "What will I do if she doesn't tell me she loves me for a long time?"

The next four days continued in a pattern.  I would tell Rory I loved her and she would look at me and smile a kind of fake awkward smile.  A few times she would say, "I'm still not sure."

Twice she said the coveted three words on accident.  The second time she let them slip as she was exiting the car for school in the morning.  After realizing what she had done she stopped, looked at me and said, "I don't mean that."

Ouch.

Those four days were tortuous.  I tread dangerously on a line of not wanting to upset the little girl who was figuring out if she loved me, but still parent.  I played with her more.  Listened a little bit longer.  Gave her a smidge more attention.  I loved her without knowing if she would love me back...or at least say it. 

And at one point I realized that this is how I am loved.  God loves.  He listens.  He endures.  He waits.  Waits for me to say it...to live it...to show it.  He loves in the midst of my stubbornness, my confusing, my flailing.   He loves.  He promises to continue to love.

I can't remember a time when I have loved Rory with more intention than those four days.  And although I never want to relive the pain of having my freckle-faced Rory look at me and say, "I don't think I love you."  If I had the option, I wouldn't give back that interaction. 

It was good for us. 

I hope I can hang on to intentional love.  Love that can't expect anything back.

Monday I said to Rory, "I love you."

She smiled as she walked away.

"Rory, have you figured out if you love me?"  (One of the scarier questions I've ever asked.)

"I don't know.  I think I have.  Yea.  I think I love you."

Later that night as she brushed her teeth she said, "I think maybe I knew I loved you all along."

Rory looked at me tonight and said, "I'm not sure if I love you.  Or like you." 

I feel broken.

My grandmother once apologized to me.  "I'm sorry, Samantha.  I'm not your typical grandmother."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't bake pies and sit in a rocking chair.  I drink bourbon...and smoke." 

I laughed.  "That's okay, Grandma."

This past weekend I traveled to Marceline, MO.  The goal was specific, help my dad and family go through my grandparents' home and prepare items for an upcoming auction.  A daunting task, but I was eager to be there to participate.  I was excited.  I wanted to see all those things one last time.  I knew, without a doubt, that it would spark memories...and it did.  I saw pictures I had seen before.  Pictures of people, places, and events I could either remember, or had heard countless stories of.  My grandmother apparently never threw anything away.  We found a picture I had drawn as a child.  It was of me and my grandma.  Our word bubbles were simple.  "Grandma," mine said.  For her reply I wrote, "What?"

I also knew that I would learn new things.  I listened to my uncle and dad tell story after story.  Stories about their childhood, funny stories about relatives; the aunts that wouldn't shop at Wal-Mart because it wasn't classy, so instead sat at home all day and drank.  Real stories about my grandparents as young parents, poor and raising four boys.  Scary stories about the night their house burnt to the ground and the family dog saved them all by waking them up.  My dad got out of his bed, walked to the back porch and fell asleep on a couch.  My grandfather went back in to save him.  My uncle laughed about running barefoot on the gravel road to two different neighbors' houses to call for help.  The second neighbor gave him a pair of wooden clog-like shoes.  "They were worse than being barefoot!"  They laughed, but afterward one of them said, "That was a terrible night.  One of the longest of my life."  The other could only agree.  I learned about family pets; the bird who flew outside and was thought gone for good, only to be found by someone eight blocks away.  He called my grandfather, "Mickey, you're going to think I'm crazy.  But this bird, well, it landed on my cap outside.  And it just keeps saying, 'Joe's Mickey's boy! Joe's Mickey's boy!'  You're the only Mickey I know.  Is this your bird?"

I sorted pictures and mementos for my uncles and learned a little bit about each as I went.  I never knew my Uncle Mike was such a skilled artist.  I saw their school grade cards, pictures, and letters they'd written to their parents (my grandparents).  Photos of wives who I no longer called aunts, and of my mom who is no longer married to my dad.

We emptied cabinets and drawers and sorted.  Putting things back in boxes.  Sorting into closets.  "That's an antique, it goes in that closet.  Those are for the sale, but not antique, those go in the guest bedroom closet.  Here's more kitchen stuff.  It goes here."  We found things that were...things.  But we found treasures as well.  A glass cake stand that was over 100 years old when it was given to my great great grandmother.  Jewelry from generations past.  My grandfather's cap from his days in the service. 

Almost every other moment was a memory.  "Here are the pictures from the camping trip you took when I was just a baby!"  My uncle found a brand new coat in the closet, "Man, all those times Dad (my grandfather) said he was cold during family Christmases and insisted on restocking the fire...we could have just told him to put on this coat...then the rest of us wouldn't have been sweating."  Lemonade packets that came with very specific instructions from Grandpa.  Use less sugar than it called for...he liked it a little tart.  And the glasses my Grandma would use to drink her bourbon and soda.  The drinks that, in her mind, made her "not like other grandmas."

Dad and I took a break from the sorting to visit Grandma in the nursing home on Sunday morning.  Her mind was sharp and she was able to answer questions that arose during our travels down memory lane.  "What was the name of your ex-boyfriend that Grandpa always joked about?  You know, he was a golfer and Grandpa said one time he got really angry on the golf course, threw his club in the air, and it came down and hit him on the head.  Knocked him out.  What was that guy's name?"  She remembered, and laughed. 

And we chatted as people do.  Sharing stories of the day.  Betty (her roommate), and Beverly (a fellow resident who had wandered in for a visit) started talking about a guy living there who cussed loudly.  They obviously didn't find it amusing.  My grandmother said she liked it because it kind of reminded her of her husband.

Then Grandma said, "I had interesting guests in my bath the other day."

"Really?  Who?"

"Two young handsome men helped me during my bath." 

She paused for Dad and I to react.  Which we did, with smiles.

"At first I was very uncomfortable.  But, no one else seemed to be bothered, so I just sat back and enjoyed myself."

Guffaws of laughter.  Dad and I threw our heads back and laughed so loudly I'm sure they heard us down the hall.

At that moment, Betty piped up.  "I told them my first day here...there were to be no men helping with my bath.  They weren't going to see me naked." 

Then Beverly chimed in, "Me too.  The other day a guy...a kid!...he was a kid.  This kid came in and said, 'Beverly, it's time for your bath.'  I told him, 'I don't think so.'"

More laughter from Dad and I.  Then, just because it made us laugh, we repeated, "I don't think so."

Grandma looked at the two other ladies and said, "I kind of liked it."  And she looked at us and smiled.

She never did claim to be like the other grandmas.

One of my favorite parts of being a family...our lingo.  We call chapstick, "lippies"; after bath time lotioning is "greasing up the kids"; and snuggling is "snuggle bugging." 

The other day Rory and I were snuggle bugging on the couch.  She looked at me and said, "Mom, tell me about your past.  Like when you went outside to the bathroom, washed your clothes outside, and rode in wagons.  Tell me about that."

After the initial shock, I flashed back to the day I asked my mom if they had color photographs when she was a little girl.  What goes around comes around.

I explained to Rory that since I've been born there have been indoor bathrooms, washing machines, and cars.

Luckily, she believed me.

Still wanting a story she said, "Mom, tell me about our family's future."

I wouldn't necessarily call myself a runner.  I'm waiting for the runner's body to show up before I call myself a runner.

I can run.

And I do so multiple times a week.

For the past month I have been running four miles, five times a week.

That is until she tried to kill me.

Shocked? I was too.

I signed up for an exercise class at the community center with two other girls.  It's called Cardio Jam & Kick.  I was excited for a fun new way to burn calories, and maybe build some muscle.  Running is good for me.  It's simple and accessible and I can catch up on all the NPR podcasts I've got waiting in iTunes.  But, I mostly run at night, and Brad prefers I not run outside in the dark.  The treadmills at Jewell's Wellness Center are bathed in light and behind locked doors, so I log most of my miles without ever moving forward.  It gets old...and a class involving jamming and kicking...well that sounded fun.

My fantasy of fun ended the moment she began leading the warm-up.  Withing the first 10 minutes she said, "This is low-impact!"  I was dripping in sweat and struggling to stay upright.  She's badass.  She moves quickly, punches and kicks with intensity, and is apparently sponsored by the Energizer bunny.  Toward the end we hovered over exercise balls in a squat, muscles burning.  She called encouragements to us saying the ball was a dirty public toilet. 

"It's disgusting!  Don't sit on it!"

My reply?

I said out loud, "She's trying to kill us!"

It's been two days and I'm still walking funny.  Recently I was sitting down to use the restroom.  As I lowered myself my quads burned with anger at my incredulous request that they work while under such duress.  Eventually my legs decided I was close enough, and I landed firmly on the seat.  At that moment, I think I heard my butt call out, "Ouch!  Why would you do that?" 

I was in so much pain yesterday that I didn't run.  "Recovery" Brad called it. 

Today I couldn't spare another recovery day.  Pause the routine and it's a slippery slope to stop.

Tonight I had a very painful run.  Not even to the two mile mark, my legs began burning.  Not my quads, or my hamstrings...every single part of each leg felt hot like fire.

"Run through it," I thought to myself. 

I made it.  But I had to lower my speed and run a bit longer than normal to actually reach four miles.

The walk home hurt.  (Just now a scared 3 year old stretched out beside me as she watches her "I woke up scared so now I get to watch a cartoon" cartoon.  Her feet pressing against my leg hurt.)  I can't believe how bad I hurt.  I don't consider myself weak.  I can handle pain.  I've been through childbirth...twice, a tattoo...on my wrist, Outward Bound...twice.  But this pain...ouch!

Nonetheless, for the next couple months I'll be replacing one run a week with pain (a.k.a Cardio Jam & Kick).  If anything happens to me...tell the police to question the instructor.

With the threat (happy threat) of warmer days this week, I took Rory shopping for some warm weather clothes.  With no older sister to pass down items to Rory, we are often caught off guard when the seasons change and she has nothing to wear. 

After a long search...seriously, how can it be so hard to find classically cute and fun clothing for girls her age?!...we finally landed on some outfits we both liked at the Gap and Gymboree.  (It pains me that now we'll have to pay so much more for clothing since I am apparently a very picky mom and am not drawn to the harsh colors and chaotic patterns found on most clothes geared to girls her age.)

On the sidewalk walking to yet another store in search of clothes for Miss R, she says, "Mom!  We need to have a talk about buying clothes for your daughter." 

"What do you need to tell me."

"They're my clothes.  I can wear whatever I want.  It's my fashion.  I have to like it."

"It is important that you like your clothes.  You do have good fashion.  But, I'm paying...so that means I have to like it too."

"I really like this store, Mom."

"I think everything in here is ugly."

"What!?"

Today, Rory and I started a fashion conversation that we'll replay for the next 13 years.  Daughter wanting to express herself.  Mother wanting that expression to be something she approves of. 

What we did agree on today? 

A fantastic straw fedora with a bright yellow ribbon and a white flower embellishment from Gymboree. 

She told me she could wear it while we're gardening.

I like the hat so much...I might take up gardening just to see her wear it.

 

They're trying.  Trying to make farm girls out of my young ones.  At breakfast, talks of going out to feed the cows sent Rory and Emme clambering for an invitation to the fun.  Uncle Gabriel is still a bit too young to manage a 4-wheeler and two young nieces, and as Brad was holed up in the basement working on a pile of papers for his master's, I was the only one left to ride along.  Years of living on a farm gives me enough sense to pack "muddy clothes" any time we go visit.  A couple extra layers and we were ready for farm work in the frigid air.

Feeding the cows involves preparation.  So while the tractor was readied and bales fetched, the girls and I stood watch at the end of the sidewalk, just before the gravel of the driveway.  We observed as PaPoo worked from the seat of a John Deere.  Uncle Gabriel ran from here to there a few times to lock in this or open up that.  To pass the time the girls jumped, climbed on the 4-wheeler, and talked to Maggie, the aging farm dog.




He's in full remission.  Diagnosed at the beginning of the fall with Stage 4 Lymphoma, my stepdad recently finished his sixth and final round of chemo.  As I watched him masterfully maneuver a tractor in a small barn lot I realized, "this isn't relaxing."  This isn't what most people do on their days off of work while they recover their most recent fight with a potentially fatal disease.  When others feel a lump at the site of a recent bone marrow test, they rush to their doctor, or "take it easy."  He finishes his breakfast without resting his back against the wooden chair to avoid the pain, and then heads outside for the first round of daily chores.  His strength was there before the cancer cells began to gather.  The battle couldn't rid him of the strength, although he's thinner now and the hair regrowing on his head looks a bit lighter than I remember.  He's a farmer.

A fourth-generation farmer.  He and my mom make their home on the land that his great, great grandfather settled on so many years ago.  Their house is the same as his childhood home, albeit hard to recognize after an extensive remodel so many years ago.  He's one of 16 children...no twins.  (Take that Duggars.)  He remains on the farm.  After the market got so bad he could no longer keep up raising hogs...his primary focus during my years living there.  Now there is land, cattle, and at one time goats. 


He has a full-time job...in addition to farming.  He has kept working at both throughout it all.  Some days he doesn't travel to his job in a nearby town due to weakness or sickness.  But the cows eat each and every day.  And chores know not of his illness, or his lack of strength, or of the lump on the bone in his lower back from a bone marrow test.  Farming is somewhat like breathing...it must happen.

I'd be remiss not to mention the neighbors and fellow farmers who have picked up when his body wouldn't.  He and my mom have been blessed by the goodness of those around them that know what the farm doesn't...that Matt had cancer. 

"Had cancer."  Past tense.

But the fight took away 10% of his heart functioning.  And while he waits for his heart functioning to come back, to heal, he rests as much as can.  Sleeping on the couch in between time in his work boots.

He is strong.  He is admirable.  He is calm and quiet and good.

Perhaps he's a good farmer because is those things?  Or perhaps he's those things because he is a farmer?

When I was little I spent the night at my best friend's house.  She lived up the hill from me.  About one block away.  I would walk up, or she would walk down, the sidewalk that separated our homes.  I only remember one attempt at a sleepover in my room.  Part way through the night my mom had to call her parents.  She was scared and wanted to go home.  So, if we were to slumber together...it was to her house I would go.  I wonder if that made my mom sad that it wasn't a problem for me too? 

I was fascinated with her house.  It had a breakfast nook in the kitchen with bench seating, a big screen tv, laundry chute, big windows, glass bricks where windows might have been, and a triangle-shaped toilet seat in her parents' bathroom.  Even a secret spot on the roof where her mom sunbathed.  My friend's room had it's own special touches.  On the end of the house, her window ran along the corner of the room.  Almost like having two windows, from one angle we could see the backyard, the other, the neighbor's house.

One night while we talked after lights-out, a light was noticed.  I don't remember who saw it first.  But, the discovery of it caused our heartbeats to race.  The light seemed to flutter and move.  We were convinced it was a fairy.  It went without saying that it was an evil fairy.  Frozen in fear, we laid completely still in her bed...covers pulled up to our eyes.  Using hushed voices we formed a plan, we would make a mad dash to her parents' room.  Surely, they knew how to handle evil fairies. 

3.....2....1.....go!  We threw down the covers, jumped out of bed and raced down the hall. 

Her parents, not eager to share their sleeping space, quickly investigated the source of evil outside the window.

Our evil fairy was discovered to be in reality, a street light. The apparent twinkling and fluttering...tree branches being pushed around by the wind in front of the light.

The truth calmed our hearts and we climbed back in bed.  I've never forgotten that story...or how truly scared I was.

Last night Rory had an encounter with a fairy.  She's had a loose tooth for a few days now.  "Mom, I heard a crack and then I could move it."  A couple days ago we noticed the permanent tooth peeking through her gums.  Yesterday afternoon she let me pull it out when she answered the "how loose is your tooth" question by pulling it down so far that it almost pointed toward the ground. 

We stuck it her tooth box (a small pink plastic box shaped like a treasure chest), and tucked the box in a tooth fairy stuffed doll.  She slept with the doll last night, but still chose the under-the-pillow spot for lost tooth safe keeping until the tooth fairy could make the pick-up.

This morning she awoke before 6am, and rushed to my sleeping self.  "Mom!  Look what the tooth fairy gave me.  Fruity gum and cash!"

"That's cool, Rory.  Are you excited?"

"Yea."

Noticing that it was too early for even cartoons to be awake, I made room next to me so my one-more-milestone-down girl could snuggle in for some more sleep. 

Through my almost back asleep ears I heard her say, "Now I know she's real.  Even though I didn't see her."

Hoping that if I change the page to a shiny yellow background...the sun might shine as well.

"I'm going to go get the short one."

I usually whisper that to Brad on Sunday mornings as we return to our pew after communion.  Then I sneak out, pulling her tag out of my pocket as I walk the hallway to her classroom.

I walk in to find her playing with one of the adult volunteers.  I catch her attention and she runs to the gate calling "Momma!"  I make the trade: kid for tag, and remind her to say thank you as we head back to the sanctuary.

I only fetch Emme.  Rory's church time is filled with more planned activities, and I don't want her to miss any of it.  But E...well E spends her time playing.  So I gather her up a little early.

Back in the sanctuary we catch the end of the communion songs and hold hands for the benediction song. 

This time is sacred.  Little bits of sharing faith with our youngest...worshiping together.

Today as I held her she went through her normal routine of watching everyone around her as she gobbled up any remaining snacks.  Sometimes she bops to the music.  It makes us smile.

Thoroughly enjoying this morning's song, I closed my eyes as I sang.  Sensing someone's eyes, I found Emme watching me.

I smiled.  She returned a smile.

I closed my eyes again.

Then, as I worshiped, I felt warmth on my left cheek.  Soft, sweet and gentle...Emme had rested her face next to mine.  She left it there for quite a few moments.

Perhaps watching me she knew that something special was happening.

And that was her way of experiencing it herself.

May I continue to live in such a way that my young ones desire to experience it as well.

Amen.

Framing a shot, focusing on interesting details, capturing the world around her.  Emme is fairly skilled in the art of photography.  We are genuinely impressed with her three year old skills.  I understand this passion, and enthusiastically encourage her little interest.

Lately she's found the Photo Booth feature on our MacBooks.  Eerily capable when it comes to technology, she knows how to launch her new favorite pastime with no help from us.  The photos I find after one of Emme's photo sessions are like unexpected gifts. I love her face, the expressions she experiments with, and the artistic touch that seems natural to her.

"One of our New Year's Resolutions is to see you more than once a year."

The line on the back of a friends' Christmas photo made us feel special, loved.  We too want more time with the couple to develop a friendship with so much potential. 

I can honestly say that I've been in progress since my earliest memories.  Friendship has never come naturally to me.  Calling just because a friend was on my mind, or remembering to ask about a recent life event, never dawned on me.  Sending birthday cards, inviting others to share a quick trip to Target, or dessert on a weekday night.  All of these were skills that took concerted effort on my part to learn.

One of my first gal pals was Serena.  Bonded more by the fact that our moms (both single) were friends, Serena and I played together often.  She lived on a farm.  One time we found baby mice in a barn near a swarming wasps nest.  We "saved" them and attempted to raise them by feeding them milk squeezed from a small cloth.

Greta, the daughter of my dad's close friend, and I shared lots of adventures.  Together pretty much any time I was visiting my dad, we spent lots of hours playing Legend of Zelda on the old-school Nintendo, or listening to Solid Gold Saturday night on the radio while our parents popped open another PBR.  One time, riding bikes in her yard she stopped, stared at me and said, "I forgot your name."  Eventually, with some prodding and clues she came up with "Sandy Otho."  My name at the time was Samantha Othic.  We still laugh about that.

Things were easy then.  I remember playing with a friend named Jenny in elementary school.  I said to her, "Let's be best friends okay?"  "Okay!"  We ran into her house and made the announcement to her mother.  So let it be said.  So let it be done.

School days brought the politics of friendship.  Lots of heartache, not much trust.  I emerged from high school with only one person I called a real friend. Her name was Stephanie.  Staying in touch as we studied at different colleges, I chose to honor the place Stephanie held in my life by asking her to stand up as a bridesmaid at my wedding.  She took a job that involved lots of travel.  I got married, began creating little people who demanded lots of time and energy.  Due to no negative influence, we lost touch.  It took a long time for me to let go of that guilt.  Remembering a title from a childhood book, I slowly came to grips with Little-While Friends. 

 

(Recently I reconnected with both Stephanie and Greta on Facebook.  While we probably will never again share hours of conversation on the phone, or secrets as we fall asleep during sleepovers, it's fun to see their faces again.  To share life, even if in the smallest increments over the Internet.)

 

I’m terrible on the phone.  I don’t like answering my phone.  I like even less dialing out.  Without the comforts of body language and eye contact, I’d rather not talk at all.  Friendships in college were so easy.  Living together, sharing meals, community was inevitable.  Leaving that community was an unwelcome shock.  Needing to work to maintain connections...lots of the friendships that succeeded were with ones who were willing to take the reigns.  

 

God bless the friends who don’t need regular conversations.  The ones with whom we pick up right where we left off.  Chatting comes easy, honesty is a given, no fear in being vulnerable even in the absence of daily life shared.  I treasure those friends no less than the ones whose faces I see often.

 

Moving to Harrisonville with Brad as he took their empty Young Life position was a training ground for me.  Learning much from the women older than me, I soaked up the lessons on how to be a friend.  They were parenting kids in high school, I was just beginning a family, but somehow we felt close in age.  They loved me and befriended me and I observed countless “to dos” that I still practice today. 

 

During those growing up years I challenged myself to step out of my comfort zone, to go beyond initiating friendships, but to make continued, focused efforts to grow them.

 

“I’m done with this.”

 

Said to me by another friend.  A close one.  At least I thought.  I wouldn’t deny close, but as I explore the friendship’s past…well, it’s confusing and hard to put into words.  But, the fact that this has happened isn’t necessary surprising. 

 

It stung nonetheless.  Tears, shaking, utter confusion and shock.  Reading her words to me I couldn’t sit still…almost a fight or flight response.  I never responded.  I didn’t answer my phone.  She had hoped to spur a conversation…a fight…that we would emerge through the other side better friends.  I had no fight in me.  The words were too wounding.  What would I be fighting for?  To be right, not to be friends.

 

Months later a note, “I’m thinking of you.  Want to get together?”  I thought.  “I can’t.  I’m not ready.  I’m still so confused.”  We played pen pals for a while.  Surface details.  Brad’s doing this…we traveled here…can you believe Rory is 5 already?”  Eventually the notes stopped.  I don’t think it was enough for her.  I understand. 

 

I have a letter on my counter waiting for a stamp.  A quick note that says, “I don’t know what to say other than I want to be better friends than we are right now.”  I have yet to get that stamp.  I don’t know if I really mean it.  Or do I really mean, “I can’t stand knowing someone doesn’t like me.  Someone who used to like me so much.”

 

I can’t believe I lost a friend in such a sad way. 

 

Somewhere inside I believe that says something about me.

 

I don’t have one “go to” girlfriend.  (I just deleted words I had typed in an attempt to explain that kind of friend.  Words can’t capture the relationship,  If you have it, you know.  If you don’t…you know.)

 

I have best friends.  Treasures. 

 

Becca was the first person I called after I read the email that ended a friendship.  Trusting her, knowing she would tell me the truth even if it hurt me to hear it, I asked, “Please read this.  Tell me what truth there is in what she writes.”

 

Heather and I can go from hello to vulnerable in 60 seconds.

 

Melissa, Sheri, Lacey, Kayla, Sheryl, Susan, Barb, Brenda(s), Becky, Lindsay, Jen, Hattie, Liz, Sarah, Lindsey, Melody, Morgan, lots of RAs/residents in whom I see the potential to become good friends, the women of my small group…and more.  Numerous women with whom I’ve laughed, conversed, been real, shared tears, fears, laughter, frustrations, and meals.  Some are already close friends.  Some I hope to place in that category in the near future.

 

But still, not that person.  I get different great and valuable things from each friend.  But not most things from one.

 

Perhaps it’s unrealistic.  Maybe Sex and The City has ruined me. 

 

But I’m curious?  Do you have “one person?”

 

Brad and I have come off of a holiday season that held lots of evenings shared with friends (and one still needing to be put on the books…Chris and Becca).

 

I feel full.  In the most positive and fulfilling way…I feel full of friendship.  Game nights when a game box was never cracked open because conversation was too good to let end.  Still other game nights when we laughed from our guts, and gave weaker opponents head starts.  Nights of “come to dinner just because we both need to eat…and well, we miss you.”  Texts to friends on New Year’s Eve to acknowledge thoughts of you even though you’re states away.

 

I hope I’m getting better at this friendship thing.  To those of you reading…who might call me friend…I am full of faults.  I wear my mood on my sleeve. Which might not be a big deal...except for I’m quite moody. To quote another friend, I am sometimes too generous in my use of “scarcasm.”  I’m not that easy to be around.  But I am so grateful for your patience with me.

 

And your friendship.

My uncle rolled her in after they finished their cigarettes in the smoking room.  Rory, Emme, Dad and I had come to visit and her face stretched into a smile when she saw us.

She was having a "good day."  A phrase understood by anyone who has a loved one in a nursing home.  She knew names, laughed at funny stories, enjoyed watching Rory's solo on the iTouch and chatted with us.  After visiting a bit in the common area, we followed her back to her room to see the new picture hanging on her wall.  My aunt and uncle had blown up one of her favorite photos from years ago.

The photo captures her and my grandpa, Mickey, with their two best friends, Mike and Winnie.  Mike and Winnie lived part of the year in Destin, FL.  The other part...the hunting part...they lived in a little farmhouse in Missouri.  My grandparents loved those two.  True best friends.  Mike had the rare gift for making a room erupt in laughter.  People wanted to be around him.  He was full of...well, it.  I have memories of sitting in that little house, sharing meals, and listening to the adults laugh.  Wishing I understood what was so funny, but laughing like I did.

The four in the photo are fishing.  It looks like they're on the banks of the pond just below my grandparents' home.  Winnie, Shirley, Mike and Mickey.  The couples are staggered and smiling from ear to ear.  Full of life, enjoying a moment with friends. 

This is how I remember my grandparents.  That might be why it's hard for me to visit her these days...why it was hard to see my grandfather in that hospital bed.  I remember them as fully engaged in conversations, able to manipulate their muscles to do their will, cooking meals, or feeding pets, or simply relaxing in a chair.

Now the chair is more of a home than a resting place for my grandmother.  Body tired, she sits most of the day.  The hand-written sign above her bed reads, "Please encourage Shirley to walk to meals with assistance."

I doubt she ever does.

That's one thing she hasn't lost...her stubbornness. 

Her quick-wit still shows itself as well.  "I love him so much!," Rory said to Shirley regarding my dad's dog, Harley.  "You want me to give you half of him?!," Shirley replied.  Rory laughed and said, "No!"

It may be difficult to see her this way, but today during our visit I was struck at just how important it is to visit.  The poster-size picture on the wall is the proof.

She too has difficulty seeing herself this way.  She too remembers the "good ole days" when a walk down to the pond was taken on a whim, and sitting by the window was a treat rather than a constant activity.  She and I talked of dancing and how my dad used to take her.  She smiled when she said, "I always thought if I could dance, I'd stay young forever."

A painted picture of three horses drinking from a trough hangs on the wall.  The artist can remember working on a painting, manipulating brushes to create veins, water droplets, dimension, and the illusion of light.  I said to Rory, "Shirley painted those horses."  Obviously impressed with the talent, Rory cupped her hand over her gaping mouth and then said, "Really?! Wow, she can paint something behind something else."

Framed on her dresser is a photo of her and my grandfather on their wedding day.  She is absolutely gorgeous.  I'm not just saying that for sake of the story.  Truly...a knockout.  Why the hell didn't I get some of those genes?!  The man beside her in the photo, the incredibly handsome man with the sweet eyes, is my grandfather.  I ask my grandma about the photo.

"Are you married here?" 

Dad interjects, "That's their wedding day photo.  Almost didn't get taken huh?" (He directs the question to his mom.)

Shirley smiles as she replies, "That's right."

Remembering the story, but still wanting to hear it from her lips I say, "He was late right?  All the guests had gone home?  Said he couldn't get in the shower?" 

"That's what he said."  Perhaps she never really bought the story.  Grandpa tells it like this: He was living in an apartment...well, more like a room.  The rooms on the hallway shared a common bathroom.  He had rushed home from work (he had to work on his wedding day), and found someone else was in the shower.  He yelled to the occupant, "I got to get to my wedding!"

Eventually he showered (I'm deducing from his clean appearance in the photo) and made it to the ceremony.  But, he was very late, and most everyone had gone home.  He didn't think Shirley would even go through with it after that stunt. 

But she did.

"How many times did he propose?"

"Oh, probably 15." 

"How many times was he sober when he proposed?"

She stared at my dad.  "She's talking to you," Dad said thinking she couldn't hear me.

"I know.  I'm trying to think of the answer." 

:)

"Isn't that right?  You told him you wouldn't say yes until he asked you when he was sober?"

"That's right."

"Well you two look stunning in this photo.  Seriously, gorgeous!" 

"He does.  But not me."

"Yes you!  Look at you!  You're beautiful!  I've seen a picture of you in a swimming suit from around this time too...you had incredible legs!" 

Dad laughs, "Yea.  That's what dad always said too."

"I asked him why he wanted to marry me.  He told me it was because I had good legs."

Dad then told a story I had never heard before.  Having a story-telling grandpa, stories I haven't heard (multiple times) are a treasure.

My dad went on, "Dad was in a bar fight and he got knocked to the ground.  He was crawling under a table so he could get back up.  Your grandma and her friend were sitting at that table and he said he saw her legs and thought, 'I need to meet whoever those legs belong to.'"

My grandparents met in a bar fight.  I love it.

And that's just it.  My grandmother has lived a very eventful life.  Raised four boys, buried one, loved multiple grandchildren, danced, accompanied me to the local carnival, traveled, worked, cooked holiday meals, told stories, listened to her husband tell stories...over and over again...and enjoyed life.  She remembers that life daily.

I should be there more often to just sit and say hi.  I should send more photos for her to pin on her bulletin board.  I should take her little gifts that make that room more like her home.  She was so good to me for so many years.  It's my turn to return the favor.

My weakness.  Believing they are worth more, and will be remembered longer, than any gifts, I believe they hold me more than I hold them.  A late night drive to the art supply store before it closes ensures the birthday canvas will be ready for painting on the big day.  Personal cakes, decorated according to birthday kid orders, assembled as the hours creep by...because cupcakes that you almost can't bear to eat because of the work they represent, are a tradition.  Searching for matching Christmas pajamas, even though most months of the year my kids sleep in just their skivvies.  Traditions are stronger than usually and convenient.  They are first.

Last year I was searching for a new tradition.  A way to refocus our hearts during the holidays.  Something to reach through all the gift-unwrapping and "What do you want for Christmas?" and remind us of Christ.  Lots of families accomplish this through a birthday party for Jesus.  I like that idea.  Birthday parties are so accessible to kids...they understand that language, it meets them where they are.  But, I wanted something just a bit different...so I made up my own.

Last year on Christmas Eve, right before donning our new Christmas pajamas, Rory sat in front of a blank piece of construction paper.  Reminding her of whose birthday we are celebrating at Christmas I said, "Doesn't it seem silly that we get to open presents on His birthday?  But you know what?  Jesus doesn't want gifts, he actually wants us to live our lives a certain way all year round.  That's a gift to him."  I asked her to draw pictures of ways she had given to others, shared with others, and been kind to others.  She picked a blue crayon, and drew a large oval.  "Food (orange juice) we bought for people who don't have food," she explained her picture as I labeled.  Her school had a food drive earlier that year.  I'm not sure we took orange juice, but that's what she drew...so that's what I wrote.  Taking up most of the page was a big smiling face.  The legs extended up into the circle head, reaching almost to the polka dot eyes.   The arms stuck straight out where the ears would someday be drawn.  The smile extended from armpit to armpit.

"What's that honey?"

"That's the man on the plaza with the muffin I made."

She was recounting an experience not too long before when we drove home from our church, Jacob's Well.  Her teacher had led them through baking muffins and explained that these muffins were for giving away...to someone who was hungry.  We took a scenic route home looking for someone who might be hungry.  He was sitting in his wheelchair on the corner in front of Barnes & Noble.  He was asking for money, but my daughter had a warm muffing, so she walked right up to him and said, "I made this muffin for you."  He thanked her and then reached into a small cup.  He pulled out a small American flag pin and gave it to Rory, explaining that he was a veteran.  We jumped back into the car where Emme and Brad waited on the curb.  Rory said, "Mom, wasn't it so nice of that guy to give me a flag pin?!"

After the drawing and labeling of the "gift" was complete. Rory put her picture under the tree.  Her gift to Jesus.

This year both the girls stuck gifts under the tree.  We put them in front of blank pieces of white cardstock and again explained the reason for the drawings.  Rory took great care to draw four girls, all with shoes, leggings, jackets, eyelashes, and bellies.  This year however, she could write her own translation of the picture.  I watched her writing the words and thought, Really...when did this happen?  She held up her picture for the rest of us and explained that it was her with three school friends.  And that they had played nicely together.

While Rory worked tirelessly on her masterpiece, Emme had time to collect another piece of paper from the pile.  She drew lots of E's and M's (her early attempts at her name), and faces with big smiles.  Not one line from ear to ear, but the kind of smiles you'd draw teeth inside of.  She kept saying they were Jesus.  We didn't argue or try to redirect her into drawing a way she'd been nice to her sister, or respected her parents.  For now, the simple act of drawing is her gift.  Eventually she'll grasp the concept...until then, I think Jesus likes pictures of himself smiling. 

As the years go by, I envision them drawing less and writing more.  They'll probably have a list phase, and a certificate phase...who knows the ways they'll come up with to display their efforts on His behalf.  We might hear them recount a time they mowed the yard for an elderly neighbor, or stood up for a kid at school who was being teased.  Whatever they say, I'm hoping eventually they'll know that it's not for nothing...that someone is watching, that someone is grateful, that someone might someday say, "Well done, good and faithful servant."

As they drew, Emme stood up and ran to the Playmobil Navity set we have sitting on the kid table in our kitchen.  She grabbed baby Jesus in his manger and brought him over to her spot on the floor.

Sitting him beside her, she finished her gift with the recipient by her side.

I kind of think that means she gets it.

As if a full day of Kindergarten wasn't enough, they've shoved all this learning into the day as well.  It pains me to say the following phrase....

"When I was a kid..."

...Kindergarten goals including walking in a straight line as a class, coloring within the lines, and cutting along the lines.

Now Rory brings home papers with boxes.  Boxes she's filled with the numbers 1 to 100.  Mrs. Rangel draws a star and writes "WOW!" at the top of each page.  Wow...my kid can write from 1 to 100.  You try it.  You might be surprised at how much time it eats up...and that's for those of us able to to count to 100 without any thought.  Imagine the focus needed if counting to 100 actually soaked up brain power?  Those papers represent lots of effort for a little 5 year old body, and the brain in contains.

No wonder some days she falls asleep on the couch before dinner. 

We try so hard to keep those eyelids open.  "Rory!  Honey!  It's almost dinner.  Don't fall asleep.  Sit up."

But sometimes, well, the eyelids are just too heavy, and the call to sleep is just too tempting.  And off to the Land of Nod she goes.

Yesterday, after her last day of her first semester of Kindergarten, which culminated in a holiday classroom party, she nodded off on the couch.  Brad and I laughed as we experimented with how much jostling she could take without even a blink or a twitch indicating her slumber was being disturbed.

We have learned that a 5 year old who falls asleep on the couch before dinner, wakes up as a bear.  Recently I also learned I could rouse her easier by enticing her taste buds with a sip or two of soda.  (Before you judge, you should try hauling two kids out into the evening for a short walk to the cafeteria for dinner each night while your husband is at soccer practice, or a grad class.) 

The bubbles of the drink tickle her mouth and cause her eyes to open wide as she swallows.  It's very effective in waking sleeping Rorys. 

Last night I tried the old standby as we attempted to wake Rory for dinner.  She sat on my lap and took a drink as I said, "That will wake you up."

She swallowed, pulled the drink away from her mouth, licked her lips, gave one of those post-soda drink sighs and said, "It is very wakeful."

Tonight as we were driving, Emme and Rory were on Christmas Lights Lookout in the backseat.  Each time Emme saw a Nativity scene she would say, "Jesus loves me!"  Once, as we turned a corner, she got a good long look at a life-size Nativity in a church's yard.  She exclaimed, "Jesus loves me!  I found him!"

While reading before bedtime Rory read a book all by herself.  It's called The Bus.  And it's an early reader, using very short and easy words.  But she only needed assistance on two words.  And she was beaming.  Big moment.

In high anticipation of her Winter Concert, Rory was literally falling all over herself as we readied for the evening.  Attempting to climb onto her dresser for a full-body view of her ensemble, she slipped off.  Unfortunately, Emme was being helped into her black with white polka dots dress in the drop-zone.

Tears ensued.

Rory insisted that she was, "hurt worse than Emme!"

The injury was a welcomed distraction from Emme's preoccupation with the tights that didn't quite feel right on her toes.  We narrowly escaped an all-out meltdown and made it out the door on time, using more than our allotted amount of Christmas miracles. 

Hearts racing (mine and Brad's), we squeezed MeMa in between the booster seats in the back of the Volvo and buzzed off to the Liberty Performing Arts Theatre.  Anticipating a crowd of eager parents hoping to score perfect seats, we arrived to find the theatre surprisingly empty.  Calling upon some more Christmas magic, we snagged seats that ended up being perfect for viewing all that Rory was a part of.

One of the first people she spotted was a Kindergartner she would share the stage with later.  She ran up to him and said, “Good luck on your solo.”

Rory paced back and forth greeting friends as they arrived.  She wore a path in the carpeted steps between her seat with the students and us, unable to sit still. 

"MeMa, I want to introduce you to my teacher.”  She had brought Mrs. Rangel over for introductions.  She really is that adorable.

 

However, all was not Christmas cheer and wishes of merriness.  Shrill cries from the toddler behind me, spouting sadness from his mouth just inches from my ear, threatened our evening entertainment. 

 

“Eli!  You cannot go down with Bubba!  He has to sit with the other students!”

 

His mother was…well…I probably shouldn’t try to put her into words.  To be fair, we only shared a brief hour together.  But it was a very important hour to me.  Still, my mother told me that some things are best left unsaid.

 

“No!  Stop that right now!  I am not going to put up with this!”

 

Her parenting was loud enough for all of us to hear.  Perhaps intended for not only little Eli’s ears?

 

“Everyone’s staring at you.  See...do you want everyone to stare at you?  You better be a good boy."

 

Let me interject.  I despise that phrase.  We are exhaustive in our efforts to NEVER say this to our children.  While they sometimes make “bad decisions” or “choose bad behaviors”, they are ALWAYS “good girls.”  I cringed every time I heard her use the phrase.

 

“Eli! As soon as we see Bubba on stage, we’re leaving!”

 

Meanwhile, Eli is crying.  Screaming.  At full-volume.  Non-stop.  Near my ear.

 

I’m leaving out all her cuss words. Of which she had a full repertoire. 

 

By this time everyone around her is practicing the art of the “glance that seems as if we’re just checking on the activity, but we really hope she sees how much she’s disturbing all of us and gets that kid out of here already!”

 

I turn.  “We have toys.  Do you think he’d like to play with one?”

 

Stone-faced she replies, “No.  He’ll just throw it.”

 

I turn back around.  Dejected and terrified that the moment I’ve been anticipating for weeks will certainly be ruined by an out of control toddler.  Rory has been so excited.  She’s already asked to see the video upon returning home.  My mom couldn’t attend, exhausted from hours of travel to and from my step-dad’s chemo treatments.  She’s counting on this video.  I’ll be damned if this woman’s lack of parenting skills ruins this for us!  (I’ll be completely vulnerable here…I wanted to hit her.  I wanted to yell at her.  I searched frantically for a burly father to come out of nowhere and demand that she leave.  Not my shiniest moment.) 

 

Moments from show time Eli is still screaming full blast.  Believing my only chance at hearing my daughter’s voice from the stage was to appeal to her as a fellow mom I turn around and say, “My daughter has a solo tonight.  I really want to hear it.  If he’s still crying when the show starts, will you take him out?”

 

Internal monologue, “Did I really just say that out loud?!”

 

She reminds me of our common reason for sitting in the same room tonight, “This is my son’s first program and I’m not going anywhere!”

 

As I turn back to face the stage she says to the couple beside her (her parents?), “Take him to the bathroom and bust his ass!  I can’t take it anymore!”

 

No one left.  I was relieved.  I desperately wanted Eli’s hind end to remain unbusted.

 

Heart beating faster.

 

“No!  You need to leave!”  I look over and see two men standing in the aisle.  “He needs to leave,” she says to one.  He’s not my son’s father!”

 

They find seats elsewhere and she voices (again loudly) her disgust with the situation. Providing more instruction to those next to her she says, “You need to go back there and tell him to leave!  I don’t want him here!  He’s not my son’s father!”  They encourage her to calm down, don’t start anything, it’s a public place, maybe he’s here to see someone else’s kids.

 

“Yeah right!  I don’t care!  Take his side then!  I’m going tomorrow to get a restraining order!  He is not my son’s father!”

 

Luckily the dimming lights calmed Eli, and quieted her voice to a low roar.  Throughout the evening he added his own soundtrack of whines and outbursts.  We eventually offered coloring books…he was not interested.  And raisins…he partook.  (*Rory’s performance stilled him and her video footage ended up unscathed.)

My most-favorite Eli story of the night…As the last class finished their performance, little Eli repeatedly insisted they leave and go play the “water game!”  His mom replied, “No.  They’re going to sing one more song.”

Eli exclaimed, “Oh man!  Dammit dammit dammit dammit!”

 

While we waited, Brad caught my eye a couple times and we grinned in anticipation.  Kindergartners take the stage…our shoulders straighten and ears perk.  My heart dropped as I watched her vigorously rubbing her eyes as she stepped onto the front row of the risers.  “Oh no, she’s got something in her eye and she can’t get it out.”  I willed for a teacher to notice, to help her…she’s got a solo for pete’s sake!”  Turns out she didn’t need rescuing.  “Juliette hit me in the eye with her elbow.  It hurt really bad.  I was rubbing it trying to get the hurt out.  It didn’t work.  Eventually I just left it alone and it felt better.  I fixed it myself!”  She reported later of her success.

 

One solo and two songs later she stepped up.  She and another boy walked to center-stage, the only thing between them and the edge of the stage was a mic stand and a poinsettia plant.  “Is this my microphone?” The question directed at Mr. Wrolstad, the music teacher, was picked up by the mic.

 

As she stood at the microphone, she took a deep breath.  You can see it on the video…and the crowd giggled as they watched a little girl prepare for her big moment.

 

The boy sang first.  Then, with no teacher to cue her, she took a breath and sang, “I too have lost my jingle bell, the one with ribbon round it.  I too have lost my jingle bell, I wonder who has found it.”

 

She stood straight, sang clear and looked angelic in her red dress and sparkly tights that matched perfectly with her silvery sparkly TOMS shoes.  Unlike Eli’s bottom…I was busting…with pride.

 

Franklin Elementary again proved their excellence.  Upon entering the auditorium, the art teacher handed us a personal program cover decorated with mitten artwork featuring symmetry and color that Rory had created.  The PE coach made countless trips across the stage directing traffic, handing out/collecting instruments, and providing support.  The staff even surprised the crowd with their own performance of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.”  Kids bounced and cheered as they watched their beloved teachers take the stage.  They received the loudest applause.  They again showed their incredible commitment to their jobs, and we left feeling blessed to be a part of their school community.

We love cousins, Ryan and Jill.  Rory and Emme chose one cousin each while we rested after Thanksgiving lunch.  Ryan and Jill anted up iPhones for entertainment, and the girls spent time lounging and exploring on the high-tech toys.  Someday our girls may be chasing their little ones around during holiday gatherings.

I don't think I could be more grateful for a school and the people in it, than I am for Franklin Elementary.  And to think, we just fell into it by accident (having moved in to the district only for the job at Jewell, not because of a school).

The people who teach my child in that building are stellar.  There really is no other word.  Countless parents comment when I tell them where Rory goes to school, "Oh, Franklin!  You'll loooove it there!"

Granted, the knowledge soaked up by any child eager to learn at this young age is phenomenal.  Writing, reading, basic math.  The developments are fascinating.  Teachers truly area a treasure.

But I can't help believe that Franklin gives Rory something extra that not every school has.  There is just something about that place...something special...something that makes me wish beyond hope that they'd completely disregard the word "Elementary" in their title and facilitate her learning up until college.  Each day she comes home with more skills up her sleeve, and spouting tidbits of knowledge that amaze.

I've known that we were a part of a lucky group of families by the way others got excited when we told them where Rory attended school.  Then, as we shared stories of what Rory was doing in school, another parent in my small group commented, "Your art teacher is fantastic!  We've been to two different elementary schools in town....neither of the art teachers did anything that impressive!"  I felt happy we were at Franklin.  However, my first jaw-dropping moment came a couple weeks ago when Rory stated at dinner, "Mom, we're working on our backdrops in art class for our sunflowers." 

"Really?" I replied, happy to hear about her day, but thinking nothing of it.

"Yes.  We're learning about Vincent van Gogh in class.  You know, when he was an artist, people didn't really like his art because he didn't paint things the way they really looked.  He made the lines all crazy and fun.  And one time he painted trees blue-green at the bottom, and that's not how trees look.  We're painting sunflowers in our class." 

Then I realized when she said "sunflowers," she meant a recreation of van Gogh's work.  And i got a little excited. "Tell daddy what you just said!"

Then I told her to tell everyone else who would listen as well.

Later that week, Brad was working at an estate sale and found a small print of van Gogh's "Starry Night."  He brought it home for Rory.  She took one look at it and said, "Oh, Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night!" 

It's now framed above her bed.  Pure delight!

I had yet another moment of amazement tonight as Rory started singing at the dinner table.  She loves singing, so that's nothing new...although always a treat.  But these lyrics, while sung to the familiar tune of Frere Jacques, were new.

Schema Schema Schema Schema
What I know.
Watch it grow.
I can make connections.
Meaningful connections.
Text to self. Text to self.
Schema Schema Schema Schema
What I know.
Watch it grow.
I can make connections.
Meaningful connections.
Text to text. Text to text.
(Here she paused to say, "That means book to book.")
Schema Schema Schema Schema
What I know.
Watch it grow.
I can make connections.
Meaningful connections.
Text to world. Text to world.

Then she explained what schema is and how it relates to reading books in class.

Brad looked at me and said, "I learned about schema too.  In last semester's grad class."

"Did you just say I'm stupid?"  I ask.

"Yes," responds the tiny voice of my three year old. 

"Oh no! To the corner! We DO NOT call people stupid!"

The word has snuck out a couple more times.  She calls things stupid, Brad stupid, and me stupid one more time.  Each time the directive from the closest parent is clear, we do not say stupid.  Under any circumstances.

Where did she learn this?!

She's also started saying "not sure." 

"Ready to take off your pjs, Emme?" 

"Ummm, not sure." 

"Are you hungry?"

"Sure!"

I loooove this photo.  Never seen E make that face before...might never again...and it's hilarious.
Hopefully it's obvious from this photo that we had a pink M&M and a cheerleader (from High School Musical) join us for trick-or-treating on Halloween.

I made the pink M&M costume two years ago for Rory.  Not particularly skilled at sewing, I cut out "circles" from pink fabric and glued (yes, glued) them together, stuffed the two circles glued together with crumpled paper and plastic shopping bags, and hung the two stuffed circles over her shoulders with ribbons safety-pinned to each side (think sandwich board).  The costume hung on by a thread, literally, through this year's wearing.  I have already disassembled it and retired the M&M costume.  Feels like a victory though....one costume, two kids...parental accomplishment. 

Due to the nature of the M&M's assembly, the stuffing settled to the bottom as the evening wore on.  This weight, along with where the costume hit Emme on her legs, made it increasingly difficult for her to walk.  When she tried to run...forget about it.  Unfortunately, running was often required since she's the smallest (of the walking kids) of the families we trick-or-treat with.  A couple times, running resulted in falling. 

The first time she fell, we were walking as a group toward a crosswalk.  She fell right before the street began and her candy spilled out into the road a little bit.  Walking beside me pulling the red wagon, Brad said, "Here take this," and handed me the handle.  He ran up to where Emme was...then right past her...and began picking up the candy.  He's got priorities.

After trick-or-treating around the Liberty square (an annual tradition), and hitting up a trunk-or-treat event at a church parking lot on the way, we walked down a side street back to campus and let the girls trick-or-treat at individual houses on the way home. 

Rory was giddy.  Each time she ran back from a front door she said, This is so much fun!  Can we go to that house too?!"  I was struck with realization that my girls had never done this before.  Having grown up with door to door trick-or-treating, it never dawned on me that my kids have only been to organized events, or stopped by close friends' houses.  The joy and the excitement for the "new" tradition was all over their little faces. 

So cute.

Emme had her first "school" party yesterday.  A Halloween party with her Parent's Day Out class.  I was in charge of snacks and made chocolate-pumpkin cupcakes with ghost peeps on top.  I was planning on taking chocolate-dipped pretzel sticks but Emme was adamant, "I want cupcakes!" 

Alrighty then.

I got to watch Emme for about an hour interact in a classroom setting.  Her teacher commented one time that Emme and another little girl named Olivia were the "alpha females" of the group.

I would agree.  She sat up front during story time, answered all the questions, was confident in all the activities, and could've cared less about me being there...until another little girl asked me to hold her...then it was, "Come here Mommy.  Sit by me!"

I don't know what it is about our girls...alpha females both of them. 

Over a month ago, Me Ma (Brad's mom) called to say that the local theater group was putting on a production of High School Musical.  Knowing her granddaughter particularly well, she knew this would be a "can't miss" event for Rory.  Gay also purchased another adult ticket, so Rory could choose which parent attended the evening at the theater.

Friday after school, Rory put on her East High Wildcats cheerleading uniform (doubling this week as her Halloween costume), and her "T" necklace (if you are a HSM fan, the necklace needs no explanation).  I even spent 30 minutes cutting strips of felt to tie together for homemade pom poms.

Once in St. Joe, Rory, Gay, and I hopped in the backseat of Vickie and Ed's (family friends) car and drove downtown to the Missouri Theater.  A crowd had already gathered some 30 minutes before the doors opened.  We huddled outside for warmth, eventually making our way into the theater in a herd of people.  Once inside, Me Ma promptly bought two "real" pom poms that even lit up with the hit of a switch.  Rory set her sights on a locket and wouldn't stop talking about it until I took her back out to the lobby to make it hers. 

Settled into our seats generously saved by one of Gay and Vickie's co-workers, who gained access early through a special side door for season ticket holders, we waited for the show to begin.  Once the lights went down, Rory was on the edge of her seat.  When not on her perch, she was up jumping, dancing, singing, and mimicking the actions of those on stage.  Each time the lights went down between scenes a shrill of joy emerged from the direction of Rory's seat. 

She loved it.  Her joy and excitement was so much that her body simply couldn't be still.  The actors were outside as we left.  She got autographs and photos with a few of the cast members.  "Gabriella" even said she saw Rory dancing from on stage! 

As I helped her get ready for an extremely late bedtime that evening, Rory commented that she was going to "probably do a solo with her school."  Thinking she was announcing plans to eventually perform in a show like the one we had just seen I began talking about how we could help get her prepared.  She said, "No, with my school!"  As she talked I discovered that she was planning to volunteer to sing a solo for her music class because her teacher was going to "pick people to volunteer to do solos."  Maybe she's destined for the stage?

Rory will remember this night forever.  I know I will.  No matter where we are, I am continually grateful that Rory is mine.  I told her that of all the kids in the theater that evening, I was so happy she was with me.

We found the best Pumpkin Patch in the greater KC area!  I don't want to tell you where it is...it was already crowded enough...and for good reason.  It was amazing!  For an $8 entry fee you have unlimited access to a multitude of activities included slides galore, "train" rides, wagon rides, sandbox, tricycle track, rubber duck races, and KC's first jumping pillow (which Brad is right now pricing online...if the cheapest one wasn't $14,000 we'd be hitting "order").

Brad's Aunt Kris and Uncle Jack emailed us this week asking if we'd like to go to a pumpkin patch.  They had some coupons, and although it was a little drive for us, the website looked like it could be fun.

We were there for a little over two hours, and would've stayed longer had our parent eyes not picked up on the clues that R and E were approaching the wall.  Their only still moments occurred during the wagon ride out to the pumpkin field.  Normally we saw them either smiling as they slid down a slide, or bouncing as they ran back up for another turn. 

So much fun creating seasonal memories today!

*Gasp* "My birfday?" 

"Yea, Emme.  Your birthday party is today!"

"Cake!"

Although the anniversary of her actual day of arrival had occurred two weeks prior, we celebrated with a little brunette whirlwind who didn't think twice about having already blown out a birthday candle this month. 

Emme flipped through our "Hello, Cupcake!" book and while she seriously considered princess cupcakes (the very design that caused me hours of distress while making them for Rory's 4th birthday), Brad was able to steer her toward another page that sparked her interest...slumber party cupcakes.  Having kept our guest list to family only this year, each party-goer got their own personalized cupcake.  When the guests arrived, the sleeping cakes rested under a "sky" of stars, created by a very talented dad that I handpicked for my girls.  (He did a stunning job...and the stars got multiple compliments.)

We're finding out that Emme isn't the most comfortable when everyone's attention is focused soley on her.  Unwrapping her gifts, and having her cake presented to her along with a soundtrack of "Happy Birthday to you..." in the background sent her running for the safety of a grandparent's lap.  Once sure the situation was okay, she joined in the fun and relished the moment.  But I'm still surprised that the kid who seems so unsure at the beginning, is the same one squealing with delight by the end.  Emme never has been easy to figure out.  I suppose I should stop trying.

When we moved to Jewell, Emme couldn't walk...now she runs...stick straight hair blowing in the wind.  A "late" talker, when compared to her older sister, she now carries on full conversations.  I swear sometimes I can see the gears spinning in her mind as she figures out new concepts and makes connections.  She's loud, independent, snuggly, funny.  She knows just what to do to drive Rory bonkers.  And sometimes she's a bit of a bully.  But, most of the time she still just wants to do whatever it is that "Ra Ra" is doing.  And we even catch glimpses of them holding hands.  She's spunky, and unafraid to stand up for herself.  Others are constantly surprised by her toughness.  She tries to convince most everyone she comes into contact with to wrestle with her.  She prefers savory foods to sweet, loves to dance and sing.  She likes school, but pretends to have missed us all day when we pick her up from class.  She repeats the same phrases over and over, and sometimes is genuinely surprised when something occurs exactly the way it has every time before.  And while we can now comprehend her words, and are positive she is speaking English, she still has a distinct accent.  But we think it's cute.  As is she.

Three years ago I gave birth to a baby who I didn't know.  Waiting for the surprise of "It's a ____!"  I was honestly shocked to hear "girl" filling in the blank.  I was convinced she was a boy...and so was most everyone else I knew, including the hospital staff in the room with us.  Only Brad knew the secret, and as I looked at his face he said, "Isn't it great?!  Rory has a sister!"  Emme, with her many boyish qualities, is our girl.  Our last child...we have planned.  Our baby.  Our brunette.  Rory's little sister.  The last name we sign on our Christmas cards.  I love her...and have from the moment I saw her...three years ago.

You should call right now. 

Schedule your tour of Shatto Milk Company. 

You will not be disappointed.

Milk bottles, bottle lids, pristine bottling room, anecdotes, excited owner, milk-tasting, third best chocolate milk in the world, orange milk, strawberry milk, root beer milk, banana milk, teeny tiny ice cream cones, big cows, milking machines, spraying milk, chocolate milk cows?, cow faces to be touched, baby cows resting in hay, first attempts at milking, photos, and a truck with a "moo" horn.

All for only $5.

Throughout the morning, Brad kept repeating how much fun the tour was.  A very involved father, he was more than happy to accompany his family on a milk farm tour.  What he didn't expect was how much he'd enjoy it. 

I'm pretty sure this will become an annual trek for our family.

It must be rough being the second child.  You get dragged along as older siblings experience new things, seemingly have more fun, and are offered more perks in the family hierarchy.  Your momentous occasions get lost in the midst of the goings on of life for the older sister.

Rory embarking on her public school adventure was just strong enough to hold my attention this fall.  Emme's first day of school (Parents Day Out) snuck up on me.  Last night I dug out the red folder, labeled with her name, from a drawer where it found a home after we returned from the Small Saints Learning Center open house.  Flipping through the pages I was smacked with things I still needed to ready for little E's backpack the next morning.

Emme woke up and found her open lunch box half-packed on the kiddie table in our kitchen.  She immediately decided that the chips should be for breakfast.  I was awakened to her loud opposition to Brad's insistence that the chips were to be saved for lunch.  Putting on her first day of school dress started another tiff.  She eventually succumbed to both decisions that had been made for her (although she did pick out the chips, and the dress on an earlier date). Pancake breakfast in tummy, dressed, "clippie" pulling back her bangs, teeth brushed, and "backcack" zipped, she collected her lunchbox out of the refrigerator.  Eager to be in the spotlight, she donned a huge grin and stood still for her first first day of school picture on the steps.

We asked her multiple times if she was ready to go to school.  "Yea!  I'm gonna eat chips," was her reply. 

"What do you think you'll learn?"

"Umm...I'm gonna learn toys!" 

She was probably right. 

Ready to do this thing already, and getting a little annoyed with the photo ops, she waited outside her classroom door for Ms. Renee to open up.  We entered the room first...overachiever...and she immediately took stock.  We had been there just a week before, but she could tell there was a different energy in the room.  Anticipating what might happen, she hung near Brad's and my legs.  As I hung up her backpack I heard her say very nervously, "Uhhhhh."

As the teacher put her nametag on she suggested Emme head over to the table to play with the mounds of play-doh already sitting out for little hands to explore.  The idea didn't send Emme running to the table in excitement, but it did seem reasonable enough to her, and she headed over to a seat.

There were no tears, no begging for us to stay.  Thank goodness!

After I gathered her from "school", we had about 30 minutes in the car while we waited in the pick-up line at Franklin Elementary.  She shared snipits of the day..."snack"..."priends" (friends)...played...and then she said, "I look around and said, 'Mommy, where are you?'" 

Where was I?  Well, I was in the car tearing up.

We spent focused time practicing our camping skills this summer.  The tent was set up in the backyard.  Within feet of the comforts of our bathroom, and the haven of beds if Rory and Emme rejected the notion of sleeping outside.

S'mores and camping go hand in hand in my world.  After a hot dog dinner, we speared marshmallows and set to creating the gooey treats.  Rory would rather eat the marshmallows and chocolate separately.  The s'more has lost it's luster in her eyes.

We spent our time talking over dinner, playing catch, reading library books in the tent, and blowing bubbles. 

At one point Brad leaned over and said sneakily, "Once the girls are asleep, I'll go get us ice cream from Sheridan's." 

We all laid down in the tent and waited for the short ones to fall asleep.  The girls rolled a little to find a comfortable spot in the new sleeping bags, but soon were quiet.  I sat up trying to get Brad's attention across our sleeping beauties...he was out.  He had entered dreamland along with our little girls.  No longer looking forward to a Razzle Dazzle from Sheridan's, I too fell asleep.

We woke up early and crept inside for morning routines.  All of us excited about our successful first night of family camping.  Brad and I allowed ourselves to dream of memory-creating camping trips.  The girls were anxious to use their sleeping bags once again.

I teared up each time I read official correspondence from the school district.  Every letter from her new principal made my lip quiver.  And who told Rory's teacher it would be a good idea to give rookie moms a poem about how she'll take care of our little lovelies while they're away from us?  I discovered that grenade the night before school as I went through the stacks of papers we received at Back to School Night...tears...damn her! 

She is a terrific teacher.  We met her often during our summer visits to the elementary school library.  Rory chatted her up and we were excited to see her name as Rory's teacher.  She's kind, calm, and in all my interactions with her it seems that she derives genuine joy from her job.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  Quality teacher...check.

Rory and I braved the raindrops Monday and went in search of this year's back to school outfit.  Among the many lessons I've learned this year, start both this search, and the hunt for school supplies, much much much earlier than we did!  (Ask me about my adventures in school supply shopping.  The saga involves a list with 10 jumbo glue sticks, a specific brand of watercolors that only one store in both Liberty and St. Joe carried, a discovery that I was, in fact, shopping with the wrong list, returning incorrect purchases, and finally procuring appropriate supplies.)

Clothes pickings were slim as stores transition from summer to fall/winter, but we were able to find some gems at GapKids.  Rory landed on a shirt with a dog applique and the words, "My Best Friend" underneath.  Irony anyone?  Just three months ago she was hospitalized after a dog bit her face.  Hmmm...best friend?  And what outfit is complete without the perfect shoes?  Rory is now sporting her first ever pair of Pumas.  She is appropriately convinced (as any young one should be) that the shoes most definitely make her run faster.  My "run faster" shoes from days gone by?  My Kangaroos...with the zippered pocket for milk money.

Rory chose pancakes by dad for breakfast, and came up with the great idea to have chocolate chips on the side.  Teeth brushed and clothes on, I grabbed a camera for a first day photo op.  She's adorable.  I can't believe I have to give her away to the school.  Brad keeps reminding me that when we do the math, she still spends more time with us than in class.  We are still the biggest influence on her life...or have the potential to be. 

I just can't stop thinking, "What have I done with my time with her?  I squandered it.  Spent too much time being frustrated, or annoyed.  Looking at something else instead of her face when she spoke to me.  Does she know how much she's loved?  Is she confident in how she was created?  Does she like herself?  Does she feel safe with us?  Safe enough to go on this new adventure with all the tools she needs to succeed?  I hope she misses us...but not too much.  I hope she loves school." 

Our night was speckled with little girls up and out of bed at all hours.  E was "coffing."  Which we took to mean "I'm not really sick, but here's me pretending to throw up so you'll indulge this late night visit a little longer."  Then she really was coughing....up everything her stomach contained.  She fell right asleep after, and R woke right up.  She came out of her room with plans to protest her sleeping alone since Emme was "so lucky."  I explained that while Emme did get to sleep with a parent tonight, "being sick is not lucky."  In all the happenings, Rory encountered a surprise meant for her morning eyes.  In an effort to make the morning a little more exciting and special, I hung a cheap little sign declaring "You Rock" which I have from a birthday party thrown for me a couple years ago.  Next to the sign I hung a gift for our school-age daughter...a silver pendant necklace with a hand-stamped baby bird. 

Being the unofficial theme of my relationship with R and E since getting a tattoo of birds to represent them, I have had fun collecting items with birds to gift to them along their journeys.  Rory knew exactly what the bird necklace meant.  And upon discovering it about 4 hours too early, the excitement of the new treasure was too much to bear. 

After all four of us finally settled back into our beds, Rory called out, "Mom, you know what?" 
"What."
"I was really surprised to see the Kindergarten sign and the necklace!"
"Good.  It was supposed to be a surprise for the morning."
"It was really surprising, Mom."

I fell right asleep.  Brad reported this morning that Rory called out a few more times before finally hopping out of bed and finding him.  "Daddy, I just can't sleep.  I'm too excited about the Kindergarten banner."  They watched a cartoon and then fell asleep together on the couch. 

The morning was rainy and overcast.  I was hoping the raindrops on my face might camouflage tears which would soon take up residence.

Walking eagerly behind us, but with definite recognition that she was entering something somewhat unknown, Rory declared, "Mom!  I feel good about this!"

As I cried on the way back to the car, Brad and I decided that that was about as good of an endorsement of our parenting as we could ask for at that moment.

Tonight while sitting next to each other on the couch, Rory asked me where her name came from.

"Mom, why did you name me Rory?"

Eager to recount the story for what hopefully is only the first of many times I'll tell her, I replied, "When Mommy and Daddy found out we were pregnant we drove to Pa Pa and G's house, and Yai Yai and Papoo's house, and Me Ma and Grandpa Roger's house to tell them that we were going to have a baby." 

Before I could go on Rory interjected, "Yea, but Daddy's Dad didn't ever get to meet me 'cause he had already died."  Little did she know that was a pivotal story point.

"You're right. A week after we told Me Ma and Grandpa Roger that we were pregnant, Grandpa Roger died." 

"What happened to him?  What did he do?"

"He had a heart attack.  His heart stopped working.  But he knew for one whole week that he was going to be a grandpa.  He and Me Ma were very excited to meet you and talked about you all the time.  When Grandpa Roger died, Daddy and Mommy wanted to honor him by giving you a name that reminded us of him.  We couldn't name you Roger because we knew you were a girl.  So we looked through the baby name book at all the names that started with the letter 'R'...the same letter that starts the name 'Roger.'  We knew we wanted the name to be unique, fun, and pretty.  Mommy and Daddy both liked 'Rory,' so we started practicing calling you by that name.  We decided that was the best choice.  That's how you got your name."

Listening to story time devoted solely to the subject of her, Rory was now grinning from ear to ear.  Soaking in all that she was, I was eager to spill out as much as I could to my little friend who wanted to learn of her history.  I have visions of her telling the story as an adult  Building relationships with others in her life, giving them glimpses into who she is and where she came from, she might start one of her tales like this, "The story behind my name is..."

I love this part.  The part where she asks to hear more about herself.  The part where she begins to realize she's a part of something bigger.  The part where she smiles in pure bliss because her Mommy is reminiscing about her.  Recently she has climbed onto my lap as I talk with other adults and explained, "I want to hear your stories, Mom."  I really love this part.  I can completely relate to what she's experiencing.  I remember lingering at the adult table a little bit longer as a child, longing to hear the words they shared and the guffaws of laughter which would erupt.  I never quite knew what was so funny...but I was drawn to the company.

I've also been waiting for her to enter the age of remembering...even in the absence of any personal experience with the memory.  I have missed Roger a lot lately.  My father-in-law was a kind man.  He had a great smile and a corny sense of humor.  As my girls grow, I think often of how much they would love Grandpa Roger.  I have visions of them climbing onto his lap as he sat in his recliner.  I wish I could have seen his face as he played with his granddaughters.  I think what I'm most upset about missing is hearing Rory and Emme laugh at his jokes.  I wish he could witness how great of a dad his son is, and see just how much his granddaughters adore his wife.

Roger was a man worth remembering.  We miss him.  Often when I say, "Rory," I remember Roger...and wish he were here.

Soon she asked, "Mommy, how come you put Grace in my name too?"

Today the girls and I skedaddled on up to St. Joe to spend a good portion of the day with MeMa (Brad's mom) celebrating her 67th birthday.  At one point I asked Rory how old she thought MeMa was.  She replied, "Ummm, 15!"

Gay later said, "It is fun to ask kids how old they think you are."  Thinking I'd take the challenge myself, I posed the same question to Rory regarding me.  She smiled and exclaimed, "25!" 

Not bad...but apparently to my daughter, I'm 10 years older than my mother-in-law.

"I'd cry but we're at gymnastics."

Brad received that text from me Wednesday night.  My shoulder was still smarting from the injury inflicted by Emme's teeth.  After repeated "tantrum threats" on her part, I was picking her up so we could go outside and regain control.  Disagreeing with this course of action, she screamed, squirmed, and then sunk her teeth into the closest part of me.

Now I know why Rory cries so hard and so fast when she's the target of those chompers. 

I soldiered through the rest of Rory's gymnastics class, avoiding conversation with the other moms.  One innocent "How are you?" and the tears could roll.

Emme screamed again as we left the gym.  Protesting the departure without her having a chance for some fun.  My heart breaks a little...I know she desperately wants her own "thing."  She sees Rory being dropped off for preschool, summer school, soon kindergarten, dance class, gymnastics, and tomorrow morning will be swim lessons.  But as much as I want to give her her own outlets for socialization and development, the screaming shocks me back to an ugly reality.  The one where my two year old is acting like...a two year old.

Even in the midst of a meltdown, good mothering is a priority...seatbelts are buckled.  We drive home silently.  Not long after leaving the parking lot, Rory's spidey senses pick up something wrong.  She focuses her eyes in my direction and after a few seconds of concerned observation, she asks, "Mom?  Mom?  Are you crying?" 

Emme chimes in, "You crying?  You not cry!"

Me: "I'm okay." 

Rory: "But it sounds like you're crying." 

Me: "I'm just sad.  It's okay to cry."

I dread the common question, "How's your summer going?"  It hasn't been that great.  Brad works full-time and goes to class at night.  The nights he's not in class, he's really tired, or working on homework due to an overachieving idea that he needs a 4.0 in his graduate work. 

The girls and I are together...alone...a lot.  We share three meals together...alone.  We wake up and go to sleep having seen each other all day.  Some days, Brad leaves before the girls wake up, and gets home after bedtime.  Having a severe case of cabin fever, I try often to plan entertaining outings to spend our hours.  Those days, while fun and a refreshing change of scenery, tire young bodies quickly.  Leaving those field trips usually involves two little girls in opposition to the drive home...opposing loudly.

The common stresses of parenting are magnified by my "singleness" this summer.  Emme being two, the girls competing with each other, Rory being annoyed by her younger sister, the messes, the monotony.  A college friend recently posted a facebook status about her being "not good at calm."  I can relate.

I miss Brad.  He's always been, and still is, a very involved dad.  For so long he's had a fairly flexible work schedule.  This summer, with its constant hours which have stacked on top of each other, have been a shock to our system.  The girls and I miss his presence.  And while I am constantly reminding myself that countless women and children do this on a daily basis, it still doesn't change that fact that this isn't "normal" for us.  We are used to being four more often than not.

After a silent drive home, broken only by my sobs, and the occasional question regarding my sobs from the two in the backseat, we headed inside for baths and bedtime.  One perk of crying in front of your kids, they are so shocked that they do pretty much whatever you ask without a peep.  The calm bath time ended my tears.  We shared a peaceful bedtime routine and I showered extra early that night.  I was ready for bed by the time Brad got home.  He noticed, "That bad of a day, huh?"

But what really makes me sad isn't the thought that tomorrow I have to do it all again.  It's that tomorrow I may make the same mistakes.  That something I do might change who my girls are intended to be.  Might hurt their little hearts for too long.  Might be something I can't apologize for.  I can be loud.   I can be a bad mom.  I am so very aware of my mistakes.  And some days I'm scared that I'm simply bad at this.  Bad at being mom.

Thank goodness every morning is a new day.  It's never too late to decide to take a step back and remember that someday these struggles won't exist.  Different struggles will take their places, and I will long for these days.   Daily I have the opportunity to choose to be present, in the good and the not so good.  And to choose to make "good decisions," as I encourage my girls to do.  Those days are good.  And those days do exist.

"What?" 

"This is pun!"

"What?"

"This is pun!"

"This is fun?"

"Yea!!!"

"Emme says this is fun."  Brad informed me after deciphering her words.

Had I stepped into a scene from the movie, "A League of Their Own?"  Red white and blue banners, hung from the green-painted beams above the stands, danced in the breeze.  Players (albeit not of the female variety) warmed up their arms with throw after throw across the field.  Game goers searching for $1 hot dogs formed lines in front of the concession stands.  Roses were given to "host families" before the last home game of the season, and stands were packed with fans cheering on their beloved St. Joe Mustangs.

My mother-in-law, Gay, had called us a month earlier.  I heard Brad's side of the conversation. 
"Yea?"
"When is it?"
"Fireworks?  Heck yea!" 
"Sam, are we doing anything on July 18th?"
"We'll be there!"

Scouting our seats an hour before game time, we were perched pleasantly at the edge of a row halfway up.  Content with my people-watching, I sat silently as Brad and Gay said hi to friends of current day, and days gone by.  Rory and Emme, although shining jewels on display for a grandmother with a chance to point out her legacies, were more concerned with the repeated trips of the cotton candy salesman.  Up and down the stairs he went, the girls were hoping that this time might be when dad and mom deliver on the "We'll get some before we leave" promise.

My mother-in-law is a fan.  She was in the stands on nights when it wasn't hard to find a seat. I'm trying to convince her to be a host family for the out of town players.  She's also got connections.  Disappearing with Rory for a few minutes they returned donning hospitality bracelets.  She handed over two more tickets for Brad and I.  "Go get your bracelets."

We snacked on shelled peanuts, hot dogs, nachos, cheeseburgers, soda, and of course cotton candy.  We cheered on the Mustangs to a win, and watched as horses raced across the back wall after each Mustang run.  As the sun faded and the field lights drew swarms of bugs, the girls went from excited anticipation, focused attention, exploring new places, restlessness, the grumpies, and downright exhausted. 

"I need a blankie, Mom.  I'm sleepy." 

Emme spent the rest of the night cuddled in my arms trying, without success, to fall asleep.

"Mustangs fans, after the game please stay seated as the lights will go out for the fireworks." 

Rory chose my lap for the viewing.  The blaring music soundtrack, and the booms of exploding fireworks, were too much for little ears, so I covered hers tightly with my hands.  I couldn't hear her, but could feel the vibration of her "oohs"  and "ahhhs."  Eventually, I noticed her body was decidedly silent and still.  Thinking perhaps she was "over it" I took my hand off her ear to ask, "Did you see that one!?" 

No response.

Further investigation revealed a 5 year old girl who had closed her eyes in the middle of a deafening fireworks show, and gone to sleep.

Emme spent the show in Brad's lap saying repeatedly to the fireworks, "You not get me!"

Tonight while getting Emme ready for bed, I had her on the dresser/changing table.  She stood up, grinned, jumped into my arms and said, "I love you!"

It was the first Emme-initiated "I love you" that I can remember. 

One of my most anticipated parenting moments with both of my girls.   Great memory!

Brad and I talked and decided this year for Rory's 5th birthday, we would give her a couple larger gifts/experiences, as opposed to a big party.  (Scroll down a little bit and you'll see evidence of a big party.)

We love people.  And once we started planning a small party, the guest list just grew and grew.  So, Rory got a bike, a "Cool" party and a trip to Build-A-Bear.  For her very first BAB experience we brought along the daughter of good family friends, Caedmon. 

To my dismay, Rory immediately set her sights on a white Hannah Montana bear.  I don't have anything against Hannah Montana...I just always tend to shy away from character-themed items.  Brad quickly reminded me that this was her time, and we would cheer for anything she chose.  Thankfully, the Hannah Montana logo on the bear's foot was easily covered up with a pair of red sparkly shoes. 

Rory's bear has a white dress with pink sequins, red sparkle shoes, a crown and wand...and a name that can't be beat.  Ellie Sparkle Marabella.  The moment Rory spoke the name into existence I wanted to scream to the world that this cute kid with oodles of personality was mine!  The name totally makes up for the Hannah Montana logo.  :)  

We've been thinking it for weeks.  It has even crept out of our mouths in utter disbelief as we talked.  Today we proved it again.

We have traveled out of the "baby days."  We no longer have a baby.  Emme hit another milestone this morning...her first dentist visit.

She rocked it!  We had a really great experience. 

She sat on a pink Dora stool and watched as Rory went through the entire process first.  She watched intently, only moving every once in a while to get a closer look at the tools the hygienist was explaining, or to announce her desire to sit in the pink examination chair. 

As soon as Rory slid off the chair, Emme was climbing up saying, "It's my turn!" 

She sat still, watching a cartoon on the flat screen tv mounted on the ceiling above her, while her teeth were cleaned.  The dentist walked up during the process and said, "Doing good," with a little surprise in his voice.  I beamed.  "Yeah, she's doing great!"

Marching orders from the dentist include daily flossing and squelching the thumb-sucking.  How do I do that exactly?  My love-affair with thumb-sucking ended after a long battle which culminated in metal spikes suspended from the roof of my mouth.  I fear Emme is more stubborn than I am.  Grief.

Both girls entered the exclusive "No Cavities Club" today.  And thanks to the neon-colored flossers we picked up at Target...are excited to floss!

"I want that one!"  She was pointing to penguins.  We had been flipping through the pages of my "Hello, Cupcake!" cookbook.

"You want penguins.  Okay."  In my mind I started to think about a theme for the event.  I landed on cold things and started planning a "Cool Party." 

There were snowballs made of tissue paper, an iceberg made from blue tissue paper "poofs" from a Martha Stewart craft kit, and an ice cream cone pinata....which I packed way too tightly with candy.  Thank goodness for Uncle Gabriel, who finally freed the candy with some mighty swings.  Kiddos went home with the coolest bubbles we've ever played with...Gazillion bubbles.

The onslaught of gifts for her older sister was a little difficult for Miss Emme to understand this year.  The arrival of a package in the mail from PaPa, containing gifts only for Rory, created a confused look which nearly broke my heart.  In September she'll have her moment in the sun, and until then, I know these lessons, while not fun, are important ones for her little mind to learn.

5 year old Rory is a delight.  It's so much fun to pull the papers out of her backpack daily and see what new skills she's practicing at summer school.  Writing numbers is a recent discovery that I'm very excited about.  She's exercising her artistic muscles more each day, and the pictures we are given include stick figures with hair, animals, grass, sky, and suns (my favorite).  She is still a fiercly social creature, and revels in the friendships she's started in school.  She loves to dance, and sing.  She's learning to ride a bike, and every once in a while picks up toys of her own volition. 

During her recent hospital stay, I was amazingly impressed with the quality of Rory's behavior.  Able to express her emotions, carry on a conversation with multiple adults who walked in and out of her room, ask questions to help her understanding, and face scary and painful medical experiences with courage, I couldn't have asked her to do any better.  I am really proud to be her mother.

I'm still not used to saying "She's 5."  But, I coudn't be happier that she's my 5 year old.  She is a joy and I love sharing life with her.

She is loud.  Incredibly independent, she mastered the phrase, "I do it!" through countless attempts to buckle her own car seat, put on her own shoes, and walk down stairs by herself.  Understanding early who held the power in the relationship (mom and dad), she began her own campaign to tip the scales in her favor.  I have often commented that she's lucky she's cute.  Especially when I've told her that she can't have a drink of soda, and instead of handing the can back to me, looks me straight in the eye and dumps in out on the carpet in front of her.  I can often see the wheels inside her head turning, wondering, "Just how far can I push this limit?"

But she's entertaining.  While pregnant I worried what it would be like for our second child, entering the world in the shadow of the personality that is Rory.  As soon as she was able, she began claiming her own attention (much to the dismay of her older sister).  She "reads" books on her own at night making up words for each page.  I think she has a slight grasp on comedic timing and knows when a silly face will make a group of people laugh out loud.

She's freakishly strong.  We've thrown away too many board books since this child found the book shelf.  At a very young age I walked in to her bedroom to find board books ripped to shreds in her crib.  I call her my "little scientist" because she just has to figure out things work.  This involves touching, manipulating, and sometimes taking apart, almost everything she comes in contact with.  She can open the child-proof locks on our cabinets.  Trying to outsmart her, we turned the locks around while she was sleeping one evening.  The next time she encountered the lock she looked at it and noticing it was now facing the cabinet instead of her, said, "Uh oh."  Then she opened the lock.

She constantly amazes us.  For instance, right now she's watching the scene in Robots where Mr. Bigsworth has set up a huge line of dominoes.  She is currently lining up VHS and DVD boxes just like the dominoes in the movie.  Never mind that she also lined up a wooden elephant...she's working with what she has on-hand obviously.

With all her personality, she still isn't crazy about going to the 2 year old room at our church.  Having found her at the top of the tv shelf (balancing on her toes and holding on to the top of the flat screen), I'm amazed when she refuses carnival rides.  At 2, she's already a mysterious lady...constantly showing us that we don't really have her figured out.

I really love my kids.  I'm actually surprised at how differently they were created.  Even in the little things like the way they each approached the lollipops pictured above (Rory licked and Emme bit), and the the way the hair grows on top of their heads.   But they're also both incredibly interesting, entertaining, and talented.

"That was a long day of summer school," she said as we drove away from the parking lot swarming with teachers and kids. 

Her first day of summer school...her first full day of school EVER.  Success.  No tears...at least on her part.  Mine were hidden behind sunglasses, and only emerged after Emme and I took a moment to pray for the other Anderson girl on her big adventure. 

I've been given bits of info since we picked her up.  Body basics.  (Includes sitting criss-cross applesauce, keeping your hands to yourself, and voices off while the teacher is talking).  Center time.  Exploring the cafeteria.  (Simply raise your hand and a teacher will come help).  Recess.  (There's a monkey bar set that's only for the 2nd graders so I hear.  "But, there's another set for Kindergartenders!")

And while relaxing on the chair before dinner she shared, "Mom, there's a sandbox with no walls.  The teachers told us not to play on it, but Natalie wanted to.  I was going to tell her not to...but my head was too full of fun."

In the past 2 years since we have moved to Liberty, every member of my family (expect me) has visited the ER.  Rory recently made her second appearance for a very similar injury...yet another dog bite to the head. 

The bite to her right cheek got infected and a visit to the ER turned into a three-day stay in the hospital. Complete with her very first IV, and a surgical procedure to clean out the wound.  Apparently infections in the face are treated aggressively since they have "less distance to travel to reach the brain."

It was quite an adventure...other than the "pokes."  She charmed most everyone she met, and Brad and I had to keep a close eye on her after hearing "I'm going to take you home with me!" from many a staff member.  A paramedic-in-training we met in the ER said he thought he was falling in love with her.

She's home now and absolutely great.  The wounds have scabbed over and are already starting to heal, and we've almost finished our last dose of antibiotics to fight off any further infection.  Rory decided in the ER that she'd like to be a doctor (a term which includes anyone who works in the hospital).

When asked in the hospital what her favorite animal is, she answered "dogs."

The girls and I took some time to paint flower pots they had received for Easter.  The art project brought out a rare moment of focus from my fair weather artist Rory, and less than calm Emme.  Emme spent most of her efforts on the inside of the pot.  Rory stayed true to character, and used primarily one color on her creation. 

Now we're just waiting for a free day to be paired up with a good weather so we can have some "dirty fun" and plant flowers in them.

I spent the days leading up to Easter walking back and forth through the aisles at Target filled with stuffed bunnies and ducks, candy-filled eggs, and spring-themed toys trying to find something that was both not too expensive, but special enough that it would excite our girls on Easter morning.

I bought nothing.

It turns out that everyone else took care of the Easter goodies task for me.  There was an egg hunt at preschool (which she missed so we stocked up on supplies so she could have one at YaiYai's house).  Some Jewell faces dropped off chocolate bunnies and stuffed friends for the girls.  And our annual Easter dinner with Brad's family held a couple more Easter baskets and an egg hunt (inside due to the frigid weather). 

Needless to say, Rory and Emme fully understand that Easter is closely related to candy.

However, that's not really the point. 

Sunday morning as we rushed to get out the door in time for the 9 am service at Jacob's Well (a 30 minute drive from our home), I remember thinking, "We're not going to make it.  There's no way we're going to get there in time to find a seat."  Luckily, there was also a voice saying, "Go.  Don't cheat your kids out of church on Easter Sunday." 

We parked a couple blocks away and walked in the doors 10 minutes late.  An angel, also known as Sean (one of the pastors), greeted us and said, "I just looked, and the entire front row is empty.  So if you're brave, there are seats up front."  Without hesitation we decided we were brave and marched ourselves to the front row. 

Jacob's Well doesn't offer childcare on Easter Sunday.  Being on the front row turned out to be a great distraction.  Emme got a close up view of all the happenings and it held her attention enough that Brad and I weren't frazzled.

As a church we traditionally walk to the front and rip off a piece of bread and dip it in wine or grape juice (for some reason I can't remember which) when we take communion.  Easter Sunday, Tim Keel invited us to "receive" communion.  We walked up as a family and cupped our hands ready to receive the bread.  Rory anticipated our turn for quite a while as we watched the rest of the church file in front of our row.  After Brad and I were done, the communion "helpers" leaned down to our little girl, hands cupped in front of her, and placed a piece of bread symbolizing the crucified body of Christ in her hands.  She then took that bread in her little fingers and dipped it in the dark purple liquid symbolizing Christ's blood.  She placed it in her mouth, looked at me, and grinned.  She felt as if she had just been a part of a very special ritual.

Her excitement couldn't have been more appropriate.

I have heard parents tell often of the joys of seeing things through their child's eyes.  Commonplace becomes fresh again.  Old behaviors look new.  I have seen it myself many times.  The joy of a good laugh.  The excitement of a warm, sunny day after weeks of grey clouds.  The importance of a pretty rock found on the playground.

Sometimes though, our children not only remind us to be awake during the commonplace...they teach us about depth and significance. 

Looking at her face, her jubilation at participating in communion, I was reminded that Easter isn't in giving her stuffed bunnies, chocolate eggs, and flowery dresses.  Easter is in sharing my faith with her.

The girls and I joined my mom and sister while they looked for accessories for Kaitlynn's graduation dress.  It was my mom and sister's first experience at Zona Rosa and we had a beautiful day to explore the stores. 

According to my children, there's no need to travel to Zona Rosa unless you plan on visiting The Grove (play area), and any store with an escalator.  We did both, AND added a trip to the pretzel shop!  They picked out their swimsuits for the summer (wish my decision was that easy), got a stuffed duck from the wandering Zona Rosa Easter Bunny, tapped on the glass at some baby ducks in a display, and managed not to knock down any of the mannequins. 

After trying on heels at the shoe mecca, DSW, Emme claimed a spot under a shoe display.  Considering the fact that she was quiet, relatively contained, and not bent on destroying anything, I let her stay there til we were ready to leave.  When I repeatedly requested that she come out from under the table so we could go, she said, "I'm busy!"  At first I just looked at my mom and wondered out loud about what she was going to be like at 13.  However, as I went to pick her up, I realized she was in fact, busy.

Our next stop was a bathroom.

(Check out more photos and some shots of the girls with our friends' son, baby Chase, on the Pictures tab.)

I've added a new album under the Pictures tab entitled "mom's away."  It contains all the photos that Brad took of their adventures during my Outward Bound experience.  It's pretty funny.

Also, check out the photographic proof below of Rory's first salon experience below.

I have been wondering for a few months whether or not Rory would enjoy a pedicure.  She's very girly, and really likes having her nails painted.  However, with Rory, you never know what she might deem worthwhile, and what is never to be attempted. 

Brad and I have a wedding to attend this weekend, and with sandal season coming and going as it has been, I thought a pedicure was merited.  I prepped Rory by saying she could come with me to watch and then decide if she wanted to have one in the future.  She kept talking about how she was going to "watch a pedicure."  She also asked if they had to "strap us into the chairs." 

I made the appointment for today, hoping the salon wouldn't be overrun with ladies seeking cute toes.  I was shown to my chair and Rory was pointed to a chair right next to me that wasn't being used.  As my feet soaked in the rapidly filling bowl, Rory looked at me and said matter of factly, "I think I should probably take off my shoes...and my socks."

Things went pretty fast from there.  I asked if she wanted to try a pedicure.  She said yes, and the staff were happy to oblige the little lady.  She walked to the polish center and picked out a neon green polish.  I swear her nails will glow in the dark. 

She soaked her feet, enjoyed the bubbles, let them trim her cuticles, and opted for a flower painted on both her big toes and thumbs.  In between her grins to me, she studied the actions of the ladies working on our feet.  Her review of the massage chairs..."I love this chair, it does everything."

At the end as we waited for our nails to dry, with our massage chairs going, she said, "This is so relaxing." 

Sometimes we get the rare opportunity to discover the source of Rory's thoughts.  Recently, we were able to unlock the thought process which resulted in the following statement, "If he were dead, I wouldn't even try to wake him up."

Rory and Brad and I were talking during lunch about her day at preschool.  We can't quite figure out what exactly was said, but according to Rory, a little boy in her class said she was the "girl of his dreams."  She apparently doesn't like holding that title, and proceeded to explain to us how she doesn't like him (some eye rolling was involved if I remember correctly).  To make her point crystal clear she added, "If he were dead, I wouldn't even try to wake him up."

Using my "you're-not-in-trouble-but-this-is-very-important-for-you-to-understand" voice, I explained to Rory that while it was okay if he wasn't her favorite person, that she was not allowed to make him feel like he isn't special.  And if he wanted to play with her and her friends then she should include him.  She said, "Okay mom."

Later I was retelling the story to my RAs during our meeting.  Heather, who has a vast collection of Disney movies which she shares with the girls said, "Oh!  We've been watching Sleeping Beauty a lot lately.  The prince wakes up Sleeping Beauty with a kiss!  Rory always thinks she's dead."  As best we can figure, Rory really meant she wouldn't want to kiss him if he were dead."

Rory has also been saying for months that she wants to be Lavagirl for Halloween (a character from the movie Sharkboy and Lavagirl).  She has also formed a Lavagirl Club at school with a couple of her friends, Rebecca and Natalie.  There are only four girls in her class, so I asked Rory why Brooke wasn't also in the club.  She said that Brooke wouldn't like it.  Wanting Rory to have a vision for including others and making people feel important, I pushed the issue, stating that Brooke might really like it and she wouldn't know until she asked her.  I also added that if the other three girls were in a club wouldn't Rory want to be invited too?  

Rory then said, "Mom.  She really wouldn't like it.  It's just work....and....like...defeating bad guys for 25 minutes."




Emme's verbal skills are increasing rapidly.  The glimpses we get of comprehensible sentences are great excitements to us recently.  Last night I took Emme with me to get some snacks for a meeting I had to get ready for.  She desperately wanted some marshmallows and again asked for the treat when I took her out of her carseat. 
As we walked into the house I said, "You want marshmallows?"
She replied, "Yea!"
"Okay, you can have 3 marshmallows when we get inside."
"No!  I need a bowl!"
"You want a bowlful of marshmallows!?"
"Yep!"
"No, you can have 3."
"Noooo!"
"You can have 3 or none."
"Okay, I"ll have 3!"

The above conversation may seem trivial.  But for me, it represents one of the few conversations I've ever had with Emme in which she was actively participating...and I could understand her.  :)

Brad before surgery...


Brad after surgery...


In October Brad took a trip to the ER after intense pain in his upper stomach which radiated to his back coupled with blood in his vomit.  After a night in the ER, with no pain meds, he was told he most likely had an ulcer, and to visit his doctor to confirm.  The nurse practitioner at our doctor's office diagnosed him with an ulcer based on his symptoms, prescribed medicine to heal the wound, told him what foods to avoid to help the ulcer heal, and sent him home. 

For months he has been avoiding chocolate, caffeine, and anything spicy in an effort to give his ulcer time to heal.  After being on the medicine for longer than thought necessary, and still taking OTC meds on a daily basis, he still had flare ups occasionally.

A couple weeks ago he came home from his Thursday night class with a terrible look on his face.  He went straight to the bathroom and jumped in a steaming hot shower to remedy his back pain, getting out periodically to throw up.  He looked like what I must have looked like in labor.  Constantly moving, no position gave him relief from the pain.  It was constant, "As if a knife was stabbing him and then being turned."  From 8 to midnight this continued, until he asked me to take him to the ER.

Thankfully, he was given pain meds almost immediately this visit...which made him sick.  But, the second dose worked well and didn't cause any more nausea.  After a CAT scan showed nothing of note, the doctor was concerned the ulcer might have poked a hole through his stomach wall.  He admitted him to the hospital for further testing the next day.

An ultrasound and scope later, we found out Brad has gallstones...and has no signs of ever having had an ulcer.  The biggest food group to avoid if you don't want to aggravate gallstones?  Fatty foods.  The one group of foods Brad wasn't worried about?  Fatty foods. 

Saturday afternoon he was sent home with a prescription for Vicadin to await a call on either Monday or Tuesday for a surgery to remove his gallbladder. 

The surgery went extremely well (especially considering the horror stories we've heard from others).  It took a little bit longer than expected since once they got inside they found Brad's gallbladder was infected.  The surgeon actually called it "pretty ugly."  (My favorite joke in response..."Glad someone finally had the guts to tell him."  Get it?  Guts.  Courtesy of our friend, James.)

Brad's much better now.  No dietary restrictions, and he's been on his feet after just a couple of days recovering on our couch.  He isn't supposed to be picking up anything over 10 pounds, and has a doctor's visit tomorrow to okay him to take up the activities he's already been attempting cautiously for the past week.  Amazingly enough, he said the worst post-surgery pain was in his shoulder, not at the incision points.

Kudos to Liberty Hospital.  We encountered nothing but fantastic doctors and nurses during the whole ordeal.

I ran a quick errand to Wal-Mart today.  We're campers now (it will be official after next week's trip to Arkansas to actually use the countless camping supplies/gear we've purchased in the past 2 months).  Turns out a couple items weren't needed, or didn't suit our needs, and needed to go back to the store.

I walked in, products in tow, and dutifully stopped after entering the front door, knowing I needed to get a sticker from the greeter before heading to the Customer Service desk.  Following is my interaction with the smiling gray-haired greeter, in his late 70s, dressed in a deep turquoise V-neck sweater.

me:  "Hello."

him:  "Hello. You need a couple stickers.  I just need to scan the barcode."

(I wait while he scans the first item.)

him:  "There's one."

(I pull out the second item from the bag and have it waiting for him to scan.)

him:  "There's two.  Thanks for your patience...and your help."

me:  "Thank you.  Have a good day!"

(And here comes the catalyst for putting more than one smile on my face today...)

him:  "I will!  I'm going to see my girlfriend today!"

I just added a page titled "Videos."   Check it out.

 Currently it's full of Rory's most recent watch night at dance class. 

Roryisms...

Here's a pic of two happy campers on a Valentine date.  We hit up Grinders (a KC hole-in-the-wall pizza and sandwich place with 1 1/2 pages of beer options), and Sheridan's for dessert (Razzle Dazzle!).

Brad looks white as a ghost because he got mysteriously sick earlier in the day.  He's not usually that pale.

I'm related to royalty.  Her name is Isabelle Ehrmantraut.  Her kingdom...Brunswick, MO.

Isabelle is my family's German exchange student.  Her smile is adorable, and she's a genuinely kind person.

Last weekend I took the girls home for an annual Valentine's Day Tea Party hosted by my mom.  It just so happened that my high school's Homecoming game was also that weekend.  Isabelle walked as a Queen candidate and we went into town to cheer her on. 

Having traveled during their naptimes, both Rory and Emme were on edge.  The added excitement of a new place, the seemingly humongous jungle gym of bleachers, and sugary treats, made for a game that I saw very little of.  Throughout the evening, adults from my past would approach me with the same statement, "There's no denying whose kids those belong to.  Especially that one!"  Pointing to Rory, they affirmed the obvious....my kids look like me.  While I love looking at my kids and seeing myself reflected, I can't help but be a little sad for them...no one wants to look like mom.  At least Rory has much better hair than I could've ever given her.

The announcement of Homecoming King and Queen was saved for the end of the boys' basketball game.  We situated ourselves to get a good view of Isabelle as she walked, and cheered her name.  Rory exuberantly yelled, "Yay!  Isabella!"  Forget the fact that her name is "Isabelle, not Isabella."  It's the excitement that counts.

When Isabelle was finally announced Homecoming Queen, we cheered and hollered.  Rory, in between yells for her friend, asked me, "What's she Queen of...this village?"  I couldn't get enough of the fact that Rory not only knew what a village was (a lesson I think she learned from watching the movie Mulan over and over again), but that she knew to apply the new vocabulary word to my hometown...a small rural community.  She really never ceases to amaze me.  I am continually in awe of what comes out of her mouth.



The following day was Valentine's Day, and the Second Annual "A Valentine Tea" gathering hosted by my mom.  This year added two new little ladies to the table.  My high school classmate, Amy, brought along her two girls.  The girls all wore pretty dresses.  We played, colored boxes filled with candy for the dads, and glued gems on picture frames to remember the special day.  The party was full of white tablecloths we could get dirty, fancy glasses filled with bubbly juices, and gourmet cheesecake.

Emme, my "boy", didn't let the expectations of "Miss Manners" ruin the fun she planned on having at a party...even if it was of the tea variety.  As the other girls built runs and sent marbles racing down the MarbleWorks toy, Emme disassembled it as fast as they could put it together.  As the other girls glued gems on picture frames, Emme insisted on playing with her Uncle Zachary.  At one point, she held up her arms acting as if she were on attack and...growled.  I looked up and said, "This one's not really built for tea parties."  However, we'll keep attending, because darn it if she doesn't look cute as a button in a dress. 

Rory had her own moments of weakness.  She struggled with sharing, and playing nicely.  My favorite indiscretion came toward the end of the event.  Rory, holding a toy gun, looked at another little girl and, frustrated with the way their interaction was going said, "Don't make me shoot you."

(You can see the gun in the picture above.  Check out other new photos just added to the February Fun album.)

The girls are watching Mulan right now...their current obsession.  We watch it on an almost daily basis.  They request the song "Be A Man" incessantly when riding in the car.  They could listen to it all day long if Brad and I didn't need a break from it.

We've taken advantage of the warmer days in February.  Had a picnic at the park and have taken extended walks.  I'm eager for spring to officially arrive here on the Hill.  Jewell is one of my favorite places to be when the sun finally begins to warm the earth and we can play outside. 

Life trots along at a steady pace for us.  Brad is working diligently in his grad program.  He studies for hours at a time, writing papers, taking online tests.  It's convenient that we live on a college campus and he can use the study spaces in Jewell's library.  Just this week he received his Praxis results...he passed!  This is a huge relief since he has to pass this test to be a teacher someday.  They recommend students start taking the test early in the program, just in case they don't pass it the first time.  I'm pretty proud of him!  He did well.

Emme talks more and more every day.  She's using complete sentences and comprehending more complex ideas.  With all the words coming out of her mouth, we'd really like to find out what language she's speaking.  :)  I'm sure she's foreign and we just haven't figured out what country she's from. 

Rory desperately wants to learn how to swim.  But she doesn't want to "jump in the water with a splash.  Just slide into it."  We're planning on enrolling her in both swim and gymnastics classes this summer.  It should be funny.  Brad says she inherited my athletic abilities.  However, I have pretty good balance, and I'm flexible...so that should help with gymnastics.  She continually provides us with one funny anecdote after another.  This past weekend, I took the girls home for an annual Valentine's Day tea party hosted by my mom.  It also happened to be the weekend of Brunswick High School's homecoming (my high school).  We attended the basketball game to cheer on my German exchange student sister, Isabelle, as she walked as a Homecoming candidate.  She won!  As the announcement came over the loud speaker, and we yelled for our friend, Rory asked, "What is she queen of...this village?"  (That's funny, because Brunswick is really small....like a village.) 

Seems like I don't have anything really exciting to tell.  Which seems extremely inacurrate since every day for us is full of newness and excitement.  I have to be honest...I really love our life.  I have become acutely aware of how much I'll miss living in community once we move on from this stage of our lives.  Our life is very rich...which isn't accurately portrayed by our tax refund.

Recently, on facebook, everyone was writing a list.  25 things about him/herself that others may not know.  I thought it was fun.  Here's mine...

1.  My ultimate dream home would have an outdoor shower.  I have wanted to shower outdoors for years.  Has anyone seen the Cribs episode for the guy who started Virgin Records?  Amazing outdoor bathrooms!
2.  My laugh has changed numerous times in my life.  (Is that normal?)  The one constant is that it's always loud and has always caused people to turn their heads and look at me when I laugh in public.
3.  I am a night-owl.
4.  I think a sign that my marriage is healthy is that Brad can still make me laugh out loud.
5.  It bugs me when people suggest that my family isn't complete because we don't have a son.
6.  I sometimes am honestly surprised (pleasantly) with what I discover about myself.  I'm pretty interesting.
7.  During our honeymoon in Switzerland, our canyoning guide told us about a "great day hike" in the Swiss Alps.  Turned out to be a grueling 7 hour hike along a mountain range.  I ended the hike crying as we jogged down the mountain (after missing the last gondola down).  I could barely move for 3 days afterward, and had to hold on to Brad like a crutch to walk anywhere.  Still glad we did it...makes for a great story now.
8.  I love cities.  Brad and I want to raise the girls in Colorado.  But someday, when they're out on their own, we want to settle down in a tiny studio apartment in NYC.
9.  I crave experiences.
10.Traveling the world, and writing about those travels, is one of my dream jobs.
11. I potty-trained myself.  Really...you can ask my mom.  She and my dad were sitting in the living room one day, I carried in the kiddie toilet and said, "I go potty?"  I went right there in the living room.
12. I love my kids so much that it literally hurts sometimes.  (Is this what "heartache" means?)  They are genuinely interesting and have lively personalities.  I am consistently grateful that they are mine.
13. I like giving gifts.  If I had the money, I would give many more.
14. When I was very little my dad spanked me for the first time.  He said instead of being shocked, sad, or scared...I got angry.  He never spanked me again.
15. I shut the toilet lid before I flush because I heard somewhere that toilet water can splatter up to 6 feet away!
16. I taught my crush, Nicholas, to skate at my roller-skating birthday party as a little girl.
17.  I want very much to leave the world a better place in some, perhaps small, way because I was in it.
18.  One of my biggest fears is that a mistake I make as a parent will prevent my girls from being all that God created them to be.
19.  I like saying my age.  Turning 30 didn't scare me at all.
20.  While on a trip to NY, I shook Tom Cruise's hand outside the GMA studio.  He grabbed my hand and then wrapped his free hand around our clasped handshake, looked me in the eye and said, "Hello."  Brad said he was hitting on me.  His hands were soft...too bad he's crazy.
21.  I love my station wagon...and will never buy a mini-van.
22.  I've always liked my name.
23.  I'm excited for not only where I am now, but for the goals Brad and I have made.  If I weren't me, I'd be jealous of my life.
24.  During a sleepover at my friend Toni's house in elementary school, we were convinced we saw a fairy outside the window of her bedroom.  For some reason, we also convinced ourselves that this particular fairy was evil.  With the covers pulled up to our eyeballs we counted down and then ran screaming down the hallway to her parents' room.  Turns out the "fairy" was actually just a streetlight behind blowing tree branches.  I'm still afraid of the dark.
25.  My first cuss word was "dammit."  I said it on Easter while all dolled up in my pink coat, little blonde curls poking out of the hood.  I had been given a plastic golf set by the Easter bunny and couldn't seem to hit the ball with the club...so I verbally expressed my frustration.  My dad said everyone stopped dead in their tracks, stared at me, and then slowly their eyes turned toward him...the obvious source of my new vocabulary word.

Wake up.  It's early and I'm exhausted.  But the sun is rising, and the only barrier between my eyes and the increasing morning light are my eyelids.  When you sleep under the stars, you wake up with the sun.  Condensed water has pooled on the healy hammock over my head, and has been dripping on me for a couple hours now.  Although it's a welcome reprieve from the barrage of bugs...and their bites...I am ready to be out of it for the day.

Everything is damp.  Makes sense.  I did sleep on a floating raft last night.  Floating on water makes for a damp environment.  Thank goodness for synthetic fibers, for although the outside of my sleeping bag is wet, my body heat has dried out the inside...and I'm so warm.  Perhaps I'm not ready to leave this dry sleeping place?

There's no time to ponder.  My instructor shoots out of her healy hammock, dresses and packs up her stuff as if the enemy is upon us.  She's quick and efficient...something the rest of us have not mastered.  Must come from endless nights of sleeping outside.  She says she "has a system." 

My system involves me steadily working through my morning to-dos.  My sheet now assumes it's split personality and becomes a "changing room."  Off come my "dry clothes."  The somewhat clean and dry clothes I put on each night are a treat after wearing the dirty, smelly, wet clothes I paddle in all day.  I save my "wet shoes" for the very end.  Sliding my foot into the cold, wet home seems like punishment...I'll wait until the very last moment. 

I then shove the extremely damp sleeping bag in my "dry bag" (named for it's ability to keep my stuff dry if it were to fall in the water), untie my healy hammock from the ridge line above and shove it in it's stuff sack...into the dry bag.  All I have to do is throw in my clothes stuff sack, my dry shoes, and I'm packed up.  Everything I have with me fits in one dry bag and one bucket. 

Brushing my teeth twice a day is the Everglades' equivalent to a shower.  If nothing else can be clean...I'll just brush my teeth for a few seconds longer.  Contacts go in and I look up...yep, I'm still in the Everglades.

The terrain looks unsurprisingly similar to the day before.  The greens of the leaves, the arcs of the mangrove roots, the birds, the waves, the patches of sandy beaches, the occasional dolphin fin.  We've spent a lot of time on the Gulf side of the Everglades National Park, so while one side is flanked with the "safety" of the Everglades, the other side spans out farther than I can see.  The horizon interrupted only by a passing boat or sunset.

The sunsets are incredible.  Beyond words.  Colors that start from soft pastels of lavenders and pinks can grow into piercing oranges and vibrant purples that command my attention.  Rays of bold yellow light stream through as the sun passes behind a puffy cloud on it's way to the horizon.  We spend the hour or so before sundown using our fingers as measuring sticks.  "I think we have about 45 minutes of light left!"  A trick we learned from our instructors, Jay and Lee (lovingly referred to as "Jelly" by our crew).

Sunset is hours away however, my day has just begun.  I may be ready to go for the morning, but the raft I'm standing on is hardly paddle-worthy.  The plywood boards we made our home on last night, must come up, be stored in the bottom of our canoes, and the gear packed back on top.  It's like the puzzles I was given in gifted classes during my elementary school years...get all this stuff back in the canoes, but the people on top don't want to get wet, so don't let them touch the water all around...solve it!

Our crew may not move at the speed of light, but we do know what we're doing.  We work consistently until we're off the boards.  Boards are stored, canoes are untied and balanced with even gear weight, wet shoes are donned, and paddles are dispersed (everyone has to have the right length based on his/her height).  While still "boarded up," the Navigators for the day went over our "float plan."  We know the mileage and have a general idea of where we're headed.  Our paddles enter the water.

By now we're getting better at paddling.  It's possible our boats went double the distance on the first day.  The constant right/left corrections blazed a zig-zag trail through the water.  Our instructors kept their distance, avoiding our bumper boat struggles.  We are given occasional lessons.  "If you find yourselves always correcting your direction, paddle a couple times and then draw or pry to keep yourselves going straight."  "Try not to switch sides while you're paddling."  "Make sure the entire end of your paddle goes into the water."  We give each other a hard time for not paddling enough.  At one point Alex calls to me as if he intends to tell a story or ask a question, "Hey Sam..."  As soon as I look back his voice changes and he announces urgently, "Look at Clark not paddling!"  Of course, we all laugh.

Laughter is our consistent guest.  There is plenty to laugh at.  Nate announcing anytime we go to the bathroom, "Sam's peeeeeing!"  Caitlin's explanation after falling in the water, "I took one foot out of the boat, and forgot that my other foot was already out."  Abby's explanation as to why, if she could be any cereal, she would be Honeynut Cheerios..."Because I'm sweet and good for your heart."  Laughter is ever present.  When we aren't laughing, we are talking.  There is some silence...you can't talk forever.  Then the laughter again.  Some days...nothing is funny.

Shoals have become a curse word.  Too shallow to paddle through during low-tide, we have to "slog" through the shoals.  Slogging turns out to be an intense workout.  Stopping gives the mud the chance to suck you in farther.  The best strategy is to keep our feet moving and our heads down, pushing the boats til we reach floatable depths.  The task leaves us breathing heavy and mud-splattered from head to toe.  If the shoal is firm enough to walk on without sinking, we pull the boats.  Constant reminders to "shuffle your feet!" are called out to our crew to avoid the sting rays.

High winds on the Gulf can kick up white-capped waves that break into our canoes.  The frigid water causes us to yelp as it hits our faces.  It actually feels like we're not moving as we pull our paddles through the broken water.

The reminder of what I've left at home is a constant tug.  We daydream about food, showers, clean underwear, and friends/family.  Surprisingly....or not...we don't really miss our computers or phones.  Probably because we genuinely like each other.  Who needs facebook and text messages when you've got 10 other friends with you 24 hours a day?

My crew members are Nate "Trooper", Caitlin "Flipper", Alex "Bruce", Clark "Clarky", Kyle "Luke", Abby "Honeynut", Chad "Moose", Rebecca "Ricky Bobby" and our instructors Jay and Lee "Jelly." 
We have a genuine respect for one another and work well as a team.  All of them leaders in their own rights, specific talents stand out.  Alex has a contagious positive attitude, Nate can tell where we are on a chart and has a servant's heart, Kyle proves to be a skilled navigator, Clark is constantly checking in on everyone...the encourager, Chad keeps us on task, Abby's calm presence is comforting, Caitlin is eager to experience it all which helps us enjoy the journey, and Rebecca is a processor who makes us think.  I look around me each day and am thankful for my crew.  I hope to know them for the rest of my life. 

It's difficult to describe what it's like to experience canoeing from the south end of the Florida Everglades National Park to the north with 10 other people.  Living so close to each other, being vulnerable, laughing til we can't breathe, eating every meal together, sharing the epic trek through Fakahatchee Creek.  We can tell when Clark's frustration level was "at orange alert", we know that Chad snores the loudest...but everyone snores, and we allow each other to point out our weaknesses.  The stories we tell back home about our adventures don't quite sound right unless we're talking in our crew.  We can finish each other's sentences, and the laughter is deafening before the story is completed...we lived it together.  If I could change one thing it would be that Brad could have been there too.

The experience is...beyond words.  Forty hours alone on a stretch of beach during my "Solo."  My canoe partner recognizing that I was approaching tears on our last day on the water, and offering to "split an orange with me," knowing that a snack might boost my morale.  Lee's skillfully built bonfires during our nights on the beaches, with the added treat of roasted marshmallows during evening meeting.  Singing together every song that comes to mind...and never knowing much more than the chorus and possibly one verse.  The elation that only we can understand when we first stepped on land after getting out of the Fakahatchee (I laid prostrate for a good 5 minutes).  Sleeping under a sky of stars that can only be seen when far away from the lights of civilization.  Listening to our instructor read Jonathan Livingston Seagull to us in the silence of an Everglades' night.  Living the unbelievable stories that we retell incessantly each time we're together.  Outward Bound made me feel...alive.

Today during dinner Emme and Rory got up from the table and were walking around in the cafeteria.  Emme came up behind Rory, put her arms around her waist, and pulled her to the ground.  Emme then proceeded to pin her older sister to the ground....sitting on her chest, her head, basically anywhere on top of her.  Both the girls were laughing throughout the encounter, but eventually through the laughter we heard, "Get this kid off of me!"  When we went to rescue our first-born, Emme was pinching Rory's face.

Rory has a purple mark on her cheek.

I gathered this morning in Jewell's Gano Chapel with others desiring to honor the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and perhaps even grow in knowledge regarding this historical figure. 

It was two hours of spirituals, praise dances, King quotes, prayers, reflection, and celebration.  Periodically throughout the service I wished I was seated in the front rows among those verbalizing their joy for the occasion.  My row mates weren't the likely instigators of clapping during a song, or crying during a praise dance...so I blinked back my tears and made myself content to at least move my body a little bit to the music...if I couldn't be up there standing and dancing with the front rows.

I regretted not taking Rory and Emme.  For although they would've most likely melted down during the second hour, I would've loved to have shared the celebration with them.  To have watched them dance in the aisles during the upbeat spirituals, or seen their eyes grow big during the praise dancers performance.  To have fielded Rory's questions afterward, and shared with her the reason we celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr...helping her understand just how long it took us to respect an entire group of people.  I wish I would've brought them...even if I would've had to leave early with them.

During one portion of the service a woman stood at the microphone and asked the crowd, "Who here wants to be great?"  Hands went up in the crowd.  I looked a few rows ahead of me and my eye caught a hand smaller than all the others.  I followed the arm to it's source and wasn't surprised to see it was attached to a young boy.  He was holding his arm up decidedly...yes, he wanted to be great!

The speaker went on to reference Dr. King's quote regarding greatness...
f you want to be important—wonderful.
If you want to be recognized—wonderful.
If you want to be great—wonderful.
But recognize that he who is greatest among you shall be your servant.
That's a new definition of greatness.

And this morning, the thing that I like about it:
by giving that definition of greatness,
it means that everybody can be great,
because everybody can serve.

You don't have to have a college degree to serve.
You don't have to make your subject and your verb agree to serve.
You don't have to know about Plato and Aristotle to serve.
You don't have to know Einstein's theory of relativity to serve.
You don't have to know the second theory of thermodynamics in physics to serve.

You only need a heart full of grace,
a soul generated by love.
And you can be that servant.

We were then encouraged to be great...to serve.

"Family date night!"  The girls yelled the phrase over and over in anticipation of the exciting night ahead.  Promises of playtime and ice cream had been made and they couldn't wait to collect.  Our destination was Zona Rosa, dinner at Granite City Brewery (thanks to a generous gift card given to Coach Anderson by his soccer team last semester), then some playtime at "The Grove" (the play area located below Marshall's). 

We arrived at the restaurant just before 5pm.  It's fair to say that we almost had the place to ourselves.  I laughed out loud at the funny things we said and did, and didn't have to worry about the looks we might get in response to our somewhat volume-challenged Emme. 

According to Rory (citing the movie Enchanted), "On dates you talk about your feelings."  When asked how she felt her reply was, "Happy!"

The night ended on a "To Be Continued" note as Rory felt very sick on the drive home.  Sure enough, our girl threw up once we made it home (luckily we had placed the "sick bowl" next to her on the couch and she was a very good aim).  After getting cleaned up, she immediately fell asleep on the couch, face down in a pillow, snoring.  We let her sleep there for a little bit while we watched our TIVOed Thursday night television.

Ice cream came one night later when little tummies were ready.

(Check out Family Date Night photos in the new album on the Pictures page.)

Brad and I have been trying to take advantage of "adventures" brought about in everyday life.  Tuesday morning we took a "mini-adventure" with Brad as he went to Rockhurst University to buy his books for next semester.  After checking out where "daddy goes to school," we parked our car for a lunch at Winstead's off the Plaza.  Fully invested in the adventure of the day, Brad and I let the girls order milkshakes, and nothing else, for lunch.  Rory chose vanilla and Emme strawberry (just like their milk preferences). 

Mini-adventures make everyday life a lotta fun.

I love my kids.  They're both so funny and have such vibrant personalities.

During the holidays, we were picking up fallen ornaments multiple times a day.  One day, while sitting on the couch, I spotted some ornaments who had lost their hold on the tree and were laying on the ground below.  I asked Rory if she would please hook the ornaments back on the tree.  She surveyed the ornaments, then looking at me said, "No, I'm not really a hooker girl."

One of the girls' gifts was a Black & Decker JR work bench from PaPa and G.  It's a real hit and the girls have spent lots of time playing with it.  One day as Rory was using the screwdriver to tighten the screws she announced, "I'm a good screwer!"

There's so much to tell.  Christmas has come and gone.  Christmas was almost overshadowed by a looming trip I departed for just two days after the holiday.  December 27th I left for 2 weeks on an Outward Bound trip with the Pryor Leadership class here at William Jewell College.  As a Pryor fellow myself as a Jewell student, I had already been on an Outward Bound trip once before.  This trip turned out to be 10 years from my first experience. 

Being gone for 2 weeks was a trial for both Brad and me.  There's a lot to update...both from Christmas festivities and my big trip.  Until then, please enjoy the many new albums I have added to the Pictures tab.  Hopefully they'll keep you happy until I can organize the thoughts inside my head.

Rory on Santa's lap.  Still loves that jolly ole' fellow!  She hasn't cried on his lap since she was 2 1/2.  I guess she figures that any smiley guy who looks like a real-life cartoon character, and hands out candy canes, can't be that bad.

 

 

Good friends, Chris and Becca, welcomed a baby boy into their family last week.  Chase Christopher is adorable and we can't wait to make some Anderson-Maggio memories with him too!

Friday afternoon we headed to Brunswick, MO for a visit.  My mom and stepdad are hosting an exchange student from Germany named Isabelle.  She is beautiful inside and out and we had fun getting to know her better.  Friday night Mom, Isabelle and I headed into town for the BHS production of "A Christmas Carol."  Watching the kids stand frozen on their mark, and hearing the lines read from behind the scenery before being regurgitated by the actors themselves, sometimes made me giggle uncontrollably.  While everyone else rushed for cookies and punch during intermission, I asked mom, "Were my high school plays this bad?"

She replied with a confident, "Yep!"

Saturday, Brad and I bundled up our girls in every layer we could pack on.  The entire family (my brother had come home from college for the weekend as well) jumped on a 4-wheeler, tractor, truck, or trailer and journeyed to a nearby field for some woodcutting and a campfire lunch.  On the way my mom, who was celebrating her 54th birthday Saturday, said, "This is the perfect birthday!  All of us sharing this day together." 

The girls drank hot chocolate by the fire, ate roasted hot dogs, and had their first experience with s'mores.  Both of them ended up disassembling the treat to get to the chocolate.  I introduced the group to peanut butter on s'mores and Brad made his own "Goober dog" by smearing pb on his hot dog.  My brother, Zachary, not to be outdone, put a big dallop of pb in his hot chocolate.

At one point I looked up and noticed mom was in full "mom-mode," making sure everyone had a hot dog, drink, everything they needed.  I announced to the group that "we should be waiting on mom!"  To which Brad replied, "We are waiting on her!  We're waiting on her to give us our food!" 

He was joking.

Later that evening my stepdad took us all out to a nice dinner at the Railyard (the local steakhouse).  The food there is amazing and we celebrated my mom's big day with deep fried green beans, breaded mushrooms, prime rib, grilled salmon, skewered shrimp, homemade carrot cake, and chocolate mousse.  As an extra treat, mom found a sitter so Brad and I could enjoy the meal without cutting up another person's meat.

Saturday night brought on a long discussion regarding politics and faith forming law.  While a healthy discussion, Brad recognized that it was draining for me and took the time to encourage me while we talked in bed.  Rory, who had climbed in with us after a late-night freak out, heard Brad mention "two camps of thought," said sleepily, "Mom, there are two camps I want to tell you about."  She held up her two little fingers in a 'V' and continued, "One is YaYa's camp, and the other is Jacob's Well camp."  She was referring to the farm (YaYa is her name for my mom), and the weekend we attended at a Youth Front camp with Jacob's Well (our church home) this summer.  "Jacob's Well has paddle boats and a canoe..."  She drifted off to sleep. I added, "And YaYa's camp has marshmallows and 4-wheeler rides."

We had a great time at YaYa's camp.

Sunday we spent some time with my grandmother, dad and stepmom.  Rory and Emme had a great time pushing the buttons on her electric scooter.  The last time we visited, my grandmother got back in her scooter to travel into the kitchen and shot off like a rocket.  They had set her speed to the highest level.

It was a great weekend.  Tiring in the best kind of way.

 "You nake!"

I was drying off after a shower and Emme followed me into the bedroom pointing and exclaiming, "You nake!"  It was just so darn cute that I didn't so much mind the fact that a person was actually pointing at me in amazement while I was without clothing.

Later that day I took Emme's clothes off in preperation for her bath.  She ran down the hallway, all the while saying, "I nake! I nake! I nake!"

It's hilariously cute at this age.  Let's just hope I never get a call from Campus Security with a report that she's running around in a fraternity house yelling, "I nake!"  :)

 I cried while listening to the High School Musical 3 soundtrack in the car today.  Complete with quivering lip.

I peered in my rear view mirror and saw my 4 year old singing, word for word, one of the love songs between Troy and Gabriella.  I have a vivid picture of her pink tiny lips moving slightly as she mouthed the words.

My mind instantly took away the booster seat she was sitting in and transplanted her to a day years from now when she might be really hoping a boy would sing to her like Troy sings to Gabriella.

Tears.

Negotiations with God.  "God, I get that growing up is kind of a given.  But, what if, just this once, you let her get brain gain knowledge, and her heart stay sweet and innocent?  Is it possible?  Can she keep her little girl heart forever?"

 http://www.emergentvillage.com/weblog/pastor-abandons-his-church

 Rory has shown more interest in pushing Emme around in the stroller while on campus.  Today while navigating off of the elevator Rory said, "I can manage this alright.  It's not like it's an alien spaceship!"