finding wonder in the mundane

dogmas

Two quotes I found on a friend's website, that I just LOVE...

"There are only two kinds of people, those who accept dogmas and know it, and those who accept dogmas and don't know it." - G.K. Chesterton

"Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither." - C.S. Lewis

Ok, here's my problem with any religion that says "If you're basically a good person, you go to heaven." Tell me, who decides your amount of "goodness"? How good? Is there a scale somewhere? Go to church. How many times? Every Sunday? You say, "God will judge your heart, if you had the right intentions." How right do my intentions have to be? How can you be sure that they are good enough? I guess you just don't know until you die? The problem I have with moral relativity in religion is that it gets me nowhere. The tenet that "everything is true" doesn't work for anything else in life; how could it possibly work for religion? It seems to be more of a post-modernistic thought than anything else, that there is more than "one way". And how do you account for the evil in the world? How does a God who is kind and good account for the evil in the world?

The God of the Christian Bible is not always kind and good. He gets angry with evil and tells it so. There was an ultimate price He had to pay because of our evil. But then, I have another question... wasn't His own creation flawed if evil somehow got into the mix? If His creation was good and perfect, how was there any chance for evil? Yes, He introduced choice, but why did He give us a choice for evil? What kind and loving God would allow us to choose evil? Would I allow Lucy to have the option to touch a hot stove because I am "loving"?

They may be basic questions, but they are mine. I think people can go their whole lives believing in something and never knowing why they do.

4 months

Dear Asher,

You are 4 months old.  Your initials spell your name, did you know that? One day you'll come home, probably when you're a red-headed 2nd grader who has an aversion to girls. You'll storm in the door and say, "Mom! Did you know my initials spell my name? Why did you DO that?" We didn't mean to, son, it just happened. Along with me accidentally calling you "Boobs" a few days ago, combining two of your nicknames. Your dad won't let me forget it. Sorry, Boobs.

Anyway, I digress.

So much has changed me in the last 4 months - your presence in my life has changed me. I could talk about how much you've changed, the physical person of you, since you were born that cold January day, but instead I want to tell you how you've changed me.
    

My pregnancy with you was anything but ideal. I was so scared, every day. I was scared that my body would fail me, that something would happen to you, that even my best efforts would turn to waste when, in the end, it was all out of my control in the first place. My prayers for you stormed the heavens, from the moment I knew I was pregnant to subtle little movements at 14 weeks to blurry black and white stills of an unborn boy's fingers and profile.

The price our God paid to cover our sins has finally been understood, at least in part, sweet son. When I think of giving you or your sister up in such an absolutely heart-wrenching way to pay for someone else's wrongdoing, it makes me panicky and short of breath. Both of you made me realize how living your life while caring for your child is such an amazing endeavor, a sweaty-palms kind of endeavor that keeps the knees of my jeans worn and my heart humble.

You are such a little lover; your daddy jokes that I am your "woman bride", and all eyes must be on mommy, at all times. It's true - you are such a little momma's boy.(If your daddy and I don't watch it we may just have a Norman Bates on our hands.) You want me to kiss you and you grab my hair while I give you zerberts on your cheek. You drool all over me and giggle. You gaze lovingly into my eyes and FREAK OUT when I can't be seen. You love to watch the ceiling fan and I am led to believe you think it is a person. I would think that all babies are like this, except that Lucy never was. She could have cared less who was holding her. Right now you're sitting in your bouncy seat, just waiting for a smile from me. That gives you the go-ahead to flash me one of your own. How I cherish reading late into the night, holding you or nursing you. You are so precious, and surprisingly, such a different personality from your sister. You are reaching for things now, with your gargantuan hands.  You are quite pleased with yourself when your hard work pays off. Whenever Lucy is in the room your little blue eyes follow her wherever she goes.

I can't properly convey the pure heaven of those moments to anyone unless he or she has experienced them for him/herself. I hope there are mothers and fathers out there whispering, "Yes, yes, yes!" because they feel it too. I think that's why moms all hang out together - that jaw-dropping, overwhelming love for their children - it is amazing. So amazing and so strong.

I want to raise you to be a wonderful, compassionate man who is not afraid to voice his convictions, though they are not popular in the eyes of society (and I can already tell you, sweet boy, they won't be). "The way the world is going" has frightened new parents for eons, and I am afraid that I'm no different. Have you half the strength of your father, you will overcome, and be a better man for it. I pray for your future salvation, that even before you reach the age of accountability you understand how much God loves you and wants to call you His own. I pray that you will make the decision for faith. I always thought your Nana was cheezy for praying for such things; I look back now and see just how wise she was.

Today I looked at you, sleeping next to me while I worked on the computer. I thanked God for you and snapped a shot because I don't want to forget the little you, the you before big ideas and tennis shoes and "who broke the lamp" lies and first days of school. I will treasure those days, too, Asher Man, but I want to treasure these days right now.

I love you - the shadow and shape of you. You are so special.

Mama

fo' shizzle

Scott and I are the proud new owners of a new car. Before you get your panties in a knot with jealousy, let me show it to you:

Now there were several different avenues I could have taken this blog entry about our new car, but I chose the following.

The car is a 1999 Oldsmobile 88. It's big and roomy, in perfect condition (it was my grandparents'.) It reminds me EXACTLY of the driver's ed car in which most of us learned to drive. I remember the three boys I learned to drive with: Eric Schimmel, Matt Waite, and Matt McDowell. They would sit in the back seat making fun of me the entire time as I tried to parallel park. Of course they had their turns, and whoever was in the back would snicker knowingly as the driver attempted to park. As if we didn't just fail the same procedure 2 minutes before.

If you've read my blogs for any length of time you've probably learned that we like to save money; make good decisions with it. While the car I want is this, the car that allows us to save some money and invest once we sell Scott's car (you have no idea the amount of money you'd make over the course of 20 years if you put $10 in the stock market today - or maybe you do), and the car that also allows me to stay home with my kids, is this (hey, isn't the car trying to parallel park in the picture, even without a driver? Hmmm...ours doesn't seem to have that capability.:

So, there you have it.

I was lying in bed the other night thinking about how I could dress the car up. My suggestion to Scott was this. His unabashed reply: "I suppose so, if you want other drivers to expect a pre-pubescent girl in the driver's seat."

Scott is a nice guy, a genuine nice guy. So nice, in fact, that we realized the other day that he fits the profile of a sociopath or a serial killer (must discuss this with SL). If you're just tuning in, SL stands for "Shrink Lady", my psychologist. Anyway - the sociopath...the "normal" white guy who does something crazy and everyone shakes their collective head and murmurs, "You know, Bob was such a great guy, always on time for work, quiet in office meetings, day after day with that peanut butter and jelly sandwich in that plastic Target sack...he never played games on the computer because he was too conscientious!" (The other night in Target we went as a family, and there was a bag of chips in the aisle that had apparently fallen. Just like I knew he would, he dutifully picked them up and returned them to the shelf. What a good citizen. Anyway, normal white guy - then one day, SNAP.

Yeah, so that's my husband. He's just so NICE. When I first met him I expected him to have some massive personality flaw, and, well, I'm still looking for it. Anyway...

My point to all this is that when we were dating it FLOORED me to learn that Scott is a wanna-be rapper. He listens to rap every chance he gets. He's not much of a music guy, but whenever we're riding in his car he's got the music turned up loud and he's rapping right along - knows all the words even! Not only is it hilarious, it's dead sexy. Yes, my little 1980's Nautica dresser secretly wants to be in cahoots with Jay-Z and Eminem.

Anyway.

About this car. We were thinking the other day that since Scott has this affinity for rap music, maybe we should get some spinners, and some under-car neon lights :

Then, as Scott raps out the car window and our 1999 Oldsmobile 88 bounces up and down the street to the beat and our neighbors look on in admiration, Asher will be in the back, dutifully sleeping:

you

I think I dreamt about you once, you were still in-womb.
there was no name to you, only shape:
a little bundle I knew I would love so fiercely
that tears would form in the wells of my eyes when I said your name.
Soft down of hair, dimpled grasp of chubby hand on breast,
sweet desire to look in my eye as you nurse.

a late spring evening,
the feeling I've always known you arrives again,
turning from sand to solid
as you clutch my shirt with baby hands
and drunkenly drift
to sleep

i couldn't have made up a story this good

So, this morning Lucy and I went to MOPS, then out to eat with my mom, then to Marshall's, then home. Lucy didn't get a nap because this woman came at 2:45 to meet us.

She came in, we all started talking. We talked about the kids, just some small talk. Her daughter seemed REALLY sweet and was just so good and kind and did EVERYTHING her mom told her to do. She often looked to her mom for guidance, and I was really impressed by how her mom directed her, and processed emotions with her. It was all fine and good.

The moment that things became a little odd was when the woman told me that she had two "concerns". The first was a huge concern that her children would be se*xually mole*sted by their caregiver. I told her that I could certainly relate, because that scared me, too - just about someone moles*ting my kids. I told her that I did have excellent references and had even had a background check by the nannying agency I used to work for. She told me that references were useless because all they did was tell you the stuff you wanted to hear. I sort of agree with that and told her so. She then asked me if I had been molested as a child; a question I found sort of odd, but, ok - it sometimes is a better-than-most indicator of whether or not someone will molest themselves. However, I do know people who have been molested as children and wouldn't dare touch a child in that way, so once again, I'm not totally sure I buy that. But whatever. She told me if anyone mol*ested her child she would kill them. She said she wasn't kidding. Ok.

Moving on.

Her daughter took Lucy's little vacuum toy, which Lucy started freaking out about. Then she held it above her head and threw it across the room. At this point Lucy was totally freaking out, and ran over and hit the little girl on the back. I immediately told Lucy this was NOT ok and put her in time out. She was told she could come out when she was ready to play nicely. (Which, for the record, I'm not entirely sure I would have done differently were I a 2-year-old whose home had just been invaded by another kid throwing my toys all over the room, AND I hadn't had a nap, AND, my mom was currently reading my favorite story to the other girl). So. Lucy came back out and the other mom started talking to her about what she had done, asking her why she had done it, telling her it wasn't ok, asking her daughter to come and tell Lucy that she didn't like to be hit on the back. Both girls were sort of just clueless and looked a bit dazed.

She then asked Lucy WHY she did it. What? WHY she did it? You're asking a 2-year-old to give an account of the reasons for their actions? Are you on LSD? The identifying quality of being two years old is that you do stupid, impulsive things all the time and you have NO idea why you do them. Probably because you felt like it. At this point I realized that the amount which her daughter complied sort of freaked me out, and she reminded me a bit of a robot. It was strange. I continued to watch with interest as she "processed" with her daughter, even telling her daughter not to touch Lucy unless she asked her first. Interesting.

The girls continued to play, and the mom would ask, "Do YOU allow Lucy to (insert any action here - run, jump, open the doors)? We don't allow Suzie to do that at our house." It was, in a word, strange. What 2 year old doesn't like to do all of those things? Trust me, I believe in consistent discipline with a small child. I believe they should know it's not ok to hit other kids in the face, steal toys, etc., etc. But I do believe there is a certain point at which, if you're not careful, you can drive your kid to drink Jack Daniels. Hovering over them and asking them to analyze every.single.thing.they.do. is going to give them less self-confidence and the sense that they don't have any idea they know what they're doing. Kids need to be able to make choices, and to see that sometimes those choices have negative consequences, without you allowing them to fail. I got the sense that this mom is so obsessed with having the perfect kid that she doesn't allow her child to be a kid.

It gets better. 

Lucy then runs into her room and shuts the door. "Isn't she going to come back out?" "Well, I think she is just a little overwhelmed and needs some time by herself." "Can I deal with her?"

what?

I actually tell her she can...so here is what she does...she goes to where Lucy is now standing, in the hall, and says, "Suzie doesn't like it when you try to hit her. Please don't do that." Ummm...haven't we already established that? Hasn't Lucy been punished already for that? And have you ever thought that you have stayed too long and maybe my kid is just tired of all this damn processing you're trying to do?

Whenever Lucy would go off by herself to play the lady who look at me to see what I would do; see if I would redirect her. If there's one thing I know about Lucy it's that too much "No, Lucy" just makes matters worse and her little brain just shuts off and she has a meltdown. Anyway, I was trying to nurse Asher at the time and finally just let Lucy go off and do her own thing; she wasn't hurting anyone. I felt like I was under a microscope; every interaction with my child being analyzed.

So, after we finished the whole child molester talk, she asked to see the house, told me I needed to child-proof more, etc., etc. (Which, interestingly enough, Lucy doesn't get into the things we have told her not to get into - so that takes away the need for childproofing most things - guess she's not such a brat after all), Lucy started saying to me, "I'm hungry, mama! I'm hungry!" The woman kept asking me to get stuff for her kids...kleenexes, bottles, etc., etc. She asked me to find her kid's bottle while she stood there and waited for me to get it. Then she asked me to get a ball out from under the entertainment center. I told her I couldn't reach it so it might have to wait and she said, "Hey, I bet you could use a broom to get it out from under there." So, picture it - Lucy wailing at the table because she is two and she is h-u-n-g-r-y, me trying to get this stupid ball from underneath the entertainment center and becoming increasingly annoyed that this woman has been here for 2 hours and is NOW asking me what I feed my children. I am annoyed because I know whatever I take out of the fridge for Lucy is going to a. be analyzed and b. will make her child want it too, when I just want them to GO AWAY. I tell her that I try to keep the sodium low, and often Lucy eats some grapes, maybe some string cheese, chicken. She tells me that cheese has alot of sodium, and that they are a peanut free family. Fine. I think she can tell I'm getting annoyed, but she prattles on. Suzie apparently eats 8 apples a day. I'm not kidding you, people. Count them. 8. 2 more than this picture:

If you've been reading this long, you get rewarded with this...

So, she's ready to leave. "Nice meeting you," blah, blah, blah. Then, are you ready for it? "Is Lucy around other kids much?" "Yes, she is at church 3 times a week, and the nursery workers always tell us what a joy she is." "Well, you KNOW they're going to tell you that, because they're church workers. It's kind of like references. Their opinion is meaningless. I am afraid my daughter is going to pick up your daughter's behaviors."

Hmmmm....if I had a few more balls I would have said something like, "Well, I think sometimes it's important to read a 2-year-old's cues and disengage them from a situation that is becoming more and more volatile. She has had no nap today and we've been running all day. Your child reminds me of a robot on auto-pilot; a little adult. Could it be that she is afraid of making a mistake? BITE ME."

Instead, I wussied out and said, "Yes, I haven't seen those behaviors before. She usually doens't act like this."

"Well, does she play with HER?" (She points to my little neighbor two houses down who is yelling my name and asking me to come and bring Lucy to play)

"Yes, sometimes..."

She gives me a knowing look, like, "A-HA! That's why she's a brat!"

"Well, your daughter's behavior really concerns me. I'm not going to lie. I really like you, though, so we'll try to see if we can make this work."

I'm sure I'll write some wussy email about how our parenting styles our different. Understatement of the year. But for her to have the audacity to come into my house and critique my parenting style? My 42-year-old neighbor (whose house I went running to after all this happened) claims that I just need a few more years under my belt and I will care less and less what people think, and tell them more and more what I think.

Hey, lady? You don't like my kid, you don't like me.
Oh, and...

BITE ME.

The end.

so like fear

I am near tears listening to the saddest noise ever, my son crying upstairs - I have tried everything with him and I think he's just so overtired he needs to have a good cry and get himself to sleep. It is, without a doubt, the hardest sound for a mother to hear.

This morning we went to my in-law's garage sale. I was a few minutes too late in buying this furniture set:
All day then, I've been obsessing about how I didn't get to the set in time, to buy it, a 3 seater and a 2 seater for 100 dollars...original price at Restoration Hardware, a LOT more. And I look and see these same sets from the 1950s, restored, and they're 1000 and more dollars.

This is where the OCD comes in and kicks my tush. I can't say, "Oh well, I didn't get them. It's ok." I have to think, over and over, about how dumb it was of me not to go to the garage sale earlier, and why couldn't I just have gone earlier, and now our backyard will never look right because we don't have THOSE chairs. Then I am seeing online how everyone wants THOSE chairs, and I hate the people who bought those chairs! Do they know what a good deal they got? I hate it! Every bit of happiness today depended on me getting that furniture set. I hate my OCD.

After the shooting at our local Target, my mom told me she thought I was doing really well, not afraid to go back. I told her that in between the VT shootings and the Target one, I actually verbalized to SL that one day I was folding towels and thought, "Rachel, if you don't fold this one right, a crazy man will go into the mall while you're there and shoot everyone. It will be all your fault." And, you know what? I believed it. So I had to re-fold the towel. I don't know if it's so much that I BELIEVED it, but the compulsion was so strong I could hardly ignore it. Then, when the shootings happened, for a split split second, I thought, "It's all my fault. I killed those people." Now, writing it out here, it sounds silly, but then, it seemed so real. I can see, logically, that if I have enough scenarios in my mind where something bad will happen if I don't re-touch the light switch or change Ashy's diaper a certain way or ask Scott the same question 3 times, EVENTUALLY something bad will happen after that event, just as a matter of chance. I come up with enough bad scenarios every day that eventually, one of those scenarios is going to come true and I'm going to think that I caused it. It's a shitty place to be, but it's my reality. After the VT shootings I was afraid to go out and paint that splotch of color on my house because I thought, "Rachel, if you go outside and paint, someone will come by and shoot you in the head." So, to combat the OCD, I not only went outside to paint, but I took an extra-long time doing the painting. The anxiety got really bad every time someone drove by, but it subsided after awhile. This is the battle I fight every day. I will not let this gray-black beast win.

Today we went to some beautiful gardens around our city. They were amazing. My grandma has come from North Dakota to stay with my parents for awhile; it has been fun I think. As we walked around the gardens and looked at the geese, the rolling hills all around, I couldn't help but think, "Wouldn't Gramps like this."

I got the hair-brained idea one summer that I'd like to hatch some chickens, just like some little girl in a sunshine-yellow frock and home-made strawberry jam on her nose did in the novel I was reading. I did, and when they got too big for city living and the dog had salivated over their little lives one too many times, we stuck them in a cat crate and drove 14 hours with them to my Grandpa's farm. At the funeral, a woman came up and told me the story of how my grandfather asked her to please take the chickens, because he couldn't bear the thought of killing his little grand-daughter's pets. This from a farmer who thought nothing of slaughtering animals in 60+ years of farming - of coaxing the land and the animals to take care of he and his family.

I miss him - miss knowing that he's there anytime for a sloppy kiss, miss the knowledge that I can lean in and feel his whiskers, though his heart is weak and his eyesight is fading and sometimes things don't make sense in an age-addled mind. In that moment today, that singular moment where I stood, on top of the earth, pushing the double stroller, staring out at the geese, I realized that he is under it - miles and miles away in a lonely cemetery. I just miss him, miss the idea of him, feet planted solidly on the earth - not UNDER it. The concept is so hard to grasp and it hurts my heart. I can't squeeze the thought very long before it bursts and tarnishes my vision. It hurts my heart, it hurts my heart. Those hands, holding that cup - I want to hold them again, just one more time.

C.S. Lewis writes, "I didn't know that grief felt so much like fear." There it is...the sunshine and shadows on that day Grandpa and I took care of the chickens, made the chickens do tricks in the chicken show for my grandma before a potatoes and sweet-peas dinner in a breezy farmhouse kitchen - even thinking then, at 14, that my days with my grandparents were limited; the fear-grief would someday grasp ahold of my heart and make me cry. I hope there is someone who reads who understands these dual emotions. I want to know that I am not alone.

The grief DOES feel so like fear.

I miss him.

that part of the experience

It's quite interesting for me to hear what you all liked and didn't like about your birth experiences. Funny, because back in December or January I was scoffing at the idea of "good birth experiences". I just wanted the kid out alive, right? I guess when you've had as traumatic a pregnancy as I did the first go-around, all you want is a living, breathing baby, with holes in the right places and a strong heart, brain, closed skull, belly, you know.

Now that I've been afforded the luxury of having given birth to a very healthy and screaming baby, I suppose it's the human nature in me to sit back and reflect, to think on what I DIDN'T have. I don't know if that is sinful to reflect on or not, but it's the reality of what I'm feeling right now. I have been thinking about Arwen's e-mails to me before Asher Scott was born, about the transforming power of giving birth - feeling that yes, you CAN do this. And yes, it's amazing.

I think, bottom line, the thing is this: I didn't trust my body to do what it was supposed to do. I felt like my body had failed me miserably, the first go-around. Killed one baby and left the other with some problems. We've dealt with those problems, and Lu is, by all accounts, a very happy little girl. Still, though. Remember that saying, "Let them burn you once, it's their fault, let them burn you twice, it's your fault?" I was that way with my pregnancy. I was terrified my body was going to screw me over again.

I was on pins and needles, waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it did SO many times with the first pregnancy. We started to get excited about something, then, BAM, it was gone. Her twin, her health, an actual planned c-section instead of an emergency one, where we later found out she would have died had I given birth to her vaginally. When I look back on that, it's no wonder I was terrified to have this baby vaginally. The doctor then was pushing me for a vaginal delivery: "She's going to be a very sick little girl - you know that, right? It's my job to take care of you." But I stuck to my guns and had her by c-section.

After A was born I spent alot of time comparing my pregnancy/birth with the pregnancy/birth of other people who didn't have any of the experiences that I had. And I started to feel inadequate, or like I had done something wrong - when, in reality, who KNOWS how they would have reacted in the same situation. I know there are people reading this saying, "Just be happy your kid's ok!" and I AM! But I also have some issues with the way he entered the world - not the kicking, screaming, crying "ohmyGodthankyou" happy tears, kisses all around part of it - that was wonderful. I'm talking about the decision to voluntarily have myself cut open - and now freaking out that the doctor said if I've had 2 c-sections I will always have to have c-sections. I am angry that she pretty much left the decision up to me, c-section or vaginal birth. And me, well, all you have to do is read my archives and see what a writhing basketcase I was.

Now, I think, "Why didn't I stop myself? Why did I do the c-section?" Then, I thought, "I have to have this baby out. I have to see that he's ok. I have to." When my mom was asking the doctor questions about the dangers of a c-section, I thought she was crazy. Now I see that she was thinking rationally, I was not.

I'm angry at my mental illness for taking those choices away from me. Yes, they were my choices, but depression and OCD clouded the picture - so the only thing for me to do was to get him OUT, and now. I'm angry at my doctor for asking "How are you doing?" too late - when I was so freaked out I was breathing into a paper bag and sobbing to my mom on the phone. I'm angry that I didn't know more the risks of a 37 weeker c-section baby who spent 9 days in the hospital. I'm angry that I may have to have a c-section AGAIN, if we have another baby, because most doctors won't do a VBA2C. But then there is a HUGE part of me that says that I will see a psychiatrist the whole time, AND find a doctor who supports a VBA2C. "Hey kids, I'm making my own choices this time." I'm angry that I finally found out from my cousin that uterine rupture, where the uterus actually explodes, is HIGHLY uncommon. I didn't realize that the 1 in 100 uterine rupture they talk about on the websites is actually only when there's a tiny little tear in the uterus that usually heals itself. I wish I had had more information from reputable sources.

At the end of the day, though, the experience of Asher's birth WAS wonderful. I got to hear his cry and see his face and watch him be weighed and measured, and see Scott's crinkly-eyed smile over his mask.

I'll keep that part of the experience forever.

birth

I have a post brewing in my head about the choices we made for Asher's birth 3 months ago. Before I get into that, though, a question...How did the way that you chose to give birth affect you after your child was born? (Catherine, I can hear you snorting through the computer screen...)

Dear Lulu

Dear Lulu,
You're all little girl now.
As I watched you Sunday morning, with your pretty dress (you kept asking me, "Is it cute, mama? Is it cute?"), your Cookie Monster barrettes and your lizard watch, I realized just how much the babyness about you is gone.

It doesn't make me sad, particularly. We were outside the other night watching you run around in the backyard, fall down, pick yourself up, and your dad said, "Man, if we could have had a crystal ball when you were pregnant with her..."

I think that so much - how we had know idea what an ephereal blessing you'd be to us. You with your "Good morning MAMA!" and your stale morning breath (we always make a point out of telling you how much it smells, and you giggle giggle giggle), your evaluation of the co*lostomy bag situation, "Mama, I POOP in a bag! I poop in my bag!" "Yes, honey, you do! That's how God made you, and we love you for it!" The sorrow in your eyes as you screamed for me at church on Wednesday night because some p*oo had leaked out of your bag and the nursery worker had no idea what to do with you. The way, when you're scared, you say to yourself, over and over, "It's ok, It's ok!" And you look to me to tell you, "It's ok!" too.

I love you when your eyelids flutter closed after the 8th reading of, "You are Mine", your favorite book by Max Lucado. When you say, "Read it 'gin, mama! Read it 'gin!" I like to think it's because there's a little girl named Lucia in the book, who's strong and loves God and doesn't care what anyone else thinks about her. I like to think that when you're asleep and dreaming, when you're in that land where you can walk on clouds and anything's possible, that you float above the naysayers and the "You can't do it" of the earth's gray atmosphere to do anything you dreamed you could do.

Yesterday you walked over to brother, hit him repeatedly on the head, and looked at me. You were frustrated and wanted me to "rocka rocka" you. I sent you to time out, and you cried and cried. Then we snuggled and I read you a book. How I treasure those times.

On Sunday the pastor talked about how your dad and I appear to love every minute of parenthood. We do. It's not hard, with you as our daughter.

That afternoon, when I heard about the tragedy at our local Target, I thought about how, if we had been there, I would have thrown my body over yours. Nothing would have mattered in that minute but that you were safe. You would have been petrified, and I would have kissed your tears and held you in my arms.

You're becoming more and more sensitive and, as I've said before, we sometimes have to work extra hard to navigate the rainbow of your emotions.

You are such a sweet, sweet little nymph of a soul and people are just drawn to you. I think they always will be.

I love you, little girl.

Love,
Mom