Of Playmates

One of my favorite things lately: Emmett is finally old enough to really play with his sister.  It amazes me because, in theory, he should still be in the "parallel play" stage - as in, if you set him in a room with others his age, they would not typically interact.  Each little baby would be perfectly content playing in his or her little bubble right next to their "friends". 

But when you throw a big sister in the mix, the game changes. 

Now, he chases her around and she runs away giggling.  They tickle each other.  And when they're in the car, their faces light up to see the other next to them, reaching for their sibling right away.  The two of them hold hands, play with their arms, share toys and spend a lot of time giggling.

I know these times of perfect camaraderie will eventually turn into sibling squabbles with just a touch of rivalry, but until that time we're cherishing their friendship. 

And praying that the difficult stage miraculously passes over this house.

Of Becoming a Princess

About two weeks ago, I saw a magazine on a news-stand all a-flutter about the pending nuptials of a certain royal and his soon-to-be bride.  My initial thought was, "That hasn't happened yet?"  My second thought was, "So ridiculous everyone making a fuss about this - why would I even want to care about their wedding?"  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, no, I don't care, but for my entire life, I have heard the wedding of Princess Diana to her Prince, failure though the marriage was, referred to as an iconic fairy tale moment in our culture.  And I knew, as much as I wanted to resist, this joining of a Prince to a "commoner" was history in the making and someday I might regret not witnessing it.

After much internal debate about the early morning hour and the actual importance this event had in my life, then finally settling on letting my mother-in-law send us a recorded DVD a couple days later (better late than never), I was elated to receive the invitation from a friend to participate in a DVR'd (read: not waking up at o'dark-thirty) watch party.  I could have my royal wedding cake and eat it, too.  What a day!

So Micaiah got all dolled up in her fancy dress (I honestly considered wearing my a former brides-maid gown, or even the actual dress from my own big day but turned down the thought for fear of being too much a nerd), we both donned our tiaras (ok, so I had to give in somewhere) and Emmett, well, I didn't want Emmett to be teased by the other boys, so he stayed pretty casual, and we all headed over to watch a real-life girl become a princess.

At least I can say I saw it, right?  (Plus, we'll still have the DVD for posterity-sake - and so Philip can see the dress, I know it's been killing him - or not.  But he's promised me I can wear my wedding gown for him when we snuggle in to watch it together next weekend - score!)

My little princess.  The wand was a crucial accessory, of course.

Of Our Little Artist

Our little girl loves to draw.  Whether it's markers, crayons, colored pencils, sidewalk chalk or her finger on the iPad, she adores creating with color.  Until today, most of her work, like that of her peers, involved primarily straight lines and unrecognizable blurs of squiggles.  When it was her turn to trace Mommy (or Daddy, or Aunt Dia) with chalk on the driveway, there were generally no other marks than the random dashes etched at certain points before it was pronounced done.  And, somehow, her work made sense to her.  And, being that she's two, it looked beautiful to us.

Today, however, while I did a little work in the church library (or tried, unsuccessfully, rather), she knelt on a cushioned chair in front of the white board, red marker in hand, and went to work.  At just the right moment, I looked up in time to see a blank circle on the board, drawn by her hand, and the pronouncement that he needed eyes (at which point, she placed two tiny red dots) and a mouth - and then, ever-so-carefully, she started at one side of the circle and drew a shaky line across.  Our daughter had just drawn her first recognizable figure.  And, like every milestone a child ever seems to make, it was like she'd been doing it all along - no big deal, Mom. 

I suppose it's because, to her, her art was always logical.  But to this concrete-minded mother, this little girl had, overnight, become a budding Rembrandt.  Someone give that girl a medal!  Oh wait . . .


This is why I carry a camera in my purse (that and the fact that I don't pay for data on my phone, so, though it has the capacity to capture a moment, it doesn't really do much from there) - she did this all by herself!

And because we like him, too, it's time for a Gratuitous Photo of our Son:

 

Of Parental Pride

When we arrived at church this evening, we headed in to drop our children off as normal - Emmett to the nursery and Micaiah to the classroom where the Puggles gather.  The Puggles are the two- and three-year-old sections of Awanas, for those culturally unaware.  And if you don't even know Awanas, well, no worries, that knowledge has little relevance to tonight's tale.  To our surprise, all the tiny two-year-olds were gathered at the door, ready to head out to their Awanas awards ceremony.

My little girl is old enough for an Awana award?!  An award for what, I didn't know - showing up to class?  But you better believe I wasn't missing this, our daughter's first on-stage experience beyond her baby dedication at eight months old.  I was also very intrigued at the concept that these Puggles were supposed to be singing a song and doing a poem.  My daughter, who still skips words in Pat-a-Cake and Where is Thumbkin - this I had to see.

Sadly, not being forewarned, I mourned my not bringing our camera which was sitting, memory card full, on our dining room table, or even our video camera which, sadly, suffered a dead battery (or three - apparently I'm not good with fully understanding the concept of a back-up battery) recently and has yet to recover.  So I was focused on storing this away in my internal memory card.

The Puggles filed in, adorned in matching yellow t-shirts, all too big for them, which most had not been wearing when dropped off.  My little wild-haired baby girl stood proudly tall, shirt to her knees and followed silently along with the actions to the song, though never opened her mouth, beyond chewing on her tongue.  During a break, she returned my blown kiss, but otherwise was perfectly composed. 

After the painfully silent song, poem and memory verses (while there were a few words shouted sporadically by a couple of the other youngsters, none of them quite had the memory capacity for all they were requested to perform), it was award time.  My baby was getting her first medal.  And she was so proud.  There, in the center of the stage, she quietly, but enthusiastically, held it out for momma to see.  And then lifted her arm high so I could see the matching bracelet she'd been given.  Not gonna lie, I almost cried.  An award for doing nothing but going to class and playing with blocks for almost an hour, and I was tearing up. 

As Philip and I slipped out to attend our actual class, we met up with our proud Puggle in the foyer and gave her a giant hug as she showed us her medal close up.  What a moment.

It wasn't until we arrived in our own classroom that I remembered - I carry a camera in my purse.  Battery charged only days ago, memory card nearly brand new, it had been slipped back in my bag just yesterday for moments such as these.  Apparently I'm really good at thinking ahead - now if I could match my thinking-in-the-moment skills to the other I'd be set.

So here is a post-ceremony photo of my little medal-earner (I'd like to pretend her hair doesn't look like this most of the time, but, sadly, those curly locks are hard to tame and most attempts to style them only end in lost barrettes when we retrieve her from class, so, it's true, many times I just let it be - although it doesn't always go this wild - thus, please excuse the unkempt appearance):

 

If she's old enough for an awards ceremony, she's clearly old enough to drive.  Or so Daddy thought, apparently.  Here she is guiding our car down the street:

 

At home, she shared her awards.  Emmett was given her medal and Daddy was allowed to borrow the bracelet.  So self-less, that girl.

Of Checking In

Emmett had his nine-month well-baby check-up today.  For those of you trying to count on your fingers, let me just save you the trouble - he is actually ten months old.  Momma just got a little behind in setting up the appointment. 

To prepare Micaiah for the appointment, since she'd be going, too, I explained that Emmett would get a shot and it would hurt a little but he'd be ok, so when we got there, she explained to the receptionist: "He gonna get shot.  He gon hurt.  He get band-aid."  At least we're all on the same page.  Well, except for Momma, who, apparently was wrong, no shots today - but they did draw blood, so Micaiah didn't feel like Mommy lied to her, which is important.

And little guy was a brave man - he cried, of course, when they stuck the needle in, but after a few seconds, he sniffled his tears away and sat courageously on Mommy's lap, waiting for them to get enough blood (however much that is) before they took the needle out.  He did let a few wails go about halfway through the process (he had the slowest-pumping blood I've ever seen) and Micaiah announced firmly, "That's enough!" indicating to the nurses that it was time to let her brother go.  Unfortunately they didn't listen, but Emmett did calm down knowing his sissy was on his side. 

Between the blood, the x-rays (to be sure his hips were aligned correctly, considering he doesn't really stand - turns out he's just lazy, so no worries there) and simply getting weighed (which apparently made all the other baby patients cry this morning, but not my man), everyone was quite impressed with our little guy's composure, taking it all in stride.  No biggie - he seemed to say - I totally get x-rayed every day.

So, besides the standing thing, which we're going to encourage his working on, everything's great.  Weighing 22lbs and measuring 29 inches he is in the 75th percentile for his age - a little less of a chunk than his sister was at this point, but weighing just a tad more than his brand new cousin who was born this very afternoon.  At 8lbs, 13 oz, she has a little catching up to do ;)

Of Tea

Thanks to my couponing ways, I was able to snag six boxes of Iced Tea bags for a total of $0 this past week (and, quite frankly, I could go get more if I were really eager) - that's a total of 144 family-sized tea bags.  And I hate tea.  But when it's free, it's free.  My initial plan had been to donate the boxes either to a tea-loving friend or even the local Rescue Mission.  And then I remembered, my husband actually really enjoys a nice glass of sweet tea and, being that all the grocery-carriers in the area have stopped selling his preferred brand of prepared tea as of about a year ago, his tea taste-buds have only had the chance to dance when McAlister's hosts its annual Free Tea Day - which, in case you're unsure of the meaning of the word "annual," happens only once a year. 

My man deserves better than that. 

So I decided it was time his wife did a little work to get him what he loves.  After finding the perfect Sweet Tea recipe on allrecipes.com (why, yes, I do use this website for everything, even something so seemingly simple as Iced Tea) and then debating on whether or not the recipe meant six regular-sized tea bags or six family-sized (which seemed a bit excessive for one man), I finally gave up and called my dear friend and former college roommate.  And then called her back about five minutes later when I forgot the steps she told me, because apparently "Boil water, add sugar, soak tea" is a bit complicated for me (Thanks, Tiffany, for being available for my tea recipe needs!).

So far he is on his second batch since Saturday.  I'm thinking he maybe feels loved.

Meanwhile, I, being the non-tea-drinker I am, had not taken in the aroma of freshly-brewed tea in nearly six years.  I find it fascinating how one whiff of the leaves brewing in sugar-steeped water instantly carried me back to the International room of Nizhni Novgorod University, enjoying tea break between Russian lessons.  My version of "enjoying" involved half a glass of sugar and half a glass of hot tea: mix thoroughly, maybe add more sugar.  I was so grateful the day I received a package in the mail which included hot chocolate mix from a wonderful friend.  Tea breaks got a lot more bearable that day. 

Meanwhile, my Russian host-mother never could understand how I never drank a glass of liquid in her home (tap water not being the best choice) and, yet, that tiny kitchen, with a T.V. in the corner and me being squished on the cushioned bench along the opposite wall by my host family, cornered with no escape beyond crawling over the table (which I never did), enduring hours of a Brazilian soap opera dubbed in Russian and a horribly melo-dramatic (from what I gathered of the raised voices and endless tears) "romance"-based reality show called "Dom Dva" will always be the second onslaught of memories to assault me with that one tiny stream of tea-infused steam. 

I suppose, then, this iced-tea making business does a little something for my man and a little something for me.  That's what I call a win-win-win (although I'm not sure who the third winner is - the tea maybe?).

Of a Cleansing Rain

I don't ever recall a stormy Easter.  Every Resurrection Day memory I possess involves a cloudless blue sky, radiant with sunshine, declaring the glory of our risen King.  My bones chill in memory of bright Easter mornings when the warmth of the shining sun did not quite radiate the atmosphere to my skin, but always the sun was there.

Until today.

Today, for the first time in months, Oklahoma has once again experienced precipitation, and, even better, in liquid form (as opposed to the crystallized water we received at the beginning of February).  And rain, even, that I don't remember seeing the likes of since the day Emmett wasn't born - the day we nearly swam home when released from the hospital after fourteen hours of labor which dwindled to nothing and a baby still inside.  The day my dad pronounced our son would have had to be named Noah if he had, indeed, emerged into this downpour.

This day, however, this day near the end of April, ten months later, was not one of false hopes.  Instead, these renewing rains gave new promise to the sun-scorched earth and a reminder that our risen Savior has washed us clean, soaking us deep in his blood poured out.  And the life that remains may not be an endless parade of sunny days, but the storms are always for our refining and refreshment.

Thank you, Lord, for your Life rained down.