Of Ethnic Diversity

After three years of playing with her Noah's Ark set brought back by her Aunt Dia from a mission trip to Kenya when Micaiah was only four months old, Micaiah finally noticed Noah was a little different from her.

As I changed Emmett's diaper this morning, Micaiah came in from her room, holding Noah, "Mommy, this is my friend Ester."  Now, Ester is our sponsored child from Africa to whom Micaiah knows we send stickers and other fun things she gets to help pick out (but gets in trouble if she tries to play with them herself).  We keep her photo on our fridge and our little girl often refers to going to her friend Ester's house and has even called her her sister at times in the past.  This is the moment when I realized she has finally seen the differences between herself and her African friends.

"That doll is Ester?"

"No, this isn't Ester, but Ester has a brown face."

"Oh, like your doll.  Your doll and Ester both have brown faces because they're both from Africa.  But there are lots of people here who have brown faces, too."

"Oh, Africa.  And when we have brown faces - "

"Well, Micaiah, we won't ever have brown faces.  God made them with brown faces and he made us with not-brown faces."

"Oh, well what color am I?"

Uh oh.  I wasn't sure about the politically correct answer to that question.

"Well, technically, you're white."

At this, she laughed as only a three-year-old can at the ridiculousness of the misnomer.  "I'm not white!"

"I know, it's kind of a peach."

"Noooo!"

"Well, what color are you?"

"Oh, I don't know . . . maybe . . . orange?"

"Yeah, I guess it's kind of orange."

"No, not orange.  Maybe . . . yellow?"

"Are you yellow?"

"Yeah, yellow."

"Ok."

And that, my friends, was our first lesson on ethnic diversity.


PS She later pulled out her book on glaciers and attempted to identify Africa on her world map all on her own.  And, by pointing to South America, she wasn't very far off!  That's one smart girl.

Of Our Dancer

I sit here taking a survey for our local Christian Radio station, wherein I listen to a variety of songs and give my opinion.  Well, Penguin certainly has an opinion.  This typical late-night mover is definitely a fan of all kinds of music as it wiggles and grooves to each tune as it begins to play through my laptop speakers.  The movement slows between songs but kicks back up with each new tune.  I love it.

Should have figured we'd have another dancer on the way - this one will get along great with its siblings.  I foresee many living room dance parties in our future.

PS I will also have to admit, my opinions on this music survey are definitely being swayed by this little person, as well, as my joy in this baby's enthusiasm is giving me a heightened sense of enjoyment from each song.  Sorry, House listeners, every song is my favorite today.

Of Melmo

I was folding my son's clothes this evening when one of his shirts reminded me of this story:

While watching the Macy's parade on Thanksgiving morning just last week, the kids were most excited to see the Sesame Street float (though, to be fair, Emmett was a big fan of the whole thing - the overwhelming amount of music did much for his love of dance - in fact, the Rockettes got him rolling his little fists while his sister only feigned interest, for my sake, for about 1.4 seconds).  Watching their favorite Sesame Street residents making merry music made the morning for both of them.

Then they saw Elmo - and the world was even better.

At this point, Emmett, remembering the striped shirt he'd worn earlier in the week with a large profile of the lovable, red-furried monster, pointed to his belly and announced excitedly, "Melmo!"  At this point he noticed there was actually no Elmo on the front of his top, so lifting his shirt he pointed to his naked tummy and inquired, "Melmo? . . . Peese?"  He accompanied this with most pathetically adorable expression imaginable.

I asked him if he wanted to wear Elmo and Gram pointed out he had even said the magic word - at which point he even threw in the sign language, rubbing his chest emphatically.  He needed Melmo.

Sadly, the shirt in question was at the bottom of his laundry basket (thus it was being folded tonight) - but fortunately he's only 17 months old - disappointment doesn't tend to linger at this age and the next Macy's float had his attention 7.9 seconds later.

But I'll tell you, I've never been more sad to see Elmo in the laundry.

Of New Symptoms

My husband and I would agree: I have succumbed to a much greater amount of hormonal breakdowns as a result of this pregnancy than during the former two, most likely combined.  Though I have had mood swings in the past, the spontaneous weeping is relatively new.

It seems nothing is safe for me these days.  A sappy TV moment?  Tears.  One mis-spoken word from my husband?  Sobbing.  One well-spoken word from my husband?  The snot flows.  

It's ridiculous, really.

I wish I could control it, honestly I do, but it seems my tear ducts have a mind of their own.  

Thus, as we wait out this pregnancy, we're investing in tissues and my eyes seem to be in a constant puffy state.  

So, if you see me start to tear up, please ignore it and know, it's nothing personal and I'm not broken.  I'm just pregnant.

Of Bookends

It may have begun a little too early with a little boy covered in sickness, requiring a bath and being returned to Mommy and Daddy's bed to snuggle for awhile more - though Mommy kicked herself out when she feared her own coughing would keep the men awake - but any day that ends with that same little boy chasing his sister around the living room, both giggling like mad as she screams with delight about the monster coming (while Littlest Bit seemed jealous as he/she began kicking like crazy upon hearing the squeals of his/her siblings), is a great day in my book.

Of the Season

I teared up in the car today hearing the lyrics, "Simply having a wonderful Christmas time!"  I suddenly realized, with Thanksgiving behind us, Christmas time is, indeed, upon us.  It may have been because lack of travel caused Thanksgiving to, somehow, feel less like Thanksgiving, but either way, despite the months of seasonal tunes playing on retailer's airwaves or displays of evergreens in the aisles, the actual dawn of the Christmas season did not truly register until the melody of that first Christmas song emitted from the car stereo.  'Tis the season.

Accordingly, after the children awoke from their naps, Daddy pulled the Christmas tree and other seasonal décor from the attic and we went to town.  Micaiah and Emmett both helped decorate the tree this year and, with the help of the 24-hour ornament-emergency doctor we have on call, only one confetti-filled ball suffered irreparable damage (of course, it was one I was not sad to see break - do you think I'd really let them hold any other kind?).

While Micaiah's excitement at hanging ornaments of various shapes and sizes from the branches of our tree was to be expected, I was actually surprised at how eager our independent little boy was to take non-breakable ornaments from us to place on the tree.  Of course, the hooks were still a little complicated for him, but that did not stop him from trying to nestle his treasures among the lowest-hanging boughs.

The season definitely continues to get more interesting as our children grow older.

Of the First Thanksgiving

For the curious, my first Thanksgiving (with the help of everyone present) went off without a hitch.  The turkey, though still slightly frozen in the morning, thawed with a little help from some hot water and roasted up beautifully (and, might I mention, with much moistness).  The table, though not very elaborately decorated, looked gorgeous with the bountiful spread, whose leftovers will feed our family for the next week, leaving me grateful for the overwhelming provision of our Lord.

Our children enjoyed the feast as well - Emmett's favorite part was, of course, the most difficult contribution to the meal - or not.  Unless uncanning free (thank you, coupons) jellied cranberries (which were only present for the sake of my in-laws as no adult in this house is a fan) is considered grueling work.  For Micaiah's part, the mashed potatoes were a homerun, but, sadly, neither stirred with excitement at the main dish.

Overall, it was a wonderful day of food, relaxation and family (oh, and some manual labor which lived up the standards of societal gender roles, as the women spent the morning in the kitchen while the men got their hands dirty outside, fixing a gate and setting up a compost pile).

Grateful for days like these to take notice of all we have been given.