Falling off the face of the earth . . .

So I’ve disappeared, apparently, from Blogland.  I don’t know why.  And I’m either having deja vu or I’ve written that at least half a half a dozen time in the last month or two or three.  I wonder if it’s because I’ve been preaching more regularly lately.  Don’t know.  But today, which, according to my last post must be tomorrow, I’ll talk about my cute kids.  Cuz I can’t do that too much while I’m preaching.  Though I do have a good story about Ruthie and Communion that will likely show up in a sermon some day . . .

So, on the kid front lately . . .

We have Isaac.  Who is seven.  And I’ve decided seven is my all-time favorite age.  At least that’s my story this year.  He’s just such a neat, neat kid.  He’s really coming into his own and we don’t have to struggle over every request, and his brain can handle some more complex thoughts and conversations . . . it’s just so fun.  And he’s so nice to his sisters.  He really is.  Especially when he’s not yelling at or kicking or otherwise bringing harm to Hannah.  They’ve been playing together so much better, just really being good friends together.  I love that.  They must have spent 4 hours in their bedroom on Saturday morning, just doing some sort of imaginative project together.  Very nice.

Now that it’s November, Isaac’s year-round Halloween obsession has come to an end.  I think he actually finally released enough of his Halloween ideas into the atmosphere that he’s no longer exploding with Halloween.  He’s making a good transition into Thanksgiving.  Which is probably his second favorite holiday.  Because of the food.  And because he love love loooves having guests over and hosting events.  He loves it.  So, he’s planned out how we’re going to have our family over for Thanksgiving dinner and he’s divvied up the dishes:  daddy’s turkey, mommy’s gravy, daddy’s mashed potatoes, Aunt L’s sweet potatoes and homemade cranberry sauce (we need her to make cranberry sauce.  I love Aunt L’s homemade cranberry sauce!!!), Grammy’s rutabaga and parsnips, Grandma’s peas and corn and apple pie, and mommy’s pumpkin pie.  I think that all covers it.  And picture it delivered much faster than you just read and with more enthusiasm than you can imagine, and you’re probably close to the live version.  Isaac is excited! about Thanksgiving.  He’s now talking of buying a giant blow-up turkey for our front yard because we don’t have any Thanksgiving decorations.  He’s also started planning for upping our Christmas decorations from last year’s additions.  Think Clark Griswald.  “Christmas Vacation.”  Except his father and I are more the simple all-white little lights and candles in the windows sorts.  If we were actually motivated to decorate at all, that is.  I’m not really sure where this boy came from.

Hannah.  Hannah girlie.  Hannah girlie’s birthday is right around the corner and is she ever excited.  We wrote out her invitations for her friends this morning.  This is her first birthday party with friends invited, not just family.  She was jumping up and down and wiggling with excitement.  Which means, when you do the conversion, if Isaac felt that same level of excitement he would, quite literally, be through the roof and out in space somewhere.  Hannah is giggly and excited and wrote everybody’s names on the envelopes along with a drawing of a stamp and an I <3 U for every one of her classmates.  She’ll be five.  FIVE!  And if she saw you on the street, she would invite you to her party.  She’s just sweet as can be.  And I need to start making some plans.

Her “best friends” in her class are the kids who are in most need of early intervention and/or special education.  I’m not exactly sure why, she can’t explain what she likes best about them, but knowing Hannah, it just seems to fit.  She sees the people most in need of love and care and attention and she lavishes it.  Of all our kids, we can most easily, very easily, see Hannah following in the family business.  Of course, Lord knows what he’ll really call her to, but she has the kindest, gentlest heart and a passion for caring for people.  She’s precious.  Simply precious.

And Ruth.  Ruthie Ruthie Ruthie.  Ruthie’s big project this last week and a half is starting to use the potty.  I’ll save you the gross details.  Suffice it to say, she’s been so easy about it.  She just decided to do it and now she’s doing it.  It’s thrilling.  It’s the end of an era.  And there isn’t an ounce of bitter in its sweetness.  I’m thinking of opening a special savings account where I can squirrel away the money we’ll be saving on diapers.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I might just know the real reason I’ve been absent from blogland.  Ruth has been two-and-a-half.  And if you’ve ever met a 2 1/2 year old, you know what I mean.  Holy moly, Ruth is doing 2 1/2, like she does everything else:  with GUSTO!  Full bore!!!  Yesssireeebob, I am toddler, hear me roar!!!  Wow.  And I’m getting a little old for this stuff.  Finally, finally she seems to be mellowing out some.  Some.  She’s getting a grasp on taking turns.  She’s gaining a little bit of patience.  She’s developing better language skills and that seems to diffuse some of the intensity.  But at the end of the day, this toddler is positively hysterical.  When she’s not screaming at me, she’s saying and doing some of the funniest things and I find myself laughing at her all day.  What a joy!  What a blessing!

There ya have it.  My three kids and where they’re at and what they’re doing.  Meanwhile, I’m watching them grow and learn and be, and am, in many ways, simply along for the ride.  These years are far too fleeting.  I don’t want to miss a second.

Two very different girls . . .

I think about this a lot.  This parenting thing.  It’s been my primary vocation for 8 years now.  (I start counting with Isaac’s conception, as that was the point at which I began obsessing about the whole parenting enterprise.)

It seems everybody’s got their ideas, their philosophy.  Rules to follow, guidelines to lead you in leading your children toward adulthood.  I tried to qualify that adulthood:  healthy, well-balanced?  productive?  But every little nook and cranny of parenting-lore has its own goal in mind.  Christian circles where the name of the game is obedience:  raise your kid to be obedient to you so that when they are adults they will be obedient to God.  Non-Christian circles whose goal seems to be adults who are capable of finding their own way, their own path.  And everything in between and a zillion hybrids.

There are some things I’ve learned in these eight years of parenting.  Well, 7 1/2 years with a kid I can actually see and touch.  These rules.  These guidelines.  These “Do XYZ for ABC results” applied to kids?  Bunk.  A whole lotta bunk.  Who are we kidding?  Kids did not come down out of a shoot from a factory.  There is not one model.  There is no model.  They are individual people–hear that.  People.  From birth.–with their own particularities and peculiarities.  Just as different one from another as adults are different, one from another.  Why is it that we expect our kids to fit some sort of mold, follow some sort of equation (if X, then A), when we know enough to never expect the grown ups around us to work that way?  When we encounter adults knowing to expect the unexpected, always prepared to respond to what comes next, knowing that what comes next is not always predictable?  Why do we view adults this way, but not kids?

I can’t talk to my mother the same way I talk to my sister.  They have two different languages.  Two different senses of humor.  Yes, they are similar in many ways, but in others they couldn’t be any more different.  And this is one woman raised by another woman, taught about the world by her from her earliest days.

Yet.  Yet we get these first kids and we open up these books to find out what to do to them, with them, for them, to turn them into the people we want them to be.  Then we have these second kids and we apply all those same rules to them and expect the same result.  “If I do R, this child will do Y.”  But the thing is, the child (C) in the equation (R + C = Y) is not a constant.  The child is one, unique individual and, therefore, a variable.  A variable of enormous magnitude.  So, how can we expect to consistently get Y, the results we desire in and for our children, when we add the same X to a completely different C?  Are you following me?  I have at least one numbers-oriented friend who might be.

We have to change the game.  Change the equation.  Start with the variable.  Start with the C.  End with the Y, sure.  It’s OK to have a goal in mind for your kid.  I want my kids to grow up knowing the Lord, loving him with all their hearts, souls, minds, and strength, and loving their neighbors as themselves.  That’s my goal.  That’s my Y.  So I have a kid, C, who I want to get to equal Y.  Actually, I have three kids, I want to get to equal Y.  Three different equations, one for each variable.  Because each C has a completely different value and measurement and character and you-name-it.  So, I’m left with a general  ( __ + C = Y), but with each child, I have to figure out what goes into that blank.  I have to figure out the Rules, the tools, the means, that need to be added to each different child to get–to the best of my limited abilities–to the results I’m hoping for.

What does this child, Hannah, need?  What does this child, Ruth, need?  What does this child, Isaac, need?  Those are the questions I need to be asking.  If I go to any “rule” books, I need to do so with these questions in mind.  Seeking not rules, but ideas, possibilities.  Things I can try that might work for Ruth, but not for Hannah, things that hit Isaac just right, but send Hannah off the deep end.  Too many of these people selling these books fail to tell you that.  I think these books tell us more about the kids the authors’ had than it tells us about what we can do for our own kids.  And in some cases, my heart breaks for the kids who came after the author’s firstborn but who likely had the nerve to operate completely differently.

So not where I intended to go.  Shock of shocks.  My real point in writing this, as may be evident from the title, was to share an experience I had last night that demonstrated just how different my two girls are.  My three kids are so very different, one from another.  And maybe that’s why I’m so sensitive to all this.  Maybe not everyone’s kids are as varied as mine.  Mine barely seem that they came from the same planet, I don’t see how they all could have come from the same womb.  I simply cannot treat each one of them with the same set of rules.  I would have broken them long before they came off the assembly line.

So, in keeping with the title, an illustration of just how different are my girls. . . .

Everybody was sick yesterday.  Well, not me, but everyone else.  Fevers and coughing and general flu-like stuff going on.  I’m pretty sure no one’s going to die, but there are buckets of misery being passed around.  Hannah and Ruth each had a fever at dinner last night (in the 104 range), so I gave them each a dose of ibuprophen at 6:30 and sent everyone off to bed (read, 2 1/2 hours later, everyone was asleep).

Around 2AM I hear a distinctly croupy cough and a whimpering “Mommy” coming down the hall.  Hannah and Ruth sound pretty much the same, so I can’t tell who it is until I am greeted by the messy halo of blond and footed-jammies silhouette with the yellow blankie tucked under my toddler’s chin.  Ruthie.  “I want Mommy.”  OK, honey.  I climb out of bed to meet her in the hall, but realize, Boy I really need a trip to the bathroom before I get involved in this.  “Ry, can you keep Ruth while I run to the bathroom?”  “Sure,” says my most beloved, always-willing-to-help-a-kid-or-wife-in-the-middle-of-the-night husband.

I return from the bathroom to find my Ruthie snuggled in bed with her daddy and chitty-chatting away in a chipper voice:  “Dem was WRobots.  Da wittle one was WRushy.  What dem peas doing?  What was Pa Gape doing?  Dem was singin’ “  And so on.  And on.  And on.  Ruthie had watched a lot of TV on her sick day, and is retelling much of what she saw.  Chipper and happy and ready to go.   Ry and I are laughing, despite the fact that it’s 2 in the morning and we are both desperately tired.  Ruthie’s just so funny.  I feel her forehead, to check on how her fever is doing and she is burning up.  I run downstairs for the thermometer and ibuprophen.  102.3.  Hot enough.  She’s chipper, so perhaps I shouldn’t worry about bringing the temp down, but I want her to be comfortable enough to sleep well, so I drug her up.  I send Ry off to Ruth’s bed while I hunker down with her in ours.  When she lay down, she has some big, wet coughs and she throws up.  After cleaning up, we both start to drift off to sleep.

Next thing I know–and very little time has passed–I hear yet another croupy cough and whimpering.  Hannah.  She whimpers and whines her way up over Ruth, straddles my legs and just whimpers and whines.  I try to tell her I need her to get off my legs so I can go get her daddy to help her–so Ruth can stay asleep–but she won’t move, won’t speak, can only whimper.  I’m trying desperately to quickly get her up and out of my room before she awakens Ruth, but she’s beside herself.  I also know that she’s going to throw up, because she always does when she’s sick like this with excess mucous–she’s always choked and gagged easily–so I’m also trying to get her to get off my bed before she does.  But she can’t do anything but whimper and whine.  She’s just pitiful.  As predicted, she barfs, mostly getting it off the side of the bed to the floor as instructed–though the bed does not go unscathed–and continues to whimper and whine and tremble.  My poor, poor baby.

I carry her off to Ruth’s bed (in the room next door to ours, so as not to disturb Isaac who shares Hannah’s room) while my beloved cleans up the mess and changes our sheets–have I mentioned how wonderful he is?–and Ruth, long since awakened by the hullaballoo, wanders around between both rooms chattering away, chipper and happy, despite her rosy cheeks and glassy eyes.   Hannah huddles into a shivering ball under Ruth’s blankets.  I get the thermometer and ibuprophen.  102.8.  And miserable.  Drug her up good.

I send Ry off to bed with Hannah, so she has someone to snuggle and keep her warm, and again I hunker down with Ruthie who is really ready to go now, chitty chitty chat chat.  And I marvel at the difference between my two girls.  Both with the same symptoms, the same grade fever.  One happy-go-lucky, bubbly, chipper, ball of energy, one shivering, trembling, whimpering, most pitiful creature.  So different.  Neither good nor bad, just different.  And if they can’t even have the same response to the same virus with the same symptoms, how can I expect them to have the same response to anything else?

Wow.  I’ve rambled.  Blame the fact that I haven’t been blogging much lately.  Blame the utter lack of sleep.  Blame the encroaching virus.  But who am I kidding?  It’s my way.  It’s who I am.  It’s one of the ways God made me special.  It’s my own little way of being different.

Funny kids say funny things . . .

I think it’s been a little while since I’ve had a funny kids post. And I’ve had little of significance to write about for the last several days, so I thought I’d write about significant little things. Which, you know, is pretty much the biggest story of my life these days: trying to savor all the little, teeny-tiny, mundane things beautiful life with beautiful little children brings in abundance. Knowing that this stage of life will be gone in a flash, I want to try to not get bogged down in the frustrating junk, the relentless cycle of dirty-clean-dirty-clean, wash-brush-dress-eat-play-eat-play-eat-undress-brush-wash, just-keep-swimming, that is the other big story of my life these days.

So. A moment to pause. And chuckle at my silly kids.

Heard in the kitchen last week: A fly was buzzing around the kitchen, in fact, there were lots of flies buzzing around last week, not sure why, but there we were in the kitchen with a buzzing fly. Hannah says, “Shoo, fly! Shoo!! Shoo!!! . . . I have a shoe!” (scurries over to her cubby and pulls out a bejeweled flip-flop, raises it in attack) “Shoe, fly!! Shoe!” I confess I did stop her from squashing the fly with her shoe on my counter. But I did it with a straight and understanding face.

Heard at the breakfast table this morning: Ruth was eating pancakes (pay-pates) with syrup (see-up).  “I put mine finger in mine nose!  I put mine finger in mine nose!”  (lighthearted response)”Oh, yucky, Ruth.  Don’t put your finger up your nose.  Yuck.”  . . . . minutes pass . . . . (very excited pronouncement) “I hat see-up in mine nose!”  “You have syrup in you nose?!”  ::sneeze:: “Yeeaah!”  ::sneeze::  ::giggle giggle::  Maybe it’s just because I’m her mom, but this one  cracked me up.

My Girl. Mommy-in-Training.

Lovey dovey Hannah Girlie. She adores her baby sister, has from day one. She has yet to stop her obsessive loving on her, despite Ruth’s tendency to rip Hannah’s hair out by the handful and . . . er . . . ruthlessly** destroy anything Hannah tells her she can’t have. “Well. If I can’t have it, no one can!” Still, Hannah loves on her. Grabbing her around the neck to bring her cheek close so she can kiss it. Pulling Ruth over as she embraces her. Still, after two years, sitting right next to me as I nurse Ruth, rubbing her head, kissing her cheek. Swweeet.

I expend a great deal of each day’s breaths reminding Hannah, “Hannah, you are not Ruth’s mommy. That is not your job. It’s mommy’s job to take care of Ruth like that. It’s your job to enjoy her and play with her and have fun with her.” (Yes, it is on some level her job to take care of her sister; she is her sister’s keeper. But that’s not what needs to be emphasized right now.) Still, Hannah tries to redirect Ruth, tries to “help” her up or down the steps, tries to keep her out of trouble. And my “You are not the Mommy” reminders continue to go unheeded.

But the other day I heard Hannah mothering Ruth in a way that I found beautiful; in a way gave me a glimpse of Hannah as a mother.  It was lunch time and I was working at a feverish pace to make sandwiches for Ruth and Hannah.  I was trying to make them simultaneously so that they’d be finished at the same time and could be presented together so no one was left waiting for hers.  Meanwhile, Ruth is behind me whining and crying and yelling and trying to grab the plate off the counter.  “Dat mine?  Ee want turkey cheese!  Ee ‘ant turkey cheese!!!  Ee hung’y!  Eat!  Turkey cheese!  Turkey cheese!  Dat mine turkey cheese?!”

Holy smokes!  I’m starving to death my own self, blood sugar non-existent, coffee running on empty making me tremble with edginess.  “Ruth! I’m getting it!  Yes, it’s yours, but Mommy has to make it for you! Yes, Ruth! I know you’re hungry!”

Finally, the voice of reason and calm pops up behind me in the form of a sweet four-year-old girl voice:  “Roofie, I know it’s hard to wait.  It’s hard to be patient.  When I was a little girl I had to be patient when I waited and it was hard.  But it’s rude to yell, so you need to be patient and wait.  Mommy will get your sandwich for you.  It’s hard to wait.”

I just stood there smiling.  There’s my girl, reflecting her sister’s big feelings.  It’s hard to wait.  Mommy is making you wait and it’s hard.  Sure Ruth doesn’t necessarily need the lecture on rudeness at the moment, but the mommy-in-training is, after all, only four.  She was just so calm and quiet and still for Ruth.  Both identifying and validating Ruth’s struggle, offering words of encouragement.  Ruth zeroed in on Hannah’s calmness and she herself calmed down and waited a little more patiently.  And patience doesn’t come easily to Ruth.

Sweet sweet Hannah Girlie.  Trying out her grace-filled mommy skills on her sister.  Someday she’s going to be a great mom to her fifteen kids.

**I might petition the greater English speaking community to change the word to “ruthful“. . . .

I love my kids . . .

and the God who gave them to me.

God knows what he’s doing and he gave me these three crazy, silly, completely unique kids . . . he gave me these kids.  Not the lady down the street.  He gave Ry and me these three kids, and for that I am so very grateful.  I love these kids.  The Boy and his intensity and non-stop verbiage and big schemes and dreams and passion for food and life and breath and the universe.  The Girl with her inborn empathy and compassion and soft and tender heart who will love anyone into submission and peace and who will lull people into complacency but with her sharp mind and wit take them completely off guard.  And that Other Girl with her spunk and her fire and her tenacity and her temper and her humor and her stubbornness and her own non-stop verbiage.  All three of them.  So very different, such wonderful gifts.

We’ve spent some time reflecting on their birth order, how they came in such a good order. Having our Boy first was perfect.  He’s just so very intense, he requires so very much energy, perseverance, and patience.  But because he was our first, we just figured that was the way our babies were made. We simply met him where he was and went from there; there was no point of comparison.  Then Hannah came along and I still remember vividly Ry and myself looking at her, wondering what was wrong with her because she just sat there.  In one place.  With one toy.  And she was so, so, very quiet and required next to nothing.  As long as she had her mommy and her milk, she was AOK.  I can’t imagine if Isaac had to follow her, if we were asking ourselves, “What is wrong with him?“  I’m afraid we would have pushed until we did find something “wrong” with him and then we never would have grown to have this great appreciation for who he is, for his qualities that will lead him to take over the world.

And then came Ruth.  Who is so interesting.  She split the difference between Isaac and Hannah as we all predicted, because, really, there was nowhere else to go:  Isaac and Hannah are so very different.  What she required of us that her birth order provided is our mellowed attitude.  We’ve been around the block a few times.  Go ahead, throw your head back into the oak molding, you still have to come with us.  Sure! fling yourself to the ground kicking and screaming, you just let me know when you’re done and we’ll carry on with our day.  Oh dear, you seem to have flung yourself into a support beam and split your face in two, I think we need to go the emergency room now.  She needed to be third.  We needed her to be third.

Sometimes I worry about Hannah in the middle.  Worry that she’ll disappear in her quiet, subdued way in the middle of these two loud, boisterous lunatics.  But then I think, No.  She’s so completely connected to the ones on either side of her; she looks out for them, she seeks them out to hug and kiss (or poke or jump on).  She worries about them when they’re sick, she lifts their needs before us, urging us to care for them.  Above all else, she hates to be alone, always has.  So I’m happy for her that with an older brother and a younger sister, she likely won’t be left alone.  When we’ve suggested time out with just her and her two parents, she’s disturbed at the thought:  what about Isaac?  What about Roofie?  And when she’s sick of her brother or sister, when she just needs someone to love on her and take care of her, she just climbs right up on our lap, or into our bed, or between our hug.  She’s not only aware of the love and care others need, she’s aware of her own need for love and affection.  We call it her “snuggle tank” and she lets us know when it’s empty.

I love these kids.  I love the God who gave them to us.  He gave them to us, created them individually, in just the right way, in just the right time, in just the right family.  I pray he gives me the grace and the love and the fortitude and perseverance to do right by them.  God’s beautiful children.

Hannah, Queen Artiste

Continuing my reflections on each of my kids . . .

Hannah is enjoying being four. She still announces to anyone she’s just meeting, or anyone she hasn’t seen in a while, or grocery store clerks for that matter: “I’m four!” Very excited. And now I’m thinking of some comedian’s bit about a little child who goes around announcing repeatedly: “I’m four years old!” But I can’t remember who it is. Can one Google such information? Let’s see . . . Well, so far I’ve learned that Adam Sandler has a song called “I’m Four Years Old” but that’s not what I had in mind. I’ll have to dig a little deeper . . . best I can come up with: I think it was Bill Cosby. Feel free to correct me if you know differently. Anyway, point is, that’s about how Hannah’s been for the last month and a half since her birthday: “I’m four years old!” Of course, before that, it was “I’m free years old!” so it could just be her way of remembering. If she’s anything like her mother someday she may have to repeat to herself: “I’m 35 years old!” just to keep track. (numbers, doncha know.)

Anwhooo . . . so my beautiful, brown-eyed four-year-old girl continues to delight us. Her reign as Queen continues, following what my dear friend astutely deemed a coup. And now she has other career aspirations. Apparently a Queen can’t simply rest on her laurels. Queen Hannah has decided she will be an artist when she grows up. Give the girl a box of markers and a roll of paper and she is happy for hours. Possibly days. I can’t know for sure because I have to keep interrupting her for things like meals and bedtime. She loves it. And her absolute favorite thing that happened last week was “when Roofie took a long nap and me and mommy sat and drawed with markers for a long, long time.” I think it was an hour and a half. And you know what I learned? My oh my, that is so very therapeutic. Ahhh. I was all wound tight as a drum and after working for an hour solid creating a marker rendition of Steve’s house (for me, it will always be Steve) I felt ready to take on the world and all its toddlers and preschoolers again.

Can I take a moment for a mommy brag? (this is a blog, who’s gonna stop me?) I think she’s really great at drawing. I love seeing what she comes up with, I love seeing the look of concentration on her face as she works on her latest masterpiece. I love how excited she gets over her drawings, how proud she is to share them. I love it. What fun! It could be because I’m completely inept in all things visual-spacial. And now, indulge this proud mama (I’ll spare you my rendition of Steve’s house). Hannah’s Christmas picture:

Look who’s four!!!

Who turned four today?

Hmmmm . . .

Ummmm . . .

Ohh, that’s right. ME!!

Happy birthday to my sweet, sweet Hannah Girlie. I can’t believe she’s four. Four is like a whole new era. She had a lovely Queen-themed birthday party with grandparents and aunts and uncle and cousins. Tiaras all around. Isaac was up before the sun, alone downstairs, decorating, making signs and pipe-cleaner bows, and–sweetest of all–delivering a hand-made birthday card to Hannah’s pillow while she slept.

She had a Queen-tastic party, with all gifts involving butterflies, princesses, glitter, jewels, sparkles, the color purple, and many combinations thereof. Her favorites: a Sleeping Beauty Barbie and a Sleeping Beauty dress-up dress. Together they sent the sweet girl into orbit. About the doll: “She’s exactly what I wanted.” “I will take her everywhere with me and if I ever get bored I will just play with her.”

Pics will have to come another time as Ry and I work into the night to pack ourselves up to go out of town tomorrow. We’re going to visit his dad and his wife, a trip that was postponed by all our horrid sickness this week. The horrid sickness got worse than when I last posted. A trip to an ER and a pediatrician, some antibiotics and steroids later, and I think we’re good to go. Although Isaac was complaining of a sore throat before bed. Hopefully it won’t really get any worse and we’ll be off for our visit with our favorite set of parents. We’ll be gone until Wednesday and I’m not sure I’ll get a chance to write again before then.

So, pics of Queen Hannah in her new gown will have to wait until we come back. I’m sure you are all aflutter with anticipation.

I think I’ll keep these kids after all.

Yep.  They’re keepers. 

This is night two of Operation Daddy is GONE! and both bedtimes have actually gone quite well.  And these are the kids who have been extra crazy at bedtime lately.

Going into last night, I wasn’t really worried about Isaac.  Apparently he has finally settled in to his new room and come to realize that there are, in fact, no monsters living in the knee walls. He’s been getting up at 5AM since the clocks changed (yesterday he watched NOVA during the 5 o’clock hour), so he can barely keep his eyes opened through dinner.  Therefore, he basically collapses into a comatose heap as soon as his rump hit his mattress.

My Hannah Girlie, on the other hand, has been in the habit–since birth–of having someone lie down with her while she tosses and turns and hums and flops and plays with her hands and reaches toward the ceiling for twenty minutes until she drops off a cliff to slumber.

And Ruth . . . Boy, Ruth had me the most worried about this week.  Horrid Molar Teething Monster has set up shop and she has been sleeping terribly for a week or more.  I can’t actually remember how long it has been, as sleep deprivation leaves me incapable of marking time.  So bad has her teething been that I had her to the pediatrician last week, convinced she had an ear infection.  Head banging, ornery, sleepless–my good sleeper, too–oh, the poor baby has been a mess.  So, as you could well imagine, I was very worried about how this weekend would go, as Daddy is go-to guy when sitting in a chair and nursing to sleep fails, as it has been lately.

But last night went great.  Ruth had no nap yesterday, so she was whooped.  As a result, I was able to sit down on the floor of Isaac and Hannah’s room and nurse her to sleep while I sang to the other two.  Hannah’s flopping about came to an end, Ruth was passed out, so I thought I’d take Ruth to her crib.  When I stood up I saw that Hannah wasn’t quite all the way asleep so I panicked slightly.  She opened her eyes, gave me a sweet wave, blew me a kiss and said goodnight.  That was that.  I lay Ruth in her crib and I was done at 8:15.

I was less optimistic going into tonight.  Hannah had fallen asleep in the car on her way home from an outing with Aunt Worry, which generally means there is no way on earth she’ll be asleep before 9PM.  Ruth took a nice two hour nap.  Still wasn’t too worried about Isaac, though, as he had awakened at 5AM again today in hopes of getting to watch NOVA again–sorely disappointed he was.  As predicted, Isaac fell quickly to sleep while I sang and held Ruth in my arms.  My girls, however, took a little more convincing and for a while anyway I was afraid I’d be there a while.  In the end, Hannah lay in her bed “reading” her children’s Bible while I sang and nursed Ruth, but then Ruth became very unsettled.  She was not as sleepy as last night and so couldn’t just pass out.  She needed her nice dark room, and noise machine.  So I picked her up to take her downstairs and Hannah asked if I could lie down with her.  “No, honey, I’m sorry.  I need to take Ruth down to her bed.”  “Will you lie down with me after she’s asleep?”  “Sure.  But you lie here in your bed and look at your Bible and try to go to sleep on your own, OK?”  “OK.”  And she closed her eyes.

Ruth took a while.  Some nursing, an attempt to get down, some whines and cries for Daddy that I joined in on.  But finally she settled in nursing and fell asleep.  I lay her down with her making feeble gasping sounds indicating a desire for milk, but apparently that desire couldn’t overcome the exhaustion of two weeks of poor sleeping because when I lay her down she went right to sleep.  So.  Now, back to Hannah.  I went upstairs to lie down with her, as requested, but I found her there already asleep.  Curled on her side, still holding her children’s Bible.  She did it.  Two nights in a row.  To sleep on her own.

We’ll see how tomorrow goes.

As for how the rest of my day is going during my husband’s absence:  I’m missing the man terribly.  I really like this guy and like to live with him.  Really.  So not getting to hang out with him is no fun at all.  But so far I’m doing quite well on the mothering front.  Praise be to God, He’s giving me everything I need for this long weekend, including the assurance that he really did give me what it takes to be a mother.  Today while Hannah went on her adventure and Ruth took her nap, I actually sat in a chair for an hour and read.  Just me.  All alone.  With a book, a blanket on my lap, and my beautiful living room windows surrounding me.  Nice.  Very nice.  On to tomorrow’s adventures . . .

Filed under Sweet Prayers of Children

Tonight as we were doing our singathon and prayers before bed, I asked Isaac and Hannah if they had anything they wanted to thank God for.

Hannah: “Thank you, God, for giving my cold away to Ruthie. Now please take my cold away from Ruthie.”

The logic of her sweet little head. Her mother urged her all day Monday to please use a tissue so as not to spread her cold germs onto her hands and then give her cold to Ruthie. Her cold went away at the same time Ruthie began to get sick. Therefore, Ruthie took her cold from her. She told me that earlier today. Now at prayer time she has attributed the exchange to God. It’s not that she was happy Ruthie had her cold, she was just happy God had taken her cold away from her. Clearly he had given it away to Ruthie because Ruthie now had it. Now if he would please take it away from Ruthie, too. Then we’d be all set.

“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” I suppose. AND, she seems to have her theodicy all worked out. Way to go, Hannah!

Seriously, though. Sweet sweet Hannah Girlie and her prayers for her baby sister. She’s too much.

Hannah is Promoted!

Well, being an American, I’m not exactly sure “promoted” is the right term. After all, we don’t have Monarchs in the United States so I’m not sure what the correct term is.  In this former-military house, promoted is the best we can do.

Hannah has been living as a princess for quite some time. Probably nearly two years. We were invited to call her “Princess Hannah” as long as we never lost sight of her true identity: “Actually, my name is Hannah, I’m just pretending to be a princess.” Oh. Ok. Thanks for clearing that up.

Well, in the last two weeks, actually just prior to the “Who Are These People” picture, she has begun to refer to herself as Queen Hannah. And a pox on the house of anyone who attempts to still call her Princess Hannah. “No. I’m not a princess, I’m a Queeeeen!!! ” Well. Then. Congratulations! I guess.