My Daughter's Heart

It was about 8:15 one night last week. Cold. Dark. Dreary.

I remember because I was irritated that the doorbell should ring at that hour, frustrated by the interruption into my quiet evening.

The little boy who stood there didn't say anything at first, a lost, confused look spread across his face when I answered the door.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Ahhhh. . . . This isn't it," he quietly answered more to himself than to me; his big, brown eyes peering up at me, needing some reassurance.

"What isn't it?" I replied.

"AJ's. This isn't AJ's house," and he looked around to see if perhaps my neighbor's house looked familiar. It didn't seem to bring the relief he was looking for.

Not more than nine or ten years old, the little boy wore a jacket that seemed much too thin for a cold night like that. He had no hat. No gloves.

"AJ?" I must have looked puzzled. "There isn't an AJ in this neighborhood," I quietly told him. "Where do you live, honey? It's really cold out here."

Those big, brown eyes darted up the street and his little hand pointed toward some apartments a few blocks away. I suppose that was where he lived, but I couldn't be sure because he quickly said, "AJ told me this was where he lived. . . . Huh." And he shrugged and turned away.

I called to him, "Do you need some help?" but he just walked toward the sidewalk where his bike was lying on its side; he picked it up and rode away.

Maggie stood back, away from the conversation at the doorway, but observing all the same. A few minutes later, after I was snuggled back on the couch underneath the blanket I had been wrapped up in, but still not comfortable in my soul, Maggie came to me with tears in her eyes.

"Mom," was all she said before she melted into my arms, crying for the little boy lost.

"I know," was all I could say. And then, "Maggie, there's nothing we can do for that boy right now except pray for him. Let's pray for him." She nodded and cried and clung to me.

And so we prayed for that nameless little boy. We prayed he'd be safe. We prayed he'd be warm. We prayed that he'd find his way home, wherever home was for him. We prayed that he had two parents who loved him. We prayed he'd find Jesus.

As my daughter held me tightly and cried for the lost, I caught a glimpse into her heart. And I loved it even more.

Nice Surprises

I'm a little late getting going this morning because we had a bit of a surprise overnight. As in some white-fluffy-stuff-lying-all-over-the-ground kind of surprise.

Yep, it snowed last night for the first time. And I'm just here to warn you that probably a majority of my posts this week will have to do with snow because we're supposed to get a whopper of a storm on Tuesday or Wednesday.

Hold onto your snow shovels.

The first snow of the year is always pretty nice. It's beautiful when you walk outside and nothing has been trampled yet. It's so pretty to see the tree branches covered in white. Everyone's excited about the first snow, including me.

Until about lunchtime when I've had enough of getting in and out of the car, dragging clumps of snow with me which eventually turn into puddles on the kitchen floor. Harumph.

Anyway, Maggie had such a wonderful morning full of nice surprises, that I thought I should share. She told me that she had one of those middle-of-the-night wake ups last night when you think it's morning and then you look at the clock and it's really 2 a.m. and you realize you still have four more hours to sleep. Isn't that just the best feeling in the world?

And then she said she came downstairs to see the snow everywhere which, according to her, was a wonderful surprise.

But then she walked into the pantry to get some Cheerios for breakfast and had the most wonderful surprise of all. Instead of Cheerios, there was a box of Fruity Pebbles! Glory be!

(Just a side note to explain that Maggie rarely gets Fruity Pebbles, even though she begs me for them almost every week. I guess I was really feeling the Christmas spirit when I went to the grocery store yesterday.)

Maggie's morning was made complete when she took a new banana from the bunch, claiming it to be "perfectly ripe."

I guess my day was made complete too because the simple act of buying a box of Fruity Pebbles and some perfectly ripe bananas put me in the running, according to Maggie, for mother of the year. Good thing I finally qualified . . . we're almost out of year.

So tell me, what makes it a perfect morning for you?

Congratulations, Maggie!

I don't know what it is, but on Friday I tend to look back at my week, try to remember what I did, and think about what I've accomplished (which is usually not much). And I think about the best parts of my week.

This week's highlight, most certainly, would have been Maggie's all-school play--her first play ever--which was held on Tuesday and Thursday. Can I just say that I didn't know she had it in her? Oh my, that girl was funny!

What am I saying? I did know she had it in her. Ever since the time in third grade when her class had a substitute teacher and she spoke with a British accent for the first half of the day just to mess with the sub's head. Pretty much ever since then people have been telling me I should get her into acting.

The play was a little one-act called "The Mystery at Throckmiddlemorton Manor." It was perfect for a junior high school production because it was short and silly and involved a lot of different characters. Oh, and a girl-fight. Can't have a junior high play without a girl fight, can you?

All the kids did a great job, but the one I watched most closely was my little thespian. She played the part of a French maid. Yes, I know that every mother's deepest desire is to see her 6th grade daughter on stage in front of her entire school with overdone makeup and bright red lipstick in a French maid's costume. It was indeed a proud mommy-moment for me.

She even did the accent because, you know, the costume wasn't enough.

Seriously, though, somehow the costume crew was able to find a decent looking maid costume that actually went down to my daughter's ankles. So maybe, rather than being a French maid she was really a Puritan maid. Named Hester or something like that.

Doesn't matter. The way she played it, she was definitely of the French variety.

After last night's performance we went out for ice cream, just the two of us. We talked about her experience, how much fun it is to act, and how she longs to keep this going through high school. She's beginning to see herself in this new role, actress, and she's liking what she's seeing. Her dreams are beginning to take shape.

All this acting talk took me back about, oh, 30 years to my own high school experience. I was in a lot of plays and musicals in high school. That was my thing, and I loved it. I think I even dabbled in community theater for a while. And even though I never had a lead role (most people I went to high school with would probably say, "You were in plays? Which ones?"), I had racked up the most thespian points and won the "Best Thespian" award during our senior assembly.

So who knows what will happen with Maggie. She may never try out for another play (although after last night I seriously doubt that), and I would be O.K. with that. What I talked to her about last night was the satisfaction of finding something she loves to do and doing it with all her heart.

Really, there's nothing better.

I Think This Girl Has a Future Doing Something Somewhere

I am a stickler about bedtime. Really, it makes me absolutely crazy when my kids go to bed even five minutes late. I feel like they're going to be too tired to cope the next day and then they'll miss one question on a math quiz and then they won't get into a good college and then they won't get a good job and then they'll end up living on the streets somewhere someday.

Completely irrational, I know. But the bedtime thing is one of my "issues." (Oh, there are so many. I think this blog will probably run for a long time as I work through my issues.)

Of course, I can't really tell the high schoolers when to go to bed, which is a totally different issue altogether. We'll get to that one another day.

Anyway, as I was putting Maggie to bed one night this week AT EXACTLY 8:30--no later!--she noticed a book we had been reading together this summer sitting on her bookshelf. We only got about halfway through because, you know, school started and usually when I try to read to her at 8:30 I end up yawning every five lines or so and it kind of stinks.

Well, wouldn't you know, Maggie started in on me. "Mom, can we please read tonight? We haven't read together in such a long time." And then she looks up at me with those big brown eyes, batting her eyelashes and giving me "that" look.

"No. It's already 8:30 and you're going to be totally tired tomorrow if you don't go to sleep NOW." Like she falls asleep the minute her head hits the pillow. No, she's not like her mama in that way.

"Pleeaasse, Mom? I just love reading with you."

"I said no. I mean no. How about tomorrow? Then we can plan for it and you'll still be in bed at the right time. Besides, I'm too tired to read tonight," I said.

"That's O.K., Mom, I'll read to you."

I hesitated. I never should have done it, but I hesitated. That is the most deadly thing a parent can do. Hesitate.

"Pleeaasse, Mom? It's a short chapter. It won't take long."

And then I did the second worse thing a parent can do. I caved. "Oh, alright," I said. "You read."

You know what she did then? She sat up in bed, pumped her fists, laughed, and said, "YES! I should be a lawyer!"

I object.

It Was Time

"Mom? How do you know when you're ready to be baptized?" The question was whispered to me during church one week. The question I had been waiting for, half expecting based on the growth I'd seen in my daughter over the past couple of years.

"Why? Do you think you want to be baptized?" I whispered back.

And thus began the most wonderful series of conversations with Maggie who, tonight, was baptized in our church.

When people are baptized in our church, their "testimony" is printed in the worship folder--that's just a fancy way of saying how their lives have changed once they got to know Jesus.

Maggie said it would be O.K. if I shared her testimony with you.

"My name is Maggie, and I just finished fifth grade at Hawthorne School and will be entering sixth grade at Franklin this fall.

I have been learning about Christ my whole life, but when I was four years old I went to a Backyard Bible Club which sparked my interest to let Jesus into my heart. That night, my mom and I prayed and I asked Jesus to be my Savior.

I believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God and loves and cares about me so much that He died for me and my sins so I can have eternal life with him forever.

The reason I'm being baptized is to show people how God has worked in my life and to start a new life for him, and make that commitment to live for him forever.

A verse that has meant a lot to me is John 14:6. I am the way, the truth and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me."

I am one blessed mom, my friends. Truly blessed.

Buddies, Bears, and Big Lessons Learned

It occurred to me today that I haven't written about our little elementary school yet. It's been almost one whole year that I've been blogging, and yet not one mention of "The Little School With the Big Heart" (that's our motto--isn't it quaint?).

And there's so much to tell! I think I may have opened up a new section of blogging creativity in my brain--the Hawthorne room. Hmmm.

Let me just start by saying that one of the best decisions we ever made was to put our girls in Hawthorne School. It's a tiny little school--just two classes per grade--tucked into the middle of our neighborhood just two blocks from our house. I still meet people from across town who, when they hear that my kids go to Hawthorne say, "Oh yeah, Hawthorne. I've heard of it, but where is it?"

We kind of like it that way. Small, quaint, and not too easily accessible. It feels safe. We definitely like it that way.

Kate started at Hawthorne in first grade and everyone else progressed through its ranks from that point on. We've had some teachers three times, and all three girls had the same fourth grade teacher.

(I just realized that I could write several posts on that teacher alone! Of course, she could probably write VOLUMES about my three girls. I think she knows them better than I do, what with their Arnold Horshack "oooh, oooh, oooh! Call on me!" ways.)

One of the sweetest aspects of Hawthorne, even though there are so many, is how they pair up a 5th grader with a kindergartener as "buddies." All year long the buddies spend time together on special days, doing crafts, tye-dying shirts, playing games, learning how to t.p. the principal's house. You get the idea.

The kindergarteners have someone to look up to all year long, and the 5th graders get to feel like the big dogs of the school because some little kindergarten kid thinks they're cool. It's a win-win situation, really.

Plus, it gives the teachers a chance to run to Starbucks in the middle of the day when the kids are supposedly crafting together. Just kidding--the Starbucks is probably a little too far (although there is a drive thru!).

Anyway, today was the culmination of all the buddy-bonding activities that the kids had been through all year. It was the day most looked forward to since the first day of school. It was the Grand Puba of school days.

It was a field trip.

To the zoo, no less.

With 5th graders accompanying their kindergarten buddies.

Come to think of it, I'm not even sure whose field trip it was--5th grade or kindergarten--because they were all so excited about it.

Now that I have a 5th grader and she's the youngest in our family, it stands to reason that this is our last year at Hawthorne (more on that next week). And it also stands to reason that since this is Maggie's last field trip, I would be called upon to chaperone. Not by the teachers, mind you. The teachers could care less if I was there or not because they had about a 1:1 student:parent ratio of chaperones today. And, truth be told, I'm not that great of a chaperone. I tend to wander. I talk to the other adults too much. I don't pay great attention to the animals.

No, the person summoning my presence on the field trip was . . . no big surprise here . . . Maggie. A couple of weeks ago, in passing, she said something like, "Well, when we go on the zoo trip . . . blah, blah, blah." I don't even know what she said after that because my ears started ringing and I sort of lost my breath for a few minutes.

After I regained my composure, I subtly said, "Oh, Maggie, did you think I was going on your field trip to the zoo?"

"Well, sure, Mom," and then a long pause . . . "You were planning on going, weren't you?"

"Oh yeah, sure, Maggie. Let me just check the calendar to make sure I'm free that day."

"No, Mom, you don't have to go if you don't want to."

Ahhhh, there it was. The old you-don't-have-to-go-if-you-don't-want-to. Yeah, right.

"No, no, Maggie," I quickly recovered. "It's not that I don't want to go. I do want to go. I really do."

"No you don't, Mom. I can tell you don't want to go." How she could tell, other than my stuttering and stammering and my trying to get over the shock, I really don't know.

So the calendar was checked--completely empty--and arrangements were made for me to come along on the most-beloved year-end activity. The zoo field trip.

I only made one concession. I had to drive my own car. The bus would surely put me over the edge and I would never again be able to set foot on either school property or zoo property again. I would be scarred for life if I rode the bus, so I put my foot down on the driving arrangements.

Today was the day, and you know what? It was fun. I got to hang with Maggie and her little kindergarten buddy and a couple of other girls from Maggie's class and their buddies. It was so sweet to see the big kids act semi-responsibly . . . for the first half hour anyway.



And I learned some things at the zoo today.

(I guess you don't get disappointed that way.)

(I think a few of those 5th grade boys hang out in trees too.)

And remember kids:


But the best part happened toward the end of the day. For some reason Maggie's kindergarten buddy got revved up as the day went on. No, we didn't feed her Dippin' Dots or Gatorade or Fruit by the Foot. She just started movin' and groovin' as she got the hang of the zoo.

"Can we go see the zebras next?" And she'd run ahead.

"Hey! What's that over there?" More running ahead.

"Come on! Let's look at the aardvarks!"

Finally, Maggie just looked at me as her buddy ran on ahead, rolled her eyes and said, "Gee, Mom, now I know how you felt when we were little. It's tiring being a mom!"

To me, the day was a complete success.

Ahhhhh

Last weekend we finally had a good day to get the porch ready for summer. Here is where I like to sit and write when the weather cooperates.



Today the weather finally cooperated, but my schedule didn't. A few friends held a birthday luncheon for me today, so . . . twist my arm . . . I had to be there. (It was lovely, by the way.)

But Kate and Maggie were home, enjoying the gorgeous weather on the porch. Look at what they did this afternoon.



Summer's almost here, and I can't wait.

What do you know, chivalry is NOT dead!

Fifth grade girls and fifth grade boys just do not speak to one another. Well, maybe if a basketball that a fifth grade boy is playing with happens to bounce over to a group of giggling fifth grade girls, he might say, "Hey, give that back" and that might require one of the giggling fifth grade girls to say, "Here," but otherwise there is no communication between the sexes at that age.

It's a miracle that our species continues to thrive.

With each of my girls I've tried to probe these mysteries, getting nowhere, of course. I recently asked Maggie, "Who are some of the nice boys in your class?" to which I got the response, "Eeewww, Mom, that's gross! There are no nice boys in my class."

But now I know that's not entirely true because of what I witnessed this morning.

Maggie had to be at school early today to read poetry to third graders. Why fifth graders are reading poetry to third graders is another mystery which shall remain a mystery for now. That's not the point of my story.

As I pulled up to the front of the school, Maggie got out of the car, and I noticed that another boy from her class--the "popular" boy who plays all sports well--got out of the car behind us. He sprinted to the front door of the school while Maggie lumbered toward the door with her heavy backpack and her extra pair of shoes (that girl is nothing if not prepared).

I watched as Maggie headed toward the building and noticed that the "cool" boy stopped, pulled the door open, and waited for her to go through. I should not have been surprised, but I totally was! I even said out loud to nobody in my car, "That was so nice!"

I was so glad I waited and got to witness that moment. I'm sure it meant nothing to the two of them, and they probably won't even remember that it happened. But that little act of kindness from a fifth grade boy to a fifth grade girl just made me so happy.

When boredom gets the best of me

Oh, alright, since Maggie and I were stuck at home last night watching the most exciting basketball game in my alma mater's history on T.V., I decided to do another "meme" with her. I saw this last week on Michelle's blog and thought it was so cute. Of course, her daughters are quite a bit younger than my youngest, but I thought it would be interesting to try it with older kids.

So anyway, here's the deal with this one. I asked the questions; Maggie gave the answers. Hope you enjoy it.

1. What is something mom always says to you?
M: Wash your hands.

2. What makes mom happy?
M: Food

3. What makes mom sad?
M: Politics

4. How does your mom make you laugh?
M: When she acts funny.

5. What did your mom like to do when she was a child?
M: Read.

6. How old is your mom?
M: 45

7. How tall is your mom?
M: 5'9" (she's right!)

8. What is her favorite thing to watch on TV?
M: The news??

9. What does your mom do when you’re not around?
M: Laundry

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
M: Writing a book.

11. What is your mom really good at?
M: Cooking

12. What is your mom not very good at?
M: I don't know. (She's always been my favorite child.)

13. What does your mom do for her job?
M: She's a stay-at-home mom.

14. What is your mom’s favorite food?
M: Ham and cheese loaf.

15. What makes you proud of your mom?
M: How she wants to teach me about the Bible.

16. If your mom were a television character, who would she be?
M: Kate Gosselin

17. What do you and your mom do together?
M: We read.

18. How are you and your mom the same?
M: We like to read.

19. How are you and your mom different?
M: I don't get riled up about politics.

20. What does your mom like most about your dad?
M: That he's a Christian.

21. Where is your mom’s favorite place to go?
M: Home.

Why I may actually be forced to read one of my high school novels again.

True confessions time . . . I am not as culturally savvy as I should be. There are lots of some books I should have read that I haven't read. There are other books I've read that I wish I hadn't read.

I have a Master's degree in English, and I confess that I'm not a Tolkien fan.

There, I said it. It's out in the open now. If this makes me culturally illiterate, and I'm sure it does, you can stop reading my blog now. Click the "X" in the corner and never return.

But I feel much better. Like a load has been lifted from my shoulders.

I remember reading "The Hobbit" as a freshman in high school. I'm sure this is where my dislike of Tolkien began because, as I think about it now, I don't think I've attempted to read another of his books.

"The Hobbit" put me to sleep. I couldn't keep the characters straight. I didn't understand this make-believe world of the Hobbits. And what kind of a name is Bilbo anyhow?

Reading "The Hobbit" was sheer torture to me.

So when Maggie's fifth grade reading class read that same book a few weeks ago I was really worried. How could a fifth grader understand that book if I didn't get it as a freshman? And, worse, what if she needed help with her homework?

I talked to B about it, and he confessed that he, too, wasn't much of a Tolkien fan for the very same reason I wasn't. He had read "The Hobbit" somewhere down the educational line and didn't much like it either. Needless to say, we haven't seen "The Lord of the Rings" much less read it.

One night over dinner we got to talking about how Maggie was beginning the great Hobbit adventure, and Kate and Abby both confessed that they hadn't liked the book either. Yes, we're a family of Hobbit-haters!

But Maggie started reading the book every night, along with a tape we got from the library. She has an excellent reading teacher who explained the setting and the characters and even the subtle moral lessons along the way. A couple of weeks later, at dinner again, Maggie sheepishly confessed that she was actually sort-of-kind-of enjoying "The Hobbit."

(We haven't yet decided whether or not to kick her out of the family.)

This week she showed me her final project from her class's study of "The Hobbit." To say I was impressed is an understatement. She had filled a legal-sized page with all of the trials and confrontations Bilbo had encountered on his journey. Next to each trial was the lesson that Bilbo learned from it.

At the top of the chart was a large circle in which each student was to write the "most precious insight" that Bilbo learned through the book. Maggie wrote this: "Adventures (big or small) are important because you learn things."

I love that!

Have you read the quote at the top of my blog? Have you noticed my subtitle?

I wonder if, in some small way, Bilbo Baggins crept into my subconscience all those years ago and instilled in me some sense of adventure.

I wonder if I might actually be a Hobbit-lover after all.

And now, for the RESSSST of the story

When last I left you, we were in the three ring circus that was Maggie’s birth. Moms were drugged, Dads were fainting (“Sue, we have a dad down!”), and nurses were scurrying around trying to hold both of us together.

It really was a mess.

But sweet Maggie was born and, as I told you, I held her for about 30 seconds before the nurses took her from me. Not because I was still sleepy, but because there was a little something going on with her that I was not aware of right away.

Our doctor noticed something ever-so-slightly wrong with the way she was breathing. The nurses didn’t believe him, insisting that she would clear up in a few minutes.

I had never seen a doctor do this before, but he very nearly stomped his foot and yelled at the nurses saying, “NO. We need to get her downstairs. Now.”

The nurses wrapped my newborn and placed her in an isolette and quickly whisked her away.

My fuzzy head cleared quickly and my eyes opened wide as I realized something wasn’t right. Downstairs? What did that mean? Where were they taking her?

“We’re taking her to the NICU,” one of the nurses explained. “Dr. thinks she’s having a little trouble breathing.”

This was serious.

If things were circus-y before, they were all-out chaos at that point.

Maggie was born around 11 p.m., so by now it was literally the middle of the night. We had no family there with us; we felt very much alone. I’m pretty sure that B and I just clung to each other and prayed. Hard.

A few hours later we were able to go see Maggie in the NICU, and here’s what we saw.



In one way it was tragic—all those tubes and wires—and in another way it was very funny to us. Yes, our baby was sick, but she was also 7 pounds, 12 ounces and compared to the other babies in the NICU, she was HUGE.

I held onto that, sensing that her size was an advantage. She was strong, I told myself. She had to make it.

Maggie was born with a pneumothorax which is kind of like a pocket of air that develops around the lung. This then caused a collapsed lung. That then turned into pneumonia. Combine all that with severe jaundice, and you’ve got one sick little girl.


(This is her under the bili lights--don't you love her faceband?!)

Thankfully, within 24 hours the doctors told us she was pretty much out of the woods, but they wanted to keep her there for a while. “A while” turned into seven days.

During those days when Maggie was in the hospital I learned a lot. It seems God is always teaching me to just plain trust Him, and I had to at that point. I couldn’t control Maggie’s health. It was (and is) entirely up to God to decide whether she would live or be healed. It was up to me to decide whether I would trust Him with His decision.

I also learned that I should not worry about what I could not control. Over and over again throughout my girls’ lives, I’ve come to realize that I have absolutely no control over them, ultimately. It would be wrong for me to worry about what is out of my hands.

This morning in church we sang one of Maggie’s favorite hymns, “In Christ Alone.” The fourth verse really hit me today, as I was thinking about this post and the early days of Maggie’s life. Here’s what it says:

"No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow'r of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow'r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow'r of Christ I'll stand."

From Maggie’s first cry until her final breath, I believe that Jesus commands her destiny. Nothing can pluck her from His hand.

Today Maggie is just fine. She’s a strong, healthy 11 year old who just went outside to ride her bike. She does have asthma—my only daughter who does—but I don’t know if that was caused by what happened at her birth of if it’s genetic. I’ll never know.

I do know this. God caused Maggie, but even moreso B and I, to go through this situation for a reason. I really believe He wanted to show us His power to heal our little girl, but also to give us a benchmark to look back on—a time when we needed to trust Him completely for our daughter. And, on those days when I just don’t want to be a parent, I look back on those early days with Maggie and realize that I wouldn’t want any other job. I am so lucky to have this beautiful little spark of energy in my life.

Last summer Maggie went to camp and had quite a time with her asthma. But the thing her counselors were impressed with was how she carried on, despite her illness and difficulty breathing. “She’s a real trooper,” they told us . . . several times.

You know, I think those counselors were right. Maggie has been a trooper since the day she was born. She doesn’t let those little things (like breathing well) stop her from doing all she wants to do in life. She pushes through, and she succeeds.

So, Maggie, our trooper, I wish you another happy birthday. We are so thankful you made it.

Mom

[edited to add: P.S. I forgot to mention Maggie's froggie legs in the pictures! Aren't they funny?! She had been breech for so long that her legs just went like that for a while. They settled down after a couple weeks, and now her legs are just fine.]

Don't read this if you don't want to read someone else's birth story . . . and really, who does?

My baby’s birthday was yesterday.

For weeks I had been hearing that she’d like a new digital camera thankyouverymuch because the old one used (gasp!) double-A batteries. And those cheap batteries ran out of juice too quickly.

So please make sure it has a lithium ion battery. Oh, and I’d like a camera that’s colored, please—not boring silver.

Imagine, a woman in this household who knows what she wants.

Anyway, we have a few birthday traditions around here. Some that are easier to pull off than others. Some that involve draping our entire first floor with colored crepe paper and balloons. Some that involve choosing your birthday dinner. And definitely one that involves cake.

But the birthday tradition we all look forward to is the telling-of-the-birth-story.

Usually that involves sitting around the table after dinner and one of the girls remembers that they haven’t heard that story in, oh, about a year, and they’d like to hear it again. It’s never because Mom or Dad remember to tell it.

And last night was no exception.

As I was telling the story for the eleventyhundredth time, I realized that it might be fun to share parts of it with you. Because Maggie’s birth was so much fun. Thirty hours of fun, it was.

So, if you read my list of 25 Random Things, you would already know that I’m usually on time or early and that all three of my daughters were born early. Maggie was due on Valentine’s Day—I was thinking that would be kind of cool to have a love child on Valentine’s Day—but she decided to start to arrive on February 2.

I know, you’re thinking, “I thought you said her birthday was yesterday” and you would be right. Remember the 30 hours of fun?

Maggie started to come on the evening of the 2nd of February, 1998. Labor began, but there was a bit of a problem that I’d been trying to ignore for months. She was breech.

In the months prior to her birth the doctors had given me exercises to try to get her to flip around. Now, try real hard to NOT imagine a hugely pregnant woman on the floor on all fours, rocking back and forth to get the baby to flip. Or even lying on her back with her legs up on a chair, just willing that baby to turn over.

Nothing doing.

(If I had met Maggie before she came out, I would already know that this was only a precursor of things to come.)

Anyway, labor began, but needed to be held off (Really? They can do that?) until the next morning because the doctor who would have performed the C-section (she was breech, remember?) wouldn’t be in until then.

It worked.

Next morning I met Dr. C-section for the first time (my doc was a GP and not allowed to do any cutting). He took one look at my enormous belly, checked my chart to see that I had already given birth twice before and announced magnanimously, “You’ve got plenty of room in there. I think I can turn this baby around.”

Now, let me warn you, the next time anyone says the words “external” and “version” in the same sentence while looking at your hugely pregnant belly, get out of that bed and run down the hall as fast as your thick ankles can carry you.

I had not had that warning so I stayed in my bed, awaiting his magic hands on my belly.

And magic did he perform. On my belly. All kinds of contortions that were the most painful pushing and pulling I had ever experienced—before or since.

While two EMTs in training watched.

Along with a couple of nurses who had “never seen anything like that before.”

All told, there were eight people in the room, not counting myself and B whose hand I was squeezing so hard he couldn’t feel anything for a week. I guess I was somewhat of an oddity.

So Maggie was now sunny-side up, and all was good to go. Except for me. Suddenly my labor stopped, and I was faced with two choices: either go home and wait, or induce labor.

Which one do you think I chose?

So from there things progressed pretty normally. Drug-induced contractions ensued.
So did vomiting, shaking, and then drug-induced sleeping. Me, not B.

B was too busy fainting to sleep.

No kidding, that labor and delivery room was like a three-ring circus.

By the time I was ready to start the work of actually getting that baby out, I was sleeping. All I remember were the faces of nurses standing over me saying, “Wake up, honey, it’s time to push.”

Yeah, right. I rolled over and wanted to go back to sleep, but B wouldn’t let me. I think he may have slapped me a time or two, but that may have been the medicine.

An hour or so later, our sweet Maggie was born. I held her for thirty seconds exactly before the nurses grabbed her out of my arms.

And then the real story began . . .

She Likes Me, She REALLY Likes Me!

I’ve tried about thirteen different ways of starting this post, but none of them seem to do it justice. You see, I’m letting you in on the big reveal today. I’m showing you the gift I got this year that just undid me.

First of all, let me say that I love all three of my girls with every bit of my heart. Each one is special in her own way, and each one tries her best to make me feel special every day.

I am blessed. Beyond belief, I am blessed.

So it doesn’t seem quite right to single out one of my girls for doing something special for me, but today I’m going to do just that because I think you’ll appreciate it almost (but never quite) as much as I did.

About two weeks before Christmas, Maggie went into panic mode. She had known for a few weeks what she wanted to make me for Christmas, but she hadn’t started working on it. Finally, she got herself set up at a desk in the basement and started working. She worked for hours, all by herself in the basement—everything was top-secret. Should I happen to head downstairs for something, Maggie would yell, “Mom, cover your eyes! Don’t look!”

So I played along. I figured that if Maggie was working so hard on my gift, I surely would want to be surprised by it.

Now, here’s the “bad Mommy” confession . . . I was a little worried. I mean, a homemade gift from a 10 year old—how great could it be, really? And what would it be? I figured she was drawing me a picture; it would be nice, for sure, but I’d probably open it and say, “Oh, Maggie, that’s nice. Thank you so much.” And then I’d file it away and forget about it.

That’s my selfish self talking, and I know it. The selfish self that I despise so much but who keeps popping out at the worst possible moments.

Well, good news—my selfish self got a good kick in the butt this Christmas when I opened the actual gift that Maggie made for me.

Are you ready? Here it is:



And here’s the back side:



Christmas morning stopped dead in its tracks when I opened this most precious of gifts. All of that hard work and secrecy in the basement had turned into a calendar that Maggie made for me which read “12 months, 12 reasons to love Mom.”

Each month lists a different reason why my girl loves me. Wanna hear them? I knew you would.

January – “Reason #1: Your warm, motherly hugs.”
February – “Reason #2: You being FUN!”
March – “Reason #3: Friday – home for lunch day!!!”
April – “Reason #4: You help me grow in the Lord.”
May – “Reason #5: You love me SO much!”
June – “Reason #6: You really care about me!”
July – “Reason #7: You want the best for me.”
August – “Reason #8: You’re a great cook!”
September – “Reason #9: You’re the best mom ever!”
October – “Reason #10: You cheer me up when I’m sad.”
November – “Reason #11: You’re supportive”
December – “Reason #12: You’re my mom!”

Now, I’m not much for tears; I try to hold them in as much as I can. But on this Christmas morning, leafing through the calendar that my precious daughter had painstakingly made for me, the calendar that reminds her and me every month of why I do what I do, the floodgates opened and I wept tears of joy, gratitude, and love for this little girl who loves me so much.

Never was a mother so humbled.

Never was that selfish self proven wrong and kicked so hard to the corner.

I’d like it very much if she’d never come back.

Caution: Spoiler Alert

I'm going to tell you about Santa. If you don't want to know the truth, don't keep reading.

O.K., I admit it, we played Santa with our kids when they were little. It was fun. It was harmless. Don't judge me, please.

I had determined when they were born that I would not lie to my children--about anything. Of course, you might be thinking that even playing Santa for your kids is a form of lying. Semantics, I say. Anyway, I had decided that if questions started coming up about Santa, I would answer them as truthfully as I could. I would even tell "the secret" if pushed.

About five years ago, I had the last "Santa talk" with Maggie.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was shortly after Christmas, and the girls and I were at the local mall, probably exchanging a sweater for something more useful. At any rate, the time came for lunch and we headed to our favorite place to eat in the mall--A & W--where you can not only get a frosty mug of root beer, but you can also get your complete fat intake for the week in one chili cheese dog. Heaven.

So we were sitting at one of their "high" tables with the stools, happily munching on fries and sipping ice cold root beer when Maggie blurted out, "Mom, is Santa Claus real?"

I think I spewed root beer all over the table. Where was this coming from?

So I started "the talk" as I had started with each of my older girls. "Maggie, I am not going to lie to you. Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes, I think so," was her reply. I've found, after having been through this three times, that they usually don't ask the question until they pretty much know the answer.

So we trudged forward.

"You're sure? Because if you're sure, I'm going to tell you."

"Yes, Mom! I'm sure."

"O.K." I said. And then I simply and slowly shook my head.

Quietly, her reply came. "I thought so," she said.

"Are you sad?" I asked.

"Kind of," she said with tears forming in her beautiful brown eyes. "But I kind of knew it was you. Santa's handwriting looks just like yours. Why didn't you try to disguise it?"

Good question, I thought. But the reason I never tried to disguise it, I told her, was because I sort of wanted them to figure it out. The whole Santa thing was fun, but didn't need to be carried on until they were teenagers. I figured by the time they were five or six they would put two-and-two together.

We sat in silence for a minute, and then came Maggie's next question. "Mom, does that mean you're also the tooth fairy?"

"Oh, Maggie, I'm so sorry. Yes," was all I said.

I could feel her world shifting beneath her, and I felt so terrible that there was nothing I could do about it. Things were changing for my baby, and I couldn't stop it. She would look at the world differently from here on out.

Maggie sat quietly, contemplating.

I sat nervously, awaiting the next question.

"Mom," she finally said, "if you're Santa AND the tooth fairy, . . . then don't even tell me about the Easter Bunny!"

One Dog, One Dad, and One Logical Thinker

We’re nothing in this house if not passionate. You’d think we were Italian with the way we argue, debate, raise our voices, and get all excited about the silliest things. We’re not Italian, but I am wondering if one German and one Dutchman equal one Italian.

From the beginning of our relationship, B and I have debated just about everything. (For the record, neither of us are lawyers, but one of us should have been!) Over the past 25 years, we have fought argued discussed our way through various issues. Everything from politics to which direction the carpet should be vacuumed.

There’s very little gray area between us. The good thing is that we almost always know what the other person is thinking. We might not like what the other person thinks--and we’ll say so--but there’s hardly ever any underlying “stuff” between us.

This has made some people uncomfortable over the years. Our college friends just shook their heads at us, wondering how on earth we would ever make a marriage work. One friend even suggested that B just “give it up” (meaning me!) because “she isn’t worth it.”

Harrumph!

More than 25 years together, and we’re doing just fine thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, last week our analytical ways came back to bite us. More specifically, they came back to bite B. I guess we underestimated the power of those "little ears."

On a typical morning, B will kiss me goodbye at 5:30 a.m. as he’s heading out the door to the gym. I’m usually in a semi-comatose state, so I may or may not groan my goodbye to him. But one morning last week he skipped his workout because he was tired. Why was he tired, you ask? Because Thunder woke him up at 3:00 a.m. to go outside.

Now, this hardly ever happens. In fact, I can’t remember the last time it happened. So it was strange. There had to be something wrong with the dog that day because not only did she need to be let outside in the middle of the night, but she also threw up on a rug. I found that pleasant little package when I got up.

So B was sitting at the table eating breakfast when Maggie came downstairs.

“Hi, Dad! What are you doing here this morning?”

“I slept in a little because your dog got me up last night.” (Did you catch that? YOUR dog?)

“Really? Thunder got up in the middle of the night?”

“Yeah. And I had to let her outside. At 3 in the morning. And then she threw up on the rug. I don’t like your dog very much, Maggie.”

So about a minute of silence passed between them. B had gone back to the newspaper, and Maggie was quietly eating her breakfast.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“If I got you up at 3:00 a.m. to go to the bathroom and then threw up on the rug, would you not like me anymore either?”

Looks like he may have met his match.

Maggie the Brave

Sometimes your kids surprise you and humble you so much you can't believe that all the things you're teaching them are actually sinking in.

I had one of those moments yesterday. And now I'm wondering why I'm surprised at all--God is working in the lives of my kids.

A long time ago, months ago probably, Maggie told me that she was feeling bad about something she had done in fourth grade. It seemed like such a little thing to me, but I told her that if she needed to get it off her chest she should probably talk to that teacher.

Unfortunately, Maggie doesn't see that teacher very often at school, and I had completely forgotten about the issue. Thank goodness Maggie didn't forget.

When she got home from school yesterday Maggie told me that she ran into Mrs. J in the hallway. She told me she was nervous, but then she said, "I thought to myself that I better talk to her now about it or I probably never would, so I walked a little faster to catch up with her."

And then Maggie did such a brave thing. Something I am not sure many adults would even do. Something I'm pretty sure I've never done before.

She confessed. To her teacher.

She took a deep breath and said, "I did something last year that was wrong, and I'm sorry." O.K., not exactly in those words, but something along those lines with a few more specifics thrown in.

She said her teacher looked a little surprised and confused for a second, but then she simply said, "Oh! You're forgiven!"

At dinner last night, Maggie was practically floating on air as she explained the situation to our family. I said, "It feels like freedom, doesn't it?"

With a huge smile on her face, she nodded.

And with that simple act of kindness, those powerful words changed Maggie's day--and probably her life just a little.

To be forgiven is the best thing ever.

The "Maggie Scale" of Autumn Decorations

You’ve heard of the Richter scale, right? That’s the way people in California know how big and how powerful their latest earthquake was . . . or something like that. It’s rated in levels so they know how bad it all was.

This weekend, while taking a long walk with Maggie, we started noticing that every house is decorated in different “levels” of autumn attire.

Maggie started ranking each house according to the “Maggie scale,” which isn’t quite as scientific nor as elaborate as the Richter scale, but you get the idea.

"Ooh, that one's a three," she would say.

Or, "Four, definitely a four. Look at that mask hanging from the tree. Yuck!"

So, in case you haven't begun decorating for autumn (although you should have by now), Maggie's scale might just be of help to you.

Maggie’s level 1: No autumn decorations at all. Not even a mum plant in a pot sitting by the front door. Nothing. Nada. Niet. Come on people, do something!

Maggie’s level 2: “Kind of like our house,” she said. Fall decorations, mums, a few pumpkins. All tastefully done, of course. This is the level to which the tasteful holiday decorator should aspire (if I do say so myself).



Maggie’s level 3: Halloween begins to creep in here. “Cheerful Halloween decorations,” Maggie called them. Any house with a carved pumpkin or a not-too-scary-looking witch outside of it would fall into this category.



Maggie’s level 4: Ghoulish. This is the “creepy” category. Houses with graveyards and skeletons in their front yard. Houses that don’t speak “friendly” in any way, shape, or form.



Why anyone would want a graveyard in their front yard, unless you live next door to a church, is beyond me.

Why anyone would want to scare the little kiddos away is also beyond me since the best part of Halloween is seeing the kids in your neighborhood who just yesterday were sitting in strollers come to your door and say “Trick or Treat” in their biggest kid voices. And then I get to “ooh” and “aah” over their costumes and ask them how their mom is doing and how school’s going and end up embarrassing them to death.

Makes you wonder which “Level” house is worse on Halloween . . . the one with the creepy skeleton guarding over the graveyard . . . or mine.