Live Like You're Hosting an Exchange Student

Last week we hosted a Chinese teacher and student in our home as part of an exchange sponsored by Big Sis's International Baccalaureate middle school. We learned about the exchange only a week before, and it seemed like there were one hundred reasons to say are you kidding me no, we do not need this in our lives right now, including that the visit was falling on a week of major events at my school (annual Strategic Planning, school board meeting, basketball game vs. rival high school, "Dirty in the Paint" dance--yeah, don't ask).  Adding in fun cultural activities, complicating an already complex carpool scheme, and cleaning the house in preparation could very well take me over the edge.  But Big Sis was excited.  And we have plenty of space in our house, which we bought for the purpose of sharing.  This is the kind of thing we love to do.  So we said yes.

The exchange students and teachers were arriving the evening of Super Bowl Sunday, and we learned in the morning that we had been assigned a male teacher and student.  We were disappointed; as a family of three girls it seemed obvious we would be paired with girls.  And how would it work with one adult and student?  We made an attempt to "trade" our guests with friends matched with two Chinese girls, friends who have three sons.  For a variety of reasons, though, we needed to stick with the original plan.  And that night we met our teacher, Dong, and student, Li Ze ("Tony"), and began five amazing days of cultural exchange.

Dong and Tony accompanied Big Sis to school each morning, so they participated in carpool and shadowed middle school students and teachers.  We picked them up each afternoon, taking them to the beach, Balboa Park, the Hotel del Coronado, and Seaport Village.  We introduced them to Souplantation, celebrated my birthday with them at Corvette Diner, and ended the week with Tony's favorites, pizza and spaghetti.

It took only a half-day for the awkwardness to wear off and for us to realize we were experiencing something wonderful.  I began thinking that there were some life lessons to be gleaned from our week.

1.  Opening Our Home Opened Our Family.  Hosting guests brought out the best in all of us.  Big Sis was a gracious, attentive, and generous hostess, ensuring that Tony was included in all conversations and activities at home and at school.  They became fast friends.  After a week when Big Sis and I had not been jiving, I welcomed reasons to praise and appreciate her.   Tootsie was charmed by our new family members and had Dong, father of a four-year-old, carrying her around and adopting a special protectiveness of her by the end of his first day with us. Hosting a foreign exchange inspires such simple generosity--we became ambassadors for not only our family and our daughter's school, but for our city, our state, our nation, our culture.  We became Team Family, with a shared purpose (versus what sometimes feels like competing interests):  invested in them being comfortable, welcomed, part of us.  We wanted them to have whatever it appeared they desired or wished for during their visit.  We saw glimpses of ourselves in their reactions to us:  we're funny; we're loud; we're busy.  We practiced our best behavior for most of their time with us until inevitably our warts (sibling bickering, parental impatience) began to show.

2.  We Need to Act Like Tourists More Often.  While some of my work obligations were non-negotiable, our guests inspired us to leave work and school early and embark on mini-adventures we normally wouldn't on a weekday:  roam the park, play at the beach, make family dinner a priority every night.  One evening during our dinner-time sharing of the Best Parts of Our Day, Big Sis offered that spending more time as a family and doing simple but fun activities was a highlight of the week.  It was a powerful reminder that the busy schedules of our daily lives don't have to preclude a quick evening dip in the ocean or pick-up soccer in the park, exploitation of this beautiful city we live in and all it offers.  We are challenged now to think, if we had foreign guests right now, where would we take them; what would we do?  And then consider doing just that, just because.

3.  Expressing Curiosity about Fellow Humans Enriches and Expands Us.  We were excited to share our guests and our experience with family and friends.  My brother and his wife brought their children over for a boisterous family dinner with Google Translate experiments, comparisons of and cross-cultural help with homework, discussions of food, and passing around of babies. We were reminded by Dong, who, per the Chinese norm, has one daughter and wishes he had more, what a privilege large families are.  Each new person we introduced Dong and Tony to brought out different sides of and information from them, too, including our Auntie T who's been to China four times, and our friends who are half Chinese.  We take a certain amount of multiculturalism for granted in our country, but we don't often take the time or have a safe opportunity to question and share with the clear intent of understanding one another's culture for the sake of better understanding humanity.

4.  We Live in a World of Wonder and Wonderfulness. Approach Life as an Adventure.  Practice Curiosity. Tony and Dong had never been to the ocean.  Have you been to the beach with people who've never been to the beach?  That made the beach 10,000 times more fun than it usually is.  The digging in the sand, the cartwheels on the shore, the squeals when waves of chilly water lapped over toes, the sunset:  all of it inspired a giddy celebration of simply being, and being in nature.

Tony and Dong approached all moments with eyes wide open, ready for surprises and learnings.  Every meal, every routine, every drive somewhere inspired more curiosity and questions and awe from our guests.   There were some comical iterations of this, too.  I sent Big Sis downstairs with a box of tissues for their room on the second night Tony and Dong were here.  The square Kleenex box, decorated on the outside as is customary, was mistaken by our guests as a gift, so they expressed overwhelming gratitude to Big Sis for the specially delivered present...and then found out it was tissues and were a little embarrassed.  Our tall pepper grinder was a mystery, so we emptied it to show them what it was and how it worked, with all of us grinding and sniffing pepper in demonstration.  The pepper reveal led to a tour and tasters from our spice cabinet, with Dong sampling Tajin and needing a tall glass of water as a result. Our family's structure, with Husband having the day off on Mondays and watching Tootsie, and my often-long work hours, was eye-opening to Dong, who described more traditional gender roles in Chinese families.  Meanwhile, we kept reminding ourselves that China was a country of largely no siblings, recognizing how our big-family backgrounds informed our world views, and even the questions we asked our guests.  We asked Tony and Dong what surprised them most about America.  After thinking a while, Tony, from Beijing like Dong, responded, the air.  The clean air.  Viewing our world through their eyes imbued with a renewed sense of gratitude.

5.  Caring and Giving Provides Us with Higher Purpose.  Most of us give to and care for others as part of our daily lives.  But moments when we are accountable to others in new ways recalibrate our priorities and help us find our center.  I have times when I work later than I planned and my family pays, and I feel guilty but also that the sacrifice is necessary.  But this week I felt a renewed sense of obligation and tug.  When I left work it was to be there for my family AND our special family, whom I grew to love in short time.  Hosting Dong and Tony made work feel a little less critical.  It made going home more so.  It made life richer for all of us.  We're going to try to hold on to the important parts, and embrace opportunities that stretch our family beyond ourselves.

A Message from Middle School

Big Sis is in sixth grade, for just over a week now.  And I've been tempted to post something to the effect of middle school:emotion::Pope:Catholic.  Because, wow.  Maybe it's just, as a BFF calls it, Transition Sickness.  But there's been a lot of turmoil, sobbing, exhaustion, nostalgia for the easier times of childhood, and, as it turns out, reflection.

Tonight, Big Sis busted out a soliloquy that I urged her to write down.  Because she's so right on, and she has managed, through her tiredness and tears, to focus on some big themes.  Her ideas resonated, because just last week I exhorted a group of seniors to think of college:life::wedding:marriage.  College isn't what you've spent 18 years preparing for; it's not the be all, end all.  Life is what you've spent 18 years preparing for, and you're actually living it NOW.

It took me 43 years to figure this stuff out, but Big Sis has some wisdom as a newly minted sixth grader (and I copy her text here with her permission):

OK, Here it goes.  I have just begun middle school, and lately we have been given a few talks.  During each one I am thinking.  We're hearing that middle school is all about preparing, preparing, preparing for life.  But really it's not just preparing.  It's all an experience.  You're not just learning to learn, you're learning for your own good.  You're living RIGHT NOW.  

You can't always be living in the future, because it's like we are only preparing for the life ahead of us, which makes us a big stress case.  Just go with the flow and relax and just think about how you're doing right now.  Because otherwise all you're doing is waiting.  All waiting will do is discourage you.  You're not always preparing if you're having a great experience living in the now.  

Of course it's alright to have your mind set on a certain career.  But think of other things you might enjoy as well.  For example, I love soccer, and would like to pursue my dream, but I can't put all my eggs in one basket.  I also love to read and would love to become an author as well.  

Not every stage in life is preparation for the next stage.  If we act like that, when will it stop?  The problem is, it won't.  We will keep living like this and it will never end.  

So, what I am humbly saying is that we, (especially us kids) need to think about life differently.  School, in particular.  We all need to think of it like an experience.  

Nine Months

9 Months Old (young!)

She's officially been out of the womb longer than she was in.  And this month, she's on the go, crawling across the floor as of Sunday morning.  We need a gate on those stairs, stat!

When she's not bonking her head during one of her mobile adventures, Tootsie is blowing raspberries, showing off her two little razor-sharp teeth (and using them to gnaw on puffs, strawberries, Mum-Mums, her toes, and family members), lunging at her dog, practicing syllables (dadadada), and perfecting her role as soccer fan.  At her developmental check she was deemed right on target. Go Tootsie!

But no, she doesn't sleep through the night.  We call that a parenting fail.  Okay, okay:  One particular parent's fail.

One early morning this month before meeting her babysitter I brought our little rascal into the school library and asked our friend the librarian to hold her as I visited the restroom.  I returned to find her being passed around among staff members and students, who were taking pictures with her on their phones and competing for her company.  One of the older teenage boys was especially tender with her, resting his head on hers and breathing in her baby scent.

Her ready smiles and willingness to be held by strangers make her a great ambassador and her tagging along renders my work enterprises (cheering at lacrosse games, walking precincts for the bond election, attending superintendent's meetings) much more joyful.  Sometimes where my Work Life and Mom Life intersect is stressful, and sometimes it helps me feel better about both.  That morning, watching our baby connect with my students, I felt more connected to both them and her.

Her sisters still find that sun rises and sets on Tootsie; in fact, when there are occasions I whisk her off with me early in the morning and return with her late, they admittedly pine for her all day.

So much love.  *Blissful sigh*

Three Sisters

Dear Friends and Family,

Yesterday I met my big sisters for the first time; they came into my room in the morning right after I breastfed at 9 AM.  Normally, I fall deep asleep after a feed, but I stayed awake to stare at them, wiggle around, make noises and show them all my tricks.  Excuse the bragging, but they were in awe of me, calling me "perfect," "the most beautiful baby in the world" with the "softest skin ever."  They didn't want to let me go.  I think I look like Little Sis, but have a similar profile as Big Sis.  They're so big compared to me.  It was amazing to be all together (we miss you, Dad!), and everyone was excited.  I spent a long time in my auntie's arms, too.

They went off to have breakfast and after all the excitement of the morning, I slept through my noon feed, so they headed to Faneuil Hall and Quincy market for lunch.  I was still a little dopey at 3:00, too, which meant they could go get ice cream with my other auntie at J.P. Lick's (my mom's favorite place here in Boston) and then for a swim in the pool at the hotel, where my sisters used up some of their energy and generally acted silly.

While they were at the pool they received the amazing news that my cousin was born back in San Diego, a healthy baby boy!  He was supposed to be born before me, but I beat him to it.  I can't wait to meet him, but I need to keep gaining weight (I'm up to 4lbs. 8oz!).  He's already 6lbs. 7oz. so I have some catching up to do.  We're going to be best friends.

Mom came back to feed me at 6 while my sisters took showers and got ready for dinner.  They came over to see me, but I stayed in my isolette and listened to them talk to me while I nodded off.

Mom and auntie and my sisters had dinner in the hotel, which took a really long time!  Everyone was very tired since my sisters' and auntie's plane flight was delayed--they got in at 2 in the morning.  But Little Sis was determined to come with Mom back to the hospital for my 9:00 feed and weigh-in.  She got to help change my diaper, watch my nurse weigh me, see me breastfeed, and then hold me again.  I stayed awake so she could talk to me and kiss me goodnight a million times.  I heard her tell Mom she will help her with whatever I need.

My mom and my sisters are so happy to be together and here with me, but I can tell they don't think it's enough time.  My sisters are very sad that Mom and I are not coming home with them.  They need her, too, I know, so I am going to do my best to get big and strong so I can join them and Dad and meet my dog sister.  Mom feels sad that she can't be every place she wants to be and with all of us together.

Big Sis is still sad about our cat, Koshka, who died before I was born.  She talks about her a lot and cries, too.  I know they had a special relationship.  Koshka used to snuggle against Mom's belly, pregnant with me, at night in bed.  She probably did that with both my sisters, too, since she was around before we were.

I can't wait to spend time with my sisters today.  They don't know it, but we're going to try and feed me with a bottle today, and Big Sis gets to give me my first one (I will try hard to cooperate)!  It will be an exciting day for sure.

They leave very early tomorrow morning for home, so we will say goodbye this evening and they will spend the night with my auntie and uncle at Harvard.  My other auntie will stay here with Mom and me for a little while longer.  I know Mom has enjoyed sleeping in a hotel for a few nights, but she comes back early in the morning to see me and to hear the doctors and nurses talk about me at rounds.

I hope my family has a wonderful day here in Boston and loves this city as much as I think I will (I'm the only one who hasn't been outside yet!!).

Love,

Tootsie

Wrestling with Worries

Right before bed, Big Sis summoned me for a private conference.  "I've been worrying," she shared.  We hopped onto my bed together, as is our custom when she needs to talk. 

"I'm worried about bombs and poison gases, Mom.  I mean, what if something like what happened in Boston happens here?  How do you know it won't?  We're learning about the chemicals in water and I'm thinking about how our water could be poisoned, and I can't get it all out of my mind..."  Her anxieties issued from her in a gush. 

I don't know it won't happen here, sweetheart.  I can't promise you it won't.  But I can reassure you that kindnesses in our world are more likely than terrible things.  And while we live every day with the knowledge that accidents happen and sicknesses happen and pain is part of our experience, births also happen, and celebrations, and beauty and wonderfulness are all around us. 

A few more trips from her bedroom for reassurance followed, until we finally sent her back to bed with an assignment to think of a baby girl's name for each letter of the alphabet. 

We're all worried these days, aren't we, though we each feel it and wear it and express it in different ways?  Our daughter, prone to apprehensions and anxious wonderings, was bound to come to us with Boston-inspired concerns and questions.  She devoured a copy of The Hunger Games over spring break, a book I'd hoped she would wait to read, with its poisonous berries and...everything else.  Being displaced right now, between old house and new and on an extended vacation at Mammom's and Bampa's house, provides another source of instability.

I watch my own reactions to news and personal circumstances closely.  Pregnancy--even simply embarking on the journey of parenthood by attempting to conceive or adopt--means stepping onto a landscape of uncertainty and unknowns, new frontiers of hope and worry.  I mark the hurdles:  heartbeat on ultrasound, first trimester completed, negative screening results.  But there's no point of earned complacency in parenthood and life, only comfort in acknowledging the risks and joys associated with vulnerability. 

Disasters and tragedies aren't required to provoke our anxieties--all we need is a convenient temporal basket for our worries.  Moving, and a new house, have been ripe fodder for my over-active imagination at 3:00 AM.  I pictured the deck on our house as higher than it really is, the hillside steeper, with guests tumbling into the canyon in the event of a collapse.  Upstairs windows might be easy for children to fall from.  The canyon could be a nesting ground for rattlesnakes.  Would our house be easy to burglarize?

And then I remembered this week we'd momentarily forgotten to be afraid of North Korea.

So much randomness and unpredictability inspires the desire for us to exert controls on identifiable and accessible areas in our daily lives.  I could put locks on the windows, install an alarm system, forbid the kids from exploring the canyon.  But the worries would only reinvent themselves, seep through cracks in the door frames like poison gases.  There aren't enough sandbags to guard against uncertainty.  And somewhere along the bucket brigade we stop living how we truly want to, with chin up and eyes on the birds twittering on the fence, on the sunset, on the horizon.

So we hold hands, snuggle on the bed, reassure, and resolve.

We're working on managing our fears and anxieties over here.  How about you?  How have worries surfaced?  How do you balance caution with embracing wonder and vulnerability?

P.S.  a shout-out to Jewel, whose song "Hands" made it into the iPod shuffle on my jog this morning, with timely lyrics:

"If I could tell the world just one thing

It would be that we're all OK

And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful

And useless in times like these

I won't be made useless

I won't be idle with despair..."

Plenty of Poetry

I've been *enjoying* 3:00 AM insomnia for the past few months.  Sure, call it my body's way of preparing for a baby who is likely not as predictable as whatever internal alarm clock nudges me from slumber at an eerily consistent hour I can't even celebrate as close to early-morning workout time. 

I generally get up between 5:30 and 6:00, so it's sobering to think of how many hours I have after 3:00 each morning to accomplish something, and how little I actually do, as I snuggle my iPad and scroll through blogs and read articles and play a few rounds of Words with Friends (lather, rinse, repeat...).

Today, though, I used the United States Postal Service website to forward our mail to our new house and signed up for a poem a day via email on the Poetry Foundation's website.  I was so grateful to myself when Marianne Boruch's "Pencil" arrived in my inbox later this morning; I had to share it with an art teacher colleague. 

In the afternoon I spotted another teacher/friend scurrying away from the office who called out, "I just left you a poem!" 

Seriously?  Yes. 

There was a photocopy of Billy Collins' "The Effort" waiting for me on my keyboard. 

Today felt like a wonderful profusion of poetry, especially since I unearthed a poem I wrote when I was pregnant with Big Sis to publish here today:

Flutter

Something new is overtaking me
The wonder of you inside
My body a housing,
encasing hope, fantasy,
and infinite possibilities:
The unwitting agent
of change in the world, a new prophet
for the world's devout, I carry you
gently,
little moth. 

February Was Morning Sickness Month

I found out I was pregnant after I'd already poured myself a glass of wine.

I'd spent a chilly Friday night supervising a high school soccer game and was looking forward to a glass of red and some time on the couch with my husband.  My period was due today, I recalled as I drove up the hill to our neighborhood, thinking that just to be safe, I could grab both a pregnancy test and wine at the drugstore.

So confident was I that I couldn't be pregnant, I poured myself a glass of Cabernet before I headed to the bathroom.

The wine, and my relatively simpler life, went down the drain that night, January 11.

Of course, I didn't feel immediately pregnant.  I felt, instead, alternately disbelieving, giddy, panicky, hopeful, selfish, unprepared, worried, old, young, wary, nervous, excited, embarrassed, irresponsible, defensive, strong, determined, gleeful and guilty: conflicted.

I was 41, soon to be 42.  I'd recently had a miscarriage.  Only a week earlier, I'd half-purged the house of baby and toddler gear, ready to accept that we wouldn't have a third.  Our house was small. Money wasn't growing on our big tree in the front yard.  Husband didn't see this coming, now.  No one would, I thought, though having another child was a not-so-secret long indulgent wish of mine.

The risks, all of them, and the potential of raising our little girls' hopes (one of whom had asked for a baby for her birthday) and having them ultimately dashed them made keeping this pregnancy secret paramount.

Meanwhile, I began feeling tired.  And then, hungry.  And then... blergggggghhhhhhhhaaaaggggghhhhhh.

Flu season had struck at school with a vengeance, so I fit right in, though I resisted curling up on the nurse's office cot and going home. I groaned through weeks of what felt like the flu and also like the world's longest hangover, bearing all the same characteristics, including internal wails of why oh why did I do this to myself?  I never threw up, at least outside my mouth.  But I entered many classrooms and meetings with an escape plan in mind.  I conjured images of pregnant women around the globe, sicker than I felt, plowing fields and chasing toddlers.  So I rallied.  

But I lacked oomph. 

And I could smell your breath, and your perfume, or lack thereof.  Also your socks.  

Nothing sounded good.  And then everything sounded tempting until I put in my mouth or smelled it. I ate to fill my stomach with a feeling other than nausea.  I craved sandwiches.  I craved sleep.  I spent most afternoons and evenings lying in bed, feeling like a terrible mother and wife.  The girls grew used to me doing little.  We read books together in bed, but I hardly wanted to play.  Husband patiently tolerated and tended to me, tempering his excitement and unspoken anxiety.  

I became a boring and absent and unavailable friend.  I really did want to meet you for that beer! But.  And I'm pretty sure I was in bed by 7:30 that night.

I felt duplicitous and sneaky as I engaged in conversations with others, including my sister-in-law, about their pregnancies.  "Nope, nothing new or big going on in my life," I fibbed to unsuspecting and remote friends and family members.  I kept Big and Little Sis in mind, figuring I'd ask for forgiveness and understanding later.  

But here we are now at 12 weeks, with some assurance that a healthy little bean is sprouting inside me.  And my growing belly (why yes, I have had a big lunch!  A foot-long sub, in fact!) is ready for its debut.  We have some very excited big sisters and new landscapes ahead. 

Yeehaw!

List: Christmas Wonderfulness

1.  Friday was the first night of Winter Break, and we grabbed an auntie and headed to the mall to sit on Santa's lap, eat dinner at a restaurant where you order food with an iPad, and do a little shopping and a lot of soaking up the spirit and songs and window displays.  We started the evening with rockstar parking and ended it by finding a few funny gifts for friends.  It was the perfect start to some time off with family. 

2.  BFF Missy and her kids established an assembly line of toiletries and snacks at their house to make sock care packages for folks who are homeless. Big and Little Sis got to participate in the creation of a few of these stockings and we gave them out to brothers and sisters camping out under the freeway by our house. Thanks for the inspiration and opportunity, buddy.

3.  We came home from our annual Christmas Eve dinner tradition of red and green soups at Mammom's and Bampa's (minus Mammom and Bampa, who are with my sister and her husband and their three boys in Oregon) and I headed down the block to drop off a gift at our neighbor's house.  "Come back in ten minutes!" my neighbor/coworker exhorted us.  "You'll be just in time for Grandpa to play the accordion and our Christmas singalong!" 

I'm not one to turn down an accordion occasion, and it was as awesome as I thought it would be, with Grandpa accompanying and shouting out cues before various verses, "All the ladies now!" and a house full of family and friends.  Just when we thought the festivities were over, The Talent Competition was announced.  The first act was a family of red-nosed reindeer playing "Rudolph" on a keyboard.  Big Sis stepped up to be the second and last act, and won the competition with "If I Only Had a Brain" on the keyboard.  The prizes were scratch-off lottery tickets, and our neighbor host promised instant cash-out.  Big Sis walked away with $11 (from a party we crashed), while the second-place act reminded us that if it weren't for their keyboard...

4.  And then we returned home for construction time.  Christmas Wonderfulness features the cooperation and enthusiasm of determined Auntie and Honorary Auntie as well as Husband in the assembly of a key Santa gift, which we completed at midnight.  And note:  Honorary Auntie had already assembled one of these items in her own workshop at home the week prior, before we determined it was too big for the girls' bedroom.  And she still agreed to assemble one desk more.  Love.

5.  Big Sis has been asking for her own room.  And though we contemplated making a move to a different house this year, it wasn't meant to be (and wouldn't necessarily result in "own rooms," either).  Though she asked for a Kindle, Big Sis got "room of her own" for Christmas this year, in the form of a desk, lamp, blotter/calendar, bulletin board, and retro-refurbished chair set up in a corner of the bedroom which is now all hers.  I haven't been so excited about a gift in a long time. 

6.  Big Sis and Little Sis independently thought of and chose very thoughtful gifts for each other, and it made me teary to watch them exchange presents and observe their reactions.

7.  We spent mid-Christmas Day with Husband's family at our niece's house, where she hosted a scrambled-egg-and-bacon breakfast a la Grandma Shirley.  In keeping with tradition, we were packed in a small house and spilling out of doors, where there was scooter-riding, remote-control-helicopter-flying, and all combinations of relatives sharing conversations and love. 

8.  One of the coolest gifts received this year was for Big Sis--a set of juggling sticks from our niece.  Our niece demonstrated her crazy stick skills, inspiring Big Sis, who spent a good part of the morning practicing until she could catch one after flipping it in the air. 

9.  My dad's sister, Auntie, has stayed at our house this year--on the futon couch in the living room as that is the only "guest room" we've got.  That puts her front and center for all our goings-on and it's been great to have a guest so game.  Also, we went for a jog her first morning here...and she kicked my tail.  Note to self:  be fit like her when I'm 62. 

10.  We headed back to Mammom's and Bampa's for Christmas Dinner, which was actually breakfast made by my chef brother:  waffles, apple-cider doughnuts, and the family tradition of huevos rancheros (with fresh avocado).  We ate till stuffed, exchanged gifts, and then played Catch Phrase with the kids.  We came home with hearts and tummies full. 

Though our families couldn't all be together, we felt a special appreciation for the efforts of everyone near and far to create connections and continue traditions. 

And...another year of believing:  Magic.

Be Awesome to Yourself

There's a student I counsel from time to time who is a wonderful young woman:  kind, self-motivated, cheerful, funny, earnest, generous, sporty, hard working, easily excitable about big ideas, and a joy to be around.  I'd be proud to be her mother, mainly for her indomitably optimistic spirit and humility.

But once in a while, her confidence falters.  She questions herself; she doubts her abilities; she succumbs to overwhelm and loses sight of the big picture. 

Pay attention to how you're speaking to yourself, I tell her.  Be kind to yourself.  Accomplish the task right in front of you, and forget the SATs you're taking in a week, for now.  Remind yourself that you didn't fail your last calculus test.  Make a list of all you've accomplished and what you've done for others, give yourself a high-five, and then make your to-do list. 

Give yourself a break.  Treat yourself to something.

And then get back to work, because it's often going to be hard.

And then I have the same talk with myself.  Because couldn't we all use those reminders?

This afternoon we had Big Sis's Parent-Teacher Conference followed by her counseling appointment.  She's shed her third-grade troubles for some fourth-grade fortitude, which is cause for celebration.

Now her therapist is working with her on celebrating herself, and had her declare, in front of me:  "I'm awesome!"  The moment made me a little teary, as I thought of the adolescent girls with whom I work who often lose faith in their own awesomeness.  And I remembered the video of this little girl, affirming herself in front of her mirror. 

Big Sis's Achilles heel this fall has been the flute.  Fourth graders can choose violin, choir, or band, and she has always wanted to play the flute.  But she's learned how difficult it is to play, and has avoided practicing because it's hard.  We forget how important Struggle is in learning and the development of grit and tenacity.  At a family dinner last night, Baby Teddy grappled with a spoon in his hand that he couldn't get to fit through the space between his belly and the high-chair tray.  My sister was about to help him when my father admonished her to let him work it out. 

Seems like no matter what stage we're in--baby, fourth grader, fourteen, or forty--we struggle with embracing exertion and rewarding ourselves (versus seeking extrinsic motivation and praise).

But tonight after dinner, with new determination, Big Sis closed herself in our bedroom with her flute and practiced "Hot Cross Buns" a dozen times.

And each time she got the notes right, I heard her put down her flute and clap for herself. 

What's the sound of two hands clapping for oneself? 

It sounds awesome. 

List: Ten Spelling Sentences

It's a weekly tradition, now, in this fourth grade school year thus far:  child sits at computer and sighs in exasperation over the task of writing ten sentences, using her spelling words, of at least ten words each.  It takes a Long Time, people, to pull the requisite 100 words from Big Sis's brain before bedtime.

Which drives a former creative writing teacher bonkers.  C'mon!  I say.  Entertain your teacher and yourself!  Write some wacky clauses, kiddo!

Rolling eyes, deep sighs.  Counting words on fingers.

So, tonight I suggested a new strategy.  For each of her spelling words, I would offer an unrelated word, and she'd have to write sentences connecting the two words.  A new level of intrigue and hilarity potential.  For me, at least.  For me.

So here is my homework:

1.  Spelling word:  Ghost.  My word:  Capsize.  When my schooner capsized, I blamed the Ghost of Cruising Past.

2.  Thumb.  Pickle.  Last week, I ate a pickle that was the size of my thumb.

3.  Known.  Meatloaf.  There are the known knowns in meatloaf, and then there are the known unknowns.  Beware the unknown unknowns.

4.  Often.  Eggplant.  It is not often that my children do not stage major nuclear meltdowns over eggplant.

5.  Folks.  Squirrel.  Folks, don't let the squirrels eat your dogs.  Or, Most folks don't like it when their dogs eat squirrels.

6.  Wrist.  Rainbow.  I can spurt rainbows from my wrist when I push this nifty button on my arm.

7.  Halfway.  Gallop.  I gallop halfway to Grandma's house, and then I take the bus.

8.  Listen.  Chicken tostadas.  If you listen to your inner voice, it tells you to eat more chicken tostadas.

9.  Knuckle.  Salsa.  In the South, people like their pig knuckles with salsa.

10.  Comb.  Chocolate.  When I use the chocolate comb, I have to wash my hair again.

Bonus (wherein I use all the spelling words in one sentence, which I what I always wanted to do instead of write ten):  Listen, folks, while it often hurts your wrist and knuckles and even your thumb
to write ten sentences, don't give up halfway or use a ghostwriter; comb through the cobwebs of your creative mind and let your imagination be known.

Sugar Crashing

This morning, still woozy from sleep and high blood sugar, Little Sis grabbed her bag of candy and snuggled with it on the couch, brandishing a full-sized Kit Kat with wonder and anticipation.  On my way out the door for work, and in the gentlest way possible, I let her know we'd be talking this evening about our plan for Hallo-wean-ing ourselves off an entire cache of candy. 

Last night Little Sis was an adorable Dorothy as promised, with only a little concern about my braiding skills (she likes them tight; I confess that I am a loose plaiter).  Big Sis, who planned to be a veterinarian, had an alter-identity crisis ("But, Mom!  No one is going to be a job for Halloween!") and effected a late-in-game switcheroo to "Island Princess," which, despite my shallow experience with the genre, I believe she pulled off tropically and triumphantly (if not, at first, tearfully). 

Note:  one costume I won't ever try to make myself:  Fourth Grader. It's far too shape-shifting. 

I went as a bat.  Or as a cat, or a witch, depending on your interpretation and commitment to scrutinizing my accessories.  It was another year of raiding the children's costume crate, so my bat wings extended only to my elbows. 

Grandparents and aunts and uncle joined the trick-or-treating entourage through our friendly neighborhood.  We came home with only 45 minutes or so left of peak scavenging left, but threw ourselves wholeheartedly into giving the older trick-or-treaters a hard time while the girls sorted and sifted their bounty.

When a teenager wearing street clothes and a gratuitous mask approached the porch, my brother greeted him.  "That's pretty weak, man," he nodded at the kid's mask.

The young man shrugged as he held out his candy bag.  "Oh yeah, well, it's the recession."

P.S.  We told the girls they could choose 10 pieces of candy to keep, and we'd give them $10 for the rest.  How do you negotiate the gobs of gobstoppers and gummies?

A Fourth Grader's Bullet Notes on the Presidential Debate

(The first 30 minutes, anyway...we didn't make it to bayonets):

• Foreign affairs
• 47%-47% "Dead Heat"
• Trade deficits
• Debate is in Florida
• 2 minutes to answer questions
• Obama being very reasonable 
• Attack on embacy
• 2 weeks in Irac
• both had good answers
• Mitt Romney has a better answer about terrorism
• They shouldn't be worried
• Obama is right about they shouldn't have troups in Irac
• I think they should let them deal with it to keep ourselves safe but help them by doing something else besides fighting
• I agree with Mitt in that we shouldn't put our troups in Syria
• Should talk things out so we don't have so many wars and so many people dying
• I agree with Obama in that women need freedom and education
• Fights in the Middle East
• We need a strong military and allies
• I agree with Romney in that we should help the world
• We need to get our economy going
• We need to stand for our allies
• I agree with Obama in that we should have good education
• We should have clean energy
• We need better jobs

And then Big Sis needed to go to bed.

Overall analysis the next day:  "I agreed with Romney, but it seems like Obama is still being pretty reasonable."

 

Cakeless, Bakeless Cake Pops

I've never wanted to make cake pops.  Yuck=frosting--I scrape it off when I eat cake--but you can't avoid the frosting in cake pops, because it's mixed in.  The mere thought of the stirring of the frosting and mushed cake makes me feel oogy the way packaged Danish with white icing does. 

But Big Sis received the Betty Crocker Halloween Cookbook from her grandparents in Iowa and she chose the "Boneyard Dirt Pops" when I told her we could bake something today with a friend.  I was so psyched to find that these are not even cake pops--they're Oreo cookie and cream cheese pops, dipped in melted chocolate chips.  No baking!  So easy!  So...sweet. 

We used a package of reduced fat Oreos blended with eight ounces of light cream cheese.  The girls rolled balls of batter and we chilled them for 45 minutes.  Then we stuck the pop sticks in and dipped the balls in melted chocolate.  Excess "dirt" (crumbled Oreos) and sprinkles topped them off. 

We're giving some to the friends who kindly dropped off owl cupcakes the other day (*burp*). 

Sleepless--and Fortunate--in San Diego

The girls are fast asleep tonight in their beds, easy targets after a night outside in sleeping bags on cots under the almost-full moon in honor of the homeless, and then a day of outings and parties.

On a late-night whim two weeks ago, I signed us up for the Sleepless San Diego experience.  It's been two years since I posted about Little Sis's optimistic appraisal of a homeless encampment near our neighborhood; in the meantime, the encampments have expanded as the effects of the struggling economy and our daughters' curiosity and concern have grown.  Over the summer, Husband and the girls harvested vegetables from the school garden and delivered them to a local shelter and soup kitchen.  Sleepless San Diego seemed like another opportunity to immerse our daughters in a memorable educational experience about the plight of people who are homeless, the resources available to assist them, and how we, too, can help. 

The girls and I registered as a team, with a minimum fundraising goal of $25 each, and sought  sponsors through Facebook.  On Saturday evening, armed with sleeping bags, pillows, and hats and jackets, and the donations of generous friends, we joined 700 other folks and a host of volunteers from the San Diego Rescue Mission at a local park.   We staked out three cots and then got busy circulating among resource booths, where Big and Little Sis learned about various ways groups and organizations are providing for the homeless in our city.  The girls helped decorate paper bags that would be filled with food and distributed to local school children the following Friday for their families for the weekend.  We learned that children of all ages can volunteer at Feeding America warehouses. 

There was an incredible spirit of jubilance and camaraderie among the participants and volunteers.  Across from the resource booths were games for children and face painting.  As the line for the balloon man grew longer, a group representing a church's "Ladle" service tried to draw attention to its free samples.  "Hey," yelled a witty volunteer, "we have soup in the shape of balloons over here!"

Part of the experience is the opportunity to build a cardboard "shelter" out of boxes and duct tape, and we watched several groups create elaborate roofed habitats (props to the boys "next door" to us!) before we set up our own walled (and cozy) structure.  This activity was more of a fun fort-building challenge than a lesson in resourceful survival; as this article in the San Diego Union Tribune asserts, the aim of the Sleepless program is not to simulate actual homelessness, but to raise awareness and dedicate one's thinking, community, and sleeping time to the cause for half a day, and then hopefully more. 

After a $5-each dinner of burgers, chips, and drinks, the girls and I joined throngs of teens from local church and school groups down at the stage for dancing and performances from musical troupes including a steel drum band from a downtown school serving students impacted by homelessness, and a youth percussion group making rhythm with garbage cans, tether balls, water bottles, and brooms. 

When the girls grew anxious to snuggle back in our cardboard-and-cot nest, we headed back to our spot, burrowed down in our bags and listened to documentary and live testimonials of formerly homeless teens, individuals, and parents, many of whom struggled with addiction and untreated mental illness.  Big Sis, in particular, was riveted. 

Little Sis slumbered sweetly.

I slept on and off, thinking about the role of faith and community in healing people who have experienced abuse, rejection, and the degradation of homelessness, and was particularly moved by a 31-year-old mother's story.  "There but for fortune go you or I," I acknowledged silently.  She could be the parent of my student.  My former student.  My friend, my neighbor.

The next morning a high-decibel blaring of Jimi Hendrix's "Star-Spangled Banner" roused us at 5:30.  Our cardboard casa had collapsed, and our pillows, bags, and cots were soggy with dew.  We visited the porta-potties, I fueled up on Starbucks-donated coffee, and we joined the ant-like participants efficiently dismantling the encampment and cleaning up.  We were ready to go home by 6:30.  Ready for soccer pictures, playdates, birthday and dinner parties. 

Many of us wonder how we should respond to people who are homeless among us, how we can help.  We have friends who make sandwiches for the man who camps at the intersection at the bottom of the hill; we have friends who regularly volunteer at food banks and soup kitchens.  Our neighbor has made ministering to the homeless and impoverished her mission.  One small step is to treat our fellow citizens with the dignity we all deserve. 

Here's a video with some suggestions--and perhaps you'll join our team for Sleepless next year...!

For Dreamers and Believers. For Now.

Big Sis and I are reading Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden.  Main character Mary, accustomed to being ignored by her parents and left idle indoors, claims, "I don't play...I have nothing to play with."  Her maid Martha retorts, "Nothing to play with!  Our children plays with sticks and stones.  They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things."

They're six and nine, these girls of mine.

Still making sanctuaries for "dolls, birds, fairies, butterflies, e.t.c."

T.V. and computer games are seductive competitors for their attention, but I'm grateful that despite moments of disillusionment, there is still time for magic.

"Time stands still

Summer's going fast, nights growing colder
Children growing up, old friends growing older
Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each sensation a little bit stronger
Experience slips away
Experience slips away...

The innocence slips away."

--Rush, "Time Stand Still"

Portrait of a Third Grader

"It's not easy being green," my father would acknowledge to me and my siblings, invoking Kermit the Frog's familiar lament whenever one of us was experiencing a rough phase or facing the reality of some temporary or permanent state of being. 

We'd heard third grade was a seminal year in terms of development; eight-year-olds gain social consciousness, better understand life and death and other abstract ideas, and are challenged to make significant academic leaps at school (hello multiplication tables and cursive handwriting!). 

What I didn't know was how like thirteen, or thirty, would be third grade.  It isn't easy being eight. 

It is a landscape of deep heavy sighs and merry peaks of giddiness.  The emotional currents shift swiftly; I think of the lyrics to a Crowded House song I love:  "Even when you're feeling warm/The temperature could drop away/Like four seasons in one day." 

When I watched this video--a time-lapsed compilation of footage recorded by a father of his daughter, birth to 12 years--I reflected on just how complex humans are from the very beginning.  Papa Hofmeester captures such a wide range of his daughter's expressions in a video with no sound; we see her plaintive and contemplative and triumphant and pouty and pained and teary and resolute and ecstatic--a celebration of the privilege of hosting the growth of a human from birth. 

We wonder if the videos continue past his daughter's twelfth birthday.  I am particularly interested in knowing what permissions he has from Lotte, the subject of his video.  I promised Big Sis I wouldn't post the photo above without her permission.  We had lots of discussions about trust and sharing of confidences before she agreed I could publish this post.

Because third grade means more privacy.  It means defining comfortable boundaries in every domain:  with language, relationships, the truth, actions, her body, with laughing out loud in class. 

The emergence of insecurities makes us wince.  She is appraising, already, her appearance, and her actions.  We've watched her replay scenarios and review them, as well as her own behavior and that of others, in a quest to understand and become a better person in her own eyes.   She is balancing her sense of justice with her fear of peer reprisal.  She's paying close attention, and she's exhausted. 

With greater understanding of the world comes greater depth of feeling.  Over the past year we've watched our daughter mourn.  We've watched her fret.  We've observed her manage strong feelings coming her way as well as confusing feelings she has for others.  We are watching her sort it out.

Yesterday she squealed with glee. Tonight she's wiping tears.  Tomorrow she'll skip down the sidewalk, or...?  We'll see. 

We're along for the ride.

Innocence, Busted

At dinner Big Sis's tenth loose tooth was already sticking straight out, as if on a hinge.  "Ow...owowowowowwww," she moaned with each bite of pasta.  After dinner, she gingerly pulled her tooth out and presented it to us with a flourish.  We cheered, and she retrieved the Tooth Fairy Pillow from the cupboard.

At 9:30 PM, before I succumbed to sleep myself, I peeked into her bedroom one last time to see if my little anxious non-sleeper/believer had nodded off.  Her mouth was agape, and one arm hung limply from the side of the bed.  I kneeled beside her and reached across her warm little body to deposit the dollar bill (to spend) and fifty-cent coin (to save) into the pocket of her Fairy Pillow.  And then I climbed gratefully into bed. 

Fifteen minutes later I felt the sensation of searing eyeballs boring into mine and looked up from my reading.  She was standing there and staring at me, tears streaming down her face.

"What?" I sat up, alarmed and filled with dread. She simply shook her head silently.

I felt a glimmer of comprehension and goosebumps. Noooo... 

"What is it?" I asked again, more gently.

"You're going to be mad." She bit her lip.

"No, no I won't. Come here," I murmured, and patted the bed beside me and hugged her as she sobbed.

"I'm so sorry, Mommy. I saw your blue sweatshirt, and at first I couldn't figure out if it was you or Daddy and what you were doing. And then I wanted you to know I was awake, but I didn't want you to be sad...and then...I realized it was your money."

She paused to hiccup and breathe. "I'm sad because I wanted there to be fairies in our house. Instead, it's a mom. But I'd rather have a mom than fairies in my house."

She cried some more, and I did too. 

"Do you believe in fairies?"  I asked. She shrugged.  "Because, you know, some things just can't be real to us in any other way than by our believing in them." 

"I promise I won't tell Little Sis," she offered with conviction. 

"Okay, honey.  You know, now you get to be a part of the magic, kind of like being in a special club," I whispered. 

Her eyes grew wide and she smiled. 

"Does Cousin Katie know?" she asked about our twenty-three-year-old niece. 

"I don't know...it's not something you talk about a lot, just in case."

"Are most parents part of the magic?" 

"I think so," I nodded. 

I asked her why she thought I spent time helping her and her friends build fairy houses, and going on fairy hunts and working in the fairy garden (things I hoped desperately we'd still be able to do with enthusiasm). 

"Because you want me to believe?" she guessed.

"Because I want to believe." 

She wiped her tears, and went out to the living room to break the news to her dad before returning to bed. 

He came in soon after to console me. 

This morning he called to tell me that the first thing Big Sis did when she woke up was show her Little Sis:  "Look what the Tooth Fairy brought me!"

In Touch

The Piano soundtrack is playing in our bedroom; I am still dressed in work clothes but have exchanged shoes for comfy purple shearling boots. The world outside is drying from three days of soaking rain. My hands have a sheen of Babycare massage gel. Everything--the music, my boots, my hands, the lighting--feels soft. Especially my spirit.

The girls are quiet in their room, tucked limply into the same bed, head to foot. Last Sunday we went to sleep with two happy, well-adjusted little girls under our roof, so we thought. By Monday evening we had worries about our daughter's worries, manifesting in new and worrisome ways, gentlish reminders to pay attention and listen, that the world can be too much with us or with one of ours, and can carry her off in a silent, tugging, almost imperceptible tide.

When I was in sixth grade I began an inconspicuous cocooning, one wrap at a time till I was tightly wound and fairly oblivious to the normal routines around me. My metamorphosis into irrational self-regulation was subtle and gradual; at first I just cleaned my room more often without being asked. Soon I was scheduling other activities around vacuuming and window washing. I recall one afternoon riding in the backseat of the car with my mom, who was taking an out-of-town friend on a tour of our town. I quietly willed her to skip the last point of interest so we could return home before noon and I could accomplish the items on My List before...I turned into a pumpkin? I did not know. I only knew it was crucial that I meet my expectations for myself by my designated time. Or I would lose and have to start all over. I never won, of course. My father would help me gracefully forfeit.

I was at a school meeting last month and another mother pulled out an executive steno tablet like the ones I used back then to enumerate my unreasonable, unnecessary tasks. I suppose I hadn't seem a similar pad of paper since I first tucked them away in a brown paper bag high in the closet, after being called out by my dad and before being ready to get rid of them altogether. My response was unexpected and visceral.  A wave of déjà vu and frantic overwhelm enveloped me momentarily, and then I was simply fascinated by the cover of that notebook and my reaction to it.

Big Sis swigs some of my first-born genetic cocktail of guilt and responsibility and self-obsession and her traits have been mostly cute in an apple/tree-kind-of way, until we noticed that stressors were getting in the way of her being cute in an eight-year-old way. Hey, I admonished her internally, I was in middle school when I started losing it; you are way too young.

My little girl.

My anxious mind wakes me up at 2 AM and hers won't let her fall asleep.

Long division, piano performances, and the pressures of third grade social dynamics, along with my DNA, have conspired to distract her from an unfettered childhood, but we listen. And she needs to talk about it all. You are good, we remind her. You can, we affirm. We love you, we emphasize.

I seek age-old and new-age remedies. We play family games, go on family walks and hikes, read books, tell stories, snuggle. I consult knowing parents of older children with similar dispositions.  I recall when my girls were babies. Someone gave us baby massage gel in a gift basket, and after baths, I'd rub them down, folds of chubby limbs and supple skin between my fingers.

Tonight I tell them to brush their teeth and wash hands and faces. We're having massages. I turn some soothing music on and Big Sis lies face down and shirtless on our bed. Soon she is jelly and deep sighs and half-lidded acquiescence, as Little Sis begs for her turn and reassurance it doesn't hurt. They are side by side and holding hands for simultaneous neck and head rubs. I marvel at the differences in their little bodies, stroking bird-like shoulder blades and monkey-bar muscles.  Daddy peeks in from the kitchen dishes, towel in hand, grinning and winking. Long sleepy hugs of gratitude, "Can we do this everyday?" and they stumble off to bed.

Leave the music on, Mama, please? 

The news this week is full of two men who snapped (Staff Sergeant Robert Bales and non-profit visionary Jason Russell), and I reserve judgment and commentary for now, thinking only how heavy and light the world can feel, variously, and how we must look into each other's eyes, and listen, and take care, for all of our good.

"Beyoncé a Wonderful Mom, Pals Say"

Dear Beyoncé,

Congratulations on your new baby! I am wishing you deep sleeps, lots of family snuggle time, and some moments for yourself, too.

And to be granted space from prying eyes and cameras. I recall so many long afternoons with nothing to do but just be with baby Big Sis. We'd lie on the living room rug and chat and play and sing to the new Sarah McLachlan album. I'd watch the shadows lengthen across the room and neighborhood folks come home from work and think about how my days were different now.

But goodness did that headline about you on CNN.com fire me up for a whole day before I clicked on it for details. Partly it was the suggestion that we were all waiting to hear if you could hack your new role. I am trying to relate to your situation, while understanding that the news media is generally uninterested in my children and parenting. So I imagine a scenario in which my friends are prompted by Facebook to rate my mothering, with the verdict of (phew) "good." Thanks, guys.

I think.

It's the notion that parenting is black and white, good or bad--or that there is even a spectrum including "wonderful" that we exist on--that chafes and makes me want to reach out and reassure you. For one thing, that designation can feel like a big pile of pressure to maintain some level of parenting awesomeness.  What's the rubric for mothering, anyway, and who created it? How do I know a wonderful mom when I see her, particularly when she has a brand-new infant? Do wonderful moms smile all the time? Do they breastfeed? Do we measure a mom's wonderfulness by her ability to hold it all together? By her claims that she really, really loves every part of this whole game-changing, irrevocably life-altering, amazing but scary-ass gig?

In defense of your friends Kelly and Michelle, who are just trying to be wonderful pals, it's the news media I want to scream at to SHUT IT ALREADY, particularly when they drop analytical gems like, "motherhood...is as natural for the pop star as dancing in stilettos and a leotard."

Wow. Deep breath.

You do rock the stilettos and leotard. But I have to wonder if that's like me rocking my safety vest and emergency backpack as a vice principal on a fire drill. It's part of my work uniform, and by far not the most natural or wonderful thing about me and the job that I love.

But let's examine natural. Natural moms I know cry a whole lot--or not, feed their babies in the best way they can, need help, are a little scared a lot of the time, trust their instincts, second-guess themselves, rely on others' wisdom, try and fail and attempt something else, feel frustrated and triumphant, and bask in times that feel good.

Natural mothers sometimes experience post-partum depression. Kids of natural moms may need daycare. Mothers who are naturals might allow their children to jump on the couch or forbid their kids to watch network TV, because natural parents do what feels right and comfortable for their families. So go with what works for you. And sometimes you find out what works for you actually doesn't, because parenting is a heck of a tough career, and all the important learning happens on the job.

The good news is that there are no Billboards charts for parenting or record sales to top. There's just you and your little family, making do and doing your best in your own way.


To be the very best parent you can be, you need to take good enough care of yourself to take good care of your children. And put your children's health and safety above all others'. Parents check their priorities from time to time, recalibrate, make adjustments. And even get help when they're losing it. Don't be afraid of that; be afraid of being dishonest with yourself and with the people who love you.

I hope you feel wonderful, Mama. And when you don't, that's okay, too. We get it. Kelly and Michelle will get it, too, as they support you on this new journey.

Surround yourself with loving friends and family, and go easy on yourself. No matter what kind of mom you feel like, or the media declares you are, you're some kind of wonderful, for certain.

Hugs,

Fer

Cupcake on a Plate

On Black Friday in November we were invited to the home of some friends who host a "Make Something" Day in lieu of "buy something."  The girls and I baked an apple tart to contribute, and spent the better part of the afternoon gabbing and creating in the company of lovely friends.  The girls drew, cut and glued, and painted on canvas.  Big Sis made a painting for Grandma Shirley, and we hung it in her room at the care facility and then on her sideboard when she returned home. 

Yesterday we brought home some boxes of Grandma's things, possessions she had designated for us and for the girls, and other items family members thought we would appreciate having.   Nestled in the boxes were Christmas gifts our niece chose for the girls, gifts Grandma would have endorsed. 

We inherited much of Grandma's Beanie Baby collection, including outfits, and when I returned home from stepping out with a friend for a glass of wine, they were lined up on the couch, tucked under a blanket. 

Photo albums Grandma kept of Husband and our family were among the books and treasures to remind us of her:  a ship on driftwood, a mermaid figurine, a porcelain clown.  A beautiful cookbook self-published by her cousin, an artist, caught my attention.  This morning, I reflexively reached for my phone to call Shirley and tell her how much I love it. 

Grandma kept lists of the gifts she'd been given over the years, with directions to return them to the givers someday.  That day was yesterday for us, and we found drawings and jewelry and framed photos once selected or created for her.  Big Sis discovered the painting she made for Grandma, "Cupcake on a Plate." 

"Mom, this is Grandma's!  It's supposed to stay in her house."  She looked puzzled.

"Oh, honey; she's not living there anymore.  They're cleaning everything out..."

"It's not going to be her house anymore?  Ever?"

I shook my head.  "No, it's not...someone else will live there."

Big Sis clutched the painting. "But, Mom, this was supposed to be with her forever--it was for her."  Her eyes welled up.  "It's not ours.  Why didn't they just burn it up with her?" 

I gulped.  "I hear that you want it to be with her always, honey.  You don't want it back, do you?" 

She shook her head.

"We can burn it, sweetie."

"And can we put it with her, when we spread her ashes in the water?"

"Sure, honey.  Sure.  We can do that."