Tooth fairy

 

I find there is some sort of, I don't know, synergy? poetry? irony? in the events of the last 24 hours.

First, Sammy lost his first tooth. He has been working on it, detailing the pain and the drama for us hourly, discussing it, and agonizing over it for about a week. (His teacher even sent me an email last week ask me if I could take himto the dentist to have it removed since it seemed to be causing him so much pain. When I picked him up from school and asked him about it that day, he seemed completely oblivious). So, after so much ado, on Sunday, Chad and I were in the kitchen when suddenly we heard a screech from upstairs, followed by the pounding of little feet and cries of "Dad! Dad!!" Such events are relatively common (screeching, pounding, yelling) so neither of us reacted much. Sam raced into the room.

"Daddy! I lost my tooth!" he cried, ecstatic. (Why Dad? You ask. Quite simply, Daddy Duck handles tooth removal at our house. I get the creepy shivers just thinking about it). His little face was all aglow with the grown up reality of it all. It was one of those magical mama moments. After all the obligatory congratulating, hugging, tooth fairy musings, and picture taking, we all went back to our previous activities.

Cut to 10p. Sammy is fast asleep, his tooth safely secured in an empty baby food container and tucked under his pillow. The big girls are snoring (literally--we've got a bit of a cold). And the queen is wailing and waving at her fire engine red cheeks. After a dose of Tylenol, I stagger downstairs to find Chad (as usual in these late evenings) huddled in front of his lap top. He looks up and extends his arms. He has become increasingly more generous in the evenings with each baby. He willingly takes them and puts them to sleep when they resist a reasonable bed time (say, prior to 10p). And, especially with Lucy, he has revealed himself to be every bit as effective as Mama Duck at coaxing some z's out of reluctant little ducklings.

Not last night. At midnight, I heard him tiptoe into the room and gently place the queen in her crib. At approximately 12:01, renewed wailing ensued. My turn. The queen and I went down to catch up on our History channel and drink some milk. We also went ahead and consumed a pile of mindless sugar and carbohydrates, toddled around checking out books, toys, and blankets, and, around 2a, eventually collapsed with exhaustion, clutching lambie between us.

Now for the symmetry. My little boy duck, the one whose first lost tooth rested innocently beneath his curly head, was the absolute worst teether in the house. I spent countless hours pacing the floor with that little man, and, as he was much more discriminating as to whose care he would tolerate (can you say mom-only-mom-always-mom) and the fact that he breastfed nearly to age 2, I know that I spent hours on end soothing a sad little boy while each and every pearly white ground its way painfully through his poor swollen gums. Every. Single. Tooth. Last night felt so familiar--the late night sleep-deprivation buzz, the unpredictable, sleepless baby, the desperation-acceptance-desperation cycle of middle of the week middle of the night frustration, the unexpected, sporadic baby grins, and the inevitable ticking away of the precious midnight hours. Oh yes, this is a well worn path for Mama Duck.

And yet, it feels like a heartbeat ago I was comforting the big big boy in that photo. How can the cranky baby boy of my memory be the independent little man now dreaming tooth fairy dreams? If I blink will the little brown eyed baby queen in my arms be full of kindergarten stories and losing these teeth we're staying up all night to cut right now? (in the words of Steve Martin in Cheaper by the Dozen: "Stop blinking. Enough with the blinking").

It is for this reason that I kind of take every single tooth personally--be it lost or triumphantly "found". I sort of feel like I earn each and every one of them. One way or another

Right where I belong

Today I took Sammy to a birthday party in Galena. Well, not really in Galena so much as 10 miles outside Galena way up in the woods. No kidding.

Chad had been to this classmate's home before, so he warned me that it was way the hell out there. "You will think you are going the wrong way," he said. While I pretty much always assume I am going the wrong way (mostly because I usually am), in this case, his warning was particularly accurate.

This classmate lives up in the boonies--down a dirt road, past an old tin looking trailer with a rusty old car and a wire pen of goats in the front yard, and behind a campground. As I was crawling up the rocky hill to her home I wished for the first time in my life that I was driving Chad's truck (Note: I typically HATE driving Chad's truck--it is big and bossy and I find it kind of scary). But I truly feared for the safety of both my tires and anything bolted to the undercarriage of my poor not-designed-for-this-type-of-near-off-roading mini-van. At one point, I literally found myself in the middle of a forest with only a grass path in front of me. (In spite of balloons tied to the mailbox I had managed to miss the turn to the house and gotten lost). It was truly that rural. So we backtracked (to a chorus of Sammy's "Mo-om? Are you SURE this is it?", "Mom? Do you know where we are?") and made our way to the party.

Then I turned around, and crawled my way out of the woods (the campground is called "wooded wonderland") and back to the safety of pavement and civilization. As I drove back towards Galena, I thought "I'm really not much of a country girl." Don't get me wrong. I like (the idea of) camping, and we go hiking as a family probably 3 times a month. I like being outside and I'm okay with not wearing (a lot of make up) and getting sweaty and dusty. But, to be perfectly honest, gravel roads make me a little bit nervous. I hate that shifty feel under my tires and I'm always paranoid that some creature is going to dart out of the woods and fields and in front of my vehicle. And I don't like driving much more than 15 minutes to get anywhere. I've never driven a tractor (the first time I drove a Gator at work I felt so proud and brave that I am embarassed to admit it). I've never grown much of anything besides kids.

I can't really call myself a "city" person either. I hate crowds. I hate waiting in line. I hate traffic. And I don't like driving much more than 15 minutes to get anywhere. I'm not really a museum or theater type person (though I enjoy them on occasion). And I don't mind not having infinite options in terms of dining out. I also don't like the limitations I envision a big city putting on the size of my family (distance between kid events, cost of things, more limited living space).

So, I guess my middle sized, beloved Dubuque is just about right for me. Everything is about 15 minutes away. I can get myself surrounded by trees in a matter of minutes. And, I can go to the symphony or the theater on a regular basis (should I so desire). Big families are pretty commonplace. And I can time most everything to avoid much waiting.

There's a line from that Alabama song that I always think of when I think of my hometown: "But I'll always miss that middle sized town in the middle of the middle West". I can't really say I miss it anymore, obviously, since I live here. Maybe I should change that "miss" to "love". Yep, that about sums it up.

Bedtime

Right now, Claire is dozing on the couch with her daddy, Sam (my best bed-timer) is asleep, and over the monitor I can hear Grace and Lucy singing and playing (both are supposed to be in their own beds). I just want to sit here and veg in front of the computer, surfing and daydreaming. Instead I have to go wrestle the biggest little duck and the littlest little duck into bed. I'm sure I should appreciate how sweet Grace's made up lullaby is for Lucy, and how giggly both little girls are left alone as they are. But it is bedtime. IT IS BEDTIME. It is actually WAY PAST BEDTIME.

Why am I the one so tired at this time of day?

Picture perfect

 Sunday we had our increasingly irregular adventure that is family pictures. (Increasingly irregular for two reasons: 1. The big kids all have their pictures taken twice a year at school (sorry, queenie. But you ARE the fourth—what do you expect?) and, 2. The last time we tried to do family pictures everyone was so horrible that I decided the battle just was not worth it. I never asked to be the hair-combing-fancy-shoes-get-your-butt-in-the-van-NOW-picture-nazi. I just thought some sort of documentation that proved we could all have clean faces, unwrinkled clothes, and smiles facing in the same general direction would be a positive thing in the long run. Silly me). But we really had no choice this time. Grace makes her first communion in 2 weeks and our beloved hairdresser was going to be out of town on the only next available picture weekend before the blessed event. Sunday it was. (Oh, and also Lucy turned 1 in February and the last professional photo I have of her is from 6 weeks old. There, I admitted it). As always, the drama began the moment I made the appointment.

Can I just say that I HATE deciding what everyone will wear. Luckily, I have 4 beautiful kids--it is a little like dressing up little dolls--but they are, after all, kids. Grace is tremendously picky so we usually have to coordinate our outfits around what she is willing to wear. In addition, I have to time pictures with deliberate precision to avoid any facial trauma on my little tasmanian devil Claire (and, increasingly, Lucy as well—more on that in a minute). In addition, Chad is very opinionated on this topic which is helpful in some ways (I know most men barely grunt when their wives try to engage them in discussion of the merits of hair bows vs. flowers and casual vs. dressy). But it also adds the additional wrinkle of trying to satisfy yet another person in the mix. Oy, I get a headache just thinking about it.

Anyway, Saturday night I headed to the basement to track down matching dresses that Grace and Claire had worn for pictures a few years ago. “Wouldn’t that be cute?”, I thought. Sort of like documenting our little girl history in adorable yellow sundresses. Chad didn’t think so. (Is it an oldest vs. youngest child thing that makes me think it is cute to have the littler ones follow in the bigger ones footsteps, and Chad think it is “not fair” that the little ones don’t get their own stuff?)

“Shouldn’t you get new clothes for pictures?” he asked.

“I guess,” I shrugged uncertainly. I KNOW I’ve been reprimanded in the past for spending too much on fancy clothes for little people. But I also know an opportunity when I see one. “I’ll just run to the mall after we get Gracie’s hair done tomorrow,” I offered.

So, long story short, in typical Mama Duck fashion, I attempted to accomplish 6 hours worth of tasks in just 3 with 2 little ducks in tow. Luckily, my aunt Marilyn accomplished miracles with Grace’s hair (my picky little princess’s comment to her, “Marilyn, how do you DO it?”) and even convinced the Taz to spend a few minutes in her magical, beautifying chair. The girls and I then raced to the Gap, haphazardly swept items off the shelves and onto the checkout counter (I didn’t even look at the prices—shameful, but true). Then we raced home, 5 minutes before we were supposed to be at the portrait studio.

Now, I ask you—does any family walk calmly into pictures, all pretty and poised, with a small bag of necessities (comb, baby wipes etc.) in hand and time to spare? Or do we all dash in frantically, dribbling ribbons and extra shoes in the parking lot as we run, clutching changes of clothes with only the front parts clean and ironed? Does any mom go in with kids that aren’t crying and not simultaneously barking orders at her husband? I’m beginning to think there is just no other way. I have to give Chad credit this time, though. He stayed pretty calm and kind the whole time. That is more than I can say for me (we won’t discuss the thrown nail polish incident).

So, in spite of all the stress and drama, by some miracle, we got some beautiful shots. The clothes were perfect (we were ripping tags off as they were posed—although I have to say I am definitely a convert to the “new clothes for pictures” school of thought), their hair was incredible (thanks, Marilyn!), and we got them all looking (if not smiling) in the same direction at least a couple of times. Here is one of the best group shots (yes, we had to include Lambie—but if that isn’t part of our family history, I don’t know what is. And no, by the time we got to the group shots, nap-free Lucy was completely out of smiles, especially when we refused to let her keep her binkie):



This is one of my absolute favorites. It captures Sam’s coolness and Claire’s sassy pants so perfectly. And can’t you just see the relationship between the two of them? And a note on Sammy: When I pealed into our neighborhood to pick up him, Lucy, and Chad, he was covered in chocolate pop tart, dressed in sweats and a ratty t-shirt, and pedaling his bigwheel as fast as he could AWAY from our house. With 5 minutes before pictures. After my hysterical shrieking summons, he was prepared for pictures in less than 30 seconds. It helps that he has the most amazing hair (curly, thick, coarse), but more, it helps that he doesn’t give a rip about how he looks and he is a boy so the options and requirements are so much less. No tights! No bows! No curling irons! Moms of boys—you don’t know how lucky you are, at least on picture day. Not that it isn’t fun to dress up my little dollies. But let’s just say it took a LOT MORE than 30 seconds to make my little flowers bloom.

And then there is Gracie. Oh, Gracie. I’m sure all moms think their little princess is perfect, but really, objectively, isn’t she breathtaking? This is just a sampling. It is almost impossible to choose photos of Grace—one is more beautiful than the next. I’ve been reading about preparing your child for first Communion, and it is very important NOT to let the dress and veil and fancy hair be the focus of this very holy event. But how can your head not be turned by such a pretty little thing? And she really is as sweet as she looks.

And finally, my queen. So you may be noticing the unusual redness on her nose and cheek. Yes, those are scrapes. Yes, they are fresh.
The other thing I learned when returning from my mad dash around town the morning before pictures was that Lucy had suffered a minor accident. When pressed, Chad admitted that she had fallen out of the swing. Not a baby swing—the big swingset swing. How does that happen, you ask? When your 6 year old brother decides to give you an underdog. Now does that create an image of my tiny queen tumbling ass over apple carts through the air and onto the wood chips below? Me too. She’s a tough little tiger, but really? On picture day? I don’t really blame Chad or Sam. I’ve often celebrated the fact that my big kids are old enough to push the little ones on the swings. It saves me so much trouble. But still, the irony is not lost on me. Isn’t that smile irresistible, though?
Note that in this one, I tried and tried and tried to get her to leave her hair bow in. Lucy is decidedly anti-hair accoutrement. She likes this armpit look.

See?

Ah, at last! See the mischief in those twinkly eyes? It’s not just for show. Also note that the first birthday pictures for my February baby are in a sundress (i.e. 2 months late). We talked about putting her in winter clothes just to maintain the illusion that we photograph her as diligently as her big siblings. But, really, who do we think we’d be kidding? Certainly not her, at least not for long.

And so ends the story of our latest picture saga. It will likely be many many months before I forget the drama enough to give it another go, though I’m certain I will, in time. After pictures, I went home and took a nap. Actually, recounting it makes me feel like I might just need another one. Whew.

Hold it

Today, as I was folding laundry, I looked out of my laundry room window to see Sam glance quickly over each shoulder, then calmly proceed to drop his pants and pee into the bushes. In my front yard. In the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon. Other than the 6 or so inches of wood and drywall between us, we were nearly face to face.

I banged on the window and gave him my sternest, most shocked mama look. He panicked, pulled up his pants, and promptly proceeded to list his excuses. "But Mo-om. I really had to go." Seriously? The 10 or so additional steps it would have taken to actually relieve yourself like a civilized human being were just insurmountable?

And then I remembered a long ago night with this boy's father. A night on which we were driving home from a night of drinking. A night on which, just one block from my cousin's house, we pulled over so my beloved could pee on a tree in the front yard of a stranger.

I'm not saying its okay. I'm just saying there is something about boys, bushes, and genetics that I perceive I will be powerless to thwart...

Bless me, Doctor

Tuesday, Mama Duck and the 3 biggest little ducks went to the dentist (if that doesn’t sound like the first line to a children’s book, I don’t know what does). It was a spectacular day—the kind of breezy, warm, sunshiney spring day that makes you think God feels the need to show off every once in awhile (or at least remind us that Iowa really might just be heaven). So we really didn’t want to be there in the first place. That inclination got stronger as the visit progressed.

Our dental history is not stellar. One of my strongest memories of maternal failure is the miserable snowy day when we had to leave a school trip to Grand Harbor indoor water park to get cavities filled. As we were slipping and sliding our way up Highway 20 from downtown, Grace and I were both in tears over the terrible injustice of having to leave a water park to have dental work done. (There is also some commentary here on our jam packed schedule and our dentist office's availability issues, but that’s another post).

For this week’s visit, I finally made the good choice of leaving Lucy with Theresa (her daycare provider). At our last visit I added the incremental stress of trying to keep an active toddler settled on my lap while I was completely incapacitated by hands and metal instruments in my mouth, or satisfied in the lobby with no supervision beyond her harried six year old sister and completely indifferent 5 year old brother. What was I thinking? I thought better this time.

Now it is confession time—I am a sporadic flosser, at best. I once saw a comedian who said that visiting the dentist is like visiting confession. (“Bless me Doctor, for I have sinned. My last flossing was 6 weeks ago…”) And it’s not like you can lie to them. My stupid gums bleed the truth from the moment the hygienist approaches my mouth with floss dangling from her fingers. I have this vision of those big lights they shine into your mouth being the equivalent of my gums in some sort of terrorist interrogation. My wimpy mouth immediately spits out the truth and then some. “She hardly ever flosses,” they begin, then continue rambling confessions “she’s late for everything, she makes up how many minutes she reads to her kids, she pretends ketchup is a vegetable.” And meanwhile there are three other little mouths spouting confessions (and blood) when confronted with the light and the floss. I tell myself that the fact that we visit the dentist every 6 months is at least a good thing. I mean, I’m not completely derelict in my duties as mouth mother. And we brush. Every night (almost) and every morning (mostly). And I almost always help with the brushing, especially for the littlest ducks.

But I could do so so much better. Every 6 months, after our visit to the dentist, I re-vow to be better about dental care, especially flossing. Grace and Claire both had two cavities. Sam, Lucy and I came through okay this time around (I know I shouldn’t count Lucy—since she wasn’t with us, hasn’t even been eating solids for a year yet, and only has 6 teeth—but it improves my percentage so much that I’m inclined to include her). I have lots of excuses for why flossing is so sporadic at our house:
1. I’ve spent basically the entire last 8 years accomplishing most tasks of basic hygiene and housekeeping with just one hand (the other continually occupied by the baby on my hip). Have you ever tried to floss one handed? Have you ever tried to floss the small mouth of one wriggling child while holding another wriggling child on your hip? Starting to sound like a reality survival show, isn’t it?
2. My little ducks do not always exactly welcome my attempts at flossing. They aren’t completely resistant, don’t get me wrong, but they don’t exactly flock to my side when I call them to be flossed. Chasing them down to floss when I’m not even inclined to be vigilant on my own teeth just doesn’t happen all that often.
3. And finally, I’m really, really freaking tired by bedtime. The colossal task of tucking 4 little ducks into their respective nests at the end of every day is so monumental that most nights it is all I can do just to survive it. I know I had all these babies, and each and every duck deserves clean feathers, a brushed and flossed beak, a Bible story, a prayer, a story story, a kiss and a partridge in a pear tree. Heck, they also deserve all organic meals, a live in tutor, and clean, designer clothes. But I’m only human. (You hear the guilt seeping in?)

And I know that there is a Papa Duck who could relieve some of the flossing responsibilities. The problem there is that he is one, less likely to demand flossing than even I, and two, more inclined when tired to just plop every duck into bed without so much as a peck goodnight (much less a story, a bath, a prayer etc. etc.). Bedtime (and most medical care for that matter) are Mama Duck’s jobs at our house—for better or worse.

And, the truth is, I’m really okay with my mothering, even at bedtime. In general, I’m not inclined to beat myself up or feel too guilty (at least on the mommy scale, which we all know is a wee bit biased to the side of self flagellation). But I’m not okay with my attention to dental detail. I mean, seriously, flossing is not exactly the equivalent of insane pampering or even over parenting. It’s just basic hygiene, right? So, we’re doing it. I am resolved. Tired, one handed, unwelcome though I may be. We’re doing it. Bless me doctor, for I have sinned…

Favorite character day

 

Tomorrow is "dress as your favorite book character" day at school. It seems that days like these are all too frequent--days where the mom has to figure out how to meet the dreams and

expectations of children who have never learned (or at least completely appreciated) the artistic challenges of their earnest, well intentioned, and completely un-crafty mom. In situations like these, I'm usually long on ideas, and short on strategies to actually make my ideas a reality. Most events like these end with more money than I care to admit spent at Michaels or Hobby Lobby, and at least one of us in frustrated tears. Tonight, however, by some undeserved miracle (and the much needed intervention of a more-crafty dad), we have pulled together 3 characters in record time and with no expense!

Claire's Dora is the lucky result of a similar event 3 years ago (I could never have pulled off "Backpack" on such short notice otherwise). Sam, ever easy going in matters like this, readily agreed to dressing as "A boy and his bunny." Add an old baseball hat, a needle and thread, and an old stuffed bunny and voila! Grace is usually the challenge in situations like these--what with her artistic eye and perfectionism--but she had her heart set on what turned out to be relatively simple. Her choice was "Slugs in love" and it was Chad to the rescue with this clever idea to use a funky snow hat and add eyes and bows.

Now if only someone wanted me to dress as my favorite character. Fiddle dee dee. I know I have a hoop skirt around here somewhere..

The best part of being a working mom

There are lots of things I don't like about working full time, not the least of which is all the time I have to spend apart from my precious little ducks. But I like the routine of it; I like contributing to the support of my family; I like the achievement need it fills in me; I like having a place to go where I am rarely interrupted, never sat on or thrown up on, and never followed into the bathroom.

But the very best part is days like today. I'm sick. My head hurts, my stomach is churning, I have the chills and I'm all stuffed up. I came to work today because I couldn't tell if a couple ibuprofen would get me through, or if I really needed to stay under the covers all day. Now that I'm here, I know I'm pretty worthless. Luckily, there are no urgent issues to attend to here, so I'm heading home. And here's the best part: no one will be there! My normally noisy, chaotic house will be still and silent. I will be able to cuddle up with my remote control and beloved pillow and really rest, with no one the wiser. Being at work this morning has allowed me to keep every ball in the air I needed to (email clean, phone calls made, critical meetings attended). And between 9:30 (when my last important meeting ends) and 3p, I will be blissfully hidden away from the demands and expectations of the world. I will send no emails. I will wipe no butts. I will settle no disagreements (personal or professional). I will rest and (hopefully) recover. Because heaven knows these few hours is probably all I will get. But it should be enough, and I'm willing to bet more than lots of my stay at home sisters get when they're battling a bug. A small blessing, to be sure, but one for which I am very grateful nonetheless...

Ducklings to spare

Yesterday the queen only took about a 30 minute nap at daycare. She was cranky and demanding all afternoon, but I’ve learned that those late afternoon snoozes, while wonderful and timely for a frazzled working mama duck attempting to make supper and supervise homework, carry heavy consequences late into the night. So I kept her up, and attempted to go about my business with her on my hip or clinging to my calves and shrieking. Fun. When Chad got home, he dealt with her for about 5 minutes before saying, “Just let her sleep!” (Keep in mind, this is the same guy who has reprimanded me more than once for giving into late naps. And, in his defense, he is also the same guy who usually ends up staying up with the little duck turned night owl on those same occasions). I didn’t—we persisted and by 7:00, we could take no more. I took her upstairs and bathed her and put her in her monkey jammies. Just in time for her to catch her second wind.

The queen has reached that age where she has a lot to communicate, but very few ways in which to make them known--other than the all important go-to word “Ma!”. “Ma!” (I want a drink), “Ma!” (she’s picking on me), “Ma!” (I want one of those cookies, too), “Ma!” (Look what I found!), “Ma!” (Can you help me, please? I’ve climbed up on the bathroom stool again and can’t get down!) “Ma!” (look what I just threw in the toilet). And so it goes.

So we got upstairs, cleaned, and jammied. We found a binkie and lamby. And then “Ma!” I tried lying down with her, walking with her, rocking her, singing to her, letting her thrash around in her crib for awhile. No go. “Ma!” she demanded, gesturing to the door. “Ma?” she queried, swiveling around to look me in the eyes and willing me to understand her. On a hunch, I took her downstairs where the rest of the little ducks were cuddled up on the couch watching a movie (they aren’t allowed upstairs when I’m putting the queen to bed). Lucy smiled and wriggled until I put her down. She toddled happily around the room, greeting each of her big siblings and smiling beneath her binkie. “Ma!” she acknowledged each one happily, clutching Lamby the whole time.

I sat down in the recliner and Gracie promptly settled herself in my lap. Lucy joined us, then got down and played, then joined us, then played—clearly enjoying her second wind. Gracie turned to me and said “wouldn’t it be sad if you were like A (her friend from school) and didn’t have any brothers or sisters?” I hugged my sweet girl—“Yes, very sad,” I agreed. The queen clearly shared our sentiment as she was completely tickled to be back among her siblings again.

One of my absolute favorite things about being the mama of many is watching their relationships with each other grow and develop. They are so completely connected—an effortless togetherness that simply cannot be replicated by any other relationship now or in their futures. I love hearing them laugh together; watching them in my rear view mirror as they discuss their opinions and their experiences on the way home from school, or in the back yard as they chase one another, push each other on the swings, jump on the trampoline, or crawl around playing “puppies” or “house”. Both Lucy and Claire have always been happiest—from their earliest days—when surrounded by their siblings. I remember once when Claire was just 4 months old and having a rare restless afternoon. She fretted and fussed—not crying exactly, but clearly not content. I tried all the usual things—nursing and changing and pacing. Finally, frustrated, I put her on her boppy pillow near where the big kids were playing. My plan was only to leave her there as long as it took for me to go to the bathroom. She cooed, smiled, and kicked contentedly. That was all she wanted. Same with Lucy last night.

That is not to say, of course, that they are always the best of friends. They bicker, certainly. And they are competitive—capable of the usual laser precision in the measurement of parental fairness. Sammy can be awful to his sweet (albeit occasionally annoying) sister Claire. Lucy can be quite demanding and unyielding. Claire can be destructive and insensitive about other’s belongings. And even Grace can be selfish sometimes. But by and large they have the kind of relationship I always hoped they would—the kind I share with my beloved siblings. No one knows you better than your siblings. No one shares more of their life story with you. I once read an article that said of all the people in our lives, the ones we share the most experiences with are our siblings. Our parents are only with us the first 2/3 (roughly speaking). Our spouses and most of our friends typically do not share our childhoods and earliest experiences. And our children enter our lives in adulthood. Only our siblings are with us every step of that way.

I’ve always wanted a big family—and I like having the ducks all close together like they are. Certainly they have had to give up something in terms of my attention and time—diluted as it has been by the needs of so many and the continual addition of another baby to the mix. And they have to share their bedrooms and wear hand-me-downs and look after younger siblings (the older ones) or sit on the sidelines or in the bleachers at countless events (the littler ones). But Lucy and Claire, especially, have shown me again and again that what my mom always told me is true—“the best gift you can give a child is a sibling.” That is not to say, of course, that my way is the only way. Small families are fine, I’m sure. Not that I would know. And for that, I have to admit, I’m grateful. My nest would never have been full or complete without a whole little pack of baby ducks. And, from what I can tell, they like it too.

Fancy shoes

 For the rest of my life, I think Easter Sunday will always remind me of the following Sammy story:

Last year, we baptized Lucy on Easter Sunday. Carrie is Lucy's godmother, so she and her boys were staying at our house. On Holy Saturday, Carrie and I were preparing for the gargantuan task of getting 6 children under the age of 6 dressed up and out of the house in time for 8:30 Mass along with the added complication of Easter Bunny festivities. I doubt lunar launches require less coordination and planning.

At any rate, after ironing and bathing, setting the coffee pot, tracking down tights and hair bows and packing diapers and distractions, we sat the kids down and gave them a stern reminder of how the next morning would go. It was a beautiful lecture--all about the importance of Lucy's blessed event, the many reasons NOT to eat chocolate in your dress up clothes, how jelly beans are NOT a vegetable worthy of being called "breakfast", the value in arriving at church early on a holiday etc. etc. As the kids' attention began to wander, Carrie stopped and, in her best kindergarten teacher voice, asked, "Now, what did I just say?" Sammy rolled his eyes.

"We know. We know. Eat breakfast and wear fancy shoes."

Blue food

 

My sister in law recently told me about some study she had read about that indicated that people find blue foods to be the least appealing. She said that people do not associate the color blue with good taste.

Guess Sammy never read that study. And seriously, hadn't that scientist ever heard of Peeps?