there were never such devoted sisters.

My girls have been fighting a lot lately. Like, A LOT. I guess I kind of get it...for three and a half years they have done everything together. It all started when they were conceived at the same time. Kind of crazy if you let yourself think about it. Two eggs? Both fertilized? Are you kidding me?

Then when they came out, they had to share us and the attention. No sooner would I be gazing into one pair of dark eyes than the other one would need something.
They still take baths together. Here's a shot from before they could even sit up on their own. Glad those days are over.
They shared a crib when they first came home from the hospital...until they started rolling over. It didn't matter how far apart we placed them, they always seemed to find each other by the morning.They still have never spent one night apart. And they are getting on each others nerves. And that gets on my nerves.

It also makes me think of my own sister. She is almost four years older than I am. Funny how back then, those almost-four-years meant I thought braces were cool and I was a tag-a-long and she got to do everything and she basically hung the moon.

Yeah. She's the one with the cool braces. I'm the...other one.

I just saw her last weekend. Seeing her reminded me to remember to miss her. And missing her I am. I don't like my town as much without her in it. And it makes me think about my girls and how they are together almost too much...but how when they grow up, they won't be.

Our almost-four-year age difference is pretty insignificant now. I know better than to think braces are cool and we do things together now rather than me tagging along. One thing hasn't changed, though...I pretty much still think she hung the moon.
You didn't seriously think I could end with that last picture, did you?

plotlines in my life

Tonight our oldest twin tearfully refused a bath for fear that her "fingernails might come off". They were freshly painted yesterday by her Nanny...I knew what she meant. You have to pick your battles. These days, it seems I'm losing the ones I pick but whatever. She's asleep now...dirty hair; fingernails intact.

Now that they are all sleeping (husband included), I thought I'd take a moment and offer a few updates.

I talked with the bride. Turns out she's a really gracious and forgiving person. Good thing. I guess I already knew that, but it's still a relief to have talked with her and offer my appropriate apologies for my lack of...well, just for my lack. I'd post a photo from her wedding here, but I wasn't there. So this is me. Moving on. Starting now.

The movie we were waiting for? Well, it came. They were scared of the Beast, but held out hope until he turned nice. And we had a real movie night (or day, really). It is so refreshing to watch something other than Dora. I was pleased to discover I remembered so many of the songs after 15 years or so. Two girls weren't so pleased. I think "Shhhh, Mommy. We can't hear" was the exact phrase. At least it's in English.

And then there is my daily struggle with Good Mom. If only she would disappear into the archives like that blog post did. But she doesn't. Instead she hovers, lingering in my days the same way the smell of a dirty diaper lingers in the room after it has been taken to the trashcan outside. She weaves her way into my thoughts and leaves me feeling helpless to ever becoming more like her. Turns out Good Mom may be a good mom, but she isn't a very good friend.

I remember the words the Lord speaks to me, gentle and true. He brings life and hope and clarity.

And He doesn't hover. I like that.

returning to thursday nights

Coming home from school was always a part of the day I looked forward to when I was a kid. I remember sitting in my first grade classroom at the end of the day and hearing the big orange-yellow buses pull up in front of the school...lining up in predictable order to take us home. There seemed to be at least a small bit of excitement about going home every afternoon. There was sure to be Mom who would always have some type of snack for us. There was also another aspect to the after school routine at our house...TBS.

Every afternoon at 4:05, reruns of The Brady Bunch aired on TBS. (Remember when TBS did everything on the five?) Except I'm not sure if I knew at the time that they were reruns. Thus began my association of comfort and safety with a TV show. Shameful, I know.

It wasn't until years later that I became so hooked on another show. Not that I didn't watch TV during all those years...but I don't remember another show I really attached memories to like I did The Brady Bunch. Until the spring of 2002 when The Man and I began to watch the end of season 4 of Survivor with my sister and brother-in-law. It wasn't so much the show itself at that time. It was the fact that my sister and I now lived in the same town (which hadn't been true since I was in high school). And now we had a night, Thursday nights. That was our night...to hang out, eat dinner together, play with our nephews, and after they were tucked in, to turn on CBS and watch random people outwit, outplay, outlast.

We watched several seasons on Thursday nights together, until one particular Thursday afternoon I took a pregnancy test that turned out to be positive and 9 months (or so) later, we had twins. Evening outings became a thing of the past and our Thursday nights with my sister became Thursday nights at home. Watching Survivor, just the 2 of us...well, it wasn't the same. And so we stopped.

Thanks be to a certain female contestant on Survivor China premiering tonight for resurrecting our desire to watch. She happens to be a co-worker and friend of my parents. So I'm making a chocolate chip pie and inviting friends over to watch not-so-random people outwit, outplay, outlast.

It won't be the same as it once was...the glory days of the early seasons with my family. But it will be fun to have someone to cheer for.

quotable quotes

I realize that, of all the people in the world (more specifically those who read this blog), I am the one who most enjoys the things my kids say. I try to be sensitive to that, kind of the same way I try to avoid telling my labor and delivery stories in the midst of other moms. What is it with that anyway? All it takes is one pregnant woman in line at a children's consignment sale, and all of a sudden, 3 women are telling their labor stories simultaneously, not responding to one another except as an excuse to launch into their "Well, my water also broke at 3am and then we..." Drives me nuts. True story, by the way.

So, even though I realize I am the one who gets the most kicks over what comes out of the mouths of my babes, I thought the following snapshots into our days were worthy to share with the masses (all 10 of you). The following are things they've said in the past week, with a bonus quote from a fellow mom at the end:

• In the car, on the way to preschool, each twin has a doll. Their conversation, word for word:

AG: My mommy's home but my daddy's not...he died.
S: Oh. Maybe God can bring him back
AG: But you can't see him cuz He's all around.
S: I see Him under my bed.
AG: How 'bout you be God.
S: Ok. Hi. I'm God.
AG: Hey, how 'bout you be Mary.
S: Ok. I'm Mary. (singing) Mary had a little lamb, little lamb...

• Said in a loud whine, "Mommy, I really want to get in my mouth..."

• To my mom in the midst of crying while pointing to the air beside her, "Look! There's other me. See her? She's right there." (should I be worried?)

• Walking past a restaurant, one twin sweetly declares, "I smell a beeaaauutiful hot dog."

• And one more quote, not from my kids, but from a mom at a birthday party last weekend (also my personal favorite):

kid at party: Mommy, can I have another piece of cake?
Mom: No honey, I want you to have something healthy first. Here's a chicken nugget.

hurry up and be patient

When my parents first got their dog, Delly, I thought they had gone mad. My mom doesn't like dogs, at least thats what I thought. But they were living in Austin and we were all on the east coast and they were lonely. So they got a dog. I remember when she was a puppy and they would take her out to do her business, they would say the phrase "Hurry up, delly...hurry up!" real fast and sing-songy...they said it was her trigger to go ahead and pee or...whatever.

Sometimes I hear myself telling my girls to hurry up...but then I can't figure out why. There are those days when we are late to preschool or an appointment and I simply don't have time to wait for them to buckle their own car seat belt. But a lot of the time, we are going to the park or Target or someplace where time isn't a factor. Still, I hear those words come from my mouth...."Come on girls...hurry up. Put your shoes on, hurry up. Let's go to the car. Close the door. Come on! Hurry up!" Why do I do that?

I read something in the booklet that their Sunday school teacher sends home each week, and it said instead of telling your child to hurry up, give yourself a chance to slow down! Let your child set the pace.

Oh. I'd never thought of that. A chance to slow down. Now there's a novel idea.

great expectations

The girls have been with Nanny and Poppy for a few days. They come home today. I have missed them, but it has been a nice break. It has been hard not to overplan my time without them...you know, deciding all these undone projects will get done in the 2 days they are gone. Impossible as I still have one whole child around to take care of, as well as the usual daily life things. Besides, why can't I just "plan" to relax, enjoy, sit and be? Afterall, that is just as important...maybe even more. If I had more "sit and be" time, maybe I wouldn't, oh I don't know, forget to go to weddings and things like that.

there goes the bride

So its been a good weekend. Saturday especially. Time with friends with donuts and coffee. Took kids to the park. Pulled some weeds in the yard. Enjoyed a girls night out. Ate good food. Watched a chick flick. Today was a good day too. Church was good. Kids were happy. Husband was happy. Lunch out. Time at home. Baby napped. Girls played.

I sat down to clip coupons. I was content...proud that this day that has such potential to be hectic was turning out so nicely. Until I lifted up the coupons from my desk. And there, at the bottom of a small pile of papers, was an invitation. To a wedding. Of my friend. For yesterday.

As I held it in my hand, I could feel the blood rush out of my face, that creamy card stock mocking me with its swirly silver writing...silently accusing me with the words Saturday the eighth of September. My first instinct was to think of someone else to blame. Anyone but my own lack of organization for failing to transfer the wedding date from the card to my calendar. Surely they should have called the guests to remind us to come? But it was in vain. All I could think of was that while I was stuffing my stupid face with chicken florentine pizza and crying because Jane let Tom Lefroy go, my friend was living the most important day of her life. And I missed it. Because I forgot.

So here I am. Regretful, yes. Embarrassed, you better believe it. Sad for two reasons: because I know I disappointed her by not being there and also, because I'm disappointed myself. I wanted to be there. To meet her husband. To take photos for fun. To be a good friend.

I feel like a failure, an idiotic airhead. But I can't let myself stay there. I guess there just comes a point when I have to realize that I've made a mistake and, as much as I'd like to, I can't take it back. And so I wait...for my feelings to settle and for the color to return to my face.

And I go out and buy her a card to contain my well wishes and sincere apology, a wedding gift, and a box of chocolates.

still good, even though...

I am not the one to write about loss. I have friends who could write books on the topic. But not me. Still, there has been a loss. And today marks 10 years. So I feel compelled to write. And so I do.

The spring of 1993 was the spring I turned 16, got my braces off, made the varsity cheer leading squad, went to my first prom and had my first legitimate boyfriend. His best friends' name was Chris, and Chris was dating my best friend, Heather. Needless to say, the four of us became pretty close.

Chris was not the kind of guy with whom I would have naturally been friends. He could be kind of a jerk, actually. He was really funny, but often times at other peoples' expense (it was high school, after all). He always said I had a big nose but thought it was ok to say because he had a big nose too. He was talented and popular...captain and keeper on the varsity soccer team, voted most outspoken in the senior superlatives. He liked to party. After a while, we saw a softer side of him. I was there when he was baptized. He was charming and, if you could get past being the brunt of his jokes, he was pretty easy to like. Over that year, he became one of my closest friends at a time in life when friends were everything.

Eventually, we all went off to college and lived separate lives. A year or so after I had last seen him, I was watching the news along with the rest of the world as we learned of the death of princess Diana. A short time later, Mother Teresa died as well. And I watched loss and grief on TV. But I was far removed, disconnected, aware but unaffected.

Little did I know that during that same time, on a small college campus in Tennessee, there was a motorcycle accident. And so while the world was mourning the loss of a princess and a saint, those who knew this funny, witty, talented, sarcastic college guy...well, we were mourning too.

Now its been 10 years. So what's my point? I guess just that he should be here. Somewhere in the world, he should be laughing and loving a wife and having kids and living. And I'm not naive enough to think that he and I would still be in touch because we probably wouldn't. But I should be able to google his name on a curious Saturday afternoon and find a blip of an article from a random newspaper about when his baby daughter was born or his name listed in an online college graduation bulletin or maybe even his stats in a bio about the US Olympic soccer team or his run on Survivor or...something.

I guess that's the nature of death. There is a place in the world where it seems like they are supposed to be but they aren't. I don't even care where that place is. Just somewhere. But then, who am I to say what is supposed to be or not be? And so I sit and remember, reflecting on his life and who he was to me and those who knew him...and I trust that, even though it doesn't make it feel any less of a loss, I trust that the Lord knows. And He sees. And He is still good.

a glimpse of him

This is a picture of the books on his bedside table. Usually they are stacked higher than this. Most of the time there is at least one commentary in the mix. The one on the bottom is his journal. And in the morning when I make the bed after he has gone to work, I typically put some of them away, back on the shelf to minimize the clutter.

But not today. Today, I noticed them. Consequently, I noticed him.

He likes stories...stories about Jesus, stories about people he knows in real life. But put a fiction book in front of him and he breaks into a cold sweat. He would much rather read a text book than a novel. My dad is like that, too. I so don't get that. But I have kind of grown to really love that about him. I'm not sure why.

So this is me, remembering just one of the many reasons why I fell in love with him.

Happy birthday, my love.

so much for dancing like nobody's watching.

Dance camp.

The girls have been looking forward to it for a week or so and to be honest, I have as well...pink images in my head of them twirling in tutus side by side. Monday went surprisingly well. By "well" I mean they went. They did the craft. They ate the snack. They didn't cry.

The teacher told me there was a glitch on Tuesday, with an incident in the middle of class where one twin didn't want to let go of her sisters' hand, so by Wednesday morning, I got the "I don't want to wear a tutu" speech. When I asked her what she would like to do, she said nothing, only made a motion with her hands, as if holding an imaginary baseball bat. So that left little miss thing on her own, to navigate through the rest of the week, sister-less.

It didn't phase her much. She came down the stairs every morning this week, tutu in hand. Aside from the multiple hugs and kisses she asked for before I dropped her off each morning, she willingly walked into her class and remained there without tears.

One thing she hasn't done all week, however, is actually dance. She simply stood in class (or sat, at times), interested but disengaged. I found myself to be slightly irritated by this. What's the big deal? Why won't she just have fun and be a kid? Why so serious? I wondered how the recital would go at the end of the week with parents watching. I fully expected her to find us in the audience and walk directly to us, refusing to remain in the spotlight. I was prepared for that.

Instead, she simply did that which she had done all week. She stood there. I think in some way, she believed she was performing, showing us what she has been doing at dance camp. But while watching her stand there in the midst of twirling girls in tutus, I found myself to be overcome with compassion for this small brunette, standing with purpose, focused intently on those dancing around her, determined to be there in the midst of the dancers but just as determined not to dance. I know how much she truly enjoys being there. I know how much she loves to dance. What I don't understand is what causes one girl to dance while the other stands motionless, paralyzed with uncertainty?

The mommy in me dismisses her behavior as shyness or maybe even stubbornness. But watching her today, I think I saw her. Really saw her. Not as my daughter, but as a person. A girl. And I could relate with her. In fact, I saw myself in her. And I felt the feelings with her...of wanting to be a part of something, maybe even thinking I am a part. But of not fully experiencing the fullness of the dance because of fear or anxiety or expectations. But I saw her courage to continue to stand in the midst of her fear.

And for different reasons than I thought I would be, I was proud.

looking for a princess in a yellow dress

I love movies. Whether its a new release in the theater or an old favorite on DVD, I enjoy a good movie. It should come as no surprise, then, that I have been wanting to have a movie night with our girls for quite some time now. And I don't mean Dora or Calliou or any other show that comes on Nickelodeon or PBS. I mean a real movie.

So far, not so good.

It all began last Friday night when I was trying to think of a movie we could watch together that wouldn't be too scary, but would last longer than 15 minutes. The Little Mermaid? No, the octopus lady is too big and has slanty eyebrows. (They know slanty eyebrows=mean). Besides, my girls are skittish during the 30 minute Ariel cartoon that comes on TV. The Lion King? No way. Lion daddy dies. Mean hyenas. Snow White? Sketch old lady in a hooded cape. Bambi? Yeah, you get my point.

I finally settled on Beauty and the Beast. I figured that, though the beast is scary, maybe the fact that he ends up being good in the end would make up for it. So I headed to Blockbuster, twins in tow, to pick out the movie to watch that very night. We walked straight to the Kids/Family aisle...the girls immediately began to talk at once. "Mommy! Let's buy this one! No, this one!" (as one of them dropped Dora in France for Dora at the Beach). Have I mentioned I want to watch a m-o-v-i-e? Have I mentioned we have 893 Dora's on DVD at our house?

I ignored their requests and continued to search for the "b"s...only to discover that Beauty and the Beast was not on the shelf. It wasn't just checked out either. Out of stock, the lady told me. So as we drove home that night (with Miss Spider and Strawberry Shortcake), I became determined to find this movie to watch with my girls. I checked Target, Wal-Mart, even online. It began to be clear to me that ole' Disney has pulled a fast one and locked the vault on the sale of this movie.

But even Disney can't control eBay.

That's right. I got it on eBay for pretty much the price I'd pay for it in the store. But its coming from Malaysia.

I really hope its in English. I'll keep you posted.

Good Mom vs. Me

Ever feel like a really bad mom? I'm not talking jail time or anything. Just that feeling like there is a Good Mom somewhere out there who would never do or be what I do...or am.

Good Mom makes breakfast and smiles a lot. Good Mom always remembers to notice, compliment, and encourage. She is fun and funny. She plays polly pockets with pleasure and even makes suggestions for pretend scenarios to make the play go longer. Her patience is limitless and she never raises her voice. She wakes up early every morning and spends time with Jesus. She is consistent and kind. She makes cookies from scratch. She plays outside even when its really hot. She builds forts with blankets in the living room. Her house is always clean, her produce is always fresh and she has a garden with flowers and vegetables. She can sing. She makes puppets out of socks. Her kids never watch tv because they are totally satisfied to listen to the riveting, captivating stories that their Good Mom makes up. Every night.

Full disclosure time. I haven't worn underwear in 2 days. Not because I just like to not wear underwear but because I haven't any that are clean. I haven't worn matching socks in 3 years. I pulled out 9 individual socks from my drawer the other day. Nine. All different. My one year old is in danger of being kicked out of the nursery at church. He bites. One of my 3 year olds has a really bad habit of talking back. A lot. Neither of my girls will let daddy help them brush their teeth without throwing a fit. It HAS to be mommy. I have had the same butter knife in my dishwasher for 2 weeks. Some unidentifiable food is stuck to one side. It's just too much to wash it by hand. My car has ants. Too many Chick-fil-a french fries.

I am distracted, discouraged, and maybe a bit lonely. I am in desperate need...mainly for patience...a patience that seems just out of my grasp, impossible to acheive. All things I don't like to admit, especially on a forum like this. And so I sat tonight. With an intention to just "be still and know that He is God". I opened my Beth Moore bible study book (the study that I quit 2 weeks ago because I couldn't finish a weeks worth of study in a week and I didn't have a sitter for my kids anyway.) And there it was, 1 Timothy 1:16. And this is what He said to me:

Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners. I'm proof...of someone who could never have made it apart from sheer mercy. And now he shows me off--evidence of his endless patience--to those who are right on the edge of trusting him forever.

My children are "right on the edge of trusting him forever". And by His Holy Spirit, He wants to display His unlimited, endless patience in me as an example for them. I don't know how He does it. But I do know this--that maybe instead of trying to be more like Good Mom, I could begin to let Jesus be Jesus in me.

Meanwhile, I'm going to find some clean underwear.

March up to the gate and bid it open.

My favorite movie as a girl was The Wizard of Oz. One of the networks always aired it on a Friday night in the fall. So every Saturday towards the end of the summer, I would find the TV guide section of the newspaper and check the listings for Friday night. We had no VCR, no blockbuster, no netflix. If I missed it, that was it for a whole year. Missing it was not an option.

I remember the night before the movie came on, my knees would ache and I couldn't sleep for all the excitement. I loved the music, especially the quick, high-pitched chorus that played when they first glimpsed the Emerald City right after the snow wakes them up in the poppy field....You're out of the woods, You're out of the dark, You're out of the night! Step into the sun, step into the light!

I idolized Dorothy...her dark, swiss cake roll ponytails that changed lengths drastically from scene to scene; she was patient, loving and kind; her voice, her dress, her dog. She was beautiful and perfect.

I've thought about this movie a lot as I have grown up. The Scarecrow wanted a brain, the Tin Man, a heart. The Lion longed for courage and all Dorothy wanted was to find a way home. They followed yellow brick roads, ran from flying monkeys and even risked their lives to get the broomstick of the Wicked Witch just like the Wizard asked them to...who really was no Wizard at all. They did it all because they longed for something they did not have. In the end, though, we learn along with them that they had it all along, they just didn't know it.

After all, the Scarecrow was often the one to devise all the plans, the Tin Man rusted from crying real, heartfelt tears and the Lion found the courage to save Dorothy all before they even met the Wizard. Dorothy was the most obvious of all. She couldn't take a step without being aware of those shiny, ruby slippers. Still, when she finally sees Glenda, she cries out for help and is told she's always had the power to go back to Kansas. The slippers she had had all along were the very means by which she would make her way home.

But she didn't know it.

I can relate. As a believer, sometimes I find myself living a defeated, burden-filled life, unaware of the victory I already have in Christ.

His divine power has granted to us everything pertaining to LIFE and godliness, through the true knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and goodness.
1 Peter 1:3

a story bigger than mine

Another memory.

I am in 9th grade English class and we are reading The Glass Menagerie. I’ve just been assigned to read the part of Laura Wingfield. I always hated reading plays out loud in the cold, fluorescent classroom. It was all so…unnatural. I always ended up reading the descriptive stuff in the brackets on accident. I don’t know which I hated more: when there were too many characters and everyone had to double up on parts (you get to be the bagboy, girl with the basket and man #2) or when there weren’t enough characters to go around and you didn’t get a part at all and just had to listen to the monotone.

I much preferred reading plays alone, in my own head, so I not only could imagine the scenes playing out like a movie but I got to be every character. You know how it is in the classroom: you are assigned the part of Laura Wingfield so instead of listening to the story and following along as the action plays out, you find yourself skipping ahead, marking all of Laura’s lines, sure that you can clearly pronounce all the words in the script so as not to make a fool of yourself…until you become aware of the long pause that has settled in on the classroom and someone mercifully whispers “Hey, aren’t you Laura? Go!” And you’ve kind of missed it, the very thing you’ve been preparing for, however small.

Sometimes I feel that way in life. I can get so focused on my part, my role, my purpose, my story, that I miss the bigger story. The bigger story that isn’t just the bigger story, but it is THE ONLY STORY. Because “It isn't a flood, it's not a tornado, Mother. I'm just not popular like you were in Blue Mountain” makes no sense if you say it out of the context of the whole play. Yeah, I had a moment with the attention on me…but so what? That isn’t a story, it's only a part...a fragmant of a story. To me, my story only makes sense in the context of a story that is bigger than mine.

God has a story He is writing and He has saved a part just for me! There are days when I falsely believe I would rather BE the story than just play a part, but I think there is relief in realizing that we get to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. And as I trust Him to live in and through me, there is no concern as to whether I will be able to pronounce all the words.

learning from a memory

I'm 16. Just got my braces off. Its the summer of 1993.

I'm driving in my parents' black, Chevy Spectrum (the extra car)...complete with no a/c (or heat). I swear that car was made of plastic. Cheap, thin plastic...like a Barbie car without the stickers. But one thing it definitely did have was a working tape player. And when you're 16 with straight teeth, that's all you need.

I remember driving with my window (manually) rolled (halfway) down (if you rolled it all the way, the door would fly open) along the winding, two lane back roads in Columbia, South Carolina. I can still hear the bagpipe and the strange, haunting, off-beat sound of Peter Gabriel's Come Talk To Me mixing with the wind that pushed its way heavy past me, through my window and out the other side.

That memory came to my mind today as I drove my kids to chic-fil-a in my Honda Pilot. I rolled my window down for a breeze before the a/c kicked in and one of my girls called out to me, "Mommy, turn the music on..." How does she know that a window down on a summer day means music? I guess I've taught her that, without trying, of course.

It makes me wonder what else I'm teaching them without trying...

one of a thousand lives

Lately I have realized that the time had come to sort through and get rid of some of the girls clothes from when they were born. I have gotten rid of a lot already, but the stuff from their first year has been sitting in plastic storage boxes in the attic. Knowing I couldn't part with all of it, I told myself to just keep those things that held meaning or special memories. I was surprised to discover which items that turned out to be.

Having twin girls will bring outfits out of the woodwork. I was given more matching dresses, jackets, and cute-never-worn hats than I know what to do with. All so small, so detailed, so matching. But it wasn't the baby Gap outfits that are hard to let go of. It was only when I opened the box labled "6-12 months pjs and onesies" that my eyes welled up and I had to pause and remember. What is it about those worn out, pink, kitty cat jammies with a stain on the sleeve that so swiftly bring tears?

It was like those jammies hold something within them. The babies are growing up, but the jammies are still there, small and faded, as if worn only last night. The jammies represent so much...clean, wet hair after a bath; snuggle time with milk and mommy; sweet dream wishes and baby blankets.

I don't know what it is about the jammies. But I have to keep them, at least for now. Nobody else would want them anyway. But I look at them, folded away in a plastic bin, and realize we live a thousand lives in one lifetime...and one of those lives has already passed me by. While I lived it, I could hardly wait for it to pass; the sleepless nights, the feedings, the culture shock of firstime motherhood...the first year of having twins. Now that it's over, I can never get it back.

But I can keep the jammies.

i'd rather be sleeping.

So awake. So very awake. Looking around my dark room, bored. Never be bored at 11:35 pm. Be ASLEEP.

I think it's the Rocky Road ice cream that I ate at 9pm that is causing me trouble. My sister thinks it's wrong to have chunks of nuts in ice cream. It's like, an interruption. Tell me about it.

I'm not normally awake now. At least not now that we have passed the newborn stage with our baby and entered into the big baby stage (what do you call the "bigger than a newborn, not yet a toddler" person?)

I looked at the clock at 11:22 and decided that if at 11:32 I was still awake, I would get up and do something. The following is a loose outline of my thoughts during that time.:

I like The Man's new office. He needs to take a coffeemaker there. To make his own coffee. If I had a job and an office, I would be sure to take a coffeemaker into the office with me to make my own coffee in the mornings. What a great idea that is! But can you do that? It seems like maybe you can't, like its a fire hazard. What? You're so stupid, if you can have a coffeemaker in the breakroom, then you can have one in your own office. I worked in an office once. Nobody brought their own coffeemaker. Why not? I would! But wait, I didn't. But I would now. And leave creamer in the fridge. Maybe I would just make coffee in the breakroom. A full pot? Everyone could just drink it. A half pot? What if I had to pee and came back and it was gone? I could just make a lot every morning and wait until it brews and take the first cup, who cares if others drink it? But then, I would become the coffeemaker. Not the coffeemaker. The Coffee Maker. The one who makes the coffee. How do you spell "coffeemaker"? Maybe I should call it a "coffeepot". What time is it?

Only 11:29. I'm getting up anyway.

i'm not a baby, i'm a big girl...night, night

I've been worried about it for over a year now. I've read segments in several books on ideas about how to do it. I've had endless conversations with my mommy friends about their experiences. I've talked with professionals.

I've even prayed about it.

And then last night, just before I was ready to tuck her in and say goodnight she very clearly and precisely said "Mommy, I don't want to use my paci anymore. It has hair on it."

Seeing as how we've had false starts in the past, my response was not the gushing of "What a big girl you are!!" followed by an immediate trip to the trashcan that you might expect. Besides, where was the screaming and gnashing of teeth that I've heard tell about? Where were the tricks? The "lets tie paci to a balloon string for the babies in the sky"? The paci fairy? The sleepless nights? The bribes and promises of rewards to come?

Instead, I looked at her with raised eyebrows and said, "Well, are you sure?" And she responded that yes, she was sure...and she took her lovey that I handed to her and happily sent me away, paci in hand, dumbfounded.

That was last night. And today, with a little bit of prodding and a lot of cuddling, her sister decided to do the same thing. Tearful yet determined. I can relate.

Because I am finding myself to be strangely tearful over the decision my girls have made. As freeing as it is for me, I just wonder how can these little girls be old enough to make a decision like this? To me, it's just a paci. But to them, its a friend. A comfort. A companion in the night. Where is the motivation to give that up (besides the polly pocket cars I got them at Target)?

And just like that, this day that marks 6 years of marriage between John and I and the anniversary of my Grandpa's death has also become the day that our twin girls grow up a little bit more...and teach their mommy a thing or two about letting go.

Jesus, desitin and a callaway hat

Trusting Jesus to live in and through me can’t be simply a declaration of what I believe to be true…it has to have hands and feet. Sometimes my faith has to risk getting dirty and being...ordinary. That simply happens in the everyday, living life things.

Today, Jesus wears nikes and a callaway golf hat in Gulfport, MS.

Or a white t-shirt and a pony-tail in Charlotte, NC…and “Christ IN you, the hope of glory” becomes a reality and not just a verse. Because where is Jesus’ influence on earth if not through us? How else do we “life out” the life of Christ if not through our everyday, mundane tasks? But even those things take strength and energy, sometimes more than the big things. I am thankful that He doesn't just give me strength, He IS my strength.

So, The Man helps lead a group of 100+ new friends in Hurricane Katrina relief work in Gulfport and gladly enters into potentially awkward conversations with students he just met.

And I pack up clothes to finish out the last leg of our vacation, put desitin on a diaper rash that just won't go away and plan meals for when he comes home next week.

Not because I am capable, not because he is confident, but because we are His.

if you hate feet, don't read this

I'm learning to accept my feet. All my life, I've not been a big fan...feet. Yuck. But one cold morning in January, I had two babies 7 weeks early. And one of them, though she was only 4 pounds, came out with thin, long feet..a tiny replica of her mother's.

I remember 2 days after delivery, the swelling had finally gone down in my feet and ankles and I swung my legs over the side of the hospital bed and slipped my feet into my pink, fuzzy slippers. It was the first time I had seen them look almost normal in several months. And I was so pleased as they immediately made me think of my tiny daughter sleeping in the NICU on the 2nd floor of the hospital. She was so slight and dainty, and I had only known her for a few days...it was hard to imagine that something about her was already so...familiar.

I began to take ownership of my feet (did I really just say that sentence?) And then last week on a family vacation, I saw my aunt who I haven't seen in several years and she joyfully pointed to the ground below me and said, "Those are my feet! At least, 15 years ago those were my feet! My young feet..." And I was pleased. She also mentioned that her mother, my grandmother, wore size 7...just like me. Pleased again.

So my feet are skinny and my big toe is slightly too long. But they are my inheritance and I am passing them on.