Imagine

I'd like to rewrite that glorious song that John Lennon sang so beautifully. Imagine. Imagine. Really do it, sweet Ellie. Really imagine a world where things make sense.

I had the privilege of being born into a world without AIDS. A world without the horrors and the 40 million orphans and the children too old for orphanages who have to sell their bodies on the streets. For food. So they get AIDS and die a quiet death alone where no one even notices. When I was young, unsafe sex maybe got you pregnant or, at worst, got you a disease that made you sterile. Sterile has nothing on dead.

Yet another thing to try to explain to my daughter. And I don't know what's harder to explain:
Why women and children are dying in alarming numbers
or
Why we don't do anything about it

God. It's so hard to be a parent on days like this. In worlds like this.

But it's the most amazing, awe-inspiring, and humbling privilege ever. So, sweet Ellie. Yes. You were born into a world with AIDS. But maybe, just maybe, someday you will live in a world without it.

Happy World AIDS Day, sweet baby girl.

With a heavy heart

It's hard to know what kind of world it is that welcomed my baby girl almost one year ago today. When you birth a child, you birth with it high hopes for life and joy and passion and change. You birth with it hopes for eternal innocence, even while you know that true innocence doesn't exist for even a day.

For a while my due date was September 11. At the time, I insisted that it would have been okay with me. It would have been thumbing my nose at terrorists who tried to claim that day as theirs. It would have been proof that life really does go on, even on the most terrible day in so many of our memories. God chose to give my love another birthday, and now September 15 is the day that life and joy and passion and change was born. So we'll celebrate on Friday. Today we celebrate something different.

I'm grateful to have a one year old on the fifth anniversary of September 11. I'm grateful that I don't have to try to summarize September 11, 2001, and the events of that horrible day and year for this child whom I so desperately crave one more brief moment of innocence. I'm grateful that I can hug this squirming bundle and steal a kiss through my tears and know that there is hope, even in the midst of grief that still feels raw. And not just for that day but for that year. That year when the world felt like it couldn't go on turning for the sheer weight of it. That year when every phone call seemed to bring with it more bad news. That year when every beat of my heart longed for Home.

Praise God for good friends. For Family. For the hints of Home that they are. We wouldn't have lived without them. And praise God for wee babies that we can look at and love and cherish now five years later.

Which brings me to today. A day when I carried a heavy heart around in addition to my already heavy diaper bag and purse and an increasingly heavy almost one year old. I think, though, that when I looked in to her eyes this morning, I caught a glimpse of innocence. So I guess I owe it to her to do my grieving and show her how to do the same. I guess I owe it to her to carry that heavy heart and show her how Family lessens the burden. I guess I owe it to her to say "I love you" when I mean I'm sorry and show her that the sorrys don't matter because it's love that keeps us there. I guess I owe it to her to claim the beauty of today and celebrate her innocence.

I'll have a six year old on the tenth anniversary, and maybe that will be the time to begin to open the door. But on the fifteenth anniversary, she'll be eleven. And then sixteen when we celebrate again. And that's the year that we'll open the time capsule. Pretty close to fifteen years from today. Maybe that will be the time. Maybe she'll grasp it all a bit more then. Maybe by then the wars will be over and the horrors will stay on TV instead of creeping in our doors. Maybe by then we'll be Home. But if we aren't, I hope I can figure out how to tell her everything.

As Bono sang in remembering five years ago today while at the Superbowl the next winter, "It's a beautiful day." It is. And it was. That's what I remember the most clearly about that day. Just how gorgeous the bright blue sky was. It was a beautiful day, even though it didn't look so much like it. Sometimes you have to look a bit below the surface to see the true beauty. So if you look, you can see it. And maybe, somehow, we can keep just a bit of that innocence.

All I need to know in life I learned from my baby girl.

How is it possible that I've taken more than 29 years to learn what she was born knowing?

1. The art of making conversation. She gabs on and on about nothing, and she doesn't even care that no one follows her track. Plus she gets out of small talk.

2. The art of avoiding unwelcome visitors. She falls asleep whenever she wants, regardless of who is chatting with her. And they think it's sweet.

3. The art of enjoying dinner. She eagerly grabs the veggies and fruits with both hands and shoves them in to her mouth. And you should hear her giggle when she sees her bottle coming.

4. The art of stopping when she's full. If I could learn only that one, I'd b able to lose that baby weight!

5. The art of play. This kid is most content with a box or cup and keys. She's wants nothing more than to put the keys into the box/cup, jiggle them around, dump them out, and start all over again.

6. The art of welcoming. Her two-tooth-smile greetings will warm your heart. Even on the worst days. And she doesn't stop there. No. She giggles, bounces, and shrieks, too.

7. The art of joke telling. EVERYthing is funny to her. Now that's beautiful.

8. The art of accepting love. The biggest lesson of all.

I told you she was brilliant.

Little girl, you'll be a woman soon

Too soon, in fact. Ugh. She waves now. It's just about the sweetest thing that I've ever seen. She was sick the other day, around 5:00 in the morning. I went into her room, changed her, and cuddled her against my shoulder. All of a sudden she pulled back, looked into my eyes, and drew back her hand to wave at me.

I almost cried as I said, "Hi, Baby."

She's beautiful, and she takes my breath away. This first nine months has gone so fast. And it has been so good. She thinks I'm beautiful. And that may be the best thing yet.

It's the baby, right?

Ugh. I'm watching Today this morning, and they are broadcasting from Freedom of the Seas--a new GIANT cruise ship. Some foster mom from Oregon was chosen to be the godmother of the ship, and she just did the christening.

I cried.

For the love of my child.

It was just before Ellie woke up from her nap that I found out that Jerry died. I went upstairs to get her out of bed, and the tears were still fresh on my cheeks. She put her chubby little hand on them and patted. She couldn't understand my tears or the words I whispered in her ear. "Sweetie, Mr. Jerry died. He loved you."

My heart was breaking while I cared for Ellie last Friday, because I remembered our last time with Jerry. He chuckled at Ellie, and she chuckled back. Oh, they loved each other.

He was the candy man at our church. He welcomed the little children who called him "Papa Jerry." He loved our children. And they loved him back. My heart broke on Sunday morning when Pastor Tim gathered the children to explain to them that Papa Jerry was in heaven with God. Ellie was home sick. But she wouldn't have understood anyway.

My heart broke on Sunday night when we stood in front of the casket, looking at the body that served as Jerry's home for 70 years. Ellie, restless in her father's arms, looked at Papa Jerry. No longer squirming or discontented, she stared at Papa Jerry. His body held her gaze for more than a minute. And then it was over. She didn't understand that, either. But she seemed to know it was important. She seemed to know that man loved her. We made our way to Nancy, Jerry's wife of 48 years. Nancy was so glad to see us. And Ellie flashed her charming smile. It brought a smile to the room. Oh, I love that little girl.

So how do I explain to her that she will forever miss knowing the man she knew for only 7 1/2 months? And how does my heart not break remembering knowing him and wishing we could know him still? Oh, I love that little girl. And that old man, too.

Better late than never.

I meant to post this days ago, but I'm a bit late because I’m a mother. That happens these days.

A while back my brother-in-law sent me a link to this new book called "Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay." It is supposedly a compilation of essays that "deliver the straight dirt on parenting" (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12204538/). He asked for my feedback, thinking that I could easily write something better than this. While I think he may have been overly nice to me with that comment, if it gets me interviewed by Matt Lauer, I just may make a go at it!!

So my feedback on the excerpt I read is that it was just okay. One part made me laugh out loud, but I’ve now forgotten what it was. The issues that she wants to discuss are, apparently, not the issues I would want to discuss, but that doesn’t make her writing bad. Her point was definitely good. I can’t count the number of times I’ve lost my dignity for my daughter—and not just during labor and delivery—already, and I know that will only continue. That said, she felt a bit cynical to me, I guess. It’s probably because she is a comedian . . . I don’t get comedians. Maybe the full book is better, but I don’t think I would pick it up and read it based upon this excerpt.

I thanked him for sharing, though, because that one part made me laugh really hard. I remembered later that it was the swimming part—seriously, who would enroll their one-day-old baby in swimming lessons?! Who even knows that they HAVE a baby when it’s only one day old? It was also inspiration to write down some of my own thoughts.

And that's where this was born. So maybe it's a good thing after all.

That's a TALL order!

It's a high calling on life, to be a mother. It's an even higher calling to be a mommy. And while my ability to be funny may be subjective and I may only be a writer in my head, I am definitely a mother. And the little girl in the laundry basket chewing on a purple flower finger puppet and occasionally looking up at me to offer me a tongue-sticking-out, gummy smile seems to think of me as mommy. So there you have it. And that's a fine identity for now. Let's see what I can do with it.