What's in a Name?

For Christmas this past year, our younger daughter received her first baby doll.  I guess Grandma thought it best she receive one honestly, for a change.   She already had a doll, but I had helped her lift it from the church nursery.   It is called “Baa Baa” because that is how her then one-year-old words said “baby.”   

That Sunday, she had claimed Baa Baa as her own and would not let it go.  Apparently, this runs in the family as I did the same thing at a friend’s house when I was a kid.  I still have Baby Beans.   She is irresistibly cute.  Like my mom before me, I simplified the minute and just let the cranky child bring the baby doll home. 

The legitimate doll from Grandma still does not have a name.  A few weeks ago, right as our youngest turned two, I realized it was around this age that our oldest named her baby.  So that afternoon, during those never-ending winter hours between napping and Daddy, I asked my little one what she might like to call her doll.

I got nothing.

I went on to point to each of us in the room, including the dog, and said our names.   I then pointed to the doll and waited for my often goofy little girl to produce a name out of thin air.  

I got nothing.

I was a little disappointed, though not surprised that she didn’t perform.  Her sister before her had magically, though curiously, proclaimed her baby doll’s name to be “Sticker” the first time I had asked.  That same sister had been coloring nearby during our brief back and forth about baby.

Genetically incapable of minding her own business for too long, my big one eventually piped up without looking up, “You should name her Cracker.”

The hilarity of this suggestion hit me immediately.  I dissolved into giggles as my two girls sat silent and eyed me with suspicion.   I braced myself on their tiny table, shaking crayons to the floor.  I simply could not get over how ridiculous it would sound; Sticker and Cracker.  

“I want your sister to pick the name herself, but thank you, honey,” I managed to squeak out after a while, wiping tears from my eyes.  

I have since named the baby myself.  I call her Freesia as she is dressed in pink and purple and I love the flower.  The name has yet to catch on.  The doll’s owner can’t even pronounce it.  She can, however, say cracker as clear as a bell.

I am thinking only time will tell what the doll’s real name will be.  I am also thinking we should probably return the doll we stole from church.  Poor baby Baa Baa.    

Our motley crew: Sticker, Baa Baa, No Name (Freesia) and Beans

Groovy Grace

I stood staring out the small powder room window at our backyard, where I first met her.  The door was open and my back was to the rest of the house and, more importantly, my two little girls from whom I was attempting to hide.  Why I continue to think I will successfully evade my children in the bathroom is beyond me.  In less than a minute, my three year old was at my side.  I looked down at her, ashamed she would see my tears; that I was crying over this.

"Mommy, why are you sad?"

"Well, honey, I am sad that we have to give Kitty away; that we can't keep her."

"Mommy, it's OK, " she assured me calmly, stroking my arm.  "We already have a pet.  We have Ben."

Ben, our 80-pound, adopted, Akita mix is literally the perfect family dog.  He only barks at new faces on the porch, lets the girls climb on him, prefers to relax over run, and never eats anything he is not supposed to.  His one fault is that he sheds approximately half of his body weight in fur each year, give or take.  We forgive him this, though I am not sure all of our guests do.   

But Kitty, the 2-pound, seven week old, gray kitten I found in our backyard two weeks before this was my dream pet come true.  Ever since I was a little girl I wanted a tiny, gray kitten of my very own.  While I deeply loved and cared for the hamsters and gerbils I had growing up, they clearly did not come close to Kitty.  My father is allergic to cats and, as luck would have it, my husband is as well.  And, yes, okay, fine, I admit it, I break out in hives when I hold a cat and am part of the reason she had to go, too.

The afternoon I found Kitty, I simply placed her in Ben's old crate on the back deck assuming I would drive her to a nearby shelter after my husband got home.  Silly Kristin.  After calling more than 12 rescues, shelters and volunteer groups I learned that no one in my area had room for any more cats.  The Feline Rescue Association told me, "You are this kitten's best bet."

Well, that was it.  My random afternoon meeting turned into a four-week, three-vet trip adventure, of which I enthusiastically enjoyed every minute.  I quickly became convinced that no one could care for her like I could.  I rescued her!  I saved her life!  So, I nursed her (with her worms, and her parasite, and her feline chewing louse, and her infected eye) back to health!  Kitty became my project.  She was mine.

And then she wasn't.  I am grateful that we found a home for her.  I am grateful it was with a family that we knew through friends.  I am grateful that they still send me pictures and that she is growing and thriving.  They named her Grace and I am grateful she graced me with her presence.  Thank you, God.  You work in such groovy ways. 

When Death Brought New Meaning to Life

I couldn't decide if I should tell him even though it was possible this might be my last chance.  I remained silent for the moment, methodically chewing each fruit snack I chose from the small pouch I shared with my sister.  Ever since I found out I was pregnant, I was having the weirdest cravings.  This one, no doubt, was inspired by my 18-month old's snack shelf.

If this were his first great-grandchild I would definitely tell him.  I would want him to know that his legacy would live on beyond the three women currently in his hospital room.  My sister and I watched our mother fumble to find an outlet in which to plug her father's electric razor.   

I watched my grandfather slowly run it over his face.  I didn't want to upset him by telling him.  Of course, the pregnancy was happy news, but I was worried it would only make him sad.  He would have to know he would never meet the baby growing inside of me.

He soon grew tired of holding up his arm to shave.  As my mom took over my cell phone rang.  More worried about breaking hospital policy than receiving the call, I dove into my bag for the device.  As I silenced it, I noticed it was my mother-in-law's number.  These days we talk regularly on the phone, but that day I knew it was important that I answer.

"Hello?" I whispered as I headed for the hallway.

"Kristin, it's Bette Rae.  I can't get a hold of Zach so I called you."

"Yeah, he left his phone charger in..."

"Kristin.  Liz died this morning in a car accident.  Bill and I are on our way to Kentucky right now."

I literally slid my back against the wall and sat down hard on the linoleum.  After a brief back and forth with Bette Rae, the tears came quickly.  I clutched the cell in my right hand and my bag against my chest with my left right there on the hospital floor.  I glanced down to the nurses station fully aware that my silent sobs would draw attention if someone saw.  No one was there.

I twisted my posture to peer back into Papa's room.  I wouldn't tell him about this either.  I made eye contact with my sister and she was quickly by my side. 

Two days later, Zach flew alone to Kentucky to sit with family and say goodbye to our 19 year-old niece.  He said he felt a peace.

Two days after that, I drove alone to the hospice to sit with family and watch for death to call our 83 year-old grandfather.   He was finally at peace.   

We did not name our new daughter after either Papa or Liz.  That is a burden too great for a baby.  She is a blessing just as she is.  Though neither Papa nor Liz knew she was to come those who mourned them did.  Of course, she is not a remedy or a replacement, but I have to think sharing the news of her brought some peace.            

I Am A Coffee Vixen, Hear Me Whimper

One of my favorite things about staying at my mother-in-laws house is her magic coffee pot.  Every morning, without fail, it brews a full pot of fresh, soul-calming coffee for me and my husband to enjoy.  I merely have to shuffle across the cold kitchen floor in my warm wool socks and pour.  The biggest decision I must make: which Fiestaware mug color matches my mood best (she owns them all).  My hair may be askew, the girls may be running wild, but I will have had my coffee before 8am.  I don't even have to rinse out the machine.

I come from a tea drinking family.  My dad drank coffee at work, but it was never around at home.  I first acquired a taste for it myself on a missions trip to Jamaica in high school.  After a week working with kids on dusty streets and under corrugated tin roofs, the inside of my suitcase landed at home reeking of ganja (because that is was rural Jamaica smells like), but my addiction was for Blue Mountain coffee.   It was then, at 16, that I began a relationship with caffeine. 

Through college and our first years of marriage, I could easily get through a work day on tea, coffee or Coke just the same.  Now, two kids and four years deep in staying home, I require coffee to keep digging.  It is a minor vice I am prepared to live with for the rest of my life.  In fact, it is a vice I am resolved to perfect over this new year.  With the exception of those precious few magic coffee pot mornings, I rarely drink a full cup of coffee. 

6:30 a.m. - Open eyes half way, picture a steaming cup of coffee with milk, roll over in bed.  Sweet.
6:45 a.m. - Interact with my eldest daughter in a morning stupor, head downstairs to make coffee.
7:00 a.m. - In small act of attempted healthfulness, decide to drink a glass of water first.
7:03 a.m. - Pour daughter a cup of orange juice.  Drink a glass of that first, instead.  Sugar.
7:30 a.m. - Make coffee while daughters are strapped into booster seats eating breakfast.
7:57 a.m. - Remember to actually push "ON" button to brew the coffee when cleaning up breakfast.
8:05 a.m. - Pour first cup of coffee.
8:14 a.m. - Return to unsipped coffee on counter, lift to lips, put down to referee the children.  Sigh.
8:38 a.m. - Take one long satisfying sip from coffee mug while walking into living room to play puzzles.  Place mug on mantel to avoid spillage.
9:15 a.m. - Return downstairs after dressing girls.  Reheat coffee in microwave.  Sin.
9:30 a.m. - Leave the house, sans caffeine, to enjoy some such play date.  Pray my girlfriend will brew a fresh pot so we can forget to drink it together.
1:00 p.m. - Remove cold coffee from microwave to make Ramen noodles for lunch.  Open a Coke.  Settle.

It should not be this hard.  I need to change.  I think this year I am committed.  I did get this mug for Christmas after all:

I may be an idiot, but so is the lady at the post office

Thursdays mornings have become my favorite part of the week.  My simple, little world gets even closer and quieter at these times.  I take Z to preschool and have four delicious hours alone with G.  Unlike Tuesdays, we have no obligations or prior commitments and can spend Thursday mornings how we want.  Often, I run a few errands, but instead of whisking around and struggling to have one by the hand and one by the hip, we take our time.  I let G toddle down the sidewalks and up the steps.  She uses her still-pudgy hands to help me put items on the belt and in the cabinets back home.  We converse uninterrupted.  We discuss what we see out of the window, how the puzzle fits together and how crunchy the goldfish crackers sound. 

One Thursday morning, I drove G through a quaint downtown area and to the post office.  Many of the storefronts were decorated and holiday banners hung from the streetlights.  It was a warm day and we held hands into the building.  As usual, my beautiful girl caused a few to pause along the way.  People stopped to notice her blond hair and bright blue eyes.  The lady behind the counter did the same, even complimenting her winter coat.

"How can I help you today?"

"I would like to purchase three sheets of seasonal stamps please.  Whatever you have."

"We are fresh out of holiday stamps, ma'am."

"Oh, well, um, what stamps do you have?"

"We have these pretty crimson ones with gold trees.  They are Jewish winter greeting stamps."

As she said this, she laid the sheets of stamps on the counter.  They were lovely.  I had been hoping for Christmas stamps, but these looked wintery and I was happy to buy them.  Before long G and I were making our way back to the car.

After we were buckled and settled, I turned on the car and took out the stamps to read them, "Eid Greetings."  Curiosity set in.  I had never heard this phrase before and wanted to learn its meaning before I sent it off to all my family and friends.  My smart phone is so smart.  In seconds I learned that Eid Greetings is not Jewish (or seasonal) at all.  In fact it refers to the end of Ramadan, the month during which devout Muslims fast during daylight.  Eid al-Fitr is "The Feast of Breaking the Fast" an enjoyable time for Muslims families to celebrate the end of the long month of Shawwal.  I also learned that these stamps had been in circulation for 11 years.

I hesitated for a moment, but then decided to exchange the stamps for more generic ones.  There was no way I was going to let my dad or uncles call me out on this one.  Plus, I was still in the parking lot; no harm done.  With toddler on hip, I waltzed right back into the post office and up to the counter where the same lady greeted me.

"Hi, it's you again.  I recognize her coat."

(Smile) "Yep, I'm back.  I would like to exchange these stamps.  Turns out they are Islamic, end-of-Ramadan stamps."

(Stern face) "There are no returns or exchanges on postage stamps.  Read your receipt."

"Oh, I had no idea.  I guess that makes sense, but can you please make an exception?  I just bought these and they are not what I want.  You told me they were Jewish stamps."

"No."

"But, look how cute she is?" (cheek to cheek with G)

"Your baby has nothing to do with this.  There are no exchanges on stamps."

"So you're telling me you are going to stick me with 60 Islamic stamps, which I thought were Jewish stamps, when I am a Christian?"

"Jewish stamps or Islamic stamps, what is the difference?"

"Are you really asking me the difference between Judaism and Islam?  Really?!?  I was fine with the Jewish stamps.  I uphold the Judeo-Christian tradition!"

"Ma'am I don't care what you believe in."

"Well, I do!'

This was point at which she simply stopped talking to me and rudely asked to help the next person.  So, I just stood there.  I stood at the post office counter with my back to her, my daughter in my one arm, and the stamps under the other.  I am also positive I looked grumpy.  However, no more than a minute passed when another lady approached me from behind the counter, a lady I know for certain witnessed my entire exchange with the first, and who simply took the stamps from me, banged a few buttons and then handed me 60 flag stamps in exchange.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Part of me wants to apologize to the postal worker.  I was a bit short with her.  No doubt, especially at this time of year, she works hard on her feet and deals with more than her share of mail-related grief (and probably male-related grief, too.)  Part of me wants to apologize to my little girl.  I did not represent us well this day.  Not that she understood me exactly, but I'm sure she could tell mommy was being a bit naughty and not as nice as she should.  The rest of me wants to apologize to Mr. Goethals, my high school religion teacher.  I have not embraced life-long learning in the subject of world religion even though it interests me and is pertinent to promoting peace.  Perhaps my world has gotten a little too small these last few years.  I still have my textbook from his class and (as a result of this event) a self-designed reading assignment for over Christmas. 

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I am linking up with yeah write again this week.  I really enjoy hanging out over there and I think you would too.  Click the button below and read the other submissions along with me.

Joy to the world

Because we ALL need more gospel music in our lives:

Aretha Franklin sings Joy to the World

Neither of my girls nor I can keep from grooving when we hear this fantastic version of the Christmas classic.  We listen to it at least eight times in a row every day.  And it brings us true joy 100% of the time, every time.

We wish you JOY!!!

Wiping your slate clean

I find that I do some of my best thinking in the shower.  When I was in college I awarded equal weight to the benefits of napping and showering.  On occasion, I spent precious minutes attempting to decide which escape to take.  Both offered needed down time and accomplished rest or cleanliness.  I usually felt quite refreshed and ready for the next campus adventure after either.

These days, when I am lucky enough to take a truly off duty shower (you fellow stay at home parents know what I mean), I find that the steam, white noise of the water, and citrus scent of my body wash open my brain right up.  I plan meals, design toddler friendly activities, organize schedules, write shopping lists.  I even get somewhat motivated to do laundry.  I get more done in the shower than I actually ever get done.

The other day, however, all I could contemplate was our toilet paper.  See, I am married to no particular brand (I think the current rolls are from TJ's) and I rarely even pay attention.  For some reason, this day, I noticed the sheets were imprinted with flower blossoms and butterflies.  I don't think our toilet paper has ever been imprinted.  Why is it imprinted with blossoms and butterflies?  Do such imprints increase the popularity of the product?  Do people prefer soft and silky images on their tushy tissue?  Does it enhance experience?  Functionality?

If so, how did the toilet paper people determine this information?  Did they host a focus group?  What other imprint options were offered?  Did the pine cones prevent?  Did the fox faces fail?  Would I care what appeared on my paper?  Is there some object or animal that would keep me from ripping off a bit?  Or maybe the imprints are underrated.  Perhaps rolls of skull and cross bones would kill in the stores and fly off the shelves.  Hmm...

And then, as if someone flushed those blossoms and butterflies, I was shocked back to reality as I was showering.  Pregnancy brain was only the beginning.  My mind continues to atrophy.  For years now I have been delusional about the power of the shower.  It no longer acts as a protective booth in which I transform back into super student.  It has become a time where I stand still enough to start to slip slightly into insanity, the type that is brought on by constant contact with tiny tots.

Should I attempt to break free from this downward spiral (I certainly can't cease showering)?  Perhaps I should start thinking about going back to school.  Maybe I should force myself to read and write even more.  I love staying home with my kids, but is it having irreversible effects on my being?  Of course it is!  For the rest of my life my mind will function at half capacity because the other part will be focused on the family.  And, after thinking about this in the shower this morning I am satisfied.  Thinking about toilet paper is harmless fun.  Kids make you better.  Kids make you weird.