Stories

This morning, Lucy approached me in the bedroom, asking a typical question, "Mom, what will we do today?"  But, before I could answer, she followed her query up with the rushed directive, "Say something really fun!"

Sugar and Spice, and Everything Nice,
That's what little girls are made of.

Snips and snails, and puppy dogs' tails,
That's what little boys are made of.

A few days ago, I sent Wes to the grocery store and he came home with Corn Flakes. I'm not sure when we last had Corn Flakes in our cupboard (a hundred years ago?). After church on Sunday, Lucy parked at the table and requested a bowl of cereal.

"Flakes or "O"s?" I asked.
"Ummmm...flakes." She answered.

I poured, she ate. Wes and I were in the middle of a conversation a few minutes later when we overheard her say to herself, with slightly dejected confusion, "But I didn't get some strawberries." I looked at her with a raised eyebrow (seeing as strawberries had not been one of the proffered options). And then I noticed the picture on the cereal box: a bowl of Corn Flakes laden with luscious berries.

Sorry, Lu.
False advertising.

It's been good times 'round here. We're happy to be healthy again! And while we ache for routine (our different-every-day schedule makes me crazy lately!!) we have so many things to love. Each other. The truths of the gospel. The hope of spring (last Saturday's infatuation with winter is dwindling). Every day there are moments. Moments to love and treasure. Moments I want to remember:

One afternoon last week, after Spencer's nap, I requested that Lucy involve him in her pretend play while I prepared for a meeting. She agreed (a little reluctantly). I listened quietly from another room as the two of them chattered away (her words: intelligible, his: not). I gathered that she was the mother of a multitude of babies, and that she had graciously allowed Spencer to play the dad. But something about the set-up must have rubbed her the wrong way because she kept addressing him with phrases like, "Here you go, dad-who's-smaller-than-me." Her tone was happy. There was no condescension or sneering. It seemed she just had to occasionally acknowledge the awkwardness of a reality that didn't match up with the picture in her mind.

Two Days ago, I carried Spencer over to Lucy for the traditional pre-nap kiss good night. When she realized my intention to lay him down, she moaned, "Aaaaawwwww!! Already??!!??" For a minute, my mother-heart glowed: "They love each other so much!" Then I saw Lucy dash into the room she shares with Spencer. Driven, she was grabbing all the toys she could, in obvious dread of the pending "restricted access" to her play space. Realization dawned and I laughed and laughed at my misplaced hope of sibling affection (although I could not have laughed so much if there was a true lack of love between the two).

Yesterday, I was prodding Lucy though her morning tasks as the clocked ticked treacherously close to the Preschool hour. After urging her several times to put her baby doll away and put her shoes on, she finally approached me and said coolly, "Mom, I just want to do whatever I want."
"Yes, dear," I said stifling a chuckle, "I know you do!" ("So do I!" I thought, emphatically.)

Here's what I love: the heart of that child. The sincere, direct, honest, forgiving, happy heart of that child. And although I occasionally feel like Lucy is a fourteen-year-old in a four-year-old's-body, there are times when she is still my baby girl.

A few nights ago, after a typical round of story reading in Mom and Dad's room, we ushered her off to bed. But she didn't go to sleep like usual. She whimpered. She cried. She complained. Finally (and in secret frustration) I took her to the rocking chair. I snuggled her. We rocked and rocked and my frustration finally settled and then slipped away. Something else grew in it's place. Something like satisfaction, contentment, love. Lucy doesn't fit very well in my arms anymore. But neither of us complained. After a time, I asked her if she was ready to sleep. Yes. I laid her down in bed, but heard her hushed voice again before I even made it to the door.
"Mom!"
I walked back to her, "What?"
"I like you to be in this room," she whispered, hope written all over her face.
So I stayed. I sat on the floor, thinking about her whispered comment. It seemed to reflect so many of my own prayers,

Abide with me!
fast falls the even tide
the darkness deepens
Lord with me abide

I like to have a comforting presence in my room, too, Lucy.
And I do (so much, with all my heart, forever and ever) love you.