The Tea Party

As a mother, I’ve managed to heap a lot of guilt onto my shoulders. I don’t take the kids to the pool by myself, and I don’t venture out to many activities with the three of them unless I have help. While I have gotten braver this summer and attempted more, sometimes I wonder if we should’ve put more space between the kids so that they could do some of the things that others get to do with their mommies.

But sometimes I just can’t be blamed for everything….

As I listened to my two littles one finalize preparations for their tea party, my heart swelled with pride. For one of the few moments in their short time as brother and sister, they were playing together and nicely. I watched as they used their imaginations and my daughter’s Disney tea set to create the perfect event for their friends.

“Ella’s coming, and so is Gel,” Hannah Grace told her brother excitedly.

“I’ve invited Jeff,” Caleb added.

I had never heard of these kids before and was impressed at the names they were giving their guests. They allowed me to sample some tea and a cookie (which was delicious), and then they continued playing as I moved into the kitchen to clean up our real mess from that morning.

The nice sounds from the foyer continued on for a few more minutes, when all of a sudden, angry conversation ensued. I rolled my eyes thinking, “What now?” Why was it impossible for my children to complete one activity together without fighting?

Caleb and Hannah Grace both stormed into the kitchen yelling.

“What?! What?!” I asked, confused by the sudden change of events.

Caleb’s face shone with anger, and Hannah Grace’s brow was furrowed.

With arms flailing in exasperation, Caleb yelled, “Nobody showed up for our tea party!!!”

Hannah Grace folded her arms across her chest and let out a big pout.

I stared at them for a moment, shocked that one of them hadn’t hit the other or stolen a cup of tea, and then I had to look away and smile.

I knew that as a parent I would mend many broken hearts. I knew that kids can be cruel, and there would be times when they would hurt my own children’s feelings. I just hadn’t known that those kids would be imaginary.

And if my kids’ imaginary friends won’t play with them, well, there’s not a whole lot this mommy can do.

The Date

She woke up and piddled around until she remembered the significance of today–it was her turn.

She quickly moved to her room and pulled down a favorite dress. Swiftly she fit her head through the opening and watched as the fabric dropped to her shins. A sense of pride filled her spirit as she slipped on the new shoes that made her feel beautiful, and she emerged from her room with excitement.

Flower barrettes adorned her silky strawberry-blonde hair, a necklace the top of her chest. She awaited anxiously for her date.

He knocked on the door, and she ran to answer, a giggle in her voice. Her smile spread wider as she held out her hands to take hold of her first flower, a flower whose brightness matched those of her eyes.

And I watched with joy as she set out for her date with Papa, knowing that this date would be the first of many in her lifetime, one of the few that I could so easily let her go.

A Student and the Standard

I don’t know what made me think about her. Maybe my mind was running rampant because I was in the shower, one of the few places I can enjoy a moment of solitude. I hadn’t thought about her in years, though, and as her picture appeared before my mind’s eye, a sadness washed over me as the soap ran off my body.

Trisha was one of those students who I had really come to enjoy teaching. She started off the school year as many teenagers do–with an attitude of distrust toward me as a person in a place of authority. A smile for me would never cross her lips, but she was more than generous with the rolling of the eyes. Yet something changed, I’m not exactly sure what other than time, and the wall of distrust gradually began to crumble.

Trisha and her friend saw my husband and me at one of the school’s basketball games, and they couldn’t stop turning around to excitedly wave at us. In class, she would participate and answer questions–I remember her sharing her journal that she wished she could sing–and she would laugh as if English class wasn’t that bad after all. She had started off the semester on the wrong foot, but she seemed determined to end it in a better position.

And remembering all of these details in that one random instant in the shower, I questioned if I did the right thing. In place of a final exam, I had all of my students complete a portfolio project. They were to gather samples of their work from all the different periods of American literature we had studied and explain what they had learned, how they had grown throughout the semester using those samples as evidence.

I remembered Trisha showing me her introduction ahead of time; she wrote how she had grown as a person during my class, how she enjoyed the class and had learned, not only about literature, but about herself. She was so proud as she gathered her evidence to include in the portfolio, and she took the extra step of making it look more like a scrapbook than an academic assignment with construction paper and vivid colors. I couldn’t wait to read the final product.

But when I did, I sighed and tried to push away the sick feeling that was forming in my stomach. Trisha had obviously spent tremendous amounts of time putting together the project, but it said nothing about American literature. She included samples of work from throughout the year, but she never explained what those samples proved. She did write how she had grown as a person, but she neglected to show what she comprehended from the curriculum. What had she actually learned? From the portfolio, I couldn’t tell.

I had to grade her with the same rubric I used for everyone else, and the grade she earned was a ‘C.’ I’ll never forget the look on her face when she saw her grade. I specifically made a point of being there when she opened her portfolio and pulled out the grade sheet. I told her how proud I was of her for the effort she had shown, how I knew she was disappointed, but she didn’t cover all aspects of the assignment as she needed to. She shook her head like she understood, but the look on her face said she was crushed.

Looking back, I know I explained the project well. After giving the project for the first time the previous year, I made adjustments to the rubric and how I taught the project. I made my students keep their notebooks in the same order and with the same headings that they would use in their portfolios. I brought in sample projects from the previous year; they saw what kinds of portfolios earned an ‘F’, a ‘C’, and an ‘A.’ I offered to look and make suggestions to their portfolios before they were due, and I gave them class time to work on the project. And seven years later, I was still questioning if I had expected too much.

As I wrapped the towel around me, I wondered what Trisha thought about me. Teachers have this amazing ability to affect a person’s life forever, whether for bad or good. I remember a friend blaming an English teacher for her almost dropping out of school, and I remember inviting one of my own English teachers to my wedding. Did the wonderful sentiments Trisha had written in her introduction still hold true, or did that experience of working so hard and only earning a ‘C’ negatively affect how she approached the rest of her schooling?

While I hoped that Trisha didn’t look back on her sophomore English class and think about how much she hated Mrs. Davis, I more so hoped that Trisha didn’t look back on that moment as the moment when she stopped trying. I most likely won’t ever know.

As I got dressed and walked downstairs, I did so with a melancholy spirit. I only taught for three-and-a-half years, but I had influenced over 550 lives. I’m sure some look back on me as a teacher who challenged them and cared about them, and some probably don’t remember who Mrs. Davis is. But it’s that other group, that group who looks back and says that Mrs. Davis was the teacher who caused them to stop trying, that group is the one that I can’t bear to think about.

I could only do what I thought was right, hold high standards and hope that my students would rise to them. I held myself to those high standards, too, those standards which, seven years later, cause me to see Trisha’s face.

Catching the Laughter

Sometimes I wish for them to grow up, to age one more year and gain a little more sense, a little more independence.

And other times, I watch as a sudden spirit of carefree blows in and tickles their toes, pushing them off their bottoms,

creating a primal urge to shed clothes, innocence throwing off underpants in exchange for hats.

And I laugh, I soak in the moment, holding it to my chest, locking it in my memory forever,

knowing that in the blink of an eye they will be grown,

longing to catch and relish in more moments while they’re little.

For this Focus on it Friday, I am thankful for a moment of uncontrollable laughter when I watched the joy of innocence. For what are you thankful this week?

Sweating and Swimming

As a mother of three kids very close together in age, I’m constantly facing the internal struggle of whether or not to leave the house with my children. I want them to enjoy their childhood and experience story time at the library, free summer movies, and play dates, but I also don’t want to kill them.

So as I left the house today with lunches made, towels and sunscreen packed, three children dressed in swimsuits, I also left with a mild sense of dread, for based on past experience, this day at my friend’s pool would be anything but relaxing. For me, that is.

Getting there is half the battle, and boy that battle was a tough one today! For children who were excited about swimming, they sure didn’t get ready with much enthusiasm. And Chloe–does her body have a little sensor that indicates when her mommy has just put a new (cloth) diaper on her, allowing her to release the effects of her iron medicine plus prune juice? The bathing suit that took ten minutes to get on the wiggly baby now had to come off. Ten more minutes to wipe a squirmy heinie and put a bathing suit back on, and we were on our way (again).

Once we arrived, the other half of the battle could begin. Before I had even finished setting out the kids’ lunch on their towels, Caleb and Hannah Grace had each taken a turn pulling the valve from the lemonade pitcher, releasing a wonderful mess all over the table and floor of the screened-in porch. I was so happy I got to clean up those messes twice, and apparently, so was Chloe. While I was cleaning, she was eating everyone else’s lunch. Peanut butter sandwiches, whole grapes–everything this mommy had restricted from this one-year-old she put in her mouth. Of course the cut grapes and cracker pieces I set out for her remained untouched.

The pool is a wonderful, refreshing idea for combatting this horrid Georgia heat, yet the pool only works if one gets in it. Hannah Grace won’t get in the pool, Caleb won’t get out of it, and Chloe won’t stay put. She wants in the pool, and less than 30 seconds later she wants out. I felt like a jack-in-the-box climbing in and out and in and out, chasing after the baby one minute, and yelling at Hannah Grace the next to leave the lemonade alone. It’s near impossible to watch three children when they’re all in different places. And when it’s 96 degrees outside and probably that percentage humidity, if I’m not soaking in a pool, I want to be inside–not chasing after children!

And so, I’d like to apologize to the group of mothers who sat beneath the umbrella, enjoying their lunch and adult conversation, jumping in the pool to cool themselves, and then resuming social time: I would’ve loved to socialize, as well. In fact, I am a pretty pleasant person, but seeing as my baby won’t stay in a float for two minutes before climbing out, my middle child wants to be pushed on the swing–the only child, by the way, who wants to swing instead of swim–and my oldest child insists on spraying every kid in the face with the water gun but then cries when anyone sprays him back (sorry about that, too), I think embracing my role as antisocial, crazy mother is best.

And while I’m apologizing, I’d also like to apologize to any mothers of only girls. My son doesn’t understand the concept of dropping his pants out-of-view before peeing behind the shed. We are working on modesty in my home, but that lesson hasn’t stuck, yet. I am pleased that at least Hannah Grace did not take her bathing suit off this time as she did at a previous swimming engagement.

And to the woman who brought the 100-calorie snack bag–no, you didn’t finish your snack, but my children did. While I was putting Hannah Grace in time-out for taking your food, Caleb came out of the pool and ate the rest. Think of it this way–now you only had a 50-calorie snack.

So to my dear friend, I always appreciate your invitations to come swim, but I don’t think I can bring my children when there is a large group. That, and the fact that I don’t think you’re going to invite us again since my daughter peed on your carpet.

Mama’s Boy

I know exactly where he gets it from.

When I was six years old, my dad got a job transfer from New Jersey to Georgia. We left behind all of our extended family and our tiny dollhouse in Woodbridge to venture to this land called “the South.” As part of the preparation for our move, my parents informed me that I would need to learn to talk Southern. I was six. How would I learn a foreign language that quickly?!

I have heard the story many times (and if you hang around my family, you’ve probably heard the story many times, too. Sorry.), how Mom and Dad were interrupted by this meek, little girl coming out of her room late at night.

“Jennifer, what’s wrong?” one of them asked.

Huge tears began to run down my face.

“I don’t know how to talk Southern,” I cried.

As a child, I carried worry around with me like my daughter carries around her baby doll, always tucked under my arm, accompanying me wherever I went. To this day, I worry; although, I am getting better. As I’ve grown in my relationship with the Lord, I’ve learned that worrying is pointless; however, it’s hard to get rid of those innate parts of me.

And, unfortunately, those innate parts of me didn’t stay with just me.

So I wasn’t surprised the other day when my son and I had an unusual conversation at the breakfast table.

“I don’t want to leave this house when I get married,” my four-year-old stated completely out of the blue.

Since our house is up for sale, I didn’t really catch the last part of Caleb’s statement. I assumed he was just telling me he didn’t want to move. As he had told me before, if we moved closer to Daddy’s work, the cute eight-year-old girl in our neighborhood wouldn’t know where to find us.

“Well, it doesn’t look like we’re going to move–wait, you don’t want to move when you get married?” I suddenly realized what my son had said.

Caleb shook his head.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to check with your new wife first,” I informed Caleb. “She might want her own house for the two of you to live in. When you grow up, you’ll probably want to get your own house so you can have a place for your own family and kids to play.”

Wrong answer. Sometimes I’m so stupid.

I continued eating my breakfast, feeding the baby, when I looked over at Caleb’s spot. His face was red, shoulders slumped forward, head hanging down. Tears were welling up in his eyes.

“Caleb?” I started. “Oh, come here, baby!”

And the tears flowed. “I don’t want to leave!” he sobbed uncontrollably.

And in that moment, I was faced with a dilemma. If I told Caleb that he never had to leave, would I end up like Cliff Huxtable from The Cosby Show? Would I forever have little children running amuck in my home while I yearned for a quiet retirement with my husband? Would Caleb remember this promise someday and really not leave, content with his mother, not needing a wife? Or worse yet–would Caleb become a professional student?!!

So I chose my words carefully.

“Caleb, it’s a long time before you’ll ever get married.”

“I don’t want to get married,” chimed in my two-year-old.

“Okay, you don’t have to get married, Hannah Grace.”

“I’m going to get big, and I’ll have my own cups made of glass, and my own big sporks, and my own plates.”

“Umm…okay,” I agreed with my daughter.

Caleb was still crying and looked more concerned. I should’ve known my little Romeo would not be content staying single. He wanted to get married; he just didn’t want to leave home.

As I rubbed Caleb’s back, I let go of my Cliff Huxtable fears.

“Caleb,” I started, “You don’t have to leave sweetheart.” The crying continued, so I went further. “You don’t ever have to move. I don’t want you to leave, either.”

Those were the magic words he needed to hear, that his mommy forever wanted him close. And truth be told, I don’t want the little guy to ever leave–as long as he learns to do his own laundry.

Fearless

I had no intention of doing any more than dangling her little feet in the water. I thought the newness of cool waves lapping at her feet, sand squishing between her chubby toes would suffice. It was early evening, so I hadn’t even changed the baby into her swimsuit; the sun would go down, and no one would want to swim. Instead, I found myself struggling to pick up a baby who had doubled over my arm reaching towards the water. When I tried to straighten her and carry her, she allowed her body to transition from completely limp to completely tense–whichever would successfully allow her to slide beneath my grasp.

I marveled that evening as she moved through the water, determined to keep traveling ahead. She was undeterred by the small waves that would meet her and pressed on. Her orange tank-top dragging across her body with the weight of water, she continued to crawl with a small grin on her face. She purposely dipped her head into the ocean to feel the cool on her cheek, only stopping momentarily, and then she continued.

Watching her move with such grace, I thought to myself how free she looked.

Fearless.

I envied her. To be able to look at something so vast, so huge, yet jump in without hesitation is not an action to which I can relate.

I can relate more to my son who, upon seeing the ocean for the first time since he was a baby exclaimed, “It’s too scary! It’s too scary!” I was surprised by his reaction. He went on to say that the ocean was so big, but almost immediately, he, too, braved the scary sea.

My second-born wanted to be brave; she wanted to run towards the waves, but her fears kept her dancing along the shore.

Until the next day when she gripped the back of her daddy’s neck, wrapped her legs around his waist, and allowed him to carry her through the waves. I watched as cries left her open mouth, but then gradually the black hole I could see from afar began to close. She trusted her daddy.

And why should any of my children have been afraid? If they turned their heads away from the sea in front of them, they would’ve noticed a creased brow over the eyes of one watching with concern, not turning her eyes from the fearless babe unaware of how easily a wave could knock her over. They would’ve known as soon as they took their first step into the deeper water, their mommy would’ve been right behind them.

Or behind the lens, capturing their every move, their brave moments in the waves, stood their Daddy. With each click of the camera, a smile spread across his lips from the joy of watching his kids play. He stood proud, cheering on his children with each memory he preserved.

And when I turn my eyes from the vast sea in front of me, I am reminded that I no longer need to fear. I look into the eyes of my Father and know He is guiding my every step as I pick up my foot that has sunk into the sand and push through the water lapping at my ankles. I walk and feel the cool on my calves and then the back of my knees. As the first waves splash around my thighs and more are forming in the distance, I turn back with worry written on my face. But the eyes of my Father speak, “Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9).

It is then that I begin to play in the water and splash until I taste salt on my lips. It is then that I know that I, too, can be fearless.

The Written Word

As I was signing my sister’s birthday card today, I couldn’t help but notice how sloppy my handwriting looked. “What happened?” I thought. My papers in school used to cover the classroom as examples of exemplary writing. Now, I wasn’t impressed.

I have never been one to get excited about computers. Technology scares me–the moment I try to do something by using the device that is supposed to make my life easier, I end up taking four days longer than I should’ve. And crying is normally involved. Therefore, I have no problem blaming my reliance on computers for the deterioration of my handwriting.

On any given day, I can count on the fact that I will type away on the computer, but I don’t always write. What saddens me most about this fact is that I feel like I am slowly losing a part of myself as the control of my handwriting slips away. Actually writing with a pen to the paper doesn’t seem as natural as it once did. The thought of writing this blog post instead of typing it causes my hand to hurt, yet, until my sophomore year in college when this method was no longer practical, I used to write all of my term papers, edit them, and then type as a final step–my papers were better that way. There was some sort of connection from my brain through the pen to the paper; that thinking connection helped me write. And now I’m losing that part of me from lack of use.

While I’m not normally a pack-rat, I have trouble throwing away cards from relatives. When I stare at their cards, I am looking at a part of them. Each person’s unique handwriting identifies him or her right away, and I instantly feel a warmth knowing I’m reading a card from my Nana who had a stroke, each round letter betraying this dignified woman, shouting that her hand was shaking the whole time she wrote. Yet she filled the bottom half of the card for me, anyway.

Or my mother. Neat and tidy, and full of thought, every letter exudes the care she takes in everything she does. Her family is never far from her thoughts, and the pen never far from the paper. Equally distinct is my father’s handwriting, a little messy, but definitely not careless. While most words will end in a joke, my father is not void of true emotion that he is willing to share, his words on the page not small and insecure but plain to see (albeit not always clear to see).

And then there are the small letters that cause my heart to flutter every time I rediscover them. Quiet and controlled, they represent the solid man that has blessed my life for almost ten years. The handwriting doesn’t shout at me, yet I’d recognize those words from a mile away.

Whether the card be from the slightly scattered-brained aunt with good intentions or my mother-in-law with a joyful heart, I can identify the author right away by the pattern of ink on the paper. I find comfort knowing that only a pen separated them from me, that I always have a part of them that is tangible, in front of me.

Many times I think of my children looking back on the writings from my blog. I hope they’ll see my heart and know that my life was for them and any frustrations were that I couldn’t be more. I want them to laugh and cry and experience a little of me through my writing, letting them in on any part of me they didn’t already know. Yet sometimes I feel like they won’t see all of me.

Looking at a sterile piece of typed paper, they won’t see the emotion in my letters or know that my hand directly crafted the words in front of them. They won’t see all of me, the scribbles and corrections, the quick-edits and new ideas that would be visible in a handwritten piece.

And so, as I type, I yearn a little to feel the pen in my hand, to get reacquainted. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m not ready to lose that part of me, yet.

Quality of Life 2: In Need of Lighter Fluid

It was a typical Friday evening. I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of my husband so we could have our ‘date night.’ I’m not really sure why I had gotten excited every Friday before; we never actually went anywhere and rarely had anything planned for the evening.

However, something about the day ‘Friday’ gave me high hopes for an exciting night–perhaps memories of when we dated in college and had plans every Friday (most Saturdays, too), memories of when we saw every movie we wanted, ate dinner at all our favorite restaurants in Athens, experienced concerts, theater–we were never out of ideas. Apparently, we were never out of money, either. Strange how things change, isn’t it?

We could decide at 11 P.M. that we wanted to go to Waffle House and have a late snack. We’d hang out with one another until way too late and carry on coherent conversations, unlike now where all dates must begin no later than 7:30 P.M. Once we cross the 9:00 mark, there’s no telling if anyone will be awake to remember the rest of the evening…

…so why I got excited all the previous Fridays was a mystery, but I was determined that this Friday would be different. We had three kids now and not a lot of money to spend on lavish evenings out, but we weren’t dead, for goodness’ sake! I decided to send Matt the following e-mail:

Pick one of the choices below (or add your own). After you choose your date, add the necessary ingredient(s) to the shopping list.

1. Game night–we can pass time playing cards or another game we find in the closet. Pick a candy to accompany this date. We can wager M&Ms or Reeses ( or a healthy version at Whole Foods) instead of poker chips.

2. A Quiet Evening–Recreate a book store. Throw pillows around the den (not the bedroom; we’ll fall asleep), and grab a book to read. We can relax in each other’s company while enjoying some literature. At the end of the bookstore date, we have to tell each other a little about what we read and if we would want to buy the book. Grab whatever you need to make a coffee or tea along with a coffee house dessert to split.

3. Secret Treasure–With eyes closed, reach into the DVD or VCR drawer, and whatever your hand chooses is what we have to watch! No exceptions! At the end of the movie, talk about what memories watching this movie invoked. Grab a munchy snack and/or Whoppers to accompany this date.

4. Plan your own date (but it has to show thought and have a communication component)

Matt replied that he liked the idea, and I spent the rest of the afternoon making sure the kids and I cleaned up everything as we went along. As soon as the kids hit their pillows, the only thing I wanted to do was put the dishes from dinner in the dishwasher and begin our date! Not knowing what idea Matt had picked made the coming evening all the more enticing.

Matt came home with Whoppers, and as I reached my hand into our movie drawer, we both had a little fear as to what I’d pull out–I was praying I hadn’t grabbed a Star Trek movie or the forever long The Lord Of the Rings. We laughed when I pulled out The Big Lebowski, a clear flashback to college, and munched on Whoppers (or at least Matt did–he loves them, I hate them) as we snuggled and started the movie.

An hour and a half later, I woke up on the couch feeling rather disappointed that we hadn’t succeeded in completing our date. Nonetheless, I had earlier felt something that I hadn’t felt in a while–giddiness. I actually felt a little giddy waiting for Matt and then sitting on the couch laughing with him. No, we hadn’t left our doors or done anything that amazing, but the fact that we made a definite plan for our evening together, a plan that was somewhat different from the other Fridays gave me a taste of the excitement from years earlier when I’d wait for Matt to knock at my door.

I guess the lesson I learned from this experience is that (1) I shouldn’t plan anything involving movies until Chloe is consistently sleeping through the night, and (2) ensuring that our marriage has a little of that thrill factor from years ago will take focus and commitment.

Life’s different now. We can’t hop in the car on a whim driving to our next adventure. We have three other lives for which we are responsible. They drain us emotionally and physically. At the end of the night, we have little left for each other.

Life’s different now…and it’s better. We have the fullness of a family, and we have no better opportunity to show our kids God’s love than how we treat each other in our marriage. It’s harder and may take a little more creativity, but it’s worth it to try to fan the flame or whatever other cliche’ one would like to use.

So…I need to brainstorm some ideas. Tomorrow’s Friday, and I’ll be darned if anybody’s going to fall asleep on the couch this time!

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Any relationship takes hard work, and those that matter most are worth the invested time. Last week, I asked what tips you all had for taking care of the environment. This week I want to know what tips you have for taking care of your most important relationships. If you are married or dating, do you have any cheap date night ideas? How do your preserve your friendships? Share your comments! Again, my hope is that we can all take away one idea to improve this part of our lives!

Quality of Life

Forget the Baby Book

I make a lot of good intentions. One can witness this fact by the three baby books I bought for each child. I don’t always follow through on these intentions. One can also witness this fact when noticing Caleb’s baby book stops after one year, Hannah Grace’s is blank except for her birth announcement, and Chloe’s doesn’t even have a birth announcement.

Over Caleb’s three-and-a-half years, he has said some of the most amazing sentences to leave a baby’s mouth, and he gets funnier and funnier. Unfortunately, I’ve probably forgotten half of these anecdotes, but no more! Starting today, I WILL record the precious gems that leave all of my kids’ mouths!

Now, yes, I could record them in their cute baby books so they wouldn’t look so pathetic, but I’d probably become overwhelmed with guilt that I didn’t fill out the page asking for the price of bread on their birth dates. I’d spend the whole afternoon Google searching for this bit of trivia that I wouldn’t record the more interesting parts of the baby books–the parts about them.

So. While I don’t write in my blog as often as I’d like, I do write at least once a week, if not more. And while I don’t have much of a memory at this point, I have just enough brain cells left to remember one or two cute ramblings from the mouths of my babes, so below is where I will keep record. This blog will be on-going, and I will add their newest to the top of list. Enjoy!

Hannah Grace: (After I told her that her hair is beautiful) “No, it’s not; no, it’s not. My hair is AWESOME!” 5/10/2010

Hannah Grace: (from completely out of the blue) “Mom, we don’t say ‘tootie-butt.’ (Thank you for the reminder!)–1/6/2010

Caleb: “Mom, batteries don’t die! People die. Batteries stop working!” (I stand corrected)–Jan 2010

Hannah: (Caleb was antagonizing Hannah Grace, and he apologized by saying ‘I’m sorry, Hannah Potato’ and later ‘I’m sorry, Hannah Banana.’) “No, Caleb. That’s not right. You say, ‘I’m sorry, Hannah.”‘–1/5/2010

Caleb: “Hannah, I’ve sung the song for you three times, and every time I sing it makes me tired. I’m not going to sing it anymore!” (Hannah Grace loves “Single Ladies” by Beyonce, but we couldn’t get it to play on my phone. She would start to whine, so Caleb would sing the song for her with amazing accuracy)–1/2/2010

Hannah Grace: “Caleb, patience. Not now!” (In response to Caleb’s repeated request to watch his movie in the car even though he was told Hannah Grace got to listen to her song first.)–1/2/2010

Caleb: (We were walking outside of Barnes and Noble at the mall. Music was playing.) “Where is that music coming from? Me: “I’m not sure. I think there are some speakers outside the store somewhere.” Matt: “Why? Is the music bothering you?” Caleb: “Yes, it’s bothering me! It makes me want to die!”–12/19/09

Hannah Grace: “And God said, ‘Don’t eat the vegetables!” (referring to the Bible story of Adam and Eve where God says not to eat the fruit of the tree)–11/11/09

Caleb: “And then Jesus rubbed blood on the blind man’s eyes, and he could see again!” (the Scripture states that Jesus made mud and rubbed it on the blind man’s eyes)–11/11/09

Hannah Grace: “Where’d you put the gummies?” (she pointed her finger and asked Matt this question immediately as he walked into the house from work. I told her earlier in the day that I didn’t know where the gummies were; perhaps, her dad did)–11/11/09

Hannah Grace: “Daddy, you’re my boy.” –11/9/09 ( I think)

Caleb: (after I was explaining to Hannah Grace and him that they cannot play with my china–it’s Mommy’s special plates from when she got married) “I’m going to marry Hannah, and I’m going to give her special dishes. And on her birthday, I’m going to give her very, very, nice clothes.”–11/1/09

Hannah Grace: “Daddy’s my favorite friend”–9/29/09

Caleb: “Mommy, we can find a nice family and give them our dog.” Mommy: “What?! Why do you want to give away Scout?” Caleb: “I want a cat.”– 9/29/09

(Hannah Grace brought home from preschool blue-colored water in a bottle as part of the classes’ study of the color blue) Caleb: “Hannah, how did you get that blue in there? Did you squeeze a lemon?” –9/29/09

(in a bathroom stall at church, loudly so that the woman in the stall next to us could hear) Hannah Grace: “Can I see your penis?” Mommy: “No, because I’m a girl.”– 9/27/09

(in the bathroom at home) Hannah Grace: “Are you going to wipe my penis?” Mommy: “No, you don’t have a penis.” Caleb: “You don’t have a penis, Hannah! You have a hole.”– 9/26/09

Hannah Grace: (talking to Chloe) “Hello, sweetheart.” (To me) “Hers my darling. Hers my baby”–9/22/09

Hannah Grace : (referring to Chloe) “Hers not your baby. She’s Daddy’s” –9/18/09

Caleb: (Ready to go downstairs one morning, he yelled these sentences waiting for Matt to open the baby gate) “Come on, Dad! Let’s go! You’ve got work to do! You need to make money!”– 9/18/09

Mommy: “Eat your chicken, Caleb.” Caleb: “Chi-ken? Bock-bock?”–somewhere around a year old, a memory we don’t want to forget!