So last night at 1:30 a.m., approximately 83% of my family was simultaneously awake. Babygirl’s screams wound their way into my ears and I pretended for a second that she was going to go right back to sleep. I wrapped my robe around me, stood still for a minute, then stretched back out on my bed until her cries resumed. She was standing in her crib with her overhead light glaring. She can reach the light-switch in her new room. Normally it’s not a problem. Last night was not normal.

I switch off the light and nurse her in the dark and even half-asleep, I hear TwinBoyA’s cries through the vent. His bedroom is downstairs. So, after ten minutes, I put Babygirl down, cover her up and head downstairs to check on TwinBoyA. He has a cold and also tends to have night terrors, so I find him wandering around near the bathroom, obviously disoriented. I help him to the bathroom and then who should apear? My husband, coming to check on TwinBoyA. He didn’t realize I was already downstairs. He goes back to bed and I settle TwinBoyA back in his bed.

I happily returned to bed and thought how funny it was that five out of our six family members were simultaneously awake. I dozed for less than half an hour and woke to Babygirl’s cries and her overhead light on again. I nursed her and finally put her back to bed at 2:00 a.m.

Needless to say, I was tired and crabby all day. And Babygirl did not nap today, so the day just went on too long. TwinBoyA was home all day, babying his sore throat and eating ice cream.

Tonight, Babygirl went to sleep at 6:30 p.m., which was great because I needed to help TwinBoyB write a report on the circulatory system. Parenting an adopted kid is such a challenge for me. When he became my baby as a 7 month old, I never envisioned the frustration of a nearly 11-year old kid who doesn’t think sequentially. You think about a child inheriting your fingers or your nose or your hair color, but you don’t think about passing along your brain. Until, of course, you are dealing with some other person’s biological offspring who did not pass along a logical, rational, sequential, linear-thinking brain.

TwinBoyB’s brain is like a shelf that can hold one item. If you give him two items, one wobbles and falls from the shelf. He does not think in straight lines or in orderly sequence. He could not be more intellectually different from me–and not just me, but different from the kind of student public school is geared towards. He’s going to be homeschooled next year and we are going to figure out a way to help him succeed. He’s smart, he’s sweet, he loves to laugh–he just can’t organize his thoughts into a cohesive report. He thinks in circles, he obsesses over one particular part of the whole, he forgets stuff a lot. A lot. For instance, tonight, after an hour and a half, we finished his report (he basically dictated it to me) and then he tried to find his spelling words. They are lost. He blames me. He thinks he gave them to me, but he did not. He spent an hour in his bed while he should have been sleeping obsessing about the words.

God must have really thought I needed a challenge when He led me through the valley of infertility and adoption. He gave me boys who don’t mind if they smell, boys who track dirt through my house every day, boys who don’t think in straight lines.

Excuse me while I bang my head against my finger-print smeared, dog-scratched patio door.

YoungestBoy is fascinated by my grandmother. She turned 98 today. He can’t wait until she turns 120 years old, because then she’ll be the Oldest Woman in the World.

I put Babygirl to bed tonight and hurried to my grandma’s house to wish her happy birthday. She lives only 20 minutes away, but I rarely manage to visit her. It’s probably something I’ll regret for the rest of my life (if she ever dies, which doesn’t appear likely). But that’s just how my life goes right now. She comes to my house for holidays and we speak on the phone, though. That’s something. And I know she prays for me every day. That’s an even bigger something.

I asked her tonight what time of day she was born, but she doesn’t know. She had two older brothers and two younger brothers, but the oldest brother died as an infant from pneumonia. The youngest brother died at age 17 from injuries suffered in a car accident.

She was born at home with the assistance of her mother and her paternal grandmother. Those were the good old days, weren’t they? When family and friends and neighbors assisted at births. We have the best of all worlds now–home births attended by midwives, but backed up by hospitals and doctors.

Anyway.

Here she is last year on her birthday:

She would be horrified if she could see herself. She always prided herself on her appearance. My entire life, she wore her hair up in a twisted kind of bun. But finally, the hair to her waist became more than she could handle. I still can’t get used to seeing her with short, permed, old-woman hair.

Her front porch is always so inviting. A white-painted iron table always holds blooming flowers, year-round. Everything is in its place in her house. I even glimpsed into her underwear drawer once and saw that it was all neat and tidy, everything in its place. She never leaves her clothes on the floor, even now that she can hardly walk. I wonder what it was like, though, when she had five boys and a daughter at home? Did she go crazy from the noise? At least they lived in the country and she could send them all outside to play and romp and work.

She loved to garden. In my lifetime, she’s raised only flowers, but when her children were young, she raised all their food in the garden and canned it and preserved it all. They were extremely poor, because my grandfather was a minister. He’d be gone for weeks at a time, while she stayed home and managed all the children and the household. She sewed everyone’s clothes. Tonight my mother told a story about when she was a girl in school and she needed a new tablet. They could not afford the five cents for one. My mother cried and cried and now wonders if this explains her obsession with buying paper and pens.

My grandmother’s mind remains sharp. She hears well, but has lost her vision to macular degeneration. She lives alone in the house she shared with my deceased grandfather, who died on their sixty-second wedding anniversary. She longs to join him in heaven, but we joke that she never will die–who would boss my mom around if Grandma died?

There never has been, never will be anyone as remarkable as my grandmother who made a life out of serving others and cheering them on, all while keeping her underwear drawer completely organized. I should be half the woman she is.

I did it. Despite my misgivings, I went to see Mel Gibson’s “The Passion” on Monday night. The parking lot at the theater was nearly empty, but the theater was half full. I walked in as the movie opened with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. I came prepared with a pocket full of tissues and didn’t even stop at the concession counter as I usually do.

I was surprised to hear the crunching of popcorn during the opening scenes. How is this “entertainment”? I didn’t intend to be entertained, but to be stunned and shocked and horrified. And when I prepare for those emotions, I don’t need popcorn.

I didn’t cry until Mary, the Mother of Jesus, was portrayed. On a much smaller scale, I know that feeling of wanting to protect your child and of wanting to avoid the inevitable. I also realized with a shock that part of Jesus’ agony was knowing that those he loved had to endure his loss–I’ve thought before that I just cannot die and cause my children that kind of loss.

The violence was as graphic and horrifying as reported, but overall, I found the movie more moving and intense emotionally than I expected. Using a visual representation of Satan was effective.

All in all, I am glad I viewed it, even though afterwards my head hurt from crying and from the tension. I knew how it would end–with the Resurrection–yet the journey up the hill to Golgotha was agonzing to watch. I heard in my head Mel Gibson’s description of the movie–“it’s about the Passion of Christ–and twelve seconds of the Resurrection.” So, as soon as the final scene came on and the credits began to roll, I bolted out of there. I sat near the front of the crowd, yet I was the first one out the door.

I cried in the car, then decided I really had to get myself together so I could stop by the store and pick up some milk. That’s exactly what I did. I suppose the people in the store thought I was having a crisis of some sort with my blotchy face and red eyes.

When I got home, my husband and I fell into our usual routine of sarcastic humor. He complained about there being too many pillows on the bed and I made a comment about him being overly critical. He said, “I can see that movie really changed you.” And when he made another critical comment, I called him Mr. Critical and commented that the movie really changed him, too.

Seriously, there is no way you could live in a constant state of hyper-awareness about Christ’s sacrifice for mankind. You would surely implode. But it is good to venture to the outside of your self occasionally to glimpse the greater reality.

I’m in a funk. Probably hormonal, possibly related to my vampire existence and even more likely directly traced to my viewing of “Mystic River” again tonight.

Watching DaycareKid is great. He’s a great baby, funny, sweet, easy to take care of. But the trade-off is that I am a virtual prisoner of my home. Between him and my afternoon kindergartener, I don’t leave the house during the day. And since my husband’s fallen into the habit of working on his sermon on Saturdays, every single day is the same. I am home alone with kids every single day of the week from sun-up to sun-down. This would make any sane person crazy.

I have checks I haven’t cashed for two or three weeks. Donations for Goodwill sitting, waiting to be donated. Errands to run, things to do, people to see (okay, only things to do–I have no people to see). How long can a grown-up go without being out and about during the daylight? I am going to lose my mind.

Or not.

Tonight, at my husband’s urging, I went to a movie. I put Babygirl down at 7:15 p.m. and left by 7:30 p.m.–without even cleaning up the kitchen. (My husband did the dishes while I was gone. Good job, Husband!) I planned to see “The Passion”, but it was not showing until 9 p.m., so I saw “Mystic River” again. It was better the second time, I think. What a movie! What superb performances! But, here’s where the Stupid People come in.

I’m waiting in line to buy popcorn and a Diet Coke. The giggling, hair-flipping girl in front of me was taking her sweet time choosing candy. She had such evenly cut straight hair. I envied her hair. Mine seems to be getting curlier and curlier as I age. Anyway, as I’m waiting, waiting, waiting (knowing the previews have already started), I hear two young men behind me talking. “Did you see Mystic River?” one says.

“No,” the other says. The first one says, “Great movie, but terrible ending!” Then they yammered on and on about movies with bad endings (“Unforgiven” was mentioned.) Why in the world would you discuss how a movie ends while waiting in line for popcorn? I saw it before, so I knew the ending, but what if I hadn’t? Do people not use their God-issued brains? I ought to have turned around and given them a searing look. Idiots.

So, after the movie, I’m walking out and behind me, I hear someone say, “I thought Dave did it.” Dave was played by Tim Robbins. I hear someone else say, “You know who should have won an award? Tim Robbins.”

Uh, hellooooooo! He did win an award, the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor.

Honestly. My brain is only half-functioning due to the constant drain of motherhood and life with toddlers and pre-teens. Yet, I know these things!

Tonight, TwinBoyA says, “What’s for dinner?” and I say, “Sloppy Joes.” And he makes a gagging noise. This is what I deal with, day in and day out.

So, I’m in a funk. Although, at least I’m not facing twenty years of prison. Poor Martha.

Babygirl (aka The Terrorist) is 18 months old now.

She still has no bangs, but she has wispy curls in the back. Her eyes are still the color of denim before it’s washed too much. She has delicate hands and long arms and legs. She is not a roly-poly round baby, despite being “big” when she was born. (Eight pounds, eight ounces.) She is tall and thin.

All she wants to do is go out the front door and walk around the block. The backyard no longer holds any attraction for her. She threw a big fit today because I said, “no, we are not going outside.” Then she calmed down, nursed and fell asleep for an hour while I held her.

She just started giving big hugs, the kind where she wraps her hands around our necks. She gave me a few open-mouthed kisses the other day. On Valentine’s Day, she gave her daddy a kiss for the first time. She hasn’t done it since. She’s not a big kisser.

She likes to laugh. She even makes jokes by putting weird stuff on her head or making crazy faces. If someone yells, it startles her and she runs towards me. If the neighbor’s dog barks, it scares her. If someone fails to wear their usual coat, it bothers her. She’s a creature of habit.

She helps me take care of DaycareKid, who is only 6 weeks younger. She brings me a diaper from his diaper bag every day after lunch when it’s time to change him. She likes to toss the stinky diapers in the outside trash can.

Her words include “cold” and “car” and “dark” and “cookie.” Her most-frequently used word is “ga-ga.” Unfortunately, I have no idea what “ga-ga” means.

Baths are good. Bubbles are bad. Pouring water onto her six-year old brother’s head in the bathtub is good. Getting hair washed is bad. Throwing toys out of the tub is good. Clipping fingernails is bad.

She resumed napping for about 10 days, then stopped napping again. She goes to bed at 7 p.m. and sleeps for twelve hours. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off.

She’s wearing size 18 month clothes. She likes to pull her clothes off. She’d rather be naked than clothed. She tells me when her diaper is dirty.

She adores laying on people, especially DaycareKid. She seems to be pinning him to the ground in a wrestling move. She dances every day, especially to the Wiggles. She likes Sesame Street. She likes the Teletubbies. She loves books and pencils and pretending to play her brothers’ Gameboys.

She would love to ride in her stroller every day. She likes to go for rides in the car.

Her daddy is her new favorite person. She still refuses to allow anyone to hold her but her mommy and her daddy.

She walks up and down the stairs holding on to the wall. She climbs into her booster chair and tries to fasten the belt. She pours out her sippy cup, if she can do it without getting caught. She is outraged if I ever leave the room without her. She helps me by putting clothes into the washer. She’ll also put dishes into the sink and trash into the trash compactor.

She tries to pick up the kitty. The kitty does not appreciate that. She still purrs. Both the baby and the kitty.

According to her:
A cow says “ooooo.”
A dog says “oo-oo-oo-oo.”
A cat purrs.
A frog growls.

She is getting to be a little person, yet she’s still so much my baby. I want her to grow, grow quickly, yet I know I will be nostalgic for these sweet days when I am the center of her universe. I wish I could hold these days in my pocket somehow. I look at my twins and their babyhood was just a flash of light and joy and frustration. And here they are, on the cusp of adolescence. I want to enjoy her. I also want her to let me go to the bathroom without freaking out and running after me. I want to sleep in again. I want to go places in the daytime without a child in tow.

I want to freeze time and rush ahead and then come back when I’m refreshed so I can enjoy this more. I must remember that now, today, is all I have guaranteed. Savor it. Don’t wish it away.

Wednesday. The halfway mark. Which makes me think of a glass half-empty because that’s just the kind of girl I am. The weeks go by so fast, except that the days pass with excruciating slowness.

Today, for instance, DaycareKid’s lunchbox contained a can of lentil soup. Fine, right? Well, that soup smelled disgusting. I kept saying as I spooned it into him, “This is the most horrible smell!” I was wrong about that. It smelled impossibly worse after his nap when I changed his foul diaper. Blech, blech, blech. Nothing is quite as revolting as dealing with the waste products of an unrelated person, even a small person.

My husband called this morning and said, “Bad news. I just got a phone call from the school.”

Now, at that point, my mind races. TwinBoyA? TwinBoyB? Academic? Did they fall on the playground?

“A third-grade girl from school died from the flu yesterday.” This child attended our Wednesday night program at church. I remember her from last summer. She came to the Vacation Bible School that I coordinated at church. Cute little girl, dark brown hair with bangs and Harry-Potter glasses. Tonight, we hear that she woke up yesterday morning with breathing difficulty. She was taken by ambulance to the hospital where she remained in critical condition all day. Then she died last night.

I cannot even really believe it. Third-grade children do not just die. She has a younger sister who is a grade younger.

Time rushes by all too fast for some. But time will crawl now for this child’s family.

Just another reminder to live in each moment, to savor it, to hold it tightly. If we knew the length of each person’s life from the beginning, could we even stand it? We tend to live as if we have endless tomorrows. And I have to believe that we do, though all the tomorrows are not on this earth.

Sigh. Enough of this glass-half empty kind of day.

I’m pretty sure that Sleeping Beauty is encased in the house a few doors down. Remember the story? The vines grew and covered her castle while she slept under the spell? Well, soon the ivy will overtake that house. Seriously. Those green fingers have climbed up the wall of that house and are clinging to the front picture window. A tree obscures most of the house from view. The ivy is growing into the street. The bright green moss will soon thatch the roof entirely. Nature seems determined to reclaim this particular point of civilization. I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up and find that a giant Venus fly-trap has eaten that house, leaving nothing but a gaping green hole.

I’ve seen the tattooed man who lives there. Once or twice, when the kids trick-or-treated at his door. He seems nice enough, but is his roommate Sleeping Beauty? Will the house soon disappear from sight altogether?

I was in my backyard this afternoon clipping my ivy. The former owners of this house thought it would be a lovely disguise for the chainlink fence and perhaps it was before it developed tree-trunk sized roots and overly enthusiastic vines. Now, it’s a constant battle to keep the ivy from creeping into the flowerbeds. The ivy fence separates us from our backyard neighbors. Their house is two stories, so our bedroom looks directly into their bedroom. This explains how I once caught a glimpse of the middle-aged paunchy man of the house wearing only his underpants. I wish sometimes that I could unsee things.

So, today, as I’m clipping my ivy, I thought how I’d never really spoken to this neighbor. I could hear him tinkering with his grill in the backyard and I wondered if I should say hello to him through a gap in the ivy. Then I realized two weird things: 1) I haven’t said hello to the couple ever, in the three years they’ve lived there; and 2) How wacky it is that I have seen this guy in his underpants but I have never said hello. I think if you’ve seen someone in their underpants and you don’t know them, it’s too late to say hello.

Then I giggled. I am so mature.

March is already here. That can only mean one thing. Summer is practically here and then before you know it, Babygirl will be going to kindergarten, getting married and moving to Maine.

I hope I actually get the tax stuff in the mail before then.

I looked over just now in time to see Babygirl sprinkling water onto DaycareKid’s head. DaycareKid is such an easy-going kid. He wasn’t even saying anything. Her favorite thing is to pin him to the ground and lay on him. He hates it, but he allows it. He outweighs her, but she is more determined, more wiry and a smidge taller.

The birthday party on Saturday went as well as can be expected. Five of YoungestBoy’s kindergarten classmates attended, as well as three “older” friends (ages 8 and 9). We played bingo for one round. The first kid won, then I started cheating and calling out the numbers I could see they needed. That way, everyone won, and fairly quickly, too. TwinBoyA’s job was to spin the dial for numbers and call them and he did it in such a dramatic way that it cracked me up.

After bingo, we went outside and whacked the pinata to death. Each child had three swings, no blindfolding involved. The stick was pretty short and I kept all the kids behind me on the stairs so no one would end up with brain damage from the party. I always put bags of loot in the pinata so there is no mad scramble for candy. There is a bag for everyone, no need to push down your neighbor and skin your knee. I learned the hard way.

Then it was time to open gifts. My husband had taken the baby away, so I was doing everything myself. I did pretty well, even managed to get a decent amount of pictures taken. No video because I only have two arms and one brain. I have two chins, but the second one is pretty useless.

Immediately following gifts, we had pizza and cake. The kids were itching to run in circles in the house, so as soon as they finished, I started an impromptu game of hot potato, which killed more time. By then there were only ten minutes remaining but each time I looked at the clock, there were still ten minutes remaining. I hollered to my husband (who had returned at pizza time), “is the clock BROKEN?!” Kidding around, really.

Our party ended at noon. Another boy in YoungestBoy’s kindergarten class shares his birthday (Thursday) and also had his party on Saturday, so all of the kids went to Brian’s party, too. She had a two hour party (mine was only 90 minutes). Having a short party that ended at noon was brilliant, really. By noon, it was all over. No fuss, no muss. I didn’t even break a sweat.

I stayed home from church on Sunday due to Babygirl’s runny nose and YoungestBoy’s snuffly cough. I began a cleaning frenzy upstairs, but as usual, when I was in one room cleaning, the kids were in another room uncleaning. I managed not to scream my head off. In the afternoon, the twins went to play with their twin pals, so it was quiet with just Babygirl and YoungestBoy. I took Babygirl for a walk around the block–she actually walks and jogs all the way around. She adores walking outside. Then, my husband took YoungestBoy and Babygirl for a ride in the car. In their absence, I did dishes and weeded the front flowerbed. The perennials are starting to grow again.

I missed the Academy Awards last night. My VCR malfunctioned. I managed to catch the last hour, though. I was strangely enough not very upset. I saw the major awards.

Time to put the babies to bed for a nap. Woo-hoo! (Not that Babygirl will sleep. I always pretend that she will, though.)

Dear Church Member:

Listen, you knucklehead. My husband is your spiritual leader. You interviewed him, you hired him, you chose him to lead your church. If you want him to lead, please get behind him. In other words:

1) When another church member or employee has a dispute with the pastor, don’t assume the worst of the pastor. He cannot defend himself publicly because he would be betraying a confidence and gossiping. Who do you believe? The church member or employee? Or your pastor? Who gets the benefit of the doubt? Here’s a hint: (the pastor!).

2) Your pastor is a human being, married to a human being, trying to parent smaller human beings. Cut him some slack. Do you have any idea who many hours he works? Do you really think he only works on Sundays?

3) Guess what? Your pastor has emotions. When you assume the worst about him, when you doubt him, when you decide that you will no longer volunteer because of some personal slight, his feelings are hurt.

4) Your pastor is not your parent. You are not a child, so quit acting like one. If your cell phone goes off during the sermon, your pastor will be annoyed. He might even make a comment. If he does, take responsiblity. You are really going to leave the church over this? Grow up.

5) Your pastor’s wife is not his secretary. If you want to leave a message for him, call his office. Your pastor’s wife is probably juggling a baby on one hip and the phone in the other while she makes a sandwich for the kindergartener. No, she canNOT take a message. She only said, “Can I take a message” out of habit. She wasn’t serious.

6) Sunday morning is not the time for idle chit-chat or bringing up a “concern” with your pastor. His mind is on the impending church service and on his sermon. He is trying to communicate God’s truth to a church full of people. Please do not divert his attention to anything non-esssential, like the fact that “Myrtle” was offended by the music last Sunday morning.

7) Your pastor is the first person who will be at your bedside during your hospitalization, even if you are an idiot. He will pray with you, bring you flowers, telephone you. He will try to convince your spouse not to leave you. He will visit your son in prison. He will arrange for help so you can pay your overdue electric bill. He will keep your secrets. He won’t roll his eyes at your stupidity. He’ll baptize your baby. He will invite your daughter to stay in his home when she’s released from jail. He will hold your hand while your mother dies. He’ll hold your hand while you die. He’ll spend his Saturday morning planning a meaningful memorial service for your father. He’ll marry you and bury you, cradle-to-grave service.

That’s his job.

My job is to take care of everything else at home and to listen to how sad and frustrated he is, even though he can’t tell me exactly why without betraying a confidence. My job is to tell him he’s doing a great job, despite the way you treat him. My job is to smile at you, even though you act like a twelve year old and make my husband’s job more difficult.

Frankly, I think I’m underpaid.

How cool is this? You can make your own map showing the states you’ve visited! I’ve been to all the red states.

You can make your own map. Just go here: Make Your Own Map.