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.