Curly Bear meets an untimely death...

Since we lost Elliott's cherished bunny (and its back-up version) about a year ago, she's been ultra-attached to a diminutive teddy bear she named Curly. He's small and white and wears a dress most of the time. We lost him for about a week last month and she was near tears that he'd be hungry and she wouldn't be there to nurse him.

In order to chronicle the short life of Curly Bear, I have to go back a bit. Weeks ago, we made a paper chain to help us count down the days until our reuniting with the girls' beloved Nanny and Papa. Elliott was so very excited. I had a special outfit I'd bought just for the day of travel to help honor her excitement. It was from the thrift store I now frequent, and I was quite proud of my findings there. She looked like I'd spent a lot more than the $8 that the outfit cost. We rolled her hair the day before so her curls would be the just-right amount of curliness. She was laughing with glee and she dressed at 6am that morning. She looked so lovely and grown up in her plaid skirt, red velvet hoodie, tights and mary janes. The skirt had a little layer of toole that hung just below the hem, and a black velvet bow just below the waist. 

The first leg of our flight was relatively uneventful, save for the 4 blow-out diapers Fiona produced, and the time she peed directly onto Seth's leg. In Phoenix, we had lunch and then boarded our next flight. Elliott was complaining of her tummy hurting and didn't want to walk down the jetway. I coaxed her to our seat, and we settled in for the flight. As we took off, she was holding on to my arm and I could feel her drinking in my touch. I knew that she really wasn't well. 

Then the vomit began spraying everywhere, dripping down the walls, soaking Elliott from her head to her toes. Elliott had her hand over her mouth, attempting to curtail the inevitable. The result was similar to putting one's finger over a garden hose to create a wide spray. By the time I could make sense of what was happening, I was only able to catch about the final 2 inches's worth in a barf bag. She was crying hysterically, saying things like, "I'm so yucky-up! Don't touch me, I'm so messy! My skirt! Look at my skirt!" My heart was breaking for the whole scene, my 3 year old thinking she was too gross for her own mother to hold. 

After the throwing up ceased, I was temporarily frozen, at a loss for where to start. It was dripping on everything around us. The seatbelt was soaked, chunks sliding down the wall, it was in her hair, I was covered. A flight attendant dropped off some garbage bags and I started peeling the clothing off, wiping everything down with the baby wipes Seth doled out to me. Even her tights and underwear were soaked, so we grabbed some Southwest blankets and I fashioned a "sari" for her. I put all of her clothes and my sweater in one of the bags, and before she could see, I also tucked in her most favorite, cherished Curly Bear. Once white and curly, he was orange, chunky and matted now. I didn't want her to feel even more upset by the sight of her friend; I figured I could have him laundered and fresh by bedtime that night.

The vomiting continued on, and we soon developed a rhythm, fill one barf bag, blot her chin, fold and seal, prep the next bag. She threw up about every 10 minutes for the next 4 hours. During our drive home from the airport we consulted our doctor friend, who directed us to the emergency room. She had become lifeless, unresponsive, sleeping even as she sat up to spit up bile into yet another bag. (Even in the middle of the chaos, I was able to muster a wry smile for the irony that I, a person who strives for independence from plastic bags, was individually wrapping each quarter cup offering my daughter produced...). As we drove, we prayed, and asked our community of friends in Nashville to pray as well.

I really, really did not want to go into the emergency room. Anyone who's been there knows. It's a long, uncomfortable process. I couldn't imagine having Elliott in a bed, with an I.V., possibly spending the night...but of course, I wanted what was best for her. It didn't look like she was going to be able to stop throwing up otherwise. We sat in the hospital parking lot and deliberated. Fiona began to cry, tired of transit. Elliott, out of a dead sleep, sat up and started talking! "It's okay, it's Sissy! It's Sissy! Don't cry!" She began the routine she goes through to distract Fiona from frustration. Seth, his dad and I were dumbfounded. She hadn't uttered a decipherable sound since the airport. I really believe that God touched her.

I offered her a sip of water and she immediately threw it up again, but her spirit was on the mend. We decided to take her home. Over the next hour, she threw up a couple more times, but we could see she was making a comeback. She asked for a warm bath, and then melted into bed. The storm had passed.

After she was asleep, I went to do the laundry. I couldn't imagine anything grosser than morning-after throw-up soil. Disgusting. And I didn't want Curly Bear to be stained orange. As I looked around, the little black garbage bag was no where to be found. A questioning of all parties present revealed that it had been inadvertently discarded as we loaded our luggage into the car. It looked like garbage, and it certainly smelled like garbage. It's easy to understand how this happened. But inside was a treasure trove of things cherished by my little girl, and this loss pushed me over the edge for a bit.

Ultimately, I remembered that things are just things, and Elliott hasn't even realized that it's all gone. Nanny had another small white bear who I deemed Hurly Bear, Curly's cousin. And life goes on.

Surprise!

I'm just seeing what it feels like to do another post! Quite good, actually. My time is short because Fiona has just begun CRAWLING (not technically, it's a toe-only action, but it still propels her forward). So, now everyone in the family is on the go, and it's keeping me on my toes.

Our countdown to California Christmas chain is getting shorter and shorter. Elliott is aching with anticipation of seeing her cousins, aunties and grandparents. It hurts me a little bit to see how excited she is. She misses them so much.

I told her the true story of Christmas today, in a rare, leisurely moment that required no rush, no hurry, just lingering in the language that I heard so many times throughout my childhood...for unto us is born this day...this shall be a sign unto you...suddenly, the great heavenly host appeared...and Mary pondered all these things in her heart. I found myself with a lump in my throat as I allowed her questions to guide the telling. Jesus, come to earth as God. Not into a house, but into a cavernous, drafty, damp place. To be born like Fiona was born. No blankets, no cradle. Just some hay. They had to walk to Bethlehem (Beflaham). I was watching it all sink in, as she acquainted herself with Jesus, come into the world , not as a king but as the least of these. The last shall be first. I am always trying to explain this to Elliott as she insists on being the "winner" and the "leader" every time we walk up or down the stairs (and invariably bursting into tears when she is not). I saw in the Christmas story a beautiful example of Jesus living it right from his birth.

It was a moment that is now part of Elliott's history. She knows now how Jesus came, what it was like. Having already been at a birth enriched her understanding of the Christmas story, I believe. When we finished, she wanted to start all over again, so we did. And I hope we'll do it again. The story has power to it; in recounting the familiar phrases, I found that they held meaning anew for me.

Well, I just looked up to see Fiona playing with scissors. They're Elliott's child-scissors, but I still don't think this kind of thing is going to win me any parenting awards. Time to go.

May the dawning of the advent season bring meaning to the mundane in all of our lives.

I'm back, sort of

I haven't done well keeping this up. Obviously.  As I was explaining to a dear friend today at coffee, I have some hang-ups that circumvent my blogging success.  a.) I am overly concerned with how well written I am, even in such a casual setting, and my current place in life affords me little time to reflect and write, much less edit and b.) I do not want to blog about uberdomestic life, menial complaints about naptimes missed, dishes waiting, discipline challenges. Which is what is most likely to happen.  I guess I want my life to add up to more than that. And then, as I think about it, I know that it does add up to more, and yet those things are probably enough. They denote a life devoted to the creation of 2 wonderful human beings, who will eventually hold their own in a world that needs their help. Elliott is already learning to reduce (much more important than it's sister R, recycle, who gets so much more attention). She's aware to not let the water run while she brushes. She's asking the big questions about God and Jesus. She is starting to show compassion to her sister and friends. She's on her way to awareness.

There's so much in our lives right now that keeps me busy and distracted. I don't want to lose touch with the precious friends I have sprinkled across the country, so I now vow (brown cow) to keep up this blog, to not be concerned with how well spoken I sound--for if I can't ramble on to you, then to whom? I will try to keep this up as a snapshot of what's going on here.

As I steal this moment, Seth is upstairs bathing the girls, and then it's bedtime. Elliott goes right to sleep almost anytime we put her to bed. Fiona is more of an enigma. She loves to nap, still hammering out 3 good ones a day, but bedtime is not really anything she's interested in. She likes to stay up until the grownups give up the day. She's my evening partner, which means I don't get those quiet moments of reflection at the day's end. She also wakes up as soon as I get out of bed in the morning, which obviously implies I don't get them in the morning, either. But I love that little bundle more than anything!!! She's just delicious, all smiles and drool and chortles.

Elliott is ever the entertainer, learning her letters, making Fiona laugh, obeying most readily for extrinsic rewards much of the time, but we're getting there. She's creative, expressive and sensitive, and I'm just trying to hone her, instill in her a desire to do right.

There's more to say, but already last night is gone, and a new day has begun. I am a person who likes to sit down and stay seated until the task at hand is complete, and my current state of being doesn't afford me that luxury. So, I learn anew to roll with the punches.

More to come--thoughts on school for Elliott, an eminent trip home to Northern California, Fiona's first Christmas, the wonder of sharing daily life with another family here in Nashville (very unamerican, but a lot of fun), and always, pictures to post. Soon!

Welcome to SD4, a covert-ops branch...

I spent the last 4 days watching the entire first season of Alias. It just seemed right that we would be SD-4. There's 4 of us, our patriarch's initials are SD, and we're just totally undercover. It makes sense, right?

I've started to feel inconsequential at best, obsolete at worst, for not having a first-hand understanding of how to post a blog. It's similar to Anna Quindlen's recent critical commentary of John McCain, who has gone on record to say that he has never been on the internet at all. That he doesn't text or IM goes without saying. Things are moving too quickly to let yourself lose your cultural foothold. Once lost, it may never be regained. I just learned that EMO means "emotionally disturbed." I informed a 60-something friend of mine about this abbreviation and he replied, "I know."

I don't think I'm organized or disciplined enough to have a cool, themed blog. I seem to be a collage of things these days, except the glue of my collage is really curdled breastmilk spitup. It's everywhere. My sister in law keeps telling me to just rub it in, but I haven't yet reached the acceptance stage. By virtue of the fact that I so rarely have a burp rag within reach, I'd estimate that I'm still generally in denial.

Most likely it will be a place to process the things I enjoy, the things I abhor, the things I grapple with and try to find victory over. I'll let you sort them into the categories you think appropriate: Pregnancy and childbirth. The tantrums of a wonderfully stubborn three year old. Living organically. The challenge to LET GO when everyone and everything tells us to hold on tighter and tighter. How to simultaneously put 2 kids to bed when one needs to be swaddled, nursed and rocked and the other wants 3 stories, a snack, a prayer and a lullaby, and to change pajamas 3 times. Being married to a musician/artist. The smell of cloth diapers just before washing. The vulnerability of having your livelihood wrapped into the most delicate, lovely package of 2 little girls. And the list goes on.

I remember the first time I read about a "blog." It was an article that defined the term, and said how terrible it was that teens were posting their most intimate thoughts and feelings online and then letting them be open to the public. And now here we are a year or two later and it's a household term. Not only that, but people are using their blogs for good--I point people to my dear friend Marisa's blog all the time. She challenges me, entertains me, keeps me in her world through her blog.

I don't think I'll get quite as much accomplished with mine, but it will be at least a quiet presence in the web wilderness. Tonight I uttered a tired prayer that I would have some time to reflect, a bit of rest in those brief moments between the girls' bedtime and my own. Last night I ran up my stairs probably 20 times between the hours of 7-8:30, sometimes bouncing between rooms, hearing both girls crying at the same time. Bedtime seemed never-ending. Tonight, it went flawlessly. And I only gave Elliott a small bribe of chocolate chip pancakes in the morning if she went to sleep without "carrying on." That's become my saying. It's the nicest way I can sum up all the antics she can pull out. It keeps me from using harsher language that would insinuate more frustration on my part.

I guess I'll go now and see how people put pictures on their blogs, and do all that other fancy stuff.

Stay with me. Check back in. Every once in a while, I come up with something that really means something. And at the very least, I'm great at finding quotes of other people's really great thoughts. And that has to count for something.