A Swan from the Start

The other day, I read a parenting post stating decisively that people shouldn't tell a little girl how pretty she is. Physical attributes, the thinking goes, are neither a good measure of a person nor permanent. The unstated judgement is that valuing appearance is shallow and leads to irreparable vanity. Instead we should praise her strength and intelligence and sense of humor and other more "laudable" traits. The goal is to teach self-worth based on character, not her body.

That sounds really good. I almost bought into it, until I looked into the mirror.

It's so easy for a child to latch on to the most ridiculous of ideas. For me it was the understanding that I'm not pretty. I never thought of myself as ugly, just unremarkable. I don't know the genesis of this thinking. It was probably a generic criticism, mixed in with the other flotsam of girlish competition. Unfortunately this one became entangled in all the other insecurities native to a young girl and fell to the floor of my consciousness, slowly seeping its particular poison through the years.

Looking back I can see subtle ways my behavior was shaped by this one idea. I ached to be pretty and found myself drawn to beautiful people, hoping their magic would dust off onto me. When it didn't, I withdrew into my mind and distanced myself from the disappointment that was my body. I neglected to value myself, and as a consequence didn't care for myself. Exercise was pointless. Beautiful clothes and jewelry were for beautiful people. I would just have to make do. Still, in my secret heart-of-hearts, I longed to be a princess, if only for one Cinderella night.

This doesn't mean I lacked all faith in myself. I took pride in my strength and determination and smarts. I was determined to make a difference in the world. But on the occasions that a man did -- miraculously, I thought -- notice me, I was careless with my body and my heart. I once asked a lover if he thought I was beautiful. He  prevaricated until finally admitting that he didn't. Despite my shredded heart I stayed. 

Over time I've learned to admire my parts. My college roommate taught me that every girl deserves pretty lingerie. My sister-from-another-mother has taken me shopping and shown me how to flatter my curvy figure. I've been given lessons in makeup, and compliments on my eyes. Sometimes, when I least expect it, I look in the mirror and find beauty there, wrinkles and dimples and spots and all. I am grateful for those moments.

To be honest, I don't know if thinking myself pretty would truly have changed anything. Still, I will tell my daughter every step of the way that she is smart and funny and strong and, yes, beautiful. I will tell her until she knows in every cell that both her mind and her body are to be cherished and respected and cared for. I will declare her beauty to the world and I will not be satisfied until she can do the same. 

Making Dinner

Your singing, tuneless
          enthusiastic

There was a man named Michael Finnegan

Sweeps out from beneath

A curtain of hair

He had whiskers on his chinnegan

falling across some indescribable
childhood masterpiece.

The words

His beard grew out and then grew in again

A cheerful soundtrack

To the sizzle and chop 

Of dinner preparations.

You glance up.

I am smiling
       at you

Could I 

(old as the hills, you think)

possibly know this ditty?

Poor old Michael Finnegan

In answer I stop my 
busyness (for once)

And belt out a line.

You join in

Begin again

Faster and louder

There was a man named Michael Finnegan

faster and louder
He had whiskers on his chinnegan
Faster and louder

Until we are shouting joyfully.

The song sublimates 
to laughter.

Sub Zero

Cold gnaws at the house. Chill seeps through the brick walls and pours across the floor in invisible rivulets that seek out and nip at toes. Frost crawls up the windows, riming every pane. The children scrape at it and giggle when snow falls to the sill. The furnace cycles ceaselessly. On. Off. On. Off. It's not truly cold inside, but still we huddle, cringing at the creaks and pings of a house under assault.

The fireplace crackles. Before it one dog rolls and yips, reveling in the heat. The other dog stomps in circles and flops down, satisfied with her warm nest. My children tumble to the floor and lean against their living pillows, snuggling into the warmth, absorbing the animal stillness and drooping into sleep. I sit above, tangled on the couch in a mess of blankets, jealous of their ease. The dogs grow restless, slinking out from under their young masters. My babies have grown far too big for me to carry up the stairs, so I collect blankets and tuck them in together on the floor.

I remain vigilant through the night, stoking the fire, keeping the children covered. The dogs paw at my feet and only reluctantly withdraw from the couch. I am minded to let them up, but that is a step from which I never can retreat. I draw the line.

I doze, wakened occasionally by restless stirring on the floor or cold breezes that herald the need for more wood. Toward morning I stretch and pet the dogs who have slunk up beside me. Their trespass was forgiven in the darkest hours, when my ankles grew cold and their company was a balm. Dawn comes slowly, heralded by a halo of salmon and peach ice glistening at the tip of every branch. 

The children wake. They are gleeful at finding themselves downstairs, on the floor, together. It is different, and different is good. Seeing me, they leap. Soon the sun will rise high and the freeze will wane. Until then I hold my children, basking in their warmth.

On Our Knees

The play yard was quiet this afternoon. Parents nodded across the concrete, barely willing to acknowledge their horror on the sacred grounds of our elementary school. Strangers stood close, taking silent comfort in community. We waited, restless for the bell to ring, for our children to flood from the building, to embrace our little ones with desperate relief.

A father stood next to me. I watched as the bell shrilled and his daughter came running joyfully from the building, long hair flying, headband askew. He saw her and collapsed to his knees, unable to hold back his tears as he clasped her to him, whispering over and over "I love you so much".

We were all on our knees today. Praying. Or mourning. Brought down by fear. By horror. We were on our knees with helplessness and anger. Humbled by chance and circumstance and an embarrassing gratitude for our good fortune. Felled by sorrow and sympathy, or, for the truly unfortunate, empathy. 

I don't know where we go from here. I can think of no solutions. I have no answers. I do know I cannot, I will not, stay on my knees. I will rise up and carry on. I will hold tight to my children. And then I will loose them, that they may dance and sing and hurt and love and live. I will cherish them, and love them, and bless the days that I have with them. Because that is all I can do.

So It Begins

Miss Awesome and I had a fight this morning. It was stupid, supposedly about her refusal to help empty the dishwasher but really about the tantrums she throws in an effort to get out of doing things she doesn't want to do. I sent both of us to our rooms to calm down, but not until after I'd gotten big and loud and maybe a little mean.

I angrily folded laundry for a while, and when my tears stopped and I could think straight again, I knocked on her door. I found her crouched over her Halloween stash, tearfully stuffing candy in her face. I took the sweets away, told her to apologize to her brother, and drifted back to my room. I was appalled that at age seven my daughter already is eating to deal with her emotions.

After another little while I returned to her room, lay down on the bed and held her. I told her I always love her. I apologized for being mean, but explained that she is part of the family and as such she is required to help out, whether or not she likes the task at hand. She apologized, too. We eventually worked our way back to equilibrium. 

When we were safe again, I asked about the candy. "It makes me feel good and helps me stop crying." she explained. I cringed inside, hearing such a simple truth from such a young girl. I know the physiology of it, how the sugar activates feel-good brain centers. How humans are pleasure-seeking animals. How this is natural and instinctive. I also know how devastating such a habit can be over the course of a lifetime. 

Until now I've tried to make food a neutral topic, neither good nor bad but a tool. Like all tools, food can be used well -- providing good nutrients that keep us strong and healthy -- or badly -- not giving us the energy we need and leading to weakness and unhealthiness. I've encouraged the kids to eat balanced meals and allowed sweets in moderation. Knowing that balance occurs over a lifetime, I've had some suppers that were awful nutritionally (but oh, so tasty!) and others that were nothing but vegetables (and just as tasty). Food is never good or bad, and certainly never "fattening". It's just healthy or less healthy. Through it all I've tried not to talk about anyone's appearance in terms of size or shape. I've been quiet about my own self-image and body issues. I make sure to show the kids a variety of body types as beautiful and healthy. I've taken great care to speak positively about my strength and abilities. My recent weight loss has been a private triumph of which the kids have been blessedly oblivious. 

But this morning I broke my self-imposed rule and talked about my weight. I told Miss Awesome that I got fat because I ate when I was sad, instead of addressing the underlying issues. I didn't eat healthy foods, and had too much candy. Over the years my body carried the bad decisions I made. I explained that it's better to cry all her tears out, take a breath, and deal with whatever made her sad. That food is not the answer. I admitted that sometimes I go into the bathroom and cry until I'm done, and then I can talk about whatever is upsetting me. I told her it took me a lifetime to learn, but candy is a treat, not a treatment.

Our conversation slowly meandered away from candy and eating, and after more cuddles we moved on to other activities. Violet reclaimed her candy with a promise not to eat too much, and I took that at face value. In the end I can only advise, not control. Still, I worry that she will follow me down the sedentary path, swallowing her sorrows, afraid to face her feelings. Like all parents I wish only the best for my child. Strange that a good cry and an empty belly are on that list.

Afloat

The waves were powerful and regular as clockwork. My children were thrilled, riding on top of a two-person tube, eager to go deeper despite the drenching splashes and chilled shudders. We were just in a wave pool at a local theme park but as I watched them bobbing on their little craft, it felt like a metaphor for both their personalities -- and possibly their lives.

Miss Awesome is smaller, younger, still a faltering swimmer, yet it was she in the bow. She faced every wave head-on with a triumphant shout even when she could barely breathe for all the water cascading down her face. She urged her brother to move forward, go deeper, catch the biggest waves. I pulled them shallower and she glared at me, making it clear that I was overstepping my limited rights. Had I not been there she would have been in the seven foot deep part where the waves were strongest and least predictable. She has no fear of adventure and few qualms about fighting for whatever she wants, no matter the odds, consequences, or who is standing in her way.

The Boy, in the stern, didn't appear to be paying much attention to the waves. He was busy trying to engineer ... something. I couldn't quite decipher his goal, although it was perfectly clear to him. It involved getting a moving craft to stay in the exact right orientation. Even as they were tossed up and then down he was asking me to turn and shift the tube just so. He, too, was delighted by the action, but as usual he was focusing more on some inner voice. The boundary between what happens in his mind and our reality is thin, and sometimes I wonder what he really is experiencing.

Sometimes one child would slip, and immediately the other was there, grabbing a wrist or lifting with a foot, laughing and teasing, but always helping. As with any siblings they have awful fights and sometimes wish out loud that the other didn't exist. But in between they have a sweetness to their relationship, a friendship on top of their family connection. It comforted me, knowing they are there for each other. Miss Awesome will stand and defend her brother against any challenge. The Boy will catch his sister and keep her afloat through any adventure. And I will watch from a distance, ready to pull them back but silently urging them forward.

Compassion

Like most modern American cities, Denver has beggars. They've been driven away from downtown and aren't hugely visible elsewhere, but there are a couple of corners we regularly pass where people ask for a handout. We never give to them. However, the kids are fascinated, and we've had quite a few conversations about these "knights of the open road".

I have had numerous encounters with homeless people, first in DC, later in Boston and Denver. In DC in particular, people are afraid of the homeless. They dodge and duck to avoid being confronted. The beggars there are scary. Loud, dirty, aggressive, they can be militant in their demand (not request) for change. I remember one person who had almost cleared a sidewalk with his shouting and insults to those who walked past, eyes diligently averted. I had no choice but to pass. Instead of ignoring him, however, when he asked for change I said "None today, I'm sorry" as I usually do, smiling and nodding. His demeanor immediately changed. He gave me a brilliant smile, a "God bless you, sister!" and then returned to haranguing passersby.

I carry that memory with me, because it supports my belief that every person has some good in them. I also believe that acknowledgement is vital for human dignity, and everyone -- no matter the circumstances -- deserves at least that much. Imagine my dismay, then, when we drove past a panhandler yesterday and Sam piped up "That guy is an idiot."

I couldn't speak at first. I know ten year old kids don't understand the complexities of adult life, and Sam has less grasp of grey areas than most, but I've tried to explain the myriad reasons behind homelessness and begging. Finally, instead of lecturing, I managed to ask him for an explanation.

As with many topics in our house, Sam is trying to reconcile two radically different perspectives -- one from each parent. I am liberal, Will is conservative. I grew up with modest means, Will less so. I believe people are inherently good, Will doesn't. Apparently Will has been more vocal about his opinions of street people, dismissing them as lazy at best and drug-addled cancers on society at worst. Sam has heard my arguments that people aren't always in control of their situation -- many are mentally or physically ill, and often drugs play a part but addiction is not a choice -- but I am less vehement. Thus his first reaction is to think of the person on the corner as an idiot. When pressed he says that if they are sick or addicted they might have some excuse, but he doesn't understand why they don't just get a job and work their way out of the situation.

Don't we all wish it was that easy?

We continued driving and I did my best to share, again, my beliefs with Sam. It's never easy to tell what he's heard and what he's internalized. I would like him to share my compassion, my hope, my faith in humanity. The best I can do is reinforce my teachings, and hope that our son finds a middle road, rather than feeling he is stuck in the middle.

Lost and Found

Sweaters and jackets
Lie haphazardly
Abandoned by a gust of children
Who blew across the playground
A whirlwind of careless laughter
Leaving behind splashes
of green/orange/blue/pink/yellow/red
cheetah spot and zebra stripe
in fleece and satin.
The arms stretch and twist
around mittens and hats
Supplicants wanting only to hold
Their children again.

Making the Right Choice

I had a billion and one things to do today. Really. Collecting money from a tenant. Checking on a property. Going to the bank. Paying mortgages. Sending and receiving emails. Prepping for Girl Scouts this afternoon. Eating leftover Halloween candy.


Instead I'm going to the museum with my son's class. They needed a chaperone. I needed to get work done. BUT. My son is a priority in my life, and he needs to see that. So the tenants can wait, as can the bank, and the emails. I'll make the girl scouts thing work (because my daughter is a priority, too). And I'll have a great time with a bunch if kids I like, and one I love tremendously.


Plus, the Halloween candy fits in my pocket. I might even share. If they behave.

An Eight Year Old's Joke

Sam: Why did the onion shoot potatoes?


Mom: I don't know. Why?


Sam: Because they're friends!


Mom: That doesn't make any sense.


Sam: I know. I don't get it either.

An Instructional From Violet

No matter how heavy things get around here, I can always count on my kids for a laugh.

Last night we got home late from a basketball game and Violet crashed almost immediately. I came upstairs to find my girl, still clad in a sweet pink plaid dress, sound asleep in my bed with the following "How To" on the floor below.

Translation:

How to make a Burp

First make a deep breath and then

drink a glass of water

and then make it into

a burp

That's my girl!

Teaching Feminism at McDonald's

Let me start by saying yes, I do take my children to McDonald's. I have reasons both for and against doing so, and have made an informed decision that we can occasionally go to the nearby "Old McDonald's" for a treat. In a similar vein, my kindergarten-aged daughter wears a LOT of pink sparkly things, has make-up and high heels, and frequently talks about being a princess. Again, I've made my choices, and stand by them, even if I sometimes wince at the results.

That doesn't mean I've compromised my values.

A couple weeks ago, I took my sparklicious daughter and her more sedate brother to McDonald's for lunch and a romp in the play structure there. While they climbed and played I ordered a couple of Happy Meals and something for myself. Now, McDonald's, for whatever asinine reason, not only categorizes their toys by age (toddlers get "safer" bits of cheap plastic); they also gender-identify them so that when ordering one has to request a boy Happy Meal or a girl Happy Meal, or else the cashier freezes in a quandary of what toy to put in the sack. And, of course, the toys for girls are soft and sweet and pink (Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, random stuffed animals) while boys get action toys (Transformers, skateboards, Bakugan).

I resent that.

However, I also get physically ill when facing the bickering that ensues when two kids have the same toy and one disappears, so I took the easy route and ordered one boy toy (ooh, that sounds kinky!) and one girl toy (that does too!) and called the kids down to eat.

After wolfing down their apples and some nuggets, the kids clamored for their toys. Violet got a pink fuzzy thing that may or may not have been a hamster (by making it amorphous the toy company could claim it was any one of four sweet animals -- I think. The explanations were in translated Chinese.) Sam got a Bakugan. For those unfamiliar with the ongoing trend of inexplicable (by which I mean, I don't understand it so I can't explain it) toys/games from Japan, Bakugan is/are a series of robot balls, each of which has a "power" and which seem to be a bastard cousin of Transformers, in that they open up into robots with faces. Some can even combine into greater robots. There are accompanying cards that list the robots' strength, skill, and attack points, all of which reminds me mightily of Dungeons and Dragons in which one's character had strength, skill, and attack points, and I wonder why that was unbearably geeky, but this is cool? But I digress.

Sam was delighted with his Bakugan, immediately disappearing into the tubes and germs that are a PlayPlace. Violet, on the other hand, looked plaintively up at me and asked, "Why did I get _this_ while Sam got a Bakugan?"

So, I took a deep breath and gave Violet a 5 year old's summary of gender discrimination, (yes, I did use those words) and boiled it down to: because she's a girl people think she wouldn't want to play with cool robots. And my fabulous little girl, who is so fierce and strong, understood, and immediately said, "Well, I want a Bakugan." And she took her stupid stuffed blob up to the counter and asked if she could please have a different toy.

The very nice cashier handed her a different sweet fuzzy blob.

She looked at me, then back at the cashier, and said quite clearly, "No, I want a Bakugan."

He didn't get it at first. He stood there, looking at me, then at the pink, sparkly, tiara-bedecked princess in front of him, and at the "girl" toy in his hand. And then the cashier took the second blob back, and handed Violet TWO Bakugan. Because she wanted to play with cool robots, and he was going to make that happen.

We've had a couple more conversations since then about girl toys and boy toys, and gender in general. Our kids are pretty good about it. Sam likes to wear nail polish, and has learned to ignore friends and classmates who make negative comments about it. Violet is still of an age where she's trying to use physical cues to help her distinguish boys from girls, but clothing and hair length are no longer the first things she sees. Most important (to me), is that both of them understand that they can be or do whatever they want, and we'll love them unconditionally.

And that, whenever we go to McDonald's, they can have whatever toy they want.

Yardstick

The passing of my days

is ticked in irregular increments

upon the door frame

separating the kitchen from

the rest of the house.

Each rising mark a triumph

for you

and a sweet sadness for me

as you shed your childhood

like autumn leaves

falling slowly

until I am buried

beneath the pile of memories.

Running to Stand Still

I've been looking forward for weeks to the quiet of an empty house. Two kids in school ideally means seven hours a day to myself. I grew up with a great deal of solitude, and feel keenly the difference between lonely and alone. And I crave time alone. Time to think an idea all the way through without resorting to scribbling fractured notes I must later interpret and try to re-create a line of thought. Time to finish a task - even if it's just cleaning a bathroom - without circling through the house picking up things and making meals and separating storming children between each step.

I imagined blissful hours to accomplish everything on my years-old task list; and finding hollow spaces I had to fill with projects or visits to old friends; and being a better parent because I cherished the time with my kids instead of working around their presence to get stuff done.

It didn't happen.

I cried when I left Violet at kindergarten, and spent a few hours reaching for her little hand as I ran errands in my first solo afternoon. But since then, I've had no time to miss her. This year I accepted a position on the school PTA, and it's filling my days (and evenings, and even sleepless nights) with responsibilities and obligations. I'm having trouble finishing anything, because each part of my life is overlapping the others, and I can't concentrate on anything. And I spend my rare quiet moments wondering how any woman ever survives working and parenting and maintaining a marriage. Today is the first day I've had the house to myself since August (Will finally found some work) and I've gotten more done this morning than in many days past, but the passage of time makes me anxious to the point of skipping bathroom breaks and putting off meals.

I did take up my knitting again in the brief time Will and I spend together, exhausted into complacency in front of the TV. And strangely, the year-or-more hiatus has made me a better knitter. I even finished a hat and have started on number two. It's nice to actually have something to show for a hours work.

So. I breathe, and now I'm off to do more laundry before starting in on emails. Bless all of you who do this and hold down a job. I'm in awe.

Contemporary Art a la Five Year Old

Actual transcript of a conversation with V as she was getting into the bathtub tonight:

Mom: "Why do you have green marker all over your bottom?"

V: (grinning) "I was making a peanut!"

M: "A peanut?"

V: "Yeah! A peanut with my BUTT!"

M: "A peanut with your butt?!?"

V: "Yeah!"

At which point girl-child sat down on the bathroom floor and mimed tracing her naked cheeks with a green marker.

V: "I sat on a piece of paper and made a peanut. Then I cut it out!"

She then raced (naked) out of the bathroom and returned, triumphantly, with her peanut.

I think I should apply for an arts grant for her, don't you?

the peanut in question

Forgiveness and Action

I forgave myself yesterday. I didn't apologize for the mess or overdue tasks or dirty hair. I just took a deep breath, said I'd take care of it in time, and forgave myself. Then I took a guilt-free nap.

Later, after I picked the kids up from school, we all went to the museum, exploring and touching and asking questions until the security guard announced that the museum was closed and even then he had to pry us out of the exhibit because we wanted to try that thing just one more time.

My world didn't collapse because I continued ignoring "THE LIST". We had fun.

And today I was recharged and already have gotten the top three irksome, bothersome, dreadful things on my list taken care of.

Forgiveness, followed by action. Now I just need to practice. And maybe do a little laundry, too.

Chubby fingers and long legs

Tonight you chuckled as you plopped -- wet from the tub -- into my lap, pretending to shiver so I would wrap you tightly in your bright pink towel and hug you until your damp hair soaked my shoulder. I spoke quietly in your ear, using an intimate voice because we were so close, and you told me fantastic ideas I only half-heard through the breathless squeezing of love that sometimes overtakes me. You took the nail clippers from me, arguing that you should trim your own nails; I allowed it reluctantly, suddenly protective of your not-so-tiny-anymore hands, grimacing as you nearly cut yourself (not unlike what I did several years ago, though the scar is on my heart instead of your hand). As you concentrated, I marveled at the perfection of your chubby fingers, so smooth and ever more proportionate, the nails traced with crimson from a lacquer swiped off as quickly as you apply it. You still haven't learned the particular leverage of a nail clipper, so I finally took control again, wishing we had more time but aware of the clock marking bedtime. When I finished you swirled away, the towel a royal cloack soon replaced by mis-matched pajamas, and I called your brother, assembly-line style, to the bathroom to bathe.

And you, you came upstairs talking ceaselessly about your game, so intent that my listening was inconsequential. You kept turning to the wrong room out of distraction, and I tugged you back with verbal nudges and gentle pushes until you had stripped, baring long muscles and a smooth belly; you mesmerize me with your unconscious Greek perfection. I had, again, to remind you to remove your dirty socks -- you kept talking all the while until you settled into the hot water and slowed, waiting for me to wash your hair, to a pace I could match. After rinsing I stepped out, trying to respect your privacy but relishing the openness of your innocence. Later, when I returned with a towel you rushed to me and I sat, wrapping you in a hug and expecting a cuddle like so many times before, but you threw your head back and laughed with your jack-o-lantern smile and exclaimed "I tooted!" before wriggling away to put on jammies and begin another story about your game. I perched on the edge of the tub wondering where my sweet boy had gone, knowing full well that you never did sit for long. Finally you slowed again, long enough for a quick kiss and an awkward hug before climbing into your loft where I could faintly hear you telling your stuffed friends the same things that had washed over me minutes before.

My Shame

My children bicker

and talk back.

They yell and then,

when I am at wits end,

they melt into tantrums

and sulks.

I am ashamed to say,

they are merely reflections

of my worst self.

Sometimes

I get so angry

I lose control

shouting

until I am astonished

by the echoes of my voice

beating up the stairs.

My babies cower

on the landing

wide-eyed

and, for once, quiet

(meek even)

unsure of their sudden

monster-mother.

I stretch out the ache

where I stomped my feet

and swallow away a

ribbon of pain

in my throat

and after a shuddering breath

I bend sorrowfully down

to apologize.

They respond slowly -

but salve my heart

with delicate pats

and wet kisses

and enthusiastic promises

to do what I ask

immediately

next time.

And life goes on

but I am ashamed

and awed

by the gift

of their ceaseless love.

Young Scientists. Sort of.

My children are fond of experiments.  At the ages of six and three, however, they are somewhat ignorant of the scientific process.  You know -- think up a hypothesis, develop an experiment to test that hypothesis, and use the results of  the experiment to determine the validity of the hypothesis. Instead, they mix things and leave them to sit for an indeterminate time.  Thus, in various locations around my house, I have: plastic cups with frothy mixtures of toothpaste, shampoo, and toilet paper; spare spice jars with sedimentary layers of cinnamon, parsley, peppercorns, and, maybe, mustard, all in water; and grass, mud, unknown substances scraped off  the sidewalk, and caulk, again in a watery base. I love their desire to experiment but I think, perhaps, I need to get each child a lab book and teach them the basics of lab work. Of course, under the current system the kids forget about their experiments after a day or two and I can discreetly throw the entire container away.

Wake-up call

My little girl wandered into our room at 4:30 this morning to use the bathroom.  All  went well until she discovered the toilet paper was not in its usual place (the holder broke and Dad has yet to fix it).  So at about 4:35, she started crying at me, "Momma, I can't find the toilet PAP-ER!"

Alarmed out of a confusing dream into an even stranger reality, I attempted to address the situation without actually rising.  From underneath my pillow I first suggested she look on the windowsill.  That was, loudly, declared an unacceptable response.

I suggested she check the floor.  That, even more loudly, also was not acceptable.

Still clinging to the absurd notion of bedrest at 4:40 in the morning, I, also rather loudly, suggested she use tissues from the two boxes on the back of the toilet.

Will made some noise about Violet needing to quiet down.

Violet responded to us both by going into full-on, fire-truck quality, emergency wailing.

I did not handle the emergency well.

I dramatically threw the covers back, stormed into the bathroom, flipped on the light (I would have done so with flair, if light switches were only less pedestrian), grabbed the toilet paper from it's perch next to the tissues, and forced it into her hands with a less-than-polite comment.  Then I flounced back to bed (turning the boring old lights off on the way) and buried myself under the covers.  Violet silently wiped and pulled her jammies back on, then lay on the floor on my side of the bed and quietly cried the kind of intermittent, hurt tears she will someday shed by herself in a locked bathroom.

I asked Will to (gently) put her back in her bed.  Then I proceeded to dramatically, angrily, not sleep for another fifteen minutes.  Finally I got up, checked on Sam, and crawled into bed with V, who cheerfully turned and gave me a big hug before (triumphantly?) turning over and going back to sleep.

As a result of this early-morning tableau I am tired and cranky, and fairly certain that Violet won. Not just because of that hug in the dark, but because, when I finally dragged myself out of bed this morning and went to the bathroom, I couldn't find the toilet paper.