From North of Here

Panic! At the Church Sign.

2009-02-18T23:27:12-05:00

When Will was little I always called him "My Treasure." That works out great, until you get another kid and then it's just downright unfair to call one "My Treasure" when the other one doesn't have a name. Fortunately, from the day she arrived Gigi has been "My Joy". She truly is. She drives me insane - so insane that I often just fall down laughing, which may be because she is "My Joy" or it could just be that I'm "Her Crazy". But that's not really what this post is about.

We were driving home Saturday from the grocery store. Gigi, "My Joy", is newly potty trained. We had ventured out sans diaper, sans change of clothes to the store. She said when we entered the store and when we left the store that she did not (NOT) need to go to the potty.

I leaned back in the carseat and closed my eyes. They are "My Treasure" and "My Joy", but it was Valentine's Day at the grocery store with two kids who wanted things. My head hurt. Chris was driving.

"Uh-oh. Is your joy leaking?" Chris said.

I popped up and was in the backseat before Chris knew it. I just knew Gigi was having an accident.

"She's dry!" I was slightly miffed because I was almost asleep in the car.

"What?"

"You said 'Uh-oh. Is your joy leaking?'" I said as I climbed back into the front seat. Chris started laughing, pulled a u-turn (illegally) and pointed. There was a church with a sign that read "Is your joy leaking? Share your joy in Jesus."

Nice.

The Female of the Species is More Deadly than the Male

2009-02-13T17:47:00-05:00

Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem in 1911 called The Female of the Species. I don't know if Kipling ever had a daughter, but his words ring true as we have a three year old female of the species in our house.

I want to start by saying and stressing that Gigi is my joy. My absolute joy. But she is a three year old female. A female who, I don't care what you say, is not cut from the same cloth as her mother. This presents some problems because I have a son who is cut from the same cloth and that allows me to read and predict actions, emotions, motivations. An inability to predict those in Gigi is killing me. Very slowly.

Gigi turned 3 and it took her 35 minutes to decide on a cake for her Princess party. 35 minutes. It took me three minutes to pick out a wedding dress ("That one, there, on sale. Great.") and it took a photo and a "whatever" to get my wedding cake done. 35 minutes for a cake for a 3 year old's birthday party was giving me an ulcer.

Gigi also has become a kleptomaniac. I suppose she needed a hobby. She has an amazing ability to climb my dresser and get into my jewelry box. We've found a lot of my things - necklace in the DVD player, wedding band in the rocking chair (we found it after we took the chair apart), and earrings in a box in her play kitchen. Still missing, of course, are my engagement ring and my mom ring. My brother said she probably saw one of those "Cash for Gold" commercials and decided to take advantage of a bad economy to get herself a financial nest egg. At any rate, I still have jewelry missing that I can't afford to replace. On the other hand, I now have a new hobby to accompany her kleptomania - metal detecting.

In her most brilliant moment since turning three she took advantage of my potty break to make me win "Bad Mommy of the Year" award. In our defense, we childproofed this house because unlike her brother, Gigi needed us to childproof things. Unfortunately, if you have a child with enough maschivious ingenuity to want to get into things that are dangerous, the child locks are not going to stop them. And when you combine maschivious ingenuity with outrageous independence and a dry chest cough you have a recipe for disaster at 9 am.

To begin with, I make scrambled eggs for breakfast every morning for my kids. Every morning. And the thing is that I hate eggs. I hate the way they look. I hate the way they smell. I don't eat eggs. But I make them, every morning, for my kids who love scrambled eggs because I love these kids so much that I stand there, making eggs while holding my breath so I don't have to smell the eggs and want to throw up. That's love. But this particular Friday in question I woke up and I just didn't feel like making eggs. It was a Friday and we had chocolate chip cookies. So I let the kids eat cookies and drink Diet Coke for breakfast. You all without sin may cast the first stone.

This particular Friday was also my first day as a volunteer to deliver meals to elderly people in our area. I had to be at the drop off at 11:30 am. At 8:30 am I went to get ready for the day and realized there was an open bottle, nearly empty, of children's night time cough medicine. I now know, for a fact, that in a crisis situation with my kids I am rubbish. Complete rubbish. Freak out ensued. I called Poison Control and I was so upset it took me a while to get out the words "Three year old. Cold medicine. Help!" The woman was extremely calm, helpful, reassuring. She said it happens and not to worry. Ha.

Then, it happened.

"Ma'am, did your daughter have breakfast this morning?" The woman asked.

"Yes." I said.

"Good. That means she didn't have an empty stomach. What did she have for breakfast?"

Dang, dang, dang, dang, dang. "Um, two and a half chocolate chip cookies and some Diet Coke." I said.

Silence.

"Ma'am, what did she have for breakfast though? Not snack, but breakfast?"

"Two and a half chocolate chip cookies and some Diet Coke." I said. In my mind I was imagining her hitting a button under her desk that lights up a warning for the state to know a bad parent was on the phone. I imagined them pulling up, surrounding my house in unmarked vans, SWAT style.

"Well..." The lady didn't know what to say. "I'd say give her something to drink, like milk, and watch her. She'll either be really tired, really hyper, or really agitated. And there's a chance, a slim chance, for seizures."

I called Chris, hysterical. I could not deliever meals to the elderly and take care of a seizing child! So Chris came home and helped out. Good man. And there were no seizures, no sleepines, no hyperactivity. Nope, Gigi goes all out agitated. All out. As in do not look at her. Do not talk to her. Do not talk about her. Don't think about her. She was a nasty little thing.

Finally when she detoxed we had a good, long talk about drugs - an intervention, if you will.

"I was sick." She said.

"Then you tell Mommy next time."

"Fine." She said. "But I'm a big girl."

"Not that big." I said as we put all medicines in a tackle box with a combination lock on it.

"You look sick Mommy." She said, eyeing me.

"Yeah." I said.

"I'll take care of you." She said. The phrase angel of death crossed my mind, because the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Why Potty Training Was a Bad Idea

2009-01-29T23:09:35-05:00

Chris and I left for a week for a business trip. My mom stayed with the kids. I told Mom "We're working on potty training so, you know, make sure she uses the toilet." And the great thing is that my mom knew my definition of "working on potty training" meant that I'd bought Gigi big girl panties and she'd worn them a few times. The other great thing about my mom is that if you drop off a 2 year old for a week, when you get that child back he/she will be toilet trained. God bless my mom.

So I take Will and Gigi to Wal-Mart on the snow day. Most of the ice had melted, but it was still pretty cold outside and there were still some ice patches. Ice puts me in a frantic mood. Mostly because I just know I die because some Texan in a big deisel truck and a large cowboy hat is out there on the road at the same time as I am. Laugh if you will. It's one of my biggest fears.

My other big fear is a newly potty trained child, a full shopping cart at Wal-Mart , and being alone with both kids - one who is too old to go in the ladies room.

"I gotta use potty." She says. And she's calm about it. Problem is, Gigi is calm about everything, creepy calm, so you know, she might be able to hold it and she might be on the verge of an accident. You just don't know. I push the cart by the Greeter. I promise her I'm not going to steal the things in my cart, that I just need to take my 2 year old to the restroom. The Greeter looks at me, like I might be lying. In this economy even housewives could steal romaine lettuce, polenta, eggs, face wash, and Valentine cards. She skeptically agrees to let me pass to go to the restrooms.

I park Will outside the ladies' room. I instruct him to yell if ANYONE approaches him. He agrees to watch the cart. Gigi runs in the restroom. She runs into a stall and before I can follow her in, I hear her flip the lock.

I peek in. She's dancing and laughing.

Bang bang bang. "Gigi, sweetheart, open the door so Mommy can help you." I say, you know, sweetly and without panic.

"NO!" She sang. SANG.

The woman next to me, holding her daughter's door shut, smiled sympatheticly.

"Gigi. I need in to help you. I need to take your coat off and help you."

"No THANK YOOOOOOUUUU!" She sang. I could see her dancing through the edge of the door which I was pressed up against.

"Gigi!'

A screaming child entered the restroom. I looked over and saw our beloved preschool director from church and her upset daughter.

"Hey!" I said.

"Hey!' She said.

"How are you doing?" I asked. The sympathetic lady looked at me like I was stupid. The preschool director's daughter was mid-tantrum. Only a moron asks how someone is doing with that sort of evidence.

"Good! How are you doing?" The director asked.

"Great! See you at church tonight." I said. Then I turned to bang on the door. "Gigi. Gigi, I need you to unlock this door right now. I need to get in there."

"No Ma'AM!" She laughed.

The sympathetic woman will not be visiting our church. I feel confident about that. The preschool director offered her daughter to send under the stall and unlock the door. I thanked her, but then said the floor was wet and nasty. She agreed. Right then I saw Gigi take off her coat and throw it on the floor.

"Nasty." The three of us said.

"Gigi!" I banged on the door a few more times. "I need you to open this door. Right. Now. Your teacher is here and she'll be sad if you don't come out."

"I'm using the potty!"

"No. You're not. You're dancing. You need to let me in!"

"No Maaaa'aaaaammmmmm." She flushed the toilet a few times and then spun around, giggling.

I checked out the mechanics of the door and decided one swift kick, SWAT team style, would break down the door. But, you know, that might mean we were banned from Wal-Mart. Finally, I just decided we'd gone at this long enough. Sooner or later someone was going to either take Will or think he was an abandonded child and the thought of someone thinking I would abandon my firstborn at the Wal-Mart was breaking my heart.

"Gigi. Open the DOOR!" Bang, bang, bang.

"No thank you Mooooommmmmyyyyyy!"

"Alright. Well, I'm leaving. I'll see you later." I backed away from the door. Sympathetic Mom turned to Disbelief Mom - she looked at me like I was horrible. Suddenly the lock flipped and there Gigi stood.

"Don't LEAVE me! I LOVE you!"

And then she did her thing on the potty and we went out to where Will waited for us.

"Do you know how long that took?!" He asked.

"Yeah."

"Why do girls take forever in the bathroom?" He asked.

"Our's have doors." I said. I frowned at his little sister who was singing Jesus Loves Me.

He looked at me funny.

"Really? You don't have it on the side of the wall?"

"No. We don't."

"Why?"

I decided that was a discussion not to have on an icy day at Wal-Mart, so I threw some candy into the cart and promised if we could get out of there without another word about the bathroom facilities, there were goodies in the kids' futures.

A Funny Thing Happened at the Bookstore

2008-11-18T15:30:43-05:00

We went to gymnastics this morning and Gigi behaved. It's hard to behave in gymnastics because there are two teachers and 11 two year olds in a room full of things to jump, dance, and play on. It's always an exercise in temptation for Gigi to behave, sit on her spot and wait her turn with so many trampolines and balance beams in the room. But she did wonderful and we left on our next errand.

We stopped to see Norita and friends at the old workplace. Gigi behaved - at least, I think she did. Norita and the office staff may think differently, but there were no fires set and no meltdowns. We said goodbye and I decided to hit up the bookstore there on campus for a new book I've been dying to get my hands on.

This is where common sense should have kicked in, but you know me and common sense... We're not on speaking terms all of the time. Logically I should have realized we only have so many "good choices" in a two year old each day.

It's rough being two - think about it from her perspective, you know, take a walk in her size 6 crocs: She's been up for six hours, she's eaten a muffin, she went to gymnastics, she's been in an office and had a piece of candy. She's hungry, it's naptime, and she's done everything she can to be a good girl all morning. But then, Mommy decides "It's on the way home" and swings into the bookstore. That means she's going to have to behave some more and wait longer for that lunch and naptime. She followed me in the store, mentioning to me that she would like to eat and then take a nap. I told her "That's nice." She looked at me.

Sometimes I know she looks at me and wants to say something like "You gotta ask yourself, do you feel lucky? Well, do you Mommy? Do you feel lucky?" But she hasn't seen Dirty Harry yet, so I don't know if she'd use that exact line. But Mommy was feeling lucky. It's just that in the game of Hungry versus Lucky, Hungry is going to win out.

I found my book and then flipped through some others. I should mention this is a Christian bookstore. Gigi looked around and asked what was in the boxes.

"Communion wafers." I said.

"Wafers?" She eyed the box. "Nilla Wafers?" She inched closer to them.

"No. Not Nilla Wafers. Communion wafers. You know, for Lord's Supper."

"I'm hungry Mommy."

"Just a minute."

I walked us to the check out register. Christian bookstores are like grocery stores in that the register has candy in front of it. And Gigi decided she needed a piece of candy. She picked one up and headed for the door.

"No." I said. The lady and I were messing with the card reader that decided right then and there to quit working. And for some reason the register I was at couldn't take cash. Really? Cash is universal, I thought.

"I'm hungry! This is my candy!"

I want to point out that if you're going to get a piece of candy, a piece of candy with a Bible verse or Christian symbol on it is probably not the way to go. I think, if I'm honest, more has gone into getting the verse or symbol on the candy and less attention has been placed on the yummy factor of the candy. It was overpriced (sorry) and probably not very good tasting (sorry, again). It wasn't, you know, a Snickers bar or something worth throwing a fit over in the Christian bookstore. But Gigi had a perfect storm brewing - two years old, tired, and hungry. She started to throw the fit. The woman behind the register started praying the card reader would just work already so we could leave and quiet and serenity could return to the Christian book world.

"Gigi, I said no."

"I said yes."

"I need you to put that candy up. Right now. No candy."

"It's MINE!"

I started to tell her that if one is going to shoplift candy it should never be candy with a Bible verse stamped on it from a Christian bookstore. That's just wrong on a lot of levels.

I pried the candy out of her hand and smiled at the lady. I saw her eyes glance over my book - I know she was thinking I needed to turn my rear end around, put my book choice up and get one on parenting. That's the great thing about having a two year old, smiling while your kid is throwing a fit because you know everyone else has an opinion on how to deal with the situation - the reality of it is I know a secret. No one deals with a tantrum while exhibiting serenity and finesse. No one. Once the tantrum is a go, you might as well go along with life and smile at those around you. It's one of those things that will pass, and you just have to wait it out. Sort of like riding out a tornado in your bathtub.

Finally I was able to pay. I want to point out that I had been offering cash payment for 10 minutes, but that register doesn't take cash. I suggested that was funny, since it is called a "Cash Register" - the lady wasn't in a laughing mood. I was. I giggled while Gigi sobbed on the floor. I looked at her.

"Don't look at me!" She yelled.

"Ok." I smiled.

I picked up the bag with the purchased book in it and turned to leave. Without looking at her I reached out my hand to the insubordinate, tired, hungry child lying on the floor. She stopped yelling.

"Mommy?" She was still sobbing. "Will you hold me please? I need to be held."

I hugged her close and she hugged back. Some people, I'm sure, have children who don't throw fits or who obey all of the time. I'm sure that's great. But God didn't give me kids with that kind of personality. He chose the kids I have specially for me. And that's why, even when she's throwing a fit about some nasty, overpriced candy in the Christian bookstore I can smile at her and think with a huge sense of pride, "She's mine".

Later, at home, we shared a cookie and snuggled for her nap.

"I love you Mommy." She said and closed her eyes.

She's Mine.

Sick Day? Anyone?

2008-11-13T23:28:45-05:00

The one thing about staying home full time with the kids is the loss of sick days. I mean, I still get sick, but now there's no one to watch the kids when I am. So this week I'm sick. Some sort of cold - and all I want to do is sleep until the headache and the fever go away.

But there's a two year old "nurse" and she has decided it's her duty in life to "take care of Mommy". Sweet, yes. I think, however, we rather have a difference of opinion of the definition of "taking care". My idea would be for sleep. I want to sleep. She seems to think the best way to make me better is to demand I play My Little Pony with her. She's something of a bully: "You fix their hair Mommy!" "You play with the yellow one Mommy!" "Make the horsey sound Mommy!"

And although I'm sick there's no one else to drive the kids to their junk. (When I'm not sick, the "junk" is referred to as "extracurricular activities". Since I feel terrible, anything that requires me to get off the couch is "junk".) That means I have to get everyone and their gear to practice. My head spins as I look for missing fooball cletes, an absent tap shoe, a lost pair of workout pants, and a MIA leotard.

Today, however, I decided I felt just bad enough that Death was probably camping out in the front yard. The morning started off poorly and went rapidly downhill. By 9:30 I decided Dance Class was NOT going to happen. I put Gigi in her "snuggle pants" and a t-shirt. I gathered up a stack of books and every stuffed animal I could think of. I turned on PBS and left out a bowl of cheerios and a muffin for her. She patted my head and held my hand.

I fell asleep. So did she. Rather unfortunately she woke up before I did. I knew she was awake, but I couldn't drag myself out of bed. I just resolved myself to prayer - praying she wouldn't set anything on fire or ruin too many walls in the house.

Later I was amazed to find she hadn't set fire to the house, colored anything with a permanent marker, cut anything to pieces, nor had she bothered anything she isn't supposed to. Sweet, wonderful child.

As soon as she saw I was awake she brought a herd of My Little Ponies to me. Oh well.

Gigi and the Pumpkins

2008-10-22T21:31:00-05:00

Gigi and I ran out to get the pumpkins for Halloween. Since the pumpkins were an incredible price I put three large, traditional Jack-o-Lantern pumpkins in the shopping cart and then entered the store.

Inside the store there were more pumpkins. White, grey, round, flat, and all other manner of variations one can make a pumpkin. I'll be honest - I love pumpkins. I always have. Apparently, Gigi loves pumpkins too. She picked out a white one and a grey one and said she must have them. Since they, too, were dirt cheap, I went ahead and bought them.

We arrived home, put up the pumpkins and the other groceries and I went about my business. Gigi, however, hung around the fireplace where her two special pumpkins were. After a while I noticed she was sitting on the pumpkins. She sat for a while, jumped up, and looked at it. Then she hit the pumpkin with her princess wand and sat back down. Her new favorite story is Cinderella and obviously she's waiting for that pumpkin to turn into a carriage.

It is the most precious thing to watch.

Migrations

2008-10-13T21:20:29-05:00

Every Saturday at either noon or 1 in the afternoon Will has a baseball game. This conflicts with Gigi's naptime. So every Saturday Chris watches Will play baseball and I walk with Gigi around the park until it's time to go home.

Monarch butterflies are migrating right now. Gigi loves butterflies. Last year we purchased a butterfly kit. We watched caterpillars turn into butterflies and then we released them in the front yard. So, naturally, when Gigi saw a field full of migrating monarch butterflies behind the baseball game, she wanted to see them.

There are things Gigi does that are so poetic and so ethereal we can only sit back and observe in awe. On Saturday she ran through the field causing the butterflies to fly around her as she ran, laughing. It was beautiful.

"I love butterflies Mommy." She said. "They dance with me."

The Gift of Gigi

2008-09-24T22:35:00-05:00

Some days with a two year old are sort of like being held prisoner. Some days it's like having the world's worst boss who is never happy with you, who never likes what you do, and who routinely screams "I AM SO MAD AT YOU!" while you scramble around trying to figure out how to get someone else to take over your job. Not all days are like this because some days involve happiness, hugs, coloring done in coloring books, and reading and snuggling. But some days are like being a prisoner of war.

The cruelest part for Gigi and me is that she has to have these 2 year old meltdowns which are a part of growing up BUT she occasionally has them (GUYS: skip to the next paragraph please!) when Mommy has PMS, or as our Queen's English friends call it, PMT. I rather like PMT which changes the "Syndrome" out for "Tension" because it really is tension, not a syndrome as far as I'm concerned. When the two cycles align both of us end up yelling and crying and stomping off in either high heels or tap shoes. I realize that one day her PMS/T will correspond with "the change" so we'll be back in the same boat. Mothers and daughters never get a break when it comes to emotional breakdowns. The good news is that neither of us is alone in a breakdown, we have someone there on the other side of the slammed door feeling just as crappy. There is some comfort in that.

Welcome back to our male readers. So today we're going to have a bad day. And I know we're going to have a bad day because she told me so on the way home from dropping off Will.

"Mommy, I'm going to have a bad day today."

"Oh, but Mommy really needs you to have a good day today." And Mommy could use some caffeine, some chocolate, some mac n' cheese, a heating pad, and some kleenex...

"No. I'm in a mood." She stares resolutely out the window. And I realize her mind is made up and we're going to have a bad day because she's "in a mood". I can feel the pressure building on one side of my head as we drive home. I feel the urge to cry because it's only 7:30 am and I know it will be a long day. My back hurts. I'm going to have a bad day too because I'm quickly getting "in a mood".

"Gigi, it's not too late. You can still have a really good day. We can have a great day singing and dancing and coloring and snuggling. You can choose a good day." Please, please choose the good day! Don't go to the Dark Side!

"No. I make bad choices today."

Poop. I'm stuck. The thing about Will is that if he's "in a mood" he will exile himself and I won't have to be a part of the bad day. Gigi demands audience. She holds court, as it were, in a bad day mood. Not only will I be witness to this bad day, but I'm going to be the supporting actress in the drama.

"WHERE'S LUNCH?! I WANT MY LUNCH!" She's in my face now. I move away from her and say, quietly that's it's only 8:45 am and lunch isn't served until 11:30. She throws a fit. I know what you're thinking but I assure you proper lines of punishment were followed, but when she's declared herself "in a mood" we are talking emotional terrorism here. War has been declared on Mommy.

The day involved a toothpaste mess, a coloring mess on the toy chest, the destruction of a perfectly organized bookshelf, the wrecking of several child safety locks, numerous toy casualties, a two hour fight about the definition of "naptime" and several nasty comments about my cooking abilities.

At 4 pm I was enjoying my first chance at silence. And then, I looked up. She had a crayon and she was scribbling on something. "Oh well, she's not screaming at me." I thought. But then, you know, I got curious about what she found to color in the living room... I looked closer and found her going to town IN MY BIBLE! Is nothing sacred?!

She got into a lot of trouble. I separated us. I gave us both "time out" because after the Bible incident we were both needing Jesus. Neither one of us was a good woman at that point in time. The Proverbs 31 woman ran from our house, giving both my daughter and I up as lost causes. It was ugly at our home.

A few hours later I went to my Ladies Bible Study. Several noticed that I looked like I'd been in combat during the day. I shrugged every time one of them asked if I felt ok. My answer was always "I've been with an angry 2 year old girl all day." They understood. Our Bible Study got underway and I was really struggling to overcome my exhaustion from the day of combat. I opened my Bible to the Psalm we were reading in our Study only to discover that Gigi had gotten there before me. I was angry at first that she had destroyed a Psalm, but then to my amazement I saw the one she'd colored over.

Psalm 139. I won't write the whole thing for you but I did stop suddenly and choke up at the part she colored with the most effort: verses 13 -16:

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

How special and how beautiful that God knew Gigi's days - even the worst ones - before I even knew she was forming. How special to know that even on these days Gigi and I aren't in it alone. How awesome to get this word from God through the crayon of a child that just a few hours earlier I'd had it up to here with.

I hope you have revelations like this with your kids even on your worst days.

Gigi and Chris

2008-09-19T08:22:35-05:00

Chris and Gigi share a love of football. They sit on the couch every Sunday and watch games. The thing is, Gigi doesn't come alone to the couch. Gigi brings Big Bunny and Pink Baby. I put photos in the album area of Chris and Gigi during game time.

Jesus, Cell Phones, and Pizza Delivery

2008-09-09T21:31:00-05:00

Gigi has a thing for talking on the phone. She has several toy phones which she carries around most of the day talking on it. She talks to David, Chris' business partner. She talks to her grandparents. She talks to her former preschool teachers. She talks to her Daddy. She holds up a conversation on the phone - even if there's no one on the other end.

This evening we decided to order pizza for dinner. Chris got out his phone, called, and placed the order. Gigi got her play phone and joined me in the kitchen. She pushed the button that makes her little phone ring.

"Oh, it's my phone!" She squealed. She always acts surprised and overjoyed at the phone calls. She put the phone up to her ear. "Oh, hey Jesus! Um Hmm... Yeah... Oh? Oh really? Yeah! Ok Jesus. Jesus, I need to get a pizza. I need a sausage pizza Jesus. You bring a sausage pizza for dinner. Oh, ok? Five minutes. Okay Jesus, thanks for the pizza!"

I just wasn't sure what to do. Chris came in.

"I ordered a pizza." He said. "What's she doing?"

She held the phone away from her mouth and said "Ordering pizza from Jesus."

Chris stared at me. I shrugged.

The pizza arrived. We sat down to eat and Chris said "Let's pray." Gigi jumped ahead of Chris and bowed her head and squeezed shut her little eyes.

"Jesus, thanks for bringing my pizza. It looks delicious Jesus! Amen!"

I just don't know. On the one hand I'm ok with her talking to Jesus - I'm really happy she's talking to Jesus. I'm just not sure how I feel about her calling him on a play cell phone and asking for a pizza delivery.

If the Shoe Fits

2008-08-27T14:59:59-05:00

This morning I had just one agenda item to do: buy Gigi’s tap and ballet shoes. I figured it would take me all day. It did.

I don’t think it takes normal moms all day to buy tap and ballet shoes. But I’ve never taken tap or ballet. I’ve never owned tap or ballet shoes. I have never seen where one buys such things. Friends told me they found their daughters’ shoes in the past at Wal-Mart or Payless. I also found a dance specialty shop, but I was told they were more expensive and since I am not nor have I ever been a “dancer” Wal-Mart won out. I headed there with a very excited Gigi in the car.

She didn’t really know what tap shoes were until last night when we had America’s Got Talent on and she wanted to know what that sound was when a group was dancing. I explained they were wearing tap shoes and we needed to go get her some for her dance class. All night she said “My get tap shoes?” “Tomorrow get tap shoes?”

We drove to Wal-Mart where I was informed by the less-than-helpful woman that they “Ain’t got none of them no more.” Just as well. There were so many problems with her statement that I barely understood what she was telling me. We stopped at a second place where I learned they don’t carry small sizes. Ugh. That left the dance specialty shop.

I drove up and the two of us walked in the doors of the shop. Gigi gasped as soon as we walked in. It was dance supply heaven. All sorts of leotards, dance attire, hair things – you name it. And the older woman behind the counter looked like Audrey Hepburn.

“Hi.” I said, pulled awed Gigi with me. “I need tap shoes and ballet shoes for this one.” I pointed down at Gigi. “I don’t dance. I don’t know what I’m doing. We need help.”

The woman was awesome. I explained Gigi has a special problem with her feet. Her feet are, well, fat. When she was born her feet were as wide as they were long. We have a difficult time buying shoes for the child. The lady brought out several pairs of tap and ballet shoes. It turns out because of her "special" circumstances (fat feet) we would never have been able to buy off the rack at a discount store. We're going to have to buy from the specialty shop. Gigi clapped and giggled and gushed over the shoes. It was precious.

“Love them!” Gigi said every time we put shoes on her. And then she got to walk over to the big mirror and dance on the wood floor with the shoes on. The tap shoes were my favorite. As soon as Gigi took a step and heard the tapping she was elated. She tap-tap-tapped while I paid for shoes and tights. She has been tapping ever since we bought the shoes.

“This is my best day!” She said all the way home with her new tap shoes.

It is so sweet hearing her tap all through the house. I dread when we have to tell her she has to take them off, but for now she’s in tap heaven and I can rest easy knowing I don’t need to wonder where she is or what she is getting into. I can keep my ears on her.

Gymnastics

2008-08-26T16:49:00-05:00

We didn't get Gigi signed up for preschool in time, so we are on a lot of wait lists for preschool. Rather than sit around and wait for the phone to ring with a spot for her to go to school, I signed her up for gymnastics.

Today was her first day. She's the youngest one in the class. And she's fearless. It took the teacher a while to explain to Gigi that one does not jump off the trampoline head first. She loved it! She really loves her outfit.

Photos are in the album.

The Artist

2008-08-06T22:18:03-05:00

I named Reagan after my dear friend, Regan Johnson, a brillant artist and illustrator. I suppose also considering that Chris' mom is an artist, I shouldn't really be surprised that Gigi feels the need to beautify the world around her. And when I say "world" I really mean my house.

If it's not the carpet, it's the cabinents. If it's not my Chaucer books, it's Daddy's technical manuals. Everything needs, apparently, a little artistic flair to it. Today I cleaned nail polish off of the television. And the Nintendo console. She didn't get any on the carpet or anywhere else, so I am impressed. She painted her toes - because I was busy and told her she needed to wait - and then she took care of the TV. I have to say, for a two year old, she did a great job on her toes. I found her in the gameroom, painting the TV.

"What are you doing?" I asked, probably loudly.

"My toes!" She exclaimed, like that was the dumbest question to ask her. Obviously it made sense to her - she needed a pedicure, she had nailpolish in her hand, how stupid can Mommy be?

"Gigi!" I exclaimed back while reaching - carefully and without sudden movements least the polish not end up on the carpet - for her hand.

"Hey! They're still wet! Careful!" She said back looking at her toes.

I could get mad. I just don't. I know artists. I know what their work requires and the sacrifices that are made to cleanliness. Art and spotless don't go together. I just pointed out that we needed to ask for the polish from now on. She said "Ok."

Later I found her with a box of crayons and wirecutters, crimping her - well, they were Will's until she introduced them to the wirecutters - crayons and drawing with the chopped pieces on Dad's printer paper. She really does love art. And tools.

I just wish she stuck to traditional mediums like watercolors or pencils and left the diaper cream, nail polish, TVs and carpets alone. I'm also praying she steers clear of any taboo mediums - like maybe she'll leave the litter box alone and won't start making litter figures. I'm really praying hard for that. Really.

Reagan's Mothers Day Video

2008-05-09T20:37:00-05:00

The Short Stick

2008-02-29T16:29:10-05:00

Everything ran very smoothly and quickly at our house in the morning of 29 February, despite a late start to the day. With 15 minutes left to get Gigi up and dressed, I walked into her room.

Before I turned on the light and saw, I instantly knew she wasn't going to go anywhere. There are several things I have become an expert at since becoming a mother - one of these is knowing when vomiting has taken place. I knew she'd vomited at some point during the early morning, but the thing about Gigi is that it's a large crib (to her) and she likes her sleep, so if you throw up in one corner of your bed, you just move to the clean side(s). There is no yelling or beckoning "Hey, get in here and clean me up!" She just moves around the crib and has boughts of sickness and sleep until there are no vacancies left. I arrived to get her just as she was standing up with no vacancies left.

"Thrup." She said when I turned on the light. "My thrup."

Translated from the Reaganese language into English, this literally means "I threw up" though the exact meaning is lost in translation. The meaning of "My thrup" is "You're not going to believe the nastiness awaiting you in my crib. And once you see this you will realize the enormous amount of cleanup which will be involved."

Confession time. Gigi didn't want to eat dinner last night. She didn't touch her vegetable soup. Since I am the sort of mother who refuses to admit defeat and let you walk away from the table if you haven't at least had a few bites of something, I pulled out potato chips for Gigi. She didn't touch them. This should have sent the Sick Child Radar into motion. Unfortunately I feel my Sick Child Radar is either broken or was, perhaps, never correctly installed. I am consistantly surprised when my children become ill, though in hindsight there were clearly warning signs. At any rate the radar didn't work and I pulled out the one thing in this world Gigi cannot say no to.

Sauerkraut.

Yes. You read that correctly. Sauerkraut. The child loves it. She can't resist. I put sauerkraut in front of her and she ate it up. All of it.

This probably won't come as a surprise to anyone, but sauerkraut and a stomach virus fall into the same category as gasoline and fire in relation to one another. You don't want to mix sauerkraut and a stomach virus.

Since I have taken every sick day with the children since last January, Chris volunteered to take this one. I didn't tell him about the sauerkraut. Chris hates sauerkraut as much as Gigi loves it. I explained to him that the dolls she sleeps with which had been witnesses and recipients of stomach virus needed to be washed - and hand washed at that since none of them are washer/dryer approved. I grabbed Will as Chris made a "you're joking" face at me as he held a sick child in a soiled nightgown. I waved and pointed Will toward the car.

We drove off to school.

"Did you tell Dad what she ate?" He asked.

"Um..."

"That's mean." He said.

Two

2008-02-04T17:37:05-05:00

On the 31st we celebrated Gigi's 2nd birthday. Photos are in the album.

Hand-Me-Downs

2008-01-20T21:16:00-05:00

My mom gave me a ton of baby clothes when Gigi was born. The catch was that these were clothes from the late 1970s. They were my clothes.

This weekend Gigi wore my nightgown from when I was 2 and sat in my old rocking chair. I've seen Gigi's clothes when she's outgrown them and I can conclude that either things were just made better in the 70s or my child is entirely too rough on her clothes.

Photos - mainly for Honey - are in the photo album. If Honey would be so kind as to scan the photo of me in the nightgown from the 70s I'll post it too - just to show what a truly good investment this nightgown was 30 years ago. I think Mom got her money's worth.

Mighty "Mouse!"

2007-11-10T21:37:00-05:00

It's interesting to see which traits my brother, my sister, and I have in common with our parents. I think as the three of us become adults, traits from Mom and Dad become obivious. For example, my sister and my dad are clones. They have the same personality, the same reactions, they stand the same way. My brother has a very neat, tidy house. He is also able to find creative solutions to problems - he is a problem solver. In addition to Mom's blue eyes he has her neatness and her problem solving skills.

When we were growing up word got out that if you had a pet that you no longer could care for - or no longer wanted to care for - if it found its way to the Davidson home it was going to be allowed to stay. My mom took in dogs, a very large rabbit, several birds, a pet rat, a nice collection of guinea pigs - if it needed a good home my mom was going to provide that, no questions asked.

This is the trait I got. Let me tell you now I would have rather had the clean house or the ability to fix things. But seeing how I keep taking in animals who need a home it is very unlikely that I will have a clean home and too many things get broken or eaten or ruined here that I could never fix them all.

Through some miracle for a dwarf hamster that was otherwize going to be released into an open field where it would have lived for about two minutes before becoming part of the food chain, it instead wound up at my home. Chris said "No way." A plan was devised to allow the hamster temporary santuary until a permanent home and family could be located for it.

That was a while ago.

We spoke for months about getting Reagan a fish. Wilson has a goldfish, Sushi, and an algae-eater named Springroll. He's had a fish since he was Reagan's age. She loves Will's fish. She loves the fishtank at school. She loves to go to the pet store (we're there a lot) and view all of the fish. She likes to look in each tank and wave. It's like a trip to an aquarium for her, a very special treat.

The only thing Reagan loves more than the fish is the "mouse" area.

Reagan's term for anything smaller than a rabbit - be it chinchilla, guinea pig, rat, or hamster - is "Mouse!" She sees them, she jumps up and down, she laughs, she claps her hands, she squeals with great delight, "Mouse!" It's very cute. It's touching to see her delight in the little creatures.

The same night we devised the halfway house plan for the dwarf hamster we learned that Reagan inherited something from my mother too - the ability to zoom in on new details to her enviroment with across the house accuracy. She saw it. She clapped, she laughed, she squealed. "Mouse!"

And because she is the child of her father's great joy, he said nothing about the reasons we could not keep the animal as he had done earlier. He said nothing but handed me his wallet and sent the boy, the girl, and me to the pet store to buy "supplies".

The goal was to put "Mouse!" in her room. We did. The second night Reagan started crying at 11 pm. I went in to check on her. I asked her what was wrong. She stood up and pointed in the direction of "Mouse!". She said "Mouse noisey." And "Mouse!" is. All rodents are. "Mouse!" gets on the little excersize wheel and runs a hamster marathon every night. The noise bothered Reagan. I moved "Mouse!" to a new location.

Location #2 doesn't work either. I had to move "Mouse!" to the kitchen where "Mouse!" is a part of the family. This centralized location means that all of us share in the marathon "Mouse!" runs every night. "Mouse!" has become my responsibility - cleaning "Mouse!"'s cage, changing "Mouse!"'s water - all mine. It's not too bad, until the 20 month old owner of "Mouse!" gets involved.

She understands that "Mouse!" is her pet, She also understands I am the one caring for the needs of "Mouse!". Somehow she has concluded that if "Mouse!" is hers and if I am responsible for the maintainence of "Mouse!", I must be her employee. For the second time I have become the victim of my toddler offsprings' advanced deductive reasoning skills.

I cannot cook dinner without also serving something to "Mouse!" Basically it comes down to making sure "Mouse!" gets plenty of fresh food. I chop up vegetables for a salad. She says "Mouse lettuce." I chop broccoli she says "Mouse broc-ee." I make chili. She says "Mouse chili." I explain "Mouse!" cannot have chili. She walks to the refrigerator and points "Mouse carrot." Not only do I need to get dinner on the table for four people, I am now the personal chef for "Mouse!"

I feel very confident in Gigi's ability to love and care for things. Some day I pray she will treat her father and I as well and love us as much as "Mouse!"

Left Behind

2007-08-27T23:00:00-05:00

Today was the first day of Kindergarten. We took our son to the bus stop. We’d all been dreading the moment all summer, but when the bus came, son, father, and mother waved and smiled as he boarded the bus and the doors shut. We all did fine.

But we left someone out.

Not once did I consider the baby sister here. As her brother rolled off in the school bus Reagan, strapped in to her stroller, reached her arms out after him and screamed “Willie!”

On the drive to work and to her school Reagan usually sits in the back singing, squealing, and exhibits generally happiness. This was very anti-Reaganesque. I strapped her in her car seat. She stared at the empty seat next to her. She held her hands up in a “where did he go” move. “Willie?” She asked. “He’s at Big Kid School.”

She didn’t say anything. For the thirty minute ride without her brother she’d occasionally ask “Willie?” and look from his empty seat out the window. No singing. No laughing. No squealing. She was very somber and quiet - almost like she wasn’t sure what to do alone.

And if you think about it, he’s always been there. He is always around, reading to her, playing with her, eating with her. She’s never been on her own before. She’s never gone to her school without him.

When we pulled up to her school she saw Will’s best friend and his past teacher in the front room. She started jumping up and down and excitedly yelled “Willie! Willie!”

“It’s not him Reagan. Willie’s at Big Kid School.”

She walked very sadly to her classroom. She went in and headed straight for her teacher’s lap. She didn’t rush to stake out her favorite toys or run to claim a rocking horse. She didn’t get her favorite book for Miss Emily to read. She just sat down, looking lost and lonely.

At home it was clear that Will excelled at his new adventures. He bubbled with details and excitement. He made friends (but can’t remember their names. “One sounds like Ky something”) and he loved art and recess and he made good choices all day. He is in love with school. Reagan was very still and quiet, almost like she was trying to understand why being away from each other wasn’t as horrible for him as it was for her.

Sadly, she’ll have a lot of this. He will leave elementary school while she stays behind. He will leave high school, and she will be alone while he is at college. And, God willing, he will leave college before she gets there. God willing.

Equipment Manager

2007-05-01T22:20:00-05:00

Soccer season has become baseball season. This means we have switched out the soccer cleats, shin guards, soccer socks, and soccer ball in the back of the car for baseball cleats, a batting helmet, a baseball bat, a mit, and a baseball. Luckily we play with the same group of boys (and one girl) so our practices are still on Tuesday and Thursday nights. That's one less thing to try and squeeze in to our already busy schedule.

Our first baseball practice happened at the same time as a migraine headache. I took my medicine. I took the kids to practice. I unloaded all of the equipment and a stroller, took the kids, equipment, and the stroller to the field for practice only to have to move way across the park because that particular field was reserved for someone else. So we hike to the new field.

While I have a stroller, Reagan refuses to ride in it. There are two things I don't understand about Reagan's distaste for the stroller. 1. If someone would push me around so I didn't have to walk, I wouldn't complain. 2. She doesn't want to ride in the stroller, but she doesn't want to walk either so exactly what is she trying to accomplish here? I carried her, the equipment, and pushed the stroller to the new field for practice.

Halfway through fielding practice Reagan was sitting nicely and playing with her brother's batting helmet which I gave her so she would quit eating spilled Cheerios out of the dirt. She began putting all sorts of things - flowers, grass, and dirt into her brother's helmet. The helmet was keeping her happy and keeping her happy (and by default, quiet) was buying me enough time to get the migraine meds to start working. All was right with the world.

Until Wilson's turn to bat came.

He took the batting helmet and put it on. He immediately screamed and yanked it off. He kicked the helmet as though it were a soccer ball.

"Something hurts!" He yelled.

I looked in the helmet. I looked at Reagan. She started laughing because while she is only 15 months old, she understands and appreciates chaos. What I thought was a pile of dirt was actually a fire ant mound. She had spent a great deal of time throwing fire ants into her brother's batting helmet. Wilson is the sort of kid who won't play in the grass if he thinks there's a fire ant nearby. She would have been hard pressed to find something worse to do to his batting helmet. I checked her over, but she didn't have a single mark on her. Wilson threw his helmet down a few times to knock out the ants but in the end he decided to borrow someone else's for practice. I told him I was sorry about that. I told him I'd never let Reagan be the equipment manager again. He said "At least she didn't have my cup."

I suppose he's got a point.

Birthday Girl

2007-01-31T00:00:00-05:00

Reagan turned a year old. One. One year old. I'm looking out on a very cold, very wet, very damp day and I have a terrible headache. I have a terrible headache, my throat burns, and I have a runny nose. I smile though because my baby girl turned a year old and I am remembering that this time last year the pretty nurse with the cheerful smile kept coming in to my recovery room every three hours to say "What a pretty baby girl! Here's your crackers and your pain medicine." I really could use that sort of comfort today.

The last of Reagan's birthday parties occured last night. This party was the party for the neighbors. We have lovely neighbors. Wonderful neighbors. You have never seen such neighbors unless it's in the pages of a Southern Living magazine when they talk about progressive dinners and back to school parties. I used to think those were staged because I've never seen a neighborhood like that, but I can testify that these sort of neighborhoods and neighbors do exist and we have one of them. We are very lucky.

Back to Baby Girl though because it's really all about her and her 1st birthday...

The day started off with the trip to the pediatrician. I know it's probably not fair to start off a birthday with a round of shots, but you gotta do what you gotta do and the only way I remember appointments is to schedule them on important days. We also scheduled Wilson for his 5 year check up so that I wouldn't need to make two trips. Multi-tasking.

Wilson asked us over the weekend if he was going to have to have shots. I told him I wasn't sure but probably he would need to because he has to start kindergarten soon. For the last several days he has been stressing over the shots. He's tried to bargain his way out of them. We explained shots are helpful, even if they hurt a little bit. We also told him Reagan would have to get shots too.

"Who do you think will get more shots?" He asked.

"I don't know." I said.

"I think Reagan will get more shots than I will. Who do you think will cry more?"

"Don't know." I said.

"I think it will be Reagan. She'll probably cry a lot more than I will. I want to go first so I can watch Reagan get her shots."

Of course.

We entered the doctor's office and started the kids' exams. The doctor looked at the charts and said "Reagan gets two shots today. Wilson doesn't need any vaccines but we need to have him pee in a cup if he can."

Wilson grabbed my arm and said "I don't want to drink pee Mom, I'd rather just get the shots!" So our pediatrician explained he wasn't going to need to drink anything. Chris took Wilson down to the bathroom for his very first urine sample while I stayed with Reagan who was getting her shots. Wilson was disappointed he missed out on that.

Last night I watched Reagan and, like all moms, wondered where the last year had gone. I remembered what a miracle baby she is - from the 6th, 7th, and 8th weeks of the pregnancy when we were worried I was miscarrying her to the inability to find her heartbeat so many times. From the run to the hospital, the bedrest and pre-eclampsia, from the dropping heart rate during her birth, to the cord around her neck and the jaundice - so many things that were going wrong, or things that could have gone much worse, there she was in our living room playing on the floor and laughing as though none of it had ever taken place. There were times during the pregnancy when I believed I would never actually get to hold her or to have the opportunity to celebrate her first birthday, but there she was smiling and reminding me that hope, faith, and love are all still very much alive in the world. She is a precious gift and we love her very much.

Reagan's Favorite Things

2007-01-16T12:34:41-05:00

In preparation for the upcoming 1^st birthday Reagan is having, friends and family have asked what sort of things Reagan likes playing with. Over our long holiday weekend I watched her closely and here are the things she enjoys most:

Getting into all of the dirty laundry and dragging items all over the house.
Getting into baskets of clean, folded laundry and dragging it all over the house.
Opening dresser drawers, taking out all of the clothes, throwing them on the floor.
Trying to remove all of the night lights from the outlets.
Trying to remove all the outlet covers once Mommy removes the night lights and replaces them with outlet covers.
Pulling diapers out of the box, dragging them all over the house.
Playing in the dogs’ water bowl.
Playing the cat food. Get mad when Mommy won’t let her eat it.
Go in Daddy’s office. Play with everything on the floor – cords, tools, papers. Taste all of them.
Pull DVDs out of the cabinets (which replaced pulling all of the ornaments off the Christmas tree.)
“Help” unload the dishwasher.
Chew on the small Superman action figure that used to be Wilson’s until she “stole” it and “chewed it up” causing older brother to look at it in disgust saying “I don’t want it back, really…”
Sneak into bathrooms; unroll toilet paper as quickly as possible.
Pull down baby gate; make mad dash up stairs while giggling at surprised parents.
Take drink coasters; beat them on glass coffee table. Get mad when someone takes coasters away. Real mad.
Throw pacifier at cat. Clap a lot.
Sleep. Sleep until 9 am. Get angry when someone tries to get her up at 6:30 to go to school.

These are her favorite things to do. Yes, she’s a handful.

Birthday Party Part I

2007-01-08T12:04:00-05:00

A year ago today Reagan attempted to enter the world. We ran to the hospital, the doctors determined her weight was not yet at 4 pounds, and I ended up on bedrest for several weeks. We learned a few things about our daughter a year ago: "it" was a girl, and she was already an overachieving early bird.

Seeing how much Reagan likes to do things a few weeks early we celebrated a birthday party for her while Mom and Dad were in town. Photos are in the gallery.

Skipping Ahead

2006-10-19T16:57:01-05:00

The letter was hand delivered to me yesterday. Reagan is skipping ahead to the next class at school. She's only been in her room since August, now she's moving up. Why? She's too mobile. She's moving up with the older kids - the bigger kids - because the girl has been crawling since August and pulling up since the same time. She's fast and she's too advanced to stay in her room so she's moving out of the baby room and into a room where they sit and eat meals together and they take naps together and they go outside together. Where is my baby? And what about leaving the teachers who have loved her since her first day of school last April? I know we'll love the new teachers, but leaving the ones we've had is so traumatic - for Chris and me anyway. Reagan isn't intimidated.

We visited her new class. The kids look so big. But since Reagan weighs about 17 pounds I suppose all of the kids are big compared to her. She's the littlest one in the room. Scary for us. But, at least she's a fast crawler, so I guess she can make a quick escape if a bigger kid comes after her to "play".

In addition to the promotion at school she also had her two bottom front teeth appear. So we had just learned about her moving up at school only to pick her up a few minutes later and see teeth. I think sometimes with Reagan if I blink I will miss it.

The End of the World as We Know It

2006-08-17T22:20:00-05:00

Yesterday was my dad's 59th birthday. For this monumental occasion Reagan decided to start crawling. Yes - crawling. She's entirely mobile. She's way fast. You put her down and then she's off. She's off chasing the cat. She off after the dog toys. She's after Wilson. She's under the coffee table. She's under the dining room chairs. And then she discovered the stairs and somehow pulled herself to an almost standing position.

She thinks this is quite funny. It's almost like a new game - a frantic hide and seek while she giggles at our lack of childproofing the house. Like a lot of other things Reagan has done - we thought we would have more time. She's 6 months and 2 weeks old. We needed more time.

We've spoken to the daughter and asked her to reconsider. She giggled more. I think that means she's not giving up on the crawling. I have a feeling this is just one of many things she will be doing well before we are prepared. I explained to Chris this very idea and he turned white and said "I'm not going to think about dating yet..." Wilson, ever helpful, said "She can't date because she still wears a diaper."

This weekend we will be childproofing the house.

Reagan - 5 Months Old

2006-07-06T22:27:13-05:00

Reagan's 5 month pictures are in the photo album.

Not Just a Liquid Diet

2006-06-07T22:37:52-05:00

The rice cereal went well. She managed to eat some, and even started opening her mouth when she saw the spoon coming at her. Smart girl. That keeps us from having to do that funny "AHHHH..... AHHHH... YUUUUUMMM" face that parents make when trying to teach babies to eat from a spoon.

We put pictures in the photo album of Reagan's first food.

Reagan is 4 Months Old

2006-06-03T17:29:08-05:00

Reagan turned four months old this week. Her new accomplishments in the last several weeks include rolling over, laughing out loud (a lot), trying to talk to everyone, pushing up, and scooting around on the floor. She's such an easy going, happy little girl!

Pictures are in the Photo Gallery of our 4 month old.

Roll Over!

2006-05-19T19:54:46-05:00

I picked Reagan up in her room at school this afternoon. On the back of "What I Did Today" sheet was a note from her teacher that said "Reagan rolled over this morning." The teachers said she had been doing it all day ever since first doing it this morning. Neat!

We rushed home and put her on the floor so she could show us her new trick. She did. All three of us clapped and cheered. She hasn't stopped rolling over yet. She seems fascinated to roll over, squirm, have one of us move her to her back, and then she starts the process again. She's a pro at rolling over.

More Reagan Pictures

2006-03-28T11:17:00-05:00

The dogs got into my garden. They trampled my hyacinths, so, I cut the ones that survived to bring them into the house. Reagan came with and so did Chris, camera in hand. I love hyacinths - and these pictures of Reagan remind me of a line from my favorite work by TS Eliot:

"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; They called me the hyacinth girl." - The Wasteland

You can see pictures of our "Hyacinth Girl" at 2 months old in the Photo Album area.