Sisters, As They Should Be

Once upon a time they never fought. People would wonder how we managed such happiness between siblings. We'd shrug and say we were lucky.

Our luck has run out.

In Brief, and In Photos

I like to think that we've been "happily busy" lately. Yes, we've been swamped with work and our To Do list, but I think we've fit in a handful of extra fun days, too.

Be sure to catch the Northern Michigan hit show, Tank Tops On Ice

Yes, she's wearing exactly what you think she's wearing.

Trevor and I embraced the chance to spend a weekend sans kids at Andrea and Nick's house, and while in Holland we visited local breweries (and made the guys "reluctantly" play board games).

On St. Patrick's Day, a leprechaun visited while the girls were out and left green footprints all over the house.

Also, clues...

... that lead upstairs...

... into bedrooms...

... and to a treat!

Later that same day...

And look at this, I don't know how to make these pictures go with their friends above, but here is more of the park.

A bit of attitude...

A very first original recipe, of which she was very proud.

"Cheddar Bunnies and ranch, then dip."

 Coloring Easter eggs...

Baskets! He came! He left a trail of bunny-shaped marshmallows wherever he went (even down the playroom slide, ahh!)!

Testing the new Slinky on the back stair, because the steps are so steep (and munching jelly beans, naturally).

The lone Easter service goers...

... because someone was sick.

"Oh hi Aunt Andrea!"

"Eh, I'm just eating Cocoa Wheats for dinner. Totally nutritious meal."

"What makes you think we're so much alike, anyway? Maybe it's the way I eat chocolate-based foods while I talk on the phone to you?"

"Haha, everything you say is the best thing I've ever heard. You're so cool and funny and you look like a princess."

What?

Nicknames

Not long ago, Berit and Marta were making up nicknames for themselves. This is common; their typical nicknames are words like Sparkleworks and Purple Unicorn Rainbow. This day, however, was exceptional. They were rhyming, and Berit decided she wanted to start with her nickname of choice, "Jenna." Therefore, Marta got "Henna." On a roll, they went forward with nicknames for everyone: "Kenna," "Lenna," "Senna." They got to Trevor, thought a minute, and said (with no silliness intended), "PENIS."

Now wait a minute. Remember we're rhyming here, at least sort of. It's pronounced "Pennnn-isssss." You know, Pen-is.

We were eating dinner at the time and I actually choked on my pasta. And while I like to think I'm a bit more mature than I was 10, 20 years ago, every time they call Trevor Pennnn-issss my cheeks puff out, my laugh reflex crumbles and I am inconsolable. The funniest thing about this nickname is that it refuses to quit. They love calling themselves Jenna and Henna, and calling me Lenna. Sorry, Trev. They love your nickname, too.

Recently Trevor's brother Jason called to chat and mentioned that he'd heard about the nickname. The girls overheard the conversation and decided to give Uncle Jason a nickname, too. They began rhyming things with what was in front of them, what they could see around them, whatever. They finally decided that they'd found the perfect nickname, HAHAHA, it's SO UNCLE JASON! Perfect!

Balzack. Yes, Balllll-zzzzsack.

You may be reading this, wondering what in the world we do around here to put such thoughts in their heads, so that even subconsciously they come up with these types of nicknames. Sincerely, I don't even think they remember what a male's privates are called. I know Marta has never had it explained to her, and Berit only once or twice, when changing around a buddy when they were small. It's never fascinated them whatsoever, and even now, with these nicknames, they have no idea that they're anything, well, anatomical.

They're just so fitting, that's all.

Sleep, And The Lack Thereof

Hello, new neighborhood! We hope you like having us here! What's that? Oh, that thing, where you sometimes consider calling the cops on me, because my kids are screaming? Like, crazy screaming "NO MOMMY NO" in the middle of the night? I know, right?

Say again? You think I've put on a few pounds, maybe have darker circles under my eyes? You think it might be related to the nightly antagonizing of my children?

Please. Let me explain.

Ever since roughly December 18, when Marta turned 3, we have been having night tantrums. She has, I mean, though I come close. Two, three, four a night, during which she wakes and SCREAMS, screams in that husky way, screams so that she sounds likes she's gargling, screams an horrific cry of sheer furor, screams in one of those car-screeching ways. She screams, and she yells "NO MOMMY NO!" and, occasionally, "OUCHIE! OUCHIE!"

Seriously. And I go to her, and I rub her back, and she hits and kicks me and yells at me to leave. I calmly ask what's bothering her, would she like a drink, does she want mommy to hold her? Kick. Punch. GO.

So I leave. And in five minutes, as the screaming intensifies, I go back in and suggest that she stop right this instant, or else I'll take away her ponies on the next day. Nothing doing.

And then I just wait it out. About 20 minutes, sometimes longer, and then she's calling me to come in and hold her, so I do, and in about two minutes she's ready to sleep again.

This isn't a nightmare. This is a *&^%$ tantrum. And it's not just one, it's a HANDFUL every night.

(The "OUCHIE" part? That's when she bucks so much in her bed that she hits her head on the wall or the bed post.)

When I return to my bed each time, by the way, our room is a sauna because Marta's room sits in a position over non-insulated house with no storm window (yet), and it's the last room upstairs to have the radiator kick on, and ours is the first right next to the thermostat, so we keep our door closed so that her room might get warmer. Restful.

While this is going on, Berit is over in her room, oblivious to the screaming but in her own little torture chamber, having nightmare after nightmare. She dreams that wolves want to get in. She dreams that foxes are chasing her. She dreams that dragons are coming in her window. "We" go in to her cries, listen to her whole dream (the WHOLE. DREAM, told in falling-asleep language, so it's even slower than Berit's normal speech, which usually sounds like "Um. Mom? Um.... huhhhhhhhh, can I, um.... go to.... dance today?), then take it out of her head (pinch it over her hair, of course) and put it into the jar (our hands), then flush it down the toilet. Seriously.

Of course we have the talks about wolves and foxes and dragons. She gets it, that they won't really get her. Her dreams, on the other hand, don't.

And so, after the fourth or fifth time I return to my room, I turn off my alarm, set to 6 a.m. so that I might run before the kids wake up, my workout for the next day gone in favor of any extra sleep that might be granted.

So here we are! Hope you love us! Thanks for the cookies you brought over!

Possibly A Subconscious Effort To Stay Indoors When It's -16

MWF school (both)
T piano (both, optimistically)
W horseback riding (M), also game night
Th dance (B)

Wish list for summer:
Yoga (B, and really, after last summer's success of yoga just before bedtime? I'm nominating M.)
Tennis (both)
Horseback riding (both)
Ballet (B)
Art (M)

Now don't you for a second think this schedule is a reflection of a helicopter, stage or term-of-the-moment mom. Instead, recognize that it's an indication that my kids have already internalized an avoidance of snowsports and a preference for teachers other than their mother. I say that's fair.

In Brief

B
It seems both preposterous and appropriate that we have appointments with two kindergarten programs, to see which is a better fit for our almost-5-year-old. It's not that she's practically 5 that carries the most weight in our hearts. Age 6 was hard for me, and I think that's the year that's really going to be heavy on my soul for her - to know how much I grew emotionally and mentally, prematurely and probably in all the wrong directions, between 6 and 7, and to know that she is capable of it as well, will, I'm sure, incur the desperate desire to prevent it, to freeze her in time right at 5.

 But she's so mature already; she holds her own so well in so many situations, that she's always seemed like a 5-year-old to me. As much as she and I differ, in so many ways she reminds me of my need to catch up in number to what I feel in spirit. I've always felt 30 - so when I passed that milestone a few years ago, it was a relief. I feel like Berit, once in kindergarten, will breathe a sigh of relief because, finally, she's there.

The oddity of it all comes with the kindergarten programs we're checking out. On one hand we like the concept behind our area charter school, which includes art, music and dance into every school day. This is Berit's kind of place, and it would mean that we wouldn't have to invest so much time and money into ensuring she gets enough art, music and dance (truly the three major subjects in her life, besides Barbies) to fulfill her soul outside of school. Test scores coming out of the charter school are on par with its area counterparts. Yet just when we hear a rave review about the school, someone else tells us their horror story.

And then there is our parish's Catholic school, of which we are truly fond and in which we know she would flourish as well. For us, the religious aspect of the school is incredibly appealing, as are the teachers, the presence of our priest, and the high values imparted there every minute of every day. It's where both girls attend preschool, and every other day we witness the respect taught there. Now, I know full well that religion and respect are two things that we should teach at home - fine, of course. But I'll tell you what, after experiencing it almost daily this school year, I can say that there really is a difference between the preteens I meet there and the preteens I meet elsewhere. Thing is... it's a lot of money. A LOT. And it's not just Berit who will go there - there are two others following in her footsteps. That's over $7,000 a year, once all three kids are there. That's just too much for us. But some days, it feels really, really worth it.

In other Berit news, while she's usually a sweetheart, she's recently taken on an attitude towards her little sis - impatience, inconvenience, etc. - and it leaves Marta feeling sad, neglected and defensive. I know this is a sibling thing, I know it happens to everyone, and I'm sure I've been lucky enough to have them do so well for so long. It's just heartbreaking to watch it happen.

M
Marta is in the throes of three. She's having tantrums, nightmares, and is generally feeling confused about what she wants, when she wants it. She's throwing potty training out the window, knowing full well all about it, having already conquered it, being a champ at just being a kid who doesn't wear dipes or pull-ups. And yet the days when she refuses to participate outnumber the dry ones. She throws down a big argument on those days, emotional and worked up, and I don't press her in fear of developing a power struggle out of it.

She's so sweet, so ready to take on the world, otherwise, spelling words and taking over Berit's workbooks, video games and board games, more willing to learn the instructions and lessons than her big sister. Consequently, she's sitting next to me with her handheld video game, typing words like leaf and tree and filling in missing letters and rearranging letters to make words.

ADOPTION
Ah, the waiting. After not being the chosen family for the last little one, we're making sure we've got all of our paperwork in perfect order before the next opportunity comes up. We're also filling out stacks of grant requests that pose questions like, "How would you describe your love for Christ?" After Korea raised its fees and new ones came up domestically, we're scrabbling to get the funding we hadn't anticipated. I don't like to lament this too much, as it was our choice to enter this process and we knew it would be expensive. But SHEESH. What a shame it's so prohibitive to bring home your child. It's difficult to describe the place where the money connects the child - it's a sickening feeling, mostly, knowing that if you don't come up with half of your year's income (subject to increase without notice), you can't have your baby. Of course we knew it was this way when we started, and we would do anything to bring our baby home. Of course, of course, of course... we are looking forward to two years from now, when we can say, "Remember when?"

Berit Just Fell Off A Chair. I Only Have A Minute.

Flighty. 

That's the buzz word here; the reason we're in and out; the reason I haven't blogged or managed to even post a status update on FB every single day, can you imagine?

We left the Lake House just under two weeks ago, in yet another move that left me wondering why we have so many THINGS and who in the world needs so many toys/clothes/coats/barrettes?

We moved in with Trevor's parents, who are kindly hosting us while we remodel the Division St. house. There's little to no internet connection or cell phone coverage here, so I've not blogged or been online much at all.

We're grateful of course to be here, and I have helpful, kind in-laws. But even in my own house I'm a loner, so living in someone else's has made me antsy and of course I have a constant upset stomach because that's how I work out my stress. Deep breathing, bah. 

So when guests came to stay for a long weekend at my in-laws' we decided to head downstate to my sister's house in Holland. Oh! We love being there. My kids can't understand why we have to leave at all. But it's still more suitcases and sharing rooms and down at 9:30 and up at 6:30 and even the zoo and parks and fabulous shopping and eating gets too expensive at some point (rather quickly, when you've got a home remodel going on), so we're back in Petoskey. Just in time for concerts in the park, the farmers market and our summer activities. Berit's enrolled in highland dance and yoga and we're hoping Kindermusik starts for Marta. We're looking forward to organized nature walks and swimming and playdates and school parks that are open to us all day long. 

So these days I'm pulling Marta off of life-threatening positions in someone else's home, constantly trying to keep things clean (OMG) and not get in the way. We're out, we're in, and I'm very rarely here. It's a blip in our lives, one I hope will be strong and positive and the road to somewhere important. 

If I had two brain cells to combine I'd write about Marta's CONSTANTCONSTANTCONSTANT jabbering and bruises head to toe, Berit's wondering exactly how babies get out of bellies and in this particular moment, Marta is climbing up my body, trying to tickle me, banging her chin over and over on the table, is telling me she needs a treat and that she loves me. All at the same time. Nope, not exaggerating. 

Soon I'll post pictures of our recent adventures and tell you about the things the girls say when they're sharing a room at my sister's house and are supposed to be sleeping. But right now Marta's running away, intent on getting into the pantry and climbing to the top of the shelves. So off I go, on another flighty adventure where I'm using less brain power and more adrenaline and all my energy is in saving a 2-year-old from major disaster and cleaning up in her wake.

Status: BUZZ

We've had a really, really busy week. Who hasn't? In all of this sunshine, I can't believe we found the inside of our house at all.

In addition to the obvious perfection of our everyday life (ahem), we had an exciting trip to Greenville planned, where we saw Gemini, rode the carousel at the mall in GR and visited Trevor's grandparents. During the week, we received our purchase agreement for the new house (we've been waiting at least a month) and a completed home study for the adoption.

I was so heavily in fantasy land after those two major transitions that my brain was on par with, oh, maybe an insect's. Fly here, eat this, care for young, buzz, fly, etc. I made a thoughtless goof with work (forgivable but so completely brainless) and spent the majority of book club spouting at the mouth about various things that may or may not have been insulting to the Marines (of which I am a sincere supporter, duh), may or may not have made my husband out to be a 16-year-old whose only goal in life is to land that sweet trick in snowboarding (which is not necessarily true), and may or may not have had any relevance to life in general, but certainly applied to my adoption of both home and child.

BUT! Week is over. We move on, and into more sunshine and the promise of an early, warm spring. There are no longer shanties on the water-that-used-to-be-ice in front of the house (the last truck has blessedly pulled away as well) and therefore my chances of having a stress-induced heart attack from simply looking out the window have diminished. My focus is coming back through the forced dissection of our finances for both mortgage and taxes, and I've been charged with the task of finding a suitable weekend getaway spot for my sister, brother-in-law, Trev and me.

This next week will also see our farewell to beloved friends who're moving cross country, a serious look at preschools for Berit (and, eventually, Marta) and hopefully a clearer nose and lungs for our littlest girl, who had a bit of a rough weekend full of fevers and phlegm. This weekend will be the first ever meeting of a special kind of book club, one comprised of high school friends who I've reconnected with over a certain social networking site. Break out the Boone's Farm!

Wanted: Mary Poppins

Our sitter is moving.

I know, it doesn't sound like a big deal, especially if you don't have kids. But it was a big deal for us to hire a sitter. It was a big deal for us to involve her in our lives, to trust her with our children when we weren't home. It was a big deal when she started putting Marta to bed and getting her up from naps.

It was a big deal when I launched a huge project based on the knowledge that I had a sitter I could trust and rely on.

And our girls sure love her. They talk about her, sing her songs, play her games. She wears them out. She keeps them outside and loving it. She cleans up after lunch.

She's in her mid-20s, and has a real career that involves kids and programs for kids and helping kids stay out of drugs. She's certified in life-saving stuff. She's a good person. She has tons of energy. She's sporty and wears blue eye makeup sometimes.

She took much of the summer off from sitting because of her summer job, and my kids missed her and welcomed her back with fireworks when she returned.

It makes me sick to think I have to replace her. Is that ridiculous? That our sitter is so important that it makes my stomach turn? Shouldn't I be focusing on world peace, or something?

So, if you know of a sitter this good, would you let me know? Thanks.

Summing It Up

Dora. Cloth diapers. Preschool.

Two dogs (one is only half ours).

Marketing ideas for Doublestein Builders.

Cleaning. Cleaning. Cleaning.

Wanting to run out and buy Gabaldon's newest but knowing there's no time to devote to it right now.

Buying kiwis, peaches, bananas, pears, carrots, milk, eggs. Constantly.

Reading Sandra Boynton to Marta, and my brother's old books to Berit.

Organizing basement. Drooling over organizational systems.

Pulling back Marta's growing hair. Again. Again. Again.

Cooking, washing dishes, cooking, washing dishes.

Seriously, how many times can I clean the house?

Writing little pieces. Writing a big project.

Researching. Making lists. Wishing there was more time with my project, wishing there was more time with the kids, thankful that I have both to keep me busy.

Thinking about the holidays. Planning a halloween party.

Clearing out summer clothes. Getting summer clothes back out. Putting them away again.

Feeling grateful.

Nothing Pressing

I vaguely remember last year at this time, writing about all the things we were trying to fit in before summer was over and the cool weather set in. I don't feel as rushed this year, even with our cold summer, but I know I am really enjoying these newly warm days with the kind of delight you take in the last fresh Michigan strawberry. I guess I'm savoring them, with more patience for exploring and picking fuzzy old dandelions and getting dirty or jumping in water.

Today we had a garage sale in the morning, so Trevor took the kids bright and early to get doughnuts and play with friends while I manned the tables. (Sidenote: Repeat garage sale -- with more stuff from friends who stopped by -- in two weeks. It was quiet today.)

After we closed shop Trevor went on a Vespa cruise with a friend and I took the girls to Camp Petosega, where they bypassed the playground and headed straight for the beach. The water was crystal clear, completely clean and so warm that even Berit walked right in. We did lots of adventuring in the lake, picking up wet sand and squeezing it, plopping it back into the water, scavenging for shells and stones and playing with the friendly minnows.

I have always had a fear of lakes (and a terror of oceans), but when I've got my kids with me I usually completely forget about it. It's one thing if we're by my parents' black lake and they want to go in -- no. They can with Dad; out of the question for me. But when we're in Lake Michigan or Crooked Lake, I always think back on our day and realize that hey, I wasn't scared. It helps that our children rarely go in past where Trevor and I can stand, so there's no open water at my feet with who knows what lurking down there.

We came back home and I served ice cream at 4:30 p.m., and somehow they were still hungry for dinner afterwards. We did baths and bed, and when Trevor's not home we three pile into the big rocking chair in Marta's room and read books together instead of each girl in her own room. They chose Dora's Sleepover Party, Ten In The Bed and Tugga Tugga Tugboat -- a book whose lure escapes me completely, yet I read it on demand at least four times a week. Marta took Good Dog, Carl, to bed, and Berit took Noisy Nora with her.

The sun set tonight around 7:30. Seven-thirty! And Facebook is filled with back-to-school excitement. Berit still has one more week before school starts, but we're feeling the electricity of fall creeping in in our house, too. While eating ice cream sandwiches on the deck we analyzed the colors of the leaves on some of the trees hanging over the side -- purples, reds, oranges, and leaves that have already passed through their bright phases and have gone onto brown.

We're meeting friends for a walk in the morning and I pulled out long layers for the girls to wear, though I feel fairly certain they'll be shedding them as the sun creeps out. Trevor's constantly updating us on pre-season football and just informed me that we'll need to be home this Sunday by 8 p.m. for the Bears' first season game. As I wrote that last sentence he told me about it again, and as I write this sentence he continues to tell me about it. Against the Packers, did you know?

With a late summer of little to no building going on, we've been so glad to have several clients eager to build this fall, and Trevor keeps having successful meetings over on the lake as friends and clients spend their last few weekends here of the season. We're blessed, that's just what it amounts to, because this economy stinks and so many people don't have work. We've had a few scary weeks but for the most part, we've turned out to be very lucky, and we are grateful. This past year of unfriendly NASDAQ reports has taught us to cling tightly to the basics and realize that the rest is just crumb topping -- it is lovely to have but could fall away in a moment.

My girlfriend was here this morning with her 9-week-old baby, who was just warm and cozy and slept all two hours she was here, and it just felt right to be holding a baby as the temperature dropped. Both of my babies were born in the winter, and while it's hard not to be able to take them outside, it is nice to snuggle their warm little bodies.

It feels so good to be prepared, with school clothes and new jeans and the coats out of storage, but not needing them. To know that we're safe and secure for the time being. And to have our oldest heading into school, but only a little -- we don't have the nervous excitement of kindergarten for two years yet.

Things are calm. Are they calm before a storm? Hope not. The dog still stinks. Really stinks. And we're thinking about switching to cloth diapers, so, that'll be dirty. Things will pick up here soon enough.

Filling You In On Things You Might Not Even Want To Know

First, Polish Festival pictures:

Dancing with Grandpa

"Dancing" with cousins

Oh my gosh. Can you even stop giggling about this?

Talking and laughing and smiling and SUGAR and DANCING!

Looks the part, don't you think?

********

Today is a rainy day, but don't you think rainy days can be kind of lovely? I keep planning to take the girls outside and stomp in puddles, and just when I'm about to announce it the rain pours down in those heavy drops that might knock my little ones over. I feel strongly that Marta would relish the challenge; Berit, not so much.

I think we're going to scrap our plan to take the girls to the waterfront to throw stones in the little stream by the waterfall, and instead make our first trip out to the Gaylord Sportsplex. Their website shows a neat looking kiddie pool, and at a price of $10 for the family we think it's just the thing for this rainy day. (Is it ironic that we're driving 40 minutes to pay to get soaking wet when it's raining cats and dogs outside?)

I've spent the past couple of weeks doing smart shopping for back-to-school clothes for Berit and Berit's-old-clothes-are-too-small-in-the-waist clothes for Marta (nom-nom-nom pudgy baby belly), and by smart shopping I mean eBay and Gap's online sales. Also, longing for the ability to go to an actual Gap and hold up sale jeans to determine whether or not they'll fit said baby belly. Anyway, this morning being chilly and rainy I pulled out a pair of Berit's 4T jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt and... they fit! Who would have guessed that clothes that were too big just a few weeks ago would fit our 3 1/2-year-old? We're not sure just how she's growing, since she drinks a half-cup of juice in the morning, eats oatmeal before bed and survives on water during the rest of the day, but somehow she's turning into a little beanpole.

Oh, and Marta has started calling her Berry. As in a nickname (having been able to say "Bewit" scarily early), used most often in the following adorable phrases: "G'night, Berry." "Wove you, Berry."

Also, for posterity's sake (and if you don't read this blog because you're also up to your neck in kids, you might want to just skip to the next blog in your reader), Berit has now started pooping in the potty almost exclusively. The big push (ahem) came from her cousin Annie, almost 5, who pooped in front of her a few times during a recent visit. Now Berit goes, then shouts, "It's as big as Annie's!" Which truly, how can it be when all the child eats is oatmeal? After she's finished she insists on calling her personal list of Very Important People to inform them of her feat, and who are all dutifully impressed and ask appropriately graphic questions, furthering her on her path to be just like her father in all ways, especially in his need to mentally dissect poo. (Oddly, for some of you this may be TMI but for most of you, probably fairly normal to think about Trevor and #2 at the same time.) (I did not know this before I married him.)

And on that healthy subject, I'm off to get Marta up from her nap and whisk the family away for a wet weekend, no matter where we decide to go.

Blessed -- Through Thick and Thin

We have had sort of a roller coaster ride with the girls these past seven days. Early last week I was in pure kid bliss, loving every minute of their hand holding, playing together, running on sidewalks downtown and general merriment. We went downstate for The Wiggles, saw the grandparents, Marta got sick and we came home to a no-Daddy weekend, and things are a bit less electric in the fun department.

They've been cranky, but beyond that Berit has been a complete handful. She will not stop talking! I ask her to do something, let's say pick up her room/eat her lunch/can she do this puzzle?/go potty and she has a dozen things to tell me about it, all delivered with lots of ums, buts and I-I-I-I-I... Truly, it is maddening.

Though I realize this is her age, and it's my job -- my actual job -- as her parent to sit and listen, and allow her her thoughts and comments, and let her work them out so she can move onto the next level of language and conversation and *&^%$#@ LISTENING SKILLS.

Speaking of listening skills, a few times lately she has been in non-threatening danger -- getting banged by a moving swing, for example, or in the path of bee -- and I have told her something like, "Berit! Come here!" in my best urgent parent voice, and she has... argued, stood her ground, and whined. I've tried talking to her about listening, because she might be in real danger someday and I'm trying to help her, and she doesn't care. She shrugs and says, "Huh!" With fake big eyes and a "this is how I'm supposed to react" tossing out of her arms, pretending she's very interested and "go on! tell me more!" but really is just not getting it.

She is also unsatisfied with her clothes at any given moment in life, and I regularly find her in princess clothes, dresses yanked down from her closet and in the nude.

She has informed me on no less than a dozen occasions that "I'm a princess and princess don't wear barrettes/eat lunch/wear shorts/use bibs/take baths/take naps/etc." It's not to be silly or cute; she truly believes this and I'm wishing Disney would commission a reality show based on what princesses actually do when they're not prancing around singing and falling in love. (Odd that she hasn't decided to start doing serious housework, considering that nearly all Disney princesses do have some sort of hands-on work to do. Jasmine excluded but Jasmine doesn't wear a gown and therefore doesn't count as a true, role-modeling princess.)

She also told me that "Every story starts with Once Upon A Time."

It does all seem quirky and adorable when I write it down. And this is my struggle -- I know it's all so simple and easy compared to what it could be. I think about what her first diagnosis was, way back when I was pregnant, on the table at the University of Michigan, and we thought that, if we didn't lose her, she'd wear a pacemaker for the rest of her life. And my wall of exhaustion and resistance crumbles, because here she is, healthy and strong and making fanciful decisions and praising me -- no, thanking me with actual relief -- for my personally wearing a skirt.

And of course I think of those parents who can't stay home and want to, or who are raising their children with major obstacles and challenges and health issues and then there are those children who need caring adults and have none, who keep me up all night praying that God will send them to my door somehow.

When Marta is up crying because she has a stuffy nose and, most likely, a sore throat and I'm rocking her, mostly asleep and wishing she would just give it up and get her own needed sleep, I think about those babies who cry and are ignored because their parents are passed out from drink or drugs or who just don't care.

I think about the little boy down the street who lives with his grandparents (his mother's step-dad, to be exact) and is ill cared-for, but his mother is a train wreck and recently sent him to live with his father in Florida and he was beaten daily there, and finally sent home, and TWO NEIGHBORS -- myself included -- have called social services on this family and he remains right there, crushingly alone in a world of mean people going in and out of his house.

Am I refreshed in my own life? Guiltily I write, sometimes, and sometimes not. I would still relish a little weekend away, completely alone, with nothing to do but read and sleep. But even given the chance I wouldn't go, because I can't bear the thought of missing a thing.

So another cup of coffee and back I go to my demanding princess and sniffly baby. And after writing this out, after cleansing the spirit a little with "between moms" talk, I think I'll be better at my job this afternoon.

They Are The Sunshine

We have really had the most perfect past two days. The weather has been cool -- high 60s, low 70s -- but sunny and really quite lovely. Yesterday morning the girls and I played and read books together and deep-cleaned the house, then packed up snacks and books for a two-mile run and one-mile walk with the dogs. Marta played in the sprinkler, I watered the flowers and Berit rode her bike, and it was just so nice to be outdoors in the sunshine after the past few days of dreary weather.

After Marta's nap we met Trevor at the beach, where, despite the chilly air and water, Marta dove into the waves and she and Trevor swam for about an hour. Berit and I worked on a serious sand mountain with a moat, "boats," stones and sticks. We had such fun that when the girls' bedtime rolled around, we couldn't bear to head home so we loaded them up in the double jogger and walked the bike trail to get frozen custard.

When we finally made it home, friends were outside walking so the children rode bikes, pushed buggies and played in the dirt. They were over-tired when we put them to bed, but so happy.

Today was another beautiful day, and after a little playtime at home the girls and I went into town for the farmer's market. We parked at The Grain Train and stopped in for a snack, and the girls were so cute sitting at the table with their sneakily healthy cookies, string cheese and whole milk straight-from-the-farm. "Mmm, this tastes like special vanilla milk," Berit said. They sat there so nicely, playing little song games and chatting.

We walked to the farmer's market, only two blocks up, and they held hands and ran their little baby legs the whole way there. I must have looked so goofy, walking along slightly behind them, a teary-eyed giant smile on my face, taking mental photos.

We came home and painted pictures and stones, all the while chatting with Aunt Andrea over the iChat function of our computers so we could all see each other. Trevor got home early and we took the girls for a three-mile run, stopping along the way to toss stones in the creek and let them run a little themselves. Marta moved to a booster for dinner (will we keep this up? Highly unlikely, with the plate-banging and attempts at jumping off, but she loved it and so did Berit) and then she and I went outside to play in the sprinkler a little while Berit had her bath.

I feel like they're at such great ages right now -- they're buddies for the first time ever, and they love each other so much. They are both relatively independent and have fun ideas, can tackle activities together and generally like the same things. I know boys are blessings, but I'm so happy to have two little girls lately, mostly for the sheer adorableness of their dress-up, dancing and games they love, like kitchen, babies and dollhouse. Life is so sweet in this moment.

While walking home from getting frozen custard last night, an older couple passed us on bikes and looked fondly at the girls in their striped jammies, cozy in the jogger. I realized that soon enough we'll be through with this phase of our lives -- it's hectic, yes, but so, so wonderful. And I had a little ache in my heart, thinking that, one day, they won't be little anymore, and we'll miss it. I'll miss it, I know. Trevor is looking forward to travel, to restaurants, to rocking out more and rocking chairs less, I think. But when we have two days like we've had, with the most perfect moments happening one after another, I don't want them to grow an inch.

Sunday Morning

Wake up: 6:45 a.m.

Time before church: 4 hours, 15 minutes

(Cook breakfast, clean breakfast, play with girls, dance to Michael Jackson, dress girls (repeatedly), brush girls' teeth, get girls' coats and shoes on, watch Berit strip down because of impending poop, load diaper bag for Marta, help Berit put pull-up on, send Marta and Trevor to church, take pull-up off now non-poop-minded Berit, re-dress Berit, have deep discussion initiated by Berit ("Do you love me when I'm crying? Do you love me when my clothes aren't beautiful? Do you love me when I'm whining? Do you love me when I'm beautiful?"), have second deep discussion initiated by Berit ("Are all strangers bad?"), un-dress Berit who needs to pee, re-dress Berit, brush own teeth, hair, wash own face, dress self, help Berit pack bag of small toys for car and church, search for checkbook for collection, give up realizing we're going to miss collection, load Berit in car, wait as she buckles herself.... wait... wait... leave for church.)

Current time: 10:35 a.m.

Time before church: -35 minutes

Open door to gathering space, where Trevor will be sitting with Marta because she can't handle the quiet respectability of church, and there they are, climbing the stairs and coming back down repeatedly.

Take girls upstairs and get settled just in time to read to Marta while the rest of church offers peace and takes communion. Marta says, "Tired girl. Marta's house."

Leave church at 10:45 a.m.

Lies, Ineptitude and Frugality

Berit being with her Mimi and Grandpa today and tomorrow, AND MOSEY, TOO, Marta and I set off for a morning of rambling downtown from The Grain Train, where we needed various things, to the farmer's market, where we had to pick up our CSA share. As we pulled up to the first downtown crosswalk I noticed that the streets were blocked for sidewalk sales. Um... yay!

Except that Trevor and I have recently decided to forego any extra purchases -- even McDonald's and gum -- while we save for our next house and try not to get too kicked in the butt with the sale of our current house. So, being the good steward of family finances that I am, I did my very best to walk through the sidewalk sales to the farmer's market on the other side without looking at a single thing. But the books! The clothes! And the FURNITURE! Two chairs in particular were calling to me, in the most soft and comfortable and elegant voices. Being not a fan of our current living room seating because it's a) leather/skin of animals killed for my furniture and b) not elegant, I was very nearly pulling out my credit card. However, since we continue to tolerate our furniture because it's a) very cleanable, non-stainable leather and b) kid-friendly, I bit my lip and walked away, visions of very neat children sitting on their hands in our next house in my mind.

I then ignored the jars and jars of pickles, jams and sauces where I was standing at the farm booth, but did they ever look delicious and Marta noticed because she began begging to eat them. I told her we needed to get some money, then we'd get some lunch. (My new trick is to pay for everything in cash, so I can see it and not pretend God in heaven pays when I swipe my bank card.) I don't remember how it happened but sometime in the past Marta decided that we eat money (not knowing what money is, just connecting it with food), and she started begging me to eat my money. Passersby grinned, but oh, Marta.

This child, who needs constant reassurance that I'm nearby while brushing my teeth in the bathroom, who seems to only want to be with me at all times when others are at our house, refuses to have anything to do with me while there is the possibility for activity outside. She passes on the stroller, shuns being carried. Wants to walk like a "bikgirl," jumping on all the shapes in the sidewalk and running away yelling when we approach a crossing and I reach for her.

As we walked through the sales en route to the farmer's market, a woman was sitting at a table with sidewalk chalk. Marta ran up and yelled, "CHALK!" and the kind woman gave her the bucket and told her she could color on the (closed) street. As Marta colored, the woman told me about the play she was selling tickets for (Footloose). Marta then began dumping the chalk on the street, breaking it into pieces. I bent to tell her to pick it up and she yelled and ran away from me, down the street. I kept half an eye on her and picked the chalk up, promising the lady I'd buy tickets at the door (lie), and ran to scoop up my flailing, obviously miscreant toddler, who was screaming "DOGGY!" and trying to run after a man who was running his bloodhound on the sidewalk.

We finally made it to The Grain Train when Marta again spotted a dog, this time loose in the parking lot with no owner in sight. She was a big black spaniel type of dog, with a collar and possibly blind-ish eyes. I went over to her to see if she was OK, to see if there was an owner nearby, and she smelled me but was too enthralled with her freedom to require a stranger's assistance. I meant to check her tag but Marta, trying to fling herself onto the dog ("PET HER! PET HER!"), made me pause and rethink the whole strange-dog-in-toddler's-face-while-I-check-the-tag situation, so I ran inside the store to tell a clerk. Who then announced in a feeble voice over the intercom, "There's a dog in the parking lot. If it's yours, go get it." She then told me flippantly, "Hah, I didn't know what to say, like, hey, go get your dog." Pushing aside a comment on hippies at the co-op that I could hear Trevor saying in my head, I said, "It might not be from someone in the store. Did you happen to call the police?" And she laughed and said no, it was probably already gone. Blah. It was.

We finally pulled ourselves away from downtown and ignored the signs for the HUGE YARD SALES (also ignoring my desire to frugally purchase the girls' fall and winter clothes at garage sales) all the way home, and I put Marta to bed. This is the time of the day when I told Trevor I'd vacuum and fold the literal mountain of clothes on our bed, except upon a basic inspection I realized that they had been shoved in laundry baskets so long that most of them are wrinkled and either need ironing or another spin in the dryer.

And somehow, it's only 11:20.

Status Update

Date: Thursday, July 30

Forecast: High of 69.

Dresser drawers: Full of girls' shorts that have never been worn.

Front closet: Empty of winter coats only because we have an open house this weekend; otherwise, they have been used from time to time this summer and haven't warranted putting in storage.

Toy Fairy: Have been informed that Trevor indeed created the Toy Fairy, and I am off the hook.

Additional Scare Tactics Introduced Within The Past 24 Hours: Strangers. Berit and I had the talk about strangers -- a gentle, 3-year-old appropriate talk -- and she occasionally dissolves into tears and won't leave my side since, afraid of strangers.

Continued Interest In The Sound of Music: We had to act the "So Long, Farewell" scene, with Berit playing Gretel and Trevor playing Liesl, last night on the way to bed. After, of course, we watched Berit give a production of the songs and choreography of all major songs in the movie.

Selling Of House: Open house this weekend, 2-5. You know you want to come see its cuteness and current clean factor! Closets! Drawers! Cabinets! Spices lined in rows!

Funny Thing Said At Park Yesterday: Little boy: "I'm four, and I'm going to kindergarten soon." Berit: "I poop all the time, so I'm going to kindergarten, too."

Go, Diego, Go!: Ending. Must return to parenting.

Dora: Our Kind of Wisewoman

There was nothing noteworthy about today, but for some reason it struck me all throughout that I was completely happy with each moment.

I don't know if it was my meeting with our Realtor this morning to drop the price of our house below that which we paid for it. During the meeting I realized that if we didn't try very hard to sell our house this summer and fall, we might become stuck here when our lives changed in such a way to make serious progression a possibility (in other words, to build our dream home). Because Michigan's economy is depressing, and Detroit's struggles hit Northern Michigan -- many a wealthy Detroiter's summer home or getaway -- hard. And because the middle class in Northern Michigan is losing -- jobs and homes, namely. And because there are more than ONE HUNDRED HOUSES FOR SALE that are in our price range.

And after all of that negativity, after all of that shredding of the dollar signs we once saw when we purchased the house as an "investment," I just gave up and looked straight at my children. I was tired of feeling encumbered by the house, the market, the lack of homes to build and the weight of general housekeeping. I realized I had been looking at my children lately as tolerable, instead of enjoyable. And oh my gosh, they are like two little jumping beans of joy, and so today I just put out as much love as I could and tried to have twice the patience for slow-moving preschoolers and insistent toddlers. I'm not saying it worked all the time, but at least I was a better mom today than I was yesterday.

I think if I sat here awhile longer I could think of a better, more appropriate, less obvious way of saying that they are practically perfect in every way (to me), but it's late and there's still the kitchen to be cleaned. Today I received in the mail a book I made of my first year of blogging. It's not fancy; it's a journal in professional clothes. I wanted it for my girls, because I know I would love to read something similar of my mother's life when her children were small. It's only a softcover collection of most of my posts without pictures, but for its cover I put a collection of odd photos on it that may never end up in formal scrapbooks. Berit baking cupcakes, Marta wandering, a snow day that didn't end in frozen tears. On the back, under a smaller arrangement of photos, I wrote the quote "The happiest thing about being happy is being happy with you." I took this from one Dora the Explorer, from a song that gets lodged in my brain every other day and refuses to leave.

And today, with the spirit of simple joy I was feeling for my blessings of having two healthy daughters and having the opportunity to be with them every day, and offer them a good home, a good life, a good family, the book came in all of its imperfect accounting of their days and I could not have been more complete in my happiness with them. Because there is Just. Nothing. Better.

Pond Hill Farm

Seconds before grabbing his tail.

Of course, there was much swinging to be done.

"Here's a box of food for you to give the goat, so he'll rub his tongue and nose all over your baby hands! Who wants popcorn?"

Marta could not stay away from these baby chickens. "PEEP! PEEP!"

She kept SCREAMING with laughter while watching the piglets.