The Injustice of Justice

My oldest daughter, now eight, recently came to me with a request.  "I've finally saved up enough money to buy high top sneakers. Can we please go to Justice today so I can buy them?"  (The request may also have involved a great deal of hopeful hand-wringing.)

I still recall the first time I entered Justice.  After gaining my bearings amidst the proliferation of peace signs, glitter, and neon, I had one thought cross my mind: I'm not ready for this stage of parenting.  A second thought came close on its heels: this store makes my teeth hurt.  The animal prints, the conflicting patterns, the music, the slogan-strewn shirts, the overwhelming saturation of pinks and purples -- the entire store, in fact -- seems calculatedly fabricated to incite dizziness, cloud judgment, and dull reasoning until you're deluded into thinking, "Oh, a storewide 40% off sale... that's a novel thing..."

But there was something so genuine about my daughter's request.  She had saved up her own money, after all, ferreting away loose change and the occasional dollar bills that had been tucked into cards from grandparents and relatives.  So, we went.

Originally, she gravitated toward pair of hot pink high tops decked out with plaid and lace.  I gently talked her down from that ledge, and she then turned her attention to these sneakers, which are downright neutral in comparison. 

She carried them to the counter, paid with a combination of coupons, coins, and scrunched up dollar bills from her change purse, and carried her package home proudly.

I thought that this story was finished at this point.  I really did.  But later that day, a loosely-formed question flitted across my consciousness. "Reese, we were just near the mall earlier this week, so why did you wait until yesterday to tell me that you had saved enough money?"

"Because I didn't have enough money until yesterday."

Gears started spinning. I couldn't recall any opportunity for her monetary advancement in the previous 48 hours. "So, how did you get the extra money?"

"Oh, that's simple. I sold Brooke some stuff."

I felt my eyebrow involuntarily rise. "What stuff?"

"You know, that bracelet that I just broke.  She always liked that bracelet."

I'm not sure I want to know, but I'm compelled to ask anyway. "How much did you charge her?"

"Just eight dollars. Maybe nine."

Safe to say, we've now had a brief lesson on the ethics of extorting younger siblings.  You know, it's all part of taking small steps to prevent further injustices at Justice.

8

Yesterday she was seven.

Yesterday, she was seven.

Then she woke up this morning and she was eight.  (She's clever that way.)

She's the child who broke me into motherhood -- the infant whose sleep schedule I obsessed over, the toddler whose tantrums I worried about, the kindergartener whose first step onto the school bus I celebrated and mourned.

And now she's the eight-year-old whose ability to do multiplication problems quickly in her head baffles me just as much as her inability to find her own shoes.  She lobs tennis balls, cartwheels until she's dizzy, and whisks away from me on her scooter down the sidewalk.

She's the child who continues to break me into motherhood, just new stages of it.  Stages like getting pierced ears or entering the store Justice in the mall.

She's a far cry from the infant who used to raise one fist in the air in a baby power salute.

And I'm a far cry from the concerned new mama who used to stand by the bassinette, traumatized by the length of time between her baby breaths.

How much we've both grown these past eight years.

Happy birthday, kiddo.  I'm so glad that we've learned the ropes together.

9

You Know How Quiet

She knocks on the bathroom door as I'm fixing my hair before leaving for work.  It's still dark outside, and she squints at the brightness of the overhead light.

"Can I please go downstairs and watch some TV?"

It's the question she asks every morning, groggily.  A half hour of cartoons for her is like a cup of coffee for an adult; it propels her into wakefulness.

I nod, give a morning hug, and offer the perfunctory response, "Yes, just tiptoe downstairs.  Your sisters still are sleeping."

Today she looks at me, "Mom, you know how quiet I am."

This is true.  I know exactly how quiet she is while in motion, which on a scale of one to ten, with one signifying silence and ten rivaling a plan taking off, registers around a seven.  This child can impressively thud her down a flight of stairs, knocking into walls and other large, stationery objects in a way that belies her lithe, forty-eight pound frame.

Yes, child, I know how quiet you are.  Which is why I say it again.  "I do, sweetie.  Be sure to tiptoe."

0

When $15 Goes Missing

As the evening quickly darkens, I'm walking along my street back to our house with the girls in tow.  Reese has been selling cookie dough for a school fundraiser.  Extrinsic motivation works for this girl.  Just the promise of earning up to 20 plastic penguins to string on her fundraising lanyard has her itching to sell.  (Obviously, I need to capitalize on this in conjunction with household chores.)

After the girls kick off their shoes and hang up their jackets, I review the order form: one hundred and five dollars worth of cookie dough sold.  A good start.  Then I look in our envelope and find ninety dollars.

Somehow we had misplaced fifteen dollars.  And when I mean "somehow," I mean "by repeatedly dropping the money envelope on the sidewalk" and when I say "we," I mean "the child who loves to fundraise."

Rushed this time, we put on our shoes and jackets back once again and troll up and down the street.  I rotate the flashlight slowly as it were a lighthouse beacon searching out the lost dollar bills that (I hope) are still afloat in the waves of our neighbors' grass.

We reach the end of our street.  No luck.  Then I point the flashlight down the final driveway and see a flutter of dollar bills in the far corner.  Reese snatches them all.  The prodigal money had returned.

Once we're near our house, I comment to Reese.  "God sure took care of that for us."

She pauses for a moment.  "Did you pray about it, Mom?"

I hadn't.  I hadn't even thought about praying, to be honest.  As soon as I realized that the money was missing, I had gone into action-mode: searching out the flashlight and rallying the troops.  "God still helped us, though," I added.

She looks up at me in the glow of our porch light.  "Well, I prayed."

And this mama's heart is full tonight.

4

Feeling Legitimate as a Parent (After 7 Years)

Today, my oldest daughter turned seven.  Seven years old.  Somehow having a child this age brings an air of legitimacy to this whole parenting gig.  I often feel like I'm still learning the ropes of motherhood, still testing the waters, still hoping that I'm getting things right (enough).

I've been feeling this way for seven years, give or take a few days when I either felt that I had my act together entirely (I am mother. Hear me roar!) or when I crashed into a deep abyss convinced that I've irrevocably scarred her for life with some horrifying combination of my impatience, my anger management failings, my forgetfulness as a Tooth Fairy, too many chicken nuggets, too much television, and one bad haircut when I trimmed her bangs to roughly one centimeter in length.

Despite all of this, she's turning out just fine.

Not just fine -- amazing.

Last night I tucked her into bed -- her last ever tuck-in as a six-year-old -- and I laid down beside her.  I told her about the first moment I laid eyes on her: how I knew that she was amazing then, and how seven years later I continue to be utterly convinced of the very same thing.

They steal your hearts, these kids.  You're never the same.   For seven years, I've been entirely undone.

8

Little Mysteries

Each Thursday Reese returns from school with two library books in her backpack. For the past few weeks she's selected cookbooks.  She loves cookbooks. She pours over the pages, lingers over the pictures, and announces we've got to try that! whenever she finds a recipe that looks especially enticing.  Or a recipe that insists on mixing the ingredients with your hands.

I'm not creative or elaborate in the kitchen.  If I could secure outside help to complete any one of my regular domestic duties, I'd bypass assistance with cleaning or laundry without a second thought and instead select a personal chef to prepare our dinners.

Yet, Reese is my daughter.  The other week her school held a large fundraiser where gift baskets were raffled.  Reese wagered all five of her tickets on one basket that was heaped full of baking supplies: cookie sheets, cupcake trays, measuring cups, dish towels, and boxed cake and brownie mixes.

She won.  Our dining room table is littered with the contraband.

The only explanation for this might reside in the fact that I've always invited the girls to help me in the kitchen, especially when I'm baking.  As they stand on chairs at the kitchen island, they measure ingredients, pour, and stir.  Reese has begun cracking eggs without getting any bits of shell into the bowl.  Their involvement slows down the preparation, of course.  They jostle for position and occasionally fight over the mixing duties, but as we're all gathered in the kitchen I sense we're making more than a meal or a dessert.

I'm definitely making memories, and I just might be making a little chef.

She's a beautiful mystery to me.

Our children contain parts of us, yet they're so much more.  They're products of nature and nurture, such interesting amalgamations of personality and preferences.  I marvel when I read her teacher's words on her progress report: "Reese clearly has a strong math mind. She amazes us sometimes with her math fluency and speed in figuring out problems in her head."

She gets this from her father, I know, and yet I marvel.  She amazes me, too.  Our little girl: a lover of cookbooks and fluent thinker at math.  What else is hidden in there?  What other talents are under the surface that will rise to the top?

I can't wait to see.
 
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1

Giving Thanks for the Oldest Child

Do you know what else I'm thankful for?  I'm thankful for my oldest daughter who lives life with such candor and passion.  Dearest Reese, you were created to jump into piles of leaves.

As a true force to be reckoned with, you've made your presence known since birth.  You've climbed onto countertops, leapt off trampolines, cried when your favorite pizza shop closed, shrieked in laughter, and created more than your fair share of mess.  You've mastered monkey bars and practiced karate chops on your sister.

Your curiosity is insatiable.  You dissect seeds, pull apart flowers, and embark on elaborate nature walks throughout our backyard.  You see things that others would miss.  You're mathematical and scientific, able to understand how things work and fit together, traits that I someday hope to possess.

Your secret spy book, a small wire-ringed notebook, is filled with cryptic notes about important observations and events in your life, like the tantrum that your little sister threw or the treasure hunt that you're staging.  Your letters, large and written heavily in pencil, capture these moments for posterity.  I wonder if you'll journal when you grow up.

Reese, you've rescued baby birds and befriended the child who doesn't have many friends, actions which show me you posses just as much sensitivity as you have shown strength.  You're maturing right before my eyes, and I couldn't be any more proud of you.

Until tomorrow, that is, when I'm sure I'll be prouder still.  Our sweet and mighty Reese, we are so thankful for you.  We love you.


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1

Stained

In case you were wondering what six-year-old hands would look like after they spent a half hour cracking open a bucket full of walnuts that they painstakingly had collected from their grandparent's yard, wonder no more. They look like this:

That is, they look like this after you've washed and scrubbed them, let them soak in the bathtub until they were sufficiently pruney, and let three days pass.  They look a little worse the actual day of the walnut-cracking.

I have a newfound respect for walnuts.  Don't mess with them.  They've got staying power.

3

Loving Noodles. And a Fish. And You.

Last night at dinner, Brooke declared that she loved noodles.

Reese propped her elbows onto the table, pushed back her plate, and said, "Well, I love chocolate cake.  But when I say love, what I really mean is that I like it a lot.  It's not the same love that I sometimes say when I really love something."

I'm blown away by her perception of language here.  Such insight into subtle semantics -- how our English language uses the term love interchangeably for both our inconsequential likes (I love pizza) and our significant commitments of the heart and will (I love you; will you marry me?)

I prod Reese to elaborate.

"Well," she continued, eyeing Brooke across the table, "If I said that I loved something really great -- like a new hiding spot in our backyard or the monkey bars at school -- I actually mean that those things are really fun.  But when I say that I love Mommy or Daddy or our fish, what I mean is that I really do love them."

"Reese, " I interjected.  "We don't even own a fish."

"But I sure would love him if we did."

7

Meet the Teacher

This afternoon Reese and I headed to her elementary school to meet her teacher for the upcoming year.  She's nervous about starting first grade.  As we walked along the sidewalk, I took her hand into my own as a gentle reminder that I was near.

"Mom, I'm scared," she admitted.  "I think I might faint."

I glanced down at her.

"What does faint mean, anyway?" she continued.

"It means that you get weak and fall onto the floor," I answered, wondering how she managed to use the word correctly in context without knowing its meaning.  I squeezed her hand in reassurance.  "You're going to be just fine, kiddo."

Once inside, we greeted her new teacher, explored the classroom, and said hello to her classmates.  Then Reese tugged on my arm and pointed out the window.

The playground.

The place where she breezes across monkey bars, scales the spider climber, and dangles from the chin-up bar.  Out of all the places in the school, I think it's where she feels most comfortable.

Despite the drizzly day, we headed there immediately.  Her nervousness dissipated as she climbed and ran, and for those few moments, I don't think the prospect of starting first grade daunted her.  Fainting was no longer an option.

If she can scale those monkey bars, she's going to be just fine scaling the challenges of first grade.

3

What's in a Name?

Joel and I studied the meanings before selecting our daughters' names.  When we were in the hospital cradling our sleeping and swaddled six-pound, one-ounce firstborn, we couldn't have projected that Reese (which means ardent, passionate, and fiery) would so aptly fit the child she would grow to become.

For your Jane Austen buffs, she's much more Elizabeth than Jane, much more Marianne than Elinor.  She's a child who cried -- hard -- when her favorite pizza shop recently went out of business, choking out between sobs, "I will never find another pizza that I like as much as that pizza, maybe not for the rest of my life!"

Three days later, she asked Joel to drive back to the shop just to make sure that it was still closed.  It was.  She cried again.

To put it mildly, the girl feels things acutely.

While driving by ourselves last weekend, Joel and I discussed her name.

"We could have chosen a name that meant relaxed or peaceful," I noted.

"Or mute," he added.

Alas, we didn't.  A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but we both suspect that our Reese would, were she not Reese called, retain that same temperament which she owes without the title.

1

On Slow Play

Those pork chops look delicious.

I don't typically wake up to those words.  Then again, I don't typically fall asleep on the couch for an hour while the little ones are taking their afternoon naps.  Being that Reese is a six-year-old who recognizes an opportunity when she sees one, she capitalized on my comatose state by flipping channels and immersing herself in a cooking show on TV.

Hence the commentary on pork chops that roused me from my slumber.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't be surprised.  She is the child who I discovered at 6:30 in the morning sitting on the downstairs couch wearing only her underwear, eating chocolate pudding, and watching Sports Center a few years back.

She has eclectic viewing tastes.

Most afternoons while her sisters nap, though, she's not learning how to pan fry pork.  You'll most often find us playing games: Go Fish, Crazy Eights, Memory, Chutes and Ladders, Sequence for Kids.  You name it, we play it.

The problem is that Reese, who normally operates as a high-speed kind of a girl, morphs into a person whose decision-making skills flow more slowly than molasses.

To put it in perspective, if I walked at the pace in which Reese plays a board game, I would lose balance due to the unnaturally long lapse between when my left foot treads in front of my right.  It's painful to witness.  Please, please, would you just pick up a card and lay down a chip already?

Sometimes I consider gnawing off my arm.  Clearly, God is refining my gift of patience.

Slow play can be funny, though, as shown by Ben Crane, a guy who seems right at home wearing a wetsuit.  And a helmet.  Okay, you've just got to watch him for yourself:



He's the reason why my children go around the house singing the Golf Boys song.  The oh, oh, oh lodges itself in your head, but then again, I do need something to sing to myself as I'm waiting for Reese to make her next move.

2

We Do Things Differently

Yesterday evening we had a couple over for dinner.  The young man has been involved with the campus ministry that Joel leads for a few years, and his girlfriend was visiting from out of town.  He wanted us to meet her.  They seem serious.

Before they arrived, I prepped the girls to be on their best behavior.  This instruction mostly goes out the window, and par for the course, as soon as they crossed the threshold Reese launched into a demonstration of how loudly she can blow the whistle she received as a birthday party favor (side note: never do this to other parents), and Brooke crisscrossed the hallway and kitchen on her trike.

Chaos, as usual.

This morning as we ran errands, Reese had some questions.  "So, are they boyfriend and girlfriend?"

I nodded.

She tilted her head to the side.  "How old do you need to be to have a boyfriend?  A lot older, like twelve?"

Before responding, I reminded myself that the age of twelve would seem a lot older to Reese.  It's two years past the elusive leap into double-digits.  It's doubling her life span.  It's the equivalent of me turning 66.

"Even older than twelve, honey."

"Okay."  She looked out the window, content with my answer, but something in me wasn't ready to let the conversation drop.  Not yet.

"You know, Reese, there are going to be some girls who have boyfriends when they're twelve, probably even earlier.  You aren't going to, though.  Our family does things differently than some families, and that's okay."

She's heard me say it before.  We do things differently.  We do things differently with the type of music we listen to, with the type of television we watch, and with the type of clothes that will be appropriate.  I'm teaching them now that these are protective measures, not restrictive ones.

I want the girls to realize this from a young age.  We play by different rules than some people they'll meet.  As followers of Christ, we might say no to certain requests that other parents say yes to.

Christianity is an upside-down faith.  The first will be last, and the last will be first.  It's better to give than to receive.  Humble yourself, and you will be lifted up.  Whoever loses his life will find it.  These are paradoxes that may baffle the mind, but they resound in the spirit.

How could this not impact our day-to-day lifestyle and decisions?

So, when I steal a few seconds to tell my six-year-old that boyfriends aren't necessary, I'm priming the pump, setting the expectations in advance, and reminding -- as gently as possible -- to get used to it, kiddo.  You'll understand our rationale someday, even if you may not when you turn twelve.

We do things differently, and that's okay.

4

A Nose-Up

I've never been one to ease into things.  I'm more a full-throttle type of gal.  Although it might take me a while to make a decision, once I'm committed, I'm committed.  Period.

You might call it focused.  You might call it strong-willed, or driven, or Type A.

Whatever you call it, I see it in my oldest daughter.  (To borrow a phrase from a friend, when you put the two of us in a room, it's the impenetrable force verses the immovable object.)  The girl's got grit.  This will serve her well in life, I remind myself as we work to mold this attribute for good -- say, productive leadership and resistance to peer pressure; rather than for evil -- namely, becoming a dictator of a small country.

She takes this drive to everything she does.  She's conquered the monkey bars both forward and backward, and now she's out to master chin-ups.  When she saw these pictures, she commented, "I'm only at a nose-up, not a chin-up yet.  You've got to take me to the park so I can practice some more."

I don't think anything is going to stop this little girl.

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4

Graduated

The final day of August 2010 was just an ordinary day, but September started in a noteworthy fashion when Reese boarded the school bus for the very first time.

As of today, the child is a kindergarten graduate. 

As someone who's just a bit sappy, I'll willingly admit that a small lump formed in my throat as I watched her shake her teacher's hand and accept her certificate on that small stage in the school's cafeteria.

If every year whips by as quickly as this one has, she'll be headed to college next week.

Here's to the lazy, slow days of summer.

0

Slammed Door + Hand = Bad Combination

Quarter to eight is the time when our girls always are getting ready for bed.  Teeth are brushed, pajamas are pulled over heads, and lights are shortly out.

We had an exception last week.  Reese overturned the normal end-of-the day routine when she slammed her finger in the door between the garage and our hallway right before her bedtime.  I heard the cry before I saw the damage.

The door was shut completely.  Her finger was pinned, and there she stood, crying and shaking, as Joel opened the door to release her bruised and bloodied pinkie.

I don't know how doctors and nurses do what they do.

We headed straight to an urgent care center.  After two ice packs, a steep dose of Tylenol, an X-ray, a thick gauze bandage, one kind doctor who performed magic tricks and doled out generous amounts of stickers, and a good report (no broken fingers), Reese and I headed into the parking lot for our drive home.

It was over an hour past her bedtime.  She commented on the darkness and admitted that she was tired.  During the drive home her head slumped into the side of her booster seat.  She unconsciously drew her thumb to her mouth for comfort.

She'd been through a lot.

"You know what, Mom?"

"What, honey?"

"I'm kind of sad that I'm not going to be able to play on the monkey bars at recess tomorrow."

That's exactly when I knew that her recovery was going to be a quick one.  Very little gets in between our girl and the monkey bars.

2

Headache Remedy

I returned from work this morning and found my daughter looking like this:

Considering that she wears band-aids as accessories, I was rather confident that the one plastered across her forehead was just for show, not to cover a legitimate injury.  Or, she had a headache.  Either way, the placebo effect works.

The best part is that three years ago, a certain big sister of hers had the same idea:

You could never discern that these two are related, could you?

6

Oh, Happy Day

Do you see this baby?  This eyes-still-scrunched, face-still pink, fists-still-balled six pounds, one ounce baby girl?

She grew into a one-year-old who lunged face-first for her first slice of birthday cake,

turned into a two-year-old who discovered how to smear diaper cream over her face while quietly playing in her room,

developed into a three-year-old who learned to embrace her new role as as a big sister,

matured into a four-year-old who couldn't ever explore and question enough,

and became a five-year-old with a flair for performing.  And random costumes.

She's six today.

You think you couldn't possibly love them any more, and then you do.

Happy birthday, Reese.  You are a wonder.

5

Interrogation

I can't help but overhear our five-year-old questioning our two-year-old.  "Brooke, did you move the ceramic nest that I brought home from school?  I made it in art class.  It's very special, and I had it right here.  Did you move it?"

Brooke says no.

"But you must have moved it.  It was here and now it's gone.  Tell me, did you move the nest?"

"No."

"Come on, Brooke.  I know you moved the nest.  Now tell me, did you move it?" 

"No."

Reese is getting more agitated.  "You moved the nest.  I know you moved the nest.  Tell me, where is the nest?"

The only things preventing this from being a full-blown interrogation is the lack of a locked-down room with a table, an uncomfortably bright low-hanging light fixture, and a one-way window with a sampling of intelligence experts watching from the outside while scribbling furitive notes on clipboards and making cryptic remarks to one another.

"I don't have the nest!"  Brooke's voice rises.

"Where is the nest?  Tell me.  Did you take the nest?"

Brooke cracks.  "Yes."

"I knew it!  Now tell me where you put it."

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know where you put it?"

Brooke pauses for just one moment.  "Because I didn't take it."

I'm not sure what to make of this exchange.  Either I have a daughter whose budding interrogation skills cause the innocent to admit to wrongdoings that they didn't commit, or I have a daughter who could (nearly) dodge a lie-detector test.

We've still haven't found the nest.

2

Tangled Up

Our town has a dollar theater that shows movies that have already left the box office and are due for DVD release.  It was the perfect opportunity to take Reese to see her first movie: Tangled.

I didn't tell her where we were going, but I dropped hints in riddle form as we drove.

Speaking slowly, I offered words as clues.

"Long," I began.

Reese immediately countered, "Short!"

"No, we're not playing opposites.  Listen to the words and try to guess what they have in common.  These are your clues."  I paused.  "Long and blonde."

Silence from the backseat.

"Long, blonde, and brush."

"You're buying me a long yellow hairbrush?" Reese tentatively guessed.

"No.  Think about it.  What's long, blonde, and can be brushed?"

She gasped.  I glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of her broad smile.  "I know!  You're going to dye my hair and let me grow it out!"

Not quite.

As we pulled into the theater's parking lot, she looked toward the theater, to me, back to the theater, and then clasped her hands and lifted them toward her heart.  "We're going to see Tangled?"

Bingo.

The two of us sat side by side in the darkened theater.  At one point in the movie, she leaned her head onto my shoulder, and we snuggled into one another as best as we could despite the armrest.

I think I'll keep our movie stubs forever.

6