When we look at Lily's room, we still see you.

Just a week before I went into labor with Lily in February 2014, I wrote this post to celebrate all the love we felt when we looked around the nursery. In each blanket, each stuffed animal, each book, each dress, we saw the support of our friends and family from near and far.

The other day, I ran across that post again and began reflecting on how much has changed. Lily's closet and dresser are not nearly as neat; books are strewn across the floor thanks to her insistence on constant reading; "Dory Fish" is much loved and carried throughout the house, never left calmly on a shelf. However, the most important part of Lily's room has not changed a bit: we still see you.

That humidifier? It's been through several incarnations, but I still remember Jeff's cousin who swore to us that it would be incredibly necessary to get through winter cold and cough season: she was right. The xylophone was a gift for Lily's first birthday from Jeff's brother and sister-in-law that she still plays daily. And the stacks of clothes on the bottom shelf? Those are the generous hand-me-downs from countless colleagues who have prepared us for the years ahead.

No doubt, Lily's closet looks like barely organized chaos to anyone else. But we know that the bottom rack is full of more hand-me-downs that will dress Lily until she's at least 4, that there's a beautiful Laura Ashley lamp donated from a neighbor tucked in back and awaiting Lily's big girl room, and that the daisy dress on the top rack was a second birthday present from a neighbor who has become a close friend.

Perhaps people don't understand when I opt out of toddler book exchanges, but this is the beginning of why. These shelves are full of favorite books from Lily's godmothers and godfather, from aunts and uncles and grandparents, from friends near and far. When we open two (or three or four) to read each night, we often pause to tell Lily about the person who gave it to her, to remind her how many people around the globe love her and want to nurture her love of a good story. (Bonus points if you noticed what's at the center of the shelf on top--remember that whale?)

Lily tells us daily that she's a big girl, but a few things help remind us she's still our little Peanut. The blanket on the back of her rocker, sewed lovingly by hand by a friend I haven't had the chance to see in years, goes on the floor every night for story time. Her twilight turtle, given by a dear friend who I love despite never having met, has to be set to blue and placed on the footstool every night as she falls asleep. And those ribbons full of barrettes behind the chair? Many were handmade by a woman who has become one of my closest friends (and whose daughter is decidedly Lily's bestie!). But I'd be most remiss to move on from this photo without mentioning the painting hanging above the chair, a beautiful work by my talented sister-in-law that Lily loves to describe in detail.

This final photo wasn't a featured part of that original blog post on January 31, 2014, but it is now perhaps the place where I most see those who love Lily and who love us. There's a Winnie the Pooh from Ganny and Gannydaddy, purchased in anticipation of her first visit to Disney, and a Piglet purchased after her first time on the Winnie ride there. Dory Fish is now a crib regular and came from one of Jeff's dear friends, while Penguin was a recent arrival from Grandma and Grandpa. Petey the Pelican has been around since our first visit to Florida, and the hippo arrived from Lily's godfather along with a "first doctor" kit. And Otty the Otter? He's a recent addition, purchased during our trip to the Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta this June. If you peek through the slats at the far end of the bed, you'll even catch sight of a blue blanket, hand knit by one of my sweetest friends who is soon awaiting a little one of her own. Lily still uses that blanket daily, except now it's Sheepie and Lambie who are rocked gently in it, rather than her.

And so this post is to say thank you. Thank you to all of you who invest in Lily and in us, who support us and bolster us and speak words of wisdom and truth. We are all better for having you in our lives.

Sweet Guillie-Girl

Over three years ago, I wrote this post and unabashedly proclaimed my love for our three cats. In the years since then, I find more posts have focused on Lily than on Rosie, Guillie, and Ozzy, but the furry trio still makes their cameo appearances here and there. However, the "cameo" title is limited only to this blog; in real life, they are title characters in our story, perpetually under our feet or snuggled on our laps every moment that we're at home.

Perhaps the quietest, the least likely to inform me of her needs but the most likely to be there to respond to mine, has always been Guildenstern. In fact, if I'm truly honest, I didn't pick Guillie out of the litter because she stuck out on her own; I picked her because of the way she was protecting her smallest sister, the tiny runt I already had my heart set on. As I watched the four kittens playing in a room full of rambunctious pets, time and again, I watched Guillie place herself between Rosie and a much larger cat or dog. It was undeniable: she was her sister's armor, and there was no thought of leaving the house with one and not the other.

In the sixteen years since then, I've seen that relationship play out more times than I can count. It is always Rosie who has tucked herself into the comfort of Guillie's body or who has watched her sister's lead in stalking a bird or squirrel out the window, just as it is always Guillie who has gone first at the vet or who has allowed Rosie to steal a few of her treats. We used to always joke that Guillie was "an Eyeore," carrying her personal rain cloud wherever she went, but I think our gentle jabs were inaccurate. Guillie is quite like Eyeore, but not in that way; rather, she is the Eyeore who reminds us that "a little consideration, a little thought for others, makes all the difference."

As Jeff frequently likes to remind both girls, he's now officially known them for more than half their lives: they were a mere 6 years old the night he first came to my apartment to make dinner and spent hours down on the floor with them, dutifully trying to figure out which cat was which (and dutifully laughing at my Top Gun references: "They just feel the need: the need to knead!"). And while he might not always admit it in Ozzy's presence, he has long had a deep love for Guillie. This doesn't surprise me, as they both approach the world in a similar way, watching first, carefully considering, and then perhaps taking just a wee nap before progressing further.

Guillie has always tolerated her world patiently. Whether it's the silly Christmas bells we place around her neck or the small addition to the family that arrived when she was gently aging towards 14, she lets us know her opinion of the matter not with claws or hisses but merely with looks and postures. She'd almost seem to say, "Yes, if you should need this amusement to make your day better, well, then, alright. But I don't like it."

And so it is with great patience--patience beyond either Jeff or my understanding--that Guillie has always approached Lily. Quietly snuggled by her side when she's sick, always waiting on the storytime blanket after bath, joyfully rubbing her face against a board book, dutifully watching from the window as Lily plays on the front walk, stoically enduring being carried from room to room by a clumsy toddler, Guillie has taught us what it means to be selfless.

And so these reasons are why--these and so many more--that it has been so hard to decide that it is time to at last release Guillie from all the pain her kidney and heart disease has brought her and allow her to peacefully take flight to a heaven full of warm laps and tuna on demand. When our home wakes up quite a bit emptier this Thursday morning, I think perhaps it is Lily who will miss her Guillie the most. For the past several days (since we knew this decision was imminent), we've tried explaining to her how wonderful it is that Guillie will get to be with Jesus in heaven. Lily always seems quite excited by this idea at first (for she knows how wonderful life with Jesus must be), but then she inevitably takes my chin in her little hands and turns my teary cheeks to hers: "But Guillie come back 'morrow, right, Mommy?" When I try to explain that she won't, Lily leans her sweet head against my shoulder and sighs, "I a little bit sad, Mommy. I love Guillie. I want her stay."

Me too, sweet girl, me too. I have no good reply for you, but I can promise you this: we will hug our memories tightly to us for the rest of our lives.

Sweet Secrets

Note: this post was written 4/22/16, but I could not post it until today when the public announcement of my new position as an upper school academic dean was made.

*   *   *

I was grateful for stop lights on that chilly November morning. In the slanting rays of early sun, I could gently tap the underside of my new ring against the top of the steering wheel, turning it first one way and then the other to see how it caught the light, watching sparkly shapes bounce off the interior of the car's hood. Since Jeff put it on my hand the previous evening, I hadn't moved it from its new home. Though it had yet to settle on the ring finger of my left hand--yet to make the well-worn indentation that speaks to years of a partnership--I couldn't imagine taking it off. For now, just for that morning, the secret remained mine; I even intentionally wore a sweater with long sleeves that I could stretch over my hand, pushing my thumb through a small hole. Though I daydreamed of the revelatory day ahead as I revealed the surprise to colleagues and students, for just that moment, in the quiet hum of my car as I waited at the red light just off the Garden State Parkway, the news was mine and mine alone.

*   *   *

Despite the chaos of the day, my phone was wedged tightly in my pocket everywhere I went. There was hardly a moment to breathe between one end-of-year event and the next; at each, my absence might be conspicuously noticed. Never trusting myself to feel the vibration of the call, I anxiously checked the blank screen every few moments, willing it to light up with the only number I cared to see. When it finally did, I skirted around students to find a quiet nook in the performing arts building, a place where no wayward teacher or well-intentioned administrator might find me. I cautiously raised my phone to my ear, then awaited the words. When the numbers reported were far higher than even I could have hoped, I sank to the ground, hand pressed against my stomach, reassuring myself that little Lily was really tucked safely in there. A senior glanced down the hallway, making her way to the auditorium where graduation traditions were about to begin but pausing long enough to lift an eyebrow and tilt her chin up. The smile that spread across my face told her that all was just fine--even though the secret was not yet ready to be spilled. Or perhaps because the secret was not yet ready to be spilled--because Lily and I got to keep it safely and sweetly stowed between ourselves for a few more weeks.

*   *   *

I stopped outside the door, pausing on the steps that would lead me down to the road and across the sidewalk that passed between two wide expanses of green. When I'd walked across forty minutes before, I hadn't realized it was chilly--the anxious buzzing in my stomach and warm dampness of my palms had pushed all other physical sensations away. But now--now that a wide smile was beginning to spread across my face and my fingers were itching to place calls and send texts--I was suddenly aware of each detail of my surroundings. It was no matter that the clouds obscured the sun or that only a handful of students sat in the barren quad--this newfound secret, this thing that I now knew--drifted a sweet haze across the campus. It seemed impossible that no one else knew, that no one else wanted to shout it from the trees or whisper it in someone else's ear. But then--as I stretched out my legs to hasten my return to my classroom--a shiver of delight danced over me as I remembered that sweet secrets last only temporarily--that they will soon enough be known and then spread wide. 

*   *   *

These moments--the ones no one else knows about it, the ones that are held tightly, securely in our own minds and bodies--these are the ones that are fleeting. Who knows how many more await me? 

I shall enjoy this one.

Chalk on the Walk

I remember walking around our neighborhood the first summer after we moved in. As I wound my way down the sidewalk, I'd encounter new masterpieces at each step. Roughly sketched in colorful pastels and joyfully filled in with broad scribbles, each chalk drawing enticed me, drawing me in. Much like one of my favorite scenes in Mary Poppins, I found myself desperate to jump inside the neighborhood children's imaginations and explore all the happiness within.

And yet, in those days, it seemed impossible that our own walk would ever be brightly colored with drawings created by jubilant little hands, that hand-prints made of powdery dust would grace my hallway, that "Mommy draw, too?" would become a query so regular it borders on mundane.

But there is nothing ordinary at all about the way our sidewalk looks after a sunny spring weekend, after Lily has demanded that we write her name over and over, after the older girls have sketched numerous hopscotch courts, after once-new pieces of chalk are ground down to just nubs. There is so much joy in each line and circle, each smiley face and balloon, each letter that spells out the name of another friend who stopped by to say hello at some point in the weekend.

Remember Mary Poppins' ability to jump into that drawing? It seems that I have finally jumped into one of my own--and I have no plans to leave anytime soon.

My antidote

Last week, good friends of ours--Lily's favorite friend--moved out of the neighborhood. I was so sad that dinner consisted of Lily and me snuggling on the sofa, eating chicken nuggets and watching Frozen.

Yesterday, I spent the better part of the morning panicking about how laundry, grocery shopping, and general tidying were all going to get done. My panic sent Jeff into a tailspin of his own.

I burned a batch of granola today--the batch Lily had carefully helped me put together that she was so excited to taste.

Mom guilt hangs over me all the time. A thousand articles and blog posts and Facebook updates and tweets have been written on the topic, and I'm not sure I have anything new to say. But I do know this: my mom guilt comes not from any external force but from that nagging voice in my head, the one that reminds me that too much screen time is bad and too many pasta dinners are bad and too little time spent reading is bad and too many moms do this better than me (and with more kids and harder jobs and husbands with longer hours to boot).

But--and here's the good news--I think I've found an antidote. It doesn't always work, and, just like any medicine, the dosage isn't always exactly correct or administered at the right time. But she's an antidote all the same.

Now, let me be clear before I proceed: Lily's job is not to make me feel better. It's not her responsibility nor her goal. But sometimes a lot of the time, she manages to heal me without even knowing she's done it. Because here's the amazing thing: for all the times I mess up, for all the shame and guilt I feel that I'm not doing well enough by her, for all the nights I worry and days I struggle to get through, she's a pretty amazing little girl. 

Will you indulge me a moment's elaboration?

Last week, we returned from two wonderful weeks' vacation in Florida to hit the ground running back in Virginia. Jeff worked Monday through Wednesday, which meant we were both run ragged by the end of that stretch. Wednesday, Lily had been through the ringer: she fell off our bed and bumped her knee, resulting in her favoring it, resulting in a pedi visit, resulting in x-rays. Turns out she was just fine, but it was a long day all the same. And, to make matters worse, I had an important after-school meeting at school and Jeff couldn't fudge getting into work by a second. We made it work: I left early (another working mom covered my job at the meeting without blinking an eye), Jeff stayed home 30 extra minutes, and Lily was happy to take a long walk in her trike. Still, by the end of the night, Lily and I were both "all done."

After getting out of the bath and arriving on the blanket in her room for snuggles, I attempted to use our NoseFrida, this snot-sucking device that Lily usually tolerates when she's got a stuffy nose. However, she wasn't having it that night. After a brief tug of war, she tossed the various parts across her room, then looked at me and laughed. I had no patience left, so I simply told her "big girls don't throw things" and left the room to replace her towel in the bathroom and take a deep breath myself.

When I returned to Lily's room, I found her quietly seated on her blanket. She had carefully reassembled the NoseFrida (not an easy task for an adult!) and positioned the tube in her nose. Looking up, she handed the mouthpiece end to me. I knelt beside her and carefully cleared each nostril. When finished, I told her how much I appreciated her and how proud I was of her. And then, to my astonishment, she very seriously turned her eyes to me and said, "No throwing." 

For all my failures, for all my shortcomings, our daughter understands her world. She reminds us to say grace before dinner, politely says "tank oo!" when given a treat by someone at church, and remembers (when prompted) that "sorry" is in order if she's taken a toy from a friend. Something about how we live our lives--in the moments I'm not trying to be a good mom--gets in there. She sees something in me that I don't even have the ability to see in myself--and she reflects it in her joyful, kind, smart approach to life.

Now, don't be misled--the guilt is still there almost every day, and the worry rarely subsides. But when I can step outside myself long enough to look at the silly face by my side, the one that shouts "Hi Mommy!" and "I love you, too!", I can remember that...

I'm doing okay.

She's doing okay.

We're doing more than okay. 

Dear Lily: Love you, too.

February 7, 2014          February 6, 2016

Dear Lily,

Two years ago today, I took a quick picture of my bump, then drove to school and worked with my students on their first major essay on The Odyssey. At the end of the day, I popped over to the gym but cut my workout short--I was just too tired and sore. Daddy and I decided to get a bite out at the Old Brogue, then came home to eat cupcakes and watch Netflix. We'd just settled on the first episode of Third Rock from the Sun, when you announced your imminent arrival and... well, you know the rest.

In the last two years, what an amazing, incredible, empathetic, gentle, silly, smart little girl you've grown up to be. You've survived your first blizzard (where the 30 inches of snow were a mere inch less than you!) and discovered the wonders of Play-Doh. You have come to expect certain routines from your day, such as Ozzy purring on your lap while you drink your morning milk, but you've also become adept at rolling with whatever life throws your way.

We look at you so many times every day and marvel "what a big girl!" You patiently trusted us when we told you that you must wear your new CARES harness for the flight to see Granny and Granddaddy, and you exuberantly raced around Sesame Place for "A Very Furry Christmas," jubilantly greeting Elmo and bravely trying each ride we suggested.

So it should come as no surprise to us that, yes, you are now two. That you are flying through toddlerhood, not without its bad days, but with the balance weighing heavily in favor of good ones. That you are often able to communicate what you need--to tell us when you'd prefer your water in a cup or when you'd like to have snack or who you'd like to invite for a play date. That you gleefully embraced each of your friends and chosen family as they walked through the door yesterday morning to celebrate your birthday and that you happily demanded "up" from the myriad of neighbors who you call "aunt" and "uncle" without hesitation. That--when we aren't close by--you understand that your godmother and godfather love you so deeply and will care for you however and whenever they are able.

We love you so much, little Peanut. We are in awe of you--but not for the reasons most parents might assume. Yes, we're delighted when you count to ten (though your favorite number, without a doubt, is "two!") or when you sing your own made-up songs. But we are most amazed, most teary-eyed, most in love with your personality--with who you are, not what you do or how you look.

You are, without a doubt, the most empathetic little two-year-old we've ever met. Your favorite birthday present (so far!) is a doggy that came in a crate with vet supplies. From the moment you opened it, you've needed to safely tuck your new pet in your arms and carry him everywhere we go, doling out "med-sin" and making sure he's regularly fed. You treat your living pets no differently--you sense Guillie's age and lay your head gently on her stomach each morning, carefully patting her and inquiring "K, Guillie? K?" When sadness overwhelmed me the night I learned of the loss of my beloved childhood horse, Rocky, and Daddy told you I had a boo-boo on my heart, you insisted on sitting in my lap, arms tight around my neck, asking "K, Mommy? K?" Just yesterday, when you pushed one of your favorite friends in a fit of toddler frustration, you immediately observed her tears, bent your head to say "Sorry," then gave her a hug. Your deep concern for others--for four-legged or two-legged or stuffed or swimming friends--is what astonishes us and makes us wonder how we ever got chosen as your mommy and daddy.

For the first time last week, as you sat on my lap after dinner and patiently waited for Daddy to bring your peaches, you turned your little round face to mine and exclaimed "Love you!" You've said it before but never been the one to initiate. Daddy stopped in his peach preparation and poked his head through the window from the kitchen to find me, tears ready to start, staring back at you in wonder.

Yes, sweet pea--always yes. Love you, too.

Love,

Mommy