"Is this a Mommy-Daughter night?"

When Lily was an infant and Jeff worked at least four nights a week, I remember so vividly dreading coming home on winter evenings alone, putting on NPR so I could listen to something of interest, stumbling through making a palatable dinner for one, and counting the minutes until the witching hour had at last passed and bedtime had arrived.

When Lily was a toddler and Jeff worked at least three nights a week, I remember still dreading coming home on winter evenings alone, enduring KIDZ BOP on the Pandora station, painstakingly creating a dinner that Lily might actually consume and I had no interest in, and counting the minutes until the tantrums had at last passed and bedtime had arrived.

Now that Lily is a preschooler and Jeff works only two nights a week, I anticipate with great excitement the nights Lily and I have to ourselves. By the time it's noon, everyone in the office has heard me talk about our Mother-Daughter Night, and Jeff reports that Lily tells everyone she encounters that it's going to be "just my special night with Mommy." We fluctuate between two favorite dates: a trip to the library followed by a visit to Panera or a visit to a game at my school followed by broccoli pasta at home.

With my commitment this year to attend one game a week, Lily has had no choice but to become my little sidekick on most Thursday afternoons. She's a cheerleader extraordinaire, shouting encouragement to the players, telling them "it's okay!" when they make an error, and even learning to spell out the school's name ("just like the big kids do!"). She's also got quite a fan club, whether it's the Lower School students who know her from extended care during faculty meetings or her favorite babysitter or the parents of my students who indulge her squirminess and giggles even when they've stretched my patience. She's been on the grass sidelines of soccer scrimmages, the wooden bleachers of field hockey games, and the polished floors of volleyball matches. Tonight, she took in her first squash match, and ice hockey is up next weekend.

Each time, at some point, she grabs my arm and asks if we might go home soon as she's getting a little bored and pretty hungry. So we make our way back to the car (where she clips herself into her car seat), open a bag of Smartfood to share on the drive, and take turns choosing favorite songs to sing along to on the winding back roads that take us home. Once there, she joins me in dinner prep, whether by chopping broccoli (with a very dull butter knife), measuring pasta, or simply telling me stories about her day at school as she colors at the butcher block in the kitchen (still perched in her learning tower, just as she has been for so long). When we finally sit down to eat, she happily hums "yum!" as she digs into her first bite of broccoli, pasta, and goat cheese, and she readily takes her bowl to the kitchen at the end of the meal, then leads the way upstairs to get ready for bed.

Is it always this perfect? No, of course not. Some nights hold unexpected tantrums, surprising meltdowns, or incredibly powerful bursts of frustration. (And those don't all always come from Lily--sometimes I'm just too overwhelmed at the end of the day, too.) But fewer nights hold those moments than they used to, and I found myself particularly grateful for that tonight as we curled up together in Lily's bed after her story, first quietly saying our prayers and then gently moving into favorite bedtime songs.

Here's what I realized tonight: Lily didn't cry today. (Or, at the very least, she didn't cry with me.) She didn't yell at me or lash out or get frustrated when things didn't go exactly her way. She rolled with what the evening brought, finding creative ways to solve problems (like the extra "D" she turned into an "A" when she realized she'd started "DADDY" off with too many "D"s). And she reminded me that, just as the infant and toddler stages didn't last forever, neither will this one.

So I'm going to soak up every minute of it that I get.

The Fourth Seat

I found our current dining room table on Craigslist when Lily was just a few months old. We borrowed a friend's truck and drove 45 minutes to pick it up, and we couldn't have been more delighted. The colors and style appealed to us, the fit was perfect for our dining room, and--best of all--it had an additional leaf that folded out from the middle, allowing us to extend our seating from 4 to 6 or even 8. As we sat at the table that first night, two chairs were left empty: the one that Lily would occupy once she was old enough and... the other one.

As Lily got a little bigger and moved from our arms into her high chair, I began to see our family materializing around that table, but looking at the fourth spot was always a bit bittersweet. We had yet to decide whether we would attempt to further grow our family to fit that chair or whether it would remain empty. The latter thought inevitably brought pinpricks of tears to my eyes; in spite of all that is our amazing daughter, I still sometimes feel that infertility and miscarriage robbed us of the family that we were supposed to have--the one we would have had if I just had been able to carry our early pregnancies to term. Now, with Lily over two and my own 40th birthday fast approaching, it just seemed I'd have to live with the constant reminder that I couldn't have all that I wanted.

And then a funny thing happened. That empty space started to get filled more days than not.

For the amount of food required to feed our family of friends at our annual Winter Whimsies party, the extra leaf was mandatory.

Lily had no trouble filling the additional seats we'd once thought we didn't need.

And, sometimes, chairs weren't even necessary at all--we just wanted to snuggle in as our perfect little family of three.

The days our table feels the most full, though, are the ones when that fourth seat (and often a fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth) are filled by the friends we are so blessed to call our family. It's not unusual to hear our door open at dinnertime and have a friend quickly pull up a stool at the corner to catch up about the day, and it's a rare weekend that doesn't see the table weighed down at least once with a variety of glasses, plates, and meals as an impromptu neighborhood potluck appears.

See, here's what I've learned about our fourth seat: it's not empty at all. It's full of more things than I ever thought a single chair could hold, some tangible and some not, some expected but most surprises. I've learned that my vision for our family table was so minute, so temporary, so myopic that only a complete upheaval of my design for my life could ever give me the freedom to allow it to hold all that it is able to.

Whatever your fourth seat may be, I wish it filled with more wonder than you could ever imagine.

Friday Night Family

Sometimes, life circumstances mean you don't live near your actual family. In our case, this is true because Jeff was willing to support me in our move to northern Virginia 8 years ago(!) when a phenomenal opportunity opened up at the school where I now work. It isn't easy to be away from your family for many reasons, but perhaps we feel it most strongly in those moments where we look at Lily and know how much she'd love to see her grandparents every week, how she'd adore the opportunity to help her aunt and uncle feed their ducks on Saturday mornings or go to dog shows on summer weekends with her grandma.  Those are just the moments when you miss your family, though.

When family is acutely needed is in a moment of crisis. The moment when you just need someone to pick up your daughter from school but you're both stuck at work, the moment when you both get a virulent stomach bug on New Year's Day and need someone to run out for Gatorade and Saltines, the moment when life socks you in the gut and it's all you can do to stay standing.

One of those moments happened for our best friends--two of Lily's godparents--last week. There was an acute crisis that was unavoidable and deeply sorrowful, and we just wanted to stop their hurting for a moment. So, we did the only thing we could think of to help--we took over their kids (and dog) for a couple of days so that they were free to travel to their family and be with them. And because they are our chosen family, it was a piece of cake: the kids know our house as well as they know their own, Lily was in heaven with plenty of attention, and Jeff got to be one of the neighborhood guys with a dog for a bit.

Because of all that--because it truly was no big deal to pitch in and help--it was shocking to come home Friday evening to the gorgeous bouquet of lilies pictured at the top of this post. Our friends had left them on our dining room table while we were out running errands, and I wish I had a picture of Lily's astonished face when she discovered them, then spent several minutes just gazing, whispering over and over, "I just love them." We didn't need anything in return for helping out--we just did what family would do in that moment. And then they did what the best kind of family also sometimes does--they said "thank you" in the most beautiful way imaginable.

And so we arrive at last night. A good friend in the neighborhood (the mom of one of Lily's besties) texted while we were out running errands to ask if Lily was still up for playing with her daughter while we sipped some wine and caught up. Of course we were! And so they arrived a half hour later.

And so our unexpected-but-perfectly-average neighborhood night began.

Over the course of the next hour, each swish of our front door opening brought more neighborhood friends into our dining room, each one bearing some beverage and much good cheer. (My favorite entrance arrived with a bottle of wine and a glass raised in each hand, singing out the infamous line, "It's all happening!") In spite of the rainy night, the fact that none of us had seen each other in over a week meant we were happy to crowd around our dining room table, munching on whatever snacks Jeff and I could find in the cupboard, catching up and eventually engaging in an hours-long game of Cards Against Humanity. (Don't worry, Lily and her friend were happily snuggled in sleeping bags upstairs before the jocularity really reached a fever pitch!)

The reason for the perfect end to our week was quite simple: though we live far from our family, we have chosen a family who lives in walking distance from our front door. There are no pretenses nor expectations, no need to blow dry your hair nor to touch up your make-up. We love each other because of who we are--because of who our families are--and that is enough.

Thanks, Friday Night Family. You rock our world.

The Birthday Girl with the Biggest Heart

The problem probably started here. (Though blaming The Kitten alone isn't really fair as Lily's heart was set on animals long before the Saturday in February when The Kitten entered our lives.)

As much as I tried to plan Lily's birthday as a tea party, as a princess ball, as some sort of preschool athletic contest, no plan made more sense than Lily's first choice: a pet adoption party. And so, when The Kitten entered our home just two weeks before the party, the plans were already in motion; she just fit in as a brilliant accessory.

The first step was to check in with the moms of the three friends Lily was having for the party. Once each mom told me her daughter's favorite animal, I headed over to Amazon to buy some adorable Beanie babies (and a roll of velcro--more on that in a second).

Tuesday night, the process continued with ribbon, velcro, and some serious blisters on Jeff's fingers as he began to execute the plans I'd concocted.

(Bonus points if you can find four creatures in this picture!)

Using ribbons I found in my mom's ancient sewing box (how cool is that?!), we spent the Tuesday night before the party cutting ribbons and velcro to make custom-fit collars and leashes that the girls would be able to take on and off themselves. Jeff even designed "wrist slips" so they could take their new friends for a walk!

Wednesday afternoon, I stayed a bit late at work to create some certificates and checklists for the party. Using some designs I found online as guides, I drafted my own preschooler-friendly versions.

Adoption certificate (l), vet checklist (r)

By Friday night after Lily's bedtime, Jeff had gotten everything we needed from Party City, and I was ready to start creating some goody bags. The idea was to go along with the pet adoption theme, and I was pretty pleased with the final products.

Each bag had "pet toys" (Animal Crackers), "Puppy Chow" (homemade from this recipe), "cat food" (Goldfish) and two barrettes (based on the favorite animals each mom gave me for her daughter). My favorite part, though, were probably the personalized labels that said "Lily's Pet Adoption Center - [girl's name]'s Take-Home Supplies - Thanks for adopting a new friend today!"

While I was busy assembling bags, Jeff was hard at work creating custom-fit "pet carriers" for each girl's Beanie Baby. (The plan was to give the girls the opportunity to decorate their bags with stamps and stickers, but they were too excited to slow down once they got to that part of the party!)

Saturday morning gave us just enough time to prepare the final stages of the party. (If the "Pet Adoption Center" looks familiar, you might be having a flashback to Lily's Birthday 3.0, when Jeff built the stand to be Lily's pizza parlor.)

And, of course, what would a pet adoption be without a vet to check out our new friends? Our neighbor's twelve-year-old daughter was absolutely amazing as our resident vet (who also helped us wrangle the preschoolers for two hours!).

The girls had a wonderful time: everyone loved their individual pets (I'm so glad I asked for favorites ahead of time so there was no fighting over who got each animal!) and had tons of fun playing with them and giving regular check-ups. As for me, it felt like I'd channeled just a tiny bit of the incredible treasure hunt birthday parties my mom created for me and my brother each year. If I gave Lily even a tenth of the joy I experienced on those Saturdays once a year, I'd be pretty pleased!

Once the preschoolers were tired out and ready for cake, it was time for the rest of our guests to arrive--about 40 in total comprised of our neighbors, friends, and "chosen family."

But this blog isn't complete without one more note: the one that inspired the post's title. Even before adopting The Kitten (a rescue who had been tossed by the side of the road in Mississippi at just a few weeks of age), Lily made a declaration: she wanted no presents for her birthday, only "food and treats for doggies and kitties who don't have any." Well, it turns out that, when you tell a lot of animal lovers that information, hearts are touched and supplies abound. 

So much was donated that we'll be splitting it between three different shelters: the Humane Society, Wolf Trap Animal Rescue (where The Kitten came from), and a local shelter one of her godmothers will be bringing her to in order to have a special visit and meet the dogs and cats her supplies will help.

All in all, a very successful start to Lily's fourth year! 

Post-script: The Kitten probably deserves her own post, but suffice for now to say that she's bringing a lot of joy to all of our hearts--even her big brother's!