Keep it Simple

One of my dearest cousins had her first baby last month. They named her Clementine. She is sweet and beautiful and still tiny enough that I could have just tucked her in my purse when I went to meet her for the first time. Alas, I value my relationships with my family and couldn't come up with a valid reason to have Morgan start visiting me in prison.

Prior to Clementine's arrival, I had the pleasure of helping with her baby shower. My cousin might be the cutest little pregnant lady ever. No, really.

The weather was perfect, the mood was enthused. Everyone was delighted to celebrate Clementine's upcoming arrival. There were gifts and games, and more food than twenty women could have possibly devoured. Not that we didn't make a good faith effort. Those sandwiches weren't going to eat themselves.

The shower was complete with a craft station, where people could decorate onesies for the baby. Several of them were covered in hand drawn art, a number of them had ruffles hot glued across the butt, and not a single one of them was something my cousin was ever going to put on her baby girl. Let's just say my family may be lacking a bit in the artistic skills department.

One of the most precious ideas at the shower was called a "Blessing Bowl" -- shower attendees took a few minutes to write words of support and love to the soon-to-be new parents. I wrote a short note to my cousin and her husband, reminding them that being each other's best friends was the best gift they could ever give their daughter. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Morgan hunched over the table. She was intensely writing her own note, guarding her sheet of paper so that no one could catch a glimpse. When she finished, she quickly handed it to me, demanding that I tuck it away immediately. I did, but not before I made myself privy to her little words of wisdom for the new mom. 

"Watch out for poop, Chelsea. From: Morgan"

No truer words were ever written. Congratulations, Chelsea and Patrick. And may you heed my daughter's advise for years to come. 

Little Fish, Big Pond

I have always loved the ocean. As a child born and raised in a land-locked state, the ocean was something grand and unattainable, full of mystery and magic. Stories of mermaids filled my childhood and I often longed to be a dolphin. To be fair, I was 12 and I also longed to marry Tom Cruise. 

Right after Morgan turned one, we took Morgan to the Atlantic ocean for the first time. We were in New Jersey for the wedding of David's brother and I set her on the warm sand. I was prepared for this Kodak moment, snapping photo after photo as she toddled across the beach. Unfortunately, of the nearly 30 (yes 30) pictures I took, she refused to look at me. I called her name, I made loud noises, I offered to buy her a pony. Nothing. Instead, I now have over two dozen photos of her eating some bacteria-covered clam shell while her diaper filled with sand.

At one point, someone offered to take our family picture. Although Morgan was just one, I wanted to have that memory of our time on the beach, the memento that would capture perfectly that chapter in our lives. And now we do. One exasperated mother and one angry toddler who could have given a shit about the magic and mystery of the ocean.

Fast forward 5 years. We spent some time on the Oregon coast this summer, and I was eager to have another opportunity to share with Morgan something I loved so much. I am a much wiser mother now, and knew not to put much pressure on Morgan. For all of her wild ways, there is a part of Morgan that is very reserved. New experiences often overwhelm her; she needs time to assess her environment before she jumps in. Pushing too hard makes her push back, something I have learned the hard way over years of "encouragement."

As we made our way to the water, I watched her. Her steps slowed, her lips forming a small "o" as she struggled to comprehend the vastness before her. She stayed back, unwilling to get too close to the water's edge. After a few moments, she stepped closer, squealing as the waves began to wash over her toes. Within minutes, she was out as far as I was comfortable with, begging me to let her swim in her clothes. She was now as in love with the ocean as I had always been, and I was now petrified she was going to be swept out to sea.

We left after much protest, her clothes wet and sandy, her words breathless.

"Mom, I was fearless!!!"

"No, baby girl, you weren't. You were very afraid when we got here."

"But Mom, I still got in the ocean, and I did it by myself!!!"

"I know you did, and that makes you very brave."

"But how is that different than fearless?"

"Because being brave means doing something even when you are scared or afraid. And that is so much more important than being fearless."


Always be brave, my baby girl. And try to keep the sand out of your underwear next time.

No Good Deed

The call came on a Friday night, from a number I didn't recognize. "Can you take them?" she asked, desperation seeping through her words. "It's just for the weekend, we hope. We're looking for their sister."

We've been working with Health and Welfare for three years, no one has ever called, no one has ever asked for our help. And now they needed us. But still, I hesitated. It had been a long week, and we were tired. I wanted to clean the house, work on our bathroom remodel, relax, be a family. It was that word - "family" - that gave me pause. How easily I was taking that word for granted, how quickly I was dismissing the needs of two small children whose own family had just failed them. How much I was regretting answering the phone.

And so we said yes. Morgan and I went to pick them up, prepared with nothing.

"Do you think they like gum? Maybe I can give them some gum. They might like that, right?" 

"I don't know, I have no idea what these little guys might like. But you can ask them."

Their caseworker brought them in. Their eyes scanned the floor, briefly sweeping across my feet. They looked at each other and then back to her, their tiny frames sharing one small edge of the doorway. She gently nudged them, encouraging them to cross the threshold. They edged in, slowly turning to meet my gaze. I smiled, awkwardly and expectantly, trying to mask the sense of panic that was welling within me. Morgan extended her hand, two pieces of gum clutched in her own sweaty palm. They both shook their heads, not ready to make this new connection. Morgan turned and looked at me; I nodded reassuringly. She was trying so hard.

I gathered up the few belongings they had and we made our way to the parking lot. The details shared were minimal: no food allergies, no bed wetting. Oh, and the youngest one had head lice. But it was being treated.

"Who's nervous?" I asked as we drove to our house. I raised my hand high. Theirs quickly followed. Finally, we had something in common.

David had made them beds on the floor, a pot of pasta was waiting for us when we arrived. We ate in near silence. They.were.so.hungry. I asked questions, they answered with nods or subtle shakes of their heads. It was going to be a long weekend.

I soon discovered they both had lice. And it was not being treated. The lice was so bad I could see the bugs crawling on their scalps when I parted their hair. We treated them until midnight that night, tediously combing through each strand. Morgan had been sitting next to them all evening.

The next morning, I spotted it. A tiny dot at the base of her hair. I wasn't sure if Morgan now had it, but I wasn't taking any chances. She wasn't going to the birthday party that afternoon.  I watched her little shoulders, shuddering sobs as I broke the news to her. "Sweetheart, it would be irresponsible. They will understand. We will do something special with them another time, I promise." But Morgan didn't understand. She looked at me pleadingly, begging me to change my mind. But I couldn't, and I didn't, and I broke her heart. And it made me question all of our choices.

Helping another family wasn't supposed to be at the expense of my own. But it was, and I couldn't fix it. Rationally, I knew that the loss of a birthday party paled in comparison to the loss of safety and security that brought these children to our home. I tried to convince myself that Morgan would one day appreciate this tiny sacrifice and look back on this weekend as a time we helped someone in need. But now, when it mattered the most in her little five year-old world, she was devastated, and I had caused it.

Despite her heartbreak, Morgan was gracious that weekend, sharing her space and her toys with two little people who literally had nothing but the clothes on their back. Over the course of the next three days, friendships were created, tough outer shells were cracked, and bonds were formed. And then they left.

The call came Monday morning. Their sister had been located and would pick them up that night.

"Do you think we will ever see them again?"

"I don't know. I hope not. If we see them again, that means their family is still broken. And our job was to help for just a little while until they could go home."

"Does this mean their family is fixed?"

"I don't know, baby girl. But I think they're working on it."

They left almost a month ago. David and I have still not talked about it. Health and Welfare has called us for two more placements. I declined both times.

Father's Day Fail

From the time someone first asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my mom encouraged me to become a teacher. "You will have summers off," she said. "You can stay home with your kids," she advised. My first semester in college, I declared myself an English major, confident my love of language would spill forward into the young minds I would eventually shape. But alas, those initial ambitions were short lived, quickly replaced by a 3-credit bowling class and the ever-challenging Math in the Modern World.  As it became clear I would never actually be a teacher, I did the next best thing. I married one.

Over the last ten years, David has enjoyed hard-earned and much-deserved summer vacations. For those of you who begrudge teachers their schedule, I challenge you to spend a month, week, or even a day in a classroom. I guarantee you will be both awestruck and exhausted. That shit is hard.

During his down time, David generally immerses himself with projects around the house and taking Morgan on little adventures. I am infinitely grateful for both of these things. However, the one thing David avoids at all costs is cleaning the house. I often come home to piles of dirty laundry, stacks of dirty dishes, and half-finished craft projects strewn about the house. Despite my begging pleading bitching gentle nudging, David has had no interest in running these parts of our home. He simply says, "Amy, I am just a terrible house husband. Really, I am." A total cop out, but he does manage to keep our daughter alive.

As this has been a running joke for much of our marriage, I thought I would poke a little fun at David's lack of house keeping skills in his Father's Day card this year. I carefully crafted my words, balancing my subtle jab against my gushing praise for him as a father. Except I failed to write one key word:

For the record, I meant HOUSE husband. David, you are not much of a HOUSE husband. But you are my best friend and one hell of a father. We are so lucky to have you...dirty dishes and all.

Pecking Order

Now that Morgan is in school full time, I have had to be a little more selective about the number and types of projects I decide to keep in her scrapbook. In addition to the standard construction paper and pasta projects, Morgan has reading, science, and math examples for me to sort out. When I opened her backpack on Friday, I was delighted to see what I thought might serve as her overall Kindergarten keepsake piece...the stick figure family portrait.

What first caught my eye was Morgan's little attempt at cursive. I remember spending hours and hours writing my name, swirling my letters across the page in long, dramatic strokes.  What I loved even more was that Morgan is trying to learn cursive on her own...half the kids in her class are still trying to make sure they can write in a straight line.

But what I REALLY loved is what I read on the rest of the page. The phrase "tallest to shortest" has a particular meaning in our house. For those of you who don't know, David and I met online. This meant  filling out lots of online profiles that made us both appear to be more attractive and more interesting than we are in real life. Rather than consider them outright lies, David likes to refer to some of his embellishments as part of his overall sales pitch to get me to have dinner with him. One of the biggest overstatements in his profile was his height. David Lorenzo is not now, nor has he ever been, 5'9" - never.

And now our lovely daughter has captured the truth for all time and eternity. According to this picture, I've got David beat by at least two feet...and I'm only 5'7" -

Thank you, Morgan. For keeping your dad humble and for giving your mom yet one more reason to throw out "I told you so."