My little Halloween treats...

Selective Learning

It's dinner time. Emery has littered the floor with her dinner, Clark is holding Jackson and Payton is chewing loudly on her turkey hot dog.

I quietly watch Payton and am struck by something. Earlier in the day I heard her yelling "NO" at Emery because she was climbing on Jack's swing (again). She's sarcastic, just like mommy and daddy and she picks up phrases here and there that we would rather her not pick up. No cussing, but a little too smart for a three year old.

But...why is that she chooses NOT to pick up on the fact that we chew with our mouths shut, say please and thank you and that we don't hit each other!

It's selective learning.

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The day was great and short. The two sometimes seem to go together. Payton was able to wear her costume to school. I, of course, was the only parent NOT attending the Halloween party. It broke my heart a little to see her run out of the party, pretty pink little wings her blonde hair falling out in little strands around her face.

"Moooooommy!" She yelled with her usual grin. "Look at my bag!"

She had a white paper bag filled with different treats different parents made for the class. All I could think in the beginning was that, "wow, I missed that somewhere on the newsletter. I should have sent something". Her teacher, Miss Pam was walking behind her carrying her bookbag and I automatically start to apologize for not being there. She understands, they all do. I have two little ones at home and I shouldn't be expected to attend. But still, I'm a little sad.

I would have loved to see her prance around as a little princess fairy. Is this the beginning of missing things, or is this my lesson to not miss anymore?

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Emery is learning so much, so very quickly. It's amazing to me that she started life only on a prayer that she would live...let alone really LIVE. She's a fighter though, that's obvious. She fought to stay alive, and now she'll fight for a Cherrio!

Today, she held my hand and walked like a big girl from the kitchen all the way to the living room, not missing a step.

The ONLY scar my little miracle possesses from her early birth is a tiny red mark. It's a small, red mark, under her chin from tape that either held her ventilator or her feeding tube.

Mommy's scars may run a little deeper, but my baby is whole, and fine...and almost walking.

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Jackson...I think you're holding out a smile for mommy. Any day now my boy, any day.

Why is it so hard to tell the truth? Why, when the truth is expected, does it seem so impossible to give?

"Pushover - an easily defeated person". Yes, that's me. Too scared to ruffle feathers even when I know I am right.

A Permanent Marker

So I am cleaning...again. I'm sweeping the floor trying to get the majority of Emery's food off of the floor. It's 8:30 and this is probably the third time today that I have had to clean the floor. She thinks it's hilarious to clear her tray in about one minute flat and then scream because she's hungry!

I look up, and there it is - or should I say there SHE is. The oldest, Payton, sporting trendy lime green permanent marker all over her hands, face and clothes. But, nothing says "don't let toddlers play with a permanent marker" like beautiful shapes and symbols scribbled all.over.the.wall.

Lovely.

I take the marker, not so gingerly, cussing myself under my breath and not understanding why in the hell I find this so surprising.

Part of me wants to cry, the other yell, and the other clean - very quickly. I'm scrubbing the wall and thinking, "this is what my life is now? Seriously?".

I look over, she's sitting quietly in the corner, her head down, sniffling. It's then I realize that, yes, I am blessed if this is what my life will be. The realization that I am the luckiest 'reformed party chic turned mommy and wife' in the entire world started with one beautiful little girl and a permanent marker.