Ramona and Sumner are my best material

I can try to write about the things I think and do, but really, if I just stick to the things the kids do and say, I write things ya'll want to read.

Ramona asked me today if she could sit by the open window (today is predicted to be the last nice day of the year for Boston) and eat lunch and watch the workers building a porch on the house next door. I wasn't eating with her, so I agreed and she set her little bowls of grapes and crackers and cheese on the window sill and greeted the men. She asked them what they were doing and when they told her she asked why they were cleaning up and when they' be back, "Next Tuesday, Mom, they'll come back and finish." Glad she's keeping tabs on neighborhood business.

Then she turned and gasped, "Mom. Mama. That man with the red shirt kind of looks like he has boobies. He has boobies."

"Okay, Ramona, he may, but don't say that too loud."

Whispering, "He really looks like he has boobies. I'm not saying it loud. I'm just telling you: he has boobies."

"Alright."

"Mom, I had a dream about college the other day."

"Really? What happened?"

"It's a secret."

"Okay."

A few minutes more of watching Boobie Man and then, "There was a tickle monster and he didn't have a face. Then we realized it was just a hood."

"Okay."
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Sumner gets a Lego "magazine" every couple weeks. It should be called a catalog, because it is one. Sumner counted up his money the other day and brought me $5, two of which were his one and only $2-bill. He asked me if I could use the money to buy him a Sir Knight Kingdom Knight online. He asked me to use two of my one dollar bills instead of actually spending the $2-bill. I can keep the $2-bill, but only in a safe place. I think he plans on buying it back one day.

So tonight Sumner sits me down at the computer to buy this thing. We look up the toy and find that on every online toy store it is between $8 and $10. This baffles him, "In the magazine it says $5." He is getting worked up. I am puzzled too. Sumner can read. He usually doesn't get this kind of thing wrong. He also can't find the "magazine" that proves the $5 price. He's frustrated and is getting on his shoes to go and see if he left it in the car when he says, "It says 'All 6 Sir Knight Kingdom Knights for the price of 5'. I promise you, Mom."

The poor, poor thing. Learning a harsh lesson the blur of marketing and then the harsh buying reality so young. Wanting something so badly and finding that what you think the good deal is, is no deal at all. I hate that, but I guess it is not such a bad thing to strengthen your disappointment muscle.

Jacob too

I spoke with my brother last night. He was a child who threw tamtrums if his t-shirts weren't neatly tucked into his underwear and he came home from college with a suitcase full of cleaned and folded and ironed clothes. In college used to have my mom wash and iron my few things that needed to be ironed and wear them only several times a semester, so that she could clean them next time for me. My duffle bag was always full of all the dirty laundry I could stuff into it.

I asked him if Mom used to tuck him in like her dolls and he said, "Of course." And now he tucks his two year old and his two year old's stuffed animals in in the same way, every night.

The last time Jacob came to visit me he saw a pile of clean laundry in my bedroom and offered to fold it for me.

It brings peace. Real peace to some.

If Cleanliness is next to Godliness, then Neatness must be next to Nirvana.

I can get into mopping. I like to have things tidy. I really like to organize, classify, and group things. But I am an amatuer compared to my mother and my daughter. They are naturals.

My relationship to art and cleanliness and neatness are similar. I like to look at art in museums and galleries and friends' houses. I also dabble in a few crafty/arty things with my kids, but I am not an artist. I like neat and clean places, they feel comfortable. I like to clean and be neat--to a point. But cleanliness and neatness are not me at my core--I have other things to obsess about.

My mom often tells me a story that once she couldn't sleep because she hadn't ironed my doll's clean clothes. She got up and ironed them until 1 in the morning (and I am sure folded them neatly and put them in their wicker box). When she tells me this story I think: washing doll clothes? Did the doll spit up or get her knees dirty on the playground? How do doll clothes get dirty? The ironing part is way beyond even trying to figure out.

Annabelle also appreciates neat things. They give her divine pleasure. A bed well made with a pillow properly aired, puffed, and placed or a cup of tea in a white mug or precise handwriting really turn her on. Like I've said, I can get into these things, but they don't turn me on.

When my friend Amy was in medical school, her professor asked the class what diagnosis they’d think if they interviewed a patient who had knee and shoulder injuries from cleaning. Amy thought: I’d think Annabelle Sumner. (My mom has no cartilage left in her knee from using them a lot—to do lots of things) Amy’s classmates thought OCD. You can draw your own conclusions.

My mom also used to like to tuck us into bed as she tucked her dolls into bed as a child. We had to lay flat on our backs for this ritual. She'd lift our arms above our heads and then pull the sheet squarely over our faces and cover the sheet with the quilt, which she pulled just up to our chins. Then she'd fold the sheet evenly back over the quilt and bring our arms down over both. As soon as she'd finish and given me a kiss goodnight, I'd kick and my legs and twist all around. We'd giggle.

Ramona also really likes neat things. The other day she posted a post-it on the window that faces out on our porch and asked me to list her and Sumner's "playdate rides", otherwise known as carpools.

If she washes her hands in public, she loves drying her hands with the paper towels, but it bothers her that we have to crumple it up and toss it away. She often asks for another paper towel when her hands are dry. This paper towel, she will "keep nice". She doesn't want it to be folded or let it get wet. She just wants it untouched.

At night, she like to get herself organized. She lines up her dolls and books and music just so.

Do you see how the speakers are at a perfect 45 degree angle and the doll is parallel to Ramona just so? With things set up just like that she can rest. She can sleep peacefully with her world in order.

World, watch out...one day Ramona will learn to iron. She may just start the Church of Clean.

I miss my mommy! (and daddy)

The Obvious Child by Paul Simon is playing.

My parents are out of the country from November 4th to November 20th and as quick-math Sumner said right away when he heard their travel dates, "That's 16 days!" GASP.

Unlike Philip and his parents, I do not have a standing, sacred day and time of the week when I generally talk to my parents. It is about once a month (if that) that my mom and I really taaalk, as in talk for more than 15 minutes. But we talk all the time, often when I am on the go, in between a pick up here and a drop off there. I talk to her for about 5 to 10 minutes every other day, at least. Sometimes I talk to her a couple of times in one day. The thing is, she's there. I think she genuinely likes talking to me and being bothered by me. I really like these little check-in chats. I didn't really know how much I appreciate them until she left the country.

You see, my mom has always been very present for me. She was there for me when I came home from school and she was there for me when I broke up with my first boyfriend. She has also been there when I needed help buying a home and when I needed a babysitter for the first week I went back to graduate school. She is really good at supporting me. I really like crying on her shoulder and calling her to tell her funny things that the kids told me. After Philip, she and Dad are the first people I like to share my victories with. Isn’t it great to have family that you don’t have to be modest with?

Talking to my mom is a little like looking in a mirror. The most ridiculous things she says are often things I too believe, but coming from her end of the phone they sound just outrageous. I need her to keep my crazy gene in check. We both tell each other to take better care of ourselves. I am/she is very concerned that she is/I am working too hard and not pausing to take care of herself/myself. We're both right.

Usually when she's unreachable, I can call on my dad. He tries his best and listens and gives some good advice too. He is another mirror into other parts of me. He sounds just as insane as my mother does when he says things that I say and think. But he's gone too.

I really miss them.

A Grunt

Ramona has been telling me alot about how things work lately. The other morning she told me that babies can not only come out of vaginas, but boobies too. "Floppy babies can come out of boobies, but hard ones come out of vaginas."

Then she told me that her teacher Beth is a man. Then she revised her assessment and said that Beth was a wo-man, but her teacher Rosie is a plain girl, as am I. Sue, another teacher is a woman. Alex, yet another teacher, is a smooth girl. Sumner was in on this little mini-lecture from Ramona. He seemed to be contemplating her descriptions. I asked him if he knew what she meant and he agreed that Alex is a smooth girl. Why do I have to be a plain girl? I'm pretty smooth.

Finally, the other day she wanted to show me the bottom of her tailbone. It basically ends in the top of the crack of her butt. She asked me to feel it. I did, worried she might have some sort of problem there. She said it was fine and went on to tell me that it is her "grunt, a bone shaped like a little sword". Where does she get this?

I love seeing her making sense of her world. I hope she keeps coming up with answers. We need some.

Make a doll. Give some money.

These days I am really into getting the word out about good things. It is a little scary to put myself out there, but I just want to let people know about good things. Here are two projects that people I know are involved in. You should check them out.

1. The first one is at least worth a click. A guy I know, Daniel, who taught with Teach for America with me in Phoenix is part of a project to encourage people to express their opinion of the president by making a doll. It is clearly left leaning, as am I (shock!), but I think it'd be great if some Bushies make pro-Bush dolls too and sent them in. Check it out: www.wethepeopleunited.org

2. Kira Jones Orange is a classmate of mine. Philip and I are having a fundraiser for a film she's making. Here's the story:

Right Quick Productions was founded in Baton Rouge Louisiana by public school educator and filmmaker Kira Orange Jones in order to create a forum for students' diverse voices and perspectives. Their mission is to bridge the gap between unheard voices and informed social action. They do this by creating documentary works and media curricula that have the capacity to engage, inspire and educate audiences towards social action.

To this end, directly inspired by the youth impacted by Hurricane Katrina, Right Quick Productions is producing a media initiative called "I'm Still Alive: Youth Voices Impacted by Katrina". We intend to capture reflections of race, class and catastrophe in the wake of hurricane Katrina from youth who have survived the storm itself, but who will feel its aftereffects for years to come. Over the course of the next three months, we will interview and record the experiences of 150 youth who have migrated to other cities and are building their lives in Baton Rouge, Massachusetts, and San Antonio. We are also in the process of developing a secondary curriculum that enhances the video and provides a visceral and educational experience for secondary students across this country that calls for future civic action.

She still needs money to fund the rest of the production of the film. If you can give, please do.

I had this dream

that is a little fuzzy around the edges. Maybe if I tell the story of the dream many times the edges will become clearer.

Philip, Sumner, Ramona and I go to New Orleans for Thanksgiving, as we are planning to do in real life next week. We go and we see my in-laws and we eat lots of good food. We see extended family members and everyone is quite jolly. Delicious food and lots of it. We sleep late and induldge in hour upon hours of cable TV watching. We do some pleasure shopping. Suddenly we are packing our bags to go home and I have the feeling that we've forgotten something. Was it a gift? Did we forget to "see" someone? What is it?

Something clicks: the hurricane, the flood. We were supposed to go and look at affected areas and we forgot to go! I start to panic. I feel helpless and I just don't know what to do or where to go from here. Dream over.

Analyze that.

Just some funny shots

Family Values

Heart of Glass, Blondie is playing.

The other day, in the van where most of Sumner's profound thinking and sharing takes place, he retorically asked me, "Do you know why people kiss when they get married?"

Playing along, I told him, "No, why?"

He said, "So you can give each other germs. You know, you share your germs and then you're family."

"Oh, I see. That makes sense," and it did. Sure, you're getting married and you're going to share a bed and a house and maybe children and a lot of trials and tribulations and joys and triumphs and at least 50 years, why not swap some spit--share some germs--to seal the deal. There was quiet as Ramona and Sumner and I pondered this idea.

After a minute, Sumner said, "What would you do if you were married and you decided to break up?"

"You mean, like if you decided to get a divorce," I asked for clarification.

"What's that?"

I was astonished when Sumner said this. He had no idea what a divorce was. I searched my brain trying to think of anyone, someone, who he knows who is divorced and I could not come up with anyone. Here we are, living in Jamaica Plain, a place where Nader nearly won as many votes as Gore in 2000, and my son's experience and our dinner-as-a-family values have insulated him so much that he doesn't even have a frame of reference for divorce. Don't some claim that all these crazy liberals around us are supposed to make this place without a moral foundation?

So, I carefully tried to explain to Sumner and Ramona what a divorce was and how it worked to get one and how sad it was for everyone involved. They listened intently and asked a lot of questions. Ramona kind of liked the idea of us having two houses as part of a divorce, but she understood that this thing I was explaining was supposed to be a bad thing. She said, "Can we just have a tiny crack in our family and Sumner and Daddy could live right next door to us, or on top of us, in a different house?"

Sumner was still stuck on the germ thing. How can you get a divorce once you have shared germs? This was an impossible concept.

I was still stuck on the divorce thing. I am so pleasently suprised that my kids see marriage as the way things are. Divorce, what's that?

Sumner's school

I really love Sumner's school. I wrote a description of it for a paper and just wanted to share it. While it is rather academic (I wrote it for a class), I thought it may be of interest.

If you drive along American Legion Highway towards Franklin Park and Boston, one of the first landmarks will notice is a low-end strip mall. The mall includes a McDonalds and a Dunkin Donuts, dollar stores and a discount clothing store, a Save-a-Lot grocery, and a no-frills fish market that also sells fried fish. Down and across the street a bit is a church that does not look like a church, but a large garage or warehouse. There are several plant nurseries across the street from the mall. Along this four-lane highway with a green neutral ground dividing traffic, across from the church you will find the Haley School. There is a new red, white, and black mural that wraps around the corner of the school, which depicts birds and plants that are native to this area. The new playground is near the school and sits next to a basketball court and a small soccer field. On the far end of the school grounds is a wetland that the students observe for science education.

To enter the school, you must buzz an intercom and within moments the door buzzes open. While you wait for the buzz, you will check out the bird houses and rain measurement behind you. As you enter the school you are greeted by four or five aquariums, with everything from turtles to a Madagascar hissing cockroach to komodo dragons in them, and a digital weather system. To the left is a table labeled “Parent Information” with flyers about Haley and wider community events and opportunities. The Main Office is straight ahead and everyone who walks in the front door will receive a warm welcome from Mrs. Turner, the school secretary. In the office you may hear crickets chirping waiting to be eaten by the lizards under the heat lamp in the lobby.

The Morning After

As I write Ramona is in my lap, lobbying to eat a piece of candy for breakfast dessert. It lemon candy. Here are some of the thing she is saying:

"It's only oatmeal buttercup." [=butterscotch]
"Its only a suckermint." [=a cough drop, the only "candy" ever eaten in the morning]
"It is open on both ends. It will pop out if I don't eat it."
"I really want to eat it."

I stood my ground.

"I guess I'll give all my toys away and die. You should put the candy up high so I won't want it."

Out Space Ba-bie

I bought Ramona her first Barbie on Friday. But it is a NASA Barbie and I bought it at a Thrift Store and her hair is brown and her feet are flat. Of course she also has a tiny waist and giant boobs without nipples. Go figure.

We've had many Barbie moments in the last two days. Some of them are common Barbie experiences and some are unique:

1. Her head popped off within 10 minutes of buying her. Why does that always happen?
2. Her arms and legs can bend into all sorts of unatural positions, which Sumner has to undo for Ramona.
3. Ramona called her "Girl-Dollie" and then "Airplane Girl" because she was from a Rocket Ship. Then Sumner renamed her "Rocket Girl", but as Ramona fell asleep (with the new Barbie sitting next to her--you can't cuddle a Barbie) she started calling her "Out Space Dollie" or, my favorite, "Out Space Ba-bie"
4. We've done her hair, which is too much for her head, several times. Ramona brushed it for quite awhile at the sushi bar while we waited for dinner to be served.
5. Sumner exclaimed after a part of an hour of owning her, "We could take her clothes off!" And we did. The next day. And her clothes are now missing so we have a naked freak of nature laying on the living room floor.

Barbie, Barbie, Barbie. What is it we see in you?

Just A Regular Person

As I sat down to write this quick anecdote, Ramona was running behind me, from the front door to the back and back and forth again. She was wearing wings and told me she was a butterfly. Just before this she asked me to show her how to shoot Sumner's play guns. Then she came up and told me, as she took off her wings, "I'm not a butterfly any more. I'm just a regular person." There's nothing regular about her.

This morning Sumner told me that he wants to invite 32, no 34, people to his birthday party, which is in March. What theme does this fun loving 6-year-old want to have? A chess party. Why does he want to invite 34 people? He wants for 32 of them to dress as live chess pieces and he wants for two of them to actually play chess with the live chess pieces in our front yard. That will be a sight. He said that Ramona's friends can be the pawns.

When I suggested that some people, including me, may not know how to play chess or enjoy standing in the cold with a crown on their heads, Sumner said, "There could be other activities. Like regular chess." Ramona just offered to teach me how to play chess. Then Sumner had a bright idea, "They could also play checkers."

At least the cake would be an easy shape. There are no "Regular People" in this house.

Through Ramona's Eyes

Today there is a Nor'eastern here in Boston. That's a bad storm, usually with snow, which forces you have to stay inside and blows your garbage cans around your yard. The wind is wild.

Sumner, Ramona, and I, being the troopers that we are, still braved the rain and wind this morning when we walked to Sumner's bus stop. It was pretty wet. Sumner walked backwards for part of the journey. When we got to the "bus stop" (an unsheltered corner two blocks from our house), Sumner and Ramona and I huddled close together. Ramona exclaimed, "This wind is going to blow me off the corner." Sumner and I chuckled, imagining Piglet flying on the end of his sweater string in "The Blustery Day".

Finally, the bus came and Sumner climbed into the sauna of a bus. I wanted to ride a couple blocks with him to warm up. Ramona and I waved goodbye to him. Then we stood on the curb, waiting for a gap in the traffic to pass. A wet paper plate lay in front of us on the street. Ramona said, "Look mom. The moon." It seemed to her that all this wind blew the moon from the sky to our feet.

It made me think, once again, about perspective. The old a-dog-is-as-big-to-a-child-as-a-horse-is-to-an-adult idea seems applicable. The wind, which got my pants a little wet and the kids glasses speckled and all of us wanting for hot chocolate, blew Ramona's moon down. Wow.

The Two Me's

I am the victim of a very happy childhood. I was happy, but not in a clueless way. I was sheltered, but not naive. Of course, my childhood--like everybody else's--was not without knocks, yet I was generally content and confident and at the same time thoughtful and sometimes serious.

The problem is that my parents believe in me (and still do) and told me so all that time (and still do). This shaped me. It made me a believer. I believe in a lot of things, including Jesus (and his resurrection). I believe that there is good in everyone. I believe that singing camp songs can improve a bad mood, not create it. I trust and am rarely afraid of people. I believe in children. I believe in quick forgiveness and I like to give lots of compliments. I don't worry much about locking doors (but I do it to appease my husband and mother).

While I think all of these beliefs are good, I harbor one that causes me a lot of anguish: I believe that I can be and do anything I want to be.

You see, not only did my parents tell me that they believed in me (and still do), they sent me to theatre and basketball and soccer camps, women in science workshops, church retreats, and a series of schools that equipped me with some skills and reinforced the notion that I could be anything I wanted to be.

All of this cheerleading is a good thing. (I still believe that I could be President on day.) The thing is that while it was assumed that I would have a family, no one ever told me what it takes to be a good mom or if being a "just a" mom is on the approved "Anything You Want To Be" list. I knew that while missionary, politician, professor, writer, and artist were on the list that doctor, lawyer, and groundskeeper were off. Mom was not even on the map.

I have a lot of passion for equity and education. I believe that in my small way I can affect change and help push us towards a more equitable world. (This is doing anything I want to do.) Where race and poverty intersect interests me and I love to teach children. They energize me. I believe on some level that I was called to some sort of work that involves these things. I have always been drawn to children and I have always seen unfairness in the world. I want to do something about it. I want to work really hard in a job fighting the good fight.

I also have a lot of passion for Sumner and Ramona and Philip. I like to share meals, that I have cooked, with them. I like to have time with them that is not rushed and always task oriented. I like giving my undivided attention to my family. I want to have more members in our family. Homemaking (whatever that means) is even growing on me.

So there are two me's. One is 16 going on 31 and she wants to take the world by storm, fighting inequity and fostering hope where I can. She has only work on her mind. The other me is 31 with many years ahead of me and a little experience to stand on. I know I love teaching, but I also know that every moment spent creating a family is precious. So I am conflicted. I am not sure how I can be the two me's and so I am not sure how to be me. Right now, I can’t be everything I want to be. Thank God I am the victim of a happy childhood, not a hopeless one. I will have to pace myself.

Raw

Debra by Beck is playing. ( Jake and Phil and I had some fun listening to this with Jake's friend Luke in Quito in 2000. That seems like a long time ago.)

When I blog, I often blog about the trivial and use it to tell about something--an idea or a joke or a value--that I am working out in my own head. I also use my blog to just practice writing and describing things.

There have been a lot of times when I want to write about more. I want to write about hard stuff. I want to write about fighting with Philip and I want to write about the intricacies of race that I am thinking about and I want to write about the pressure of choosing a residency program and city to move to and that making this choice feels like we are choosing the rest of our lives. I want to make the blog rawer. Mainly it would help me to articulate my thinking and feelings about these harder things. I want to capture more vunerablity. Sometimes I think that I paint a picture of only the bright side of things. I would like to paint every side of things.

The reality is, although I can write about turds of pooh, I just can't get into the raw stuff. For goodness sake, my mom and my mother-in-law and Philip read this. This blog has a PG rating. But really, the hard stuff is--naturally--hard to write about. I have attempted to write about these things, but these blogs remain in my edit box, probably never to be published to the public. Yet I think these are the things people really could get a lot out of reading. I know I would get a lot out of writing these things.

If I write a "raw" blog, it will carry an R rating.

Fat Things

Ramona is interested in fat things. First it was fat boobies. Now it is fat butts.

You see, she does this thing where she puts her head face down on our couch or comfy chair, right by at the back of the chair. Then she kicks her legs up and over the back of the chair, all the while chattering.

In the minivan today, she said, "Someone with a fat butt couldn't do the thing I do in the living room on the chair." Of course, she is 100% correct, but where did she get this understanding of fat butts and, inversely, teenie tiny butts (like her own)?

Readers

In his first year teaching, an old boyfriend of my roommate once told my mom, "I used to read, before I started teaching."

I want to read too. I want to read a couple of books a week. I think reading is a good thing. I love reading a thought that is new or one that I have been trying to articulate for a long time or one the rings true or one that makes me go "eww". I do believe that reading, if you choose wisely to read things that are diverse, stretches you and gives you a circle of ideas that you may not be able to access in your social circle. See, reading is a good thing.

The thing is, I watch TV. The reason is my mind is always buzzing. All day long, everyday, I am thinking, making connections, and rethinking. Sometimes it can be almost manic. If I read, my mind continues to buzz. It doesn't still itself. I continue to make connections with myself. When I watch TV I can finally push pause and now think. I need that. So I tell myself.

The other thing is, I am also just too tired to read. If I get into bed and read, I am lucky if I make it three pages. But I need time to chill. If I don't chill, I can't rest. I can sleep, but it isn't quite as restful.

So I am going to push myself to start reading more than three pages a day (not including school reading and the newspaper) and see if I can also allow myself to watch TV.

I'll update the blog later on how its going and what I am reading.

Talk About Digging Deep

Sumner "passed" the quarter! Now what kind of parlance is that? Passed? As though he passed it from one person to another.

It is a well know fact that there are a lot of kind of poops. Some poops stream out. Others slowly ease themselves out. Some explode and still others plop. Sumner's poop on Saturday night, his first since the Thursday afternoon pooh I dug through, was a plopper. When he called me (and the chopsticks) in, there were about 5 or 6 firm little turds in the toilet.

I stabbed into one that was lying in the bottom of the hole where everything gets flushed. To avoid any unnecessary stink, I poked it apart underwater with the tip of the chopstick. No money. Then I jabbed into the biggest turd of all. It would not crumble as the first one did, so I brought it close to the surface of the stink-protective water. And there it was...the grooved edge of a quarter. Sumner, standing next to me with his pants around his ankles was happy to see it. He wanted to get it out of there and keep it, but I have my limits. So we flushed New Hampshire down to the sewers. I shudder to think who it may "pass" onto. Be wary of New Hamphire quarters that you find on the ocean floor. You never know.

Annabelle Grace

My friend Darcy, who I have known since we moved down the alley from her when I was nearly three, had a baby and she dared to name it Annabelle. Annabelle Grace. Heaven help us.

To say that Darcy and I have strong personalities is an understatement. She has been likened to (and played the part of) Lucy (from the comic strip Peanuts). And me? To Darcy's Lucy I am Peppermint Patty.

Some of my first memories were of arguing with Darcy over who was the boss. She was older and a little taller and she had a little sister, so I pretty much was stuck under her regime for a while. Later, her little sister came over to my side, I grew and she didn't (she's like 4'11"), and I realized that she was only a month older than me. I managed to get a word in edgewise and we fought some more. Most of the time, we get along just fine. It is so comfortable to be with her and her husband. It's just...if she would listen to me and do what I said--and vice versa--we'd all be just fine.

We love to play games with Darcy and Thad and her sister Dell and husband Tony. We giggle and giggle and giggle.

As you might have gathered from this blog, good old Annabelle has some punch too. She taught me how to stand up to Darcy. She and Darcy both are direct and they don't mince words. They are smart and snappy. They aren't afraid to stand up for themselves.

When my parents exiled themselves to Iowa, Darcy and her husband Thad were already in that strange land, for Darcy's medical school. She and Thad would spend random Sundays and lonely holidays with my parents. My parents would visit them in the big city of Des Moines and see Darcy's latest decorating home project or the new addition Thad put onto their house after dinner and a movie. There is a lot of affection between the four of them.

So Darcy dared to name her brand new baby Annabelle. Annabelle Grace. I recently heard that grace is how God resources us to handle out lives in all of their beautiful and bleak reality. Darcy will need some grace to raise another Annabelle.

God bless them all. I can't wait to meet this little one.