You know that image of the doctor slapping the newborn baby to help it breath its first breath? Well, I've been thinking about it lately. Although the practice of slapping the baby is no longer current, the image seems profoundly appropriate to me.

Before kids, I lived a very full life. I had a challenging, but positive and nourishing childhood. After leaving home I went to college and I travelled the world. I married in my early twenties and had this great sustaining relationship. Together, we lived in several different countries and had adventures. We had no money, and we had many challenges, and ups and downs, but we grew together, not apart.

Despite all the adventures and challenges, before becoming a mother I had this tendency to freeze up and become numb at the defining events in life. I remember being 8 and learning that my cat had been hit by a car. I sat in my a room by myself thinking, I should be crying, I should be feeling more and I tried to cry. It continued that way as I got older. I remember when I got the phone call that my father died, it was like I left my body and observed myself for an hour or so, willing myself to respond appropriately, to feel appropriately.

Therefore, when I was pregnant and approaching my due date, I had this nagging fear that I would see my baby and freeze. I would get to that moment and observe myself rather than being in the moment.

When I think back to the giving birth to Rachel, I think of the dark and explosive experience of my body taking over, of giving up control while fighting to stay in control of the labor, of the frightening aspect of losing control and falling into a place of pain and panic, of having an urgent need to push when the nurse was telling me not to, of having the nurse discover that the baby WAS coming and hearing the panic in his voice, of the relief when I could finally push. And I think of that moment I turned Rachel around on my stomach so we could face each other for the first time. I remember seeing her and being yanked so absolutely into the present---like a big slap, helping me to finally breath fully, to feel fully.

The rawness of early motherhood. The physicality of it. It takes you to past your limit and when you feel you are at breaking point, sometimes it opens you up to magic. The sharp pain as you heal from childbirth contrasting with the adrenilin that sustains you for a time as you survive on little sleep. The feeling each night that you've been hit by a truck every time you have to wake up and feed the baby. And how that moment can suddenly lead to witnessing something glorious as you watch the light reflect off the rosy glow of the baby's sleep when you are nursing. Fluids everywhere: leaking milk, spit-up, blood as your uterus empties out, tears when you've hit the wall. The stinging, foggy, heavy tightness behind your eyes due to sleep deprivaion. It's all intermingled with this born-again feeling that life suddenly has endless dimensions, endless possibiliies. As the children grow older, the monotony of cleaning messy floors and fighting battles of will. This ordinariness is broken by the extraordinary. The unexpected moment that makes you catch your breath. Your child surprises you with something that she's said, or learned, or done.

I am in the present. I am breathing fully. I am sitting still but having the adventure of a lifetime.

Hannah has a new word these days. "Daiba" Got that? No, not diaper. Listen again. "Daiba" Yes. That's it. Zebra.

It's on the last page of our alphabet museum book. Everytime she sees the book she gets excited and says "Bu" (book), "Diaba" (Zebra).

She's getting pretty sophisticated, eh?

There's no pre-school this week for Rachel and we're on our third day of vacation week. Yesterday started off a little rough with Hannah in a grumpy, tired mood and Rachel having some sharing issues. When Rachel was younger she was never much of a hitter or biter. Instead she was a toy grabber and hoarder. When she walked into a room with toys she'd scope out a stroller, put all the toys she liked in it and scream if anyone tried to touch it. Well, we've gotten past that, but sometimes that impulse comes out. Yesterday morning she had all the small chairs, strollers, toy cribs, dolls, etc. set up in a giant airplane scene and she expected Hannah not to touch any of it. Needless to say there was a lot of whining, crying and at times some screaming going on. At one point we all lost it when Rachel wouldn't let Hannah play with the shopping cart and I told her that she had to let Hannah play with something. Rachel tearfully explained that the shopping cart was the baggage cart. In the end, Hannah got the shopping cart, but I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for Rachel. The shopping cart does make a great baggage cart. By 8:45 am things were looking pretty grim. Soon after that I told Rachel that she either include Hannah in her game or set it up in a another room. She thought about it a litle while, and then started calling Hannah "Husband." (See post from a few days ago "Husband and Sister.") Things settled down and Hannah went down for a nap. After the nap we went to a park and got some of that pent-up energy out. There was sun and it sunk right into our skin and pulled us out of our rut.

By this morning, something had turned. Rachel's mood was light and easy. Even though she asked me to put Hannah down for a nap before 9:00, she made it through. When Hannah finally did nap she had a good hour and more to set up all our little people toys, arranging imaginatively and creating dialogue between them. After Hannah's nap we walked to the grocery store and Rachel chose to walk, rather than ride in the stroller. She walked the whole way without complaining. Some great funk has lifted from our little world. Rachel had been in this new defiant phase for about 4 or 5 days. That has lifted, too.

This isn't the most interesting post, but I'm dragging a little, worn out from the change in routine and from staying up too late watching reality television. (Can't they put SuperNanny on a little earlier? and what a lame episode this week anyway!) It's been good to be challenged again and forced to find a different rhythm. We'll see how tomorrow goes.

Two sweet images I have from today are walking in on Hannah talking to her stuffed dog in the crib and showering it with big smacking kisses, and seeing Rachel and Hannah playing together and then stop and stand, arms around each other's waist and shoulder, enjoying each other completely.

I snuck away tonight to see Million Dollar Baby--a very good movie, but different than I expected. Before kids, I used to try to see all movies nominated for the academy awards. This year I'm cramming. This is my first! I'm hoping to catch Aviator and Ray before Sunday.

Charlie, our dog, has been so in the doghouse lately. It's been raining heavily for days and, being the neurotic girl that she is, she's been unlocking our back sliding door, muddying up her paws, and tracking the mud throughout the house. Even worse, she's been passing atrocious gas in our bedroom every night. This last week we've finally got our bedroom the way we want it. Theoretically, it has become a real refuge for us. So, we take a deep breath, sit down each night ready to escape from the world and Charlie lays one bomb after another. Two days ago I woke up and thought we must have had a skunk in the yard the night before. I honestly thought that's what it was. Last night, I was digging through the laundry hamper because I thought someone must have hidden a dirty diaper somewhere. Needless to say, we're going back to the old dog food. Oh, and did I mention she also has terrible breath?

Charlie's worst crime is no fault of her own. It's that I can't look at her without feeling incredibly guilty. My Charlie. My first baby girl. That's actually what I used to call her before she was demoted to family pet. I used to sing to her and she would jump on me smother my mouth with excited kisses. And now, she is a reminder of all the attention I no longer give her.

We got Charlie when we were graduate students. We were first time dog owners and so in love with her. We started out fostering dogs at the local humane society. She was our third foster dog. By that time, I was looking for a keeper. Charlie caught my eye. She's a black and tan Shepard mix-probably near 90% Shepard and 10% something else, perhaps lab. She's smaller than most Shepards and has a shorter, fuller face, and beautiful eyes. She had only been at the shelter a short time when we saw her. We took her home and I immediately knew I wanted to keep her. She was a snuggler and extremely smart and submissive and by the end of the first night I was in tears begging to keep her.

That was 6 years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. It's hard to remember life without her. Her life with us and devotion is intertwined with the birth of our children and our memories with them. Charlie was frantic when I was in the hospital when Rachel was born, and then moped the first few days, staring at me from across the room with the saddest eyes. In the end, though, it was a wonderful time for Charlie because I went hiking regularly with Rachel in her front pack and took Charlie with me. When I brought Hannah home from the hospital, she nervously paced and we weren't sure why. Then Hannah started crying and Charlie went wild with relief and excitement. I realized I had put Hannah, sleeping in her car-seat, on the counter, without showing her to Charlie. Charlie knew I was no longer pregnant, but didn't see a baby. It made her crazy.

The following summer Charlie's kidney's were suddenly failing and we were told we had to choose between putting her to sleep or spending 15 to 45 thousand dollars to put her on dialysis. After crying together at the vet hospital, we brought her home thinking it was our final night with her. That night I longed for one more day of seeing her healthy and happy. Then a phone call paid off, when a friend recommended a vet friend, who told me over the phone that it sounded like Leptosporosis and said I should bring Charlie to her and we'd treat her for it. Two days later Charlie's bloodwork was normal again. The vet still refers to her the miracle dog. It was leptosporosis and it was amazing that her kidney's weren't damaged.

So, here she still is, living a pretty good life, but not getting the attention she deserves--and getting quite an earful from us when she gets out of line. Why is so hard for me to give her the simple petting that she needs? Why do I get so annoyed by her? When I do give her extra attention she spends the whole night looking at me with such love in her eyes I feel unworthy.

And so, my New Year's Resolution this year was to be more patient and loving with good, old Charlie. I'm thinking of getting her teeth cleaned first to make her kisses more appetizing. And we've got to get that digestive problem worked out. In the meantime, keep hanging in there, dear Charlie. Ride this out with me. Life will improve, I promise. But, stop opening that damn door!

Just when I was beginning to get smug about this two-kids thing, I find myself feeling clueless. You know, I would talk to my friends with newborns and tell them how much easier it gets when you start getting real sleep under your belt. The truth is, if you take the severe sleep deprivation out of the picture, our first year with two was so much better than we anticipated. Rachel, who at 18 months screamed whenever I held another baby, took to Hannah beautifully. I'm not saying she didn't act out in other ways. She started waking up at night in tears and even went through a brief hitting stage. However, every time I arranged to have time alone with Rachel, she would ask "Where's Hannah" and go looking for her. She was a helpful and proud big sister. When Hannah started crawling and was able to grab Rachel's toys away I set up a separate play-room for Rachel so she could play uninterupted. Things were going smoothly. I was always pretty smug when hearing stories of sibling rivalry.

Now, however, as Rachel reminds me, Hannah can open doors, and she can even climb into chairs and interrupt games. So I'm at a loss. I pulled out my toddler books yesterday-but I'm not sure they'll have the answers I'm looking for. Rachel's at this great age where she's ready to start playing games and doing "work." And Hannah....well, she's pulling me right back into the world of messy floors, tantrums, and general chaos. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy toddlers immensely....but I'm torn between the mode of pre-schooler and the demands of a one year old and I'm searching here folks. Your love for your children is not divided, but your atttention is.

There is some hope. When Rachel's not getting frustrated at Hannah for snatching the doll out of the dollie crib that she had just carefully put to sleep, Rachel is including Hannah in her games of pretend. In these scenarios, Hannah is almost always "husband." Good old reliable husband. It's a brilliant move on Rachel's part. Hannah can grab babies at will, while contributing to the plot-line. Husband is pushing the stroller. Husband is picking up the baby because it's crying.

I first became aware of this game involving "husband" about a month and a half ago. We had just gotten back from a big plane trip. Rachel had loads of things piled up on the stroller and was pretending to push it through the airport. It was a pitiful but accurate re-enactment of what we had looked like going through the airport. Hannah was napping as Rachel pushed the toy stroller around. Suddenly, Rachel said, "Husband, I need a husband. Will you be my husband? I need someone to carry the bags." I was slightly resentful because I had carried quite a lot through the airport during our trip, but I obliged and filled in for Hannah...oh, sorry, I mean, "husband."

Back to the pre-schooler-toddler dillemma. I have found something that brings the three of us together happily--play-doh. Hannah loves it. This morning I sat her down at her little table to look at a book and she ran to the garage door wanting something. When I realized she wanted to bring the play-doh to the table, i asked, "Do you want play-doh?" She started grabbing for the door with excitement and frustation, "da-doh!" I got it out and I played with her. Then Rachel joined us. I have to admit, I even get a little thrill when I'm rolling the playdoh in my hands. It's satisfying stuff. Now If I can just keep the girls from eating it, we're really getting somewhere.

Last night "The Best Daddy Ever" reminded me that Rachel does have one or two good jokes up her sleeve after all.

Why did the bubble-gum cross the road? Because the chicken stepped on it.

She made that one up herself. Not too bad, eh?

Without much fanfare, Rachel went to her first movie in a theater last week. I had always imagined this would be a calm and sacred affair--a well-planned out event with perhaps a grandparent or cousins coming along. This was all thrown to the wind when I got an e-mail from Rachel's old playgroup suggesting that everyone meet after lunch (after school) to see Pooh's Hefalump at a local theater. I was hesitant at first. After all, I had Hannah. You know, the climber, the wiggler, the one who is still working on bringing in four molars and four incisors. Don't ask me why, I hesitated....and then said, I'll see you there. So, there we were. Rachel was as happy as a clam sitting between old friends, nursing a sugar-loaded drink, eating popcorn, and cracking up at the antics of Roo and his Hefalump friend. Meanwhile, croaching down, I chased Hannah through the empty rows in the front of the theater. Everytime she saw me coming after her all hunched up, she started cackling loudly and continued running to the other side of the theater. When we weren't playing chase through the seats, we were roaming the hallway outside the theater making way too much noise. Or, I was yanking Hannah away from playing peek-a-boo with the theater door and letting light in. Or, I was picking her up from throwing herself on the floor with her thumb on her mouth. Did I tell you Hannah is extremely heavy? Did I tell you she didn't have a decent nap that morning? As the movie started winding down, we went to our seats again and Hannah sweetly poked her head in the seats ahead of us to say hello to Rachel. Afterwards, my mom friends chatted about what a sweet movie it was. Sweating, I had little to say. I hadn't watched the movie. Rachel ran around with her friends until I had to take her home crying, because she was due for a nap and I had gone past the point of a dignified exit. She was fried. Then after some more crying at home, we all went down for naps at the same time. Allelujah!

In December I took Rachel to her first ballet. This was a well-planned night, and eagerly anticipated by me. I took her by myself. No toddler sister in sight. It was a fantastic local ballet company. The ballet was very kid-friendly, better than the nutcracker. The dancing was great. I loved it. After 10 minutes, Rachel started whispering to me, asking if we could go home. I insisted we stay. This continued on and off, but she made it through, and even enjoyed the second act. She did wiggle a bit and was in and out of my lap. I was proud of her though. She didn't put up a fuss and at 3 1/2 yeard old was probably the youngest one there. On the way back I told her so. You were good and really patient, I told her. She thought about it and said, "No I wasn't." Later in conversation she said, "Four year olds are patient at the ballet, not three year olds. I'll be patient at the ballet when I'm four."

When my husband pulls Hannah out of the bath all wet and slick, her back to me, and he wraps her in a towel to hand to me, she looks just like she did when I watched the doctor/nurses preparing to hand her to me after birth. However, when I look at her across the room all dressed in her slick red shoes, her legs are long, her stance is steady, and she looks almost like a little girl already.

When I am deep in conversation with Rachel her voice sounds so sophisticated and grown-up to me. However, when I eavesdrop on her conversation with others I am suddenly aware that she's got this squeaky, still-developing little voice and says things like "por" instead of "for."

I stayed up way too late last night finishing a book for my Book Club. I highly recommend it. Kite Runner, by Khalad Hosseini. It is a powerfully, beautiful, sad, redemptive book about a father, son relationship in Afghanistan. I couldn't put it down and finished it in a day and a half. One of the best books I've read in years.

Last October, Rachel discovered jokes...sort of. I have a few scribbled down in my notebook, From October 23. Feel free to laugh....or not.

"Why does a funny joke stand on a stick? Because it's a white car."

"Why did the doggie step on a can? Because it's all mushy."

"Why did the bubby cross the road?" "Mommy knows."

Hmmmm. She might take after her mom, only funny when not trying too hard.

And of course, the poopie jokes started, too. Those were simple. Only one word needed. "Poop." A word powerful enough to put a room full of three year old in hysterics and place grim looks of disapproval on their parents faces.

After she temporarily accepted the fact that the word poop was really only appropriate in the bathroom, she moved to the word "cocoa." At some point we must have laughed when she said it in a converstion, and thus, in her mind, it was a great joke.

The great thing is, when she had a friend over a couple of months younger than her, Rachel said "cocoa" in an animated voice and her friend started laughing hysterically. Then this friend started rattling off words, expecting reciprocal laughter, "hamburger," french fries"....(laughing after each word).

Rachel walked over to me and whispered, "But Mom, that's not funny."

When I think of how to describe Hannah I get this image of her running across the floor with a low humming "Uhhhhhhhhh," trying to make a sound matching the vibrations of her running. She's always imitating sounds and vibrations (vacumm cleaners, bumby stroller rides, etc.) with this low hum. She is in the moment. She is in tune with the earth, with the senses. When she likes something she slowly puts her head backs and swings it down again into a gigantic, earthy nod. When she's happy, bliss covers her face so deeply that she even looks a little goofy. When she's sad, you've never seen such an anguished look. Pure trauma.

She is tall (over 100 percentile) and solid (weight 80 percentile). Her legs actually have well formed muscled and so do her arms. She has full cheeks, auburn, wispy hair that is never quite in place, georgeous olive skin tone, big clear vibrant eyes, and a constant runny nose. She reminds me of old-fashioned baby--big and beautiful and messy.

She is sweet to her core, one of the sweetest toddlers I've known, but physically, she's challenging as hell, climbing and exploring and so heavy to carry. She's fearless, not an observer. In contrast, I'm constantly in fear that she's going to end up in the hospital!

She interrupts her exploring frequently to cuddle with her thumb in her mouth and her head against my chest--each break lasts about 2 seconds. She's a happy baby, but usually wakes up grumpy, especially from her afternoon nap. She loves her blanket and when she finds it she walks around with it dragging, her thumb in her mouth and the corner the blanket pressed against her eye with her other hand, like Linus.

She's got a hoarse, sweet raspy voice . She has at least 10 "words": "Hi," "Bye-Bye," "Da-da" (daddy), "Ra-da" (Rachel), "Ma-Ma" (mommy), "da", {dog), "buh (book)," "da-pa" (diaper), "pa-poo" (poop), "ma" (more), "da-da" (thank-you), "pee" (please), "do" (no), "ba" (bath), "da" (duck), "is" (shoes), "bay-bay" (baby), "dis" (downstairs), "da" (down), and the favorite "Uh-Oh."

When her Dad comes home from work she exclaims :"Daaa-Daaaaaaaaa" with her arms up toward him. Ten minutes later she sees me and it's like I've been reinvented, a delighted "Maaa-maaaaaaaaaaaaa," like I've been gone for days.

She likes to climb onto the couch and just sit, looking smug and tickled with herself. She's very gentle with Charlie (our dog) and is constantly laying little pieces of food on the ground for her to eat.. She loves dolls, strollers, and necklaces, but also pushes cars around.

And this ends here, because my sweet, georgeous, snotty-nosed girl is awake and climbing again.

When I put Rachel to bed tonight she chose to have me tell her a story rather than "talk about the day." I asked her what kind of story she wanted. I was all set to to tell a story about when I was three, which is the direction these story-time sessions have been going, but she wanted a sad story. She wanted to hear about when Grandpa Jerry died. I looked at her and asked, "Are you sure that's what you want to talk about?" She said yes. I asked again, "Are you sure?" Then she hestitated a little so I suggested we talk about Grandpa's life first. I jumped up, went into my filing cabinet and came out with a book/magazine my mom had published about him after he died, it had pictures of him growing up, pictures with us, and lots of letters from people who wrote about him after his death. She really enjoyed it and asked about all of the pictures. I didn't want to give her the publication because it was fragile and the only one I had. I gave her a copy of the funeral program with a xeroxed copy of his picture on the front, but she kept asking if he was dying when he took that picture (perhaps because it was fading?) Therefore, I didn't think it was the most appropriate picture for her to keep, so I ran and got a framed picture of him with me when I was a baby. She wasn't satisfied at all and seemed upset. In the end it became clear that she wanted to own the book about him. I told her she could borrow the book for a few days, but I'd take it back and put it in a special place. She started crying. I thought this was odd because she loves to borrow things from me and give them back. Anyway, after a lot of conversation it was clear that she deeply wanted this book. I called my mom, asked her if she had another one, and put her on the phone with Rachel so she could explain to Rachel that she would send me another book and Rachel could keep that one. Rachel was very subdued when listening to my mom and talked in a small, emotional voice. And when she got off the phone, she said emotionally, in a tiny voice, "I'm very happy now."

When I was thinking about it later, I realized that perhaps the reason it was so important to her to own the book rather than borrow it was because she wanted to have a piece of him. Just as we all had.

While we were looking at the book Rachel asked me if Grandpa Jerry was sad before he died. I explained that he died very quickly and didn't know he wasn't going to die and therefore he wasn't sad. She then added that Grandma Pat and I were sad, though. I said, yes.

We didn't get much more deeply into the concept of death, but I did tell her that sometimes peoples bodies get so hurt that God takes them up to heaven so they don't have to hurt anymore and he can take care of them.

I took Charlie to the Dog Park yesterday morning after dropping Rachel off at school. i took her to the "safer" dog park because I was worried about aggressive dogs at the other one.

When we were there a dog that looked a lot lke a wolf arrived. When I asked the dog's owner about the "dog" he confirmed that he was 100% wolf--six months old. When the "dog" started trying to sniff Hannah (who I was holding) the owner laughed and told his "dog" to stay away from kids. He loves kids, he explained, but he can get too excited. He then showed me this HUGE series of gashes (with fresh stiches) across his forearm and lightheartedly explained that the wolf had nipped a little too hard during a romp on the beach. "He just gets a little carried away sometimes."

Needless to say, we were out of there.

Hannah is a climber and my patience is starting to wear thin. She climbs onto the coach and then stands and bounces. Or...she's climbing onto the chairs at the kitchen table, except she's only 15 months old and still is oblivious to the fact that if she falls, she'll get hurt. She climbs atop the ladder on our Little Tykes slide and stands. Not only that, she leans her body towards me and expects me to catch her. I'm at my wits end. What do I do? Get rid of the chairs. Let her fall? Pull out my hair?

Hannah, I'm warning you, "You're heading the right way for a smacked bottom." (A favorite line of ours from Shrek; except Rachel's version of the line is "I hope you are heading the right way for a smack on the bottom.")

Another family favorite is: "You're driving you're mama crazy." (In a fake Italian accent)

Note to reader: No, I don't spank my kids.

Rachel is starting to dig deepr on this death issue...but this time a little more lightheartedly. I was driving her to school last week when she suddenly asked, "Where was Grandpa Jerry when he died?" "Did he say good-bye to Grandma Pat?"

I just couldn't answer that question in that situation. To tell her that his heart stopped in a bathroom after taking a shower and no he did not say good-bye to Grandma Pat was pretty harsh stuff to lay on a child two minutes before dropping her off to school.

So, despite her insistence on getting an answer, I suggested we talk about happier things about Grandpa Jerry right then. I told her we'd look at pictures later and I'd tell her some stories.

Rachel's newest phrase is "that makes sense." The problem is she really doesn't know what it means and uses it out of context. She likes the sound of it. She used it in the car the other day and then asked..."sense is good, right, Mom--sense?"

Something was a little different about Hannah at breakfast on Saturday. She didn't eat any pancakes at the pancake breakfast we attended. We are talking about a girl who once ate three large blueberry pancakes at 9 months old. She did play for a little outside after breakfast, repeatedly stepping over the gap between the lawn and the sidewalk. After about a half hour of this she suddenly leaned against me in exhaustion. It was naptime, so I didn't think anything of it. Then she woke up from her nap crying unconsolably. She had felt warm to me for about a day, but I didn't take her temperature, because I thought maybe I was cold. We attributed the crying to teething.

Hannah is getting 8 teeth simulaneously. This would be torture enough, but in her case her gums are just being ripped up. Okay, I may be exaggerating a little here, but there is some aggressive teething going on. One day Hannah bit me on the shoulder uncharacteristically, I set her down and said "no," which made her cry as if I had broken her heart to pieces. When I took a peek in her mouth to see if I should rub a gum and help her out, there was this giant piece of gum potruding like a centimeter from the surface. Then I touched it and she retracted. Then the bleeding started. Not a little bit of blood, but a good size stream of blood coming from her mouth. I had to take a minute to remember if she had taken a fall or two when playing. When I rubbed her gum again I could feel a tooth, so it was obviously from teething. Now I look in there and her gums are swollen white where the teeth hasn't surfaced, and where teeth have surfaced her gums are shredded. Poor Hannah.

To get back to my story, since we thought it was teething and a common cold, we packed everybody in the car to go look for a laptop for me. We ended up going out for dinner. This is a rare event these days because, dinner with a one year old is ....well, a lot less fun than dinner at home, and a lot more money. Surprisingly, Hannah sat quietly next to me and ONLY NIBBLED AT HER DINNER. She didn't even drink her water. Then on the ride back, she was glazy eyed and quickly fell to sleep. Something was up. Hannah is a wiggler and an eater.

I took her temperature. It was 102. We called the after hours clinic for an appointment, expecting an ear infection or strep. Dad took her while I put Rachel to bed. When Dad called if was hand, foot and mouth disease, a virus that is somewhat common for kids under 10. She had blisters inside on her tonsils and a very sore throat...not to mention the eight teeth ripping at her gums. So...of course the girl was fussy, and this was why I had been waking up at all hours of the night.

We did what the doctor recommended and drugged her up, alternating between Tylenol and Children's motrin. We holed up waiting for the virus to pass.

Whenever my kids get fever there is a part of me that is so grateful to have the opportunity to just sit with them lying still. With Hannah this is a rare treat. Normally, I get lots of cuddles all day, but they last no more than 15 seconds each.

By Sunday afternoon, however, after Dad and Rachel had left for the super bowl party, the rocking, holding stage of the virus gave way to this fussy, "I want to try to play but I'm going to whine and complain every minute of it" stage.
I spent about a half hour watching Hannah complain because she couldn't fit her extrawide size-six foot inside the door of a Little People school bus intended for two inch "little people." To change the scene, I took her up stairs and started a bath. She started fussing to get in the tub before I could get her clothes off and then when I had her clothes off she clung her naked legs around me tight and screamed every time I tried to put her in. I finally gave up on the bath and turned off the water. Then I sat down to sort socks while she frantically brought two dolls to me repeatively asking me to undress and dress...undress and then dress each one alternatively.

Finally we did get that bath taken care of. She did enjoy it. I doped her up with children's pain medication and put her to bed. I was early...6:00. The house was quiet.

Sweating and exhausted I walked through the house, picking up...the cheerios I had allowed her to dump all over floor because I was so desperate stop the fussing, the little people town that Rachel had been playing with before the Super Bowl party, the macaroni and cheese Hannah had pushed onto the floor as soon as I placed it on her highchair tray, empty medicine boxes and sticky sweet medicine residue.

By the time Rachel and Dadcame home the house was quiet and in some semblance of order They were bright eyed from the party. I listened to their stories.

I was desperate for a good night's sleep and I finally got it. They both slept through and for the first time in many days Hannah woke up happy. I was able to drive Rachel to school and we were ready to start another week. We were getting back on track.

(Rachel 3 1/2 years old)

Several months ago I was tucking Rachel into bed and settled in to "talk about the day." It was holiday season and my mother was staying with us. Rachel started asking me about my mom. Is she really still your mom? And then, still troubled, she turned to the topic of my dad, "Grandpa Jerry," who had died before Rachel was born. "But where's your Daddy." We had never really spelled out death to her. I mean, I'm not one to crash something down on someone's world unless I'm asked about it. We had talked about him, and how he was in heaven, but never really explained the concept of heaven (like I understand it?!). Every once in a while she'd make a comment about seeing Grandpa Jerry somewhere, like the day she told me she thought she saw Grandpa Jerry at her Dad's work. It was clear the "heaven" discussion-or lack of discussion- had left her confused. We have the DVD of Charlotte's Web and Rachel was taken by Wilbur's emotional line "I don't want to die." She'd say it dramatically every now and then not knowing what it meant, but clearly intriqued, and concluding, logically, that it was not something one wanted to do. Now here she was, digging for the truth, suspecting she might know it, wanting it all straightened out.

"But, where is your Daddy?"

I paused. And then I used the "D" word.

"He died."

"Am I ever going to see him again?"

I paused. She wanted to end the confusion. "No."

And then she started softly crying, "But that means I only have one grandpa."

I was blown away. It was dark. I sat thinking about what to say next. I talked briefly about being able to talk to him and he would listen, but it didn't seem to be the right thing to say at the time so I kept it brief. She needed to mourn and it was so natural and profound and I felt strangely awkward witnessing it because my own mourning had not come so gracefully and automatically.

After this she was preoccupied by death for a while. For example, one night she was happily taking a bath and then blurted out suddenly "Mom, I wish you could come back after you die." and then continued playing. Another night in her room she suddenly burst out,while trying to pick ou clohtes, "I don't want to die, I like my clothes." And she suddenly developed separation anxiety again and had major trauma when I had to leave the house at night for a meeting or a movie, fearing I wouldn't come back.

I'm sure this is all explained in a chld psychology textbook somewhere. But it was pretty heavy stuff here.

We love you Grandpa Jerry. I wish you could come back, too.

(Rachel 3 3/4 years old)

A few weeks ago Rachel and I were snuggling under a blanket in the late afternoon and she said, "I like the way you smell." This was nice. I hadn't heard that from her before. A second or two later she followed with, "but I like the way Nicholas smells, too."

Nicholas is a very charming five year old boy in Rachel's school. It was clear to me that she liked him a lot, since she pretty much only had been mentioning Nicholas when I asked her how school was going that day. But this was different. The conversation continued and a minute or two went by before she dropped this bomb, "Nicholas says no more kissing at school." I had watched Rachel putting her arm around Nicholas in the playground before, but had never seen her trying to kiss him. Later that day she said that Nicholas had told her, "enough 'I love you's." The picture was becoming a little clearer.

Then the following week, Rachel had a rough day at school. Her teacher said she must not have been feeling very well because she had pushed one or two kids, which she hadn't done before. She was getting a cold in fact, and not sleeping well. Maybe there was another factor, too, though. When I asked her why she did it the conversation turned to Nicholas again. Nicholas didn’t want to be her “boyfriend” anymore. I didn’t even know she knew what the world boyfriend meant!!!

Curious, the next day I asked her if she knew what the word boyfriend meant. She said no. Hmmmm. I'm not so sure.