Quarantine Week 2: The Nest is Full Again

Whaddaya mean you're coming home three months early??? 

Regular readers of this little blog (both of you) may recall that, last August, I wrote a very tearful (well, I cried) post about our baby girl leaving the nest and going off to college.

Although my heart was having a hard time letting her go, my brain recognized that it was her time to spread her wings and fly. Yes, I did cry. A lot. But then the Coach and I had a cute and funny photo shoot showing off our new empty nest.

Don't worry, everyone said. She will be back. I knew she would, I just didn't expect it to happen so soon. Or that she would come back with so much STUFF!

The spread of the Corona Virus has forced colleges to shut down across the country. Classes now are being held online and students are no longer required (or even allowed) to live on campus. Lora didn't hesitate; she booked it home as soon as she could following the announcement. But she only brought a few things with her. Yesterday, we had to go back to move her our of her dorm room four hours away.

It was quite a difference from Move-In Day.

For one, it wasn't 1,000 degrees outside. It was a nice, cool morning with clouds.

Also, there weren't 1,000 people there doing the same thing as us and trying to find the best parking space.  In August, there were student volunteers directing traffic, welcoming new students and befuddled parents, pointing the way to go, telling us what to do. Yesterday, there were about five cars in the parking lot and no one there directing traffic. Inside, there was one young lady, who obviously had nowhere to go during her spring break, waiting to take the keys when we were done.

In August, I was sad but also thrilled to help my daughter set up her new living space. I tried not to be  one of those overbearing moms, offering my help and advice only when asked and allowing her to do her own thing.  Yesterday, I was only sad at the thought that she was losing such a large chunk of her freshman year of college. And she pretty much let me take charge of the packing and the cleaning.

In August, we spent hours unloading Coach's minivan and hauling everything into her room. Yesterday, it took us about 90 minutes to put it all back in. (And I am still the reigning Tetris champion of the universe!)

Now it's all piled up in the spare bedroom downstairs, awaiting her attention. Meanwhile, I'm wondering where in the heck we're going to put it all.

But, as I did in August, I'm letting her do her own thing. Gotta give 'em their space, right?

Matters of the heart

This is an angry mommy bee!

When I finally became a mom after so many years of trying, my own mother said to me, "When you have a child, it's like your heart is walking around outside of your body."

I didn't understand at the time.

Now, 11 years into this motherhood thing, I know what she was trying to say. Your child is your heart and everything that happens to it happens to you. When your child hurts, you hurt. When someone hurts your child, you want to hurt them. Sometimes you want to punch them in the throat.

And sometimes, even when your child doesn't hurt, you hurt.

I have been trying for a few years to get my daughter into this local camp called "Beecuz You Matter." Thanks to word of mouth and rave reviews, spots are hard to come by and it fills up fast.  This year I got one, even after missing the deadline. I had to drop a check off in a stranger's mailbox to get it, but got it I did.

Then I had to convince my daughter that it would be fun.This was her third camp in as many weeks, and my little night owl would rather stay up all night and sleep all day than go to DisneyWorld. She pouted. And protested. And whined.

But, after some figurative arm twisting, a little bit of threatening and a stern, "You're going so stop whining!" she stomped off into the night. Then she came home the first night and didn't stop talking about it.

"I had so much fun."

This isn't just a let's-do-crafts camp. It teaches life lessons. There were discussions of money, bullying, self-esteem, in addition to crafts and fun and games. One day she came home with a sheet she had to fill to show her perception of money.

How much is rent? $100, she wrote.

How much does a car cost? $9,000

How much does a policeman make per year? $100

"Not far off," said my friend, the wife of policeman.

And we had to bend over backwards just to get her there. With my mother-in-law in the hospital with a burst artery in her arm, my mother still hobbled by a bad knee and my husband undergoing knee surgery, we've had to shuffle and piecemeal transportation. I even had to let her sleep away from home one night to get her there.

But it was all worth it.

Until the last day.

The highlight of the camp -- and most camps -- is the end of week photo slideshow. The parents get to see what their child did all week and the kids gather with their friends and laugh and giggle at the goofy expressions they were caught making.

I took a late, long lunch Friday so I could be there for my girl. She sat on the floor with her friends, I sat with the parents. And we both waited, excited to see her in the montage. The program opened with each girl's smiling face and her name up on the big screen.

Alli... Casey.... Maria ... Claire ... Lexie.... Alexis .. Gabby... Jordan..48 in all, they said.

But no Lora. Never a Lora.

And my heart just broke. For her. For me.

Why was she left out?

Oh she was in the group shots, and there was a photo of her painting her little blue piggy bank and even a snippet of video as she hopped in a potato sack. And she sought my reaction as each one flashed. But there was no photo of her face and her name.

Yes, she did miss one day because she had a sore throat and fever, but it was clear that the photos were not all taken in one day. And she missed on Wednesday.  There were plenty of opportunities to take her picture on the four other days.

And as I sat in the dark watching the remainder of the show, I felt the anger rise and the tears burn my eyes. My heart felt her pain as she watched and waited for her face on the screen ... and waited ... and waited.

When it was over I asked her, hoping maybe I had just missed it.

"Did they show your picture with your name?"

"No."

She immediately begged me not to "freak out."

"It's OK, Mom. It's not a big deal. It doesn't matter."

But at a camp called, "BeeCuz you Matter," yes. It does.

I didn't make a scene, as much as I wanted to. We left quickly. I didn't thank the campers or the directors, didn't tell anyone goodbye. But as soon as I got back to work, I fired off an email.

Ladies:

 I am very glad that my daughter was able to attend this year's camp -- even with all that is going on in our crazy lives right now -- and I am glad that she had a good time and wants to go back next year.

However, I am deeply disappointed that her photo with her name was not included in the slide show. She says it does matter, but I watched her as she waited ... and waited ... and waited... And it did. And it does matter to me.


I have yet to receive a reply.

I know they'll say they are sorry. That it was an honest mistake. And it probably was. I'm sure they didn't do it on purpose. And maybe she wasn't the only one left out. But that doesn't make it hurt any less -- her or me.

Because my child matters. Her feelings matter. MY feelings matter. And for her to say it didn't just infuriated me more. She does matter. She was a part of that camp. She was one of the girls. And she was overlooked. Then she begged me not to make a big deal out of it.

And that may be the worst part.



What would you have done? How would you have felt?




Hanging out at YeahWrite.me
Where the cool kids hang out!

Curvy girl

I guess it's been about a half a year now since my daughter decided that my work as a mother was done. She's all grown up now, you know.

So, she says, she no longer needs me to help her take a shower, or make sure she gets all the conditioner out of her hair.

She no longer needs me to help her pick out what clothes to wear, or put them on.

She no longer needs me to help her comb her hair or make it look pretty.

She is all of 11 now, after all. A big girl.

So she started telling me NOT  to come into her room when she's changing. I have to wait until she comes downstairs to tell her to go try something else.

And she started locking the bathroom door behind her with a solid click when she showers, not opening it again until the water heater is empty, steam fills the air and water covers the floor.


But lately I've noticed that she did  need a little help in the rinsing department, so the other night I sort of demanded that she leave the bathroom door unlocked. And, after what I thought was a long enough span, I went in.

"Let me look," I said. "Turn around."

She dutifully turned her back to me and I reached for her wet head.

And as I did, I got the shock of my life.

There it was, clear as day. Her spine. And the big letter "S" it makes, just like on the X-ray we saw as the baby-faced doctor confirmed Scoliosis. 31 degrees.

"Significant."

And, again, my heart just broke.

What kind of a mother am I?

How did I not see that? Was it always there? Did I miss it? How did I miss it?

Oh, I noticed that she stands kind of awkward and funny. Stiff. Yeah, a little crooked maybe.

But we just thought it was a phase that came with too much height too soon.

And when she played basketball and volleyball we saw right away that she can't really run. At all. As my Cajun friends say, "She can't outrun lighting in a day."

But all summer long, even in an ever-shrinking bathing suit, I never saw the curve in her back, the "S" in her spine.

I hope it wasn't there all along.

Because now we're ordering her a brace, one that she will have to wear up to 12 hours a day. For the next two to four years. So that the rest of her growth will be straight and not crooked -- excuse me, "curvy."

But she will always be.

And I will always wonder, how did I not see it?

Wordless Wednesday: Lora Leigh, my crooked tree

Crooked

The day they handed me that beautiful little bundle of pink, she was perfect.

I checked.

Ten little fingers. Ten little toes. All working parts in between. And the ultimate dream come true as she was born from one woman and given to another to love.

The day they said I could take her home from the hospital, she had turned a funny shade of yellow. Jaundice, they said. Not too bad, but enough to delay our departure for a few hours while they checked her blood levels. And after I assured the doctor that my house was indeed very brightly lit -- I don't believe in drapes -- they let me take her home.

A few days later, her little tongue developed millions of little white bumps. Thrush -- necessitating her first prescription from the pharmacy.

And I think I can count on one hand the number of prescriptions she has had since. One case of strep. One case of flu. More than a few bladder infections because she has a HUGE bladder and because she would rather hold it until the last second than stop what she is doing.  But other than that, nothing. Nada. Not even one ear infection in the life of this adopted, formula fed, cold bottle baby girl.

She's perfect.  Well, except for her messiness and dislike for baths, that is.

Until now.

At her latest routine check-up the day after her 11th birthday, after telling me that Lora was practically off the charts for her height, her pediatrician noticed Lora's posture. I've noticed it. Even as she stands a full head and shoulders above her friends, she doesn't stand straight. She's rather crooked. And stiff.  The doctor noticed it too.  And, after asking my girl to do the routine bend at the waist, she ordered an X-ray at the hospital.

And a few days ago she called us with the results. "Pretty significant" scoliosis. Curvature of the spine.  We now have the name of an orthopedist, who, they say, likely will recommend that my beautiful, talented, smart, funny, angel-voiced, artist, writer, messy, pre-teen baby girl will have to wear a brace for the next several years.

And my mother's heart hurts.

From the day they are born we wish we could wrap them in bubble wrap to keep them safe and free from harm. And we wish we could encase their heart in steel to protect it from hurt. We would gladly take their shots for them if we could, step in the ants, jump in front of the wasp, cushion every fall.

I also want my baby girl to be perfect, in everything she does and everything she is. I want her to have perfect curls and perfect skin and perfect posture and perfect teeth. I want her to never feel hurt and pain and discomfort. I want her to never be picked on or teased for being adopted or for having acne or for having crazy hair of for wearing the same sweat shirt three days in a row or for smelling bad.

Or for having to wear a body brace when she goes to middle school.

But she will.

Right now she thinks it's cool, like the kid with the cast who can't wait to show it off to her friends. But what will she do when the reality comes? The inconvenience? The discomfort? The 23 hours per day?

I told her she's like a tree that grew too fast (at age 11 she is 5-foot-2 and is expected to grow another seven to eight inches) and grew crooked. The brace will help keep her from growing more crooked, but won't undo what's been done.

And will it work?

I don't know.

But I know that no matter how crooked, no matter how messy, no matter how frizzy her hair, she is perfect to me.

I oughta be in pictures!

Near as I can tell, there are some 10,414 photographs of my daughter Lora on my computer.

There are a couple of hundred more pasted into her baby book, her two scrapbooks and the three photo albums I have put together. Another couple of dozen in our photo album of just our trips to Florida, a dozen or so on my walls, and another half a hundred in a little basket because I can't figure out where to put them.

She is 11 years old.

In fact, I threw her a whopping 11th birthday party the Saturday before her actual birth date. Rented the local hall, invited her friends, baked her four batches of cupcakes and bought paint canvases, brushes and paper towels for everybody. It was fabulous.

And it will forever be remembered thanks to the 101 digital photos now stored on my computer.

Not one of which is of me.

Oh, her older sister took a few. More than 70, in fact.

Not one of which is of me.

On her actual birthday, we took my daughter to one of New Orleans' most famous hot spots -- the Rock N Bowl, which definitely lived up to its name. Again we whipped out the camera. Another couple of dozen photos were taken.

But this time, after hearing me bitch and moan about my lack of apparent presence at the previous event, my husband made sure I was in a few frames. There are six photos of me.

Oh it's not really their fault. Yes, my stepdaughter is a professionally trained photographer and did spend two years taking photos of tiny princes and princesses at DisneyWorld, but that's beside the point. I wouldn't aim the camera at me either. My daughter is a much prettier subject. So is my stepdaughter.

And my husband barely knows how to turn the camera on, much less how to point it and shoot. In fact, there would be a couple hundred more photos of our daughter if only he had remembered to put film in the camera on the day she was born. Seriously.

But it's not really a dad thing, is it? It's us moms who are intent upon documenting the moments of our lives, capturing them, trying to hold on to them. It's us moms who spend hours putting them into albums and scrapbooks. It's us moms who crop out the stranger in the background, remove the red eye then organize them into folders, upload them to Facebook and create Smilebox slideshows. The age of digital has just made it easier.

And it's usually us moms who spend a rainy afternoon looking through them and wiping away our tears. My daughter went from a teeny tiny pink bundle of joy to a taller-than-me, grumpy tween in the blink of an eye. I often look back on those cute little baby pictures and wonder where the time went.

And I cherish every one.

I live in the suburbs of a town filled with people who lost all of their cherished memories just a few years ago thanks to a bitch named Katrina. My mother-in-law used to chide me for taking so many photos. Now all of hers are feeding the fish at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico -- except for the three from her wedding I just happened to scan into my computer. But there is not one existing photo of my husband as a baby.

There are now 414 photos of him on my computer.

There are more than 100 of my dogs.

And 179 of me.

Eleven

Where did the time go?

No. Really.

Wasn't it just yesterday that your father and I drove like mad down a lonely stretch of highway, to the same bayouside hospital where I was born, to await your arrival?

Wasn't it just yesterday that  I was standing in that cold hospital hallway, my eyes glued to that closed door, waiting for you to be born and waiting for your father to return from his "quick" errand?

Waiting for someone to come get me, for someone to tell me, "Yes. She is here! Yes, she really is yours"?

Wasn't it just yesterday that we wrapped you up in tiny pink clothes and took  you home with us forever?

Wasn't it?

It certainly feels like it sometimes.  Other times it feels like forever ago.

Eleven.

As of today you are 11 years old.  No longer just one syllable.

No longer my baby. Not even my little girl. A "Tween," who is nearly as tall as me. Who is nearly as tall as her teacher. And her principal.

Who has outgrown all of the children's sizes in the stores. Who can wear some of my clothes. Who fits in my shoes. Who refuses to wear pink or even dresses anymore. Who fights with me just to comb her hair.

Who hates to go to bed at night almost as much as she hates waking up in the morning.

Who snores like a pirate.

Who has no idea how to fold clothes or put them away, or how to match a pair of socks. Or make a bed.

But who can build her own web site with her eyes closed.

Who has perfected the eye roll.

Who speaks fluent sarcasm -- just like me.

Who loves a wizard named Harry Potter, freaky YouTube videos, Skype, the Annoying Orange, The Beatles, and Adele.

Who can sing like Adele.

Who loves reruns of  "Friends" and "Full House" and "My Little Pony" and anything on Teen Nick.

Who loves to draw, especially little characters with crazy hair and big, wide eyes and cartoons.

Who writes wonderful stories about people and things I never could have imagined, and spells everything correctly.

Who uses words like "inappropriate" -- when talking about my parenting.

Who doesn't let me car dance.

Who has brought more joy and light to my life than I ever could have imagined. Who makes me laugh and makes me cry -- often in the same moment.

Who lets dad wake you up a half an hour early in the morning so you can come cuddle with me, and still lets me cuddle with you at night. Who uses that time to tell me me your hopes and dreams and worries and fears and funny stories about your friends.

Who someday will look me in the eye and tell me you're going to the library to study and expect me to believe it.

Who will always be my little baby girl, no matter how tall you get or how many candles we put on your birthday cakes.

Who is my child, no matter what DNA or blood says.

Because I firmly believe that you were destined to be my child all along -- I just didn't know it, or that I was just waiting my whole life for you to get here.

 And you were so worth the wait.


Linking up with my friends at Yeah Write #42!
Write, Read and vote for your favorite 3.

Cupcakes and Canvases

First it was enough to just be pink.  And cute.

Then she wanted to be a princess.

Then she wanted to be a mermaid.  A pink one, of course.

Then it was a famous singer like Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus.

Then it was a wizard.

But in just the last 360-some-odd days, my darling daughter has gone from wanting to be a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to wanting to be an artist. She went from wands to mechanical pencils and erasers, from spell books to a never-ending supply of sketchbooks.

It's tough to keep up.

And it's tough to come up with creative ideas for these annual birthday extravaganzas.

Oh, don't worry. We are never going to be on MTV. I promise. But I do love birthdays. My mother made sure of that. And I do want my daughter to love hers just as much. And I do love throwing parties and coming up with clever celebrations for a baby girl - who isn't quite a baby any more.  So I had to do something special as she is about to turn 11.

ELEVEN???? How did THAT happen??

What to do for a wanna-be artist?

Why, Cupcakes and Canvases -- of course!  I rented the local hall (so I wouldn't have to clean my house -- before or after), bought a bunch of canvases and paint brushes, (I already had a bunch of craft paint), a block of paper towels, some kid-sized aprons and we baked a batch of cupcakes.

Voila! Instant arty party!

I think it turned out great... 

Cupcakes!

          

And Canvases!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Artiste!

My grand-niece Madison, showing off her art work!

The gang, modeling their aprons. They also got a bunch of cupcake swag.

It really turned out great. ... Of course, the best thing was, I didn't have to mop.

Happy birthday, my girl!

Candles

It's my last week as the mom of a 10-year old.

That is sobering.

Although, you'd never know it...  She already looks 13.

The child has outgrown me. Seriously.

Granted, I'm only 5-foot-2, but I never dreamed my child would hover over me at the age of 10! I see the mothers of her friends who can still pick up their "little" girls and I get a little jealous. I can only pick up mine in the pool. With a bribe.

So tomorrow is her big birthday party for 11. "Cupcakes and Canvasses." An arty party. Tonight we'll make the cupcakes together (if I can get her off her laptop) and tomorrow we'll paint with her friends and cousins. I hope it goes well.

I posted this little slideshow last year in honor of her 10th birthday. I go a little wistful looking at it this morning.

So here it is again.... There will be a new one on Sunday.....

Birthday Candles

Bye Bye Baby

"Mom?" my 10 year-old daughter asked me today. "Do moms want their kids to cry when they bring them to school?"

Huh? I thought. What kind of question is that?

She was watching this Disney Channel show called "Good Luck Charlie." As Disney shows go, it's a pretty good one.  Cute kids, sharp writing, interesting characters and a really cute little girl named Charlie. (Plus they have this awesome house. Their refrigerator has been painted with chalk board paint so they can leave all kinds of messages on it. And I would kill for their turquoise living room sofa.)

I wasn't really paying that much attention to it. She was watching while I surfed the web nearby.

But then I heard her high pitched little voice say, "Aw," in that sing songy, "That was sooooo cute" tone. Then she hit me with that loaded question.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Watch." She rewound the DVR to show me a scene where the mom is bringing little Charlie to preschool. Mom, on the verge of hysteria, tells Charlie to be brave and that she'll be back really soon to pick her up, then she asks for a hug. Charlie, on the verge of leaving the nest and going off to college (even though she's only about 4), turns on her heel and runs into the classroom without a backward glance, leaving mom a withering mess in the hallway.

"Why is the mom sad," Lora asked. "Did she want her to cry?"

And I had to explain that the answer is Yes. And no.

"Well," I said. "When moms bring their little babies to school at first, we want them to be brave and have fun. But a little piece of us also wants you to miss us too. We want you to need us."

And that little vignette really hit home.

My baby girl is only 10 1/2. Not even close to being grown. But as far as she's concerned, my work as a mom is done.

She can comb her own hair (she thinks). She can set her own water for the shower. She can pick out her own clothes (um .. sort of).

She can put herself to bed.

She also can roll her eyes at me with perfection. 

Saturday afternoon as we relaxed in the pool on our vacation, I was surrounded by parents playing with their children. Mine swam away from me. Pretended she didn't know me. Left me. Alone.

Then when we stopped for a lunch break on our way home I waited by the door to help her get out of the third row seat of my SUV.

"You can go," she said, thoroughly exasperated. "I can do this."

Really? Am I really supposed to just walk away? What happened to my little girl?  Why doesn't she need me anymore.

I got my first reality check when I realized that I was only able to hold my daughter for about 3 1/2 years.  After that she was too heavy. Then she was too big.

I know some moms of my daughter's friends who still can pick up their petite little 10-year-olds. I can't. She's already almost as tall as me. She already has stolen several pairs of my shoes. I can still pick her up in the pool, but she won't let me.


Somehow I am trying to figure out how God gave me a husband who refuses to grow up and a child who grew up so fast I missed it.

That's just not fair.

While I can't hold over her head the whole "I carried you for nine months and went through 20 hours of labor," line like most moms do, I can (and do) tell her, "I waited a long time to be a mom. You have to let me."

But she just rolls her eyes at me.

This week my "baby" will begin the fifth grade. But I can still remember that first day of preschool. Marty and I driving her there with her little Kim Possible book bag. It was not long after Hurricane Katrina had devastated our area and disrupted our lives. She started school nearly a month late because of it, and she and her friends spent much of the year playing evacuation from the little house in her classroom.


"Did you cry when you brought me to school?" she asked me today.

"Of course I did! It meant my baby was growing up and leaving me."

"Aw," she said.

Little did I know it was just the beginning.

Submitted to Lovelinks18. You can expand your bloggerizons and link up too!

Wordless Wednesday: Mommy on the go!

By Lora, age 10

Bye Bye Barbie

One by one I plucked their naked little bodies from the drawer.

Gently, firmly, I tried to smooth their wild hair, wondering how in the hell it got that way. Too many wild parties in the big pink house? A couple of too-fast spins in the little purple convertible? Or, as my daughter is wont to do, not combing it out after a dip in the pool?

A couple, I had to strip myself. Their once-sparkling dresses now in tatters. Of course, it has been a while since their guardian and I have been shopping for new clothes. They've probably been wearing the same outfit for more than a year now.

Then, one by one I put the good ones in a new box. Not the floozies. They're a bad influence.

The drawers now emptied, I went through the left-over possessions.

A tiny set of dishes, knives and forks. A cell phone (with a handle to prevent dropping). A microphone. A refrigerator. A stove. TWO flat screen TVs. A sofa. Chairs. A bed. A toaster. A set of barbeque utensils.  The little pink toilet.

And 4,762 shoes. Those, I won't miss.

But the rest?

It is a bittersweet day in the life of every mom of every little girl, the day you ask what to do with all this stuff and she says, "Get rid of it. All of it. I don't play with Barbies anymore."

It means she's growing up. Moving on. Now she spends all of her time drawing little Anime creatures on her computer tablet and Skyping with her friends. The Barbies, once a whole-hearted obsession, are now forgotten and garner only a rolling of the eyes when mentioned.

So I spent my Saturday  tucking them away in a little box, picking out the good stuff and tossing the tattered, so I can pass them along to another little girl, one whose mom is just now entering the world of hair that refuses to be tamed and clothes that no respecting mom would ever let her daughter wear out of the house.  And 4,762 shoes -- most of them on the floor.

Just as my mom did all those years ago. (Of course, those are probably now worth a fortune.)


It's another mom's turn to not be able to leave a store without a new doll. To search in vain for one you don't already have and try to steer your child from the skanky outfits toward the pretty dresses, and her shouting, "No! Want this one!" until you give in.

And it's her turn to spend back-aching hours on the floor, changing outfits a dozen times, trying to find two shoes that match, trying to make them stay on the tiny little feet, picking out the perfect accessories and finding whatever household items you can magically make into the rest. And sweeping up stray shoes.

And, someday, it'll be her turn to pack it all away in a box, along with the memories, and close the lid with tears.

Bye Bye Barbie

Submitted to Love Links.

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Kiss me goodbye

How many times have I done it?

How many times have I walked out of my room, out of my closet and past the sleeping -- snoring -- child all tangled up in her pink sheets, and gone down the stairs and out the door without stopping to give her one more kiss goodbye?

Because I was running late?

Because I was aggravated at my lack of wardrobe choices that day?

Because I was cranky?

Because I simply did not want to wake her up?

I watched a mother on TV last night, one who had lost her child for 18 years because of the whims of a madman. For 18 years she lived with not knowing where her little girl was.  Not knowing if she was hurt or even alive. Not knowing that she would not see her daughter again until she was a 20-something mother herself. 

And for 18 years she had lived knowing that, on that last fateful morning, she had neglected to kiss her litle girl goodbye because she was in a hurry.

How many times?

Not that many actually. But too many. Even if it was only once.

I shall not any more.

Works of art

First she was a singer with a beautiful voice.  She made her stage debut at age 5, wowing our church fair crowd and making her mommy cry like a baby.  One of the carny kids even asked for her autograph as she came off the stage.

She's gonna be a star!

Then she became a writer, amazing her mother and her teachers with her incredible vocabulary and imagination.  I still say she is a better writer -- at age 10 -- than I am now. She can write fiction.  I never could.

But recently, she has become a budding little artist drawing these amazing little people -- some of them with horns ("They're trolls!" she says). I can't seem to buy her enough sketch pads, which she instantly fills with these trolls and other imaginary creatures.

Actually, she always has been a bit of an artist. Even as a tiny tot she showed a great affinity for depicting the world around her as she saw it.

Mom as a mermaid. She was 4

But lately, she has discovered the Paint program on the computer. She spent a whole weekend perfecting her mouse skills to draw little people like these...

I'm amazed.

Then she tells me that one of her friends has a tablet, a computer gadget that will let her draw with a virtual pen.  I do some research and find a little starter model for $40 and order it. I even pay the extra for one-day shipping. It arrived last Saturday.

Now she is drawing this:

And she is trying to create a new logo for my blog:

I just can't wait to see what she does next.

Sister, sister

They both have eyes so brown they're almost black, and hair so thick you could use it to sew a hem.

They both hate tomatoes and mustard, but they both love beef jerky, candy, onion dip and chips.

They both are hooked on their electronic gadgets, adept at programming cell phones and updating their Facebooks.

But one is quiet and one definitely is not.

One likes scary movies the other just isn't ready for, opting instead for reruns of Spongebob Squarepants.

One loves a real boy, the other dreams about Justin Bieber.

While one can stay up until dawn and sleep til noon, the other starts to yawn at 9 o'clock.

And while one lives with the woman who gave birth to them both, the other lives with me.

They are sisters, separated by their fathers, five years, about 60 miles and adoption. Their lives are very, very different.  But they are bonded by blood. And us.

At the hospital after our daughter was born and put into our arms, I took a knee to talk to a confused little 5-year-old girl who didn't quite understand why she had a baby sister who wasn't going to live with her and her mom.

"No matter what," I told her. "This is always going to be your sister."

And I have honored that promise to her and to my baby girl. I wanted my daughter to have a blood sister, and to know her. And they do, thanks to frequent visits over the last 10 years.

Ashlee, the older sister, has been to our house several times for summer vacations and holidays. She knows our friends, our relatives, our dogs and our crazy always-on-the-go life filled with baseball games and the backyard pool.

And we make regular visits to their house on the bayou, a little cottage that has been raised 9 feet up in the air so it isn't regularly flooded by high tides and hurricanes and is always filled with cousins.

A few years ago the older Ashlee showed little sister Lora Leigh how to put a blue crab to sleep.

On Saturday Lora Leigh showed Ashlee around on her first trip to Barnes and Noble, the "biggest bookstore she had ever seen." 

 A few days before, I took them both to the French Quarter to play tourist. They both gawked at the tall buildings and the little shops filled with crazy tourist trinkets. And they both were brave enough to eat a bug at the New Orleans Insectarium, getting stamps as a reward.

Yes. They are sisters, bonded by their blood.

And every visit goes the same.

They are thrilled at the prospect of being together again, then overjoyed to be reunited. They spend the first few days joined at the hip, playing games, doing crafts, watching TV, swimming in the pool.

Then one wants to swim but the other doesn't. One wants to stay up while the other wants to sleep. One wants to watch Disney and the other yearns for MTV.

"Y'all are sisters," I told them more than once during an argument over what to do together. "Not conjoined twins. You don't have to do everything together."

After a few days they are starting to get on each other's nerves, craving some personal space.  Ashlee wants to get back home to her boyfriend and Lora wants to play on the computer. Alone.

Finally by the end of the week they are acting like the sisters they are, snarking and starting to fight.  And it's time for them to separate again.

But there's always Facebook and cell phones to keep them connected. And they know they will be reunited again.  And that is how it will always be.

Submitted to  Lovelinks #10

Happy Mardi Gras, y'all!

Game Day. Again...

Think being a high school coach isn't stressful? Try this.

My husband's current baseball team consists of his best friend's son, his principal's son, his principal's nephew, his assistant principal's son, two local politicians' sons and one of my best friend's sons.

And collectively they have committed 24 errors in four games.

No wonder the poor man is pulling his hair out.

Today it's the first home game of the season. A little less stress, but not much. As long as the concession stand is stocked with peanuts and pickles.

The Wildcats will host Central of Baton Rouge. Well, they used to be of Baton Rouge, now they're just of Central.

And the coach is a good friend. Actually, he is a Destrehan alum and used to be one of The Coach's assistants. Now he's got his own team -- a darned good one. And they even wear the same colors.

But, I have to say that we both slept rather soundly last night. There was little tossing or turning. He was up and out a little early, however. He even had time to do a little laundry.

And there was coffee this morning.

When he leaned in to kiss me goodbye this morning, I whispered, "Good luck" instead of "Win."

I felt like I should have said something more profound, given him a little pep talk or something. But my brain doesn't work that well at 6:30 in the morning.

I just hope "good luck" isn't a jinx like it is in the theater.

But I just can't imagine telling a baseball coach to "break a leg." Because he just might.

It's that kind of year.

Another candle

I was just trying to do a little slide show of all her birthdays when I realized, I have one of her blowing out her candles -- or about to -- every year.....

Here's to many more, my baby girl!

Create your own free slideshow design

Lora, LIVE!

Lora Leigh's Sunday night live performance.....