I Want To Be A Pony

"When I grow up, I want to be Princess." I said.

Emily (4) giggled and took a big lick from her chocolate ice cream cone. Her face was covered in chocolate. It had dripped down her chin and splattered her pink t-shirt.

"But Mommy, you're already grown up." Emily said.

"Then I must be a Princess." I smiled.

Emily's eyes grew large and her grin widened. "Mommy, you ARE a Princess."

I pulled her close and hugged her tight. "So are you, little one."

Eric (7) had been sitting across the table listening. He hadn't spoken in about ten minutes. This was unusual coming from a kid who normally didn't stop talking unless he was sleeping. He appeared deep in though as he scooped another spoonful of brownie sundae into his mouth.

"What are you going to be when you grow up?" I asked him. I expected Eric to say something exciting, like a fireman or a space ranger.

"I'm not sure." He said. "I think I'd like to keep my options open. What did you really want to be when you grew up?"

I tried to remember. It was so long ago. An eternity. I tried to picture the seven year old me. I saw the little girl with light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a plaid jumper with a white blouse. I remembered playing with my stuffed dogs and dolls.

But I couldn't remember what I wanted to be. Then it hit me. "I wanted to be a racecar driver." I told Eric.

Now I had Eric's attention. He leaned in closer to listen.

"When I was little, there was a race track about a mile from my house. Every Saturday night from May to September, I would sit on the front steps with my sisters. For hours before the race, big trailers towing racecars would drive by. We would wave and cheer at the pit crews."

"One night my Dad took me to see a race. I had been begging to go for weeks. When we arrived, we sat on wooden benches on the side of a hill. Below I could see the oval dirt track. I could smell oil and exhaust. I could hear the revving of the engines in the pit."

"Then the cars lined up in twos. They circled the track once, slowly, as if they were marching together in a parade. Then a man raised a flag and waved it."

"The cars zoomed forward. The buzzing of the engines was so loud I could feel it in my chest. It made my heart beat fast."

Eric, Emily and Beth (2) were quiet now, captivated by my story. It had never occurred to them that their Mommy had a life before they were born.

"Why didn't you become a race car driver?" Eric finally asked.

I laughed. "Because I am afraid of things that move too fast."

We sat licking our ice cream cones. After a few minutes of silence, Eric looked up and said. "I want to be a cowboy when I grow up."

Good kid, I thought. Stretch that imagination. Give it plenty of exercise. Feed it. Nurture it. Let it grow.

I smiled at Beth who was bouncing in her seat. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Beth popped up and down, barely able to contain her excitement. "I want to be a pony."

Then we were all laughing again.

Rain Rain Go Away

Rain rain go away, Come again another day. Mommy and her kids want to play. That’s what I was thinking last Saturday as I stood by the window checking the sky. A cluster of dark clouds rolled by. Thunder storms? Or just a passing shower? It was hard to tell.

“What are you doing?” Eric (7) asked.

“I’m trying to decide whether we should go to the pool.” I said.

“The pool?” Eric’s eyes got wider and he smiled. He reminded me of a beagle who had just heard someone say the word “walk.” If he had a tail, it would have been wagging.

“We should definitely go to the pool.” He said.

I shook my head.  I wasn’t convinced. “Well, there's a 60 percent chance it might rain.” I said.

Eric grabbed my hand and jumped up and down. “But Mom." He said. "There's a 40 percent chance it might NOT rain.”

That tipped it. I packed up our swim gear, loaded the kids in the minivan and off to the pool we went. As it turns out, Eric was right. Less than an hour later the gray skies cleared and we spent the afternoon splashing and playing.

My conversation with Eric about weather forecasting was brief. Yet it stuck with me.

Eric, I have discovered, is an optimist. He believes that people are good and that the world is conspiring to do him good.

Eric is convinced that if he puts a quarter in the crane game, he will win a prize. He expects that if he enters the sweepstakes advertised on the back of the cereal box he will be a winner. He doesn’t see the glass as half full, he sees it as overflowing with root beer or apple juice.

Maybe it’s easy to have a sunny disposition when you're seven. After all, Eric doesn’t have to go to work. He doesn’t have any student loans hanging over his head. And he isn’t worried about the economy.

On the other hand, it’s not like his life is a bed of roses. Yesterday his sister, Emily (4) hit him in the eye. Emily said it was an accident.  She was actually trying to hit him on the arm and missed.

While I don’t think Emily can pack much of a punch, the whack prompted Eric to cry and stew for about thirty minutes. Still, he got over it before the day was out.  I can’t recall the last time someone hit me in the eye but I’m pretty sure if it happened I’d still be holding a grudge today.

Then there was the time Beth (2) stepped on Eric’s toy car and damaged it. She broke off one of the wheels. Eric pitched a fit. But after I helped him glue the wheel back and Beth gave him a hug, he felt better.

Last time someone broke my car, I didn’t react nearly as well as Eric. It took more than a bit of glue and a hug to get me out of my funk.

On the surface, it may look like there is a big difference between mom problems and seven-year old problems. But when you scale them to fit, can I really claim my problems are so much different than his? Yet there he is handling himself with much greater poise than I do.

Being a mom has been a great learning experience for me. I’ve learned patience. I’ve learned diplomacy. I’ve learned to laugh.

One of my the most important things I’ve learned from my kids is that life is all about attitude. Its about laughing at silly knock knock jokes.  Its about enjoying the sight of a firefly on a hot summer night.

Its about realizing that you can either spend your time fretting that your plans will be ruined by a chance of rain or choosing instead to say "Yea, but there’s also a chance it might NOT rain.”

Never Take Golf Lessons From Your Spouse

“You’re topping it.” Ken said.

I scowled at him as I watched the little white golf ball dribble off the tee and roll a few feet away. I trudged over to stand on the cart path while Ken took his shot. This wasn’t nearly as much fun as I had imagined.

Ken had spent months convincing me to give golf a go. At first, I resisted.  “You’ll get some fresh air. It’s great exercise. And we can spend time together outside.” Ken argued.

I finally agreed. But at that moment, I was regretting it. There I was on a hot August afternoon lugging a golf bag and chasing a golf ball across a dried out cow patch. We were on the third hole. I was hot and cranky.

Ken teed off.  I watched his shot sail several hundred yards down the fairway. It thunked on the ground and continued rolling.  Ken sauntered over to me.  He was obviously proud of his drive.  I wasn't impressed.

“When does the fun start?” I asked.

Ken shrugged. “You’ll get it.” He didn’t sound like he meant it.

I stepped up to my second shot of the hole, my forty-fifth so far for the round. I swung. The ball rolled a few feet away.

“You’re topping it,” Ken said. Again.

I turned and glared at him. My blood was boiling. “If you tell me I topped the ball one more time I’m going to shove this golf club up your sand trap.”

“What the [censored] is your problem? I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Well, you’re not helping” I screamed. I threw my club on the ground and stormed off the golf course. Ken mumbled something under his breath, picked up both of our bags and followed me back to the car.

“I thought you wanted me to teach you to golf.” He yelled when we reached the car.

“How is telling me I topped the ball a thousand times teaching. All you’re doing is stating the obvious. It’s not helpful.”

“Well, what do you want from me?” He asked.

“Stopped telling me what I’m doing wrong. Tell me how to do it right.”

Ken paused. Then said, “Let’s try again.”

We walked over to the driving range. Ken stood behind me as I nicked several balls. I watched each shot roll about ten feet away. Pathetic, I thought,

After a few minutes Ken spoke. “Two things. First, your club is too long for you. Try this one.” Ken took a smaller club from his bag and handed it to me.

“And, you’re standing too far in front of the ball. You need to put your feet here and here.” He pointed to the ground with his club,

I stepped in place again, this time with the smaller club. I arranged my feet where Ken showed me. I swung. Now, instead of piddling off the tee, the ball soared through the air and landed fifty yards away.

“Much better.” Ken said. I smiled. This was much better.

The experience of my first golf lesson has stuck with me for over fifteen years. I think it’s because of the important life lessons I learned that day. So how about I share them with you now?

The first lesson was to focus on how to do right instead of what’s going wrong. When something isn’t working, whether it’s a golf game, a job, a relationship, it’s easy to identify the thing that is wrong.

But knowing what’s wrong isn’t the solution to the problem. Focusing on what’s wrong won’t help you improve. To get better, to do better, to be better means you need to focus on doing the right things.

This is true for golf. Knowing I was topping the ball, and believe me I knew that, was fine. But Ken wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. And it wasn’t helping me get better. When Ken stopped telling me what I was doing wrong and helped me focus on doing the right things, I got better.

This can apply in other situations. Let’s say, hypothetically, there was an almost eight year old boy who was leaving hundreds of Pokémon cards strewn about his room. Let's call him Eric.  Telling this hypothetical Eric-child that his room is a mess – a fact that is obvious even to a seven year old – isn’t very helpful. But helping him find better ways to keep his room clean can be immensely productive. And it will be less stressful for everyone involved.

The second lesson I learned that day was to ask for what you want or need. When we walked onto the golf course, I never told Ken what I needed. So he did what anyone would do, he guessed. He guessed wrong. Later, when I finally told him what I needed, he was able to offer me some real assistance.

I’ve tried to keep this in mind elsewhere. Maybe I’ve had a tough day and the kids are driving me nuts. “I need some quiet time.” I’ll say before locking myself in my room for a half hour.

Or maybe I have a project at work that I’m not sure about. “Do you think you can help me understand this?” I’ll ask a coworker.

Waiting around for someone to figure out what you need is a waste of everyone’s time. Cut to the chase and say what you need.

The final, and most important, lesson I learned that day was this: Never take golf lessons from your spouse. Your marriage may depend on it.

Hand Me Downs

Emily (4) is spinning around the room. She’s wearing her pale tomato sundress. The one with the ruffles on the skirt and the spaghetti straps. When she twirls, the air catches her skirt and it fans out like a tutu on a ballerina. It’s one of Emily’s favorite outfits.

A few weeks ago, Emily wore it at the amusement park. When she climbed on the carousel, she insisted on picking a white horse with a pale pink saddle because, she said, it matched her dress. I can still see her gripping the reigns of her steed, the perfect accessory to her beautiful outfit.

Our friend Abbey gave us the sundress in a big bag of hand me down clothes. Emily fell in love with it from the first day. She wore it to bed.  She wore it to church.  She wore it to preschool.  She even wore it in the winter (though I made her put a sweater over it).

When Emily is done with the dress, she’ll pass it to Beth. Later, We’ll pass it to another family with a little girl. If we’re lucky, they will pass it on further.

I’m a big fan of hand me downs. But not for the obvious reason – to save money. My motivation is more emotional.

Take the bear shoes for example. They are my favorite. Eric (7) received them as a present from a co-worker of mine. They came with a red sweater and tiny little blue jeans. And when Eric wore the outfit, it made him look more like a miniature man than a baby.

It only took a few months for Eric to outgrow the pants and seater. But the shoes, which were a brown pair of bedroom slippers with a bear face on the toes, lasted him almost a year. Eric wore the bear shoes daily. He was wearing them on his first Christmas. He wore them at Easter. He wore them when he took his first step.

Eventually Eric outgrew the bear shoes but we passed them on to Emily. A few years later, Beth (2) had her turn. Emily’s favorite trick was to yank the slippers off her feet in the car and toss them on the floor. Beth preferred to chew on them.

The shoes don’t fit Beth anymore. But they are still in her closet. I can’t bear (pun intended) to part with them. Every once in a while I pull them off her top shelf, hug them close, and remember the tiny feet that use to fill them.

The cow costume is also in Beth’s closet, hanging on the rack. Eric wore the cow costume on his first Halloween. I had been nursing Eric and was feeling a bit exhausted from the process. I picked out the cow costume because it represented my emotional state. Plus he looked dang cute in it. Like the bear shoes, the cow costume was passed down from Eric to Emily to Beth.

My favorite hand me down is the Christening Outfit. It’s a white linen dress with lace ruffles around the neck and sleeves. My Nana made it the year my niece Katelin was born. Katelin wore it for her baptism. A few years later, my nephew Daniel had his turn.

After Dan’s baptism, my sister wrapped the Christening Outfit in white tissue paper, laid it in a box and stored it in her hall closet. It stayed there for several years. Finally, thirteen years later, when Eric was born, Theresa pulled it out of storage and shared it with me. Over the next five years the Christening Outfit was worn four more times – by my nephew Max, my daughter Emily, my niece Mary and my daughter Beth.

Each time I see one of our babies in the Christening Outfit, I think of Nana. I imagine her holding another great grandchild. I can see her touching a precious little nose. I can see her smiling. The Christening Outfit has brought a part of Nana to the continuing celebration of our family.

Right now, the Christening Outfit is in my closet. I’m waiting for my niece Katelin or my nephew Dan to need it for one of their future babies. When they do, I'll hand it down.

Spring cleaning is tough for me. I have a hard time letting go of my kid’s old clothes. I'll look carefully at the blue shirt Eric wore to his first day of kindergarten. Should I keep it? Or give it to our friend Jack.  I'll examine the pink dress with bubble shaped polka dots that Emily always liked to wear to bed. Am I ready to see it on Beth or can it stay Emily's.  I'll smile when I touch the yellow jumper that Beth wore when she took her first steps.  Should I hold it and cherish it or hand it down?

I have such powerful memories in my children’s wardrobe.  Sometimes I keep a few pieces, like the bear shoes.  More often I hand them down so another family can create their own memories.

Last week I was talking to Abbey’s mom.

“I saw Emily wearing an Abbey dress today.” She said. There was a smile in her voice. I could tell she was recalling the days when Abbey was four and had danced and twirled in that same outfit.

“It’s one of Emily’s favorites.” I shared “And when she gets too big, Beth will enjoy it too.”

Now we were both smiling and feeling content that the memories would live on.

My Mom's Memories

My Mom grew up in The Valley, a small coal mining village in Pennsylvania.    Mom was born the sixth girl in a family of ten.  It was back in the day when people worked very hard for very little pay.

This past weekend Mom and her siblings gathered together at a party.  It was remarkable in that getting ten kids in the same place at the same time can be nearly impossible.  Yet there they were, all together, celebrating the graduation of my Aunt Patty's grandson.

In recognition of this remarkable event, I thought I'd share some memories that my Mom wrote a few years back.  Here they are: 

Dad’s hands were bluish under the skin from coal dirt embedded in his hands.  To me, Dad was the most handsome man in the world.  When I was a little girl, I thought he looked like “Errol Flynn.” 

On our back porch, we always had a swing.  Mom loved to sit on the swing.  We would fight to sit beside her.  The porch was very large - about fifteen feet long and six feet wide.  When the newspaper came, we would kneel on the porch and read the funnies (the comic pages).

Our yard was huge.  We had an apple tree with a swing set under it.  I would get on the swing, close my eyes, and swing for the sky. 

Dad had a large garden which he planted every year.  In the Spring, “Shelly” the farmer came with his horse and plow and plowed the garden for Dad.  We always had plenty of fresh vegetables.  I loved to pick the ripe tomatoes and sit on the boardwalk and eat them warm.  And I would wander through the pole beans and pretend it was a maze.

Mom paid the doctor bills with fresh vegetables from the garden.  Every day from March on, Dad was working in his garden.  This after working all day in the mines. 

We had two pigs - Tom and Peg (named for my parents).  They lived in a pig pen at the end of the yard.  Dad built the pen.  There were troughs where the pig’s food was placed for them to eat.  There was also a fence around the pen. 

I was told not to go near the pen by myself.  One day, I took a sandwich down by the pig pen and was sitting on the fence.  The pigs knocked me down to the floor of the pen.  I screamed because the pigs were all over me trying to get my sandwich.  Dad had to save me.

Eventually, one of the pigs died.  And then the farmer came and took the other away to be butchered.  But Mom gave all the meat away.  No one could eat Tom or Peg.

For a time we had a store - a Mom-n-Pop place.  At night the men would sit in the store and shoot the breeze.  Us kids weren’t allowed to be in the store - except Jimmy.  He was the baby and spoiled rotten.

Jimmy was the second boy after six girls.  When Mom was delivering Jimmy, Dad’s sisters, Aunt Ella and Aunt Marie where there.  I remember that Mom was screaming or crying and that there were a lot of neighbors around.  The doctor came and someone took us down the road to Brennan’s.  I remember being scared.  That evening, someone took us home and there was a baby boy there. 

When Shelly was born, Mom had her at home.  She delivered her in the boys room during the night.  I woke up and there was a new baby in the next room. 

Michael was born in the hospital.  I didn’t know that Mom was pregnant.  I told the nun at school that her legs were swollen and that the doctor put her in the hospital.  The doctor induced labor while the baby was in its eighth month.  When he was born, Michael weighed over eleven pounds. 

One day a State Police man came to our house.  He brought shoes from a factory in Orwigsburg.  The little kids had loads of shoes.  Getting new shoes was a big event.  Mom always made us get “sturdy” shoes.  She didn’t care what the fashion was and we wore the shoes until the holes in the soles were too big to cover with cardboard.

We always had enough food at our house and we never went hungry.  Not like some people in the valley.  We always had one or two extra kids at the table for meals. 

For breakfast, Mom would make hot cereal.  When we got up in the morning, we would have either oatmeal or corn meal.  A big pot of coffee was always brewing on the stove and we were all allowed to drink coffee if we were over ten years old.  The reason we drank the coffee was so that we could save the milk for the younger kids.  On the weekends, Mom would fry scrapple and we would pour molasses over it.

There were seldom any sweets for snacks in our house. Mom would make a “goodie” for the little kids.  It was bread soaked in milk with sugar sprinkled on top.  We would also get surplus peanut butter and Mom would buy marshmallows and we would make sandwiches!

I remember how special Mom would treat us when we were sick.  When we were little, we were allowed to wear the “sick robe.”  It was a bathrobe that was white and pink chenille.  Whenever I was sick, Mom would put the robe on me, comb my hair and bring me a “goodie.”  I always felt warm and special when I got to wear the sick robe.

When Dad worked in the mines, he carried a lunch.  He always saved part of it for the little kids.  When he came home, we would run down the road to meet him and carry his lunch pail home.  

The Worst Of Times, The Best of Times

I had been waiting by the phone all day. My heart was racing. My palms were wet. I paced my small apartment, walking from the large picture window on the west side to the kitchen sink on the east.

It was October. The leaves on the oak tree outside were turning yellow. Night came quicker and the mornings were colder. And I was in my third year of law school.

Going to law school hadn't been easy.  I was supporting myself with a little help from Mom and Dad.  My tuition was being paid through student loans that would take me thirty years to repay.  I worked three jobs to pay for rent and food.

I ate a lot of store brand peanut butter for breakfast and dinner.  I didn't have cable TV.  I wore lots of sweaters to save on heat.  I didn't go anywhere or do anything.  Except for class, I didn't drive my car because I couldn't afford to pay for gas.  But that was all about to change.

The big law firms in Philly would be announcing their decisions on who they would hire after graduation. I was waiting for the phone call that would tell me that my future was set.

Despite my jitters, I felt pretty good. I had worked hard and I had studied hard. I had the highest grade point average in my class. I had courted one of the biggest and most prestigious law firms in the city. The interviews, I believed, had gone very well. All I needed now was to finalize the details.

When the phone rang, I jumped. Get a hold of yourself, I thought. This is the moment you have been waiting for.

I prepared myself to accept a high powered, high paying job at a big city law firm. I was ready to carry a brief case and wear a suit. I was ready for an upgrade in my apartment and a fancy new car.  This was my day. I would land my dream job. I was ready to face my destiny.

I plucked the phone from its cradle and gave my most confident “Hello”.

After a few pleasantries the voice on the other line said, “We’re sorry but we don’t feel that you would be a good fit for our firm.”

There was more conversation; but I don’t remember it. I had stopped listening. I had stopped breathing. My heart had stopped beating. I had stopped living.

I had been rejected.

Rejected. Turned down. Thrown out. Declined. Dismissed. Discarded. Refused. Rebuffed. Snubbed. Spurned. Not good enough. A failure. There weren’t enough words in the thesaurus to describe how discouraged I felt.

It was one of the best days of my life.

Instead of my dream job, I ended up working for a third tier law firm doing menial work and being thoroughly unappreciated. I spent all my waking hours working and was considerably underpaid. I worked on the Fourth of July. I worked on Easter. I worked on Thanksgiving. I worked on Christmas. I worked until I couldn’t work anymore. It pretty much sucked.  I hated it.

I know what you’re thinking. Didn’t you just say being rejected from your dream job was one of the best days of your life? You’re right. I did say that. It’s not a typo. Let me explain.

At the crappy job, I met my friend Bill. Bill hated his crappy job as much as I hated mine. He applied for a got a new job at a better firm. A few weeks later, Bill clued me in that his new firm was hiring. I landed that job.

Being rejected from my dream job led to the crappy job.  The crappy job led to my new and better job. My new and better job led to a promotion and a transfer to Illinois. The transfer to Illinois led to a better way of living. The better way of living led to the birth of my three children. The birth of my three children led to the happiest days of my life.

At times, I reflect back on what I thought would be my dream job. What would have happened if the voice on the phone had said, “We’d like to offer you a position”? How would my life have turned out?

Here’s what I learned. When you are standing on the Path of Life, your vision is myopic.  It's hard to see exactly where you are and where you are going. After you’ve moved down the path a bit further, it’s easier to stop, to turn around, to look back, and to assess where you have been. That’s when you can appreciate the twists and turns and bumps that got you to where you needed to be.

Now, I watch as some of my family members and friends are struggling. They are at the bumps in the road. I hope that I can give them courage that the bumps they are hitting today are most likely so they can find the right path to where they are suppose to be in the future.

If you are reading this and you are on the bumpy path, my advice to you is to be patient. Right now, it may be difficult to see the road you are on and where it is taking you. But soon, when you have moved further down your Life’s Path, you will be able to turn around and see the bumps and appreciate how they led you to the place you were suppose to be.

In the end, I’m glad I didn’t get my dream job. I’m happy that I ended up exactly where I was supposed to be. I’m thankful for that day that I was rejected. Because on that day, I was able to set off on the Life Path to my true destiny.

Do You Believe in Meeka?

“Mommy, I’m going to Meeka’s birthday party.”

Emily (4) is standing by the door. She is wearing a pink dress with white polka dots and her shiny black shoes. A small pink princess suitcase sits at her feet. Emily spent the morning packing it full of her favorite teddy bears and stuffed toys. Emily smiles and her eyes twinkle at me.

Emily has been talking about Meeka’s party all week. She’s been telling me that Meeka is having chocolate birthday cake and pink and purple balloons. The party is being held at a hotel, the same one where her friend BJ had his party last December. Yesterday Emily made a special card for Meeka and wrote her name in pink marker on the envelope.

“Why don’t you have a snack before you go?” I say with a smile.

Emily giggles and skips past her luggage into the kitchen. I notice Eric (7) hovering nearby. His lips are scrunched up and his eyes are squinted, as if he is thinking hard.

“What’s up, Buddy?” I ask.

Eric inches nearer to me. He motions for me to pull my ear closer so he can share a secret. I bend down and he whispers. “Shouldn’t we tell Emily that Meeka isn’t real?”

“It’s OK.” I tell him. “I think she knows it’s just pretend.”

Eric frowns and shakes his head. Eric is seven years old, almost eight. He can tie his shoes and ride a two-wheel bike. He knows how to add, subtract and multiply. He can read and write. In the fall, Eric will be in the second grade. Eric has reached “the age of reason.”

The age of reason. That’s when a kid is old enough to know the difference between fact and fiction. Between genuine and fake. Between real and pretend.

It’s the age when a kid will ask Mom or Dad tough, uncomfortable questions. The kind of questions parents dread. The kind of things parents try not to think about. The kind of things parents are never prepared to answer.

Like “where does the tooth fairy get all that money she leaves under kid’s pillows?” Ummmm….a wealthy benefactor? Unfortunately for me, an off the cuff answer like that only leads to more difficult questions.

As I watch Eric’s concern for Emily’s mental well being, I remember when I was six years old. I was in kindergarten in Mrs. Child’s class. One day, a magician visited our classroom. He wore a black cape with a red satin lining. A black top hat sat on his head. He had long dark hair and a mustache. He was mysterious.

The magician started his act. First, he made a bouquet of flowers pop out of his wand. I clapped and cheered. Then he pulled a fluffy white rabbit out of his hat. I clapped and cheered. Finally, he made his pretty assistant disappear and then brought her back again. I clapped and cheered. It was magic. I believed. And I was happy.

Later that day I told my Aunt Nell what I saw. Instead of clapping and cheering, she frowned.

“It wasn’t real.” She told me. “It was a trick.”

My heart sank. My lip quivered. I felt a tear run down my cheek. I stopped believing in magic that day.

I look over at Eric. I appreciate his concern for his sister. Still, I don’t want him to spoil her fun. I pull him aside and whisper to him.

“It’s important for little kids to have big imaginations.” I say. “Do you remember Andy?”

Eric gives me a puzzled look. Then I tell him about his four-year old days. He loved Toy Story and would talk about it for hours. He would make up adventures that involved him, Woody, Buzz and Andy. He had invented a whole world where they were his best friends.

I see a flicker of recognition in Eric’s eyes. A grin flashes across his face as he recalls his imagination days, when he had a pretend friend of his own. He nods and walks away.

Emily is finishing her snack now. I take her to the sink to wash her hands. When I return, I find Eric standing by the door smiling. Emily’s suitcase is next to him on the floor. Eric has his red travel bag slung over his shoulder. I can see his bubby bear, the one he has had since the day he was born, peeking out of the sack.

Now I am puzzled. “What’s up?” I ask.

Eric grins. “I’m going with Emily to Meeka’s birthday party.”

I feel a laugh burst from the bottom of my belly. “Can I come too?” I ask.

Too Big for Butterflies

When I cam home from work on Monday, Beth’s crib was gone. Ken had taken it apart and converted it into a toddler bed.

It took me by surprise when I first walked into Beth’s room, like that feeling you get when you first step off an elevator and aren’t sure if you should turn right or left.

It didn’t phase Beth.

“Look, Mama!” She laughed and clapped her hands. “Santa brought me a new bed!”

The crib had been in our house, in the same room, since we moved in almost seven years ago. It had become a fixture in my heart, a symbol of our ever-growing family.

Ken and I bought the crib at IKEA when I was pregnant with Eric. We didn’t know much about cribs. Or diapers. Or bottles. Or babies. Or anything.

We had shopped and shopped until we finally found one that satisfied both of us. It looked pretty, a pale natural oak. It seemed sturdy and strong. And it met all of the required safety specifications. We hefted it into the car and took it home.

A few days later, I stood in the nursery admiring our handiwork. Ken and I had spent the day putting it together. The chore had taken longer than expected but in the end, the crib looked beautiful.

"Why are the instructions in Swedish?" I asked.

"That's Norwegian." Ken corrected.

We still lived in our old house then; and the wooden crib was a perfect fit. I remember looking around the baby's room and imagining myself sitting in the rocking chair next to my baby's bed. I thought about the stories I would read. I thought about the songs I would sing. I thought about patting my little one's back and smiling as I watched my baby drift into dreamland.

Eric received the first turn to sleep in the crib. As the oldest, it was his right. Unfortunately, he never liked it much. After nine months squished up in my belly, I think he felt lonely in the vast cavern of the crib.

I came to dread bedtime. I would rock Eric for hours in my arms. I would sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” a hundred times. I would pat his back into the wee hours of the night. When I was sure he was asleep, I would gently lay him on the mattress, cover him with his soft blue blanket and sneak out of the room. Then, just when I was settling into my own bed, he would wail and scream and I would rush back to start the process again. Eric was nine months old before he finally slept a full night in the crib.

When Emily’s turn came to use the crib, I was a bit smarter. The crib was so big and she was so small. Eric had taught me that.

So I started Emily out in a bassinet and kept her beside my bed for four months. If she woke in the middle of the night, I would reach over and touch my hand to her warm cheek or squeeze her fingers gently until she closed her eyes.

I didn’t move Emily to the crib until I was sure she could spend the night on her own. By then I had a system. I would read her a story, sing “My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean” and tuck her in, smooth and easy. She would fall asleep with a smile on her face.

Emily stayed in the crib until she was almost two, just before Beth was born. My plan was for Emily to use the crib for another six months or so. After all, Beth would use the bassinet.

What I didn't know was that Eric and Emily had conspired to upset the balance of bedtime. Eric taught Emily to scale the sides of the crib so they could play together before Mom and Dad woke in the mornings.

I would be laying in bed when I would hear giggling at my elbow. I would turn over and there I'd see Emily smiling at me and saying "Goo mor'ing Mama." Ken and I were forced to move Emily to a big girl bed or risk her tumbling over the top rail of the crib on one of her adventures.

Then it was Beth's turn. For Beth, the crib was her haven from the first day we brought her home. She never objected like Eric. She never tried to escape like Emily.

After a day of giggling and playing, I would rock Beth gently, read her a story about Elmo, lay her on her back, kiss her cheek and cover her with her pink blankie. She would smile, turn on her side, sigh and drift off to sleep. Easy peasy.

Beth's crib was stuffed with dolls and animals. She would sleep in the heap with her Piggy (a pink plush dog that she insists is a pig) clutched in her arms. She never cried or fussed. But in the morning, if I didn't come in to get her right away, she would toss all of her friends out of bed in protest. I'd open her door and find dolls, dogs and and dinosaurs scattered across the room. "Mama, up!" She would insist.

If it were up to me, Beth would have continued sleeping in the crib until she was seventeen. But it wasn’t up to me. It was up to Beth. She had grown bigger, despite my pleas and objections. She started rejecting her crib and insisted on sleeping on her travel cot or on the floor.

"It's time to go to your cribby and go night-night." I said.

"No, Mama, I'm a big girl." She said.

Ken gave in first. He's always been more of a realist. He knew Beth was right. She was a big girl now. Ken pulled out his allen-wrench and screw driver and removed the side rails. The crib morphed into a bed just as Beth had morphed from baby to child.

And just like that, my world changed. All of my babies were gone, replaced by three big kids.

This summer, I am planning to paint Beth’s room. I’ll probably choose a pretty purple or pink. I’ll decorate it with little girl things like butterflies and flowers. I'll find her a frilly blanket edged with lace. When I'm done, I’ll admire it and enjoy it.

Until the day comes when Beth decides she is too big for butterflies.