Strategy

A few days ago, I noticed Lucy sucking her thumb. She's never been a thumb-sucker, so the sight surprised me but I didn't say anything. The following day, I saw her doing it again, very intentionally focusing on the act even. I asked what was up.

Lucy: "I'm sucking my thumb."
Me: "Yes, you are. Why?"
Lucy: "Because we have a dentist appointment this week."
Me: "And do you think the dentist is going to be happy about you sucking your thumb?"
Lucy: "No, but don't worry. I'm going to stop tomorrow. Then I will get to tell the dentist that I sucked my thumb, and then I quit, so that I get the same special prize Mary got when she quit when she was four!"

I was stunned by Lucy's wit, reasoning skills, and strategy. All at the ripe old age of just-turned-four. TAG classes in our future? I think perhaps. Poker? Certainly.

Sibling Rivalry

Last week, as I was changing the sheets, I found a very small folded note under Lucy's pillow. I opened it and read: "Dear Lucy, You are rotten. I am not rotten. You are. Love, Mary." I have no idea what specific action sparked this note, but am guessing it's Mary's passive-aggressive retaliation to Lucy calling her rotten at some point in the week.

And so the sibling rivalry begins. I have to change the sheets again today, and I must admit, I'm a little afraid to check under Lucy's pillow again. At least the note included, "Love, Mary," right? Right?? Oh, nevermind. . .

From mountains to waves, we'll follow the sun

Just as the Beatles sang in their famous tune, we have been following the sun.

First, we enjoyed a fabulous sunny weekend in Bend-- complete with the famous pet parade, Pilot Butte fireworks, swimming pool adventures, and of course amazing alfresco meals on the patio overlooking the Bahrman's new putting green. A relaxing respite for sure.

We returned home on Monday briefly to re-pack our bags and depart for the beach. Even though the hotel owners recounted drizzle and fog over the 4th of July weekend, when we arrrived the weather was the nicest that the coast has seen all year. It was 85 on Tuesday, and 91 on Wednesday at Cannon Beach. Which, as anyone who has dipped so much as a toe in the frigid northern Pacific knows, is the perfect temperature for frolicking in the waves. Or at least dipping a toe in without getting frostbite. Every single one of us enjoyed our beach getaway.

And now, after following the sun from the mountains to the ocean, it appears to be chasing us! Today is supposed to break the 100-degree mark here in Portland. Oh, the irony.

What a HOOT!!

Our Lucy is four. And she couldn't be a happier, more delightful child. We're celebrating today with our grandparents. Happy birthday to our darling little Lucy, who is even brighter than the bright sparkling sunshine we are blessed with today.

Summer Sunshine

At long last, summer has arrived in Portland. We now busier than busy playing at the park, swinging on our frontyard swing, and splashing in the kiddie pool (yes, it's only 75 degrees, but that seems unbearably HOT to two little girls who have been subjected to 55 degrees & rain for months).

Summer, we love you. Please stick around.

First Grade, First Grade!

Miss Mary has officially graduated from kindergarten.

To the tune of Frank Sinatra's, New York, New York, the kindergarten class sang to the audience, "Start spreading the news. We're leaving today.... We're gonna be a part of it, First Grade, First Grade!"

Absolutely, positively fabulous!

The missing piece

My neighbor Susie has a Shel Silverstein book called, "The Missing Piece." It's the tale of a little shape traveling around searching for its missing piece, and she's read it with Mary and Lucy a few times. They delight in the prose, and repeat it often.

For the past two years, I've felt as though our life had a missing piece. I would take the girls to school, and turn to bring a younger sibling home with me, only to discover I didn't have one. I would see mamas toting babies and get that pang of desire for my own little papoose. Pregnant bellies became like magnets for my hands. The feeling grew stronger and stronger until finally I could deny it no more. We should have another baby. Curtis enthusiastically agreed. Practicality weighed in, and I could persuade myself and Curtis that our life, our house, our car weren't ideal for another baby. But then, I would get another missing piece moment and realize that sometimes the heart outweighs practicality.

And so, we got pregnant in April. With a due date of January 17, a special day for our family because it is our beloved Great-Papa's birthday. The minute we knew, we were overjoyed. We did tricky wine-glass rearranging so as not to raise suspicions. We began our debate over which of us should have naming privileges. We plotted our home remodel project, and researched larger vehicles.

I felt great. I felt too great. In nine weeks of pregnancy, I had only three hours of queasiness. At our first appointment on Monday, the baby was measuring small but had that ever-important heartbeat. The ultrasound screen showed a little blueberry with two small eye sockets, staring straight at me, and that beautiful beating heart whooshing away. The doctor expressed concern about the baby's size, and asked to see us back in a week to make sure things were all right. And then late Thursday night, it became very clear that things were not right at all. At 2am on Friday, an ultrasound confirmed that the baby's heart was no longer beating. And I am utterly, completely devastated.

Perhaps this is too personal to share on a blog where I usually write only of the kids' antics and birthday celebrations and my latest gardening failures. We hadn't announced the pregnancy, so I'm sure this comes as quite a surprise. I'm not up to phone calls quite yet, so I apologize for not being able to tell my close loved ones about this personally. But there is a huge part of my heart missing, and I cannot imagine keeping that hidden away. I cannot fathom why miscarriages are so taboo that we cannot share them and grieve for those lost babies, as we do for others whom we love dearly and lose.

The only thing that I know for certain right now is that our missing piece feels larger than ever.