Potty Chronicles

You never really want to arrive at preschool to pick up your three-year-old and find that she's wearing the "back-up outfit" you sent in a one-gallon Ziplock bag at the beginning of the school year because she "had a little accident." The cute outfit you dressed her in that morning is balled up in a plastic bag inside her backpack. But it happens. Of course, being informed by the teacher that your babe got wet falling in the toilet catches you a little off guard. ("Whaa..?" )

Yeah, it seems that a three-year-old may not notice that some little boy who used the bathroom before her left the seat up, and that seatless bowl is darn slippery. Mira managed to slip, upper back-first, into what I am hoping was at least a flushed john. I picture her lower body sticking out and legs splayed, since her shirt was soaked in back but her pants were dry. Her teacher heard her calling, "Help!"

This incident would have completely traumatized my In-Control Abby and Fearful Gracie ("What if I would've gone all the way down the drain?"), but Mira is cut from a different (tougher) cloth. She cheerfully reported, "Mama, I fall in the potty!" when I arrived. She wasn't phased in the least. I might've even assumed the incident was promptly forgotten, except the following week at school, after the kids used the bathroom, she announced to the class, "I NOT FALL IN THE POTTY THIS TIME."

Well, good.

The Skin She's In

I'd been wondering when skin color would come up - when Mira would ask a question or make an observation about her brown skin, in our otherwise-pasty family. I was kind of surprised it hadn't come up already - she's made some pretty astute observations about Randy's "scratchy face," my dad's bald head and my own "soft tummy" (that's kid-speak for flab), but hadn't said a peep about skin color.

Until last week. She was looking at her arm (her beautiful, perfect little cinnamon arm) and she said, "I don't like this brown stuff." I said, "What brown stuff?" (because who knows? - her arm might very well be covered in marker, peanut butter, mud or something worse. And we will never speak of that again.) She said, "I don't like this brown skin." Oh, how that wrenched my heart! I smiled and said, "I do. I love your brown skin," and readied myself for a discussion about her skin versus my skin. But instead she declared, "I only want blue skin. Or purple. I only like blue and purple skin." Where to go from there?

I asked her if she thought a lot of people had blue or purple skin (we'll leave Barney and hypothermics out of this) and she considered that for a minute. "I don't know..?" Then I told her that mostly people aren't blue, and everyone has different skin. I said, "Your skin is brown because you're Ethiopian, and Ethiopians have brown skin." I thought this might make sense to her because we frequently talk about the fact that she's Ethiopian (granted, it's often in contexts like, "There's an Ethiopian streaker running through the living room," or "Just because you're Ethiopian doesn't mean you can drink my coffee," or "Someone bit the top of my Chapstick off and I suspect a three-foot-tall Ethiopian."

She pondered my explanation and then asked if our neighbors are Ethiopian. (Well, no.) How about her classmate Kate? (Um, no, Kenyan actually.) Her friend Rhianna? (Ah no, Somali.) OK, so my explanation was as clear as mud. (Is mud Ethiopian?) At this point, true to three-year-old form, she abruptly lost interest in the topic and asked if she could wear Gracie's jewelry.

Certainly we know this topic will come up again (and again), and it may be a rockier conversation as the years go by. She may wish for light skin, straight hair...

Or she may have other cosmetic aspirations.

Saying Goodbye

My stepdad Les passed away on January 17, five days after I posted my letter to him. I am so glad I wrote it when I did. Les, in his typical humble and quiet fashion, thanked me and told me with a smile that he thought it was "really a nice letter. Even if all that nice stuff about me is a pack of lies." I took the opportunity to hug him and tell him how much I would miss him.

Just a few days later it became difficult for him to stay awake, and our collective focus began shifting from final expressions of love to making sure he was comfortable and peaceful. (Although he and I did watch a bit of the Packers-Giants game on Sunday night. When he said he wanted to see the Pack go to the Superbowl I threw my arms around him and cheered.)

On Tuesday morning, as he was surrounded by family, my mom laid her cheek on his and told him she loved him. By then, he had been unresponsive and his eyes had been closed for a day. But at my mom's words, he opened his eyes and looked into hers. (She said the sunlight made them incredibly, unusually blue.) Then he breathed his last breath.

All of us were glad his fight was over, and that he wouldn't suffer, but of course the finality of death feels cruel and painful. He will be very missed.

A Letter to Les

If I were watching a dramatic Lifetime movie and a character was informed by a doctor that he had just two weeks to live, although he felt fine, I would probably burst out with my characteristic skepticism, "Oh, come on! That's a little unrealistic."

But actually it's not. My stepdad had just such an experience earlier this week. In December we received the shocking news that he has an aggressive form of cancer. So aggressive that treatment wasn't really an option for him. A few days ago, the oncologist's friendly observation that "You look like you're feeling pretty good" was followed by the grim prediction that death will likely come within two weeks.

I can't imagine what it is like to be the recipient of such news. "Sad" seems pretty obvious. I imagine it's incredibly lonely, even with everyone around you. I can tell you what it is like to know someone who is the recipient of such news: surreal. (Of course, heartbreaking, devastating, depressing... but really, really surreal.) Because he is not feeling sick, and is going about his usual routines, talking about football, politics, my kids... it is like more like knowing someone is going to have a car accident or be the victim of a mafia hit than it is knowing someone is dying of cancer.

We are thankful he is not suffering physically, because he's a man who has been dealt far more than his fair share of physical suffering, as he has late-stage MS. (Multiple Sclerosis, this cruelest of diseases, has now been trumped by cancer.)

We will be saying our final goodbye soon. But I have a unique opportunity to say what I want to say now, so Les - this is for you:

I am so glad you married my mom. Sometimes relationships with step-parents can be challenging, but in 17 years it never has been with you. I've often thought that you and Mom found kindred spirits in each other: hardworking, responsible, moral and practical (yes, very practical!) with an appreciation of quality and a love of family. I remember you two going dancing, enjoying concerts, traveling to Mexico. As MS robbed you of so many activities these last years, I know Mom's heart broke for you repeatedly, as you suffered the loss of your independence.

I love your part in our family, beyond my mom. I love the relationship you had with my grandma (you two with your stories of country life and outhouses) and the fact that when we have family gatherings, you are one of my dad's very favorite people to talk with. (Vikings, Twins, Gophers...)

Thank you for being a caring, loving and interested grandpa to my kids. They love you, and I have always enjoyed your quiet, bemused smile at their antics. You've seen them play all of their instruments and sports - seen Ethan miss fly balls in the Little League outfield, seen Abby storm away from the piano after completing her songs at dreaded recitals, seen them play soccer too many times to count. And of course you've witnessed plenty of tantrums, messes, and priceless moments over the years.

You've been there for Randy and I as well, supportive and helpful over the years, as we've asked you for your advice on anything and everything related to home maintenance or improvement. Fifteen years ago when we were hunting for our first house, you told us what to look for in basement walls, what might indicate foundation problems. A couple weeks ago you explained to me about not needing to pre-wash my dishes before loading them in the dishwasher if I used a rinse agent. You've talked Randy through countless house projects, and encouraged him to be a do-it-yourselfer. (Oh, you must have cringed when you first saw our bookshelves made of bricks and plywood when we were dating!)

In short, I am so thankful for your presence in our lives. You know, for all these words I've typed, I realize I cannot adequately express how I feel, except to say, you are so loved and cared about, and I hope that you have felt that from us over all these years.

Sounds of the Season

Christmas 2011 has come and gone. This year we we celebrated with wonderful food, friends and family surrounding us. All six of us were completely healthy, which has got to be a first in several years. (Uh-oh, I feel myself tempting fate with that bold statement.) Much of it was chaotic, comical and musical, as are many things concerning our family.

Santa delivered some nice goods and left our house without taking Mira, despite Ethan's warning that she'd be whisked away to Spain by Old Saint Nick. (Mira announced triumphantly on Christmas morning, "Ha ha Ethan, Ho-Ho not take me!") Mira was the lucky recipient of a toy saxophone (clearly I am a glutton for auditory punishment, since the norm around here is already for multiple instruments to be played at once. Not the same tune, of course. Hey, let's add another sound to the cacophony!) Apparently all we needed to do as far as Christmas presents was to give every child a toy saxophone - forget clothes, Wii games, faux UGG boots - because the saxophone was the hit of the holiday.

"NO ETHAN, THAT MY TRUMPET!" (Ethan clearly feels bad about offending her)

Ethan had figured out Careless Whisper on the new sax by noon, which is impressive, baffling and disappointing. Impressive because after all, it's a plastic toy, and he doesn't even play the saxophone. Baffling because... Careless Whisper? Really? (I guess that pretty well covers disappointing, too.) Now I walk around with Wham! singing "I'm never gonna dance again/Guilty feet have got no rhythm..." in my head all day. And since I'm griping about Wham!, the icing on the Bad Music Cake is that because it's the holiday season, I have the song Last Christmas, also by Wham!, stuck in my head constantly. In my opinion, Last Christmas is the dumbest Christmas tune ever recorded. So with Careless Whisper and Last Christmas, the holiday was a bad music double Wham!my. (Get it? Get it?)

Because we celebrated Christmas with family early, on the 23rd and 24th, this year's actual Christmas day ended up being delightfully slow. My sister Melissa and nephew Little H came over for dinner, but most of the day was just our gang. A true Family Day, complete with games, naps (the preschooler and me) and lots of cookies. Let me repeat: lots of cookies. I noticed tonight that the past week's cookie frenzy has caused me to look like I'm five months pregnant. Yeah, pregnant with a baby peanut blossom. Not cool. (♫ "Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat..." That'd be me as the goose.)

Our northern state was downright balmy for December on Christmas day, so naturally someone suggested going to a soccer field to kick the ball and let Coonhoundus run around for awhile. ("Someone" being Randy, in whose mind it was 70° rather than the actual 41°. I froze my butt off. However, this comes as no surprise, as we've entered the season of the Turn-up-the-heat/Turn-down-the-heat wars in the car as well as "Stop letting cold air in under the covers"/"But my feet are hot" controversies in bed. But I digress...)

After we'd eaten dinner and Melissa had left on Christmas night, we decided to visit some beautiful holiday light displays downtown. It was warm enough to walk through the city parks and look out over the Mississippi - unless you are a teenage boy who insisted that changing from shorts to jeans before we left the house was just too much work. So he was chilly. At one point Mira appeared to be shivering, but then we discovered that was a potty dance. Since literally nothing is open on Christmas and time was of the essence, we realized we had no option but public urination. Randy put her in what he refers to as the hammock-hold (they've gotten quite adept at Mira peeing outdoors since our South Dakota hiking trip) and she left her mark, there among the twinkling Christmas lights in a downtown park on Christmas night. If there had been snow, we could've sung "Peeing in a Winter Wonderland," but as I mentioned, it's been balmy.

A few more holiday pictures...

Abby with Little H

Christmas morning: new hat with nightie

New toys for everyone!

Holidays are exhausting