Observation

Laila is much more independent than Connor was at this age.

This morning I put her in her Bumbo seat and set her in front of the mirror. She cooed and laughed at herself for thirty minutes.

Right now she is in her carrier playing with the new toy that Ninah gave her for Easter. She is batting at it and grabbing it and pulling on it. It's a little dragonfly thing with bells in it's feet--it's amazing what entertains babies.

When Connor was a baby I honestly thought all the toys and gizmos on the market were nothing more than futile attempts to entertain a baby. I didn't believe any of them ever actually worked, and I thought parents were suckers for buying all the baby "stuff".

But Laila loves them! She loves her swing, her Bumbo seat, and all the silly ridiculous rattles we have for her. It's amazing!

Right now she's talking to the dragonfly. She really has no idea that I'm sitting right next to her. They seem to be having a pretty serious conversation, so I think I'll leave them alone for now.

Easter

Connor was a hit at the Easter egg hunt at Ninah's church. Before they set the children loose for Easter eggs (and candy, and the inevitable sugar highs), they told the story of Jesus' death and resurrection.

"Does anyone know why we have Easter?"

Three-year-old Connor piped up:

"Because Jesus died."

He knows the story. I was surprised the first time I heard him tell it.

"And what happened after He died?" I asked.

"They put him in a cave, and the bad guys put a rock in front of him."

"Did He get out?" I asked.

"No," Connor replied.

Unfortunately he misses the most important part.

This has become one of his new games. Yesterday we were playing outside, and Connor picked up a stick.

"Mommy, you shoot me, and I'm gonna rose again from the grave."

Hmmmm....

This morning was a little trickier. We discovered that Connor, who has only met Lee's mom once, thinks that Lee's older sister Carol is his mom.

"She's not my mom. She's my sister," Lee explained.

"Well, where's your mommy?" Connor asked.

"She lives far away. You met her when you were a baby."

"What about your daddy?"

"Well, he's in heaven," Lee began, a little lost for words. "He died," he continued.

"On a cross?" Connor asked.

How do you explain death to a three-year-old? I'm not really sure I'm ready to. So far the story of Jesus' death is the only story of death Connor has heard. And He rose again, so Connor is a little confused about what death really is.

I grew up in a Southern Baptist Church, and the story of Jesus' death was one I always knew. It was so much a part of me that I was in my early 20s before I realized how violent and gruesome the story really is. Blood, and nails, and a thorny crown.... It's the type of story I would censor from my young son if it were on t.v.

And yet it is central to my Christian faith.

The story is ultimately one of hope: Despite violence and death, there is ultimately resurrection. A second chance. A new beginning. Connor doesn't really get it. How can he, at three?

I wish I could completely shield him from death. I wish he would never have to worry about his health or the health of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child, or friend. I wish he would never have to feel the empty place that is left behind when a loved one passes away. I wish he could stay my little baby forever....

But he will grow up, and he will experience those things, and he will be changed by them. Hopefully he'll learn the end of the story, and with it find some hope.

Is it Colic???

When Connor was a baby he cried constantly. Cried isn't even the word. He screamed. Face red, mouth wide open, piercing screams. Nonstop.

We tried everything: music, no music, noise machines, pacifiers, bouncy seats, vibrating seats, burping him, patting his back, rocking him, swaying with him, swaddling him. I read books about fussy babies, looking for the solution I was somehow missing. What I learned was that demanding babies (that's putting it nicely) often grow up to be demanding children (great...).

The only time he wasn't screaming is when I was holding him. So I held him all the time. I slept with him. I napped with him (the only way I ever got the boy to nap was if I was lying next to him forcing a boob in his mouth). I carried him. I bought a Baby Bjorn and used it all the time. I was like a kangaroo. A stressed-out, sleep-deprived, frustrated kangaroo.

I can't tell you how many times I heard: "He's like this because you hold him all the time."

"No, he's just like this," I'd reply. "Holding him is the only thing that makes him not cry."

"Well, if you'd put him down, he'd get used to it. Besides, you're spoiling him."

Aaaggghhh.

But I'd question myself. Maybe I am spoiling him. Maybe I am doing something wrong. Maybe I should let him cry it out.

I actually tried that once. I fed him, burped him, changed him, cuddled him, and then laid him in his crib (aka The Pit of Fire). He immediately started whimpering. I patted his back.

"You need a nap. Mommy's going to leave you here, and let you have a nap. I'll come get you as soon as your nap is over."

And I left the room.

Screaming immediately ensued. It continued for a full twenty minutes while I sat in the next room, staring at the wall and losing my mind:

I should go get him.

No, I shouldn't--how will he learn if I always pick him up?

But listen to him--he's going to be scarred for life.

No he's not. I'm just too much of a softie.

But he's screaming. He doesn't understand. He's just a little baby.

No, he's spoiled. He knows exactly what he's doing.

And on and on and on until I finally picked him up. That was the last time we tried that little experiment. From that point forward I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to just have to hold him.

Connor did outgrow the crying (sort of). Now he's a well-adjusted, secure, precocious three-year old. And yes, he's spoiled.

Perfect Moments

On a perfect day:

Connor wouldn't throw a tantrum first thing in the morning after I tell him he can't wear the dirty spiderman light-up shirt to school.

I'd get Connor to school on time.

I wouldn't forget his lunch.

I'd make it to the gym for an invigorating workout.

Laila would nap and nurse in perfect three-hour intervals, taking time to smile and laugh at me before dozing off for another perfect nap.

I'd meet a good friend for lunch.

I'd actually get some contract work done.

The house would be clean.

Lee would come home early.

We'd be eating dinner by 7:00 (and it wouldn't be burnt).

Connor would be in bed by 8:00.

Laila wouldn't have her evening melt-down, and Lee and I would enjoy a quiet evening together.

My life doesn't look anything like that. Last week I made it to the gym once. I only got about seven hours of work done all week. The house is a complete disaster. The clutter around here is multiplying exponentially. There's laundry in the dryer, laundry in the washing machine, dirty dishes in the sink. Laila and I have both been sick for a week now. Connor is refusing (again) to go to bed.

I'm reminded of something I read recently that said we should look for the perfect moments in life. Not perfect days, or even perfect hours, but perfect moments. Moments where everything clicks into place. They're there, if we look.

This morning the four of use were lying in our king-size bed. Connor had a monster-truck in the bed--the kind that plays music when you push the buttons. He was standing on the bed attempting to clap along with the music, but it was so incredibly off-beat. White doesn't even begin to describe how off he was.

"You do it," he said. Lee and I played along. He pushed the button again.

"Now scrape your hands," he said, running the tips of his fingers over the opposite hand.

Puzzled, Lee and I began scraping our hands.

"Now brush off your pants," Connor continued, patting his legs. We did as we were told.

"Now pat your neighbor's knee," Connor said, reaching over to pat my knee. I reached over to pat Lee's knee, and Lee reached over to pat mine.

"No, Daddy, I'm patting Mommy's knee. You have to pat someone else's knee."

By this point Lee and I were laughing hysterically. Connor continued to dance and clap to the music. Laila, who was lying there naked except for her diaper (she wet herself again last night...), had a confused look on her face, as if she were wondering how she ended up with this strange family.

We soon had to get up and face the day. It was a typical Sunday. Connor was constantly testing his limits. Laila was a little fussy. By the end of the day I could tell that Lee was glad to be returning to work tomorrow. Far from perfect. But for a brief moment this morning, everything fell into place.

Big Brother

Connor was a hit at Starbucks yesterday. Laila was lying peacefully in her carrier, drooling as always.

"Mommy, she's making her mouth-stuff again," Connor said.

"Yes, she is," I replied nonchalantly. I continued to sip my coffee.

"I'm gonna clean it for her," Connor decided. He promptly got up, walked across the cafe, and took a napkin from a lady sitting nearby. I started to apologize, but she smiled and indicated that it wasn't a problem.

Connor returned with the napkin. By this time he had the attention of the lady whom he took the napkin from and the couple at the table next to us. He bent over Laila and tenderly wiped the drool from her mouth.

"Awww... What a good big brother," I heard around the cafe. I smiled. Connor continued wiping Laila's mouth, and then returned the napkin to the lady sitting at the table.