How did time go by so fast?

How did my baby girl:

...become my six year old?

(Photo courtesy of Heather Durdil Photography)

Happy birthday to the girl who made me a mother. You made sure that my first experience with motherhood was anything but typical, just like everything else in my life up to that point. You turned my world upside down, you showed me new depths of love, and you taught me new heights of tolerance. Because of you, I discovered an inner strength I never knew I had.

You're brilliant, even if you don't want to show it. You light up a room with your warm, cheery personality, and it's hard to find anyone who isn't immediately charmed upon meeting you.

I'm convinced the reason you rarely sleep is because there is too much of the world left for you to discover. Perhaps sleep will come when you're older. In the meantime, how can we say no to letting you bring book after book to bed with you?

I can't predict what the future holds for you, Cordelia, but I know you'll continue to surprise us.

Happy sixth birthday to my Amazon warrior princess.

...she is comfortable enough with her surroundings to settle in on one of the couches for a quick nap:

(photo - and sweatshirt/blanket, I'd guess - courtesy of her teacher)

Mira started her new preschool last week. Her teacher, the much loved teacher that Cordy had for special-needs preschool, has won over the second born as much as she did the first. Mira is absolutely thrilled to go to her afternoon preschool class and comes home each day with stories of all of the cool new things she did that we don't let her do. (Like use scissors.)

But having a full day of school - with morning preschool at one location and afternoon preschool at another location - is affecting her nap schedule. She doesn't have the ability to nap in the afternoons now, leaving her a grumpy mess by dinnertime. The situation above hopefully won't be a trend, and she'll either adjust or learn to sleep when being transported between schools.

Ask Mira if she'd rather nap or go to school, though, and she'll quickly tell you she'd rather be at school. My little one insists on growing up as fast as possible despite my efforts to stop her.

Yet when I come home in the mornings, she still makes me "I missed you" cards (even though she slept while I was at work) and sometimes cries when it's time for daddy to take her to school. It breaks my heart, but it also confirms for me that no matter how fast she tries to grow up, she still can't avoid being my baby.

My grandmother (my mom's mom) has had a long and full life of ups and downs. She was born to a farm family, and from the stories she was told, she was lucky she was a happy, easy-going baby. She spent her earliest days left on a bed, her mother too busy watching the other children and doing the chores that needed done on a farm to spend a lot of time with the tiny baby who stayed so quiet.

She grew up in the Great Depression, and remembers going to the only store in her tiny village, trading what little their farm produced in exchange for flour, sugar, and other necessities for a family to survive. They reused everything and made do with what little they had. She also met my grandfather in that small farming community.

During World War II, she joined the WAVES, the female support staff of the US Navy, while my grandfather served as a fighter pilot in the Canadian Royal Air Force, and then in the US Air Force once the US joined the war.

After the war, they married and returned to their small rural Ohio community where they raised livestock as well as three daughters. Even in the 1950's, she still had no indoor plumbing, getting her water from a well outside the house. Cooking a chicken for dinner involved grabbing a chicken from the yard, cutting its head off, and then plucking it and preparing it for dinner.

Eventually they moved to a house in the nearby village - with indoor plumbing - and my grandmother became a secretary while my grandfather went into law enforcement and eventually become the sheriff of the county. They pushed their daughters to further their education, to become women who would make a difference in the world, with one earning an MBA and another her PhD. The third earned only an Associates degree, but she gave them a different and just as precious gift: a granddaughter.

Then, in 1976, just months before I was to be born, my grandmother lost her husband to a heart attack. She's been alone ever since.

And yet she hasn't been alone. For a short while my mother and I lived with her. And even after my mom was able to afford her own place, we were only two towns away from that tiny village and visited often. Her other daughters have remained close, too. In the past six years, she's seen her two great-granddaughters born, and where she remained more distant in my upbringing, she's increasingly warm towards my girls and enjoys watching their silliness.

She has traveled the world with her daughters and her friends, enjoyed her hobbies, and maintained a level of independence that baffles even me. Her life experience has given her a hard exterior - she's a happy person, but she sees no point in being overly emotional. Depression and exuberance are equally useless to her. She believes in a strong work ethic and the simple morals of being honest and good to people.

This spring, my grandmother had a stroke, and suddenly the family was hit with the realization that this woman of steel was mortal. Amazingly, she bounced back from the stroke, fighting her way through rehab in order to get back to her own house again. She gave up the two-story house in that tiny village a few years ago, now living in the single-story house I grew up in so that my mother is closer to her. This is a good thing, as the stroke has left her weaker, more tired. But she still insists on living by herself, independently.

Today, my grandmother turned ninety years old. 9-0. At ninety years old, she still lives alone, drives her own car, and makes her own meals. She's been a widow for 34 years now - longer than the time she was married to my grandfather. And while she sometimes repeats the same story over and over, forgetting that she's told us before and we already understand the message in it, her mind is mostly clear and sharp despite ninety years worth of experiences crowding the space.

I don't know how much longer she'll be with us. My grandmother is slowing down, looking more frail every day. And while we haven't always seen eye-to-eye (my teenage years were rough on both of us), I do respect the tremendous amount of knowledge and experience she has. I only hope I can take advantage of the time we have left to preserve more of her stories, her history, so my daughters can someday know more about the woman they call G-G.

Happy birthday, grandma. You made it to ninety, just like you said you would at your eightieth birthday party.

Saturday night was a long night. I trudged up to bed around midnight, my body and brain fighting to figure out if it was really nearly lunchtime or bedtime. (Third shift work schedules really screw with your biorhythms.) No sooner had my eyes closed and I was on the verge of sleep, I heard crying coming from Mira's room. I went in and she was clutching her belly, crying "My bewwy huwts!!!"

Figuring it was probably just gas, I rubbed her belly and back, but she then asked if she could come into my room. Aaron had fallen asleep on the couch, so I agreed and brought her in. She lay in bed with me for about ten minutes before deciding she felt better and went back to her room. I again tried to focus on the inside of my eyelids and aimed for sleep.

An hour later, a repeat performance. This time I got her up and had her try using the potty. (Did I mention we're potty training? No? Well, we're POTTY TRAINING! A whole year and a half earlier than Cordy, thank goodness!) Again it didn't seem to help much, and she eventually went back to bed.

Two hours later, the crying startled me awake. This time it sounded more urgent. I went into her room to see her sitting in a corner of her bed, pointing to the center and saying, "I made a mess! I sowwy! I soooo sowwy!" As my eyes adjusted to the light, and my nose adjusted to the assault on it, I realized she had vomited and was covered in it herself. Poor kid - she's sick and all she can do is think I'm mad at her for making a mess. You'd think I was a clean freak.

I carefully lifted her out of bed, making sure to avoid her stuffed pink polar bear (which she made sure to tell me that she was careful to NOT get vomit on her prized stuffed animal!), stripped her down and put her in the bath. While she soaked, I cleaned up the mess, remade her bed, and got the washer started. Then I cleaned her up, got her dressed and put her to bed. Mira seemed to feel better after that, and I hoped it was over.

Sunday was a typical day for her. She ate just fine, even though we were cautious at first, she played, and she continued to say, "My bewwy doesn't huwt now!" Sure, I was exhausted from barely sleeping all night, but she seemed better, so I couldn't complain too much. It was probably just a virus passing through quickly.

Then Sunday night, right at bedtime, it started again: "My bewwy reawwy hurwts!" At this point, I thought Mira was faking it, having figured out yet another way to stall at bedtime and get some extra attention. Aaron - being better slept than me and therefore in a more generous mood - let her rest on the couch and she promptly fell asleep. Faker, I decided.

Aaron carried her back to bed, and I relaxed in my chair to enjoy a little guilty pleasure I call the MTV VMA's before I had to go to work. But no sooner than Justin Bieber jumped up on stage, the wailing voice of a little girl could be heard from upstairs. (Yeah, Mira, I'm more of a Lady Gaga fan, too.) Aaron went to check on her and soon came downstairs with a pathetic little barnacle clinging to him. She was again crying that her belly hurt.

Aaron tried to put her on the couch again, but this time she didn't fall asleep. She tossed and turned and wiggled, occasionally wailing in pain. At this point, I was starting to think it wasn't an act. But it made no sense - how could she be so sick the night before, then perfect all day long, and now very sick again? That little voice of motherly worry started to build in my mind.

I barely saw Taylor Swift's performance, because by that point the wailing had reached a fever pitch. Aaron tried to pull Mira into his lap on the floor, but she pushed him away and stumbled over to where I was sitting in the recliner. No longer the stoic doubter, I accepted her into my lap and let her curl herself into me, even knowing I only had five minutes or so until I had to leave for work. She continued to cry, and I asked her to show me where her belly hurt. She placed a chubby hand over her entire belly-button area.

I gently pushed on her belly, trying to remember what to feel for in a three year old, but my nursing skills were falling short. She wailed as I touched her abdomen, constantly shifting around in an attempt to find some relief from whatever was hurting her.

In those moments, as I tried to distract her by pointing out Lady Gaga was on stage accepting an award, real worry invaded my mind. What if this wasn't just a bug? What if she was really sick?

We don't have health insurance at the moment. My job is a contractor position and Aaron was laid off in May. My agency's health plan was nearly half of my salary for a $4000 deductible, and COBRA cost even more. I make too much to be covered on any state insurance plan for children, and the private market? Yeah, well, let's just say they don't want to cover our family. I don't even have paid sick time. If I need to miss a day, I don't get paid for it. We are the ones "stuck in the middle" making too much to qualify for any help and too little to not worry about the costs.

So in that moment, as I became my own personal WebMD and pondered if Mira had a blockage or if her appendix might burst at any moment, I was also forced to calculate in my head if it was worth taking her to the hospital if she didn't get better. At what point would the risks outweigh the hefty financial hit we'd face? Just the ER charge alone would be crippling, without even considering costs of any tests or x-rays.

At that point, Mira's wails took on a new pitch, drowning out the TV entirely, and as I clutched her tight, with Aaron kneeling next to the chair and rubbing her back, I felt the tears in my eyes. Her health was coming down to money. I felt like I was being forced to decide how sick she had to be before we could risk going broke. And I wanted to scream right along with her, wail at how idiotic and unfair our health insurance system is, and sob that any parent should be forced to think like this, to feel this helpless in the shadow of illness and dollar bills balancing on an enormous scale.

And right then Mira vomited all over me. Twice. The silence was shocking to us all.

That sweet little girl then took one look at me, completely covered in more vomit than I thought possible to come out of such a small person, and said, "Mommy, I so sowwy I got you messy. You still wuv me?"

For the moment all of my fears and worries were gone as I stroked her hair and assured her that of course I still loved her and everything was OK. She still didn't feel well, but the crying had stopped as she was suddenly more concerned about me. (And seriously, I'm really not obsessed with being neat. Sure, I don't like being covered in vomit, but I doubt anyone does.)

Mira still isn't well, but I'm less worried about appendicitis now and back to my original theory that it's a virus. And so we continue to wait it out, hoping she gets better soon and we can avoid a costly trip to the doctor or the ER. I'm still mad at the system, though. Angry that we can't have affordable health insurance because I chose to take a job I love over something I wouldn't enjoy as much, because Aaron is unemployed, because we have a host of pre-existing conditions that would deny us private insurance.

We're average Americans. We have a house, we make a middle-class income, we pay our taxes, and we're trying to get ahead to provide for our daughters. But we're also forced to worry that the next stomachache that comes along might be more serious. That stomachache could bankrupt us, could take away that house we call home, and that chance at getting ahead we so desperately want and work hard towards. I know we're not the only ones in this situation, either.

I'm not an economist (nor do I play one on TV), and I didn't start this post with the intention of going all ranty, but as a mother I can't understand why anyone would think that basic universal health care is wrong. At this point I'd even be willing to settle for universal children's health care. No mother wants a price to be placed on her child's health - so why would you then choose to put a price on the health of someone else's child?

Maybe the world would be a better place if mothers were running it.

I know it's generally considered bad form to brag. And bragging about how your kid is a genius is probably near the top of the bragging no-no list, right up there with "I can lift way more weight than anyone in my gym" and "I had my baby in 45 minutes with no epidural and it didn't hurt at all."

So if you don't want to read about how smart my kid is, I understand. But you'll miss out on some Cordy art and a great story from her at the end of the post.

We received a call from Cordy's teacher today. When she started the call with, "I wanted to see how things are going with Cordelia at home," I immediately braced myself for the bad news of how she was misbehaving at school or some other unwelcome announcement. Calls home from school never end well.

Instead, she went on to tell me that they have completed all of the screening assessments on Cordy to know just where to begin with her, and she wanted us to know the full results.

According to the standardized test, Cordy reads at a second grade level. Second grade! Not only can she read at that level, but her comprehension of what she reads is equally impressive. I confessed that I had no idea she could read that well, but I credited a lot of it to the Columbus Metropolitan Library's Summer Reading Club this summer, where she really took to the idea of reading every day.

Before that, she often treated reading like it was a forbidden activity, doing it quietly in a corner or in her room. When you asked her to read something to you, she protested and acted like she couldn't read at all. She still refuses to read out loud, but her teacher has reached a compromise where Cordy reads at a whisper so she can still be evaluated.

Beyond reading and comprehension, she also knows most of her numbers and can handle basic addition and subtraction. Money is the one area she still fumbles with, but that will come with time. Still - addition AND subtraction!

(Have I mentioned that we've never really taught her much of this? She hates being taught and prefers to pick it up on her own.)

The teacher told us they were all so impressed with her abilities, remarking that she and the aides often forget that Cordy is only five years old and in kindergarten. She expects that if Cordy's social skills can improve, she'll be in a mainstream classroom full time next year, and also said it's probable that Cordy will be given the educational label "twice exceptional" - special needs and gifted - which will also give her access to the gifted ed programs.

I wasn't expecting so much praise over the phone. It's obvious Cordy has charmed her new teacher and staff just like she charms everyone she meets. The kid has a talent for making everyone love her.

So yeah, I'm a wee bit proud of her today. My warrior princess continues to amaze me every day. So often I feel like I'm never doing enough for her, and there are many times when I feel like I just don't know what to do with her. But she's seemingly oblivious to my worries and shortcomings, learning and growing and doing it all her own unique way.

Speaking of her unique way, I promised some art and a story, didn't I? To go along with today's phone call, Cordy's teacher sent home a few of the assignments Cordy has been working on in the past week. I had no idea she was writing full sentences now.

The cats are real pets. The bunny is Sammy, aka the GIANT stuffed Miffy doll that has been her best friend for over two years now.

(Translation: The boy is going down the slide. He is happy.)

And finally, the story. Cordy spends nearly every evening in the kitchen by herself (and she INSISTS on being ALONE!) "making up stories." We hear her mumbling to herself as she paces and hops and flaps back and forth along the kitchen floor. When she goes to bed at night, too, she often stays up for hours making up more stories.

The few times I've convinced her to tell me one of her stories, I've been treated to an amazingly wild stream-of-consciousness story that usually involves characters from several different TV shows all together in one psychedelic Nick Jr. mash-up.

I begged her to let me record one of her stories today, and she grudgingly approved. It isn't nearly as long or as detailed because she was nervous about the camera being on her (and I was trying to make it as inconspicuous as possible, hence the brilliant shaky-cam cinematography), but it's a small glimpse of what goes on in that brilliant little mind of hers.

Our next blogger, perhaps?


Wonderpets Save the Train (from the Vampire) from Christina M on Vimeo.

Last weekend we spent a day in the country for the annual picnic with family and friends. The hosts have a home that can only be described as a child's paradise: lots and lots of toys, a giant play castle, an enormous back yard full of grass so soft you can walk barefoot, and a fire pit with lots of seating to enjoy the warmth of the fire in the evening. OK, so it's an adult's paradise, too.

Cordy and Mira expelled a week's worth of energy in one day as they roamed the grounds and lived life to it's child-hedonist fullest. What did they do, you ask?

Eating. Lots and lots and lots of eating:

Mira ate her weight in Doritos, a normally forbidden snack at home.

Bouncing on balls...

...and falling off:

Playing with the kids of friends, while I admired and wished for just a moment that my daughters were that little again:

This little girl? She's so cute I want to gobble her up.

Playing Queen of the Castle with a real (plastic) castle:

I have few photos of Cordy because she spent most of her day in that castle with the pirate's treasure chest full of toy loot.

Gathering around the fire in the evening with friends and warm blankets for music and s'mores.

These are days that I never want to end. Days when I don't have to work, when we're surrounded by people we care about, when we can talk all day into the night about anything we want, and when the kids can run and play with each other without us needing to be right next to them. These are the few precious days we get in a large number of unimpressive so-so days. I hold the memory of these days as close to my heart as I can.


Also? In reviewing my photos, I quickly realized this child is determined to rule the world.

Look out everyone, she has the power to use those big eyes and that pouty bottom lip to get anything she wants.

I'm generally an easy-going person. It takes a lot to make me really angry, and there are generally few topics that can make me go totally unhinged. Messing with my kids tops the list, of course, but other notable triggers include social injustice, intentionally rude people, and cheating me in some way.

I'm also very protective of our money. Not that we have a lot at the moment, with Aaron unemployed and all, but what we do have I guard over like it's the lost treasure of Atlantis. Every penny is accounted for.

Which means you can imagine how I flipped when I recently discovered someone was writing forged checks from our checking account. They had somehow stolen our bank account number and printed up new checks with a different name, address and phone number.

At first, I tried to give them then benefit of the doubt. Oh, maybe this guy got new checks and accidentally wrote down the wrong account number, I thought. This will be an easy fix by the bank, we'll get our money back, and I won't need to turn into the Incredible Hulk.

But then my theory fell apart. The address and phone number on the check was for a business in Indiana. The name on the check was not associated with the business. And the bank listed on the check was also not the same bank as ours, despite having the same routing number. It was definitely a forgery.

The bank has been very kind in helping us through this, especially considering I must have looked like a crazed woman as I fumed at being told I'd have to shut down my checking account and get a new one. I've had that account for over 15 years. The account number was never listed anywhere because I had it memorized - and now I have to learn a new number, as well as change all of my direct deposit and debit information for the bazillion utility bills and loans attached to the account.

I feel completely violated that my checking account number was somehow found and used to steal money from our account. Not as violated as I felt when our house was broken into and robbed, but enough to wish a lot of karmic harm to that individual. It's a struggle to earn what money we have, and it pisses me off that someone thinks they can earn their living by stealing accounts and using the money from other people.

The stolen money has been given back to us by the bank, thank goodness. But I'm still angry about the incident. When we filed the police report, the office gave us our report number and basically told us no one would be looking into it. I appreciate the honesty, but it frustrates me even more that this guy (or woman - the check was written to a plus-size women's clothing store) got away with it because it isn't enough money for them to bother investigating it further.

We have a new checking account now, and once we pick up our new checks and check cards we'll even have access to it. (Seriously, waiting a week for my check card is like making me live a week without any money at all - who has time to physically go to the bank for cash?)

I know we're lucky to have caught it right at the first fake check. The check number wasn't even that far off from our current sequence, so it could have easily slipped past if I wasn't (obsessively) examining the account daily and looking at every check image that shows up in our account.

The funny part? When I told my mom our account had been compromised, she immediately launched into a lecture about how this will be all the more common now because of how we use plastic cards for everything and it's so easy to steal credit card numbers electronically. I think she's convinced the world will someday end because of our reliance on computers, like our computers will suddenly steal our credit card numbers and buy parts to start building Terminators to enslave humanity. I cut her off with, "Yeah, but this wasn't my check card - it was all paper fraud, mom! Old-school paper checks!" Ha.

I hope you check your accounts online daily. It's too easy for a scammer to steal a little bit here, a little bit there, and you might not even notice. Don't let them take money from you, too - keep your account passwords safe, destroy any paper account information and monitor them vigilantly.

And if you ever meet someone who thinks it's no big deal to use forged checks? Kick him in the balls for me, OK?