Sunday, April 26, 2009

What makes sisterhood so wonderful? I was just perusing my oldest sister's blog. I was listed on her blog roll as "my sister, Charity". I felt so proud to be her sister. Aside from my husband, and also my mother, my sisters are my favorite people. Hands down. If someone told me I was going to be trapped on a desert island forever and could only take two people...I'd have mom and Ryan in one hand and Felic and Seren in the other...and there would be serious debate going on in my head.

My sisters have been with me my whole life. (I'm the baby of the family.) When I was five my mom was really sick, and I remember one night Felicity tucked me in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. She became my idol forever. During one very difficult transition from little girl to teenager, Serenity held me while I cried because I didn't want to wear that stupid new undergarment! Idol. Forever.

Maybe it's not the same for everyone. I mean, my sisters are extremely cool. But it's so nice to have someone you're stuck to. Your relationship is forever defined. No matter how you change, or what opinions you make, or what church you go to, or what stupid stuff you do, or what amazing stuff you will always be sisters. That can't change. It's the identity factor.

Here's to sisters!

Thursday, April 16, 2009


My daughter is amazing. She gobbled up her mushy cereal for dinner. She went for her first ride on the baby swings tonight, and she peed in her tiny little potty before her bath. She already tells me that she loves me with this sweet little gurgling sound she makes in the back of her throat after she breaks out her nose crinkling smile. It really doesn't take much for me. The way I feel when she does these things is one of the best feelings ever. Do I feel the same way when I see another tiny baby gobble up their mushy cereal for dinner? Not so much. I read in one of my many baby magazines that they have studied women while they look at pictures of babies smiling. Their physiological reactions were similar to that of taking recreational drugs... but only when looking at their own children.

It's an amazing bond, the mother daughter relationship. I've spent twenty six years on the receiving end. Now I'm ecstatic about being on the giving end. Or is it vice versa?...

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Picking up Prayers

I brought my daughter to her first Easter Egg Hunt today. Not just any hunt, though. Easter at my grandparents house has always been a big deal. Every year, rain or shine, sleet or snow, Grandpa hides eggs for everyone in the family. I vaguely recall one year when the eggs were hidden inside, but no one ever seems to remember that one. It messes with our reputation.

Everyone gets an egg with their name on it. No one can leave till everyone has found their egg. And you can't tell if you found someone else's egg. One year all the grown uncles took a turn climbing a tree to see if the egg at the top was theirs. Naturally, Uncle Kenny went last and the egg belonged to him.

This year I was one of the last to find mine. Maybe I was last, actually. I made pouty faces at Grandpa to get some sympathy or some clues. He said to me, "I remember where I hid yours, actually." There are a lot of us. And he remembered where mine was. I could suddenly picture him hiding my egg. Holding that pastel pink, plastic egg in his leathery aged hands. I know he was thinking special thoughts of me as he hid it under a clump of grass by that old tire in the side yard. Maybe he was remembering the first time he hid that pastel pink egg with the name Charity on it, even as he hid another pastel pink egg this year with the name Nola, my daughter.

After so many years of enjoying the fun of finding my egg, getting candy, and occasionally hating the cold he was forcing us to endure... I realized how much more this must be to Grandpa. I'm sure Grandma helps stuff them with goodies, but Grandpa hides them himself. And everyone of us passes through his mind while he takes our egg from his basket to it's hiding spot. Grandpa isn't one for fancy words or deep spiritual discussions. His life well lived is his testimony for Christ. But you should never underestimate the silent type....

Silly me, we weren't just picking up eggs. We were picking up prayers.