Monday, April 6, 2009

The sun is shining

This morning is the first morning in about ten days that I woke up with a spring in my step and a notable absence of what I will delicately call "a rumbly in my tumbly." Suffice it to say that the last week has been a blur of Lysol disinfectants and stomach cramps that I think qualified more as contractions than cramps. I would share all the details, but I have to remember that not everyone is a medical professional and might not appreciate the gastrointestinal descriptions. As for me, if you want to talk about festering wounds while I am eating an oozing piece of ravioli, by all means, go right ahead.

It feels so good to wake up and actually look forward to being with my children today. For the last week, the mere sight of them meant I would have to swallow down nausea and pretend that I was really interested in reading from The Big Book of All Thomas The Tank Engine Stories Ever Written a.k.a. The Holy Writings. Frankie has rediscovered her love for all things Thomas after a few month stint of being interested in dolls. Sort of. The "dolls" are usually stuffed animals which she dresses in her own clothing. I have tried, to no avail, to get her to put Molly's newborn clothing on them, since I am sick of seeing a six inch stuffed dog wearing a three foot long fuzzy purple sleeper. She will dress anything. It can be the size of my thumb and it will be wearing a full turtleneck and 3T jeans. And then there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth because its one inch waist can't hold up the pants and they are falling down and, oh, the world is ending and I'm NEVER playing with anyone EVER again.

At church on Sunday, all the Sunday School children marched in waving palm fronds and lined up on the stairs at the front of the sanctuary while Dean played with the worship band behind them. Frankie happened to be in the front row, frozen in abject terror, holding the frond straight above her and staring forward with large brown eyes wide with fright. I tried vainly to catch her eye, but she refused to look anywhere but straight ahead. She looked so overwhelmed and bewildered and heartbreakingly a head shorter and twenty pounds skinnier than everyone else that I had to refrain from dashing up front and scooping her up, instead contenting myself with waving frantically to try to get her attention. To make matters worse, when they lined up to leave, the teacher put her right at the front of the line, so she had to lead the whole procession down the aisle and out the door. She was taking tiny hesitant fearful steps in the right direction until she finally spotted me near the door. Then her little face lit up and she sprinted down the aisle and I was suddenly overcome with pity for everyone around me who didn't have the exquisite sensation of seeing that tiny lovely little thing running toward them in happiness. Poor poor people. They don't know how much they are missing.

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