It's Grand Being a Grandma

Over dinner tonight, my son asked me, "Do you want to hear something a little sad, Mama?"

"What is it, honey?" I asked.

He held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger an inch or so apart. Then he said, "I love Grandma more than I love you, but only this much."

Then he flung his arms wide and added, "But I love you THIS much, so it's not that big a deal."

"Oh," I said, amused. "Well, that's OK, I guess. But why do you love Grandma more than you love me?"

"Because you talk on the phone all the time," he said.

Guess he's a little envious of my new Motorola V557.

X Marks the (Many) Spots

Our boy asked me yesterday, "Do you know how to make an 'X' in the bathroom?"

"No," I said. "How do you do it?"

He went on to describe to me how if two boys use the same potty, and one starts first, followed by the other, you can make an 'X.'

I think I'll be having a conversation with his teacher tomorrow morning.

Lost

Those of you who heard the story of me losing my elder child for about 10 minutes at the Mayfair Mall in Milwaukee a year or so ago will be flabbergasted to hear that something along the same lines happened with my younger one just a few days ago. More flabbergasted than anyone, though, was me, who SWORE I'd never allow it to happen again.

My delusion of control crumbled in, of all places, a fabric store--a place not typically considered the haunt of freaks and perverts.

In the ongoing effort to make the transition to "school" easier as my work hours begin to ramp up, I needed some velour to create a small "soft pillow" to be stationed at day care. Our boy has a large purple one, which was made to replace his "soft thing," a leopard-print remnant of the velvet-like fabric I had used to fashion a cavewoman costume for a Halloween party nearly three years ago. The desired softness had apparently gone out of the "soft thing," and the pillow had become the new favorite.

It is bulky, however, and not easily transported--or remembered at pick-up time. And all parents know that bedtime without a lovey is an upleasant time indeed.

As we perused the bolts at Jo-Ann Fabric last Thursday, I asked my assistant to choose the fabric type and print that he wanted me to use. After I rejected a "fashion fabric" that was selling for $19.99 a yard, he selected a camouflage fleece for one face of the pillow and a matching green velour for the other.

Having fabric cut in such a store requires some attention and thinking, especially if you buy fabric as infrequently as I do. How much would I need? Is it impolite to buy only one-quarter of a yard? Would I want more to replace the as-yet nonexistent pillow when it wore out? These questions and more buzzed about my brain as I faced the less-than-happy employee waiting to do my bidding.

Once I had made my decisions and was ready to check out, I turned and said, "OK, kids--time to go!" They had been following each other in loops around the displays of bolts, and I had for the most part maintained an auditory awareness of their whereabouts. Or so I thought.

Big brother quickly appeared from between two rows of fabric, but as I made a pass along the ends of the remaining rows, little sis was nowhere to be seen. Figuring she was still on the move, I made another pass. And then another. Then I looked a little further out into the notions and scissors, and still I didn't find her.

That's when I began calling her name. A minute went by. Soon I was shouting. Another 30 seconds, and I was almost running and yelling for her as I went. Other women in the store took up the search. An employee called for her over the PA system: "Sweetheart, your mommy is looking for you."

Nothing.

It had probably been three minutes, maybe four, and I had already begun to resign myself to never holding her or giving her Eskimo kisses again. I remembered seeing a lady in the store who was no longer there and thought, 'She's taken her!' I spotted the security camera above the door and figured at least the police would have something to provide TV stations when they posted the Amber alert.

And then I heard two women shout, "She's right here!"

I ran to where they were, overjoyed. When I saw what had been going on, a little bit of anger tainted the joy.

The little imp had tucked herself away in a cubby beneath one of the fabric displays and had let the draping ends of the bolts cover her up. And she had intentionally not made a peep.

She was playing hide and seek.

Joy, of course, won out, and I picked her up and hugged her close. I thanked the women, customers and employees alike, who had taken up the search. We checked out and walked out the door to the car. And then we headed to Chuck E. Cheese, where we were due to meet some friends for dinner.

I found their numerical hand stamp scheme reassuring. Perhaps I could pitch it to Jo-Ann Fabrics.

Bits and Pieces

Since my brain seems to be running a mile a minute from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep (sometimes as late as 2:30 AM!!!), I'm going to offer up a smorgasbord of tasty tidbits--and one not-so-tasty one--rather than a coherent missive in this post. Here goes:

(1) Wardrobe Malfunction

Today was a frenzy from the moment I got up. I taught my strength-training class for the last time at the Y, surprising myself by getting emotional when bidding my students farewell. Some of them have been with me for the entire four years that I've been an instructor there and have become my friends.

I wanted to linger with them over the hugs they offered up before putting their dumbells away, but alas, I had to dash to the locker room to do my reverse-Superman switcheroo (Get it? I go from ultra-strong Superman to nerdy journalist Clark Kent?) to get to the magazine office by 10 AM. I soared through showering--and then discovered in dressing that my last-minute change-of-outfit decision had foiled me. I had a pink top--and a black bra. Oops. Nothing a one-mile detour for a stop at home couldn't fix.

(2) Will Work for (Soiled) Food

The rush to the office was called for by a roundtable discussion my co-editors and I were hosting in Green Bay at noon. It was a lovely affair, but the work involved didn't leave a lot of time for eating the Roly Poly sandwiches we had provided for the participants. And I had to run off to another meeting in town, for which I was clearly going to be late.

I grabbed a paper plate, some napkins, a wrap, and a bag of chips, slung my tote bag, my purse, a videocamera, and its associated tripod over my shoulders and carried the teetering lunch out to my car. There, I set it down on the hood while I fumbled the rest of my gear into the trunk. As I did so, I heard a gust of wind and the distinct sound of a sturdy, round, paper object hitting the asphalt beside my car.

With a cry of despair, I hurried to the scene of the accident and found my turkey-avodaco wrap laying beside my front driver's side tire. It was 1:23 PM, and I wouldn't have a prayer of getting any more food until 2:30 at the earliest. I hadn't eaten anything except a few pieces of candy corn since 6:45 AM.

I looked at the fallen sandwich for a few moments.

I picked it up.

I ate it.

(3) It's Cliche for a Reason

After dinner tonight, the kids were chatting me up like crazy. Our boy was particularly effusive on the subject of "The Land Before Time 11," a video he watched during rest time at school today. (He told me repeatedly when I spoke of it as simply "The Land Before Time" that the "11" was a crucial part of the title. Especially crucial if you're the obviously successful marketer of TLBT videos, I suppose.)

Once we had covered the plot thoroughly, we moved on to other subjects. And out of, well, the clear blue, he asked me the iconic question which represents the epitome of childhood curiosity:

"Mama, why is the sky blue?"

Having taken many chemistry and physics classes in my lifetime, I actually tried to answer. But since I had just moments earlier explained to the cherubs--who asked why I had them hold one hand up when they promised me they'd go right to the bathtub after we ran out to get milk--what a courtroom was and how witnesses were sworn in, I didn't try too hard.

Silence Is Golden

If silence is golden, then the silence that follows a trip to borrow library books must be the 24-karat variety. After our Saturday morning stop at the public library, the kids rushed into the house with their separately bagged three books apiece and sat soundlessly in the living room for 15 minutes poring over their finds.

This is one of the early rewards of literacy--a young child's ability to entertain, educate, and amuse herself with a book. And it is the encouragement I offer to parents who doubt that reading to a six-month-old who'd rather chew on a book than listen to it does any good. It most assuredly does.

Quotable Quote

Getting in the car yesterday for a trip to get haircuts, my son, who had just eaten a chunk of chocolate rabbit from his Easter basket, turned to me and said, "Mama, when I'm a parent and my kids ask for candy, I'll always say yes."

"You will?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because I will love them so much," he said.

How manipulative and clever of him.

Brotherly (and Sisterly) Love

The other day, our little girl was out playing in the yard with a neighbor about her age, and a non-malicious shove sent her face-first onto the ground. She stood up crying and was whisked into the house for some therapeutic cuddling.

Inside the house, her big brother, made curious by her sobbing, approached with a concerned expression. Looking her in the eye, the wannabe rescuer asked sweetly, "Do you need a Band-Aid, tape, or a splint?"

This kind of care between the two of them sometimes surprises and always pleases me. Observing it, I've come to convince myself that my children are the only two in the world who won't go through adolescent periods of despising and/or ignoring each other. No, they will exchange only tender, encouraging words and will adore each other invariably.

Their behavior--and particularly our son's--during the first week of their mama's new job further enforced that wishful perception of mine. On my first day of work, I found myself in a bit of a self-absorbed tizzy as I dropped them off. I was naturally worried about them, but I was also dwelling on what *I* was doing and how these choices of *MINE* would affect them.

In a missing-the-forest-for-the-trees phenomenon, that tizzy of mine--supposedly centered on their well-being--kept me from noticing what they were experiencing in that moment. I was off in the future, wondering whether their verbal skills would dwindle or whether their personalities would morph from sweet to aggressive, while they were, as always, there in the present, taking in what was before them.

I got the young one settled first that day and then located coat hook and storage basket for the elder. I was hugging him goodbye and was ready to leave, already bracing for the heartache that would bring on, when the boy said, "Mama, I want to say goodbye to my sister."

That snapped me back to the moment--a moment in which two constant playmates were separated in a way foreign to them. And while it made me sad to be responsible for bringing on this separation five months earlier than kindergarten would have, it also made me incredibly grateful that my children love each other so well--and, according to my fantasy, that they'll do so without hiccup or interruption for the rest of their lives.

No Greater Love Than This...

With their starting school this week, I thought perhaps my kids would hate me for my choice to go back to work. I pictured them coming home like sullen little teenagers, shooting disparaging glances my way from beneath heavy eyelids.

Instead, I have been surprised that they have both been verbally expressing their love for me MORE than before. Maybe that's because they want reassurance that, even though I'm not with them all day, I still love them just as much. I prefer to think that it's because they can tell how happy I am, AND because they're truly having fun at school.

Whatever the case, here's one way in which my boy shared his love for me:

Boy: I love you SOOOO much, Mama!

Me: I love you SOOOO much, too, honey.

Boy: I love you more than you even know, Mama.

Me: You do?

Boy: Yes. I love you as much as I love...my rescue helicopter.

Given his obsession with his rescue helicopter (a chair in our living room filled with makeshift rescue supplies, for those of you who are new), I'll take that with joy.

Our girl has been showing her love in a different way. She is constantly kissing me, and when she does, she insists, "Say 'thank you' when I kiss you, Mommy!" And then she proceeds to do so about 15 consecutive times. Again, I'll take it.

Small Miracles

A remarkable thing happened when I dropped the kids off at "school" for the first time on Monday so that I could start my new job and career. I walked out the door of the child care center and my heart kept on beating. It ached just a bit, but it didn't freeze up or fall out of my body--it kept on doing its job.

And then another remarkable thing happened. Before I reached my car, I ran into two women from our church headed into the community center for a workout. And I got to have a hug and shed a couple of tears, and then I was OK.

It's marvelous how, if you're looking for them, small miracles abound.

Resurrection

Tomorrow is my first day of work.

That's not to say, of course, that I haven't been working during the five years since our eldest was born. Even with my outside work as a fitness instructor and freelance writer aside, I've never worked so hard in my life.

But this is work in the traditional sense; I am expected at a certain place from 8:30 AM until 2:30 PM each day and am, as one of my friends put it, "working for the Man" again.

Mercifully, I have been incredibly busy for the last few days getting ready for my third-annual Easter party for my family. There were cookies to cut out and bake, an artichoke-and-leek appetizer to prepare, sweet potatoes to bake in advance, and, subsequently, a dripped-upon oven to clean. With all that activity, I've hardly had a moment to think--or, as I'm more likely to do, obsess--about what this work is going to mean for me and for my family.

The kids, as I've already noted, seem pleased as punch to be starting school. And I'm truly excited about the work I'll be doing. It's just such a change. And change is both exhilarating and scary.

It seems serendipitous to be embarking on this adventure the day after Easter, a time of transformation on a divine scale. Our pastor preached in church this morning that WE are the resurrection, charged with carrying on the work of justice, mercy, and peace in our work and our world. I pray I can effectively combine my personal resurrection as a professional woman with that charge.

Dyeing and Rising

The kids and I dyed Easter eggs tonight. We started with two dozen and, between a couple of accidents and an intentional consumption, wound up with 21.

My childhood recollections of dyeing eggs conjure it as an hours-long event that took most of an afternoon. Our go at it lasted somewhere around 17 minutes. Prep and clean-up, of course, took much longer than that, especially given the orange dye incident.

I had used an eight-cup measure to pour the cold water into all the fizzy vinegar-and-color tablet concoctions, and that vessel sat empty on the table when the last egg was colored. So, thinking this would be a good time for a hands-on color-combining lesson, I said, "Who wants to have fun with colors?"

Our boy shouted, "Me!" And before I knew what was happening, he violently poured the entire contents of the orange dye cup into the eight-cup measure, which I was holding in my hand. Like a skateboarder in a half-pipe, the fancifully hued liquid shot over the top of the container, splashing onto the table, the boy, and the upholstered dining chair on which he had been sitting.

As I attempted to scrub the spots out of the chair, I wondered whether the stains were the connection between coloring Easter eggs and what Easter's REALLY about...

Here's the link I came up with: We dye eggs to remind us of the stain that was washed away by the death and resurrection of Jesus. We can try to clean it up ourselves, as I did with the chair, but it doesn't work. We need something divinely cleansing to do it.

Now I just have to chew on where the bunny enters the equation.

TV Dinners

I have a confession to make. Occasionally--maybe once a week--I let the kids eat in front of the TV. Sometimes it's because my beloved and I want to have a nice dinner alone without paying a sitter, sometimes it's because the meal I've prepared is lackluster and I know they won't notice or complain if they're watching Bob the Builder while the eat it, and sometimes it's because I'm just plain lazy and don't have the energy to fight the good fight.

I know this is taboo. It will increase their risk of obesity, the parenting books say, because they eat mindlessly when their attention is otherwise occupied. But here's the upside of mindless eating--they clear their plates, and if their plates are filled with lean meats, fruits, and vegetables, that's not such a bad thing.

Tonight, I was making dinner in a hurry before interviewing a source by phone for an article I'm writing, so I popped in a video to keep the kids occupied. And then I figured since I had just popped it in, I'd let them keep watching while they ate their grilled cheese and mixed veggies on the coffee table. I sat down on the floor near them to eat my leftover mini-meatloaf (a concoction they soundly rejected last night despite my leaving out any ingredient I thought might be objectionable).

"You know," I said guiltily, "we don't eat in front of the TV all the time."

"I know!" said our boy hastily, trying to silence me so I wouldn't disturb his viewing.

Then his little sister piped in with a clever insight: "Sometime we can sit on the other side of the table and look at the couch instead."

Surprises Big and Small

My children never cease to surprise me in big and small ways.

Let's start with small. I purchased a week or so ago a box of the new Yogurt-Cluster Life cereal. It's regular old Life, which my kids love, with what are described as "yogurt-dipped oat clusters" interspersed. I assume the oat clusters are just recycled, smashed-up Life cereal, but what do I know?

After the first time I served the kids this stuff for breakfast, I found two little mounds of clusters on the table next to where their bowls had been. They were not fans.

Now, over the weekend, my mom came down to bail out my sick, sorry self, and she stopped at the grocery store on the way, picking up a box of Yogurt Burst Cheerios. I smiled to myself when I saw them, thinking how much I'd be enjoying them (since the kids surely wouldn't).

But wouldn't you know it--when I opened those Cheerios this morning to pour myself a bowl, the tykes both asked for some and then couldn't get enough. "Can we have Yogurt Burst Cheerios for our morning snack, Mama?" they asked. And while I made dinner, they said, "We'd like some Yogurt Burst Cheerios as an appetizer."

Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't Cheerios made of oats? So wouldn't Cheerios covered in yogurt basically be "yogurt-dipped oat clusters?" I was, as the opening line of this post suggested, surprised.

Now for the big surprise. It was just after lunch when I took a big gulp and decided to tell the kids about my new job. (I may be telling some of you about it for the first time here.)

"Guess what, kids? Mommy's going to be starting a new job soon," I said.

"What are you going to do, Mama?" my son asked.

"Well, I'm going to be a writer and an editor," I replied.

"What does an editor do?" he asked.

"An editor sort of makes a magazine. So that's what I'm going to be doing," I said.

The boy grinned like mad and literally fell off his stool. He seemed genuinely excited. Then he said, "I think you should be a writer, editor, and FIRE FIGHTER!"

And our little girl added, "And a rock climber!"

With things going well so far, I went on, saying, "My new job means I'll be working in an office like Daddy, but not the same office. And I'll be working at the same time that Daddy is working."

Then the concern swept in. "Who's going to stay with us?" big brother asked.

That's when I told them about their new school.

"I don't want to go," he responded.

But then I told him and his sister about the new school, about how they'd get to be with friends all day, go to the park, play at Adventure Alley, do art projects, and even eat lunch there.

"We get to eat lunch there?!" he shouted, smiling again.

"Yes," I said. "And you're going to be a Bear, and your sister is going to be a Little Pal. And you won't be in the same room, but your rooms will be right next to each other, so if you want to see each other, you can just ask your teacher."

Now they were both smiling. And the big guy said, "What if we smash into each other like this (clap!) because we like each other so much?"

What if. You could have knocked me over with a feather. They were pleased about this. So I can be, too.

Rescue Me

For a little better than a week now, we've had a police helicopter taking center stage in our living room. But I must correct myself. For the first half of the week, it was a police boat; it morphed when a particular rescue called for hoisting capabilities, and it hasn't looked back.

The body of the helicopter is our overstuffed armchair, and it has many accessories. On one arm sits a white stuffed animal in a shoebox-sized bin; this is the police dog in its kennel. On the other arm is an art set-turned-first-aid kit-turned-police computer (it flips open and closed just like Mommy's laptop!). The seat holds a box containing Band-Aids, a walkie-talkie, a couple of Ace bandages used as seat belts or rapelling cables, and a long stick with a ribbon tied to the top of it (not sure what that is).

On the floor in front of the chair lies the yellow lid of our plastic toybox, which as near as I can make out is some sort of staging platform for dramatic rescues. My Bible, resting to the side of the chair, has become a hoist basket, and the magazine rack in which I used to keep my reading now serves as extra storage space.

The piece de resistance is a realistic rescue vehicle light from the Magna Wheels Fire Rescue set which actually flashes and sounds a siren when a button is pressed. This is situated atop the chair back, just where it ought to be.

This police helicopter keeps our dear boy entertained a good portion of each day but makes for difficult grown-up entertainment, forcing living room occupants to sit in a line on the couch rather than facing each other. But let's face it--with as sick as we've been, no one's visiting anyway, so the helicopter can stay.

Staring at the helicopter this afternoon, I found myself wondering why so many little boys--and my little boy in particular--are fascinated by police cars, ambulances, and the like, and why so many want to be fire fighters or sheriffs when they grow up. What is it that makes these hero roles attractive?

All these jobs essentially involve stepping in and solving problems, often major, life-threatening ones. Is this hero-worship an early manifestation and emulation of the male need to "fix" things? Do men from preschool age on up long to set things right? Women find this both attractive--the "man in uniform" thing--and annoying--the "can't you just listen without trying to solve my problems?" thing.

Maybe once my fever goes away and I get up off the couch again I won't spend my days making such huge leaps. But for now, it's all I've got to entertain me. That, and dispatching the police helicopter.

Ill-Fated Re-Entry

Like some kind of sickly pale debutante, I had a coming-out today, presenting myself to the world at large for the first time since Wednesday noon. OK, so it wasn't the world at large; it was patrons of the Neenah Public Library and the Darboy Target, which, on a Saturday, fairly accurately represent the world at large. These were busy places, and, as my body is telling me now, I was not yet ready for busy.

When we first struck out, it seemed like the perfect day to emerge from a half-week's hibernation. The sun shone warm from a blue sky, the daffodil buds hung on their stalks like slender yellow fish, the hyacinths closest to the house had burst open like colored bits of popcorn on a cob, and everything shouted Fresh! New! Healthy!

Everything, that is, except my lungs, which remain constricted as though encased in the control-top portion of too-small pantyhose. But I wanted to get out, I NEEDED to get out, so get out I did.

We got the things we needed--laundry detergent, glass cleaner, cough drops--and a few things we wanted--camouflage shorts for the big boy, My Little Pony panties for the little (not even close to potty-trained) girl, and a fetching shade of eye shadow in a nifty squeezable tube for me. When we checked out, the cashier handed me the cough drops rather than putting them in the bag, like she might do with a Snickers bar. 'I can tell you'll want to enjoy these now,' her expression said.

When we returned home, it was Strandberg Video Theater until naptime for the young one. Once she was down, I sat on the porch watching the elder ride his bike for a short while. When he asked if he could watch a video instead, I was all too happy to oblige.

Late in the afternoon, when we were all awake again, I sat in the living room folding laundry while the kids played 'rescue' and 'tightrope walker.' At one point, they were both making what struck my congested ears as rather shrill statements, and they simultaneously ended their mama-directed monologues with, "Ya wanna know WHY?"

"Why?" I said in no particular direction and with no notion of either topic.

In perfect stereo, I heard this response:

"Because BLAH BLAH BLAH..." "Because BLAH BLAH BLAH..."

That's when it occurred to me that, even if they were perfect angels while I was sick and just watched videos or read quietly most of the day, they'd still want to talk to me. And all that talking and listening takes a TREMENDOUS amount of energy. And they will take every drop of energy you offer--and even the ones you don't.

That's why they each went to bed promptly at 7:30 PM tonight with a stack of books. Whether or not they were ready to sleep, their mama was.

The Best Care Anywhere Continues

It amazes me that almost the moment you admit to yourself a feeling of desperation, the world rushes to your aid in the most remarkable ways.

I was in a miserable state yesterday, sinking into believing that I might never be better again and feeling mightily sorry for myself. And then a miracle arrived in the form of a phone call. It was a nearby friend and church member offering to bring over any groceries of which we might be in need.

"Bread," I said immediately. "And milk. With bread and milk, we can make it through a few more days."

Little more than an hour later, the bread and milk walked in the front door, along with a tote bag full of washed-and-cut fruit, hot macaroni and cheese (organic, even!), cheese and crackers, and a container of juice. On top of all that, an offer was made for the next day: transport to and from preschool for my son and morning entertainment for my daughter so that I could stay in bed until almost noon. Thank you, God!

Inconceivably, it didn't stop there. Another friend offered to take the kids for the afternoon. Naptime logistics wound up preventing that, but just the offer made me feel loved enough to bump my white blood cell count a bit higher.

And my ever-vigilant nurse kept up his watch, bringing me several glasses of water and even a snack, which he handed to me with this explanation: "I made it up myself!"

What was it? A sandwich consisting of a couple dozen golden raisins smooshed between two Stoned Wheat Thin crackers. Novel! And, I discovered later, it even required the careful cutting-open of the raisin box's liner.

Inspired by this creativity, I tried some of my own when the post-dinner request to "play rescue" was issued. My role in this game is always dispatcher, so I invented emergencies involving a rabbit with a broken leg trapped beneath a pile of markers (which needed to be picked up anyway) and an explosion which had injured several army men (who had been lying willy-nilly on the dining room floor since Wednesday) who needed to be hauled away to the "military hospital" (the tub in which the men belong).

Now all is quiet on the eastern front (my bedroom), where I am hitting the hay just 20 minutes after my kids did. I'm determined to heal yet...

When a Four-Year-Old Is Wiser Than His Mama

Just before seven o'clock this morning, I was ill-advisedly dressing for the Y. I was due to teach two classes back-to-back--my usual one and another for which I had agreed to sub. And I was sick, so sick. Fever, coughing, achy muscles, the whole she-bang. Finding a sub just seemed so...so daunting...I was just going to suck it up and do it.

As I reached for my t-shirt, my son wandered to the door. "What are you doing, Mama?" he asked.

"I'm putting on my exercise clothes so I can go to work at the Y," I told him.

"You can't work, Mama. You're sick," he said.

'Huh,' I thought. 'He's right.' So I made a call bowing out and crawled back in bed, feeling only slightly ashamed of having been put in my place by a four-year-old.

My Young Nurse

Every now and then, your children blow your mind with their sweetness. My mind was thus blown today.

My fever, latent for a day or two after the weekend, redeveloped late this morning and really took hold by midafternoon. I lay down with one child and then the other until everyone was asleep and I could collapse into my own bed in an attempt at speed-healing.

An hour later, my son wandered in to find me shivering with chills. My DayQuil was wearing off, and I was nearly incapacitated.

"How long are you going to stay in your bed, Momma?" he asked.

"Momma doesn't feel good, honey," I said. "Will you go get Dr. Beep from the bathroom cupboard?"

Dr. Beep is what we call our digital ear thermometer for the beeping sound it makes when it has registered a temperature. And before I knew it, Dr. Beep was in my shaky hand.

"Thanks, honey," I said. "I do have a pretty high fever. Would you mind getting Momma her medicine from her office? There's a little cup next to it that I'll need, too."

And off he scurried while I stayed in bed, returning not a minute later and waiting beside the bed while I fumbled with the child-proof cap.

"Here, honey. Put these on the nightstand, please," I said, handing him the medicine bottle and the gooey cup.

He set the medicine down but walked out the door with the cup. Still unconcerned about anything but my own well-being, I didn't even wonder what he was up to.

Five minutes later, I found out. He re-entered my room with a little bowl of Craisins. Handing it to me, he said, "I thought you needed a snack. And I washed the cup out. I even used soap."

Once I had dragged myself downstairs and was huddled under an afghan on the couch, he asked me, "Would you like a drink of water?"

"Sure," I responded.

And in two minutes he emerged from the kitchen, balancing a full glass of water on the bed tray with the folding legs that we use for the rare breakfast in bed. His dear little smile was almost too precious to bear.

When he asked if I would make French toast for dinner again tonight, I couldn't say anything but yes. I would have made him beef Wellington if he'd asked.

Dinner Approval Theorem

Ever noticed the reverse relationship between the amount of time and effort you put into making something to eat and the degree to which your kids like it?

With my beloved away for dinner tonight, it did not occur to me to decide what to make for dinner until I was chatting on the phone with a friend at about 4:45 PM. 'Oh, yes,' I thought. 'It's about that time.'

My rotation of kid-friendly, low-energy meals is limited and primarily consists of things I personally don't much care to eat. I began to fixate on the "breakfast-for-dinner" concept--a favorite of my mom's when my dad wasn't around to eat--and thought of French toast. Yes! We hadn't had it since my birthday weekend last year. It's fresh, it's easy, it's got syrup--it's perfect.

When I described to our eldest what French toast was, he said, skeptically, "I'd like mine without the egg." I went on to explain with such enthusiasm that he would LOVE this meal that he decided to go with it.

And love it he did. The kid couldn't stop raving about it. Here's just a sampling of the comments he made over dinner:

"This is the best dinner EVER!"

"I love love love this dinner."

"This is the kind of dinner that we should have someone over for."

"This dinner is so good it made me forget I miss Daddy."

(Note to Daddy: He did not forget for long how much he missed you. The last thing he said before I turned out his light was how he wished you would call to tell him goodnight.)

I think we'll run with French Toast Tuesday from now on.