Meet the Bulldozer

No harm could come from a little one with a face like this, right?

Wrong! Just wait until he doesn't get his way and he swings at you. Or he doesn't want to hold your hand, so he bites it. Or he doesn't want his diaper changed, so he kicks you in the gut. Or he doesn't want to be held, so he head butts you so hard you think your nose is broke. Shall I go on?

Even here-see it? That mischieviousness in the eyes and grin? He goes from this (L) to this (R) in five seconds or less. Impressive.

Help. My son is a brute, and I have the bite marks to prove it.

Don't get me wrong and think he's a little sociopath. C. isn't much worse than the average male toddler. I've even met little girls who were far worse. Far worse. Like Gabriella from daycare. She was 14 months old, and not a day went by where she didn't manage to rip a chunk of hair out of the scalp of another toddler. And if that didn't get her her way, she bit, drew blood and laughed about it. No apologies. And there's one of J.'s peers at preschool who hits kids on the head with heavy objects whenever the teacher isn't looking and then lies about it.

At least C.'s outbursts are motivated by logical frustrations: I want that toy; I don't want to go to bed; I don't like this food, etc... And he ALWAYS gives his victims big hugs and kisses and says he's sorry. No, no! Not sociopathic. Remorseful and compassionate.

I've taken enough child development classes to know that this is a phase all toddlers go through that is spurred by lack of verbal expression and one year old maturity. I mean if you only had the know-with-all of a one year old, couldn't speak more than five words, and someone took your cool new race car, what would you do? Naturally, go hit him upside the head with a block. Still, it's hard for a mother to watch her son use his immense physical strength, determination, and independence in hurtful ways.

We've tried time-out, swats on the hand (though swatting for swatting quickly become a fun game for him, and frankly this kid is so strong I cry mercy long before he does). I've ignored it when he's attacked for attention and overly praised positive behavior. If I had a quarter for everytime I said, "Gentle touch," I'd be a millionaire. Our last tactic: the baby doll. He says, "Baby DaDa" (a concept he came up with all on his own, by the way). Somedays he won't leave the room without that baby, feeds the baby, puts the hat on the baby, covers the baby with a blanket, buckles her into the car seat... He is very gentle with the baby. If I were the psychologist Tim is I'd say he was acting out some replacement issues about Tim leaving, but I won't go there. The point is: he's sweet with that baby all the time. He's sweet with real people about 90% of the time. And that remaining 10% is rough! Maybe if the baby told him to eat his carrots he'd pinch her too. Who knows.

So moms, what have you done in this phase that worked? Anything? Or do I just wait for the verbal to catch up with the emotional, and the phase passes? Actually, I think it's better than it was 6 months ago, though he is much stronger now so the outbursts seem worse. Regardless, I'll take any idea you have to prevent one more head butt to the nose!

Rest in Peace

Mstislav Rostropovich.

I have a trunk of Tiffany memorabilia. Sounds fascinating, I know. But in that trunk among a marriage tea set that was given to me in Japan by a Japanese friend before I married Tim; a dried rose from high school that an artist gave me in an Italian restaurant in Montmatre, Paris; some love notes from elementary school; and a stuffed teddy bear my grandma gave me that says, "You're my guardian angel" when you press his tummy, there is a St. Louis Symphony ticket stub from 2000 that says, "Mstislav Rostropovich."

I went to that concert alone. (Dad didn't want to go; long classical music perfomances aren't his thing, and Tim was in basic training.) I sat in the 6th row, center, and I remember breathing very little, blinking even less, and thinking it was nice that I was alone. I didn't have to share my attention with anyone. Sitting alone, so close, on those red velvet seats, I was afraid shifting my legs would disrupt him. HIM. Slava. The one for whom Shostakovich wrote concertos. The one who was kicked out of Russia for standing up against communism, and played the cello with just as much defiant force. It was a powerful evening.

Rostropovich died today at age 80. He led a full life, and contributed much. He will be missed.

Here are some links if you care to hear him. The first link is Rostropovich playing the Bach prelude. It is the piece from which you know you have arrived as a cellist; the first of the difficults. He, of course plays it better than me, and arguably better than anyone, though most would say Yo Yo Ma owns the Bach suites.

The second link probably requires Real Player on your computer, but it is of Rostropovich playing an exerpt of the piece composed for him by Shostokovich, the Shostokovich cello concerto. Even Yo Yo Ma said of the Shostokovich at first hearing, "It is physically impossible to play". I agree. Though Yo Yo eventually mastered it, I never got beyond the first five bars.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU_QR_FTt3E&mode=related&search=


http://emiclassics.com/classic_archive/releases/rostropovich1.html

Peek-A-Boo!

Our neighbor's little dog, Snowflake, and our dog, Moon, have dug a hole under the fence together. Thankfully, it isn't big enough for Moon to crawl through, but Snowflake is a regular guest in our backyard. One of C.'s favorite things to do is get into that hole, stick his head through to the neighbor's yard, and say, "Boo!" I do try to discourage that, as he could get his head stuck or nipped in the nose by little Snowflake. He's just as thrilled to shout, "Boo!" whenever Snowflake peeks into our yard, though. I'm glad the little things still make him so happy!

Gone again

(Thanks for taking our impromptu family photos, Sara!) Tim left this morning for this year's big deployment, and everything went off without a hitch until. . . Tim couldn't find his badge. Cool shiny things tend to disappear around here, like keys, cell phones, and top secret special agent badges. Tim finally found it in a Tonka dump truck in the toy box about 2:00 am. I wonder how it got there? Good thing he was up anyway trying to finish all of his grad. school homework for the next week or two!

We've spent the past few days explaining to the boys that Daddy has to go to work for a long time. Here's some snippets of our conversations with J. lately:

J.: "Ouch! No kiss!"

Tim: "I have to grow out the scratchy beard for work, Judah, but I'll kiss you really gentle so it won't hurt."

J., holding up three fingers: "Daddy gone three days?"

Tim: "A LOT of days. More fingers than you have."

J.: "Daddy jump out airplane?"

Tim: "The plane will land, J. Daddy's not going to jump this time."

J.: "Judah go A'stan. J. go airplane."

Tim (ignoring my, "see what you've started?" glare): "J., you have to stay here and take care of C. and Mommy. You have to be the little man, OK?"

J.: "Yes, Daddy. Li'l man."

We told them that while we wait for Daddy to come home we'll get to go see Papa and Mimi, Lolah, Uncle Steve, Great Grandma and Great Grandpa, and Granny.

So, the day arrived, and we dropped Tim off on base in the pouring rain. Immediately the boys started crying, "No want Dada go A'stan! Daddy home. No want A'stan!" I re-explain it all: he'll be back; he has to go to work; you have to be strong little men and help Mommy take care of the house; we'll visit grandparents, etc. They calm down a bit, and then J. starts, "Papa's house. Night-night in the car? Go Papa's house?" And C. starts "Laloh! Laloh!" (how he says, "Lolah"). I tell them that that trip isn't planned for a couple of months yet; they need to finish school first. Then the tears start going again. . . "Papa's house! No want Daddy go!" Urg.

An hour later, peacefully at home:
Tim calls from the green ramp. He forgot his laptop charger. Can I bring it to him?

You're kidding?

I load everyone back into the car, with the laptop charger. Expectedly, J. asks, "Long time all done? Daddy home?"

"No, long time is not done." We repeat steps 1-3 from above, suffer more screaming, crying and confusion, but they are now thankfully sleeping soundly in their room. Whew!

We'll miss you, Timmy! Be safe.

What's He Saying?

Remember that Friends episode where Phoebe swears that the lyrics to that Elton John song are "Hold me close, you're Tony Danza..." when really it's something about a "tiny dancer"? I've heard that song a hundred times since, and I'm convinced that Phoebe is right. He's definately singing, "Hold me close, you're Tony Danza".

Fast forward to recent times: This catchy little tune is showing up in all sorts of commericials. Car comericals, Big Lots commercials, even on the radio as a regular song. But WHAT is he saying between the Doot DOO do do do's? That has been the question in our house for some time! On the Big Lots commercial, he's clearly saying, "You never know" doot DOO do do do... And I relunctantly admit now, Tim, that he appears to be saying, "Phenomenon" doot DOO do do do...on the radio, and maybe that car commerical too.

Well, to settle this once and for all, last night we tracked down the source. And lo and behold-look what we found! How's this for nostalgia and roll on the floor humor? So THAT's what he's saying! This is C.'s new favorite video, by the way. Doot DOO do do do! Doot DOO do do....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MW4TgdKoYo

Ode to a Gnome

Ode to a gnome, a garden gnome,

a wise wizard that sits

on a throne of mulch

or grass or dirt or stone

A hat red like an over-ripe

tomato squshed into place

a mushy sombrero

The garden gnome guards

the home with quiet authority

peeking under mushrooms

sweeping moonbeams with a broom

into a pile of purple clovered charms

that keep the hexes of fireants

of red splotched spiders

crabgrass fingers and beetles

away.

_____________________________

Thank you, J. and C. for helping me finish this garden area in the front yard-at least for this year. We can add to it each year.

We joked about who's done a better job-Tim with the lawn or me with the landscaping. But in his defense, it's very difficult to get a lawn going when you've only lived in a house in the fall and winter one year, and the summer another year out of the three years we've lived here! And we live in the sandhills which means that our topsoil is actually, well...sand. To have a lawn, you have to import topsoil, have all the sand removed, and plant sod. It's an expensive ordeal, and since very few people go to that trouble around here (unlike the midwest), we don't feel bad about simply mowing our weeds every week, giving the boys their sand shovels to play in the front yard, and letting it go.

Here's a couple of pictures of the final project. I'm not a gardener by any means, and I fully expect half of this to be dead in a week. But for today, it looks alright, I think! Thanks, Janne for the info. on which plants are and are not perennials.

C.'s favorite part is the turtle he picked out.

Whenever C. loves something,

he has to go over and kiss it!

Happy Spring and Happy National Poetry Month!

"It's Raining Men"

Gay disco hit or not, that song gets stuck in my head whenever I see a jump, and Robyn, I blame you! ;)

We all went to Tim's jump today, and though a long afternoon, it was well worth it. Tim has to jump every month to keep his Airborne pay, and since the weather was so nice, he got on today's manifest, and we made it, hmmm, a family affair (another disco era classic...am I on a roll or what?!)

There were a lot of civilians jumping today, and the boys loved watching those SLOW falling, brightly colored parachutes sway down and land right in front of them. Tim took J. over on his shoulders to watch them. They were so close J. could have touched them.
Blue parachutes...









White parachutes...

The military parachutes are designed to fall much more quickly which is why much of airborne school is instruction on how to land without breaking your legs. Afterall, they aren't doing this for the view, and the intent is stayin' alive, not getting shot down mid-jump. (Yep-I did it again. Go ahead. Try not to think about John Travolta right....NOW!) The Army jumps a little higher up than the civilians, further out, and land in a drop zone in a cow pasture a ways away. Since they only have the wind to direct them, they need a larger landing target.

The boys had fun jumping and shouting "jump!" whenever a pass went by. Since 5 soldiers jumped in each pass, J. got to practice counting to 5 a lot! Then he'd say, "Ohhhh...Fall Down!" when they landed. Very cute. Here's Tim about to be inspected by the jump master getting onto the plane. J. waved, "Bye Bye, Daddy!" when Tim flew off.

Here is Tim jumping:

Thankfully, no one needed the "ouchey truck" (as J. called it-above). It was a fun day, and the boys will be talking about, and reinacting, its events for days to come, I'm sure!
And here's one last one without even an attempt at context, just to give you a little dance to do on a spring day: "Do the Hustle! Do do do do do do do do do, do do do do do do do do do..."

The family went to Charlotte this weekend to speak at an adoption conference our agency was hosting. The new Hague Convention requires 10 hours of adoption preparation for adoptive families before placement, so there were more people there this time than in the past (now that they have to go...), though most families were very attentive and were striving to gleam all the information they could.

Even though we were the speakers on inter-country toddler adoption, we were encouraged to bring the boys. They are the obvious effective "prop" in such a setting, provided they're well behaved. And they were! When families see J. loving all over us, and C. running around laughing, it gives them hope that they will have a successful placement as well.

The director wanted us to cover everything from the first meeting, the plane ride, traveler's insurance, attachment, the grief process, jet-lag, questions for the orphanage caretakers, USCIS, and trauma from the birthfamily. Every family in our conference was adopting from a different country: the Philippines, Ethiopia, El Salvador, Korea, etc... They had wonderful questions, and sometimes stunned faces. That was the point though. The director told me beforehand that, "Most of these families need a more realistic perspective. They think their toddler will come running into their arms crying, 'Mommy! Mommy!' from day-one and be able to read books! Don't scare them; but tell them like it is." Hopefully, that mission was accomplished. I didn't want to discourage, just prepare.

It's a pleasure for us to go over there once or twice a year and present at these conferences. We hope our story encourages other to adopt, and better prepares them for what they are getting into. And what they are getting into is the biggest, most time-consuming, complicated blessing of their lives!

Not to mention, we love Charlotte. We go to the "rich people mall" off of Rea street amid the 2 million dollar homes and look-OK gawk at-the "make believe" people. Really-this one guy had on white from head to toe with shiny white shoes. He had gold jewlrey, dark sunglasses and a runway walk. And then there was the half plastic blonde attached to his arm, also drowned in white, complete with a white leather skirt that should have been significantly longer-even on her brand new pair of legs. In her arms was a (go ahead and guess...) miniature cocker spaniel with a diamond leash dressed appropriately in- you guessed it-white. Oh it's sad what the love of money can do to people. Sometimes it steals not only their souls, but their identity as well. (OK-so it's not nice to stare, but after being stared at everyday and fielding questions like 'Are those your children? And 'You must be a foster mom-can you tell me about that process?" daily, we felt we earned a little credit to be spent in the stare department.)

Also in Charlotte, I get to go the World Market; we eat at Panera Bread; Tim can pick up parts for his truck at the Land Rover dealership; and the streets are lined with green sod, peach stands, pottery, and dogwood trees. This may not sound like much to you-you St. Louis-ians are probably thinking, "Frontenac"-but compared to the military town we live in, Charlotte is a little glimmer of the good life reminiscent of the towns we grew up in and love. Yes, love. Love of money? Maybe. Love of adoption? Definately.

And for those of you wondering, yes we did talk to the director about our next adoption. Yes, I said we-Tim too was involved in this conversation. Since Vietnam re-opened a year or so ago, we've been very interested in it. Afterall, SE Asia has a special place in my heart, and I love Vietnam! However, our agency's new Vietnam program had some set-backs, so currently, we can't adopt a Vietnamese child through them. Korea was on our top five list, but Korea just re-vamped their entire program as well. It's yet to be seen how adoptions will go with them under the new laws. Then, we had Ethiopia (a country our agency is not certified in), domestic, and El Salvador (the country in which our agency began). But first, we need to get through Tim's next deployment. Ask us again at the end of the year, and, Lord willing (Isn't is awesome how Muslims are in the habit of saying that after very statement with a futurisitc desire??? I'm not in that habit, though I should be) we will be able to have a more definitive answer for you as to where our next child will be born. Just an update post as to what we've been up to lately. Hope all is well where you are. Blessings!

Green Tea

I'll be the first to admit that green tea is an acquired taste. My first true sippings of this leaf extract were in Japan a decade ago, and I remember dreading visits to the homes of Japanese because I knew that our conversation would be laced with green tea. The taste wasn't as bad as raw fish, or squid chips (don't ask), but it was still revolting.

Then time went on...

In retrospect, I imagine I've spent three or four dozen hours of time sipping green tea with Asian friends and contacts. Gradually, I started asking for seconds. Eventually, I was catching myself with American friends, in Rangoon, sitting around a plastic table in plastic chairs in a "tea shop" chatting over green tea. Tea we ordered by choice, desired, and paid a taxi to get to. It grew on me.

The natural food store I go to has countless varieties of green tea; some from India with a chai twist, others are Chinese, Japanese, decaffinated, with "super antioxidants", or formulas designed to fight against arthritis, heart disease, cancer, or promote longevity. I doubt green tea is the fountain of youth, but it is beneficial. See link:
http://food.yahoo.com/blog/beautyeats/3051/7-reasons-to-drink-green-tea

There is certainly some debate about how beneficial it is, but one can't deny that the Japanese live longer than we do. They eat more fish and less meat. They eat more green, soy and lentils and less fried junk. And they drink gallons of green tea. Tim and I aren't the healthiest eaters, but we don't eat a lot of red meat; I've added soy nuts and a natural plant estrogen to my vitamin/herb routine, and there is always green tea in the house.

After it grows on you, it's tasty. Especially with 1/4 teaspoon of organic honey to sweeten it. Yummy. It hasn't surpassed my love of a Starbucks decaf grande extra-hot hazelnut mocha, but really now-what can top that??

So, what's your favorite hot drink- the drink you curl up on the couch with and watch tv with a friend with?

Let the craziness begin!

Tim is home and there is SO much to be done before he leaves again. I can't reveal exactly how long he's home for, but thankfully it is longer than the couple of days we thought we might have between outings. In fact, he should be home long enough this spell that we can get everything done on the "to do" list! Whoopee! That never happens. For those of you who aren't familiar with what typically gets placed on a military family's "things to be done during the very brief times you're here in the house with us" list, it looks something like this:

1. Spay the dog (because she's 50 lbs. of hyper puppy and I can't get her and two toddlers to the vet and calmly sitting in chairs while I talk to the vet, write the check and maneuver the busy parking lot).

2. Stain the fence.

3. Uproot our dead tree in the front yard and plant a new one. (Because my 100 lb. 5 foot-ness makes this very difficult to do). NOTE: I did do this BY MYSELF yesterday to help reduce Tim's list. Oh yeah-hear me roar...

Replacement for #3: HA! What do you think about painting the kitchen blue????

4. Teach J. how to hit a ball in case he plays tee-ball this year (because that's just something dads do).

5. Clean the garage (has been on the list three years running. Will it get done this time? I'll throw down $2.00 for "no", but you never know-miracles happen!)

6. Fill-out the funeral arrangements for the chaplain. Or at least check last year's to make sure nothing has changed. For instance, that's REALLY what you want written on your tombstone??? (Note to non-military: if you talk openly and joke about this form then odds are you won't have to use it. Or so goes the illogical rational).

7. Do the taxes.

8. Fertilize the lawn (Tim actually put this one on the list. How's that for stereotypical husband vs. wife priorities!)

9. Break C. from the pacifier. (I know you're thinking, 'Tiffany, you can't do that?' Well, remember I was going to have him off of it by 6 mon. Then by 1 year, then 15 mon... I'll summarize by saying that last night, two hours after putting C. to bed, the WHOLE family was in C.'s room. C. was sobbing. He wasn't tantruming, but sobbing big fat tears, pleading with me for his paci. It was as if he was saying, "That's the only comfort object I have; that's where my peace comes from; that's what keeps the nightmares away; why, Mommy? WHY can't I have my bestfriend? PLEASE, Mommy! My body aches for it so much that it physically hurts me. See-I can't breathe I'm crying so hard. PLEASE, Mommy, don't take away my bestfriend!" Which explains why I was rubbing his back, sobbing, saying, "Be strong C. Tim, can't we try this again next week? You're a big boy, C. Tim, I can't do it-just give it to him. I know you can do it, C. And some other mumbo jumbo about teeth, bites, speech development and palette formation that he certainly didn't understand. J. was plugging his ears saying, "C. be strong!" And Tim was saying, "Tiffany, this is hurting you far more than it's hurting him. Just get out of here and I'll stay with him until he falls asleep." I could do a whole blog post on this experience, but I won't. Suffice it to say that C. went down for a nap today, after saying he was very strong, without one tear and NO pacifier! Woo Hoo!)

(C.'s "I'm so strong" pose)

And last but not least, #10. Kiss your wife and hug your kids.

There's a lot more on the actual list, like all the actual military preparation stuff, but this is a snippet of our upcoming days together. We'll try to squeeze in a date-night or two, and treasure every moment. The light at the end of the tunnel though is that he should be home for the holidays at the end of the year and it SHOULD be his last big deployment. If that isn't a silver lining, I don't know what is. And with that hope, I can make it through the year.
And don't think we're ignoring you if we don't answer the phone, return calls or get out much. OK-we are ignoring you, but not to be mean! We're just being a little selfish with our time together. It's 80 degrees here today, so HAPPY SPRING!

C.: So you're the "big" brother, huh? Did you see those measurements yesterday? I'm weighing in at 27 lbs. and you're still holding steady at 28. Yep-one pound, big brother. And to think I'm the one that gets in trouble for not finishing his dinner. Just think what will happen when I start eating!

Look out behind you...here I come!

J.: Don't get so excited yet. Look what happens if I stretch my neck up real high like this. I'm still nearly a whole head taller than you!

C.: Today-sure. But watch out! I'm gaining on you! And by the way, it's more like a half a head.

I mean, I'm not real good with numbers yet, but let me bring you in on a little secret: I don't think there's that much difference between 31 and 33 inches. And they call you 3 1/2!

J.: At least I pee in the toilet.

C.: Hmph! I drive better than you.

J.: Oh yeah-well, I'll love you no matter how big you get. Little brother.
We didn't anticipate C. passing J. in height and weight for a couple of years, but a couple of months may be more realistic! Poor J. has tiny-ness in his genes, I'm afraid. At least he has a big heart!

Happy Birthday to Me

~Thank you Sara, DJ and Kira for a delicious Italian meal, adult conversation, and a night out.

~Thank you Mom for babysitting.

~Thank you Timmy for the daisies.

~Thank you to Melanie for the hilarious e-card.

~Thank you to friends and family who sent traditional cards, checks and gift certificates.

~Thank you to all the older and wiser women from Helen Street who shared memories from their great years beyond thirty to encourage me.

What do you know? Thirty isn't so bad after all!

Blessings,

I forgot to take out the trash...again.

Though Tim is gone, so it isn't as though the can is overflowing. I almost tracked the truck down; after all, he was only about 5 houses down. But then I thought, "Forget it. I'll just set it out next Tuesday."

C., J. and I left to take J. to school. After I dropped him off, I went to DJ's to vaccuum her house. Do I love cleaning, or what? No really, she broke her arm and can't do everything needed to be done, so I went over there this morning. By the way, there's a REALLY funny story there-not that a friend should laugh at another friend's broken bones, but HA! This one is really funny. . .

Anyway, I left DJ's and went to PetSmart to buy dog food. Then, my gas light came on. So, I stopped to get gas. After this, I thought, "I should put air in that low tire while I'm here," but a van was blocking the air compressor.

So, I went to three more gas stations searching for air, killing time until 12:15 when I needed to pick up J. from school. One had no air station, a semi was using another one, the third one just seemed kind of shady... I drove to preschool.

Two blocks away from the school, there was another gas station. With an air compressor. I got C. out of the car to get quarters from the man behind the counter inside. I never leave my kids alone in the car, even for a minute. It seems dangerous; bad things could happen. C. was nice enough to hold my keys for me while I exchanged my dollar bill for change. I put C. back in the car, shut the door, put air in all the tires, put the little valves back on, and went to drive away. Timmy, you'd be really proud at how expertly I put air in those tires!
At least to this point in the story.

I went to my door and- door locked.

Passenger door, back door, trunk door-locked.

C. is inside, it's 68 degrees and climbing, and my car is locked. (Insert explitive of choice here. Grrrr.....) C. is looking at me through the glass, smiling as if to say, "Didn't you hear the horn honk when I locked the door earlier when you were silly enough to let me hold your keys?"

No, I didn't.

I'm staring at my car thinking, "70 degrees isn't too hot to suffocate in a car, right?" "I've got to get J. at school in 15 min." "I'll call the school." "My phone is in the car." "I have to leave this car, with my baby in it, to go inside and make a phone call. There's got to be another way."

The man behind the counter of the gas station shouts to me (because I'm shouting at him, standing in the doorway thirty feet away so I can see C). "This happens all the time!" he says. "If there's a baby in the car, call 911. Otherwise call a locksmith." This nice man lets me use his cell phone to call 911, and I wait outside.

Not five minutes later a fire truck comes screaming into the gas station, lights, sirens-the whole lets-bring-on-as-much-attention-as-possible-to-this-negligent-mother-who-just-doesn't-feel-bad-enough-already-shaBang. Five firemen leap off of the truck and rush to get the car door hook hanger opener thingy. I say, "This is like a rescuing a kitty out of a tree job. I'm sorry."


They reassured me that it was priority; not petty; that I called the right people; this is what they're for; there's a child in the car, so I did the right thing. By the way, here's the paperwork you need to fill-out.

Question #1: Driver's license # _____________________
I've got that right here...uhm....no I don't. Where's my driver's license? AHHH! It's with my plane ticket in the baby carrier in the kitchen at home "for airplane check-in convenience" I explain to the friendly fireman. I'm appearing more and more responsible by the minute, I can tell.

They had the door open in five minutes and did a medical five point check on C., which was funny because I was the one freaking out-mildly. C. was laughing, enjoying seeing fire engines and firemen come to his rescue.

Almost recovered enough to laugh at the situation, I'm at the preschool by 12:18. Whew!

We're home just after 12:30, and I check the ergo baby carrier for my license. Not there. I check my carry-on bag, the suitcase, the pants I wore home. Not there. Not there. Now I'm wondering how I'm going to find the time to re-take the driver's test to get a NC license with two toddlers and Tim gone. Let alone pass the written test. I can never remember how many feet a pole is allowed to be when it's sticking out of the back of your vehicle. Then I remember, THE TRASH!

I rush outside and dig out the bag that had the papers I cleaned out of my carry-on luggage two days ago. Sure enough, tucked inside the envelope with my boarding pass, was my good old Missouri driver's license with two years of goodness left in it.

Yes God, I see now that you wanted me to have that driver's license and you used my hectic morning, an early trash man, C.'s eagerness to play with keys, firemen, and a low air pressure light to lead me to it. Maybe not the way I would have led a dumb sheep to the green grass, but whatever. You're God. And I can legally drive again.