People had waited for this one. The baby would be a boy in a family of two adults and one perfect little girl, who was so excited about her brother’s arrival she’d named him “Abby’s Boy”. She also was taking on a new role in the games she played: Big Sister. If you were lucky enough, she’d gift you with this role, and be Mommy herself. “Big Sisser, it time for bed,” the little Mommy would say, and off you’d go, to five seconds of sleep on the carpet.
As for the baby, he was enjoying his time with the real Mommy. My sister had to induce: and here’s an odd thing about life, that someone else can choose your birthday for you. Obviously, someone can also choose your date of departure, but that’s much less legal, not to mention little cause for celebration.
Very early on the morning of the summer solstice, I joined my sister, brother-in-law, and mother-in-law on the trip to the hospital. On the sunlit trip through the sleeping town of Matthews, we passed under a sign strung across the street: the community theater production of “The King And I” was about to open.
It was the best morning of the year. We were all so excited. I remember looking at that sign, thinking: Shall we dance?
Honestly, I could have. Continue reading
My niece turned four yesterday. This is the slideshow I made of those four years.
It was not easy to compress all four years of this little girl’s light and laughter into five minutes … but interestingly enough, the slideshow lasts about as long as it feels it has taken her to get this big.
Love to all, and happy January.
My niece Abby is three years old. Last week I was staying with her, her parents, and her newborn brother at their home in North Carolina.
I have taken to calling this little ball of blond activity and opinion “my sweetpea,” which she currently does not like. She’ll correct me every time.
“I not you sweetpea,” she’ll say, chubby hands on her nonexistent hips. “I Snow White.”
She is sure she is Snow White. She loves that Disney movie, with its rigid gender roles, implausible plot and annoying songs. She’ll sing those songs — “Someday My Prince Will Come,” a big favorite — while wandering the house with her stuffed doggie.
I’ve taken to mashing them up. “Someday my niece will come,” I’ll sing back at her.
“No! That not how it goes,” she says, pointing a perfect little finger at me.
“… And I’ll read her stories at night …”
“It goes this way! ‘Someday my pince will come …’ “
“ … And I’ll get to turn on her night light …” Continue reading