Ode to Laura Cecilia Davis

My friend Liz recently told me that Laura IS a blog (or in this case blaaag) ... I couldn't agree more!

She’s feisty, she’s ornery, she’s wild—she’s Laura Cecilia Davis.

She is the oldest child—the boss, the apple in the sauce.

From telling my friends to take a hike, to refusing to ride her bike…

She is the most stubborn of them all—standing proud, the tallest of the tall…

From refusing to eat food that has fallen apart, to putting happy stickers on her chart…

She is the funniest girl I know—hysterical, a comic through and through.

From, “Mommy I don’t like the smell in your mouth,” to “Mommy come cuddle on the couch,”…

She’s three going on thirty, she’s sweet, she’s mine—she’s Laura Cecilia Davis.

The Waiting Place

God love Dr. Seuss—for many reasons, but for now; God love Dr. Seuss for Oh The Places You’ll Go! For days, I have roamed around my cabin-crazy fever house, wondering what in the heck was wrong with me. Not just me, but my Littles too, it seems, are plagued by a similar case of indefinable discontentment. Sure it’s 115 thousand degrees outside and sure we’re still adjusting to our new environment … but the discontent (or maybe disconnect?), appears to derive from a different source. But what, oh dear friends, is this mysterious source?

Dr. Seuss has the answer, and it’s not a source, it’s a place: The Waiting Place …

Waiting for a train to go
Or a bus to come, or a plane to go
Or the mail to come, or the rain to go
Or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
Or waiting around for a Yes or No
Or waiting for their hair to grow
Everyone is just waiting.

Yes, mom, big sissy and twins currently reside in The Waiting Place ...

Waiting for an editor to call
Or the rain to fall (please dear God!)
Or waiting for the air conditioner to be fixed (last night, not good)
Or waiting for another one of my articles to be nixed
Or waiting for a preschool for Laura
Or waiting twins ready for Dora
We are all just waiting.

I’m not saying it’s all bad (only the broken a/c). I’m just saying that sometimes it’s not always comfortable to be in The Waiting Place. Of course we must, according to Dr. Seuss, pass through this stand-still moment before embarking on the next journey. But for Pete’s (or Dr. Seuss’s) sake! Here’s to wishing you God’s speed on your next journey, but should I bump into you in The Waiting Place, no offense, but I’m not letting you cut in line. All right, I’m no good at turning people away – go ahead … I guess I’ll wait just a little longer.

A Little Game of House

The other day from my lounge station on the couch, I observed a nice game of "play house" taking place (a rarity--usually I'm changing a diaper, cleaning a mess, chasing someone, etc.) Three-year-old Laura and 19-month-old twins Lizzy and Julia were in various stages of feeding, bathing and caring for baby dolls (a rarity--usually they are fighting, screaming, running away from me, etc.)

"Mom, I'm taking my baby grocery shopping," Laura informed me. "Okay," I acknowledged, watching here wheel her baby doll around in a stroller. Only one baby, I thought, dang, she's got it easy! I resisted a strong urge to remind her to pack snacks, a sippy cup, diapers and wipes ... after all, this is only "play house." This is not "Erin's-game-of-house." But that got me thinking. Play house seems so much more lucrative sometimes than Erin's-game-of-house. Ya, ya, I know--imaginary play is supposed to be more fun--hence the word i-m-a-g-i-n-a-r-y.

Still, playing house reminded me of a time during my childhood (and awkwardly, even tween years) when I spent hours devoted to pushing my own dolls around. I could handle 2, 3, 4+ dolls at a time--no problemo. I remember my folks smiling and complimenting me on my mothering capabilities, "Oh how sweet, look at what a great job you're doing feeding your babies," they would say. They didn't shout, "You better put bibs on those babies" or "you better give them all the same thing or you'll soon have a food fight" or "did you check to see how many preservatives are in that baby food?"

Back on the couch, I swallowed my bittersweet memories of feeding dolls once a day or even once a week and never changing a "real" diaper. Meanwhile, the twins antagonized one another in grunting protests over who was the rightful mommy of a stuffed Elmo. Again, I refrained from mentioning they might want to buy Elmo's food in bulk next time they go shopping. Why not let them have their fun for now ... far be it from me to spoil a good game of house.