Baby Mine, Don't You Cry...

My first baby was born when I was nine. Don’t let the fact that he was my youngest brother and I only became involved post-delivery fool you into believing that he did not belong, wholly and completely, to me. From the moment I first held him, I never let go.
I snuck him into bed with me every night until he was two and got moved to the boys’ room. And then I snuck in there. I carried him on my hip so much that I think I may be a bit off kilter to this day. Babysitters were unwise trying to take him, friends were silly assuming I wouldn’t wag him everywhere, and adults were misguided in thinking my parents had “saddled” me with the “the baby.” They just knew you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, spit into the wind, tear the mask off ole Lone Ranger, or…take Matthew away from Jodi. Uncle Mafoo (as my kids have called him) is now a successful attorney living in the big city--but he started as my baby and, even now, it’s hard to let go of those ties. One of the first books I ordered for this project was his first read-it-myself book--The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss. It is the simple story of a boy who dreams big and, in the face of long odds and vocal detractors, nurtures his vision into reality. When I think of the boy who read it and the man he has become, I smile.

Warning: Disaster Area

The girl who is now my middle daughter was the youngest for ten years. She is scrappy, wild and beautiful, deciding early on that this baby wasn’t going to be passed over, left behind or kept down. Where her older sister was patient and deliberate and her older brother was too active to stop very often and tear things up, Addison was a one-girl destruction derby laying waste to everything she touched--especially books, with their fragile paper pages and soft cardboard covers. Most books, indeed most things of all varieties, had to be put well out of reach and only handled under supervision if we ever wanted to see them again. So, Addie got her own sturdy reading material at ground level and a few lonely volumes have survived to tell the tale of being thrashed, bashed and scribbled upon. Her favorite was Barbara Emberley’s Drummer Hoff, where old-fashioned military folk, with rhyming names and duties, prepare to fire off a cannon. Every page is battered and ink-stained, attesting to its constant presence in the diaper bag and whatever purse Addie adopted that week. The outside edge has childish scrawl that says, “Addison. Kiys. Connor. Kalon lotion eans smaf.” Whatever that means. I feared that bringing home a new baby would be disastrous for all parties, but “Baby A” and “Baby B,” as Addie now calls herself and Scarlett, have always been comfortable with who they are to each other and themselves. And they both love the giant “KAHBAHBLOOM!” finale.





http://authors.simonandschuster.com/Barbara-Emberley/706365

http://www.amazon.com/Drummer-Hoff-Barbara-Emberley/dp/0671662481

Daddy's Girl

I took her into the bedroom with the books she had never read before. She softly walked over to the bookshelf and glanced back at me, as if for reassurance. I responded with a smile and sent her the psychic message to choose a story for us to share. Like Indiana Jones choosing the grail, she chose wisely--a book marred by age and wear amidst shining pretty things.
When I first sat down with her and looked at the book’s title, Farm Morning, I felt that I was in for another round of “the cow says moo.” I was instead surprised by lush art and a touching story that reminded me very much of my life with Scarlett. I wake with her and I set with her, in between she kicks my wife in the stomach and face all night in our family bed. Whenever I am blessed with time with my daughter, I wish that more people were able to have the opportunity I do. I am lucky, my life is fairly easy and I have learned to be grateful for it. Scarlett brings me back to reality as she is done with the book after two pages and squirms to get away, but I hold tight and create a lovely childhood memory.
The book was about a father’s relationship with his girl, but it was also about finding meaning and beauty in our trivial activities. Every act, every dish cleaned, every sock picked up, every hour worked, every diaper changed can be an act of submission to God. I would like to do this happily, like the duo in Farm Morning.