Tradition

There are lots of stories among my husband and his friends of burning things. VCRs, gas grills, 5-gallon water jugs, front yards. I know it's just a matter of time before I come home to a mysterious burning smell and craters in my yard.

For the last four mornings on the way to work, my son has told me "When I grow up, I want to be a fire man." (He says the words independently – fire man, not fireman.) Lots of parents tell their kids they can be whatever they want when they grow up, but secretly hope their child doesn't enter into a dangerous profession like snake charming, lion taming, or fire fighting. I'm not one of those parents. You see, my grandfather was a volunteer fire fighter. So was my father. Which was cool, because back in the day, your kid got to ride in the fire truck during parades and throw candy at the spectators.

My husband was a volunteer fire fighter when we were dating and engaged. When we got married, we did the local department tradition of riding on the back of the engine to Main Street, where the groom wheels the bride down one block in a wheelbarrow.

(Want to make your wedding photographer really excited? Tell him he can ride on the hose bed of a fire truck after the ceremony.)

If Busby wants to be a fire man, I'm not going to stop him. After all, fire setting is in his blood. Shouldn't fire fighting be as well?

In the last 24 hours

My maternal grandmother's sister died. From cancer.

My husband's best friend's father died. From cancer.

One of the lawyers I work with gave notice, then left the building. Forever.

This has been a weird day to say the least.

This evening...

...I removed a giraffe from Cinderella's hair.

Making time

When you're pregnant for the first time, people always tell you to enjoy them when they're little because it goes so fast. And you kindly nod. Because you really don't know what they're talking about, even if you're pretty sure they haven't figured out how to make time go faster.

Then it happens. You have this wonderful little baby in your arms. Busby was all red and sleepy and cuddly and small when he was born. Now he's almost 4. He says things like "This is serious, mom," and "you need to be nicer to people," and "I need to tell you something mommy." And I'm all like, WHOA!!! Who are you, and where is my little baby? He proudly tells me his full name, and tells me that McCloud is playing on the floor. Hmmm.

When you're pregnant with your second child, people tell you that you'll really have no time now, and that you're crazy for having your kids so close together, and to kiss clean laundry goodby. And you vow that you will make time for your husband, and you will still see your friends, and that in the name of all that is holy, you will wear clean clothes every day.

But then I had a 17 month old and a newborn. Egads! And my newborn was not nearly as small as her brother. Janet was a ferocious eater that had me thinking I may never be without a Boppy pillow around me again. But, of course, she's grown. And according to my father, she is a Mini Me. She's plump, blond, and opinionated. She throws fits and cries until she pukes. And when you put her pj's on her, she says "I'm the princess!" She loves to have ponytails and barretts in her hair. She carries a purse and almost always has a plush kitten with her. She's fiercly loyal to her brother, and will not hesitate to knock him down for the toy she wants.

When you're pregnant with your third child, people tell you that it's no longer man-to-man, it's time for a zone defense. And they question how you will pack three kids into that Jeep Grand Cherokee. Are you going to buy that minivan you've been coveting? They ask if you are going to build onto your house, so that none of the kids will have to share a room. And they question your ability to give this child as much attention as the first or second.

So, McCloud arrives. Small and red and squinty-eyed the day after her sister's 2nd birthday. She's calm. She observes. She lights up when someone smiles at her. She is zealously watched over by her brother and sister. She goes to bed at 7 p.m. and sleeps 12 hours.

So I don't get to shower every day. And I'm often wearing clothes that have been spit-up on, but deemed good enough to wear again before washing. And no, I don't get to give her as much attention at this stage of the game as I would like. But I do go in her room while she's sleeping. I touch her face and hold her hand and tell her all about her family. When she stays awake longer, I'll get to read to her more, and sing to her more, and get to hear her stories. But for now, watching her sleep is enough.