our family

Dadda and Darcy:   90% water

                                       10% fruit snacks

Mamma: 100% Guacamole

 Thanks goodness Darcy refuses to eat green things.

More guac for me on this wonderful Wednesday. 

What are your foodstuff makeup percentages?

.veronica.

26

I woke up Friday morning and was officially over a quarter of a century old. I almost didn't believe it. I looked around for evidence of my being so.....adult.

I have a husband.

I have a child.

Next comes....senior discounts?

In outright defiance of 26, my husband took his girls to the Phoenix Children's Museum.

Entering the museum, the first thing you see is this claw-foot tub with swan wings suspended 30 feet overhead. All I could think about for the rest of my birthday was the person responsible for creating the magical flying bathtub. 

And can they be my daughter's preschool teacher?

And then maybe my friend?

Because by the time you get to be my age you've been told so many times, "Inanimate objects cannot fly." It's wrong to color purple polka-dots in the sky. It's impractical to make the duck talk with a British accent. Imaginary friends don't exist.

 In short, grow up.

It makes me wonder how we're going to solve the many large problems facing the world when we put it into a child's mind that not all things are possible.

The museum decor is inspired by children's imaginations. They filled the whole ceiling with fish creatures made out of stuff a child would have on hand.

The Monet of watercolor

Painting a rocket ship with two paintbrushes.

 One of the first things Steven said when Darcy came to our family was, "She's gonna have a killer imagination." I remember thinking it was an unusual prediction at the time. Couldn't we first get her sleeping through the night? 

But every morning when I get to look at my freshly rested little girl and into her large brown eyes, I realize that her imagination is something worth fighting for. She was born creative beyond the limits of our circumstances. That creativity has the potential to do great things. 

                                       

Never underestimate the effect a British accent can have on the world.

.veronica.

How much is that Darcy in the...

"Hi! How you doing today?!"

Ouch.

My sides.

.veronica.

Z is for zoo

Planning a day at the Phoenix Zoo in August is like planning to go sightseeing on the surface of the sun....with animals.

We chose a rainy day to visit the zoo--the only acceptable kind of day, in my book. I'm a stormy kind of person on the inside. If you cracked me open, I'd look like the Northwest in April.

The Phoenix Zoo has a refreshing "Enchanted Forest" area to play in. Darcy and I love the crystal  creek that wraps around a whimsy tree house. It makes us feel like hobbits keeping cool on a torrid day in the Shire.

Looming over the enchanted forest like the eye of sauron is the zoo's carousel. As we splashed in the lapping water, Darcy took notice and immediately begged me to take her. No, I said. We're having plenty of fun not spending extra money. She forgot about it, but I felt myself start to cave. She's so cute. She is just like her Dadda. She makes me laugh until my sides hurt every day. Maybe...

Darcy's expression is pure elation as she goes sailing up and down on the back of a great white shark, the strangest animal to pick out of the entire carousel, if you ask me. Her laughter travels around a spoke. Frozen animals all around us seem to look at her like, "It's just a carousel, kid." After several minutes on the ride, the shark is losing speed. And Darcy starts to screech--she is angry at me because the fun is over.  I can't begin to comprehend what is happening.....my daughter is screaming....because  I treated her.....with a ride.....on the carousel.

I subdue my explosive child as best as I can, and we start the drive home. The clouds that once blanketed the flat, brown desert are breaking up. The harsh, blazing sun is cracking brittle earth again. Puddles are evaporating. My carousel is slowing down. The great white shark is screeching to a halt. I feel the complete unfairness of it all rising up.

And I still have no idea where she gets it from.

.veronica.

on my mind: little hands

They can always find the goodies in a lineup.

Impressive, no?

a red jalapeño

A red jalapeño in our garden? What can this mean?

Nice of you to join us, bell peppers. Get growin'.

Corn silk is lovely. I want a bouquet of it.

Dear corn stalks,

Please don't grow much taller than me.

Love, Veronica

Don't ever let anyone tell you you can't, cantaloupe.

Can't wait to hold a sliced watermelon smile up to my face.

A squash escapee scales the six-foot cinder block wall. I have a feeling he will become mayor of a town, assume responsibility for a young orphan girl, and turn his whole life around.

Our red potatoes are dying. Help, someone?

Just praying the pigeons and doves prefer crickets to corn on the cob.

Angel Deacon

There I was in the hall at church with my nine-month-old, going on two years. She had fought a good fight with impressive strength I couldn't hope to subdue in the pews. The poofs of her pink dress made her look like an angelic flapper at sunset. Now she was content on the floor in the vacant hallway advancing the crumpled state of a church program. She scooted like a trainee in the army. She clapped her chubby hands. She squealed with joy, all as if nothing had been wrong 20 minutes prior.

I picked her up to avoid a 12-year-old class from tripping over what they'd surely mistake for a bundle of cotton candy on the floor. She let out a holler in protest. I could feel everything escalating as the hall filled with more and more bodies as classrooms let out. Darcy was screaming, I was panicking, and the fire-hazard population continued to grow in waves of children and adults.

Suddenly Darcy was still, and I looked up to find that she was eye-level with a young, smiling face. A smile with braces. Darcy sat quietly, eagerly waiting for what the 12-year-old boy would say to her. He was paying attention to her. And she was thrilled. She loved him immediately.

"She probably likes my braces," he said, purposefully grinning for her. He was tall for his age, but appeared lower, as he was hunched down, speaking to my little girl.

"What's the matter?" he asked in the truest sincerity I've ever heard come from a 12-year-old boy, or any man, for that matter. I knew immediately he had to have been an angel sent to calm my unhappy child. And he was a 12-year-old boy! If that wasn't enough, he turned to me and said, "Don't worry. When I was a baby, I cried too. My mom was probably out here in the hall 75% of the time in church with me." I almost expected him to proffer a shoulder for me to cry on, but he waved goodbye and hurried to rejoin his class. To say I was touched would not sufficiently cover how profoundly this young man impacted me. Tears filled my eyes. This young man did what Christ would have done. He had the countenance of Christ as he lowered his tall frame to show kindness to a mother and baby.

I am grateful for this young man's ability to see the young mother drowning in a crowd. I am grateful for his example of loving someone you've never seen before. I am grateful for his example of doing what Christ would do.