It's the Charity Event of the Year

My kids came home from school last week heartbroken for the victims of the earthquake in Haiti.

"So many people died, mom."

"People don't even have their houses anymore."

"There are kids that lost their parents."

I shushed the boys before their sister lost all control of her emotions. She doesn't really know pain. Her most painful experience is having to eat oatmeal for breakfast when she wants waffles, and that's the way I like it. Their lives should be all butterflies. And sparkles. And rainbows.

But they couldn't forget about the people on that island who are suffering.

They thought there was something they could do.

So they hatched a plan. I guess this is what it's like to have a fifth grader.

(When I was in fifth grade, my sister and I had a lemonade stand. My dad saw us out front, and suggested we sell canned soda instead. He offered to buy the soda, we would sell it and pay him back the cost of the soda and keep the profits. We made something like Twenty-Five dollars that day, and we never repaid him. I kept waiting for him to bring it up, but he never did, so we pocketed all the cash. It's okay, though, because a child can never repay all that their parents do for them.)

This Saturday my driveway will be converted to a Hot Chocolate for Haiti stand. They are selling hot chocolate and donating the money they make to the Red Cross.

You have no idea how badly I want to take over the whole thing.

"What are your goals? How much money do you want to make? Then you need to tell at least X amount of people about your project. Here, let me make the flyer. The more people that know about it, the more people you'll have. You should get a local business to match your proceeds dollar for dollar."

Instead, I'm making small suggestions. Stella took a flyer (that her brothers made without any help from moi) to ballet last night, and came home with a couple of bucks from friends that couldn't make it on Saturday but wanted to support her.

They braved sub-zero temperatures and delivered flyers to all the neighbors.

I'm also doing my part by asking my local readers (all 5 of you) to stop by my house between 10:30 and 1:00 (2 1/2 hours? Are they kidding me?) for a delicious cup of hot cocoa. Yesterday they made some cookies to sell and I think I heard something about a plan to make brownies today after school.

If nothing else, you can come by and mock me from your warm car as I freeze my a$$ off supporting my kids. And Haiti.

And that's why I will never have my own cooking show

All of my wildest dreams were about to come true.

I was all set to host several women in my home for a few hours today while I instructed them in the fine art of cookery. I felt sure that they would find my skills to be of such a caliber and my jokes to be so well timed and I would exhibit just the right amount of sincerity that they would insist on using their student loans to fund my own weekend show on local access cable.

But then Robert's dad had to go and get the Big C. (That's what we insiders call Cancer.)

Then his dumb old spleen had to rupture. Stupid spleen.

And he pretty much almost died, but a few angels decided to guide his surgeon's hands and miracle of miracles he made it out of a surgery that nobody thought he would survive.

He is, however, now short one spleen.

The long and short of it is that we took an emergency trip out west, I had to cancel my cooking demonstration, and I hate cancer. Cancer sucks.

But family rocks. Especially mine.

And when they eat the food I cook for them (with a little help from my mom and my sister), they make me feel like a rockstar.

All kidding aside, his story is pretty miraculous and I feel so blessed to count myself a member of his family. They are inspiring men and women. If you are interested in following the progress of Robert's Dad's treatments, visit his blog.

Freeze Frame

Right now, my finger fits perfectly into my toddler's fist. His head is the missing puzzle piece for that space between my jaw and my collarbone. I am never tempted to shove him off my lap. (Unlike a few of the older ones whose bums are quite bony and who shift their weight in a highly uncomfortable manner the entire time they sit there.)

Stella's five year old body, with her knees pulled up to her chest and my arm under her head, curls perfectly into the C shape that my body makes from my shoulders to my knees. I know this fact because of the early morning visits from her that begin before the sun is up. She likes to tell me what she dreamed about while I doze in and out of wakefulness.

Creed runs at me full speed and leaps onto my upper torso, wrapping his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist, hooking his feet together behind me. There's no faking the joy on his face when I catch him. Sometimes, I sneak and hold his hand in public. He pretends not to notice, but I can see him stealing sidelong glances at me. He likes to sit in my lap when we read at night. He would collapse in embarrassment if he read this, but I think that someday he will remember it fondly.

Jack doesn't sit on my lap much anymore. He won't change his clothes in front of me. Public embraces have been replaced by one-armed side hugs. When I am the recipient of a full embrace from him (in the privacy of our own home) his face turns to the side and rests on my ribcage just below my chin. I can feel his arms under my armpits and wrapping around my back. We now wear the same shoe size. I've needed to go into his room to recover my Chuck Taylors. I have mistakenly donned his hoodies as I run around town, not noticing that I am wearing my son's clothes until I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass doors at Target. He likes to fall asleep in my bed when Robert is on call, and I can't bring myself to remove him to his own bed when I turn in for the evening. At eleven o'clock at night, when he is sound asleep in my bed, it's easy to remember the baby he used to be.

I remember when he would lead me on a tour of the planet with my finger in his fist.

I remember when we wasted* entire days snuggling, reading, singing, Mother Goosing . . .

I don't recall the last time he willingly embraced me in public, but you can bet that if it happens again, I will hold on a little bit longer.

I'm not wishing for my babies to stay babies, nor to I want to have another one.

Jack and I read the same books and have lively discussions about them. It's fun to have kids that are learning to play instruments and stretching creative muscles and noticing each other as more than that annoying person who is always there. No matter what. I taught the kids how to play Mafia a few weeks ago, for crying out loud. How fun is that?

I just think the spacing of my children was a really smart thing. Good job, me. Or good job, God. Either way, having kids at all different stages is a really good thing.

*Is that a waste of a day? I think not.