The things we say to our daughters

I’m sure raising kids has never been a picnic, but it feels like it keeps getting harder, am I right?  There is a prevailing concern about making sure we instill a sense of self-esteem and self-worth, making them know they are unique and the world needs one of them – exactly the way they are.  At the same time, we are supposed to make sure they know they are not THAT special, and no more special than anyone else, and really just take it easy on the confidence so you don’t inhibit anyone else’s efforts to feel good about themselves. 

As difficult as that is regardless, I feel a unique pressure as a woman raising a daughter.  I want my three-year-old to grow up knowing that she can absolutely do anything a boy can do.  Being a female should empower her, and never hold her back.  I want her to know she can HAVE it all if she wants – a career, a family, hobbies and interests that make her thrive – but she shouldn’t be expected to DO it all.  In other words, by all means “lean in,” but if you’re not feeling it, then also don’t let society tell you that you should just keep leaning harder solely for the benefit of women’s progress.  You are one person.

For now, I try to just let my daughter be who she wants to be, playing with everything from dolls and jewelry to trucks and superheroes.  Without any prompting, she loves playing mommy and has declared her favorite colors to be purple and pink.  I will admit, however, I am secretly satisfied when she pulls bows out of her hair and yells, “I am NOT a princess.”  That’s right, baby.  You are nobody’s princess.  You’re a damn queen, so go get it.  Be a doctor.  Storm the boardroom.  Start a nonprofit.  Change the world.

I want her to feel beautiful and confident, but I want her to absolutely know that physical appearance – of herself, her home, her “things” – won’t provide a fulfilling life and have nothing to do with what she brings to the world.  I find myself hesitating to use words like “pretty” when I speak to my daughter because I want her to find her self-worth completely outside of the flowers on her dress.  I know there are articles out there encouraging adults to speak to girls differently than we typically do.  Instead of focusing on how pretty her outfit is, ask her about her favorite books.  I buy into that, but as with anything else, it can be overdone.  Pretty also isn’t a bad word.

I do think it’s important to recognize beauty in our children when we see it.  I’m not talking perfectly braided hair and a coordinated wardrobe, because between you and me there is none of that happening around here (I’m sorry honey, a lot of that is going to be your mommy’s fault).  When I was putting my daughter in her carseat after church this morning, she was smiling and giggling and her eyes were just sparkling.  I completely stopped my fumbling with her carseat straps and said, “Baby girl, you are so beautiful.”  She did a double take, smiled bigger, and then said confidently, “I’m beautiful!  Mommy, you’re beautiful, too!”  It’s in these moments when true beauty becomes visible – when she is wrapped up in living and enjoying the moment and her spirit shines through.  That’s the kind of beauty we don’t need to hesitate to call out, because we can do no harm when we catch someone living their truth.  And isn’t that when we all look our most beautiful?

This realization has me reflecting on all the times when my three-year-old is truly beautiful to me – when her spirit shines through.  I can see her spirit when she smiles and holds up a picture she colored for me, when she completes a puzzle all by herself, when she proudly stands up and surveys a hole she dug in the dirt and wipes her hands on her pants.  These things will evolve as she matures and truly finds her niche.  Whether it be nailing a math test, painting a landscape, honing her sport or instrument – whatever she chooses to do, I know when she finds what ignites her spirit it will be evident.  And I can’t wait to say, “My sweet girl, you are so beautiful.”

Home

It’s always somewhat disappointing when a vacation comes to an end.  You’ve had your fill of fun, adventure, and relaxation, and with a sigh you turn your back on your temporary escape and march toward home.  Fairly quickly, however, you start to look forward to the comforts of home – your own bed and towels, your favorite mug, and your spot on the corner of the couch where you curl up and put your feet under a familiar throw.  “That was fun,” you say, “but it’s good to be home.”

Home.  As I reflect on our annual trip to the lake, I am preoccupied with thoughts of what “home” really means to me.  Having vacationed on a small lake in northern Wisconsin growing up, the water has always been a large part of me.  Some of my favorite childhood memories are wrapped up in a tiny cottage in the woods, with no television and plenty of time in the boat.  As I walked around the gift shops in a small Michigan town during our recent trip, I found myself drawn to a sweatshirt that simply said “HOME,” with the state of Michigan used in place of the “O.”  There was also a small heart in the middle of the state outline – I suppose home is where the heart is.  I’m not from Michigan or Wisconsin, but that setting, on the lake, with a slower pace of living, always feels like home to me. 

Is it possible for your “home,” in a different sense of the word, to be somewhere other than where you typically reside?  Is it possible, that even after you leave that place, part of you stays there?  I’ve always found it more difficult than it is with other vacations to end my time at the lake.  Even as a child, I remember walking out to the dock as my family packed up the last of our belongings, to get one more look at the water.  I would breathe in deeply the fresh lake air, recall the memories we’d made over the last several days, and reflect with a tinge of bitterness that all of this would continue to go on without me.  The water will lap up against the shore, for someone else’s ears to hear.  The bluegill will swim under the dock, to be tempted by someone else’s baited hook.  The loons will fill the silence of the night with their haunting calls, and I will miss it.  It wasn’t fair.  Why couldn’t I stay?  This was my home.

It's difficult for me to discern which came first – whether my childhood experiences helped cultivate in me a love for the lake, or if that connection was always there and our family vacations just helped me find it.  I guess the origin doesn’t really matter, but what I know for sure is that I resonate with that setting, that environment, and it has taught me about myself.  The first time my husband surprised me with a weekend getaway to explore southwest Michigan, I was quite simply in awe of my surroundings.  It felt like a magical nostalgic world where deep, rich, Midwest farmland met with a sandy beach setting that you could convince yourself belonged to the ocean.  Roadside farmstands and toes in the sand – this is the stuff my dreams are made of.  Lake breezes and beach time and screened in porches and fresh picked blueberries and small town bakeries.  These things make me feel like me.

I guess that’s why I’ve always had a more difficult time leaving those vacations behind.  The feeling I have when I have to head back to our real life is so much more than just, “that was fun.”  It feels like I’m saying goodbye to a piece of myself that is staying behind because that is where it belongs.  That’s where it feels at home.  I’m a farm girl who’s never lived on a farm, and a lake girl who didn’t technically grow up on the lake.  But I garden and tend to my flowers and relish each moment spent near the water.  When I stick my hands in the dirt, or let the sand run through my fingers, or wade into the cool, fresh water, I know who I am.  And it feels like home.

Toddler Prayer

We pray with our kids every night.  We started it with our oldest when he was a toddler, and now his little sister is along for the ride as part of the bedtime routine.  I will admit to sometimes letting “routine” get the best of me, willing us to push through the tooth brushing and prayers efficiently so I can just sit down in peace (or empty the dishwasher, or get some work done, or, or, or…).  When I get wrapped into the mechanics, it’s easy to question what the kids are even getting out of it.  Some nights they have really insightful requests, and some nights their attention is distracted by other things.  I can relate to that in my own prayer life, and they are probably more faithful than I am some days, but still, we go through the motions.

As a small aside, my daughter is two, which in my experience is the height of cuteness.  She is quite the chatty chica at this age, and she often mispronounces the actual words for things (for example, Farmers’ Market = Fire’s Marker in our house).  She makes sentences, but not always with proper grammar.  It absolutely melts my heart to watch the concentration on her face as she tries to express the things she wants to convey so desperately using her toddler grasp of the English language.  She’ll spit out a word, realizing it’s not quite right, then try over and over again to correct herself with variations of something that’s just soooo close. 

Typically we sit down as a family in our son’s bedroom at night and do our prayers together.  We will each share something that made us happy that day, something that made us sad, and one other person we’d like to pray for.  This format seems to work well since it’s straightforward and makes it easy for the kids to participate.  Usually my husband, my son, or myself will close in prayer once all requests have been made, thanking God for the things that have made us happy, praying for comfort when things make us sad, and lifting others up who need some extra love.  On a recent evening when we had barely finished offering our requests, our daughter took it upon herself to lead us in prayer.  She folded her little hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and strung together the most precious collection of words I have ever heard in my life.  Included in the mix were sunshine, choo choos, and a couple of her friends.  She also wove in the name of a friend of mine who we’ve been praying for lately as she faces some difficult health challenges.  And of course, she said my friend’s name in perfect toddler fashion, mispronouncing it so beautifully and innocently.

My husband and I glanced at each other with the silent “awwww” that you share when your child has done something that solidifies your opinion of them being the most amazing being on earth.  Although our daughter didn’t make complete sentences, it was a perfect prayer.  She joyfully mentioned things that make her happy, and remembered those who are hurting.  Even though it may have sounded like a random collection of words to someone else, I knew exactly what she meant.  When she said “sunshine,” I smiled knowingly, reflecting on the delight that is evident when we’re playing outside.  And although she only said my friend’s name and nothing more about the situation, it resonated with the pain I feel in my own heart as I know the healing needed there. 

God often uses these moments to remind me that he gets me, too.  As much as I understand and love my own children, I know that pales in comparison to the love the Father has for me.  He knew me before I was born and has numbered the hairs on my head, so certainly he understands what brings me joy and what burdens my soul.  Prayers do not need to be offered kneeling on the floor, with 20 minutes set aside for a well-constructed monologue.  Prayer can be continuous communication with God, acknowledging His presence and feeling deep gratitude for the ways I am blessed.  When I smile at a sunrise, or marvel at my kids as they learn something new, I know He feels my joy, and those expressions of gratitude draw me nearer.  Or, when the tears come and all I can do is whisper the name of a friend in need, I can feel Him say, “I know, my daughter.  I know.” 

I’m reminded of some wise words from Anne of Green Gables, which was a childhood favorite of mine.  Regarding prayer, Anne in her infinite wisdom says, “Why must people kneel down to pray?  If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I’d do.  I’d go out into a great big field all alone or in the deep, deep woods and I’d look up into the sky – up – up – up – into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness.  And then I’d just feel a prayer.”

Let’s offer our prayers, in complete sentences or fragments of words, spoken or silent, in nature, in our homes, in gratitude or desperation, in tears, or perhaps just through feeling, and trust that our Father understands.

Summer fun

Summers are made for kids.  Or maybe, those who act like kids.  Too often, in my opinion, the population set of those who act like kids is unfortunately limited to actual kids, so this summer, I’m vowing to act more like a kid.  I’m a civil servant like that.  

If this weekend was any indication, we’re off to a great start.  The temperatures were forecasted to be very warm, definitely the hottest of the season so far.  “We need a pool,” I concluded Saturday morning, and dragged out the small wading pool from the garage to fill with water.  That project took all of about five minutes because our pool is a glorified bird bath and holds three inches of water.  “Well, we need a bigger pool,” I said matter-of-factly.  In the midst of mentally strategizing about upgraded pool options, I also got out the sprinkler, because no hot day is complete without that.  As I watched the kids run back and forth through the sprays of water, my two-year-old walked over, raised her hand to me and said, “Mommy, we go a-gether (together).”  I was not wearing a swimming suit (rookie mistake), but it didn’t take long to determine that the pros outweighed the cons in this situation.  I took her hand and we ran through the sprinkler together, giggling and squealing as the cold water tickled our skin.

The next step after lunch was to take the kids to the toy store to pick up a larger, inflatable backyard pool (naptime can wait – it’s summer after all).  Key pool requirement: something big enough for Mom to sit in.  I was quite possibly more excited than they were at this point.  I was laser focused on all options the toy store had to offer for water fun, while they were distracted by everything else shiny and noisy.  After providing the allotted time to sit in the Power Wheels, and herding them away from assorted sizes of plush characters, we landed on a great option.  They also each picked out a camp chair, because, well, you need somewhere to sit and dangle your feet by the pool. 

We headed home, and while the littles rested I inflated the pool and filled it with water (18 inches now as opposed to three – we’re moving on up!).  I then put on my swimming suit and eagerly waited for them to wake up.  I was reminiscing about the summers of my childhood when we filled the pool in our backyard, demolishing the grass in its wake.  I felt a familiar anticipation as the hose slowly filled the pool with cool water, and I scooped out the stray bug or leaf that managed to float in.  I used to treat that small backyard pool as a legit Olympic experience – donning goggles and awkwardly trying to accomplish all the same acrobatic feats I could perform in the five foot depth of the local public pool. 

Massive amounts of sunscreen later, and we were in.  It was glorious.  My only regret was that the kids’ attention span for the luxuries of the pool was not as long as my own.  I would have loved to lounge there for hours, but they were lured away by all other forms of backyard fun.  Namely, the neighbor’s swingset which they so graciously allow our children to use.  We wore a path in the grass running back and forth between the swings and the pool in our bare feet.  Playing outside in bare feet – when was the last time I did that?!  Talk about embracing childhood again. 

After repeated pleas from my toddler to push her on the swings, I was once again standing by the swingset while they soared through the air.  My son, who changed my life a couple years ago when he started to pump his legs on the swings and no longer required pushing, was happily climbing higher and higher in the air.   “Hey Mom,” he said, “If I close my eyes when I’m swinging really high it feels like I’m flying!”  YES, I thought to myself.  You’re SO right!  I remember doing that very same thing when I was a kid.  Closing my eyes and flying high on the swing set, pockets of brightness permeating my eyelids as the sunshine peeked through the treetops while I would swing back and forth.  That sensation was buried deep in my memory, and it just took someone verbalizing it so perfectly for me to immediately recall it.  My daughter quickly picked up on big brother’s fun (as she always does) and began instructing me to “Push me high, and I close my eyes and fly.”  After giving her an underdog (that’s still a thing and my kids know the name of it!), she smiled widely, eyes shut tight and said, “I flying, Mommy!!!  I flying!”  It darn near brings me to tears to see my kids so happy about something so simple. 

Yes, my loves.  FLY.  Experience life.  Embrace your childhood.  Be free and have fun, this is what I wish for you.  The serious business of growing up will come later, but you’re little and it’s summer.  Shoes and socks optional.  My only request is that you let me join you.  I promise to supply lemonade and popsicles, picnic lunches and dry towels.  I will keep our little pool filled up and bug-free.  I will accompany you on bike rides and backyard adventures.  Let’s hold hands, laugh in the sunshine, and lay on our backs and look at the clouds.  Let’s fall into bed at night smelling of sunscreen and ice cream.  Summer has a way of slowing down time and making our little corner of the world so vibrant and carefree.  We could all use a little more of that.   

Dandelions

Spring is here, which means more time outside with the kids, and more things for them to explore.  It means walks, bike rides, and wagon adventures.  It also inevitably means that my precious babes will be so thoughtful as to stoop down and excitedly pick as many dandelions as they can get their hands on and present them to me as if they were a bouquet of sweet smelling roses.  “Flowers!” they exclaim with enthusiasm whenever they come across a yard that has been fortunate enough to escape fertilizer and instead embrace its natural tendencies.

“Oh great,” I think to myself.  Dandelions stink, and they’re sticky, and they stain.  If I absentmindedly stuff them in my pocket and forget about them, they dry up and each individual yellow spike flakes away and finds hidden corners of fabric, all in an elaborate plot to invade my laundry.  As if I needed more invaders, what with the tissues and stickers and rocks and sand and beads and crayons and other paraphernalia of early childhood.  Also, it would be one thing if my children would actually gift me the dandelion with the stem attached – a long-stemmed dandelion, if you will.  It sounds fancier.  But no, most of the time I get the head of the flower, plucked off just below the base.  What am I supposed to do with that?

I admit, many times I nonchalantly chuck those dandelions as soon as my kids look away, hoping they don’t ask me later about the flowers they picked.  After all, I don’t want to end up in a laundry situation (see above).  I also have learned to keep my hands free at all times in case I need to swoop in and correct a misbalanced bike before it topples over, or re-fasten a seatbelt in the wagon for a certain stubborn two-year-old who I am convinced would stand up in the car with her head out the sunroof if we allowed it.  So, in the name of safety, and agility, and cleanliness, I discard that foul yellow foliage like trash.  After all, they’re just…weeds.

Today as I was driving to work I passed through a neighborhood with large front yards, the houses set back from the street with long, sloping lawns reaching toward the sidewalk.  The grass has greened up nicely with all the recent rain, and many homeowners have already completed their first mowing of the season.  But some lawns are still thick and long, alive from their winter slumber and yet untouched, blowing freely in the wind.  I noticed a stretch of these lawns and was struck by something – they were dotted with yellow dandelions that also swayed gently in the breeze, and the whole scene was, well, pretty.  The dandelions looked cheerful and bright, and they added happy little accents of color to the green background.  I don’t know that I’ve looked at dandelions that way since I was a kid.

And suddenly, I got it.  I understood what my children see when they come across a patch of weeds, err, dandelions.  After all, if you really think about it, what makes dandelions so different in appearance from a mum or zinnia?  Nothing, really.  They’re a flowering plant, and they’re pleasing to the eye.  A true sign of spring, renewal, and persistence.  So what is it about our children’s perspective that makes them see flowers where we see weeds?  They don’t know any better yet, and just as in many other cases, I think that plays to their advantage.  The ability to look at a lawn full of yellow flowers and see beauty rather than a chore is a true gift, one tiny way we can find joy in the simple everyday things.

As I was pondering this, I did a little light research on dandelions and found a few inspirational quotes (inspiration from a weed – who knew?!  Your kids did, that’s who.  Side note: I am a total sucker for inspirational quotes). 

“Some see a weed, some see a wish.” (no author given)

“Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.” (A.A. Milne)

The rebel in me particularly likes this one:

“A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows.” (Doug Larson) 

Go get it, dandelions.

I wouldn’t say that I suddenly love dandelions, or desire to keep arrangements of them in vases throughout my house, or would willingly invite them into my yard, but I do have a different perspective now.  The next time I see a collection of them dancing in a spacious front yard, I can just enjoy the beauty, and choose to see flowers rather than weeds.  The next time I see a stray dandelion creeping over the sidewalk, maybe I won’t cringe and hope my children don’t spot it.  And the next time one of my kids proudly transfers a mushed-up collection of dandelion heads from their hand to mine, I’ll keep the smile on my face longer than I usually do.  I won’t immediately throw them away, nose crinkled as I quickly rub my hands together to remove the remnants.  I will hold those spikey little petals tenderly in my palm, and treat them like the gift they were intended to be.  After all, I want my kids to see many more flowers and wishes and possibility in this world than they see weeds.  And when you think about it, that’s really just a matter of perspective.

The church whisper

Church on Sunday mornings has a unique way of putting your parental influence to the test.  Not only is it a public place, but there also tends to be a need for many quiet moments during the sermon and prayers.  The presence of other people and silence on cue – two elements that are enemies to parents of young children, particularly of the toddler variety. 

On a recent Sunday morning, my almost two-year-old daughter ended up back in the sanctuary with me after refusing drop-off at the church nursery.  I knew I wasn’t exactly setting myself up for success by including a toddler in the sermon portion of the church service, but I decided not to pick the battle.  After sitting contentedly on my lap for a few nanoseconds, she decided it was time to assert her independence and pop a squat beside me.  Fine.  I quickly wrestled away the markers she had found in the children’s worship bag and offered her crayons as an alternative.  When she expressed a desire for her art to stray from the paper, I began to look for other options that wouldn’t involve personalizing the newly upholstered pews. 

Somewhere in the midst of me pulling books, a sippy cup, and a baby doll out of her bag in a frantic attempt at entertainment, she removed her shoes and threw them to the floor.  I bent down to pick them up, and as I was slowing raising my head to avoid slamming it on the pew in front of us, I locked eyes with her.  I was crouched over and slightly below her eye level, and she had her hands on the toe of her right sock.  I froze.  She was looking down at me, an aura of confident superiority surrounding her.  In my best stern, church whisper I said slowly, “Do NOT take off your socks.”  She took a few seconds to consider her next move, or perhaps just to relish the action she had already decided upon.  She continued to look me in the eye, the expression on her face unchanging.  Then in one motion, she pulled off her sock and dropped it to the floor.  She quickly removed her left sock as well, smiling and wiggling her toes while I had no choice but to again retrieve her discarded footwear.

There’s an extra level of urgency and helplessness when you’re trying to entertain a child in church.  Essentially, you are trying everything possible to make them happy in an effort to avoid drawing attention to yourself.  (I will give you anything you want, just please don’t yell at me during the silent prayer!)  In this particular instance, my arsenal of tools was depleted.  We had burned through all the toys we brought, and my whisper had gotten as tense as I was comfortable with in church.  My methods had been ineffective, so I resigned myself to the fact that it would once again be a Sunday where she roams through the pews, barefoot and fancy free.  I’ll try to get the gist of the sermon, and mercifully we’ll soon get to a hymn.  Granted, she demands to be held during all standing and singing, but at least there is noise and movement involved.  I’ll take it.

I’m quite honestly at a point in my parenting journey where those moments don’t bother me that much.  It’s funny to sit back and reflect on the madness, but the one takeaway that does scare me is the realization that I have absolutely no control over my child.  I simply cannot MAKE her do much of anything, and regardless of the instruction I give, she can choose to disregard.  This concerns me as she nears two years of age, of course, but I can only assume the influence I have over her will diminish exponentially as she gets older. 

Sure, today I have a toddler flicking socks in my face at church, but will she become a teenager who decides I have nothing valuable to say, and makes choices for her life I don’t agree with?  Probably (sigh).  Those are different problems for another day.  I choose to trust that the big things will stick, that even if I can’t get her to keep her feet covered she will learn to be kind and to love, to be grateful and find the magic in simple moments.  She can run shoeless for the rest of her life for all I care if she is generous with her time and her abilities, and if she confidently becomes the person God intends for her to be.  Even if, or maybe especially if, that person is strong-willed and opinionated.

I could get caught up in thinking about what the future holds, but I was quickly snapped back to the present.  That little girl who looked at me in defiance just three minutes earlier, sweetly asked that I hold her as the sermon was reaching its end.  I propped her in the crook of my elbow like I have so many times before, and this time as she looked into my eyes it was not defiance, but pure joy and content.  She smiled at me, and I tickled her bare feet.  We giggled quietly together, and I decided it’s going to be just fine.  I don’t need to have control.

Everyday memories

Life is punctuated with very specific memories – the images of people and places that commemorate an event that was meaningful in some way, for better or worse.  The family vacation where I saw mountains for the first time.  The time an unfortunate encounter with my birthday candles singed the edges of my hair.  The day my husband and I flipped over a jetski on our honeymoon.  The way each of my brand new babies looked in the first moment they were placed on my chest.  These moments slide into our lives like a happy pause or a dramatic exclamation point, and we remember them with very specific parameters.  We can point to a day and location and say, “this happened then.” 

But filling in the narrative of our lives aside from the noise of this punctuation is the every day.  There are people and experiences that enrich us over time and weave themselves seamlessly into who we are.  I grew up attending church with my family and my grandparents.  It was a traditional service where we sang hymns accompanied by the powerful tones of a pipe organ.  As a result, I have many of those songs committed to memory, and when I sing them today I cannot separate my own voice from that of my grandparents.  As the congregation sings, I can still hear the unique quality of each of their voices dancing through the verses – my grandpa’s syncopated baritone, and grandma moving in and out of soprano and alto as the range of the song requires. 

I don’t need to conjure a up a specific event to recall this or bring it back to the front of my mind; it appears automatically when we sing a classic hymn at the church I now attend with my own little family.  I don’t “remember a time,” really.  I feel those experiences enriching my current moments because they are so deep that they’re part of me.  This morning I had such a moment when we were singing “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty” during our church service.  In my head, my voice joined with my grandparents' to raise up the lyrics, “All ye who hear, now to his temple draw near; Praise him in glad adoration.” 

As I was enjoying this moment – this deep memory – I became aware that my daughter, propped up on my hip as she usually is, was staring intently into my face and watching my mouth form the words.  At the beginning of the next verse, she enthusiastically joined in.  She opened her mouth wide, making perfect O’s – one after another – as we continued with, “Praise to the Lord, who o’er all things so wondrously reigneth.”  At her age of approximately a year and a half, she was mimicking what she was seeing, and while no sound actually left her lips she became part of the throng.  I immediately smiled and got my husband’s attention so he could see what was unfolding, and this resulted in giggles on the part of our little performer. 

As simple and brief as that moment was, it struck me with a profound sense of joy.  I was simultaneously feeling a sense of closeness to a generation that came before me, and to the next one I’m preparing for the world.  I’ll cop to that sounding corny, but God puts together wonderful things if we only stop to notice. 

It occurred to me during the remainder of the service that moments like these, repeated throughout a childhood, could become part of the narrative of our children’s lives.  I watched my daughter wave to the people in the pew behind us, and my son step shyly through the rows to collect coins in a tin can for the noisy offering.  This church, these people, it all just made my heart so full.  This is the stuff memories are made of – slowly over time these moments will intertwine themselves into these little humans.  I am so privileged to contribute to who they will be, and for today, darn it, we’re doing a good job.