Sib Club

My girls are getting to the age where they have their own world.  They share a room, and being only 20 months apart in age, I've always known they are forced-into-friendship simply by vicinity.  They share clothes, toys, and have been known to strangle one another over which sister gets what accessories when it comes to dress-up time.  Typical sisters, right?

But, it's only been recently, as Daphne's vocabulary swells, that they've begun to share stories, secrets, and fully-acted-out-imaginary worlds.  Their playtime (in the precious moments where they are getting along and somewhat focused) can evolve the simplest idea into a grand invention.  One second they are picking grass for no reason, the next second they are wilderness explorers, huddled up in their clubhouse, on a mission to find a secret worm needed to save the world.

It's their very own "sibling club", and no one else can ever truly break into that relationship.

It's mysterious and beautiful to see my girls creating their bond right in front of my eyes.  I recently heard a podcast about the importance of siblings, and it made me so grateful that my girls have each other in this world.   The podcast featured Jeffrey Kluger, who wrote a book called "The Sibling Effect" and he put it so eloquently, I'd like to share an excerpt from his book that really helped me view this relationship in a way I never had before:

The universe of human relationships is an impossibly varied one. Wives have their husbands; children have their parents; lovers have their partners; friends have one another. There are cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, schoolmates and colleagues and rivals and peers. Every one of those relationships plays out under its own set of rules and rituals, each unique, each elaborate. For all that richness and complexity, however, there may be no relationships that can run quite as deep or survive quite as long as those among siblings. You know it if you grew up with one. You know it if you’re raising some. You know it if you’ve merely watched a group of them interact. 

From the time we’re born, our brothers and sisters are our collaborators and co-conspirators, our role models and our cautionary tales. They are our scolds, protectors, goads, tormentors, playmates, counselors, sources of envy, objects of pride. They help us learn how to resolve conflicts and how not to; how to conduct friendships and when to walk away from them. Sisters teach brothers about the mysteries of girls; brothers teach sisters about the puzzle of boys. Bigger sibs learn to nurture by mentoring little ones; little sibs learn about wisdom by heeding the older ones. Our spouses and children arrive comparatively late in our lives; our parents leave us too early. “Our brothers and sisters,” says family sociologist Katherine Conger of the University of California, Davis, “are with us for the whole journey.”

Even if you don't have a biological sibling, you can probably relate on some level to a deep friendship that carried you through the years.  I love my sister and my brother, and I'm incredibly grateful to have a deep and honest relationship with both of them - people I've loved and fought with, who've seen me achieve more than ever expected, who've seen me grieve at my very worst, who have shared triumphs and tragedies at the moment they've occurred, and who are stuck with me as a comrade for life.

Siblings are special.  They are unique.  And if you have one, you have access to your own club that only you and your siblings know the password to.  I'm anxious to get this book and read more about the effect this relationship has played in my life.  And in the meantime, I'm excited to be on this side of observing siblings as they mold one another through the years to come under my own roof.  (I wonder if they already have a secret handshake?)

School Girls

Today marked a milestone for the Pardy girls: they started "school" today!  Okay, so it's not really, truly for-real school, but it is being away from mama and under the authority and care of another for about 5 hours.  Whew!

My girls, Matilda (4) and Daphne (2) are enrolled in a one-day-a-week Mother's Day Out program at a local church.  I had been gearing my emotions up for this day for many weeks now.  I scoped out the site well over two months ago and was thrilled with the care and attention and kindness that the staff showed.  I was also glad they were accepting youngsters mid-semester and able to fit my girls into a Thursday only schedule. (Like finding a needle in a haystack in the middle of the night, let me tell you.)

Matilda has been excited for the last 10 weeks anticipating the arrival of "School day".  Daphne, however, did not grasp the concept until her world came shattering down about 9:30am this morning when I said good-bye and handed her the kitty backpack with matching lunch bag.  (Somewhere in my heart I felt like the ratio of cuteness-to-sadness would be diminished by the sheer adorableness of a tiny pink matching back/lunchpack duo.  I was sorely mistaken.)  Still, I could hear her crying quiet down even 10 seconds later as I made my way down the school hallway.

Matilda was ready to high-five and start playtime and blow me off for good.  A big "thumbs up" and she became THE icebreaker of the classroom.  "Hi!  My name is Matilda.  I'm four.  I had my birthday party at McDonald's!" (This is her standard greeting to anyone who will bat an eye at her.)  Love that spirit.

My girls are growing up!  They are looking like real, for-real PEOPLE.  Like, actual humans who are their own little selves creating paths and adventures that stem off of the beaten road I've carved out for them.  Sure, they've always been individual beings, but there's nothing like seeing those little faces grow and shape into  tangible absorbers of real life.

I didn't shed a tear.  I didn't break down in the car.  This bodes well for Kindergarten down the road (no   promises, even the IDEA of it gets me a little weepy) but, I'm so proud of my girls for taking this step and working with me and Josh towards a routine and a goal for our family to function well.  It's exciting to think about how this will progress our family.  New crafts, new ideas, new friends, new education - all things that will soon fill my home (and my ears) out of one small shift in our routine.

School girls, you make your mama proud!

Survivor

I did it!  I survived finals week!  [cue "Eye of the Tiger" here]

I have officially completed my first semester of grad school, and I can hardly believe it.  I'm 1/6th a Master!  Ha.  And I'm genuinely looking forward to my brain shriveling back to its normal size over the next three weeks.  Siiiiiigh.

Last week was RIDICULOUS.  It was one of those weeks where I was literally expecting to turn on the news and hear that there were asteroids headed towards Earth because that was just about the only thing left to go wrong in my little world.

While juggling the usually bowling balls of raising two kids (ages 4 and 2), working seasonal nights at the mall, and completing my Finals (one massive project, two papers, another semi-massive project, a video assignment, and a weekly online discussion board assignment), I barely had time to sleep, let alone cook or clean or make sure I had applied deodorant that day.


I expected a few things to go wrong during the week.  I mean, even on a good week I will forget to put the milk back in the fridge or let my daughter wear pajama pants all day or totally not remember that I left the clothes in the dryer (a week ago).  But, this was no typical week.

saddest thumbs-up ever

First, the weather was NUTS.  It had just been 75 degrees a week ago and so we went to the zoo for the day.  The next day, it dropped 30 degrees and the clouds shielded us from any sunlight.  I had spent hours (here and there) getting our 2013 Christmas card together over the last few weeks, and JUST finished writing out the last address.  Eager to get them out before they got destroyed or lost inside my home, I set them out by the mailbox as usual (under our overhang which is reasonably protective) and took my girls to Target to run an errand.

At Target, I nearly lost Daphne TWICE.  She would wriggle out of her cart-straps, and BOLT.  The girl was like Seabiscuit, rounding corners and shrieking down aisles at the top of her lungs.  By the time we left, it had started pouring cats and dogs, and we raced out to the car without an umbrella.  We were soaked!  I was exhausted by the time I got home, and my heart SANK when I came home to this:

wet and wrinkly Christmas cards

It had POURED in the timeframe we were gone, and my Christmas cards were drenched.  I had to spend the next hour hand-blow-drying each one so that it was salvageable.  Thank goodness, they were.  Whew.

Then, Saturday was the real kicker.  I finally had a calm morning with no where to go.  My husband was hanging out with my brother, so it was just me and the girls, curled up to watch "Curious George Christmas".  My youngest was extra snuggly, so I thought "Ah, she is calm - perfect time to trim her nails."  Simple enough, right?

I'll cut to the chase (no pun intended).  New clippers and flailing baby hands don't mix.  I knew when she screamed it was not just a knick.  Half-a-roll of paper towels later, I could still not get her thumb to stop bleeding, so I announced to my four-year-old "This is an EMERGENCY!  Go get dressed!  We have to take her to the doctor!"

Matilda has never impressed me more.  She jumped up and ran upstairs, explaining to our cat the whole time how "This is an emergency.  Don't worry!  Daphne will be okay, but I need pants!  I have to go so she can see the doctor, okay?"  Quick as a flash, she was downstairs and helping me get out the door.  I was still in yoga pants and slippers, but who cares?!  I wrapped Daphne's hand in paper towels and secured an glove over the top of it.  By the time we got to the ER, the blood had soaked through the glove.  It was just about the worst feeling of my life.

The nurses were quick and very helpful.  The bleeding stopped not long after we arrived and the wound revealed itself to only be superficial - no stitches or glue necessary.  Hallelujah!  It was bad enough I maimed my own child, I couldn't bear the thought of her getting minor surgery because of it.  Good heavens.

They cleaned and dressed the wound, making it as baby-proof as possible so she couldn't pull it off.  Matilda danced and sang and entertained us all so that we could have a happy distraction while we waited.  God bless her sweet and spunky spirit.  I'm so grateful for her care and encouragement, and it was a wonderful reminder that her craziness can be used for good and not only for being a naughty, frustrating, four-year-old.

Last night, I peacefully wrote the last paragraph of my last final of my first semester of grad school.  And that was that.  I survived the week.  Rain, shine, blood, sweat, and tears.  Maybe this last week was really just a beautiful, messy, symbolic representation of what the entire Fall has been.

It was quite the grand finale.

Bulldozer

I almost didn't write this post.  It has potential to paint me (or my kids, or my parenting) in a bad light, and it's downright embarrassing.  And then I remembered - I'm not alone.  So, I'm hoping this hits home for somebody somewhere and reaches whomever it might be meant for.  You're not alone.

It was just a few days ago...



"Well, if somebody would watch their children like they are supposed to, this wouldn't happen!" the grandfatherly fellow sitting catty-corner to me in Chick-Fil-A huffed and puffed.  His remark was precisely directed towards me like a laser beam, though his eye contact hit the floor in disgust.

"I'm sorry, sir?  Did something happen?  Did my daughters do something?"  I was instantly offended and embarrassed and I didn't have a clue what he could be talking about.

He turned toward me, hugging his around-2-years-old granddaughter in his arms who appeared no worse for the wear from what I could tell.  It was clear, however, that something had him incredibly agitated.

"I don't know, but there's two girls in there who were spitting on my granddaughter!"

Fear rose as my heart sank.  As much as I didn't want to admit it, the only two little girls left in the Chick-Fil-A play area were my own flesh and blood.

"I am SO sorry.  Please wait a minute."  I pleaded with the older man who was getting ready to leave with the sweet little wide-eyed victim on his lap.

Let me tell you, hell hath no fury like a mother whose little ones make her look like a bad parent by behaving like little heathens.  My mind instantly flooded with questions about what had really happened and yet, I couldn't help that it did sort of seem like something my little angels might attempt.  Ugh.

I burst into the play area and with the growl of a mother bear, I demanded my childrens' immediate presence.  Matilda emerged from the plastic-tube-castle-of-fun first, and so I yanked her outta there quicker than a wedding ring from garbage disposal.

"Did you spit on that little girl?" I felt like my voice had reached new depths of seriousness.  Matilda knew I was not kidding around.  She nodded.

I firmly placed her little body in front of the little girl and her grandfather.  "WHAT DO YOU SAY?" I bellowed.

"I'm sorry" came the tiniest of timbre out of the mouth of my babe.

I got in her face, right then and there.  "You NEVER spit on anybody.  You are never unkind to anyone.  Do you understand?  Now, go sit down.  We're done.  We're leaving."

As Matilda climbed up into the chair at our table, I looked up at the grandfather, who I think was stunned more by the scene of the apology than the actual altercation.

"Thank you," said the grandfather.  And they left.

As I retrieved my other toddler from the plastic pit of germs, I could feel the adrenaline rushing throughout my body.  I was so disappointed.  I was so embarrassed.  I was so MAD.  I was so offended.  I was so worried.  I was so SAD.

The long ride home was fraught with mixed emotions.  We calmly talked through what had "really" happened, and I gave Matilda a chance to explain herself.  By the time we got home, I was still choked up over the whole mess of it.  I wanted to handle this correctly.  I wanted to make sure my child understood all sides of this story.  And I wanted to drill into her the impact she can have on others and empower her to use it for GOOD.  Good grief.

While my babes went down for nap time, I had a chance to think.  Was this really about Matilda?  Was this really about making sure she understood?  Certainly.  But, was there more to it than that?  After all, wasn't I also mad and offended about not being able to explain myself to that grandfather?  Why did it bother me so much that he didn't know the whole story - that he would never know the whole story?

Here's the whole story:

On multiple occasions, we have had to discipline our girls for "spitting" at each other.  It's not exactly spitting - I mean, there's no liquid or drink in their mouths or anything - it's just putting your lips together and blowing and making a silly sound.  To them, anyway.  To us, it's annoying and rude.  Sure.  But, when you put it in context, it's just two mischievous sisters goofing around.  Yes, we tell them not to do it, but it is a rather mild offense in our home and usually knocked off after a warning (or two).

On this particular day, my girls were being extra-rambunctious.  Oh, and it was only 9am.  I needed to get them OUT of the house, but it was dreadfully humid outside.  They suggested Chick-Fil-A, and the thought of an air conditioned play area where they could be confined and minimally supervised was extremely appealing to me.  I set up camp at a table RIGHT outside the play area where I could completely see them, but their sound was curtailed.  I brought my iPad along to do some reading for homework while I kept an eye on them.  Yes, I understand this could appear very slacker-mom-ish...but, I know my girls and my hearing and sight on them was a-plenty, I assure you.

Matilda explained herself immediately to me after "the incident".  She said "But mom, I was just being so funny.  I thought it was funny!"  Sigh.  Knowing how she and her sister are, I can definitely imagine how they egged each other on and then, being the extremely boisterous and social types that they are, wanted to include EVERYONE in on the fun.  The poor little girl never had a chance - she was pegged  as a "new friend" by the Pardy girls from the get-go and just ended up cornered in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now...I definitely explained thoroughly to Matilda afterward how "Being funny means EVERYONE is having a good time and laughing.  Hurting someone's feelings is NEVER funny." and so forth.  But, all in all, it was clear to me that her intentions were pure while her execution of the joke was very poor. (First rule of comedy, Til...know your audience!)  Still, she was punished, and "good intentions" never get you off the hook in the Pardy home.  Enough said.

I had never before been a position where my child was the bully.  I have been the parent of the child who was bullied, however, and that is nearly equally as frustrating.  However, this situation shed new light on the stressful scenario.

I don't mind telling you another strategic detail of this story.  The family of the grandfather and his granddaughter were not white (though I'm not disclosing any more than that because it is irrelevant).  And, I bring this up for a VERY specific reason.

When he made his comment regarding my parenting, it added to the social awkwardness that invisibly already existed.  The situation became instantly uncomfortable.  I don't know about you, but I don't interact with elderly non-white men on a usual basis.  And I'm just going out on a limb, but I'm gonna guess this gentleman doesn't encounter too many youngish hipster white moms like myself.

All this to say, I can attempt to understand his reasoning for not just confronting me about the situation, no matter how much I wish that he would have handled that situation differently.  I couldn't help but think, "Just TELL ME TO MY FACE what happened!" in the moment.  But, looking back and putting myself in his shoes, I probably would've done what he did too and passively addressed the situation in an extremely stern and obvious way.

Here's my point:  It would have been a LOT easier for me to get pissed off, turn my back, and wait the 10 seconds for them to leave.  It would have been a LOT less uncomfortable for me to ignore his remark and justify the dismissal since he didn't know the "whole story".

But, I don't live in a world where these uncomfortable barriers are going to disappear without ACTION.  So, I took action.  I stepped in.  I took the chance to embarrass myself in a split-second and decided it was worth the confrontation in order to reach out and make things right.  This isn't because I'm extra-wise or super-insightful (again, none of this even registered with me until hours later) but, because I felt the opportunity present itself and it was what I would want to have happen if the tables were turned.

I'm not raising bullies.  And I'll never get the chance to tell that gentleman how loving and sweet my little hellions really can be.  He will never know that these silly girls are raised in a home where we talk to them about equality and compassion and the love of Jesus.  He has no idea that I was doing homework about studying racial inequality in the Family Life Cycle (no joke)...but, one thing is for sure:  he didn't leave brokenhearted and angry or without recognition.

Here's the thing.  All that "whole story" business - it just doesn't matter.  The entire reason I even share it with you is to bring you up-to-speed on the full context of the situation.  I'm guessing several of you have been in similar circumstances; and, if not, then you might be someday soon.  All of our kids are gonna hurt other kids' feelings (intentionally or unintentionally) at some point.  That's life.

But, just like it "didn't matter" that Matilda didn't intend on hurting that girl, it truly "didn't matter" that the grandfather knew the whole story.  The hurt here and now is just about all we can handle.  The good news is, it's not so entirely outside of our grasp to make a difference.

The next time I'm in an uncomfortable situation where my impulse is to dodge the confrontation, I'm going to do my best to take the leap and reach out and do my best to destroy that wall of social barriers.  I want to plow through those inhibitions with the compassionate might that only God can grant me.

Yeah, it was my kid who was guilty.  Yeah, it made me "look bad" in the moment.  Yeah, it was mortifying at the time.

But, as my little girl has repeated the experience back to me and reiterated the lessons that she's learning through it, I'm motivated to remember that I'm raising more than just a silly little girl.

I'm not raising bullies...I'm raising bulldozers.

Girls

Thank heaven for little girls 

For little girls get bigger every day! 

 Thank heaven for little girls 

They grow up in the most delightful way! 

Those little eyes so helpless and appealing 

One day will flash and send you 

crashin thru the ceilin 

Thank heaven for little girls 

Thank heaven for them all, 

No matter where no matter who 

For without them, what would little boys do? 

 Thank heaven . . . thank heaven . . . Thank heaven for little girls!

Ah yes, as that somewhat-creepy-yet-sugary-sweet song says, thank heaven for sweet little girls.  Being a mom of two daughters is, indeed, a delight.  I'm sure raising sons has it's incredibly endearing moments as well, and maybe someday I will get to wring my heart out for a little boy...but, for now, I'm the mother of girls.  

Never has it seemed so apparent to me that I am raising such girlyish-girly-girls than at this commercial-driven time of the year, Christmas!  Everything is gotta-have-it, toys toys toys and more toys, purple and pink and sparkly too!  There are entire aisles just beaming with hot-pinkness and you can't walk by them (you know which ones I'm talking about) without Barbie glaring you in the face screaming "BUY ME" through her perky little smile.  

My girls LOVE dolls.  They love dress up.  They love tutus.  They love princesses and Strawberry Shortcake and My Little Pony and anything that smiles and has bouncy hair and wears a dress and/or crown.  They are girly girls.  Whew!  What have I gotten myself into here????

I keep trying to remind myself that I'm raising future little mothers here.  Future little wives.  Future little bosses or managers or somehow-other-influencers who will in someway, hopefully, impact their peer groups and challenge those around them.  I do what I can to live a rather well-rounded, intentional, grateful and transparent life, one that's not limited to stereotypes, capabilities or finances.  I strive for excellence because that's what Jesus did.  I aim for the impossible, because that's who Jesus was.  (I fail constantly, but hey - that's part of the journey too.)

So, how do I help shape and mold my precious little girls into grateful little princesses rather than gots-the-gimmes Bratz through this season of giving and sharing?  How can I compete with these glitzy toy commercials when all I seem to offer them as an alternative is a boring advent calendar or another storybook depicting the Nativity?

This season is a toughie.  As my girls grow older, it seems the more and more Jesus and Santa are arm wrestling through the holiday, trying to win the war on commercialism versus meaning.  I want to celebrate it all, really, I want my girls to be just as excited for the story of Jesus as they are looking through the ToysRUs catalog...but, it's a challenge.  

Then, as I looked back in the backseat of my car today, on our way out to do a little Christmas shopping, it hit me.  I looked back, and they were holding hands.  Carseat to carseat, reaching out and holding hands just sweet as could be.  "Look mom!" said Matilda, "We holdin hands!  I got her." 

Suddenly, I think for maybe the first time, I realized that they really had each other.  Sisters.  They were girly-girls together and going to help shape who each other were becoming.  I think I have kept feeling so much responsibility as their mother, as the sole female who will influence their young journey, that I never stopped to think about how much influence they will really have on each other.  Kindness, charity, forgiveness, love.  These are all things they can give and receive as sisters, as girls, as little nurturers to one another that will empower them as individuals.  Barbie's got nothin on that!

At 3-years-old and 16-months, my girls are itty-bitty in the grand scheme of life.  But, now is the time that they are forming their little opinions about who they are, what girls do, what's important and so on. They test the boundaries of patience and trust.  They make sure they can call on me and rely on each other.  They care for and about each other, and I'm just so grateful they are sisters.  Of all the dolls, of all the toys, the beauty of their little friendship is far superior and irreplaceable.  

And, as we continue to read them and teach them the story of Jesus and what this season is truly all about, I can pray that God uses their influence on each other to help them along their path towards Him.  I have no doubt that each one of them was necessary to each other's life in order to become the person they are and will be.  That is SO COOL to get to witness as a mother!  (Plus, it takes a little of the pressure off me!)

Today in the car as I was strapping Matilda into her carseat, she said "Mom, can we sing that song? You know," and she hummed a few unintelligible bars.  "What song?" I said.  "You know, that Sisters, sisters song.  Never were there Sisters, sisters..."  OH!  It hit me - she was talking about "Sisters" from White Christmas - my favorite holiday movie!  

My heart beamed with joy, and of course I broke into song right then.  It made me so happy that she not only liked that song (I mean, we're talking future talent show competitors here, right?  The Pardy Sisters Duet?) but also that she smiled when singing it.

Maybe someday I will have a son, and if I do I will certainly be thrilled and surely confused about how to raise him.  (Ha!) But, right now, there is just something about having these little girls in my life that make me so acutely aware of how God places specific, innate traits in girls to make us who we are.  It may come with lots of chatter, sparkly shoes, and an affinity for all things pink...but, it is also comes with tendencies towards nurturing and compassion.  (Please don't write me letters about how your son is nurturing and compassionate, I'm not going there with this!)  I'm just saying I'm thrilled and grateful to embrace the tutus and all that comes with it.  

My girls can be wild, crazy, barbaric princesses sometimes, don't get me wrong!  But, no matter what, they'll be wild, crazy, barbaric princesses together.  And I pray it always stays that way. 

"Never were there such devoted sisters."  Thank heaven.

Sisters

I was privileged to grow up in a house where I got to have my own room.  This was a good thing, since I already felt that the 20-step walk to my sister's bedroom was entirely too close for comfort already.  It wasn't that I didn't like her, it was just the fact that I'd rather claw my own eyes out than let her touch anything that was mine.  Yikes.  (Yes, this is my poor, one and only sister who goes down in history as the only human I have ever thrown an entire Big Gulp Slurpy at with full force or shoved an eight-foot-tall Christmas tree on top of...it's lucky that either of us lived to see today, let alone the miracle that we actually speak kindly to one another now!  Ha!)

Needless to say, I wasn't the sibling you dream about when you hold a baby doll and ask your parents for a sister.  Sorry, sis.  But, my sister and I are nearly five years apart in age, also.  Growing up, this made us not quite close enough to share clothes or boy stories, and just far enough apart that I could never catch up to being as good as something as she was. Add in my sister's sweet spirit and my brutally honest spunk...and you have yourself a volatile combination, my friends.  Just the thought of it is conjuring up memories of my parents deeply sighing in disappointment while my older brother just laughs uncontrollably in the background.

This art by Creative Thursday hangs in the girls' room. 

So, I must be a glutton for punishment when I sit here today and fully intend on having my two little daughters share a room.  That's right, the big day has come, Matilda and Daphne are now officially roommates.  Granted, there's not much option here.  I grew up in my house that my father grew up in and his father grew up in (no kidding) which gave way to decades of renovations and additions which gave me my very own space to call my own.  Whereas, living in Southern California, we may have free sunshine and traffic - but space comes at a sweet price (or, should I say sour?)

The fact of the matter is, we live in a two bedroom apartment, and unless one of them is willing to sleep in the refrigerator, then the two little girlykins will be sharing a room.  Honestly, while the "American Dream" might tell us that owning a home and dog and 2.5 kids each with their own personal space is what we are ideally supposed to be aiming for...I gotta say, my answer is:  No.  Okay, okay, okay...No, thank you.  A huge percentage of the world live in much tighter quarters, and I refuse to believe that two little babies can't coexist in a 12x10 ft room!


I want my girls to share a room.  In fact, (I'll say it) if we had a third bedroom, I still would choose to have them share a room.  I mean, why not?  I share a room, why shouldn't they?  (I kid.)  I don't know, it just seems like too many times it is easy to jump to the conclusion that "if I only had such-n-such, my life would be easier" than it is to just stick with something and decide "this is enough...this will work" and just go for it.  So, we're going for it.

Now, if you think that I'm being swayed by images of two little girls snuggled up in matching pajamas sharing bedtime stories with their stuffed animals...let me debunk this notion for you all together.  In the last week, since putting them in the same room, I've been averaging about 4 hours of sleep a night.  Four cumulative hours of sleep a night.  And, did I mention they nap at different times during the day?  So, yeah, there's no saving grace there either.

I'm not looking for sympathy (if anything, I'm looking for ADVICE!) but I just want to be clear that I'm not muddling up this whole roommate idea with grand notions of ideal sisterly love.  My daughters are far from Anne and Diana's Green-Gable-Bosom-Buddy-status.  They are just tiny little humans who aren't even used to the idea of sleeping at all, let alone with someone else in the room.  But, that's exactly why I'm hoping this will work (it is, after all, just crazy enough).  I'm hoping for:  Security.

Having someone else by your side.  Someone to hear you cry in the night and say "Okay, sissy, okay."  Someone to wake up smiling next to.  Someone to throw you a paci back into your crib when you've sent it sailing overboard in a fit of exhaustion.  Someone to giggle with.  Someone to mimic you.  Someone to recite storybooks long after the book is closed.  Someone to keep praying over you after the lights have gone off.  Someone sleeping soundly just a few feet away, offering the comfort of quiet, rest, and total peace.

This week may have been a total train wreck.  I'm sure our neighbors must think we are holding a couple jaguars captive or attempting to start a chicken fighting ring.  It has been loud and sad and utter chaos at all hours trying to get one or both of them asleep within mere feet of each other.  But, I know it can't last like this forever (right, God?)  Hopefully soon and very soon they will be accustomed to each other.  No, not only accustomed, but prefer to be with each other.

I am happy to say that today, I love my sister dearly.  It must have been tortuous at times to be my sister - to put up with my tagging along or my taunting or begging or whatever.  I wish I could say "I'm sure she had her moments too" (and, I'm sure she did) but honestly, all I can ever remember about growing up with my sister was her being pretty nice to me and me scheming a new prank on her every chance I got.  But, for whatever reason, she's stuck with me through thick and thin.  We get excited together when something wonderful happens for one of us, and cry together when it's a time to share sorrow.

It's true that a sister is a built-in friend for life.  When I was little I might have thought of this as a negative thing...wishing I could have chosen the people who made up my family instead of the ones God placed around me.  But, God put me in exactly the right place I was supposed to be.  Maybe I wouldn't have befriended my sister along life's road if we weren't born into the same family.  Maybe I wouldn't have sat next to her at a restaurant or sung next to her in church or introduced myself at a party.  Maybe I would have never found out how awesome and talented and forgiving and fun she was because of all the reasons that I think we are not alike seems like enough to separate us from being friends.

Maybe that's exactly why we're more than friends.  We're sisters.  And I'm so glad that God made sure I didn't miss out on who she and what our friendship has become simply because of a few silly differences along the way.  I am so glad to have the security of our friendship.  It's such a blessing to know, through thick and thin, she will always be there to giggle with or cry with or call on when I need a hug.

I don't know if my girls will always like each other along the way as they grow up together.  I'm not even sure they won't try to kill each other by the end of the week!  But, I do know that space isn't going to dictate whether the love between friends is nurtured or diminished.  Because, when you're sisters...nothing can crush that kind of bond.  Not even an eight-foot-tall Christmas tree.