Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

14 inches of snow just in time for Christmas... For this Midwest gal, it brought back the memories.

Here's how we enjoyed it:

"Does Daddy know you're doing that?!"

Doug gave me my Christmas present early this year: a beautiful printer -- a right dandy one that prints and scans and copies. It's so far beyond the free printer we received when we bought our laptop that I was a bit overwhelmed.

And did I mention that it's wireless?

Wireless.

That word struck fear.

Of course, it was the week before Christmas, and there was mass chaos in our world. I was in the midst of creating our Christmas cards, we were in the middle of a snowstorm which meant a snow day for the girls, and Doug was swamped at work preparing to be on vacation for two weeks.

The morning after he gave me the present, it was obvious that it was up to ME to get the wireless printer up and running. As Doug left for work that morning, I begged; I pleaded; I tried to shame him into staying to get my *present* working.

As he left, he turned and issued a challenge, "It will be good for your brain."

Now, some folks might think that was an insult, but it was more of challenge. You see... there are moments where I question how much atrophying is going on in my brain. There are days where my biggest mental challenge is how to divide two blueberry bagels between three children.

So, I made my coffee, the girls invited over the neighbor friends to play, and I pulled out the user manual for the wireless printer.

I was feeling quite smug and confident as I breezed through steps 1-4. That was when my oldest appeared to get some drawing paper. She looked at me in disbelief and asked, "Does Daddy know you're doing that?!"

I have to admit that I was taken aback by her question.

I stammered about, telling her that I WROTE technical manuals for years.

YEARS.

That is, before I gave birth to a child who CLEARLY underestimated her mother's abilities.

She looked at me, her eyes open wide, "You did WHAT?"

That's when it occurred to me that she really didn't know. In all my justification that I was competent enough to set up a wireless printer, I had revealed more about my past than my daughter knew.

She sat down on the edge of the couch and asked a couple of questions.

Perhaps I went into way too much detail or maybe I was just trying to rebuild my own confidence, but I did drone on a bit. I do admit that.

Finally, she stood, a stack of drawing paper in hand and said, "Sorry, Mom... I hate to tell you this, but your job sounds like it was... kind of... boring." The last word, she delivered to the stack of papers -- as if this would somehow soften the blow.

I returned to the manual (God bless the technical writers at HP) and was all the way up to the last page of instructions. This was where it got dicey.

The WIRELESS part.

I was stymied. I was stuck.

That's when the second daughter made her appearance. I'm not sure if the first daughter had reported back or what the second daughter's intent was. She simply looked at me, her mouth open wide and asked, "What ARE you doing?"

I made a mistake at that point. I admitted that I was stuck, confused, lost, baffled. You name it.

The second daughter simply looked me in the eye and revealed, "You better wait for Daddy to fix it."

She sprinted from the room at top speed as I started in on my speech for the second time that morning, somehow justifying that I was qualified to set up a wireless printer by myself.

You see... in our house, Daddy is *the fixer*. He fixes it all -- the computer, the broken latch on the door, the zipper that goes offtrack, the drawer that refuses to close. I hear it every day: "Wait for Daddy to fix it."

Well, this time, I didn't wait for Daddy to fix it. I just plunged right in -- even though I was on the edge of tears and muttering a few choice words.

And guess what?

It worked.

It printed.

First a picture... and then a beautiful document.

The angels sang, and it was truly a Christmas miracle.

Mommy fixed it.

Girls Rock!

The girls have been climbing for several years: Emma at the age of 4.5 and Ellie when she was 3. Naturally, this has evolved into some gals who feel happiest when they're hanging off some *slope-y holds* or inverted in some make-shift cave in a rock gym.

Rock climbing is truly a different sport -- a supportive environment where complete strangers cheer my gals on, and every child leaves a winner. Points are awarded based on the difficulty of a route, which is called a *problem.* No one can tell my gals that "Boys are stronger than girls."

Who knows if they will climb forever, but the skills they've gained from rock climbing will hopefully stay with them -- from core strength to relying on their body and their mind to read a problem.

For now, my girls ROCK...

climb, that is.

A birthday of sorts...

Happy Birthday, JRA.

It has been six years since your unwelcome arrival. Excuse me if I don’t pull out the confetti and the party hats. I’m not feeling very festive.

Oh… I know all too well that we’re one of the *lucky* ones. The ones who can use the R-word: Remission. One of the few *lucky* families.

I’ve seen what you do to the unlucky ones, and I certainly don’t want to anger you. I’ve seen the ugly tricks you keep in your bag: MAS, uveitis, jaw disfiguration, splints, and wheelchairs. Frankly, I’ve seen too much, and I’m tired of it all.

You see… as one of the *lucky* ones, I’m supposed to be the voice of Hope, and my bucket of Hope is empty. You have tipped it over one too many times, and I’m tired.

When the parents of a newly diagnosed child contact me and want to know that their daughter or son won’t be sentenced to a wheelchair the rest of their lives, I try to offer them Hope. I tell them about my 8-year old and how she races up and down the soccer field and scores goals. For those few moments, my bucket of Hope is full, too.

But I can’t tell them the rest of the story. I can’t tell them the aftermath – what it’s like to see your daughter turn from the field in mid-play, tears running down her cheeks as she grimaces in pain.

I can’t tell them what it’s like to walk that long row of soccer parents and pull the assistant coach to the side and insist to him, “Pull her.” Only to have him look at you blankly and say, “Do you see how tough she is? She just scored.”

I can’t tell them what it’s like to scoop your 8-year old up in your arms and feel her knee – feel the swelling that you bring and know you’re hard at work where no one sees.

I can’t tell them what it’s like to have a team of parents turn to you and ask, “What’s the matter?”

I appreciate their concerns, but I know what they’re thinking. There was no collision on the field. What’s happening, and why did she just pull her?

You see … you may try to break her little body, but my daughter won’t let you. On the soccer field, she IS a star. She is one with that ball – almost as if it’s an extension of her disfigured big toe. You know the toe – the one that’s a good half-inch shorter than the other because of all the inflammation. The one that won't grow.

Ever again.

You’ve tried to break her body, but she won’t stop. She doesn’t want to be pulled from a game. She wants to play through the pain and take the ball to the goal.

I can’t tell these families about the disfigured big toe or about the rest of the day – the day my daughter scored four goals.

I can’t tell them how her big sister carried her around piggy-back that afternoon, or how I caught my soccer star crawling from her bedroom to the bathroom to brush her teeth that night. The night after she scored four goals…

I can’t tell them these things. The ugly things… I can only tell them about the four goals my soccer star scored before I had to pull her.

I can only tell them how strong she is – much stronger than her mother.

How you don’t get to HER like you get to ME…

It’s time for you to go, JRA.