Big Kids in a Little Pool

A few months ago, Aunt Ra Ra, being the wonderful Aunt that she is, sent the minis a kiddie pool.  "It's not very big," she told me.  So one pretty day, we threw some swim diapers on the babies, Adam changed into swim clothes,  we slathered on the sunblock, and blew it up for the kids to play in.  Here's a photo summary.  The time it took to take the pictures is about the time it took for them to bore of the tiny pool.  It's perfect for Rosie, though! 

"Is this some sort of joke?" 

"Now what?  Can we get a slide in here?"

"1-2-3-Rotate!"

"Ha ha ha!  I DO feel like a giant!  ROAR!" 

"What are you lookin' at?  I don't see you havin' no tiny pool of your own!  Get outta here!"

Oh, gosh.  I don't know why it was so funny, but it was.  Thanks Ra Ra ;-)

I'm The Other Woman

I wrote this blog the day after my Dad was diagnosed with stage 4 non-small cell lung cancer.  I didn't want to post it prematurely.  We buried Daddy today and I am certain that the rest of my life will be totally different.  I still don't know what I'll do without my Dad around.  Here's what I wrote on the 14th of June: 

I managed to get out for a run today, in an effort to clear my mind and ease some stress.  Ha.  How can that possibly happen?  As I began the run, a million thoughts were going through my head.  What on earth will I do if my Daddy doesn't beat this?  Is he strong enough to take the treatments he'll need?  Does he even want to live the life that the treatments will cause?  I know what the diagnosis means - what the numbers are.  I know that this will be an uphill fight and that his days are probably numbered, be it two months or two years.  They are numbered.  What do I do?  Stay here?  Go home?  If I go home, I bring lots of chaos and I just don't want to impose that.  What help can I be?  Maybe God has a miracle slated for Dad.  Maybe He will make this all go away.  But I don't think so.  About two minutes into my run, I passed a house with a banner hanging on it - "WELCOME HOME DADDY!"  Hand-painted, in kids' handwriting.  We do live on an Air Force base, so this might not seem like anything special.  But today it was.  It made me wonder: Do they have those signs in heaven?  For the Daddies who go to heaven?  Wait.  Is my Daddy going to heaven?  Suddenly, I believed that sign was put there for me.  Like God was telling me that it was time for my Daddy to go Home.  So I immediately began to pray.  Hard.  Pray for guidance, for healing, for strength, for a miracle.  But all of a sudden, it hit me: I was going against God.  How could I compete with God?  I suddenly felt like I was the other woman, trying to convince God to let Dad choose me.  Over God.  How could I expect him to do that?  How could I expect anyone to choose me over God?  He will...and should...choose to be with God.  It was clear to me then - I don't know when, but he will go Home fairly soon.  I just hope there's a sign welcoming him when he gets there.  Because he deserves at least that.  I love you, Daddy.  And I'll miss you when you go.

With nearly 200 people at his visitation and over 300 at his service, it was obvious that I am not the only one who will miss him.