A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer...

I'd had it with Swiffers. The third time using my brand new Swiffer, it stopped spraying (the whole point) and so I stopped mopping...until Piper spilled cranberry juice everywhere and it had to be done. I refused to buy ANOTHER stupid Swifter. I also refused to buy a real mop (sorry Pinesol lady).  So I deconstructed my swifter to figure out what was wrong. Nothing was wrong.  My daughter Cayden watched me unscrew the plastic cover, inspect the wiring on the motor (I was pretending I knew what I was doing), check for clogs in the tubes, etc. When I pulled off the battery pack, Duracells rolled across my sticky floor. "Maybe you need new batteries?" She optimistically suggested, 4 years of experience rattling in her tilted head. I laughed a bit at her innocent solution to everything. When the internet isn't working, she says we need to change the batteries. "No, it's pretty new, I don't think it's the batteries..." There was nothing

Today, I overheard this conversation upstairs between Cayden and her little friend. “The baby is dead! And it’s all your fault! We need to go to the real doctor STAT!” The two girls were playing doctor and unfortunately, Cayden’s friend had taken too long to retrieve the life-saving pretend syringe. Death is an experienced reality in my 4-year-old’s life. Cayden Elizabeth Ann was named after my good friend and mentor, Beth, who died two months before Cayden was born. Beth’s parents have become like grandparents to my girls, and we often talk about how Beth is in heaven now. Death came up again when my mom’s dog died. Then it was the flowers. Spiders die when she squishes them. Simba’s dad died. And baby brother died before she ever got to meet him. Sometimes when I am chatting with some stranger at Les Schwab about how old my kids are and such, Cayden will matter-of-factly pipe in, “You had another baby too, but he died.” Like I forgot. Like this woman next to m

Yesterday, I looked at my calendar to find an appointment for my "big ultrasound" at 20 weeks. It made me wonder how different today could have been, in many scenarios. If things were different, I could have been so excited to announce we were having a boy. Instead, today I am rejoicing that my baby boy is seeing perfection in Heaven, and continuing to bless people with his story down here on earth. One of the most healing things I encountered in this process was the church service the week after we lost Hunter. Bryan defined "hope" for us as a steadfast conviction that is anchored in Jesus and sealed with a promise. Then, I read my June 2 blog post. Then, with the whole room in tears, the worship team had to get up there, pull themselves together, and sing some amazing songs about hope. It was so beautiful. The following week, I asked the worship team to record one of the songs: Everlasting God (We Set Our Hope). This is not an original song, but is an original v

One of my favorite things to do as a child was snooping through the haphazard boxes of mementos and photo albums in my mother’s wooden hope chest upstairs in their bedroom. I loved finding old black and whites of grandpas when they had hair and sports cars, a golden lock from my first haircut, and once, a box of my brother’s baby teeth. Somewhere in that mess of memories, I distinctly remember a brown Statesman Journal article with a 4 column photo of my dad playing baseball in high school. The headline proudly yelled, “HUNTER DOES HIS JOB.” I don’t even know if I ever read the article, or figured out what “job” my father, Scott Hunter, had done, but for some reason, that headline and that photo have always stuck with me. I think it’s because that headline is so much my dad. He does his work, no complaints, no dilly-dallying, he just does it. I don’t think anyone would ever describe him as lazy. Tired, maybe. But not lazy. I can just imagine his high school baseball coac

I had a baby girl last Tuesday. There was no pushing. No pain. No first cry. I had baby girl last Tuesday, 174 days too early. For nearly 15 weeks, she was ours. We wondered if she was a boy or a girl. I dreamt up new names. I gained 5 pounds for her. I resisted extra caffeine, snuck in naps, and even made Mother’s Day coffee mugs bearing a picture of her 10-week-old ultrasound silhouette as gifts for her grandmas. My mom hollered when she saw the picture, which foretold that her 3 rd grandchild was due the day before Thanksgiving. Then, just a week later, I wept listening to my sweet mother sing to my sweet, breathless 1.5 ounce girl “your little tiny hands, and your little tiny feet…” How does this happen? How does a baby somersaulting in an ultrasound at 10 weeks now lie there perfectly formed, but without a heartbeat just a month later? -------------------------- “Let’s listen to baby,” nurse Glenda told me after taking my blood pressure

The other day, both girls were eating their breakfast and I was washing dishes. I looked over to see Piper about to tip her bowl off her high chair tray. “No, no, Piper,” I chided, waiting to see if maybe this time she would choose to obey. She looked straight at me with a “Just try and stop me” gleam in her eye. I tried to make it there in time, yelling, “NO!” as I reached to stop the soggy granola from blanketing the floor AGAIN, but I was too late. Frustrated, I scolded Piper, then bent down to clean up the mess, AGAIN.   “But Mommy, do you still love her?” Stunned, I turned to the soft, worried voice of the 3-year-old big sister who had watched all of this unfold. My answer didn’t require thinking. “Yep.” “Good,” she smiled, taking another bite of her cereal. She was worried that because Piper had disobeyed me, I no longer loved her. That is ridiculous. My love for my children is something so deep, so unconditional, and so something I can’t sto