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

It was a hot night – a night already begging for sleep. Bryan was downstairs on the couch, in the air conditioning, but I like my bed, so I toughed it out, tossing the covers around. Piper showed up at some point, and had just settled into a sweaty sleep when I saw my phone light up across the room. Normally, my phone is on silent, but tonight it buzzed longer than a text, so I jumped up. When my mom texts at 11:59 pm, it’s usually just her being up late and finally responding to a question I no longer needed answered. When my mom CALLS at 11:59 pm, something is wrong. “Oh, Charissa…Grandma Hunter died tonight,” she sighed.   “WHAT??!” It shouldn’t have been as big of a shock as it was, but, nevertheless, I couldn’t believe it. I tried to reach back for when I last visited, when I had last taken the kids to see her, when I had last hugged my dear Grandma Hunter. Regret piled in as I knew the two months had been too long. Grandma and Grandpa and a bunch...

He was Big Papa.   He was Wayne – “wagon maker.” A craftsman. A man who built up those around him. My husband bears his name. My son bears his name. His Irish-Scottish-Canadian-American blood runs through the veins of my daughters who have his slim build and long legs. How do you go on when the wheels of the family wagon don’t just break, but disappear? The first memory I have of Wayne is unremarkable – an afternoon of swimming in Wayne and Dawn’s pool as a teenager (since I was friends with their grandson). I’m sure I was introduced to these grandparents of a friend, and never thought twice about how these grandparents would become as dear to me as my own over the following 17 years. The last time I talked to Wayne, he looked at my husband and said it wasn’t hard for him to go because he knew that the people he left behind were successful. “Carry on,” he told us. Keep that wagon moving. Three Christmases ago, my girls received a red Radio Flyer wagon f...

The best part of this Christmas was the day before. On Christmas Eve morning, we gave the kids a bath and dressed them in their fancy clothes much earlier than we normally would of because we had a date with my Grandma. In October, my Grandma underwent emergency brain surgery to remove a blood clot doctors found the day after her 81st birthday. Since then, she has been slowly recovering, moving around to different facilities and undergoing continual physical therapy and speech therapy. We haven't gotten to see her since her surgery because the kids have been sick and timing hasn't worked out, but everything fell into place on Christmas Eve and everyone got to come and visit her. I was a bit nervous. Right after the surgery, Grandma was partially paralyzed, couldn't speak, couldn't recognize anyone, and was in bad shape. I knew she had improved since then, but wasn't sure what to expect. I was also nervous about how the kids would respond. My children are bles...

Is there anything more selfish than saying, “I told you so?” Usually, this phrase follows the failure of someone else. And in saying, “I told you so,” instead of lifting that person out of their failure (like Jesus would), I am choosing to wallow in their failure and remind them how much wiser I am. Oftentimes as a mom, I find myself using some form of this phrase under the guise of creating a teachable moment for my children. “I told you not to touch that burner!” “That’s what happens when you pick your nose too much!” “I knew you would trip with your shoes on the wrong feet!” For some reason, in those moments when I’m frustrated (because I DID warn them about these things, and I AM smarter than them), my gut reaction is to scold them and remind them how smart I am. I like to think that the root of my scolding is because I so desperately want them to stay safe without burned hands and bloody noses, but is “I told you so” the best I can do as a mom? No. The f...

Yesterday, my girls were playing in the pool with the neighbors in the front yard. When I woke up this morning to rain, I thought, yep...that makes sense. It rained last June 2, as well. It didn't just rain, it poured. And it made sense on a day that didn't make much sense. Last June 2, Bryan and I calmly drove the 8 minutes to the hospital, pressed the 4 on the elevator and were quietly escorted to a room without an incubator where moms come to deliver babies that never give first cries. Down the hall from the rooms where my girls entered this world, I took the pills to induce my labor to deliver our 14-week-old son, whose heart was no longer beating. All day, I stared out the window, looking down on a little garden being drenched by a surprise June rain storm. At 6:06pm, Hunter Hope finally arrived, and life will never be the same. Hunter's story is posted earlier in this blog, but today I want to just be reminded that he was and will always be a precious part...

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...