As it turns out, the whirling and twirling bit was nothing more than wishful thinking.

His eyes lit up when he saw the park.  More so when he saw that his buddy, Jack, was there too.

He raced up the steps.  Came down the slide.  Ran through the sand.

Wore himself right out.

Do you remember doing that when you were a kid?  Taking that ounce of feel better and running against the wind with it?  It always came back to bite you in the behind.

Just like it did for him, today.

My Facebook feed is overrun with snow-related posts.  As are the blogs I frequent.

I’m not jealous; I’m not much of a snow bunny myself.  Though one snow fall a year is a novelty I enjoy.

Here in the Old Pueblo we’re not so much dealing with snowflakes.

In fact–don’t hate me–the projected high temp Wednesday is, um, well, it’s 75.  Sorry.  Don’t shoot the messenger.

My little man and I have a date at the park; the swings are calling his name.

I hope he feels up to it.

He spent much of his day today like this.

For the most part, that tuckered out look melts my heart.

But–selfishly–sick days aren’t all bad.

Because those are the days when–even at three years old–nothing makes him as happy as Mommy’s lap.

Will you rock me? He asks.  And every time I drop whatever it is I’m doing.

And we go to his room–to the rocker that I insisted was as imperative to his room as a crib.

We rock.

He curls into a question mark under my chin–tight against my chest–and he lets me stroke his hair.

We talk about his choice of the objects in his room {his ceiling fan and closet are among his most favorite}.

We read about old ladies who swallow flies.  And wockets in pockets.  And Terrible Plops.

For as long as he allows it, we rock.

I breathe deep, and do my best to plant the feel of him there into my heart.

The weight of him.

The curl of his fist.

His pouty bottom lip.

The shutter of my mind’s eye clicks away–fast and furious–but the rest of me just inhales.  And rocks some more.

With any luck he’ll come home from the park tomorrow with two shoes chock full of sand.

Tomorrow he’ll be busy with the chasing and the whirling and twirling.

All the more reason to rock today.

For as long as he allows it.

Jayce has a new love.

He found the first one yesterday.

But in between his balloon bouncing and train zooming it got away from him.

So we had to go in search of more.

He looked in all the wrong places.

Until.

Where did you find the first one?

Over there.

Under that tree?

Yeah.

Maybe we should look there.

Yeah.

Look!  There are acorns growing on the tree.  See?  They’re wearing little hats.  When they fall off the tree, they land down here.

Yeah!

Let’s look for more.

Ottay.

And then today.

Where are you going?

Outside.

What are you going to do out there?

Find atorns.

Okay.  Put your shoes on.

Ottay.

He puts on his shoes.  And the tie he found in his sister’s closet that he can’t go without.

He squats.

He looks up at the tree.  He waits.

And then…

Look!  Another one fell off the tree.  Can I bring it inside?

Yes.

And so it goes – the rest of the morning.

The shoes.  The squatting.  The wait.  The hunt.

The discovery.

This boy.  He fills me up.  With his wonder.  His curiosity.  His words.  His stubby fingers.  His Mickey Mouse pajamas and his pink tie.

I think I’ll start hiding the atorns.

So he never stops looking.

Precious few moments we’ve shared alone.  Just the two of us.

Such is life as a middle child.

You never had me all to yourself.

Your time as the baby was cut short – punctuated by the little one just 22 months behind you.

Plenty of time you had though, to carve an untouchable place into your Mom’s heart.

With your thick-folded thighs and your cheeks all round and rosey.  Bright blue saucer eyes and a smile wide like a rainbow.  A giggle that echoed off the corners of our tiny two bedroom and brought joy into each nook.  Every cranny.

My heart bleeds at the thought of all these years gone by.  So soon.

Stop, I want to tell you.  Stop it right now.  Do not grow one more second. Do you hear me young lady?

But then you bounce into the room wearing your pajama bottoms and an Aero sweatshirt.  Owl City on the iPod.  A wrist full of bangles.  Red ringlets framing the sweetest of faces.

My heart swells at the sight of you.  So grown up.

Have you done your homework?  Yes. Your chores?  Yes.

Of course you have.  So many things you’ve done.  Yet so many things to come.

This age.  Oy, this age.

I never knew the turning point it was until your sister went before you.

And now here you are.  Taking those first steps towards who you will become.

Already.

Such a gift you are to me.

So much laughter you bring us with your quirky comments, your unique point of view.

A sharer of secrets with your big sister.  A dream playmate for your little brother.  A protector of (and often times translator for) your little sister.

There is but one you.  One beautiful, unique, bursting-with-potential, amazing, adorable you.

Twelve years.

A wretched cold winter day it was.  And then along you came.  A little drop of sunshine right into my hands.  Sent to warm our hearts, our lives.

And warm them you have.

Happy birthday my girl.  Beautiful girl.

I have a cold.

The kind that usually keeps one from sleep with the achy-head-stuffy-nose business.

For many nights I tossed and turned.

When my head hit the pillow last night and it started incessantly pounding from all the snot rushing my cranial cavity I just knew it’d be a tosser.  And turner.  A really bad night.

I knew it.

You can imagine my surprise then when I awoke this morning and the sun was creeping in through the blinds.

No tossing, apparently.

Very little turning.  If any.

Last night was a good night.

A good night sans Nyquil.

Who needs Nyquil after all?

Not when each and every one of them were tucked snuggly in their beds.

Home.

Finally.

Just a hall away.

We are a household that tries to limit technology.

That’s not to say that we don’t own video gaming systems, cell phones, or laptops.  We have our fair share of those things.  But there are time limitations on the TV watching and the playing of aforementioned video games.  Even the educational ones.

Jayce is allowed to watch one show each day.  And he uses the computer to explore Playhouse Disney dot com every couple of days or so, for about twenty minutes at a time.

But he doesn’t own a DS.  Or any other handheld gaming system.  He’s only three, after all, and we figure the longer we can hold out, the better.

Older sister–on the other hand–does have a gaming system.  Albeit a Leapster.  We encourage her to play it because it’s sort of a sneaky way to get in more reading and arithmetic practice.

Does anybody even say arithmetic anymore?

Back to my point though.

So Jayce, apparently, is sort of envious of big sissy’s Leapster.

He sees her playing her princess game.  And Ratatouille.  And Diego.

He wants a piece of the action sometimes.

Instead of boring old alphabet floor puzzles.

But the game is off limits.

This he knows.

Which, I’m guessing, is precisely why I found him like this, this morning:

In case you can’t make it out, he’s in a bathroom cabinet.  With the game.

This bathroom is positioned in between the playroom and Cassidy’s bedroom.

I heard the game, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out where the noise was coming from.  I must have walked past it a half dozen times, the most confounded look on my face all the while.

I looked at the cabinet and thought nah, no way.

Then I opened it.

And sure enough.

It was so stinkin’ cute I didn’t even make him turn off the game.

I just let him be.

“Shut the door please”, he asked.

And then, his voice muffled by the cabinet door, “and turn out the light.”

Yes sir.

Will do.

When she first came along–on a Thanksgiving morning ten years ago–I loved her with the whole of my heart.  With my eyes.  With my mind.  With both hands.  With one hand I held her close, and with the other, my fingers lightly brushed her forehead, her almond eyes, her bitty nose.

When the doctor came to me and told me she had Down syndrome I cried.  I brought both hands to my face and cried cried cried until every last tear had run dry.  Until every last muscle in my body ached under the weight of those tears.

A woman whose skin was as dark as I’d ever seen–a nurse–came to me.  She took my hands–both hands–in hers and then she prayed.  She prayed for unending moments.  She prayed aloud, in an accent so thick I could barely understand her.  She prayed desperate prayers on my behalf.  She prayed in circles and backwards and forward and around again until my head grew light and my soul felt faint.  In the end, she gave me hope.  Faith renewed.

Once she left I felt stronger.  I used both hands to steady myself.  And I finally stood up.  I finally readied myself for the baby I hadn’t expected.

And then they came, once again, and whisked her away.  Off to the NICU.  Off to wires and steel and beeping.  Off to tubes and needles and lights.  Off to repair a hole in her heart that, left untreated, may have given her wings.  Only I wasn’t ready for her to go.  Not yet.  Not again.  And, arms outstretched, I reached out for her.  With both hands I reached for her.

I went to her, there in the NICU.  With both hands I cradled her.  I dutifully–hopefully-pumped and labeled and stored milk that would help her heal.  Because that was the only thing I could do.

In the NICU I watched a premature baby grow sicker, weaker, dimmer by the minute.  I watched her parents work their way through a loss I’ve never known.  And when that baby left this Earth I brought both hands together once again.  I fell to the floor of the lactation room and asked why, oh why.  And then–like a schoolgirl–I came to my knees, both hands pressed together under my chin and thanked God for the child I hadn’t wanted, but would love nonetheless.

And in the years since, I’ve been busy.  Both hands full.  Occupational, physical, and speech therapies.  Books on IEP’s, and teaching reading, and behaviors.  Diapering.  Medications.  Visits to specialists of every shape and sort.

Here we are, ten years later: the number of her years with us takes up both hands.

Thinking back to that first night I couldn’t imagine what this day would be like.  How she would change us.  What she would teach us.  The ways in which she would bless us.  Both hands aren’t nearly enough to count it all.

There are days, no doubt, when the load is heavy.  Days when both hands don’t seem sufficient to pull her along.  To push her.  To guide her in the ways she needs.

And then there are days like today.  Days when I look back and marvel at just how far we’ve come.  With little more than faith, and all the tools both hands can carry.

These are the days when both hands return to a familiar fold.  When my head bows and my eyes fall shut.  And I thank Him.  For knowing what I needed when I didn’t.  For blessing me so profoundly in a way I never would have accepted of my own accord.

I hold her with both hands.

And I thank Him for allowing me that.  For entrusting her to me.  I praise Him.  With both hands.

I don’t have a lot of time for today’s post, but you can bet I’m not about to ruin my NaBloPoMo streak now.  No siree.

So I thought I’d fill you in on Cassidy’s birthday party status.

We did indeed pull the switcheroo.

And left a note on the door apologizing for the inconvenience should anybody happened to have shown up.

There is no indication that anybody did though.

Not that Cassidy noticed.

She was too busy eating her fill of pizza.

And Cold Stone ice cream.

She had gifts to open.

And friends to harass hug.

At the end of her special day she thanked me.  Over and over again.  For “the best birthday party ever.”

She’s not a difficult kid to please.

Which–together with about a thousand other things–makes her an easy kid to love.

When you’re anything other than a nine-year-old boy.

In which case you’re too busy wiping away her kisses.

I never claimed my methods were subtle…