The Pearl in the Oyster

Last week, my eldest daughter was telling everyone that she was eight. In fact, she did not turn eight until this Tuesday, Valentine's Day.

So I told Sophia, "Hey, don't rush things, baby. You aren't eight yet. You only have one week left to be seven. You will never be seven again. What do you want to do with your last week as a seven year old?"

Sophia, who is usually up for these silly ideas of mine said she'd get back to me. That night she said one idea she had was running through the house yelling, "I'm seven! I'm seven!" This she indeed did, several times, in fact. But I didn't think that was quite enough.

So we ate oysters. Raw ones.

Both my girls reject normal foods like grilled chicken and green herbs, but eat bizarre things like unagi and grilled lotus root and spicy tuna rolls and calamari with the legs on. (We had homemade sushi for her eighth birthday, actually, which I'm sure to write about soon.) But never had Sophia sampled the delectable, fresh, cucumber-y sweetness of an oyster slurped right out of its shell.

My mom and I had taken Sophia to The Grove in Los Angeles for lunch and shopping, and as we ordered our grilled Ruebens in the Farmer's Market, we spotted a woman with a plate of oysters on the half shell. I bought us half a dozen, and Sophia ate her first two raw oysters on the last day she was seven. It must be confessed that she chewed them way longer than necessary and at one point almost spit one out into her napkin. But she got through it, and received many approving smiles and thumbs ups from the adventurous diners around us.


I believe in celebrating. The beginning of things. The end of things. And though one of my instincts on my children's birthdays is to go cry into my coffee cup in the laundry room because they are growing up too fast, celebrating the last day of the year they are seven, or four, or -- chills just thinking about it -- fourteen, seems a much better impulse to cultivate.

And I have to say, I'm doing a pretty good job.

One of my best mom qualities is this: when I see my kids are up for an adventure, I give them enough slack in the rope to go after it. And I create these silly, memorable moments when I can, praying that they keep being willing to follow my lead. This morning, Livie and I did the Twist in the aisle of Trader Joe's because a good song was playing. The fact is, that life is often like an oyster: ugly, messy, hard to swallow. But often, also, even the slimy, icky parts of it have a sweet aftertaste. And sometimes, even, that ugliness hides a pearl. My girls and I are seeking that sweetness, those surprises.

Sophia, at eight, is still the child I would have designed for myself: funny, smart, kind, brave, silly, beautiful, affectionate, and challenging. In fact, God designed her, but I congratulate myself that so far, I have mainly gotten out of His way and not messed her up. Happy Birthday, to the larger-than-life pearl in our family's oyster.

My Daughter is Cheating on Me

My beloved is in love with another woman. I’m talking about my four year old and her preschool teacher. Week three of her formal education is not yet completed and Livie’s passion for Miss Jessica is ardent. On the first day of school she marched upstairs and renamed her best doll Jessica.

At the same time, my baby has developed a love-hate relationship with me. Her sassy mouth is alarming (no profanity or anything), and it’s most stinging venom is reserved for me. The other day she said something insubordinate and I asked, “Do you talk like that to your teacher?” Wide-eyed, she answered, “Oh no, Mommy. I would never say anything like that to Miss Jessica.”

I use the language of infidelity to describe this little love triangle and I think its apt. Miss Jessica is the other woman: someone with whom Livie spends a small amount of time, gets affirmed for her uniqueness, and does giddy, fun things that she wouldn’t normally get to do at home (they mostly involve paint and paste). Meanwhile, Mommy is the one with whom she does the daily grind: school pick-ups and drop-offs, housecleaning, errands, teeth brushing, things involving the toilet. And because Livie and I are in a long-term relationship, we see each others’ flaws and have tedious daily conflicts.

I’m tempted to feel like the injured party in this situation. “Go ahead, dear, have fun with Miss Jessica. I’ll just go home wash your underwear and cook your lunch, and then you can be cranky and tired when you come home.”

But then today, I had a little affair of my own.

I spent part of the morning with a friend and her 18-month-old daughter Reese, who is my “adopted" niece, my “Reesey niecey.” I sat on the floor with her in my lap for a long time. We had a tickle fight. She climbed all over me and giggled. Reese played with my necklace, dropping it in and out of my sweater over and over again and exclaiming “Ta-da!” I fed her two mini muffins and she said “thank you.” She made me feel – sniff – like a Fun and Good Mommy again.

But then this afternoon I got a reality check that made me realize maybe I was partly to blame for my daughter seeking affection from another mother-figure. This afternoon, I was putting Livie down for a nap, and she reached up to touch the necklace Reese had played with for at least 20 minutes this morning – and I swatted her hand away! I had been so much more loving and patient with another little girl than I was with my daughter.

In any long-term relationship we are apt to get lazy and less kind. We stop saying “please” and “thank you.” We neglect to affirm our loved ones’ uniqueness and instead start to find their once-endearing quirks a little bit wearing. We let the urgent but mundane tasks of the day suck our energy for the little moments of fun and silliness that infuse our lives with joy. It’s true of my with my spouse, and true with my kids.

It’s easier to be fun with my friends’ kids or my nieces and nephews. When I’m at a friend’s house, the laundry and dirty dishes aren’t calling my name. There’s no e-mail to answer and no school paperwork to read. I’m also not responsible for these kids’ knowing right from wrong, their nutrition (hence the two mini-muffins), or their bodily functions. And so the entire dynamic is different. And so it should be. Moms don’t get to be a constant playmate; that wouldn’t teach our kids much in the long run or equip them for a world that does not revolve around them. This dynamic can make me feel like the long-suffering martyr in my home, but it needn't. If I let the spark go out of my family relationships, it's at least partially my own fault.

No matter how much I may wish I could share Miss Jessica’s pedestal, deep down, I know I’m still first in my daughter’s heart. Didn’t her eyes well up with tears when she saw me coming to class, so complete was her joy at seeing me return for her? Didn’t she insist that I hold her hand in the grocery store and be the one to put her to bed tonight? And isn’t the fact that she shows me her real emotions – even when they result in some developmentally appropriate insolence from that sassy mouth – mean that I am her safe anchor, the one she knows will love her no matter what?

Meantime, in between washing her undies, cutting her apples and putting her in time-out, I’m going to work harder at complimenting her artwork and dance moves, and look her in the eye when she's talking. I’m going to take time for a tickle fight. I’m going to let her play with my jewelry. I’m going to show her that our love – a deep, abiding love – is here to stay.

The Death of the Delicate Chicken

Valentine's Day has just passed, so in retail terms, that means it's Easter season. And for three-year-old Livie, that means it's Delicate Chicken season.** This week we were at Party City with friends, helping them pick out b-day party supplies, when we spotted a six-pack of those two-inch high furry, fragile, yellow chicks -- only $1.99. Last year's D.C. had long since perished, so I bought a new pack. Livie gave one to her little boy friend, and then proceeded to name the other five: Willum, Willie, Nini, Cheesey, and Lee.

My friend and I began to debate whether or not we could top cupcakes for her barnyard birthday party with the chicks, or if the kids would try to eat them. By the time we got to the parking lot we had our answer. Her son had bitten off and chewed up both the delicate chicken's plastic legs. Livie promptly -- an uncharacteristically -- gave him another of her precious chicks (Cheesey Chick), leaving her with four. It's five days later and all but one of the remaining delicate chickens have either been lost or perished. It's a bit sad.

Not nearly so sad, but definitely poignant for me, is the death of the appropriateness of our favorite nickname for Liv. Soon after she fell in love with her first plastic Easter chick, Daddy nicknamed our daughter the Delicate Chicken. It was our code, so we could talk about her timid personality within her earshot without doing psychological damage. Livie was afraid of heights particularly; she wouldn't go on swings, slides, or in bounce houses. She wouldn't climb playground ladders, or even walk down certain flights of stairs. She was afraid to stand anywhere near the ocean, or jump to us in the pool. Any new experience was an experience to be feared. This was in stark contrast to our fearless first-born Sophia.

But in the last month, a change has occurred. Besides growing an entire inch in the month of December, Livie has grown chutzpah as well. She's scaling playground equipment, swooshing down the twistiest of slides, and this weekend, yelled from inside a bounce house, "Mommy, look, I'm bouncing on my feet!" I took her to the beach last week, and she was playing chicken with the surf and got soaked to the skin.

It's bittersweet. The sweetness: I love seeing my kids go at life full throttle. Mama doesn't raise no sissies, friends. As a kid I loved being the kind of girl who would pick up a lizard or jump in the ocean; as an adult, I love karaoke bars, bodysurfing and fast roller coasters. My neighbor calls me if she needs a spider squished or a lizard caught in her condo. So I'm so glad if I can raise girls who are up for adventures.

But the bitter part is that I had Livie so pegged as my "timid" child. I even blogged about how my kids had labeled themselves, and had come out of the womb with their distinct personalities. That's still true--the distinctness anyway. But the humbling truth is that it's way too early for me to be thinking I've got these kids figured out. I knew better. I know even better now.

My mother in law often repeats a saying to me: "Kids will make liars of you every time." Just as soon as you say, "Oh, my kids love cauliflower," they refuse to eat it at Grandma's house. Though no one studies my kids closer than I do, spends as much time with them as I do, cares for them as much as I do, sometimes I can get too close to them to see them for what they are. And I never want them to hear me saying, "Oh, she won't do that, eat that, go there..." etc., because I might be wrong. And I'd hate to hold them back because I think I know everything there is to know about them.

So, back to the sweetness in the bittersweet death of the Delicate Chicken. I'm proud to watch her grow braver and bolder. And I'm happy to say that -- instead of making a liar of me -- she can always still surprise me.

***If you've been reading this blog since it started in July, you know that my daughter Livie fell in love last Easter with a tiny, fragile chick made of pipe cleaner-like material. I told her to be careful of it, because it was very delicate, and she in turn named it The Delicate Chicken.

My Big Girl is Still Little

On Monday, reality hit me at the Mat Hatter’s Tea Party.

Grammy and Auntie surprised my daughter Sophia with a ticket to Disneyland for her seventh birthday the night before, and Hubby gave me one so I could go with them too (we left her little sister at home). I was actually a little worried that Sophia would rather I not go, so she could have the day with her two baby cousins, her grandma and her super fun aunt without big mean mommy getting in the way.

Imagine my surprise when what she wanted all day was to be with me. Hold my hand. Sit next to me on Thunder Mountain. Be in my row on Pirates of the Caribbean.

At four o’clock, our family went home to dinner, and Sophia and I were left totally on our own to ride roller coasters till we were queasy. We ran straight for the Matterhorn, and then, still pumped full of adrenaline, got in line for the Tea Cups. At the front of the line, I asked some European tourists if they would take our picture, and lifted Sophia up on the railing for the shot. She threw her arms around me, and pressed her little cheek against mine, knocking her Mickey Mouse ears askew. I felt her joy at that moment – and her love.

Suddenly, I looked at her and realized: I am her mom. The only one she has. The only one – God willing – she will ever have. I’m the one she’ll complain to her girlfriends about from age 13 on. And right now, I’m still the center of her world.

All day I had been seeing Sophia in the context of her baby cousins (one is two years old, one three months), and she looked huge, mature, self sufficient. If I’m totally honest, in a way I’ve been thinking of her that way since she was three and a half, when her baby sister was born. I sometimes sniff with nostalgia that my first born is growing up, but in the next moment treat her like she's older than she really is, expecting her to have the emotions of a much older person. But now, holding my hand, in a sea of grownups, waiting for the giant purple tea cup to become available, I saw her as small, vulnerable, innocent, and desperately attached to me.

I’m sad to say that I sometimes forget how much this darling girl needs me. Even more, how much she wants me – my attention, my affection, my time. It took standing with her in fantasy land to shake me into reality. The biggest thrill of her day at Disneyland was having me all to herself.

This revelation could have engulfed me in a sea of regret. The last three years flashed before my eyes and I saw all the moments I missed this about Sophia, or worse, realized it, but was too selfish to give it to her. The center of her world often treated her like a peripheral concern! I know revelation is kind of an overused term, but I think this really was one. Because immediately after I glimpsed the potential regret, I saw the solution. I haven’t blown it! There will be plenty of moments that I can choose make her feel like a precious, chosen person. This was one of them!

Still, just to clarify, “Do I seem like a mom to you?” I asked her before I could stop myself.

“Uh, yeah.” Puzzled look on her little face.

“Do I seem like a grown up?”

“Yeah. Duh.” Eye roll under the mouse ears.

Wow. I’m the mom, not even a newbie mom wearing a holy halo of sleep deprivation, but a full-blown adult mom who helps with homework and signs permission slips. My daughter is done with diapers and baby food; she goes to school and has slumber parties. But at the same time, thank God, I thought as we twirled around under the Mad Hatter’s Chinese lanterns, seven is still just a little, little girl. I’ve still got time.

My Funny Valentine

Seven years ago, yesterday, Sophia entered my world, and rocked it! Our firstborn came four days early, on Valentine's Day, a possibility I had not been excited about when I first heard my due date. But like so many things about motherhood, I changed my mind when I saw her little face, topped with the red and pink beanie the nurses had dressed her in. What a sweet day for our heart's desire to be born.

Hearts have become a big thing to our family ever since. We chose for Sophia the life verse: "Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desire of your heart." I had heard that sometimes mothers don't immediately bond with their newborns, and I was apprehensive before she was born. But from the first moment, I felt that I recognized her; there was an instant simpatico between us, and around her, I felt the light of blessing. I know that sounds cheesy, but it's true. A deep need of my heart was filled, and she seemed completely magical to me, impervious to the work-a-day world around her.

On the second day of her life, a nurse came in to tell us that they had found an irregularity while checking her heart, and the doctor would come in a few minutes to explain. Longest few minutes of our lives! But then the doctor explained she had a heart murmur, the most common form of birth defect, and one that would be easily treated with surgery when she was 18 months old. I honestly was not scared. Again, Sophia seemed to have a light around her, that nothing was going to disturb. This turned out to be true as far as the murmur was concerned; the fervent prayers of her grandparents' were answered, and despite the fact that the doctors said her condition wouldn't improve, it has improved steadily since birth and they now say she will never need surgery. We've explained to Sophia as she takes her antibiotics pre-dentist (the only medical treatment necessary to protect her swishy little pulmonary valve), that she simply has a special heart.

When she was nine months old --cutest of all baby stages in my opinion -- I remember telling my friend Josie that she was exactly the baby I would have designed for myself. Outgoing, funny, sweet, smart. She was talking at 10 months, I swear. She could cluck like a chicken on command. And she was telling jokes wordlessly even sooner. She used to have the supermarket line behind me completely engaged while I unloaded the shopping cart. People would say to me, "Your baby really likes me." I stopped saying, "Oh, she's like that with everyone," after I saw a few crestfallen faces and realized how that sounded.

Now at seven, we think she's the bravest, funniest, smartest kid on the block (we being her parents and four doting grandparents). If you ever can't find Sophia, check the nearest tree or boulder. She's at the top. Hanging upside down. She doesn't like having her hair done. She likes shirts with hoods. She dislikes socks. She dislikes blouses with frills or gathers. Give her a t-shirt with a peace sign on it, a pair of Crocs and a walkie talkie. That's the perfect ensemble for conquering the world, and she looks good doing it.

My daughter is physically fearless. Watch her jump off that high dive, or dive into that wave. Sure, she'll pick up that bug, or catch that lizard. She can run as fast as those boys can. She'll try to jump off that curb on her scooter. But at the same time, she's such a sweet little mother. I love watching her care for her favorite doll, decorating and redecorating her tiny bedroom, making her little homework assignments, tying her hair up in home-made bows.

Sophia loves to read. To her mother's chagrin, however, she rarely finishes a book. She's usually two chapters into four or five books at a time. I have a theory that once she proves to herself that she can read a particular book, she wants to go on and check to see if she can read the words in the next one. Meanwhile, she's a gifted writer. Truly, when her teacher told me, "We have a little author on our hands," it was like telling a former Heisman trophy winner that his son has one heck of an arm.

Sophia is a brave defender of the weak and marginalized -- as much as she might encounter in a suburban playground, that is. I've seen her verbally take on kids twice her age when they were calling some little kids names. Her sense of justice makes me fiercely proud. (I just wish she wouldn't apply it quite so passionately whenever she catches her sister in a misdemeanor, but you have to take the bad with the good sometimes.)

Words of affirmation and quality time -- she'd like to spend it talking -- are her love languages. Boy can I relate. Ironically, it's sometimes hard to give her those; I never thought I could run out of words until I spent a day at home with my daughter! She wants to hear countless stories about my childhood, about her uncles and aunts, and her grandparents. And she wants to tell me stories too. Even when she's not talking, she's humming little songs to herself. At least she's humming in tune.

While my second-born Livie has always seemed like the Other to me (she's so very like her dad), Sophia has always been the Familiar. We joke that she and I are the brown-eyed team in our family of four. She looks like me (only blond), feels like me, thinks like me -- up to a point. So naturally we can go head-t0-head in conflicts as you can only do with someone who mirrors your flaws. Boy can that girl push my buttons.

But it's a beautiful thing to relate to your child of the same gender. I feel I can understand her concerns and anxieties, and having learned to deal with my own, am capable of helping her work through hers. Nothing has ever made me feel prouder than I do of the fact that my little girl brings her worries to me, believing I can alleviate them. When she comes home from school and tells me of a playground conflict, following it up with the question, "Did I handle that right, Mom?" I try my best to do her faith in me justice.

I know my days of being a treasured confidante may be numbered, so I want to lay the groundwork for her teen years. As much as I relate to Sophia, I know that someday she'll need to distance herself from me, reject some of my qualities, and go on to become her own kind of woman. I pray that when those conflicts come, underneath it all she will still remember who she is to me: the child I would have designed for myself, the desire of my heart.

Meditations on the Delicate Chicken

My Olivia, aka Livie, Liv, the Delicate Chicken, is turning three officially tomorrow. While I was driving home from vacation on the 101 a few days ago, listening to her chatter with her doll named Bath Baby in the back seat, I wrote this for her in my head.

Olivia was born the year I turned thirty. I had quit my job in preparation for the pregnancy and birth of Baby Number Two, but Livie took her time coming. She was conceived about a year after I was more than ready to be pregnant.

Her coming was miraculous. But she was also born into Mommy's sadness. When I talk about that time now, I say that I had postpartum depression, but truly my 9-month period of intense anxiety and depression really started when I was eight months pregnant with Liv. But God, in his graciousness, gave me a gift: an incredible bond with Olivia, this intensely sweet, extremely mellow cuddle bug who was Mama's Girl from the get-go. She was my solace; I would just stare into her blue eyes and feel at peace.

At three, there's fire in those giant blue eyes know, and it's bittersweet. I love to see Livie come into her own, which at three means the developmentally appropriate willfulness we mothers adore so. When I found out I was having a second girl, I was worried. My first-born (here comes some bragging, but I'm also being objective) was so intensely intelligent, strong,and beautiful I wondered how her sister would be able to keep up. Sophia could command a room at six months old.

But Livie does not need my pity, now, friends. She got her Daddy's thick lashes and somebody's full lips so beauty is not a problem. And though she's more one to hide her light under a bushel, when we're alone, she chats up her mommy and astounds me with her vocabulary (I love her use of the word "also") and observations. She's also a little scrapper. If I have to break up a wrestling match between my daughters, it always because Liv has started swinging elbows and delivering pile drivers.

She's afraid of heights, but not animals. She will wrap her arms around a horse's head or lay down on one of our neighbor's big dogs. I think her inner calm puts animals at ease. They see her coming and sit down. Our next door neighbor's cat will let Jeff and Livie pet her, but Sophia and I can't get close.

She's also afraid of new adventures. When we took her kayaking, the boat rental guy said, "Well, I guess I'll know where you are the whole time," because of her ear-piercing screams. But we're learning that if we push her past that initial terror (its ugly for the first five minutes) those experiences become the ones she talks about with pleasure for weeks afterward.

She loves her baby dolls and stuffed doggies. Each one gets carefully put to bed each day and then she comes and shh's me so I won't wake them up. She has great dialogues with them, too, when no one is listening.

Livie is a slob. Her room is a giant mosh pit of pillows, tiny plastic ankle-turning doll accessories, books and dress up clothes. She's happier when she can dig herself down into a pile of toys like a pig in mud.

She has a disgusting little scrap of a receiving blanket named Night Night, that goes with her everywhere, to her daddy's distress. "Mommy calls it my stinky rag," she told someone recently. "I like to suck my thumb with it."

She loves pajamas, even for nap times, and would rather not ever get dressed. When she does get dressed, she wants leggings and a spin-around dress every day.

She's my kitchen helper when I'm baking. "Which part is the Livie part, Mom?" she asks, as she eats powdered sugar straight from the bag.

She eats. All. The. Time. She's skinny as a rail but she never stops snacking and gets her own trail mix and crackers from the cupboard when I'm not looking. She has a sweet tooth too, and would eat cake until she threw up if I let her.

She loves her little friends, especially Grayson and Isabelle, and is pretty good at sharing, which I believe is easier for the second child. She also adores Sophia's best friend Olivia, who we call Big Olivia, and holds her hand whenever possible.

She is naughty and sneaky. She creeps into her sister's room and takes stuff from the coveted Barbie box just like she pilfers snacks. I'm working on this.

She likes to be funny. Like Daddy, she can make us laugh like no one else, but she will not do it on cue, only after she's very comfortable with everyone in the room.

Though she's Mama's Girl, I think she got mainly her father's genes, because she looks just like him, and so many aspects of her personality are like Jeff's. Especially the way she only performs to small audiences. I look at her and see my precious husband reflected back, and feel like she loves me the way he does too: with an intense loyalty reserved for her inner circle.

And just like her daddy's love, I take hers to my heart and feel enormously blessed and humbled to be on the receiving end.

Happy birthday, Olivia. Mommy loves you.

Panties on the Head, and Laughter in my Heart

My almost three year old is not potty trained. Not even close. A month ago, when I asked her if she'd like to wear big-girl underpants like her sister, she gave me a look and said, "No mommy. I where diapers. I'm the only one in the family that wears diapers."

Well. That was that for a while.

But yesterday, for reasons known only to herself, she decided she'd like to try on some of her underwear. She wore them around the house for several hours. She didn't actually use the toilet, but neither did she wet the rug. This is progress of a kind.

Today she wanted to wear underpants again, but this time, she wanted to wear them over to a friend's house for a play date. This friend (hi, Tris) happens to be a bit of a germ-a-phobe, and I also happen to know that she just had her carpets cleaned due to a doggie doo doo incident this week. So, I had to tell Livie no, she could not wear her undies. But she could bring them with us and show them to Auntie Tris.

Half way over on the car ride, I checked the rear view mirror, and there in the back seat was Livie, sporting her pink undies with the white polka dots -- on her head. She looked exactly like Brett Michaels with his bandanna on. Only with leg holes. Despite the danger, I immediately snapped a photo with my cell phone. I'd post it if I had the equipment or know-how to do so.

For once, my stubborn almost three year old found a compromise to make herself happy all on her own. It may not be a socially acceptable compromise, but it worked for Mommy. Just one of those moments I had to celebrate in blog. Good times.

The Daring Chick and the Delicate Chicken

At Easter time, two-and-a-half-year-old Livie got a toy baby chicken from her Sunday school teacher. It was about two inches tall and looked to be made of the synthetic fuzz on pipe cleaners.

"Be careful," I told her from the driver's seat on the way home. "That chicken is very delicate."

Not understanding the word delicate, and being totally smitten with her chicken, she assumed it meant something like precious or special. Before we reached home, she was cooing to it over and over again, "I love this delicate chicken. This chicken is so delicate to me."

Jeff and I have derived endless amusement from this. Because while our big girl Sophia is the most daring girl on the block, scaling trees, jumping off sea walls, and diving into surf, Livie is afraid of heights, going down new slides, walking up hills, having her diaper changed in our SUV's ample trunk, and many other things. One day, when she was refusing to climb up some 18-inch-high toddler park structure, Jeff said in aside to me, "That's our delicate chicken."

I've read lots of parenting books, so I know that you're not supposed to label your children: "Oh this is my shy one, and this is outgoing one," etcetera, especially within their earshot. But I have to tell you, my kids are so opposite of one another that they label themselves. They don't need me to tell them that one is brave and one is cautious. It's obvious even to Livie. And she's not living up to some assumption I have about her, either. She came out of the womb like this.

I also know that you have to let your kids be who they are. I believe that the oft-quoted Proverbs 22:6 (Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it.) means that I should help my children grow into the best version of their natural bent. But some situations take more wisdom and discernment than others, as we try to bend them toward their strengths and away from their weakness.

Like taking your Delicate Chicken to the Orange County fair. Friday is Dollar Ride Day, so last night we paid our fortune to enter, bought a twenty-dollar ride card, and set out to get us some thrills. Our Daring Chick Sophia was ready for action, and Jeff and I decided to "help" Livie overcome some of her fears, because we saw them as an obstacle to enjoying the evening.

First item on the agenda: a family ride down the thirty-foot high Euroslide. What must the other fair goers thought of us, as we took our shrieking toddler up the steep ramp to the top? I managed to sit down with her in my lap, flash Jeff a what-are-we-thinking-smile for the camera, and sluice down with Livie clawing my forearms all the way. At the bottom she hopped up and said, "I liked it. But I don't want to do it again."

Next on the agenda: the petting zoo! Bizarrely, Livie has never been afraid of animals. She loves dogs, goats, sheep, and will wrap her arms around a horse's head at the local stable if allowed. So goat feeding seemed a good confidence-building activity. Unfortunately, just as I was snapping a picture of her, a baby goat chomped on her index finger and wouldn't let go. She had a purple bruise and a swollen digit. All daring adventures were pretty much shot from that point on.

Sophia spent the rest of the evening whooping it up on the dragon roller coaster, running the kids' obstacle course, and riding the sky-way with Mommy. Livie watched, hands over her ears to block out the carnival machinery sounds, and occasionally waved at her big sister.

In one last moment of madness, or perhaps frustration, just before we left the carnival area, I dragged Liv up the smaller kids' version of the Euroslide and made her go down just one more time. She clutched me so wildly that a kindly fellow fair goer had to help me turn her around to a sitting position with his muscled and tattooed forearms.

So what is the moral of the story? I'm not sure, actually. But I will say that this morning I asked her what her favorite part of the fair was, and she said, "Going down the BIG slides."

And I will also state for the record that when Jeff and I point to her and say -- out of earshot -- "That's our delicate chicken," we believe delicate, as she does, to mean something like precious and special.