Two Dads

“I have two Daddies,” Emerson would announce in her children have a way of saying anything that might be potentially embarrassing, loud enough that even the hard of hearing can decipher voice. Without fail, eyes would widen and jaws would drop as people looked down at her adorable little face and then up at me, Brian and Allen, pausing a moment before the awkward smile and the obligatorily whispered, “Bless her heart.”

In the conservative climate of Southern decency, I would imagine onlookers trying to mentally put the puzzle – with one too many pieces – together: two fathers and one woman? What does this mean? I always took some perverse pleasure in the less liberal minded praying for this poor child being raised by this homosexual couple and their surrogate partner in crime.

My daughters do have two fathers, but neither my husband nor my ex-husband are gay and I am a full-time, multiple hat wearing, wanna be super-woman kind of Mom. As unorthodox as our family tree might be to some, and as far from the perfectly picturesque picketed fence family of my childhood imagination, what we have works.

Beyond simple functionality, our family form offers our girls an over abundance of love, and with so many children caught in the cogs of DSS, I don’t see how love and concerned parenting can come in quantities of “too much of a good thing.”

I have no time for regrets. While my first attempt at marriage did not turn out as I planned, I would not trade that experience for the world because I have Emerson – and Allen. He and I, it turns out, are much better friends and parents than we were husband and wife. Who knew?

Because of all his eccentricities, my ex-husband is one of my closest friends. He quotes lines from my favorite movies and makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. We wax nostalgic about the good ole days of grad school and weep for the future of English as a course of study and a professional aspiration.

Things could have been horribly ugly between Allen and I, but to his credit (and mine I suppose), we handled our separation and divorce like adults knowing that a petty finger-pointing tug-of-war between us would only hurt Emerson. When I remarried and had Ella, Allen treated her like his own daughter and has ever since. Likewise, Brian has loved and cared for Emerson since she was only a year old. 

Allen and Brian are not BFFs. They don’t participate in social male bonding and there is no budding “bromance” – though I have encouraged them to see Green Lantern together because Allen loves comic book heroes, Brian enjoys movies about comic book heroes, and, frankly, I have no interest in either.

But we will be celebrating Father’s Day together along with other friends and family members who can testify to the fact that however unique our family might be, Em and Ella are happy and well-adjusted children.

As an adult, I have only two memories of spending Father’s Day with my Dad (there might have been others, but none that I can recall). Geography seemed a treacherous barrier to the development of the Daddy’s girl kind of relationship I have always dreamt of sharing with my Dad. Thankfully, Em and Ella do not have to contend with the same obstacle. Brian lives with us (when he isn’t traveling for business), so the girls spend time with him every day, and Allen spends time with them 3-4 times a week. Growing up without a father-figure is never going to be a concern for them.

In recent years I have made peace with the relationship I have with my father. There are many things I wish were different: I wish I saw my Dad more often; I wish my Dad and I talked more about everyday things; I wish I knew more stories about his life and family growing up. My Dad and I are different people, and the ways we express love and emotions differ. This fact, however, does not change the love I feel for my father. He is the only father I am ever going to have and I love him immensely.

Fathers play a vital role in their children’s emotional, mental and spiritual well-being. As a daughter, I can tell you the presence or absence of a father figure has a tremendous impact on a girls sense of self and the choices she makes throughout her life.

Emerson and Ella have been blessed with “two dads” who love them without condition, who champion their interests, who encourage their dreams, who emphasize the importance of education and experience, who kiss scraped knees and tickle tummies, who tell stories and listen to knock-knock jokes. They have dads who teach them about gardening, cars, bugs, books, super heroes, camping, fishing, swimming, kindness, courage, generosity, honesty and integrity.

Whether the mere mention elicits eye-brow raises, head scratches or general confusion, Em and Ella having two daddies is an odd and unexpected gift that I value beyond measure.

Life is What You Make It

When I picked Emerson and Ella up from their first day at Y camp yesterday, my first question, of course, was how’d you like it? Ella was the more excited of the two, which was unexpected considering our tearful morning good-bye. She announced that she had three new friends named Madison and another friend whose name she never quite figured out.

Em, who already had friends in her age group, and whom I assumed would be most excited, said it was hot and she had to walk. A lot. All in the whiney, yet terribly bored tone of a seven-going-on-thirteen-year-old girl.

Based on her response, you’d of thought we enrolled Emerson in some outward bound wilderness program for oppositionally defiant teens that are given some flint, fishing line and a sleeping bag and told to rough it out in the wilderness and decide which is worse: home life or trying to fend off grizzly bears in the darkness of night.

As an elementary aged child, I spent my summers at Muss Park – one of the many in Miami Beach’s parks and recreation division. The only air-condition at Muss park was a wall unit in the coaches’’ office where our lunches were kept in refrigerators and we campers were prohibited from lingering for any length of time unless there was some life-threatening circumstance requiring adult supervision.

I loved Muss Park and the friends I would reconnect with only during the dog-days of summer. Of course I was hot. We played outside in the heat of Miami’s summers all day long. We had one shelter in the center of camp equipped with multi-colored picnic tables and water fountains, but there weren’t fans or air conditioning.

Our camp counselors provided us with organized games like kick ball, dodge ball and jumping rope contests. We created all sorts of arts and crafts with way too much Elmer’s glue, beads, feathers and paint. Mostly, we invented our own games to play. We would sneak water from the drinking fountains so we could make mud pies or construct dirt villages for neighboring lizards and tickle bugs.

When my mom picked me up from camp in the afternoons, she always had a towel to protect her car seat from my filth. Pig Pen from Peanuts had nothing on this girl! My dirt and metallic smelling sweat were badges of honor I wore with the pride of all I had accomplished that day. After all, when you’re a little kid, playing is your job in the summertime.

I left Emerson in tears this morning. As a mother, this always makes me feel about two feet tall. I never want my children to be unhappy – especially when there is something I can do to prevent it.

At the same time, however, I want Em and Ella to experience what it should be like to be children – to play out of doors without having to fear some stranger swooping down and scooping them out of their own front years.

To laugh and giggle without having to worry about being disruptive.

To learn about life through controlled experiences like making new friends, going on field trips, following rules, team work, playing well with others, coming to the realization that the world does not revolve around them completely and totally, and that even when situations are not ideal, it is how we choose to see them and respond to them that ultimately define our successes or failures in life.

Helping Em get ready for her second day of camp this morning, I was struck with the realization that I am more like my mom than I ever imagined. That epiphany made me smile. As I sat on the corner of her bed, I asked Em if she had ever heard the saying that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. Her response, of course, was I don’t like lemonade.

I took a God-grant-me-the-serenity kind of breath I needed and continued: Em, Grandma taught me this a long time ago. Sometimes she still has to remind me. You have complete control over whether or not camp is fun this summer. If you decide it isn’t going to be fun, then guess what? It isn’t going to be fun. If, however, you decide that you are going to have the most fun possible at camp, then guess what? This is going to be the best summer camp experience ever!

Life is what we choose to make of it. Yes. Sometimes when we least expect it we are pummeled with a crop of lemons when what we really wanted was an ice-cold pitcher of sweet peach tea. It is what we decide to do with the lemons that matters. 

My Mug of Love Runneth Over

Menopausal Symptoms.
My doctor said I should keep a log.
Insomnia?
Insomnia.
Check. Moving on .....

Yesterday morning, my wonderfully thoughtful mother brought me a cup of coffee in bed. Post-op and Brian out in Portland, I am bunking with her. Sometimes, no matter how grown up a person might be - I still want and need my Mommy. And I thank God I have her!


I love coffee. I love my mother. I love sharing coffee in the morning with my mother. No one else in my house shares the same joyous experience produced by simply holding a warm cup of love in one's hands. Coffee has been a part of my morning routine since I was 15 or 16. Like cigarettes, coffee was "cool" and "adult." In my the-world-is-the-size-of-a-pea teenage logic, in some sense it was non-conformist and Kerouacian. My mom and I are the only ones in our house who drink coffee. Frankly, I don't understand people who are non-coffee drinkers. I am starting to wonder if they are really aliens from some sad coffee-less plant inhabiting the earth so they can figure out how to perfect some other-worldly super coffee bean. To just not like coffee - well that is just plain bizarre.


My love affair with coffee has grown ever more torrid over the years. In the beginning I tolerated coffee and hoped that it was merely an acquired taste. For years I would only drink it if each cup was wantonly sweet. After Brian's cousin, Karen [one of the most amazing, mother-earth, deeply soulful spirits of a woman I know] came to help take care of me and Ella (and our whole family, now that I think about it), I cannot drink anything less than industrial strength, high octane, it puts hair on your chest and curls the hairs you already have coffee. I prefer mine with approximately two teaspoons of creamer. MMmmmm....creamy warm mug of love!


So, yesterday I woke up to the gift of coffee in bed and listening to my Mom trying to rouse the dynamic duo and get them dressed for school. Once I can get upright and catch my breath (Yes. It still hurts like hell to get out of bed), I wander in there to help out as much as I can. Dressed and ready to go, Em and Gma head downstairs for breakfast, and I am upstairs with wardrobe crisis Ella. After several attempts, she pulls on the perfect shirt for a February, but it is going to be warm later, Tuesday in Kindergarten.


Much to her dismay, I can't carry her downstairs. I remind her that Mommy just had surgery on and in her tummy. Doctor says I can't carry anything for a while - not even my favorite little monkey girl Ella. With her blanket over one shoulder and my mug of love in hand, we head down the stairs. Ever the inquisitive child, Ella wants to understand why I can carry some things and not others. I think it is so cool to watch the wheels turning in there as she categorizes things by weight and mass - heaviness and lightness - all that super neat science stuff that my husband reminds me I could have paid attention to while I was in school.


Ella points out that I have a cup of coffee in my hand. Smart ass that I am, I playfully tell her that Mommy's doctors know how much I love coffee and that I have to drink it in the morning, so I have special permission to carry it around as long as I don't pick a too heavy cup. I don't know that she totally gets my humor, but Ella certainly understands - to borrow a term of endearment from Junie B. Jones - that her Mommy is a nutball.


Fast Forward to 6pm yesterday evening .....


Emerson wanted to make her own cup of chocolate milk. Sometime in the process of making the chocolate milk and hugging Daddy Allen, the cat coffee cup (thankfully not one of my favorites) crashed onto the tile floor cascading chocolate, milk and cermaic cats everywhere. Tears dried (there is no sense crying over spilt milk after all) and mess cleaned, life as I know it goes on. About five minutes later, Ella starts dragging a chair across the kitchen floor so she can reach something in the cabinet.


"Can I help you?" I ask. "What do you need?"
"A cup," she answers.
"Are you thirsty?" I ask. "Do you want Mommy to get you something to drink before you climb up the cabinet like a monkey and fall and crack your head open?"
"I need a cup," she implores. "I need to make something."
"How about one of these cups?" You can't see me, but I am pointing to a disposable, plastic Solo cup on the counter.
"No. I need a mug kind of cup." I can feel her impatience with my questions.
Gma enters stage left and assesses the situation. Ella whispers something in my Mom's ear that makes her say "We've got it under control."
I walk back over to the kitchen table where I had been looking over the girls' daily school work and filling out forms for them to order some books - autographed by the local author - at school. Ella and Gma depart the kitchen, hang a left into the craft room - where I can hear them scratching around like little mice - and then they head back into the family room. Those two are up to something. Again. 


My suspicions are confirmed when I walk into the family room and Ella dives on top of the covert operation she has set up on the rug by the coffee table. I assure her that I am not looking and prove my point by sitting down at the computer and looking up the SDPC website. Em and Ella have racked up considerable milk balances at the cafeteria and we are starting to get those recorded messages that threaten broken knee caps if the $2.50 balance is not satisfied.


Finally, Ella announces that I can close my eyes because she has a surprise for me. I follow her directions and sit, eyes closed, eager with anticipation.
"Open your eyes Mommy," says Ella, beaming with a huge smile and those big brown eyes of hers. "I made you a special mug since your cat one got broken."


And she had.

Gma had helped her find one of the plastic mugs she and Em use to drink their morning milk. Using glue dots out of the craft room, she adorned the bottom with a band of irridescent pink ribbon and multi-colored buttons (Ella loves buttons and will glue them on practically anything that stands still). On one side of the cup she glue a paper heart cut of pink cardstock all by herself and decorated with red heart stickers left over from the valentines she and Em took into their classmates. On the other side of the cup, Ella glued on individual flower petals from a white rose that had been in an arrangement Nyda brought me while I was in the hospital. "This rose was looking kind of woggily," Ella explained. "So I recycled it Mommy."

"Ella.....it's beautiful!" I said. "I love it! Thank you, Ella B. You are such a sweet pea girl."

"It's a love mug Mommy," she said. "Because you love coffee and I love you and your cat cup got broken."

"I love you too, Ella B." And I pursed my lips and she squated down and gave me a kiss. "I will drink my coffee in it tomorrow."

As I sit here this morning, writing, I am enjoying a delightfully creamy, warm cup of coffee love, in my mug of love, crafted, by Ella, with love, for her Mommy who loves her and her sister so very, very much! I am thankful that in my life, as I know it, my mug of love runneth over. 

 

A Letter for My Daughters

Last Friday I underwent my 7^th, and, I pray, last abdominal surgery since Emerson Marie was delivered via emergency cesarean section in 2003. Every surgery has increased the possibility for complications, and in anticipation of the looming procedure, I couldn’t help but consider my own mortality. It’s not that I was afraid of surgery or dying. The scary part for me – should something terrible have happened – is missing the opportunity to watch my two little girls grow and blossom into adulthood.

I do a lot of writing in my head, so in between prayers, I composed chunks of letters I would want my daughters to have as they continue to grow – things I would want them to remember – to teach them – words of wisdom and encouragement from their Mom (in the event they didn’t have me there in person to deliver them). 

Obviously I am thankful to have made it – mostly unscathed – through the surgery, but we never really know what is going to happen one day to the next. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to go ahead and put pen to paper. Now that most of the anesthetic haze has worn off, I’ve tried to piece together my musings into a letter for my daughters.

Dear Em and Ella,

As your mom, all I have ever wanted for you both is an abundance of health, happiness and prosperity. The journey through life can be difficult to navigate, but each day is a new adventure and that – in and of itself – is a mighty reward. I know you will make mistakes along the way. There will be times when you feel sad and lonely – when you get down in the dumps and feel like everything is impossible. This happens to everyone. Mistakes are opportunities to learn from experience. The key is that you apply what you have learned so that you aren’t doomed to repeat the same mistakes time and time again.

The key to a happy, healthy life is faith in God first and foremost. I faced many challenges in my life, and I believe that without the grace of God, I would have never made it through. Putting your trust in God does not mean your life will always be easy, or that things will always work out the way you plan. However, faith makes those difficult times easier to endure when you remember that God will never give you any more than you are capable of handling. And if you can remember that God has a grand design and plan, He will lead you where you need to be. You have to be willing to take direction and follow His spiritual guidance.

You are perfect and special just because you are you. All I expect of you is to always try your best – to put forth 100% effort in everything you do – and be the best Emerson and Eleanor you know how to be. No one is perfect, and that is OK. Being imperfect is what makes you human. I think you are both extraordinary little girls. I am so very proud of who you are and who you are becoming. Continue to be who you are and you will be just fine.

What I admire so much about each of you is your strength. You come from a long line of strong women. It is in your nature. You are also strong willed and stubborn. These qualities will serve you well, but you have to balance them with willingness to compromise. Things cannot go your way all the time. Sometimes you have to give a little, and that is OK. The one thing I never want you to give up, however, is your sense of self. Don’t ever abandon your beliefs to gain acceptance of others. True friends will love you for who you are, and they will not ask you to compromise those ideals you hold dear.

Both of your Dads and I have always placed a tremendous amount of value in education. Don’t ever give up on school. And when it comes time to go to college, find a school that is going to offer you everything you want and need to be the best at whatever you choose to do. Study hard. Read voraciously. Take any and every class that interests you. Follow your passion. You are going to spend at least eight hours a day at work, so pick a career path that you love – that excites you – that has meaning and makes you feel like you are contributing to the world around you. Time spent on learning is never wasted, and when you finish school, your education does not have to end. Life offers tons of opportunities to learn something new. Take advantage of these opportunities when they present themselves.

Success is something you will have to define for yourselves. Some people think being successful is tied into making a lot of money, living in a huge house, driving an expensive car or tacking a prestigious title to the end of their names. None of those things ever mattered to me. Earning enough money to pay my bills and to be able to indulge in a few luxuries from time to time made me happy. Having a job that enabled me to help other people made me feel successful. 

Grandma always used to tell me that it is nice to be important, but it is more important to be nice. I couldn’t agree more! I always loved people. Every one of us has a unique story, and I enjoyed hearing people’s stories. It is so important to treat people with kindness and respect. You never know where someone is in their life journey, and you don’t always know what their prior experiences have been. You cannot judge people because you haven’t lived their lives and it just isn’t nice. Show compassion to others – help others who may not have had the blessings or fortunes you have been gifted. Cheer for the under-dog. Advocate for those who don’t seem to have a voice. Stand up for the little guy. Treat other people the way you want to be treated. I firmly believe that what goes around comes around.

Give with no expectation of getting in return. It is possible to be kind and compassionate without being a door mat. Be wary of people who take advantage of your kindness because those people do exist. But don’t be so wary that you are closed off. Remember that you cannot change anyone and trying to do so will result in heartache and madness. People are people. People have to want to change themselves. You can always help people who want to make changes in their lives, but they are going to have to do the “hard work” if the change is going to be lasting and meaningful.

Sometimes change stinks, but it is inevitable. Daddy used to tell me to relax and be the river. I’m afraid I was never very good at either. I over think things, but I don’t believe there is anything wrong with thinking things through and then knowing when it is time to put the issue to bed. It is easier to go with the flow than it is to always swim against the current. Don’t choose the easy path down the river just because it is easy. When you believe in something or someone and you think that person or ideal is worth fighting for – those are the times when you give it all your might and paddle as hard as you can against the current. There are times when you are going to have to do this, but life shouldn’t be like this all the time.

I was an only child growing up, and I have always had a small family. Always remember how blessed you are to have one another as sisters. Don’t allow anything to become a barrier to your relationship with one another. Watching you two together is one of the greatest joys of my life – the way you defend one another – wrestle – dance – laugh – sing – you put the biggest smiles on my faces. Even when you fight or don’t get along – I can tell how deeply you love one another sheerly from the amount of passion you invest in your arguments. No family is perfect, but family is important.

Friends are the family we choose for ourselves. Your Dad and I have been very lucky in the friend department. We do not have a huge group of friends, but we have a handful of amazing, irreplaceable friends – people who have been there through thick and thin – people for whom we’ve returned the favor – but between the lot of us, I don’t think we have ever kept score. That, my sweet peas, is what true friendship is all about.

 When you are older, and you meet that special someone, never be afraid to love with all your heart. I’ve never had a very easy time with romantic relationships for too many reasons to get into. Love doesn’t happen in real life like it does in movies, but real love is amazing and awesome and something we all deserve to experience. You know you’ve met the one when you have the flu and he still thinks your beautiful because he sees all your inner (as well as outer) beauty; he will be your best friend, your cheerleader, your encourager, your supporter, and, most importantly, he will tell you the truth when you need to hear it. He will be gentle and faithful; compassionate and caring; self-less and a great listener; and you will be happy when you are with him. Hold out for Mr. Right. Don’t settle for Mr. Right Now.

I want you girls to travel and see the world. Read tons of books. Listen to music. Dance. Indulge your passions. Give to those people who might not have been as fortunate as you. Pray. Listen. Go to the theater. Drugs and alcohol can and will ruin your life – and anyone who tells you otherwise isn’t a good friend. If a man ever hits you, leave immediately. This behavior does not warrant a second chance and will not get better.

Life is a precious gift, so make the most of it every day. Time is the most valuable gift you can ever give anyone. You have to love yourselves before you can love other people. Make time to put your toes in the ocean, sit by a camp-fire under the stars and splash in the puddles on a rainy day. Even if you don’t heed any of the advice I’ve offered in this note, always remember this every day that I got to be your Mommy was priceless. You girls are the most amazing blessings in my life. You are beautiful, inside and out, talented, smart, funny and you two can do anything you put your minds to; don’t let anyone ever tell you anything different. I am so proud of the young ladies you are becoming, and I have no doubt that I will be proud of the young women you become. Em, you will always be my snuggle bug and Ella B., you will always be my little bit. I will love you forever and ever and always, to the moon and back again, and nothing in this world will ever change that.

Big hugs and kisses and lots and lots of love,

Mommy

Ella's Vagina Monologue

Let me preface this post by saying that I have taught Em and Ella the words "vagina" and "penis." These are parts of their anatomy like arms, legs, fingers and toes. Why not know the proper name for their genitalia? I've never dummed down anything else for them. Em and Ella are very intelligent little girls.

They are also little girls, so of course they find the word vagina hilarious. It is it's own joke ... punch-line and all. My best friend Ashley uses the word va-jay-jay, which I also happen to love and used in front of my girls one day. I think they love va-jay-jay even better than vagina. It is a fun word, after all....

The vagina is not a constant topic of conversation in our home, of course. But for effective communication, it just makes sense that Em or Ella is able to say "my vagina hurts" when they need to tell me something does not feel right. If one of them had an ear ache, they wouldn't say my "who-ha" hurts, right? 

This afternoon Ella was eating a bowl of cereal. She spilled the bowl full of milk and Lucky Charms all over the couch and her lap. I went upstairs to get her clean, dry panties and pants so she could change out of the wet ones. When I got back down stairs, Ella was sitting on the bench at the kitchen table. She had stripped out of her wet clothes, and she was perched, half naked, checking out her vagina.

I walked over with her clothes and helped her get on clean, dry panties and a pair of jeans. She was dressed and ready to move on to the next adventure. As I gathered up her wet clothing to put in the hamper, she says "Mommy, vaginas are kind of funny looking." I joined her on the bench and said, "yep. They are kind of funny looking aren't they." The conversation continued.

Ella: I think my vagina looks like a little mouth.
Me: I never thought about it, Ella, but I suppose it does look like a little mouth.
Ella: I think my vagina looks like it is smiling.
Me: If it is smiling, that must mean it's happy.
Ella: I love my little funny looking vagina.
Me: I'm glad you like your little funny looking vagina.

With that, Ella hopped off the bench and went running off to play with Em. I laughed to myself and thought Eve Ensler would be proud!

I think it’s a safe bet that most women, when confronted with a rain-drenched ex-husband crawling through their bedroom window, would march immediately to the nearest police station and begin the process of obtaining an Order of Protection. In my case, having my ex-husband climb through my bedroom window last Tuesday’s afternoon is, well, life as I know it.

To call my ex-husband, Allen, quirky is an understatement. Oddly enough, his quirkiness is, perhaps, one of his most endearing qualities. Allen and I met as grad students in the English program at Clemson. We were instant friends. The problem with our relationship, however, is that we were never more than friends no matter how much we might have tried to make the relationship romantic. It just didn’t quite work out.

In hindsight it is easy to say that we probably shouldn’t have gotten married, but I do not regret it because had we never been married, we would not have Emerson. Still, after only three years of marriage, I knew it was never going to work. I was unhappy, and I had the foresight to know that my unhappiness would negatively affect my daughter. Divorce seemed the healthiest course of action for all of us.

Our divorce was amicable and uncontested. There was no fighting over Emerson or money or property (there are some advantages to being a poor grad student when you get married). We kept the lines of communication open, and decided that whatever might happen, Emerson was always going to be priority numero uno.

Since our divorce, I have gotten remarried and had another daughter, Ella. Allen, in some ways, is still as much a part of my new life as he was when we were married. He did enter my house through my bedroom window without any criminal or legal repercussions after all. To most people, I’m sure this entire scenario seems bizarre, but in my life, this unorthodox relationship is par for the course.

Allen picks both Em and Ella up from school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Last Tuesday he happened to forget his key, which is why he came in through the window. He also picks them up on Sundays and takes them to the house he shares with his parents in Williamston. Papa, Gram and Allen have treated Ella like she was theirs from day one. They have never made any emotional or biological distinction between them. The same is true in our home. My husband and I met just as Em turned one. He has helped raise her from infancy, and she has always called him Daddy.   

Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day – we celebrate these holidays together as one big, albeit unusual, family: Em, Ella, Daddy, Daddy Allen, Grandma (my mother) Papa and Gram and me. Today it seems that families come in all shapes and sizes, so perhaps we are less the exception than we are the norm. However one might choose to describe or define us, we are a family nonetheless.

In my mind, Em and Ella are truly the ones who benefit from the blending of our family. How can it be a bad thing to have more than two parents to love and care for them? Doesn’t the saying go “it takes a village to raise a child?” Despite being a child of divorce, Em has never been pulled in a tug-of-war between two angry parents, and Ella has never been treated like an “other” because her DNA is not the same as Allen’s or his parents.

Too often it is innocent children who are forced to cope with difficult issues because the adults in their lives cannot muster the maturity it takes to put aside their own hurts and petty differences. Children become paws in a tortuous chess game designed by adults “get back” at one another. Insult heaped upon injury.

While my family tree might have some oddly entwined braches, its roots are deeply planted in a foundation of love, respect and understanding. Of course there are times when we disagree, moments when we get on one another’s last good nerve, but when all is said and done, Em and Ella always come first – on this we agree 100%. We want them to be happy, healthy, well-developed children. Thus far, I think we are doing a great job!  

The fact that people raise their eyebrows every time my children announce that they have two daddies – that is just an endlessly amusing dollop of icing on the cake of life.

Last week my husband was out of town on business. In his absence, Em, Ella, Grandma and I were busy little elves transforming our home into a magical Christmas wonderland to surprise him upon his return. We set up a little tree in the kitchen, and Ella (my 5 year old) decided that it was our “love tree.”

Ella loves to draw. She scours my craft room for buttons and stickers, glue sticks and glitter, and she will spend hours creating pictures and cards for her school friends and us. When my husband goes out of town on business it is a guarantee that he will return to a handful of homemade delights – glittery rainbows, cute-as-a-button kitties or more abstract, Picasso inspired paintings.

I was hanging up some final decorations and Ella decided she was going to arrange her pictures and cards, hand crafted for her Daddy, beneath the love tree. After she had her gifts satisfactorily situated under the tree, she asked “Mommy, does love grow?”

Does love grow? It took me a minute to register the profundity of her question. Big brown eyes staring in my direction, Ella waited for an answer from me, and these days a simple ‘yes’ does not make the grade. Inevitably it would be followed by a ‘how’ and a ‘why’ until she was content with my answer. And so it goes that my “of course love grows” response was quickly followed by a “how?” from Ella. That kid doesn’t miss a beat!

Trying to explain relationship or romantic love was more than I was ready to tackle, so I started with a tree analogy. People, I began, plant trees because they love nature and they love the earth. God loves all living things, so he sends rain and sunshine to help the tree grow tall and sturdy with roots deep in the ground. Every year the tree grows a little bit bigger because God and the person who planted it care for and tend to it. All the love that goes into the tree makes it strong, and because the tree is so full of love, it has to give some away. The tree gives homes to birds and squirrels as a way of sharing the love it has received.

Christmas, I continued to explain, exists because of love. Many people, myself included, believe that God loved us so much that he gave us Jesus, who was born on Christmas. That is the real reason we celebrate at this time of year.

Ella appeared to be contemplating my answer and I thought this was a good sign. I went back to hanging up glittery snowmen. “Mommy,” she asks, “what about people? Does love grow in people too?”

My response went something like this --- When you and your sister were in my tummy, I was so excited that you were coming. I loved you and Em before I could even see you. On the days you were born, when I finally got to hold you and snuggle you and kiss you, my heart was so full of love that I thought it would explode (not really, Ella!). I loved you more that I thought was possible. Every day I love you and your sister more than I did the day before. The more you two grow and change, the greater my love grows.

“Even when we’re bad and we get in trouble?” she asks.

“Yes. Even when you are bad and get into trouble,” I reply. “There is nothing you or Em could ever do that would make me not love you.” With that she said, “I love you Mommy. I’m going to go play Barbie.” Up the stairs she went.

I stood in the same spot and continued to ponder Ella’s question. Love grows – of this I am certain. Love also changes shape and form. It takes on so many different forms – taking one from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. Love can be given away freely, and it can also be consumed to the point of depletion. It has the power to renew and transform. Love is truly amazing, and I imagine that while everyone has a different experience with love, we are simultaneously all connected by the experience of love itself. Like “if,” L-O-V-E is a little word into which an abundance of meaning is packaged. When it grows and thrives, love is a truly awesome thing.  

Here’s to a Christmas season abundant with love that grows deeper and stronger with each passing day!