Hiding

This week you've really started loving to "hide". It's so wonderful to watch you discovering this idea. We borrowed a tube/tunnel toy and you love to crawl in and ask us to hide with you.

Papa and Nana bought you a Curious George monkey and now you like to hide the monkey too. You implore us to hide the monkey in your room (and then back in the living room) so you can find it over and over and over again. "Again, boomkies!" you yell. I love the way you giggle when you discover where we have hidden him. My favorite part of this game is when you walk into the room, looking; you say "hmmm, hmmm" with a serious look on your face, a finger tapping your lips. I know you are copying the way we look for our keys or phone.

You are such a good walker. After all of those months wondering if there was something "wrong", I realize that you were just waiting until you could do it right, with confidence. You rarely fall, and are getting more agile in your other movements. Now you ask to go on walks outside. I love your sentences: Boots. Hat. Coat. Walk? Papa. Nana. Truck. Bye-bye!

You ask us to read certain books and have even asked to hear poems. I can't begin to explain how proud we are of your interest in the reading arts. You are drawing with your crayons more and more -- soon, I will have to hang up your masterpieces. Hopefully you continue to understand that the place to draw is on the sketch pad.

We spent a night and day without you. While the sleep was amazingly wonderful and it was nice to have a break, I missed you so much. I know you had a fine time without us, but I was so happy to have you back in my arms. You seemed to grow while we were gone. Even though it was only 24 hours, your hand felt lighter in mine -- more independent -- and I realized how quickly time is passing.

Every moment, I love you.

Crust First

Dear Lucy,

I had some other words written for you, but I have to skip those for now. They are in a safe place; the place where I keep words/smiles/movements/general loveliness.
Right now, you are sitting in your rocking chair and eating your favorite snack: spelt toast. I've noticed that you eat the crust first, turning it round and round until it is all gone. I think you save the best part, the middle for last. You are saying "hi, hi!" and laughing as I type and drink my coffee. I hope you always like to eat the crust first, whether real or metaphorical. I know this is kind of cheesy, but that seems to be my theme this month.

Now here I am, avoiding the bad news I need to tell you. It may not be as bad as we think; if that is the case...I will have worried for naught, but my heart tells me otherwise. Julie, your beloved nanny, is sick. She has a disease called cancer. About a month ago, she told me she was having lumps removed from her neck and that the doctor didn't think it was cancer. She did not feel ill and so there was no reason to believe otherwise. The toxology reports came back with the bad news that it is, indeed cancer, and that it is melanoma. The frightening part is that they aren't sure exactly where it came from, since the melanoma was never visible on the outside skin. She will wait for other specialists and doctors to look at her case and, hopefully, there will be good news. In my own research (and from knowing others with cancer), I found that melanoma in lymph glands is not good and when cancer presents itself in this way, the chance of survival is very low.

We are trying to hope for the best -- to picture our lives with her -- but it is very difficult. She loves you so much and has become a part of our family. We were so lucky to find a person so talented and willing to take care of you. I honestly don't know what we would do without her. I feel selfish for worrying about our needs. I feel confused about why I can't just think positively. Julie needs us to approach her illness with hope. I guess I just can't help but think of what I'll need to tell you. Even if she can beat the cancer, she will need treatment. How do I explain illness when you aren't even two years old? You already ask about her. When she was recovering from surgery, you would say her name with a question in your voice.

There is no ending to this entry, there are only questions. Whatever happens, I know that we will get through it, together. If not for you, Lucy, we would not have met Julie -- this must have some cosmic significance.

I love you,
Mom