My Falling Benjamin

Four year olds run on batteries that never expire. They run and jump ... swing and dance .... climb and tumble ... constantly. Their energy is instantly rechargeable.

At least it seems that way.

Lately I've spent many nights watching Benjamin fall asleep. It really is like watching someone fall. Relaxing goes against his nature.

Stopping inertia is painful. Like stomping your breaks causes tires to burn or an unreturned "I love you" breaks your heart. Abruptly ending something hurts.

Benjamin likes me to sing him to sleep. It impresses me that he asks for something he enjoys knowing it will result in something he dislikes ... sleeping, stopping, quieting down.

I sing a song about a little boy named Benjamin who likes looking up at the stars. He feels the wind in the air and watches moonlight dance in his hair. At the end of the song he admits he loves night time things ... even falling asleep.

It is a song I made up. Maybe it is not even very good. Still, it has an important word in it: Benjamin.

Each time I mention Benjamin in the song my sweet boy sighs a heavy sigh. Little by little he relaxes. Occasionally his chin trembles and I think he might cry. Before long he is playing with his curly hair and sucking his fingers. He sighs and trembles one last time and then he falls asleep.

I watch him as he begins to dream and I think how beautiful Benjamin is when he is moving and when he is still.


"You can't look at a sleeping cat and be tense."- Jane Pauley

Tell Me My Fortune

When I was in college someone told my fortune. Maybe not such a strange thing for a Louisiana girl to do. It is almost a cultural rule to believe in ghosts, fortune tellers, and voodoo rituals.

Okay. Maybe not a rule. Many Louisianians do not believe in such things. To be honest, I don't believe in it either. Maybe it is one of the quirky and fun things about Louisiana culture. Sort of like Mardi Gras, Crawfish boils, and finding water moccasins beneath your sofa.

A wrinkled woman with missing teeth and a knotted walking stick read my cards. Tarot cards maybe? I dont' know ... she called them cards.

Okay. She was not wrinkled, toothless, nor did she use a walking stick. In fact she was middle age, pretty, and drinking a cup of coffee. She did not actually read cards either .... Fine. I'll admit it. She was just the run of the mill palm reader that sits along New Orleans streets hoping for a dollar to tell you something useless.

(Lousianians are also story tellers. That is also cultural. We like to spin a good yarn.)

This palm reader told me that I would have lots of children, live a happy life, and one day I'd be rich.

She did not tell me I'd give birth to 25 week quadruplets ... that my life would dramatically change... or that I would be poor before I ever became rich.

Because of this I think it is okay to say a wrinkled and toothless woman who used a knotted walking stick read my cards. It is a more interesting story to tell. That way ... I feel like I got my money's worth.

So what about my fortune? I think we have a definite hand in the fortunes we make. I don't need to pay someone a dollar to read their hand and tell me my future.

Dance with Me

Something strange is going on and I'm not sure I like it.

Callie and Donovan attend Pre-K at a Montessori school. On Wednesday afternoons they have an opportunity to take a dance class. The catch: it will cost and extra fifty dollars a month for them to go. This on top of an already hefty tuition.

Brett and I decided it would be best to wait and see.

Wait and see what our bank account looks like after they've been enrolled in the school for a while.

Wait and see how they adjust to their new school and their new schedule.

Wait and see ... Wait and see ... Wait and see.

The school did not wait and see.

Callie and Donovan threw tantrums. Their teachers felt sorry for them. Suddenly they were standing in the "dance students only" line.

Brett picked them up from school and was handed an enrollment form. "Dance class is Wednesday afternoon. We allowed Callie and Donovan to go this time however next time they will have to be enrolled with fees paid."

Puzzled, Brett walked them out of the building. I'm sure he was wondering how they ended up in a dance class. Once home he debriefed me.

I tried explaining to my children that we needed to wait and see.

Wait and see if our pocketbooks could dispense an extra fifty dollars for "extra stuff".

Wait and see how much they liked attending their Pre-K program.

Callie crossed her arms and shrugged. "Well Mom. We are on the list."

So much for "wait and see" ...

I think I've been dismissed by my four year old.

Does it Make a Difference?

A baby cries in an NICU.

A woman turns to me with a half smile. "If the baby's mother was addicted to crack, I would feel okay about him dying."

Pausing I look from the puny baby writhing in his isolette. An IV pokes out of his head. Tubes and wires cover his two pound frame. The oscillator vigorously shakes him.

This is a hard life for anyone and this baby has been an NICU patient for just three days. The anguish of life support is all he knows today ... yesterday ... the day before. Before that he was safe in his mother's womb dreaming of suckling at his mother's breast.

"What if his mother was a lawyer or a librarian? Would it be okay then if he died?" I look to the woman with a sad smile reflected straight from my even sadder eyes.

She does not acknowledge that she's offended me, but does try to clarify. "Babies die and it seems to happen to the nicest people. That is the tragedy."

I point to three other babies in the same row as Baby X. "From here they all look the same."