Saturday, July 31, 2010


Sweet Samantha,

On Wednesday you attended Scribbles and Giggles for the first time. They called me about 45 minutes after you had been there and said you had a fever. I rushed over to pick you up...and you know what? You were happy and giggly and looked just delighted to see me. Yes, you have a way of making a mommy feel ultra-important. The rest of the day at home, you were a gem -- so I figured you had gotten into your tricky ways and somehow managed to make the thermometer read wrong so you could play hookie and hang with me the rest of the day.

Thursday, off to school you went -- and had a great day.

Friday, no school. You have one month break. We played, opened and shut doors -- oh wait, I already said we played, and you were fine. Until, last night.

At midnight you woke up and were upset. Daddy went in and calmed you down. You fell back to sleep. Then at about 4 am, I heard you cry. You weren't screaming, which is what you normally do...your own way of letting me know "I want out of here and I want MOMMY told hold meeeee!" You were more complainy. So, I jumped out of bed and went to the room. You naturally woke Callie up and when she saw me come in, she was very distressed about the entire situation. I picked you up and sat in the room with both you and Callie. You were burning up. You had a fever of 102 -- and I actually think it was a little higher than that, but I didn't get a really good reading since you weren't being super cooperative about me putting the thermometer in your ear. Poor girl. You "slept" with Daddy (apparently you actually nuzzled and kicked for about 3 hours) and I went in bed with Callie and slept with her.

The rest of the day you've been pretty great. Callie has a fever now, but neither one of you have any other symptoms. You're eating well, complain as usual, smile and giggle as usual, are drinking well.

I've recently started working on a project and it's made me think a lot about how different our life is from everyone else's around me. It hasn't made me feel bad or anything -- an observation more than anything. Back in the early days of microcephaly, seizures, hospitalizations, therapies, the global "special needs," I often felt like no one around me understood. I felt so alone, so different. I do recognize that our life is much different than many others. Today though, we were playing on the deck, and as you were stumbling around, trying to pick up and throw Callie's bike to and fro, I thought about how "normal" our life really is -- how we really are just like every other family out there.

We have two beautiful daughters.
You both love us.
We love you both with everything we have in us.
We do everything we can to fulfill both of your needs.
Both of your needs are vastly different.
You get sick.
You get fevers.
You bring us joy.

It goes on and on. And I could certainly write some sentences after each of those statements as fillers -- explaining how our life is different from other families, because it is -- but really, when it comes down to it...we aren't all that different are we? We're pretty normal. And today, I really felt it. In a way, this realization was a tender mercy from the Lord. I think I needed it, and I know He knew it.

I love you so much. I hope you get that. I hope you understand how deeply I feel about you. You are beautiful, clever, and perfectly amazing in every way. You are the sunshine in our life. You, and Callie both, have made my life more complete.

I love you to pieces -- and I love all your pieces.

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