Night Watch

Men and women are just plain wired differently. I love this about us. Some women think we should be equals.

Not me. 

I like how we're programmed for different tasks. It's better off this way.

Allow me to illustrate with the, "Who's Turn Is It To Wake Up?" routine we've been doing almost every night for the past eleven plus years.

The baby (whomever it is at the time) wakes up and needs to be rescued from the crib.

Mickey brings the baby to me for a feeding, and goes back to sleep.

The toddler bursts into our room just one hour after we've fallen asleep, shivering from fright, and needs to be cuddled. I pull that toddler into bed beside me and whisper confident reassurances.

Mickey takes note, and goes back to sleep.

The five-year-old is done sleeping for the night by 4:30 am. I awaken with Sweet Girl (read: Dream Thief), treat her like she's the best thing I've seen all day (instead of like the only thing I've seen all day), make her breakfast, and watch cartoons with her.

Mickey misses this entirely.

But when there is a small scratching on the window, whether it's an intruder or a branch scraping the pane, Mickey is instantly awake, patrolling the house with a firearm and double checking all windows and doors.

I sleep through all of this. In fact, I would never know he was up at all, except for his groggy walk and droopy eyes the next morning. They always tip me off. And then I just feel guilty. I mean, what kind of "partner" snores through a life-and-death situation?


This girl.


This is our unwritten agreement. We've never discussed the terms, talked through the division of the tasks, or held a meeting to work out the details. We just inherently know our individual part. (Incidentally, we dance like this, too. He leads, I follow, we have no planned routine, we laugh at each other's antics, and the judges give us fourth place out of three hundred and fifty couples. It's how we keep our marriage exciting and fresh, I guess.)

I had no idea how oblivious I was to all of this until Mickey went away on a business trip. We were living in Baltimore at the time, and I awakened to a loud noise. Since all the children were sleeping in my room, it made no sense for me to leave them and go to investigate.

Also, I was waaaay too scared to do that.

So I just tiptoed over to the closet, pulled out my shotgun, slid the chamber open and closed, open and closed several times, walked over to my top drawer to retrieve my bullet, and then sat on our bed, crossed legged, staring at the bedroom door, gun at the ready.

(On a side note, Mickey's wiring has helped me fine tune this defense tactic. Now, if I have to dispose of an intruder in the middle of the night, I can use a suppressed firearm with a laser and night vision. He has a point: there's no need to wake up the children with all that noise. Who wants to be cleaning up blood and coaxing the children to go back to bed? That would just be a nightmare.)

Another time when Mickey was away, I awakened in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, but I had to hold it until dawn because there was a strange blue light coming through that little crack under the door, and I was terrified that aliens or some such thing were waiting in ambush should I open my bedroom door in attempt to discover the source of the eerie glow. Instead, I pulled the gun out of the safe, strained to hear any noises, prayed my dogs were alive, counted the heads of my sleeping children, and texted my husband so he would know where to start the search should he come home to find his family missing.

If we get technical about it all, my night watch is more frequent than his, but I'm okay with it because I'd rather address a crying baby than an armed thief--any day or night.

Every so often, we put into play another unwritten maneuver. If I have had several sleepless nights in a row, I become so tired that I will sleep through everything--even the crying baby. I stay in the same position all night, and when morning comes, I'm refreshed and ready to assume my night watch again. Also, I give Mickey a nap this day.

One night last week, I awakened refreshed, and oddly, Mickey was, too. I was wondering aloud that everyone slept through the night when he cleared his throat to cut me off. He explained that our sons had come to our room in the middle of the night, afraid because they had heard loud, suspicious noises.

Mickey retrieved his Glock 27 from the safe in his night stand and then talked through the search plan with the boys. (He actually might have done all of this with hand signals; I'm not sure.) Then, they proceeded to do a search of the entire premises, Mickey at the front, boys "watching his six" and making sure the bad guys didn't double back.

I picture Mickey wearing his pajamas, rocking his bed head, his Glock at perfect aim, peering around corners, and trusting that our bare-chested, young sons have got his back. I see the bathroom door flying open from a well-positioned kick, the boys running in from behind, and giving the "Clear!" call. Mickey then wordlessly points to his eyes, uses one finger to point at the eldest, two fingers to point at the second son, then gives a quick double-wave, stiff fingered motion before they all move on to the next room. I'm also betting the boys were suppressing war whoops while Mickey wore a smirk.

But since I was sleeping, I can't be sure how it all went down, and I can't criticize his fathering style. He's very good about snatching up those spontaneous teaching moments. He's also a brilliant strategist to let me sleep while he's training his heirs on the intricacies of a thorough manhunt.

However, I think I'll sleep even better if I buy my boys those bullet-proof vests I've had my eye on since two Christmases past and make them all sleep in black pajamas and ski masks.

Also, I'm starting to wonder if my dream last night about a S.W.A.T. team on the roof wasn't really a dream after all....

In the Moment

It's just about lunch time. The four loaves of whole wheat bread I made fill the air with their warm, hearty goodness. My seven-year-old wants a piece now, but concedes to wait until the bread isn't too hot. My five-year-old passes the minutes until lunch by looking at the bread, her eyes just clearing the top of the counter. She exclaims her awe over the beauty of the deliciousness.

My eleven-year-old is sneezing on the couch, worrying that his allergic, red eyes make him look silly. He wears sunglasses to abate the embarrassment and plucks out "Pirates of the Caribbean" on his guitar. My baby is dancing to his music, stealing his sunglasses, and stomping to the beat that she feels deep in her soul.

She toddles in to me, tripping over the big, pink sneakers she's been wearing all morning. She has her own shoes, but her sister's are infinitely more desirable. Her tummy is full, since she just snacked on leftover waffles and shared them with her beloved doggie. She whimpers for me to hold her, and when she refuses a drink, I can tell it's time for her nap.

I lie down with her and sing her lullabies. Today we are only interrupted three times. My five-year-old is tattling on my three-year-old, who has put sparkly smiley stickers all over the back of the piano. She agrees to help in the removal process, and to whisper and tiptoe if she needs to come back in. Her hair is wild and gorgeous, a fitting top to her carefree, fun-loving soul.

My seven-year-old wants to make homemade juice pops. This is his biggest dream. I don't have molds for that. I have to get creative and solve this problem. I'm grateful his wish is one that I can make come true. Someday I won't have the answer. But for today, I am enough. And that feels good.

My husband calls. He needs to hear my voice. That makes me tear up. His voice encourages, soothes, grunts understanding, expresses love. Clinic is over in just one hour. I can't wait to be held in the arms that belong to his voice.

While I type, I beg my three-year-old to brush my hair. She tugs out the hair band, and then goes to get her purple comb. While she combs, her narration is continuous. Her voice is sweetly scratchy, and I listen to her thoughts. She starts with the things that matter most, and then moves to the extras.

"Mom, Jesus died on the cross. But now He's resurrected. I have my purple comb. You have a lot of hair." Her comb gets stuck in the gnarly mass; she leaves it and runs outside to play in the sunshine.

Is this one of the reasons we should be more like children? They know the fundamentals and place them first, filling in the gaps with the things they love the best, moving along at a pace that is great for them--regardless of anyone else in their world.

How do I adequately express my love for my family? Do they know how much I love them? Have I told them enough today? They fill my heart with what matters most.

I have to record these seemingly insignificant, precious moments that fill my life. They will expire too soon, like that quart of spinach artichoke dip in my refrigerator that I keep forgetting about.

God is so very, very good to me.

Happy Father's Day

There was a baby boy. He was gorgeous. Mom and Dad thought he was perfect. They couldn't kiss him enough, hold him close enough, sing to him sweetly enough. This baby was loved.

He grew to be a toddler. He was still gorgeous, but mischief began to gleam in his beautiful baby eyes. He didn't want to eat his vegetables. He emptied all the folded clothes out of drawers. He colored on walls. He fell and skinned his knees. Mom and Dad thought it was a good thing he was so cute.

He kept growing. He discovered the world was his to conquer. As his intellect and talent grew, so did his capacity to make a difference in his world. He found confidence in a job done right, humility in the gift of a second chance, and love in the serving hands that ministered to him.

He could be anything he wanted. Nothing could stop him. Any dream was his for the taking. His hands, when guided by God, could shape destinies and affect change in the future of the world. The magnitude of his potential was incalculable.

He thought long and hard about what he wanted the most. He turned down admiration, applause, and affectation to follow his greatest dream and fulfill the supreme grandeur of his divine creation.

He became a father.