Our friends have a daughter, now a teenager, who when she was very young, had several speech “impediments.” She just couldn’t pronounce certain words or letters. In particular, her “s” sounded like an “f.”

Well, when she was a young one, this problem with proper pronunciation provided much mirth for her parents. As she has gotten older, her parents have had to tell her about several little snafus, because, not unexpectedly, she has no independent recollection of the “fuff fee ufed to fay.”

While we were on buh-cay-shun, i.e. “vacation,” we discovered she had never heard one of our favorite stories that her parents shared with us. So her mom, thinking that she was now mature enough to understand the story, told it again. I will try to do it justice:

Once upon a time there was a cute and sweet little girl, hereinabove mentioned with the aforesaid impediment, who was eating supper with her family at the Solid Rock Café (yeah, cute name, huh? Her father was in seminary). Well, she, as most children do, loved to talk about what was most important to her at the time: some nursing kittens. She had even given them a cute little name. During the meal, the little girl began her story about the kittens with her pet name: “The Sucking Ones . . .” And immediately her parents turned brilliant red as all the seminary students and their families turned aghast to look at our friends.

Our friends’ daughter turned a similar shade and laughed heartily as she realized what she had said. We were all laughing as hard as our stomachs would allow, when we heard the eight year-old daughter, softly, but clearly, pose a poignant question: “The *@#%ing ones?!? What’s that?”

Needless to say, we laughed harder, though discreetly, as her mom told her calmly not to say that anymore.

*@#%ing phonics!

Ok. So Sissy wanted to vote more than once when I took her to the polls. No big deal. Doesn’t make her a liberal, right? She’s only 3. She did not intend to commit fraud – and intent is a required element of the crime. But one day this week, I turned on PBS at approximately 6:45 p.m. and it was the Jim Lehrer Report. When I turned it off, do you know what Sissy did? She asked for more Lehrer! Coincidence?!? I certainly hope so.

As set forth below and as stated previously, Baby Boy loves to stare.

And I took “da chilrens” to the Library this week, and Baby Boy was lounging in his stroller while Sissy and I colored (yeah, we color and play at the Library — because we read at home!). There was a man sitting in a chair right next to Baby Boy and Baby Boy just stared at him – no blinking, no smiling, just unadulterated staring. The man repeatedly looked at Baby Boy, and then each time, would turn just a little further away from Baby Boy. I think Baby Boy intimidated him! What a little man! Only 7 months old and he’s scaring away strange men from his Sissy and Mama. I pity the suitor interested in Sissy – if he makes it through Daddy!

Today, Baby Boy had his 6 months-old picture taken (at 7 months . . . I am always running late). He was such a handsome little man! They even called him Superman! Without any encouragement from me! This made me happy, for reasons previously provided.

He was so handsome! Who made that baby?!? (Okay, God made all things — but who did God make to make that Baby — yeah, that’s right: ME! I was the secondary means! Ain’t bad for a sinner, huh?). I anticipate modeling agencies contacting me shortly wanting to discuss his career. He has such a . . . Euro-nique look — just like his Daddy (who also received certain proposals for the aforesaid vocation). My men are SOOOOO CUTE!!!

In any event, he was precious, and Sissy even jumped in occasionally — but only when she was not expected. As soon as she was invited to get into the pic, she would oh-so politely say “Um . . . no tanks.” She is quite a little lady, but a little reserved, to say the least. I had to use a little trickeration to get her into the pic. For example, I asked her to fix Baby Boy’s hair. She gladly agreed and quickly and cheerfully went to Baby Boy, gently and lovingly stroked his light, fine hair with her petite hand, and then just as quickly, returned to her little seat by me. She has such a demure, solemn look and demeanor . . . it is truly striking. Absolutely beautiful.

Funny enough, they are both afraid of the same woman. She tries to be real friendly to them, to please them, to make them laugh, etc. But Sissy, at this age, recoils in fear as if encountering something evil and runs towards me. And Baby Boy’s little bottom lip just quivers and begins to swell into this huge protruding mass atop his chin, his eyes turn bright pink as the tears well up on the verge of rolling down his plump red cheeks, and he starts turning his head frantically looking for his mama. It’s just so sad! And so precious! And makes me so happy!

I finally understand the meaning of knowing something by heart. It means that this something is an integral part of you — it is dear to you. Seeing my 3-year old daughter sitting on our worn loveseat in her Sunday dress singing Psalm 4b by heart touched me in a way that few things can. Jesus loves her — and this she knows because the bible tells her so. It is as simple as that. And because of this knowledge, she loves to sing God’s praises. I even hear her singing Holy, Holy, Holy by heart to her little family as she puts Baby to bed. This truly is amazing grace.

I recently had the pleasure of attending a most wonderful tea party. The hostess, an exquisite young lady, welcomed me with such warm manners, including a lovely smile and affectionate hug as I arrived. She was dressed in her best – akin to a princess. She had a most magnificent table set. The table was draped with a beautiful hand-crocheted tablecloth, color of pumpkin, in the pattern of pineapple (which I believed to be very witty, in light of her hospitality). There was also a unique centerpiece containing bright orange and gold leaves that danced and sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight spilling through her window. It was a charming touch. And of course, she selected her best china for the occasion.

She served homemade pumpkin cookies (made from fresh pumpkins), which were delightful. She would not take “No, thank you” for an answer when I declined to have more than one. I reluctantly indulged in several. She also did a most unusual thing: instead of serving tea at her tea party (which, in my humble opinion, is so trite), she served the far superior and refined beverage of chocolate milk. That is when I discovered the depth of this young lady’s intellect.

Sissy loves to be a pimpess, a/k/a a princess. She thought every person she saw was a pimpess. So when Baby Boy came, we had to work with her for some time explaining that she is a princess because she is a girl and Baby Boy is a prince because he is a boy. She continued to call Baby Boy a pimpess, and we continued to remind her that he is a boy, so he is a prince.

Then one day she called Baby Boy a pimpess, and I asked her “Is Baby Boy a princess?” She, in a sing song voice, replied “Nooooooooo, Baby Boy’s a pimps!”

That’s better!?!

I am persuaded that we should have called Baby Boy, “Baby Bird.” He constantly has his little mouth completely wide open, just like a little robin. I am further convinced that he is “hungry for kisses,” and therefore, just kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss that little man-child of mine! He just eats that up.

In any event, having absolutely no talent for writing poetry, I like to do it. Here is my latest:

Look at me, Daddy, look and see!
My mouth is wide open — as wide as can be!
I’m walking around with my mouth open wide –
I’m not really sure what’s going inside!

*curtseying* Thank you very much.

On Election Day 2004, my 3-year old daughter, Sissy (self-named after the arrival of Baby Boy, whose name she also assigned), and I went on a date: The Library, Chick-fil-A to eat and play, and the Polls. Nice balance of fun and education, don’t ya think?

Because we have electronic voting booths, Sissy made my selections and pushed the big button to submit my vote. She did such a good job - she was attentive, interested, and listening to and following my instructions very well. My civics lesson was succeeding! I was so proud of her being so responsible!

Then she asked to vote again.

I know that some (many? most?) people like to take reading material into the bathroom. Consequently, I understand that it may be necessary to maintain a modest library of reading materials in the bathroom.

But what about that person who takes his drink, and by drink I mean a yummy adult beverage, into the bathroom? Should I stock a full bar in the towel cabinet? Or is a flask hidden in the book holder on the back of the toilet sufficient? Do I need to keep a bucket of ice in there so he may freshen up his libation at his leisure? Or is it appropriate to tell that person where he can put his drink — on the table until he’s done in the Loo!?!