We’ve been fighting the crud around here (you too?), and have been trying to get together with friends for a couple of weeks. With as many kids as we have added all together, we are waiting for that magical moment when the temperatures align and all nine to thirteen children are not seriously puking, fevering, ear-aching, or otherwise immovable.

Chamberlain went to bed last night with the sniffles and woke up in the middle of the night with a spider (the invisible, imaginary, dream world sort). Except she was stuffy and Vin had no idea what she was saying (“Dere’s a ‘pider id by bed ad cad you ‘quish it? Ad I also wat by Bob and Warry busic back on…”). I translated, he got up, squished the imaginary spider, and turned on a VeggieTales CD. Five minutes later Reagan was crying and it was my turn. Except usually I don’t have to take a turn. In almost seven months, this is only the second time Reagan has gotten up in the middle of the night. Both times she was sick with a cold – once when we first came home (day two or three?), and then last night.

And you know what was amazing and wonderful about this?

The first time she woke up in the middle of the night, she was coughing terribly and couldn’t breathe very well, and I couldn’t do a thing about it but pray. I tried to comfort her and she screamed. I tried to help her blow her nose and she panicked. I urged her to take a drink of water and she sobbed…the more I tried, the worse she got. I finally went back to bed that night and listened to her cry herself to sleep after I left the room.

But last night?

She called me mama. I helped her blow her nose. I put vapo-rub on her feet (you know this will stop coughing, don’t you?) and peppermint oil on her chest and forehead and she laid back, safe and content. As I shut the door, she said, “Ni-night, Mama…” and fell asleep happy, not quite seven months later.

A year ago we were in the city that rhymes with seven. It was our first week with Andrey, just meeting him. This week now, in our part of Alaska, the weather is very similar to what it was last year, in that city in Bulgaria. I woke up this morning and could feel the same-ness of it from the light in the sky and the waving bare branches.

This week last year, we heard Andrey say two sentences on his own, maybe. This week, this year, he is getting in trouble for having his favorite stuffed animal on the table at mealtimes, and he argues about it. “But Koosten is huuungry! See? Koosten saying,” – insert squeaky voice – “I’m hungry!” Yep.

“Llllook!” she says at the lunch table. She holds up her sandwich: “It’s a dwagon!” Another bite. “Oh! Now it’s a lllion!” Another bite. “It’s a kitty, with two oos!” Another bite. “Oh, a kitty with one oo!”

You should be glad we don’t feed her pop tarts.

(you might also be glad that we homeschool…)

A year ago, I thought we had a pretty good handle on potty humor. Fast forward to this year, when a few days ago I asked a certain child to add 87 + 5, and he started to answer, “Ninety–” but was interrupted by musical noises that can only be produced by small boys after eating too much chili. Older brother answered for him, though. The answer, of course, was…

Ninety-toot.