This one, she’s a fighter. Behind those vibrant blues of hers is an ardor and toughness that could be a worthy opponent for any adult willing to carry her away, wailing and arching, from anywhere she wants to be; and for anyone foolish enough to try to box her in.

This is a six-year-old’s creation, with the aid of a website as well as a keen sense of what she prefers. I helped her navigate the different settings and strange effects for photos, and this is what she came up with. Together we searched my computer for a the perfect picture from which to begin. We found it from half-a-year ago, which in the lifetime of a child or a youngish mother, is also half-a-lifetime.

At night, I search for something sweet.

I scour my kitchen cupboards, both refrigerators, a freezer, then back to the cupboards for something to quench the sweet craving that has come over me. Sometimes I scoop some ice cream. Other times, I get in the car and drive to the frozen yogurt shop to buy the tasty goodness that is Golden Spoon (to assuage any sugary-guilt). But then I usually feel just as guilty about the four dollars I’ve just spent on something that is so silly and airated.

Sometimes I try to satisfy it with something healthier like an orange or a bowl of cereal. Even then, my tooth still aches sweet and the only thing that helps is actually going to bed.

I realized this morning that, like my night-cravings, my craving to create is only satisfied by writing. I’ve lived with a starving heart for so long. And I’ve tried to feed it with other creative-type ventures whose only remnants remain in boxes in my garage. I have a crocheting and knitting box (I made some decent scarves once upon a time). I have a scrapbooking box (I did a dozen or so pages for Hope when she was a baby). I have a homemade card box (actually, there are two boxes).

It isn’t as if I am bad at any of these things. But, I am in love with none of these so none of these has had any longevity in my life. And I’ve always had a hunger to create; I’ve just been pointing it in different and wrong directions.

Until I found that I could write again. Until I found my words.

Daily writing has statisfied the sweet-tooth of my creativity. It has been the honey-goodness of ice cream or the luxury of a corner of chocolate. It has kept me full and been the recent metaphor for my life. And I am in love with it.

In my heart, I know there are bigger things out there.

Anne is in Uganda. Linda is working on a book. Tiffany lives in the UK.

And me. Here I am. I pretend I am a writer. I feel like I barely function as a mother and wife. I try to keep our budget under control while paying our outrageous mortgage. I dust my shelves and wash my dishes. I go to Target. I live in a protected county in a nice neighborhood. I walk my toddler to the park and my Kindergartener goes to a private school. I buy my milk from Trader Joes. I try to contribute the the larger world by posting to this blog every day. But…

I feel little.

I feel normal.

I feel insignificant.

I am not saving children from starvation in Africa. I haven’t been courageous enough to pitch a book idea to a publisher and be accepted. I haven’t left every person I have ever known and taken three kids across the Atlantic to live in another country. I am not doing any of these things.

Yet…even as little as I feel tonight, something nags in my soul that I am not meaningless. There are bigger things out there, yes, bigger than my little house in my little world. There are important things, political or moral things, things that history will hang things upon. These things are not here.

But, there are two little-big things upstairs asleep, exhausted from an emotionally trying day. One is two-years-old, resting in her crib, forming new sentences in her dreams. Another is six, and she has fallen asleep before her bedtime, wondering if she will ever be able to control the too-big feelings for her body.

When one of these looks up at me with her little-girl eyes, I know that there are much larger things out there, but I am drawn to the minutiae here at home. I know that the energy I pour into these two little souls will make the big things bigger somehow. I can help launch revolutions and evolutions by mothering two strong and tender someday-women.

These daughters I have been given are my big things.

At least for now.

I’ve been under pressure. I admit I need some kind of a break.

Confession: I’ve been irritable and I’ve yelled at my kids. I’ve been frustrated and my stress leaks into my words. I speak to my family and my voice sounds strained. My smile has been slow to appear and my eyes have been tired.

My girls and my husband don’t deserve this. Even if my morning IS filled with dumped-out-toy boxes and pilfered Crayola markers (a lost marker is a scary thing when it is a 2-year-old who has made off with it); even if my afternoon is napless and my car is a repository for half-eaten goldfish crackers and cheese sticks; even if my evening must be spent folding laundry so I can actually walk through my bedroom without tripping…even so, my family shouldn’t be where I deposit my annoyance.

It really was a day I should have asked for forgiveness from my oldest daughter. I spent the afternoon in a half-yell, it seemed, which was followed by feelings of guilt at my own frustration. Even before I had a chance to ask her to forgive me, that I am a mommy and I should have more self-control than to let the day get the best of me….even before this, she had grace for me. She was the recipient of the bulk of my irritation today and she had the most grace.

Closing in on eight-o-clock, the time when she would go to bed, she asked me to stop running and wanted me to just sit with her. She wanted me just to cuddle. I put down the laundry and the pile of bills I was leafing through, and I stopped.

I wrapped my arms around her, closed my eyes for a few minutes and let the grace of a six-year-old engulf me. And I was thankful.

In Southern California we really don’t have a winter. We gently sweep from fall to a colder fall that happens sometime in December, and then by January it is as cold as it will get here. We hover in the 50s and 60s during the day and some nights it will be in the frosty 30s. But we really live in a temperate zone bursting with moderation.

February is usually cool, but sometimes hot. Like yesterday, and what is forecast for today. 80s? Really? In February? We question and balk every year, but many years it can be hot during this month. The year that I had Naomi, I remember the hospital attendant wheeling me out to our car as I carried my newborn and after being inside for about 2 1/2 days, I was suprised to feel almost 90 degree heat on February 9th!

Our summers stretch from about March to October, and the remaining months are usually just less warm with some grey days sprinkled throughout.

I took the girls to a nature center yesterday, and the recent rain had created green blankets of grass over the usual brown. The oak trees seemed fresh and alive, not dreary and hot and tired like they do in the summer. The jasmine hasn’t bloomed yet, but the cascading vines were a thousand blossoms ready to open. A few had already bloomed and I stopped for a second to smell the jasmine. The scent was even evident through the closed petals. Hundreds of tiny, pink-white flowers just waiting….

The girls splashed in the water in the yard after we got home. Not because it was so hot they must, but it was so nice that they could.

Summer isn’t here, not nearly. It will rain again many times and it will still be chilly in the mornings before we swing fully into spring or summer, but the sun on my skin makes me wish and lets me pretend for an afternoon.

This is my Naomi, with the power to look perfectly beautiful even when she isn’t looking at me at all.

We emerged from our sick-den on Friday to go to Hope’s field trip with her class. It was against my better judgement, but the zoo had been held up all week as something to strive for, it was what we wanted to attain. We tried to get better so she could go.