While his hoarding tendency means that he, literally, brought more to this relationship than I did, when it comes to the important stuff, we somehow manage to balance.

He brought Maggie.

I brought Maddy.

And we both brought our childhood teddy bears.

His, "Paddington," is on the right.

Mine, uber-creatively named "The Bear With The Bell In His Ear," is on the left.

Each bear somehow made it through the trenches of our messy childhoods, despite matted fur, patched-up holes and glassy-eyed stares, mostly intact. As their reward they now perch just beyond the reach of the next generation of sticky-handed, would-be eye-pokers and ear tuggers.

Paddington and Jed used to do a lot of skydiving together. Well, Paddington -- stripped of his raincoat and hat and instead wearing the latest styles designed by mom and grandma -- would skydive with a parachute and Jed would push him out of the plane. They were inseparable friends until one dangerous adventure when Paddington skydived into a lamp, got stuck and burned his little bear backside.

You can't replace friends like that.

Which is what I was thinking as I recalled my most vivid nursery school memory: Bringing my prized Bear With The Bell In His Ear to show-and-tell. I was so excited to show and tell all about its amazing, stupendous, unique secret -- that he did, indeed, have a bell in his ear. (What can I say? I've always had a flair for the obvious). But instead, found myself listening to the hiss of a tow-headed little girl, wearing a smart, navy sailor suit, as she threatened to remove his jingle with her safety scissors.

Poor bear. He never left my room again.

That is until recently when he and Paddington went to stay with a neighbor of ours, who has a gentle way with well-loved toys.

Nursery magic, as The Velvetine Rabbit can tell you, makes toys real. But Margot Curran makes them immortal.

I do believe our bears' best days are yet to come.

Persnickety son

Must have socks flecked in batter

Pity, I washed them

I know you are probably wishing for more of the cat's food and the freedom to take whatever you want off the plates of the kids.

Oh wait ... You've already got that finagled now, haven't you?

I'll tell you what I wish.

I wish we could have you around for another 16 years.

Happy Birthday, Miss M.

Bedtime. It's bedtime. Get ready for bed. Please. Please. Please get ready for bed. It's time to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Get on your pajamas. Brush your teeth. Pick out your books. Get ready for bed.

Brush your teeth, boyo. Now. Brush them. That wasn't brushing. That was holding a toothbrush near your face. Brush. Your. Teeth. For two minutes. I'll set the timer. Brush. Your. Teeth. Either YOU brush your teeth or I will brush your teeth. Which do you choose?

And you, girly-girl, you can stop laughing at me and get on your pajamas. And stop jumping on the bed. Stop. Jumping. And take your pajamas off the cat. Really. Calming down. That's the goal. We're callllllming down. Now. Calming. Down.

I'm only reading one book. Just one. And not the one that is 200 pages long. So don't even try to sneak that one under my nose. I will not be tricked into reading the Tolstoy of children's fables. So don't even try.

OK ... I'm reading now.

I'm reading. Now.

Stop playing with whatever that thing is in your hand and listen. To the story. Listen. With your ears. ... not with your hands.

OK ... where was I?

... and they all lived happilyeverafterTheEnd.

(Switches off light).

What?

No, I did not skip any pages. I love you. Go to sleep.

How should we celebrate her Sweet Sixteen?

Dear Champ,

One of your teachers at the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children pulled me aside today and told me this story:

She'd been trying to drum up enthusiasm for vegetables among the ranks, asking each kid about their favorites and hoping to plant a seed that might just grow into some leafy green love.

"I love cucumbers. Don't you love cucumbers?"

When she got to you, you turned the question back: "Do you like children?"

"Of course I like children," was her reply. "Just not in my salad."

Roll on the floor laughing, she said, was your response.

I believe her.

I also believe you might rather eat children than salad.

Love and "No, there's no Chocolate until AFTER you eat your dinner,"

Mommy

It doesn't always look the way you think it will.

Dear Silas,

It's going to be a good day.

Unless you knock over the tree that your sister worked so very hard to decorate this past Sunday.

Yes. I know it's just barely December. But after her Academy Award worthy performance of the Nutcracker -- she danced with dramatic flair (and what seemed to be four-part harmony) -- the point of which was making yours truly buy the earliest cut tree EVER in the history of this household. ... What could I do?

It was either get the tree or watch the "Barbie Nutcracker" DVD for the zillionth time. And saying 'No' to decorating it after the Royal WE had hauled the dang thing upstairs and cemented it into its stand would have had the same effect as trying to stop train barreling down an an icy track.

No one wants that.

But I digress.

Back to you, and the thing you've started doing ... hurtling yourself into the tree from your lowly position on that little pushcar you so love.

Please, just don't do it. Ok?

Because if you continue to charge headfirst at the evergreen, we shall have to wrap you in a duct tape leash, measured precisely to stop your forward catapult one measly little foot away from the stately fir. (Picture the tree holding a midget at arm's length and you will get the drift of what I'm trying to get at here).

Of course I realize you may need a sweet incentive, so here's the deal: If you stay away from the lights and the baubles, I will make waffles.

You like waffles.

Fluffy, hot waffles bathed in maple syrup are SO much better than some dumb old tree that's sticky with pine sap, anyway!



Wishing you love and soft landings,

Mama

Dear Annabel,

You will soon be five.

In any other message I would bemoan the fact that you are growing up. I would wonder where the time went. Five years is no time at all but, by the same token, it's an eternity.

But I am not sad that you are growing up. I don't miss the baby you were as much as I love the girl you are right now. I love that you are so curious, that you are not shy. I love that you are so interested in the world around you.

You've gone from a tiny baby to a tiny little girl. I'm still able to tote you about; swing you around, but you are heavier in my arms. I have to take breaks and regroup my strength. I have to employ the "mommy's tired" approach to such activities in earnest.

I know that you are dealing with a lot of growing up stuff right now. There are frustrations. There are miscommunications. There are some bad days that end with fewer books read at bedtime and angry "Goodnights" ... more of a command for silence than a wish for sweet dreams.

I am not proud of this. I AM the adult. I DO know better.

It may not seem like it, but whenever there is sadness on your face it settles in my heart.

You should know that while I don't consider you an "easy" child, I love you for all your complexity.

You are sensitive, robust and inquisitive. You are kind and loving. I hope you are resilient, too. I know that any effort people make on your behalf will be repayed with interest.

I know I can't always protect your feelings, even from my own thoughtless outbursts. But I know that I love you always and forever.
And I woudn't want you to be anyone else.

You are my heart's center.

Love,

Mommy.