Ru,

You keep your mother perpetually in one of two states, sometimes both at once.  I feel like I’m always either in fits of laughter or pulling my hair out these days! 

The other morning you came up to me and announced, “I’m Piglet’s Grandma, Momma.  I’m Piglet’s Grandma.”  When I finally acknowledged that fact, you were supremely happy, and continued to play with Piglet (sister’s stuffed animal, which makes him somehow more desirable than Pooh on certain days—thus the frequent emphatic statement, “Piglet is my best friend!”).

Later you came running over to tell me, “There are two bunny fuzzes in the doorway!” 

I never did see said dust bunnies, but you got out your stuffed white bunny and apparently she saw them, for you told her: “Look, there’s your two bunny fuzz!”

And then there are the days where you seem to delight in getting in trouble because that means you can be alone in your room and not have to share with sister.  (We’re working on alternative punishments to being sent to your room, but it seems you’d rather have your toys taken away than let sister play with them!) 

It’s those days that I ask, “What am I going to do with you?” 

And that question?  It is then rephrased by you as, “What you want to do with me?” when you want someone to play with you. 

And the way you say it always makes people laughingly agree to do whatever you decide they want to do with you.

I love you, Ru.  Even if you are going to be the cause of many of my grey hairs.

Love,
Piglet’s grandma

Dear Ru,

Three weeks ago yesterday, your daddy called me and asked if I’d looked outside lately.  I hadn’t, but I did.

There was black smoke billowing up, just down the road.  And the wind was blowing like crazy. On a very, very hot summer day.

Instantly, I was just a few years older than you.  It was a Sunday morning.  My mom answered the phone when it rang.  And before I knew it, my daddy—who had just seconds ago been almost dressed for church—was changed into his logging clothes.  He and my logger uncle made the fastest trip ever to my grandparents’ ranch. Their hard work, and that of others, helped save my Papa and Grama’s home from the fire that came nearly to the fire line my daddy helped make just beyond their back yard.

We live in the middle of a field—a dry one, yes, but a field nonetheless.  We weren’t too worried for our immediate safety, unless the wind changed.  But our hearts ached for our neighbors.  And I set some sprinklers in the yard just because it made me feel a bit better.

You had to follow me outside to look at the smoke time and time again.  Then came the helicopters and airplanes.  You wanted to do nothing but watch them.  The nap you were supposed to be taking was out of the question.

I tried to remain calm, and not let you hear the fear in my voice as I phoned your grandmas asking for prayer.

You must have caught on to something your daddy said about a neighbor’s house, though, because you started saying, “Make sure our house doesn’t blow away.”

“If you know what will happen to our house?” you asked.  “We would have to get a new house!”

Your repeated statements were heartbreaking.

“Will our house break?  If you know what will happen?”

The wind kept up, blowing your little pigtails as you stared up at the helicopters, smiley face stickers on the lenses of your little sunglasses.

“It wouldn’t be a good idea for our house to burn.  We would have to build a new house.”

It was so matter of fact for you.  More like Eeyore’s house disappearing than anything.  Yet even as you spoke, I knew that neighbors must be losing homes.  So many, many houses in those wooded hills.

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