​Chapter 12
The Letter

Misty never did write that letter, but you’re not going to believe what happened after she left. Keep in mind, I’m writing really fast. Out my bedroom window I see the moving van in the driveway, and my mom’s mad at me for sleeping late. You would’ve, too, if you had spent the day running back and forth between centuries,I’m tempted to tell her. 

So I don’t have time for this, but I need to get it down before I lose it. You’re gonna die when you find out what I’ve got on my dresser—I’m looking at it right now. But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s just that I can’t stand knowing the rest of the story when you don’t.

After Misty and Lizbet leave, I’m standing there in my playhouse, feeling worse than I’ve ever felt in my life. I can’t hardly look at Lizbet’s cradle. Misty’s sleeping bag is bunched up on the floor. She’s gone, and I’m like: There goes the best friend I’ll ever have.

Then I think about the letter. 

I go to the shed and get the garden shovel with the pink flowers on it, the one I used to dig up the stones back before I met Misty. I’m wondering about a million things. Did Lizbet make it? How did Misty explain the oranges to her parents? Did everybody live happily ever after? I have all these questions nagging at me, and it feels funny that the only thing I’ll ever know is what Misty chooses to tell me.

I get to the tree. The hole I dug on the day I first found the stones is filled in, but I can see where it was. Good thing the moon is bright, because it’s creepy out here. Imagine being by yourself in your yard, after midnight, which I’m pretty sure it is. Seriously, close your eyes and try it. If you’re any good at it, the hair on the back of your neck will stand up, and you’ll be looking behind you all the time like a spaz, which is what I’m doing now. I try not to think about the spot that Lizbet’s pa dug for her grave. (Even worse, wondering if she’s in there.) It’s right behind me as I dig, and I feel it like a living, breathing thing at my back. 

You can probably guess, I’m digging fast. Pretty soon, I’ve got the wooden box in my hand—I didn’t cover it up too good when I threw it back in the hole. Dig deep, Diamond. Of course, Misty would bury that letter way deeper than the box, to make sure I find the stones first. Just think if I had found the letter before I found the stones. The whole thing would have turned out different. Now I’m wondering if there would have been a letter if I hadn’t found those stones. I’m making myself crazy trying to figure it all out, so I tell myself to shut up. 

Shut up, Diamond. 

Just dig.

I keep on until my shovel clangs on something hard. Now’s the part where I have to dig around the thing to get it out, which takes a long time. Turns out, it’s a saltine cracker tin. I look inside, and I see something packed in there. Surprise number one: whatever it is, it’s packed in the grocery bag that Misty carried the oranges in. 

Cool.

I take the package out. Inside the grocery bag is an envelope, with a wax seal on the flap. There’s something else, too, but it’s all wrapped up in cotton, so I can’t tell what it is. It’s killing me, having to pick which one to open first. The letter wins. I tear the flap on the envelope and slide a folded sheet of stationery out.

I open it. 

Inside, there’s lavender flowers all around the edges. The handwriting looks like a grown-up’s, the first clue that Misty didn’t go straight home and write to me. I guess there was no hurry, seeing as she had over a hundred years to get it done. Just so you can know everything, I’m going to copy the whole letter here, word for word:

February 2, 1957
Dear Diamond Joy,
In this long overdue letter, I am writing to thank you for saving my life. After recovering from scurvy, I have gone on to live 72 happy years, and I expect I shall have a few more. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about the debt I owe you for being so brave.

Misty told me the whole story. She told me about the stones, and how they brought her to you on that first day you met. She told me how poorly I was doing, and how the two of you nursed me back to health in your little playhouse. My ma and pa were so frightened at the thought of losing me, but according to Misty, they believed a miracle had been bestowed upon our family. Apparently, it took many weeks for me to recover, but there was no doubt that you—and your oranges—saved my life.

Misty told me so much about you. She said you were the funniest girl she ever met. She said you were kind, and that you had a happy face. She spoke of you often throughout the rest of her life, which tragically ended too soon. We lost Misty to scarlet fever when she was only 26 years old. I’ll never forget her telling me that your name was the most perfect one for you. She said you sparkled, and that you radiated a boundless joy.

So you can imagine my surprise when a young man named Allen Joy rode into our town in 1902. He was so handsome! All of the girls were in love with him, but he picked me. We were married in the small white church that was part of the community that grew around us in the late 1800’s, long after Pa had staked his claim and built us the two-room cabin we were living in when you came to visit. By the time I got married, Pa had built us a larger home in the same location, so Allen and I lived with my parents until they both passed away. We had such wonderful times there as a family. Allen and I had two boys who grew into fine men. 

Our sons’ names are Thomas and Henry. Thomas is an explorer; he makes his living in the shipping business and lives for the most part in Europe. But Henry stayed with us. He married a wonderful young woman—Julie Stoker Joy—and they have four boys: Allen, Carter, Timothy and James. Our house was too small for all of us, so Henry built another—much larger—one. To think, all of this started in a tiny log cabin in the woods of Wisconsin!

When the boys grew up, Carter remained in the family home. Carter married Kathleen Armstrong, and they have three children: Samuel, Margaret and Ruth. I no longer live in the house. After Allen passed away, I went to live with my son, Henry, and his wife, Julie, in a much smaller place, closer to town. 
By now, you are probably fitting together the pieces of the puzzle. I do not know when you were born, but I do believe you live in the house that Henry built, as Misty described it to me. The house is white, with a porch that spans the front. The pillars are big, round columns, and when you walk in the front door, you can go up the stairs to the left or into the parlor on the right. Straight ahead you will find the kitchen. Upstairs, there are four bedrooms. I imagine your front bedroom window is full of cherry blossoms in the spring, as Henry planted a sapling underneath it shortly after he finished the house.

Does this sound familiar to you? All signs point to one conclusion. I believe I am your grandmother, some generations back. At this point I do not know how many, but I suspect you could figure it out. 

I am an old woman now, Diamond Joy, and for this long life I’ve lived, I am most grateful to you. Isn’t it marvelous that you, too, are alive because of me?

Life is a mystery, and I feel blessed to have shared this wonderful mystery with you. You are forever in my heart, my dearest grandchild.

All my love,
Elizabeth Joy, née (Lizbet) Dance

P.S. The enclosed gift is from Misty. She made it during the time I was recuperating from scurvy. She kept meaning to write you a letter, but she was afraid that when she did, it would feel too much like good-bye. My only regret is that she didn’t find out who you were before she died.
 
So here I am in my backyard, holding this letter. I hardly know what to do. It takes a long time to get what it’s telling me. I feel like I need to sit down, so I do. Then I stand up. It’s like I’ve got a million flies buzzing around inside of me, not letting me think.

If what this letter says is true, Lizbet is my great-something grandma. 

No freaking way. 

She was a baby. I start doing the math. Lizbet had a great grandson named Samuel. If Lizbet is Grampa Sam’s great grandma, that must mean she’s my great-great-great grandma, and Misty is my aunt, way back. 

So that’s why the stones brought us together. 

Lizbet, Misty, and me are family!

The whole time I was there, I had this feeling about both of them. Like I knew them, even though I didn’t. And can you believe it? Lizbet was Grampa Sam’s great-grandmother! I would give anything to go back to 1957 and ask her everything I could think of about my grampa as a little boy. I bet he was like me. Maybe a little like Misty, too.  

My cheeks are wet, and I didn’t even know I was crying. I can’t believe Misty hardly got to be a grown-up. It seems so unfair. But knowing her, she would have been okay with it. Not me, though. I wonder if I could have gone back and saved her, like I did with Lizbet. Then I have this unbelievable thought, the kind that can make your head explode if you’re not careful:

If Lizbet had died when she was a baby, I never would have been born. 

By saving Lizbet, I saved myself.

I mean, what if I hadn’t--

Forget it. You figure that one out. I’m way too full right now.

I pick up the cracker tin, which I had dropped without even knowing it. I take out the thing that’s all wrapped in cotton. I unwind it, like a mummy, turning it over and over as I do. 

When I’m done, I’ve got a rag doll in my hands. I’m staring at her and she’s staring at me, all lit up by the moon. She’s wearing a dress made out of the same fabric as the baby blue one I borrowed from Misty. She’s got an apron on, too. I touch her light brown yarn hair, the most beautiful color you ever saw. 
Mine.

Misty made a doll that looks just like me. She has a smile stitched on her face, and blue button eyes, like mine. I finger her hair, the ruffle on her apron. There’s even a pocket on the apron, like the one I had. It also looks like something’s in the pocket. I wiggle my finger in there and pull out four stones. More like pebbles. I look at them up close.

V-L-E-O.

Vleo. I wonder what that means. I move the pebbles around in the palm of my hand, spelling out what Misty is trying to tell me.

L-O-V-E.

Love.

There’s the proof, scratched out with Misty’s knitting needle. She told me she would send me her love, and she did. I’ve got it right here in my hand, but I feel it in my heart. 

So now I’m sitting on my bed, the sheets stripped, my Diamond doll in my lap. On my dresser is a picture of Lizbet, in a silver frame that stands up by itself. It’s been on the top shelf of our curio cabinet for as long as I can remember. She’s an old lady in that picture. She’s holding Grampa Sam, a toddler, and they’re standing by the cherry tree in our front yard. Behind them is our house. You can see my bedroom window—at least part of it—up in the corner. In yet another weird thought, I imagine my face up there, peeking through the curtain.

Mrs. Dance’s wooden box is on my dresser, too. Hard to believe Mrs. Dance is my great-great-great-great grandma (count ‘em, there’s four), but she is. Other than my furniture, everything else in my room is gone. But Lizbet’s picture, the stones, and Diamond didn’t get packed in a box. They’re coming with me. I want to make sure nothing happens to them in the move.

After all, who knows? The stones might still work at my new house. Not that I would ever use them again. Too risky. I’m just going to put them away, in the back of my new closet. I’m definitely not going to use them again. 

But you didn’t hear me swear it, if you know what I mean. 

“Di!”

Stu.

“Di!!”

Stu’s under my window on the front porch stoop, probably driving the movers crazy. The moving van is loading up, getting ready to take everything away from me. 

“What?!” I stick my head out the window, even though my dad told me never to do this. 

“You should see inside the truck! The guys let me walk up the ramp and go inside!”

“They did?”

“Yeah! But Dad told me to get off, so you don’t get to.”

I see my dad, bossing the movers, telling them to “go easy.” Two guys have Mom’s mirror between them, all taped up in brown paper, and they’re balancing it as carefully as Mr. Dance did when he took Lizbet from me. I wonder if my dad knows he’s got a twin, back in the 1800’s. Well, maybe not a twin, but close. Wouldn’t that be a weird thing to find out about yourself? 

“Too bad. I’m busy anyway,” I tell Stu.

“Doing what? You should come down and see this truck. Maybe you can go in when Dad’s not looking.”

“I’m getting my stuff.”
​
“What stuff? It’s all supposed to be in your boxes.”

“Things I’m going to keep with me in the car.”

“What things?”

“That stuff I told you about. From Lizbet.”

“Oh, those. I still wonder how all that happened. I think about it all the time.”

“Me, too.”

“Maybe you and Misty fell into a wormhole.”

“A wormhole?”

“Yeah. Einstein made them up, where you can connect two dots at different times and go from dot-to-dot, totally skipping time. But he was never able to prove it.”

“Little brother, you are so smart.” Stu looks at me funny whenever I say that, like he doesn’t know who I am. Maybe he thinks I morphed into somebody else in the wormhole. 

“What?”

“I said you were smart, but I’m not sayin’ it again.”

“Yeah, well you’re such a know-it-all I bet your big head won’t fit back in that window,” he says.

If I squint, and pretend Stu is a lot younger and has baby fat on his cheeks, I can sort of see how my brother looks like Timmy. Hmmm. Now that I think about it, he doesn’t look anything like Timmy. I’m just making that up. But I remember how good it felt to be nice to Timmy, and I’m sort of liking how it feels to be nice to Stu, too.

“Let me try.” I tap my head against the open window once, twice, three times. “Nope, not this way.” I drop my chin to the sill and rock my head from side-to-side. “Ouch. I guess I’m staying here. Have fun in Virginia.” 

Now Stu’s laughing, doing that snorting thing he always does. “You’re such a dork!”

“Could ya send up a tuna sandwich if I lower a bucket? I don’t know how I’m going to eat like this.”

“Come down, would you?”

“In a sec.”

I pull my head in and shut the window. I turn, slow, to torture myself by taking one last look at my room. This will be the hardest, giving up my bedroom so another kid can move in. I wonder, when we leave Wisconsin, will we be leaving the Dances behind, too? I mean, do your ancestors find you wherever you go?

I bet they do.

After all, I found them, didn’t I? I like to think we have an invisible string that keeps us together no matter what, but I can’t know for sure that’s true. I mean, if I hadn’t found the stones, I wouldn’t be here to even think about that string, let alone be tied to one end of it. But here’s something I’ve thought about at least one million times, probably more. 

I’m glad I didn’t quit. Saving Lizbet was the right thing to do. Sometimes I wish I knew who I would’ve turned out to be if I hadn’t thrown those stones, but I need to get over that, since I doubt I’ll ever know. 
 
                                                            THE END
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STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
Would you have been brave enough to dig up the letter in the middle of the night? How do you think Diamond felt?
How does it make you feel about the story, now that you know the Dances were Diamonds ancestors?
Do you think Diamond did the right thing by changing history? Would you have done the same thing?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

Son Turning into Hypochondriac
by Mary Follin and Kristi Crosson
Read on Fredericksburg Parent & Family magazine

​THE PROBLEM: Ever since the pandemic started, my 11-year old son ‘catches’ everything he reads about. He gets stomachaches, headaches, sore throats—any symptom he can think of. And each time, he’s sure it’s something deadly. He sings ‘Happy Birthday’ when he washes his hands, sometimes twice, just to make sure. (I even suggested he sing a different song to help him ease up on the compulsion, but he won’t.) I’m scared he’s becoming a hypochondriac. He can’t seem to stop thinking about his health. I keep telling him he’s fine, but that doesn’t work. I need ideas!

MARY SAYS: If ever there were a triggering event for developing hypochondria, a pandemic oughta do it. EVERYBODY has been inordinately focused on their health, other people’s health, germs, and the state of the planet for the last year or so. And because a pandemic is something most of us have never lived through, there are a lot of worst-case scenarios bandying about.

It’s the ‘bandying about’ that can actually be the most harmful to our children. This pandemic we’re in has many people fixating on how dire—and fragile—our existence on this planet truly is. Granted, the horizon is looking brighter, but many adults have been tripped into a state of heightened anxiety and can’t seem to get out of it.

Imagine what this does to the kids.

So, for starters, please be careful about sharing your worries with your son—or in front of him. If your family has been impacted by COVID-19—through illness, job loss, mental health issues—show your son how you are working through it, rather than how terrified you are. This doesn’t mean you should cover up what’s going on, but please limit your son’s involvement to a need-to-know basis.

Make a focused effort to point out the good news. The number of people getting ill is rapidly falling in multiple areas, and many of the places your son may have frequented before the pandemic will have opened back up. Remind him that children do not appear to be nearly as susceptible as older adults, and most people who get COVID-19 do get better. Make sure he knows this, since he is clearly picking up only on the bad stuff.

It might also be helpful to introduce some calming activities into your home. Rather than engaging in conversations about your son’s fears, break out some colorful paints and pads of paper, turn some fun music on, or show him how to sit quietly with his eyes closed for a moment of stillness. In all likelihood, your son’s anxious behaviors will subside when he feels as though the world is more ‘normal’ again. And who’s to say it won’t be? I’m not sure anybody has ever figured out what ‘normal’ really is.

Teaching your child to read? Learn about our online phonics program!

KRISTI SAYS: One of the unfortunate side effects of this pandemic is that it has created a lot of extra fear in children. Children who were never concerned about anything are now worried about everything. On the bright side, your son is doing a great job with one of the best ways to prevent sickness, which is proper handwashing. It’s something adults and even healthcare professionals struggle to do regularly.

The downside, of course, is that he is becoming compulsive. Fear causes people to do strange things, and it’s likely that fear is at the root of his new habits. He is scared to get sick and terrified of what will happen to him if he does. So, he has taken to doing the only thing he knows to control.

Washing his hands.

For him, a headache from dehydration could mean death is imminent. Or a scratchy throat from mild seasonal allergies is the end. Why not teach him some of your grandma’s remedies? Mine always had me gargle warm salt water for sore throats, drink a little juice and water and lay down for a bit with a headache. This may help him feel more in control and show him that he can do something proactively to help his symptoms.

Next, don’t let him have unsupervised access to news headlines and the internet in general. Fear sells, and unfortunately, many headlines lead with worst-case scenarios and the deadliest cases. While these situations are heartbreaking and true, they don’t tell the whole story. Most people who have been infected during the pandemic didn’t have symptoms, and those who did were only mildly sick and got better with the right treatments.

Take him outside. Go hiking on a trail or somewhere outdoors where he can feel safe from getting sick, but also doesn’t need to wear his mask. Some people are more prone to the negative side effects of mask-wearing, which can remind them too often that something is ‘off.’

Talk to your son about his concerns. Let him express how he feels and don’t judge him for it. This past year has been very difficult for everyone. Children lack the ability to process these hard emotions. Don’t be afraid to seek counseling, someone who can help him come up with strategies to overcome his fears. It’s likely your son is trying to process everything he’s feeling and looking for a way to be in control.

ASK MOM offers parents two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues—one from a mom with grown children (Mary), the other from a mom raising small children (Kristi). If you're looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn't around to ask, drop in! 

If you have a question for Mary and Kristi, we’d love to hear from you! askmomyourquestion@gmail.com

Read more ASK MOM advice.

Your child can learn to read with phonics.

I had to load the dishwasher after dinner, and it took me forever to pack my boxes. By the time I go back, it’s dark out, but the moon is big, fat, round. On my way down the hill, I see my playhouse, square in the middle of a moonbeam. The silver-white light makes the grass look snowy, the shadows around my playhouse pitch black. I’ve got two sleeping bags and two pillows in my arms, a hotdog in my apron pocket.

I tap at the playhouse door with my boot. Misty shuffles around; it takes her a long time to open it. I’m standing there, wondering if I’m about to get the worst news of my life.

Misty’s at the door. She’s got Lizbet in her arms.

“How is she?” I ask, first thing.

Misty shakes her head. 

Here I am, loaded down with all my stuff. I wish I had somebody to scream at, but I don’t. All I have is Misty, a pioneer girl whose baby sister is dying.

“Did she drink more juice?” I ask.

“Half of an orange.” 

I bring the sleeping bags in and drop them on the floor. “That’s not enough. I’m going to squeeze out some more, then I’ll roll out the sleeping bags. Let’s try and get a few inches in her before we go to sleep.”

Lizbet’s not having it. We’re able to get her to take a few sips, but after that, she won’t even swallow. She doesn’t wake up, just lays there, her mouth going limp when we try to put the nipple in.

Misty sighs. “It’s no use, Diamond,” she says. “We are forcing something that is not meant to happen. Perhaps we should try and get some sleep. Lizbet is telling us that she can take no more juice right now. We must try again later.”

“But what if we fall asleep and don’t wake up ‘til it’s too late? We can’t risk that.”
“I shall hardly sleep a wink. Still, we must try and rest.”

Even though I don’t want to, I say okay. We can’t exactly make Lizbet drink. I climb in my sleeping bag while Misty puts Lizbet back in the cradle. “Hey, wait a minute. You haven’t eaten yet. I forgot. I brought you a hotdog.” I pull it out of my apron.

Misty takes the hotdog from me. She sits down on her sleeping bag and turns it over. 

She sniffs it. 

“Thank you, Diamond,” she says. “But I don’t believe I’m hungry.”

“You’ve got to eat,” I say.

 “I’m afraid I don’t have the will for it.”

“Hang on. I’ve got something you’ll love.”

Back over to the table, I pull the rest of the stuff out of Stu’s bag and make us each a S’more, a graham cracker sandwich stuffed with a marshmallow and two chocolate bar squares. They look perfect, not how they do when the marshmallow is toasted and the chocolate melts.

“They’re better when you roast them over a fire,” I say. “But you’ll like this.” I hand Misty hers. I drop down on my sleeping bag and sit there, staring at her, waiting for her to taste the most amazing thing I bet she’s ever tasted. 

Misty takes a bite. In the shadowy-thin light, I see her hold the S’more in front of her face. “Why, Diamond Joy, this is a fine treat indeed!”

“I knew you’d love it! My dad usually only lets me have two, but tonight, we can have as many as we want!” 

I’ve totally forgotten about Lizbet. 

But only for a second.

The moonlight is shining on her cradle. I’ve put every doll I’ve ever had in there, but tonight, the cradle has this—this vibe, like something I don’t know how to tell you about. I’ll never forget the strangeness of it, not for as long as I live.

“Misty,” I whisper. “Do you think there are angels watching over Lizbet?”

“I do believe there are,” Misty says. She finishes her S’more and slides down into her sleeping bag. 

“Maybe the angels will help her get better,” I say. “Maybe they made the stones magic.” 

“Perhaps so.” Misty’s talking in hardly even a whisper.

“I mean, who else could have done it?”

“I am baffled by it, Diamond. I do not know.”

“She’s got to get better. She’s got to.”

I can see Misty outlined in the dark, a lump in her sleeping bag. “It doesn’t always work that way,” she says. “I’ve certainly seen times when it hasn’t.”

“You have?”

“Too often, I’m afraid. Many of the little ones did not make it through last year’s harsh winter. At Christmastime, my aunt and uncle and their children came to spend the season with us. You should have seen how cramped we were. I believe we covered every inch of that cabin floor at night when we slept. We had such fun! We told stories and giggled late into the evening, until my ma scolded us so much we didn’t dare make a sound.”

I think about Misty’s family, snuggled up in that cabin, like the best slumber party you ever had. I wish I could have been there. 

Misty goes on, “But by the end of their visit, the baby, Cynthia—you must imagine her, she was precious—had contracted a fever. She was almost two years old. They did manage to get her home, but several weeks later, we received news of her passing.”

“Oh no,” I say. 

 “And now,” Misty whispers, so quiet I can hardly hear what she’s saying, “we, too, may have to send that same news back to Ma’s sister about our Lizbet.”

 “But maybe not, Misty. We have to think positive. We still don’t know for sure what’s going to happen.”

“I suppose you are right. We must wait and see.”

“I mean, how long does it take for someone to get better from scurvy?”

Misty doesn’t say anything. 

“Misty?”

No answer.

I think she might be crying, holding it in so I can’t hear. Or maybe she’s asleep. I’m not tired, though. I get up and pull a chair over to Lizbet’s cradle. In the dark, you can’t see her spots so much. She looks like a normal baby, fast asleep. 
I tap the cradle to make it rock. Misty’s right—Lizbet does look peaceful. For the first time, I think about Lizbet dying and I’m not scared. 

Or mad. 

Or sad.

I bend over, close to the cradle. “Lizbet,” I whisper, “I know you don’t feel good. Misty and I—and your ma and pa, and Timmy, and Stu, too—did everything to help you get better. But nothing worked. So now I’m going to try and think about it like Misty does. It’s okay if you want to go to heaven. It doesn’t look like we can stop you, anyway. But after you’re gone, will you remember me? Promise?”

I swear I think she’s trying to answer me. 

Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.

I start singing, soft, in case Misty’s asleep. “Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry, go to sleep my little baby. When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses.” I get a lump in my throat. It hurts, but I keep singing. And rocking. “Dapples and greys, pintos and bays, all the pretty little horses.”

The moon lights up Lizbet’s face, and I swear, it seems like she’s trying to talk to me. She wriggles some. Even her hands move. I see the blanket jerk—was that her foot?

She opens her eyes. They’re looking straight at me.

“Da da.” You can barely hear it, just her mouth moving and a clicking noise she’s making with her tongue.

My eyes go wide—like, big--but I keep singing, afraid to stop in case Lizbet goes back to sleep. “Way down yonder, in the meadow. Poor little baby cryin’ ma. Birds and the butterflies flutter around her eyes. Poor little baby cryin’ ma.”

Lizbet moves again. “Da, da.”  

“Lizbet?” I whisper. 

I rub my pinkie on her cheek, and she turns her head toward me.

“Misty!”

Must be asleep.

“Misty!” I’m shouting now.

Misty pops up with a loud Ahhh!! “What is it…Ma?!”

“Misty, it’s me! Diamond! Come here! Quick! Lizbet’s awake! She’s moving! She’s looking at me right now!”

Misty’s trying to get over here as fast as she can. She’s tangled in her sleeping bag, so she drags it with her. “Pardon me?” she keeps saying. “Pardon me? Diamond? What has happened?”

She gets to the cradle and practically falls in. Lizbet’s got her eyes closed again.
“She moved, she talked…I swear it! Pick her up!” I say. “I’ll get the bottle!”

Misty does what I say. I put the bottle on the table, and Misty sits with Lizbet on one of the chairs. She nudges Lizbet’s mouth with the nipple. Lizbet opens up. She only drinks a few sips, but they’re big ones. 

Something has changed. 

Lizbet’s asleep again, with the bottle hanging from her mouth. Misty’s got hold of her, tight. She’s rocking back and forth, and it looks like she’s saying a prayer or something. Maybe she’s talking to her ma.

I sit down on the other chair. “Do you think she’s getting better, Misty? I mean, she woke up for a little and drank some juice.”

“I don’t know. But I do have hope, and before I had none.”

“Me, too. Maybe we should take turns feeding her until the sun comes up.”

Misty looks at me. I see her face in the moonlight. She does this funny thing with her mouth, and I can’t even think what she’s about to say.

“Diamond Joy,” she says. “Lizbet and I must go home now.”

“What?! Now? Why?”

“I want Ma to see her. And Pa. Perhaps Lizbet will get better, but perhaps not. We’ve done all we can here, and I think my parents would wish to be by her side as she recovers or spend her final moments with her if she does not. I can take the oranges with me and feed her at home.”

I know Misty is right about all of these things, but I can’t stand to hear any of it. I want to cover my ears, like I did when I was little.

“Please, Misty,” I say. “Can’t you stay until morning?”

“I wish I could, my dearest of friends, but I feel strongly I must take Lizbet back to my family.”

“But what about me?”  

“You might possibly have saved Lizbet’s life, and for that, I am thankful beyond words.”

Lizbet shifts—barely, but still—and Misty pats her on the chest, touches her nose. “Baby girl,” she says. “We’ll always remember Diamond Joy, won’t we?”

I hardly know what to say. I knew this was coming, I just didn’t know it would be so soon. But then I think about Misty’s ma and pa, and how hard it must be for them to have their girls go missing, no clue where they are. 

 “How will I know if Lizbet gets better?” I ask. By now, I’m acting all whiny. Me, the biggest baby you ever saw.

“I will write you a letter and bury it under the tree, as I did with the stones.”

“Maybe I can come visit you.” I’m like, pouting now. My lower lip keeps wanting to stick out. 

Misty is looking at me, like she feels sorry for me. “I can’t say I know if we’ve done right by the Almighty, changing events the way we have,” she says. “Perhaps we should leave it be now, and let our lives unfold as they should.”

The thing about Misty is, she makes up all these rules, and then she has to follow them. You would think she would notice how crazy that is. I’m dying to ask her: Who made those stones work in the first place?

But I know there’s nothing I can say that will change her mind. We’re talking seriously stubborn, here. 

She’s worse than me.

I put the rest of the oranges in the plastic grocery bag. I want to stick the S’mores in there, too, but I know Misty won’t take them. Back then, they didn’t have those. No need to mess with the natural way of things any more than we have to, she’d say.

Misty is laying Lizbet down in the cradle. “We must trade clothing before I go. I fear I have left my dress out on the path. Your funny shoes, too.” 

“Oh, yeah. Good point.” 

She helps me with all my buttons, and I let my dress drop to the floor. Misty undresses, too—she’s soover being shy about it—and hands me my tee shirt and shorts. After she’s put her own dress and boots on, she turns to me.

“I can’t tell you how much better I feel, now that I’m back in my own dress. Diamond Joy, your clothing is somewhat—shall we say, freakish?” 

Can you believe it? Now Misty is trying to talk like me.

“Me, too,” I say. “Feeling better, I mean. I was, like, suffocating in that thing.” 

Here we are, staring at each other, the way we did when we first met. Only this time, we’ve been through so much together, we’re not strangers. We’re sister friends. 

That’s what I call it, anyway.

Misty picks Lizbet back up. I hand her the bag with the oranges in it. I’ve got the baby bottle in there, too, in case they don’t have one. She takes the bag from me and lifts Lizbet up for me to see. Lizbet is asleep now, not moving again. I’m scared for her, and I hate that I may never find out what happens. I feel Misty’s arm go around me. All three of us are in a hug.

“Good-bye, Diamond Joy,” she says. She pulls the stones out of her apron pocket, stones that will take my sister friends away from me forever. “Please know that I will think of you every day. I will send my love to you. It will go forward in time and land in your heart. You must try and feel it.”

“Write that letter,” I say. “I’ll look for it. Under the tree.”

“Yes. Be sure to dig deep, Diamond Joy. Dig deep.”

She steps away from me, opens her hand. 

Now, all that’s left is me and four stones, scattered on the playhouse floor.

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STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How did you feel at the beginning of this chapter? At the end? Can something be BOTH happy and sad?
Do you think the oranges made Lizbet better—or Diamond singing to her?
Have you ever had a friend move away? How do you think Diamond is feeling right now?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

I yank Lizbet from Timmy’s arms. It crushes me to hear Timmy scream, but I need to move quick. I’ve got Lizbet hiked up on one hip, and I grab whatever I can reach of Misty, which turns out to be her hair.

“OW!!”

“Misty—” 

“Diamond—” (That was Mr. Dance)

A wave bobbles through me, starting at my toes and bursting out the top of my head. I’ve got Misty by the hair, which I somehow manage to hold on to. The next thing I know, all three of us—me, Lizbet and Misty—are under the oak tree in my yard. Before I can even tell what’s happening, Stu is on me, hugging me and Lizbet, crying so hard. 

I let go of Misty’s hair.

“You c-came!” my brother is trying to say, but he’s having such an ugly cry it’s not coming out so good. “What h-happened? Wh-where were you?!”

What Stu doesn’t know is that when you travel back from the 1800’s, you get pretty messed up. My tongue feels like a fat, slippery snail, and my arms are like barbells, making it hard to hold Lizbet up. All I can do is let Stu blubber while I get used to being me, Diamond. The twenty-first century Diamond, that is. 

After wiggling my fingers and toes as good as I can in Misty’s boots—and a couple of foot stomps to make sure the ground is beneath me—I feel like myself again. The thing is, I’ve got to push through this, there’s so much I gotta do.

I take Stu by one shoulder and shake him. “Stu, it’s okay! I’m okay!” I say, all up in his face and talking in strange, slow-motion words. (That tongue!) “And I’ve never been so glad to see anybody in my whole life!” 

Now I hug him, which isn’t easy. (You try it with a baby in the middle!) Hugging Stu isn’t something I do very often, but believe you me, it’s the squeeziest hug I ever gave. “Stu! You’re the best brother! You brought me back! Misty and Lizbet, too!”

“I-I did?”

“You did! You’re so smart! You’re handsome, too! And you color really good. You’re hardly even a tattletale! Everybody likes you! I like you best!” I’m stuffing every mean thing I ever said to him into one second and trying to undo all of them. 

“Y-you do?”

“Yeah! I do!” I’m amazed to see him puff up the way Timmy did, like what I think of him makes him feel like he’s all that. “Did you roll the stones? How did you know I was gone? How did you know what to do? You’re so smart.” (I’m going to keep throwing that one in, since I’m pretty sure “stupid” is what I called him most.)

“I s-saw you!” he says. “You were such a sp-spaz about those stones, I followed you to see what the big d-deal was. Then you threw ‘em and—nothing! You were gone! I thought if I kept throwing them, you might come back.”

“Little brother, you saved my life. This life, at least. I wonder why the stones didn’t make you travel? It’s almost like they’ve got their own way of thinking about things. Anyway, I’ll tell you the whole story later, but right now, we’ve got a critical mission to carry out.”

“Huh?”

I scoop up the stones and put them in my apron pocket. “This is Misty Dance. I can’t tell you anything about her now, except that her baby sister is very, very sick.” I tilt Lizbet toward Stu so he can see her better. “Isn’t she sweet? She’s dying, Stu, but we might be able to save her. I need your help. Are you in?”

Stu’s like me, he’s never seen a baby up close. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say about her, so he turns to Misty. He’s all worked up from crying, and he kind of looks like a weirdo, his nose all red, his eyes swelled up, but of course, not a word about that from me.

He sticks his chest out, snaps his heels together, and salutes. “At your service, Misty Dance.” Sniff.

“I am most delighted to meet you, Stu,” Misty says. “And I thank you for your service.”

Stu looks surprised when he hears Misty talk, and even more surprised when she wriggles out of her dress, dropping it to her ankles, still wearing my shorts and top. But I’ve told him we’re short on time, so he doesn’t do his usual asking-a-million-questions thing. 

He turns to me. “What do I gotta do?”

“Brave soldier,” I say. “We need oranges—”

“I’ll go get ‘em. We’ve got some in the kitchen.”

“No, we don’t. Long story, so I’ll skip it for now. I need you to get some cash out of my ballet slippers, from the shoe bag in my closet. Ride your bike to the grocery store and pick up a bag of oranges. We’ll also need a baby bottle, diapers, and baby wipes. Bring them back here as fast as you can. And don’t let Mom see you.” 

“Where will you be?” he asks.

“In my playhouse,” I say. “Misty and I are going to set up in there. Diapers, wipes, a bottle, and oranges. Now hurry.”

“I’m on it!” Stu says. I hear him shouting “Diapers! Wipes! Bottle! Oranges!” over and over, sounding like a drill sergeant as he runs back to the house. 

I turn to Misty. She looks like a scared little kid, which is how I feel, too. But I don’t let on. I show her where my playhouse is. It’s hidden behind some bushes, but you can see the roof and a stone path leading up to it. 

“That’s where you’re going to be,” I say. “Are you okay waiting in there by yourself? I’m going up to the house to get us some stuff. I’ll be right back, I promise. And, um—” I’m not quite sure how to say this. “We don’t have chamber pots, you know. If you need to—to do anything, you can go out in back of the house. There’s only woods there and no one will see you.”

“Yes, ma’m,” Misty says. “But please don’t be gone long.”

“I won’t.” 

I hear a tiny whimper from Lizbet, a pin poking through my heart. 

Hurry, Stu. Hurry. 

Misty goes down to the playhouse, and I go up to the house. I slip in through the back door, spy-like, even though there’s no one there. I look around, like I’m seeing our kitchen for the first time. I don’t know where to begin. I mean, what does a pioneer girl with a sick baby sister need? 

Food, for starters. I make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I pull the plastic grocery bag from my apron pocket and stuff them in, along with a couple of apples. I put some Girl Scout cookies in there, too. (Thin Mints, my favorite.)  I grab a pack of juice boxes from the pantry. I also get the orange juice squeezer. I’ve never been too good at using it—you have to push down hard on the oranges and smush ‘em to get all the juice out—but I can do it. I slide open the silverware drawer and take out a knife to cut the oranges with.

I go upstairs to the linen closet and pull out a clean blanket for Lizbet. I think about taking the Tylenol, too, but I’m not allowed to give it to anybody, so I don’t. I go in my room, grab a pillow off my bed. Then I remember my tea party dishes, stashed in the back of my closet. I’m too old to pretend anymore, but this isn’t pretend. I reach in the closet and get two sets: plates, teacups, and saucers. They’re covered with tiny tea roses, and when I see them, they make me feel sad, like I’ve lost something I can’t put my finger on. I wish Misty and I were having the kind of tea party I used to have, where all you drink is air. 

Balancing my load, I go back out to the playhouse. Just in time, too. I hear Mom’s car pull in the driveway. Misty’s sitting on one of the wooden chairs when I get back, and she’s got Lizbet on her lap. 

“Diamond Joy. I’m so thankful you have returned.”

“I’m here, Misty.” I put my stuff down and pull my doll cradle out from under the table. “I’m here, and my brother will be here soon. Now let me get this thing ready for Lizbet, so you can put her down. How is she?”

Misty opens the blanket so I can see. Lizbet’s eyes are closed, but her swollen eyeballs make her lids bulge. Her mouth is all red, like she’s been sucking on a magic marker. I can’t even think what those spots are all over her face. Maybe I should have told Stu to pick up some baby powder or medicine for her diaper rash. 

I get busy, setting up our house. I put the pillow in the cradle, the blanket on top of it.  I set the dishes on the table, with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and two cookies on each. The apples go between us, and I squeeze out a juice box, half in one teacup and half in the other. 

“I think it’s okay if you put Lizbet in the cradle,” I say, “so you can eat something.”
Misty does what I tell her to do. She slides the cradle over beside her chair and sits down. We’re both looking at her sister. Lizbet hasn’t moved at all, and I begin to think I’ve made a mistake, bringing them here.

The Dances must hate me by now. Here I’ve gone and taken their baby again, with no guarantees. I have no idea if the oranges will work. I don’t know if Lizbet’s too sick to get better, no matter what kind of medicine we give her. I don’t even know for sure the stones will bring her back to her family, whether she gets well or not. 

“She looks so peaceful,” Misty says.

Peaceful? 

Somehow, Misty’s seeing something I don’t. 

“If Lizbet was my baby sister,” I say, “I’d be mad at somebody about her being so sick and all.”

“And with whom would you be angry?” Misty asks.

“Good question. Probably my mom. But I guess this isn’t anybody’s fault. It just happened. You better eat your sandwich, or I will.” I’m already on my second half, but Misty hasn’t touched hers. She picks it up and takes a bite.

“This is most delicious,” she says. Now she’s holding up a Thin Mint, like she’s inspecting a gold coin or something. “Such an odd cookie. I must remember this when I go back. It’s quite lovely.”

“Do you believe in heaven?” I ask Misty.

She looks surprised. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Not around here. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t. Mostly I don’t think about it, except when I think about my grampa. Then I hope there is one, and that he’s in it.”

 “In the early morning, when I’m in my garden,” Misty says, “the sun sparkles through the trees and shines on the tiny petals of my yellow marigolds, making them look so bright. I imagine heaven to be like my garden in the morning.”

“I think heaven is full of Skittles, and you get to eat as many as you want.”

“Skittles?”

“Dang. I keep forgetting how old you are.”

Misty smiles—a sort-of one, anyway. “I am enchanted by you, Diamond Joy. You say whatever you please. Where I’m from, we mustn’t. Or perhaps, we simply don’t.”

“My mom says I talk too much, but I’m—”

There’s a knock on the playhouse door, a soft tap. 

Stu. 

I open the door and pull him inside.

“I got ‘em!” he says. “I got the oranges!” 

“Sweet,” I say. “You made record time. Here, give me the bag.”

I look inside. Diapers (toddler size--Stu!), wipes, a baby bottle, and oranges. I also see chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers—S’mores, my favorite combo whenever Dad takes us camping. I get all teary-eyed. Lately, me and my brother haven’t gotten along so good, but now I know what a cool kid he really is.

“You are a brave soldier,” I say. “And smart. Now I have another job for you. We need a lookout. If Mom comes down here, we’re in big trouble. If you see her looking for me, cover for me, would you? And if the situation is critical, come get me. I can go up to the house if I need to. Can you do that?” 

“Yes, sir!” (A quick salute.)

“Thank you, Stu,” Misty says. “You’ve been kind.”

“Sure thing, Misty Dance. And look, I brought my walkie talkies. If you need anything, send me a signal.” He puts one of them on the table, an army green plastic thing with an antenna on it. “You know how to work ‘em, right, Di?”

“I’m not as smart as you, but I got this,” I say. “Now hurry on up there. We need to take care of Lizbet.”

Stu leaves and I open the bag again. The oranges stare up at me, like they’re saying: “All that for this?” I’m afraid to take them out. I pull out the diapers and baby wipes instead. 

“I bet Lizbet could use a diaper change by now,” I say. 

I rip open the plastic wrapping on the wipes and take one out. “Here. Wipe her bottom with this.” Then I take out a diaper and tear open the tabs. “These are sticky. See? All you do is put the diaper on and close it with these tabs. It’s kind of big—Stu got the wrong size—so you have to wrap it tight. I’m going to squeeze some orange juice in the bottle.”

Misty takes the diaper from me. She looks at the wipe kind of funny, then stoops over the cradle and fumbles around, I’m not sure how it’s going. I take one of the oranges out of the bag. I cut it in half with the knife, put one of the halves on top of the squeezer. I’m pushing down on it, and the juice drips into the cup on the bottom.  

Orange juice. I can’t stop staring at it. I see Misty, her neck craning my way to look at it, too.

I get enough to fill the bottle a few ounces. “Let’s do it,” I say. “Do you want to bring Lizbet over here?” 

Lizbet’s whimpering again. It sounds like she wants to cry, but can’t. Misty picks her up, sits on the chair with her. She puts the bottle up to Lizbet’s mouth, but Lizbet won’t open up.

“Come, now, Lizbet,” Misty says. “Be a good girl. Let’s have some juice.” 

Lizbet’s not about to.

“Come now, Lizbet,” Misty says again.

I go over to Lizbet, stoop down in front of her. “Push it in, Misty. Even if she doesn’t want it.”

Misty shoves the nipple into Lizbet’s mouth. Lizbet chokes a little, but she takes a sip.

“Good girl!” Misty says. 

It takes forever to feed Lizbet the small amount of juice I put in that bottle. With each sip, I keep looking at her, waiting for her to perk up.

She doesn’t.

“I fear we may be too late,” Misty says. 

I’m thinking the same thing, but I say, “It’s too soon to tell. We need to keep feeding her.” 

We’re both staring at Lizbet, looking for some kind of sign. The walkie talkie beeps. I push the button: “I’m here, Stu. What’s up?”

“Crit sit. Mom’s looking for you. It’s almost dinner. You better come up to the house. Over.”

“Roger that,” I say. 

I look at Lizbet, who looks, well, awful. 

“I need to go,” I say to Misty. “My mom’ll wig out if I don’t. I’ve got a couple of boxes to pack, and the movers are coming tomorrow. I’ll be gone awhile, but I’m going to ask my mom if I can sleep out in the playhouse tonight, my last night here. I’m sure she’ll let me. By tomorrow morning, we should know if this is going to work. Whatever happens, we’ll send you back home. I’m sure your parents are wondering if they’ve lost two kids by now.”

“That is a fine plan, Diamond Joy.” Misty looks worn out, and I wonder if it was such a good idea to bring her here.

Truth is, I’m beginning to doubt it. Fixing something that happened in the past is starting to feel wrong, like I’m breaking something else. We’re not talking about changing who won a spelling bee or who gets elected class president. We’re talking about someone’s life, here, and every time I try and do something, Lizbet gets worse. What made me think I could barge into a hundred-year-old family’s life and save their sick baby?

I reach into my apron pocket and feel the stones, cold and smooth. I hear a tiny clack as one of them knocks into another. I squeeze all four of them, tight, in my fist.

Talk to me, I beg. Tell me I did the right thing.

As you might have guessed, they don’t. 

So much for that.

I know I should go up to the house, but I can’t make myself do it. When Grampa Sam was in the hospital, we made sure somebody was always with him. A vigil, my mom called it. Then the worst thing happened. Stu and I went to the cafeteria to get popsicles, and my parents stepped out to talk to the doctor. When everybody was gone, my grampa died. It was like he was waiting for us to clear out so he could leave.

I don’t want Lizbet to do that to me, too.

So, I just stand there. After a while, I see Stu’s face in the window. He’s got camouflage paint all over his cheeks and forehead, and his army helmet on. “Pssst!” he says. “Di. You gotta come. Mom’s mad. She sent me to get you, but I can tell she’s gonna come down if you don’t come now.”

I know he’s right, but I’m glued to the floor. 

“You must go,” Misty says. “We’ll be fine. Besides, I would like to spend some time alone with Lizbet before—before—” 

She stops. 

Why say it? We both know what she’s talking about.

I feel helpless. I’m only a kid, and I’ve run out of ideas. “Keep feeding her orange juice,” is all I can think of to say. “As much as she’ll take. I’ll come back as fast as I can.”

“Don’t worry, Diamond Joy. We’ll be fine.”

I know Misty doesn’t mean to lie, but the last thing she’ll be is fine. I step outside my playhouse, where Stu is waiting for me. Walking up to the house, I don’t look back. I’m afraid I’ll see the dark cloud has moved in, and that the roof of my playhouse is covered by it.

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​
STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
Why is Diamond being so nice to Stu?
How do you think Diamond feels, now that she is telling everybody what to do?
Would you like to be with Diamond and Misty in the playhouse? Why or why not?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

Am I Raising a Narcissist?
by Mary Follin and Kristi Crosson
Read on Fredericksburg Parent & Family magazine

THE PROBLEM: I have recently learned that one of my friends is a narcissist (as diagnosed by a clinician), so I have been doing a lot of reading about the disorder. I am discovering that my daughter demonstrates some of the characteristics of narcissism, like being unkind to other kids, talking about herself all the time, and not appearing to feel remorse when she does something wrong. One example of how mean she can be is that she didn’t want to invite a little boy in her class to her birthday party because he ‘smells funny.’ I made her invite him anyway, but I don’t think the boy had a good time, since my daughter managed to show her displeasure by hardly talking to him at all. She’s only 6, but if she does have narcissistic tendencies, I want to get on it right away.

MARY SAYS: Many therapists agree that 6 years of age is too young for a child to actually be a narcissist. In fact, a certain amount of egocentricity is healthy at this age; children need to figure out who they are and how they fit in. As parents, it’s our job to guide our innately self-centered children into grownups who naturally feel compassion and empathy toward others. You’re doing the right thing by addressing these issues now, rather than waiting until your daughter is a tween or a teen, when she could conceivably cause more harm to others.

After all, you don’t want your daughter to be the ‘mean girl.’

From what you describe, it sounds as though your daughter may be struggling with some serious issues. Does she act like she’s better than other children? Does she feel entitled to get whatever she wants? Does she expect excessive praise, regardless of her performance? Is she often jealous? Does she lack the ability to imagine what others might be feeling? If your answer to any of these questions is ‘yes,’ your daughter (and your family) may be in for a bumpy road ahead, and change will only happen if you go first.

Often times, when a child demonstrates disturbing characteristics such as these, he or she has managed to take control over the parent-child relationship. Whether your child was simply born headstrong (and you’re not), or she’s learned these behaviors from somebody else (not necessarily you), she’s figured out how to manipulate you. For whatever reason, she is getting away with behaviors that are not acceptable, and she is behaving like this with permission.

It’s time for you to step into your role as a parent and take charge. You must communicate zero-tolerance for cruel behaviors that are harmful to others. Here are a few ideas on how to start:

Be Firm. When you see your child behaving unkindly toward someone else, tell her in a clear and concise way that you insist she be sensitive to other people’s feelings, not just her own. Perhaps you’ve told her this already, but then what happened? It’s not enough to simply point it out. For example, if she won’t allow another child to join a game, pull her aside and ask her how she would feel if someone excluded her. Then ask her what she should do about it. An apology is in order, and an invitation to play should follow. If you daughter can’t (or doesn’t want to) see this, it’s time for her to go home so she can reflect on it some more.

In an ideal world, your daughter will realize what she has done, or at the very least, quietly go home with you. It’s more likely, however, that she will become angry and defensive, blaming you, the other child, anything rather than taking responsibility for what she’s done

Here’s where you need to be strong. (I am imagining this is the point where your previous efforts have come unglued.) Refuse to engage in her argument. Repeat your directive, regardless of how many times she comes back with a new defense. The responsibility is hers to be kind to everyone, period. Repeat, repeat, repeat, and don’t get sucked into an unhealthy back-and-forth.

Always remember, you are the parent.

Don’t Over-Praise. Parents often lavish excessive praise on their children, in the mistaken belief that lots of praise builds a high self-esteem. It doesn’t. Rather, too much praise creates an individual who seeks affirmation from external sources, which puts someone’s self-worth at the mercy of other people’s opinions. We’ve all known (or read about) narcissistic adults who spend every waking moment making sure other people are thinking about them, talking about them, and admiring them. What a tiresome way to live!

If you praise your daughter for every little thing she does, please stop! A parent’s praise serves one true purpose, and that is to be a role model for when and how children should eventually praise themselves—realistically, with honest feedback, and with love. Over-praising will create grandiosity in your daughter, which becomes even more insidious (and MUCH harder to let go of) when she takes over for you and starts doing it on her own.

Balance Her Relationships.  How many chores is your daughter expected to do? How often does she ask about YOUR day? Is she expected to help her siblings (if she has any), or feed, water, and walk a dog? In too many families, the singular answers to each of these is none, never, and no. In a home that is overly child-centric, the children are rock stars, and everybody else is there to admire them. While that may sound like a drag for ‘everybody else,’ it’s much worse for the child.

Children need to be needed. (Who doesn’t?) They want to learn how to diaper a baby sister, teach the family dog to do tricks, set the table. Don’t mistake “Aww, Mom, do I have to?” for not really wanting to. This is what we all say (even to ourselves), when we have to interrupt what we’re doing to do something else.

Self-sufficient young children are a joy to behold. They pack their own lunches, manage their own homework, even do their own laundry when they’re tall enough to reach. They grow into independent bigger children who see themselves as contributing members of a class, a sports team, a community.

And make it a point to tell your child something about yourself—every day—to help your child develop curiosity and interest in others.

With a focused effort, you can reverse the behaviors you are observing in your daughter. At first, she might feel like she’s fallen from her throne and can’t do anything right. But over time, she will get it. Your challenge will be patience; it’s important you execute your new plan with caring and love, not anger and disappointment. More than anything else, your overly self-centered child needs to know you love her unconditionally, and that no matter what she does, you will always be there for her.

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KRISTI SAYS: Let’s be real here, all children have “narcissistic tendencies.” They only think of themselves, they say rude things, they have no concept of personal space, and they think the world revolves around them. Like you said, your daughter is only 6-years-old. I would be slow to label her a narcissist and would instead look for ways to help her develop a healthy view of herself and to exhibit more compassion as she grows.

Isolating others and being mean can be a cover for your daughter’s own insecurities. It may reflect how peers have treated her, or it may protect her from being bullied. (By joining in on the bullying, she doesn’t become their target.)

Kids don’t always realize the impact their words have on other children. As parents, it’s our job to teach them. One thing I like to do with my kids when they use mean words is to turn it back on them momentarily. I find that it helps them to understand that what they say matters.

I might ask, “How would you feel if someone called you smelly? What if they said you were the stinkiest creature to ever walk the earth, and no one should play with you because or they’ll stink, too?”

I may also ask something like, “Now how does it feel when people say you are a good friend, and they can’t wait to play with you? What if they said you were the coolest kid, that everyone should want to hang out with you?”

Then I’ll follow up with something like, “One of these statements feels good to hear, and the other doesn’t. Which one feels good? Which one doesn’t? How does it make you feel? How can you use kind words with your classmates instead of unkind ones?”

When I use this tactic, it helps my children develop an understanding of the power of words. I don’t expect my children to be friends with everyone, but I do encourage them to be kind.

At school, children are in a bubble. They only experience life with the same group of kids, day in and day out. If you want to help your daughter develop compassion, expand her world. Take her to parks in other parts of town. Give her opportunities to connect with new kids. Let her experience what it’s like to be an “outsider.”

Get her involved in activities that require her to interact with a diverse group of peers, like a sport where kids need to work together. Maybe she could volunteer to read to shelter pets or participate in a food drive for the hungry. These types of activities will help her see a world beyond herself so she can develop a compassionate heart.

Let there be consequences when she is unkind and reward her with praise when you observe her being kind or helpful to others. For the birthday situation, you unfortunately set her up by forcing her to invite the boy she didn’t like. She was still around the same peers, and you added him to the mix, hoping she’d be kind. It sounds like she did a pretty good job given the circumstance. She may have ignored him, but it doesn’t sound like she purposefully tormented him or teased him, either.

She deserves praise for that. It’s a good step, one that can grow into something more.

One way to help correct her behavior is to have her practice apologizing. Even if she doesn’t “feel” remorse, she can still learn to do the right thing. You could have her say something like, “I’m sorry I called you smelly. It wasn’t kind.” Even if she only practices with you, it’s a way to help her verbalize what she did. Eventually, you can have her go a step further and actually say it to the person she hurt.

I always have my kids apologize to someone when they’ve done or said something hurtful. When they were little, they didn’t necessarily “feel bad,” and they were reluctant to do it. But I’ve noticed as they’ve grown older, the “feeling” of remorse is starting to follow the words.

Continue looking for the good in your daughter and don’t label her just yet. She’s still a child and has a lot of time to learn and grow.

ASK MOM offers parents two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues—one from a mom with grown children (Mary), the other from a mom raising small children (Kristi). If you're looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn't around to ask, drop in! If you have a question for Mary and Kristi, we’d love to hear from you! askmomyourquestion@gmail.com

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I wish I could faint, but I can’t. I do this melting kind of thing, where I drop to the floor and put my head on my knees. 

“Oh, Misty!” I say. “Oh, Misty! Oh, Misty!”

Matter of fact, that’s all I can say.

“Diamond? What has happened?”

“Oh, Misty!”

Everything I know is rushing through my head. Lizbet is going to die. I’m never going to see my family again. Mr. and Mrs. Dance will have to adopt me. Maybe they won’t want to, and they’ll put me in an orphanage. 

 “Oh, Misty,” I say again.

“Diamond Joy, you stand up this instant and tell me what is the matter!” 

The thing is, I can’t. I look up at her. From where I sit, she’s like, ten feet tall. Lizbet looks like a big pillow, all puffed out in Misty’s arms.

“The stones,” I barely squeak. “Stupid me. I left them in my yard. Under the oak tree. We have no way to get back.”

Misty makes a noise like a balloon losing air. 

“I’m sorry, Misty,” I’m blabbering now. “I’ve messed it all up. I don’t know what to do about Lizbet. I don’t even know what to do about myself.”

After a moment, I see Misty’s face, peeking over Lizbet, down at me. “Diamond Joy,” she says. She’s talking nice, not like someone who hates my guts, even though she has a right to. “I have begun to accept the passing of my baby sister, as hard as it is for me. Neither you nor I can change that. It’s God’s will, not yours or mine. But you have sacrificed your own life to help my family and me. You are a rare treasure in a hard world, Diamond Joy, and I feel it an honor to count you amongst my dearest friends. Please. Won’t you stand up?”

I can’t tell you why, but I’d feel better if she was mad at me. I put my head back on my knees, my nose buried in my dress. All I can see of Misty is her bare ankles and her toes lined-up wrong in my flipflops. 

I don’t want to look at her anymore. Or Lizbet. I want to go home. I wish I never came here. When I was a little kid, I would close my eyes when I wanted to disappear. But I’m not little anymore, and I know if I close my eyes, I’ll still be here, in the Dance’s barn. 

Misty stoops down, and Lizbet whimpers, a tiny eep.

“Diamond,” Misty says, her voice snuggly, like when my mom used to read to me. “Please stand up. I must bring Lizbet back to my family, and you must come with me. I fear we have complicated an already unbearable situation, and my parents will not be too happy about what we have done. But they would never cause you harm. They will take care of you, just as they take care of me. Of this I am certain.”

“Oh, Misty. I only wanted to help. How could I have been so stupid?”

“You are not stupid. I must ask you to stop saying that. No one is stupid, but we all make mistakes. We do the best we can with what we’ve been given. Now pull yourself together. I must bring Lizbet back to the house. Take her, please, so I can cover these silly clothes with my dress. She looks so still—and pale. We’ve no time to dawdle.”

That gets me going, quick. I don’t want to be the one to keep this baby from her ma as she gets closer to the end, especially because I’m the one who took her from her ma so close to the end. I hop up and scoop Lizbet into my arms. I’m not saying this to be mean, but she stinks, like something my nose has never seen before.

Misty yanks her dress over her head, and off we go, up to the house. 

I try not to think about myself—only Lizbet—but I can’t help it. I wonder if this will be my backyard from now on. Will Misty show me how to pick strawberries? Build a fire? I always wanted to ride a horse. I wonder if Misty’s parents will let me ride theirs. Probably not. And where will I sleep? Maybe in the barn, since there sure isn’t much room in the cabin. I hope they have an extra feather tick, so I don’t have to sleep on hay. I bet hay is prickly, but I’m not sure, since I’ve never slept on it before.

Misty is stomp-stomping beside me, mostly walking, sort of running. Good thing she took my flipflops off. She’d trip the way she had them on, two toes on one side of the middle strap and three on the other. I can tell she walks barefoot all the time, since she’s not going “ow, ow, ow” the way I would if it was me stepping on these stones. 

Funny, though, she brought my flipflops with her, stuck in her apron pocket.

“Misty,” I say.

“Diamond?”

“What do you think your parents will say?”

“I do not know.”

“Will they be mad at me?”

“I do not know.”

“Maybe they will forget about me when they see Lizbet again.”

“Diamond Joy, you are telling yourself stories about the future, rather a foolish waste of time. I have more pressing demands on my mind than making up what might happen. We shall know what will happen when it actually does, and not a moment before.”

I pull Lizbet closer to me, since hers is a story about the future that Misty seems pretty sure about. And now, I’m sure about it, too. I wish I could have proven Misty wrong about Lizbet not making it, but I couldn’t. Now I’m not thinking about myself anymore, only this baby, and how I messed things up for her.

We reach the cabin, and there they all are, lined up on the rickety wooden porch, waiting for us. Pa has his arm around one post, and Ma is sitting on the stoop next to Timmy.  They look scared, or confused, or maybe furious at me. Misty told me to stop making up stories about the future, but it’s hard not to.
Truth is, I don’t know how they feel.

“Oh, Ma,” cries Misty. “I’m so sorry! We have Lizbet, and she’s not well. Our plan has failed, and Diamond Joy is unable to go home. Ever.”

I step up to the porch and hold my bundle out to Misty’s ma. Lizbet’s family doesn’t seem surprised she’s not better, and nobody seems to notice that Misty just told them I’m here for keeps.

Except Timmy.

“Ever?” he whispers, his chin tucked on his shirt, saying it to himself. I can’t tell if he’s excited or like “what a bummer,” but since that’s all he says, I won’t know until I ask.

Ma stares at me, but she doesn’t take Lizbet. Pa leans over the porch railing and lifts Lizbet out of my arms, balancing her like I do when I fill a cup of water too high. He sits down by Ma and scoots over, close to her. Ma leans against him, but still doesn’t take the baby.

Ma and Pa. I wonder if they’ll tell me to call them that. It isn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

Misty takes Timmy’s hand and nods at me, tilting her head toward the cabin door. For the first time, I see Misty’s ma and pa as two scared people instead of grown-ups who always know what to do. I can tell Misty wants to give them time with Lizbet, so they can say goodbye.

I follow Misty to the door, but stop, halfway in, halfway out. I get this fluttery feeling that tells me I don’t belong here, but I don’t know where else to go. The cabin is dark inside, and my hand wants to slap the wall next to me, find a light switch to flip on the lights. It’s hot, too. Where’s the controls for the air conditioning? At home, I’m not allowed to touch the thermostat, but if Misty had one, I’d show her how to cool things off in here by pushing the ‘down’ arrow. 

I wonder what Stu’s doing. I bet he hasn’t packed his boxes. He’s probably telling Mom right now that I haven’t packed mine, either. I get a squeeze in my throat, the kind that won’t let you swallow, and my eyes are all stingy. Just in case I accidentally start bawling, I step inside. Misty’s parents don’t need to deal with my problems on top of the ones they’ve already got.

Since I know where everything is by now, my eyes adjust to the dark by blinking at the fireplace, the kitchen table, the curtains in the window. I used to wish I lived in a place like this, where you make all your stuff. I always wanted to learn to sew, but my mom didn’t know how. I bet Misty could teach me. The only thing is, I wanted to make doll clothes, and around here, sewing was for things you need like dresses, curtains, and feather ticks. 

I have a lot to learn.

I see Misty and Timmy, huddled by a window, Misty with her arm around her little brother. “You’re so nice to your brother,” I say. My words are wobbling as they come out, I’m trying so hard not to cry. “If only I could go home, I would totally be nicer to mine. I would let him use all my stuff, and I wouldn’t call him names hardly ever.” 

“I’m sorry, Diamond. I am preoccupied with my own family’s troubles, and I keep forgetting what you have lost in your effort to help us. You are a girl with so many ideas. Perhaps you have thought of a way we could get you home?”

I shake my head, too scared to say out loud what I know is true. 

I am never going home.

Misty keeps talking: “I believe when my parents are able to turn their attention to you, they will be able to help us. But please know that you are safe here, and that we will take care of you as one of our own.”

At this, Timmy slips out from under Misty’s arm. He tiptoes over to me—his little overalls, you should see them!—and stops, his hands behind his back, wide eyes looking up at me. 

“Are you my new sister?” he asks. 

That got me. Right there, I feel the flood inside me let go, and I drop down to Timmy’s height. In about two seconds, I’m crying my eyeballs out on his hardly-there shoulder, and his tiny hands are patting my back. 

“We have lots of bowls,” he says. “You can have one.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” I say, still sounding like a blubbering baby. “You sure are sweet. And I’ll be much nicer to you than I was to Stu. He’s my other brother, and I miss him a lot, even though I never thought I would.”

“Me, too.”

“You miss Stu?”

“No. My baby sister. I miss her a lot.”

Jeez. Here I am, the big kid, and Timmy is trying to make me feel better. I sit back on my heels and tousle his hair, the way I see grown-ups do. I don’t even think to wipe the snot off my upper lip. “Lizbet is the luckiest sister in the world to have you. And now I’m the luckiest sister in the world, because I have you, too.”

Timmy’s babyish belly sticks out, and he looks some kind of proud. I bet Misty looked just like him when she was little, and Lizbet would have looked like him in a few years, too, if she had gotten the chance. It’s funny about families. You can see how much they look like each other unless it’s yours. 

Now Misty’s parents are coming into the cabin, holding Lizbet, and I get an odd feeling when I see Misty’s pa, but not for any reason you might think. I’m looking at Mr. Dance, then Timmy, then Misty, and even though Mr. Dance has a beard—and my dad doesn’t—I swear Misty’s pa and my dad could be brothers, the same bushy eyebrows, same jaw, even the same hairline. 

Must be me seeing things, trying to get used to the idea of being in somebody else’s family. Otherwise, why wouldn’t I have seen how much they look like each other before?

“Children,” Mr. Dance says. “Come say goodbye to your sister.”

Misty and Timmy don’t move. Stuck, right where they are.

“Come here, children,” says Misty’s ma. “Lizbet may be leaving us, but she’s still our Lizbet. You may feel better if you hold her one final time.”

Misty rushes forward, and instead of taking Lizbet, she flings her arms around her ma. She’s crying, and I’m trying not to. Mrs. Dance hugs her daughter and smooths her forehead, telling her it’s fine, just fine for her to cry. 

“Son, how about if you sit here, and we can put Lizbet on your lap? Hmmm?” Mr. Dance pats a chunky log by the fireplace, and Timmy does what his pa tells him to. “Easy, now. Keep her steady.”

Mr. Dance crouches down and Timmy props Lizbet up on his lap, with help from his pa. He looks at her face like he’s never seen it before, up and down, then sideways. “Is she going to look different?” 

“Different?”

“When she goes to sleep forever?”

“She will, son. But you can always remember her smiling eyes. Never forget those.” Mr. Dance is talking all thin and croaky, not blustery like when he was calling out to me and that dirty boy who took my oranges. 

Mrs. Dance is watching them, you can tell she’s scared Lizbet might slip away from us, right there on Timmy’s lap. “Misty, would you like to hold her?”

Misty squeezes her ma tighter and shakes her head, no.

Then Mrs. Dance turns to me. 

“Diamond, how about you?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Dance. I better not. She’s not my—my—”

Mrs. Dance gives Misty’s forehead one more soothing stroke, then pries Misty’s grip from around her waist. Before I know what’s happening, she’s got her arms around me, giving me the kind of hug I was wishing for. All tight and bosomy, as Misty might say. 

“Diamond Joy,” she says. “I don’t know who you are or where you came from. My word, there’s time enough to figure that out later. But I sense you are lost, and perhaps you are frightened. I have not been able to address your situation because of what is happening here, but you must know that lost children are always welcome in our home, and we will tend to your needs. If we cannot find your family, you will become part of ours.” Now Mrs. Dance’s cheek rests on the top of my head. “It is quite peculiar, but I feel you have been sent to us to ease the burden of losing our Lizbet.”

I guess Mr. Dance feels that way, too. “Yes, Diamond, we will take care of you,” he says. “You are safe here. Please, do come hold Lizbet. She knows you, and you have been a loyal friend to her, even if only for a short time.” (If I closed my eyes, I swear it could be my dad talking to me.)

Misty and I glance at each other, and we hold up crooked pinkies. Girl power. Right away, we both feel stronger. At least, I do. Timmy’s got Lizbet by the fire, but she looks strange to me, like I can see right through her, even though I can’t. My heart feels like it’s pulling me toward the hearth, I want so bad to hold that baby one last time. Both me and Misty end up by Lizbet, but I swear I don’t know how, since I never even felt my feet move.

I don’t want to take Lizbet away from Timmy, so I lean in. Maybe I’ll just touch her nose or something. But oh, man! I want her with me! Near me! In my arms! I can’t describe this feeling to you. I look into Timmy’s eyes, almost like he needs to give me permission or something. I put my palms on Lizbet’s blanket, and my fingertips curl around her, practically begging Timmy to let her come to me, but all I see are his long lashes lower, him gazing back at Lizbet.

I lean in, real close. My new little brother glances up at me, and I see something in his eyes that gives me the shivers.

My old little brother is calling me.

Stu. 

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​STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How would you feel if you suddenly had a whole new family?
Do you think Diamond is going to be safe in her new home?
Why was Diamond able to see Stu in Timmy's eyes?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

​ “Diamond Joy!” Misty’s got her hand over her mouth, and she’s like, all shocked and everything. “We can’t take Lizbet to—to your house!”

“Why not?”

“We could never get her away from Ma. My sister is dying.”

“People die where I’m from, too. But not from scurvy,” I say. “We’ve got to at least try to save her.” 

“We must not talk anymore about this,” Misty says. “I fear I have already created a fine mess by bringing you here.” 

Boy, this girl is stubborn. Here she’s got a chance to save Lizbet, and she’s talking herself out of it. Not me. Lizbet’s coming with me, even if I have to grab her and run. 

But I try something else first. 

“You’re pretty full of yourself,” I say.

In about a second, Misty’s all huffy. She sure is a hothead. Like me, I guess.  “Beg your pardon?” she asks.  

“Saying you brought me here, I mean. You must think you’re hot stuff, like you can make people travel through time or something. Hmpf. Trust me, you’re not all that.”

“You take that back! This minute!” Misty’s on her feet now, looking down at me, fists on her hips. It looks like one of them might take off and punch me in the nose.

“No can do. You act like you’re the boss of everything. Well, you’re not.”

“How dare you sass me!” 

Looks like I’ve shaken the scaredy-cat out of her. Believe me, I risked my life to do it, but maybe now she’ll listen. “Misty,” I say. “You didn’t bring me here. Something else did. I don’t know what it is, but there’s got to be a reason I’m here. Can’t you see that?”

Misty’s shoulders get all droopy. The ‘sass’ has gone out of her, almost as fast as it came on. All that’s left is a sad girl, like me when my grampa died. I stand up and put my arm around her. “I know how you feel,” I say, “and how scared you are. I’m scared, too. But here we are, acting all mad at each other, and what we should be doing is figuring out how to get Lizbet away from your ma.”

Misty pulls away from me. “But how?” she asks. “How are we to get my sister out from under Ma’s watch?”

She’s asking me? I have no clue. 

“Good question,” I say. 

We both sit down, back on the hay bale, to give ourselves a think.

“We could let the horses out,” I suggest. “That would create a seriously big distraction. Then we would have a chance to grab Lizbet.”

“They might run away. My family could never survive without our horses.” 

“Oh, good point.”

We sit some more.

“How about if we start a scuffle?” Misty asks. “Maybe they’ll all come out to see what’s going on.”

“Scuffle? You mean some sort of girl fight? I don’t think so. If I were your parents, I’d go ahead and let us smack each other around, acting like that when the baby is so sick. Besides, if we’re fighting, who would go get Lizbet?” 

“You are right, Diamond.” Misty sighs, a giving up kind of sigh. “I fear we have nothing.” 

I’m stumped, too, but I’m not quitting.

Then it hits me. 

“I’ve got it!” I say. 

“What is it? What do you have?”

“The truth.” 

“The truth?”

“Yup. We’re going back in that cabin and tell your Ma I’ve come to take Lizbet, and that I’m going to try and save her.”

Misty stares at me.

I stare back at her.

Misty shakes her head. “They’ll never believe you. They know how sick Lizbet is, and that there are no oranges to be had. They won’t let you take her.”

“You just tell your Ma I’ve come to help. I’ll do the rest.”

“But—”

“No buts. That’s something we say where I’m from. Just do what I’m sayin’.”

Misty looks at me like I’m an alien from another planet. I guess to her, I sort of am. “You sure do beat all, Diamond Joy.”

“I try,” I say. I look at the pile of hay by the barn door. “Are my clothes still in there?”

Misty goes over to the hay and pulls out my shorts, tee shirt, and flipflops. She holds them up so I can see.

“Good,” I say. “Here’s what we need to do. We’ll go get Lizbet and bring her back here. You put my clothes on so you don’t stick out when we get to my house. We don’t have time for questions if someone sees us, and believe you me, they’ll be asking ‘em if you’re dressed like that. My mom went bonkers when she saw me in this thing, but she knows me. She would totally wonder about you.” I see Misty looking at my shorts like she’s so not okay with walking around half-naked in my yard.

“You’ll get used to it,” I say. “And when we get there, try not to talk too much. The way you say things is like, like—hellooo, this girl is not from around here.”

“I shall have no difficulty not speaking,” Misty says. “That is a character trait that you and I most certainly do not share.”

Wow. This girl is mean.

Misty sees my face. “I misspoke,” she says. “Please forgive me. It’s my shattered nerves that made me say such an unkind thing. Truthfully, I’ve never been so charmed by anyone in my whole life. I dare say you feel quite dear to me. It’s as though we have been bosom friends for much longer than we actually have, isn’t it?”

So now my eyes are stinging, the way they do when somebody says something nice to you and you didn’t know it was coming. I mean, don’t you think Misty is telling me I’m the best friend she’s ever had? (I know, I know. She said ‘bosom’ friend. If she ever comes to my school, I’ll have to tell her not to say that.)But if she did come to my school, she’d be way cooler than Emma Jackson. And guess who her best friend would be?

 I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “So, are we ready to do this?”

“Wait,” Misty says. “Turn around.” 

I do, and she buttons up the buttons I couldn’t reach.

“Now we’re ready,” she says.

I hold up my pinky finger.

“Let’s lock pinkies,” I say. “It means girl power. We’re going to need every bit we can get.”

Misty isn’t quite sure how to do this, but all you have to do is follow what the other person does. We walk out of the barn, side-by-side, our pinkies hooked together between us.

We go up to the cabin, which doesn’t look as cozy as it did when I first saw it. Even though it’s all bright and sunshiny outside, it’s like there’s a dark cloud hanging over the roof. I know I’m making that up, but when Grampa Sam died, I got the same feeling. I was praying he would get better, but he didn’t. The cloud stayed over our house for a long time. On some days, I still feel it, especially when I’m home by myself.

We go inside the cabin. Pa’s not there. He must still be out looking for that creepy boy, which is good. One less person to have to talk into doing something they won’t want to do. I don’t see Timmy, either. The room is dark and it smells like a sick person, a stink so thick it makes you feel like you’re swallowing it. 

Misty’s ma looks up at us.

“You’re back,” is all she says. She’s got Lizbet on her lap. I wish Lizbet would make some kind of noise, but she doesn’t. Mrs. Dance looks as if she could just about slide out of her chair, onto the floor.

“Hello, Mrs. Dance.” I sound like a kindergartner, and I feel like one, too. What made me think I could walk right in here and be the boss of Mrs. Dance? 

I clear my throat. “Would you like some help with the baby?” 

Mrs. Dance shakes her head.

“Would you like me to get you something to eat?” 

She shakes her head again.

“Would you like me to do something with the fire?”

Again with the head.

“Would you like me to—” I sound like a robot, one with a pretty lame list of things it knows how to say. 

I guess Mrs. Dance has had enough of my blabbering. 

“Please, Diamond Joy,” she says. “There is nothing I need.”

I look at Misty, who has taken a seat on her stool. Her back is as straight as a board. Her hands are on her lap, she raises them. Without saying a word, she hooks one pinky around the other. 

Girl power.

Exactly what I need.

I stoop down in front of Mrs. Dance. I see Lizbet’s face, peeking out from one of the folds in the blanket. God, she looks so—so sick. She’s got these reddish-blue spots on her cheeks, and her eyes—which are now looking at me—are sticking out, like they’re gonna pop. Up close, I can hear each breath, rattling in and out.
“Mrs. Dance,” I say. “I think I’ve got something that might help Lizbet, but I need to bring her to my house.”

Mrs. Dance looks at me, confused. “That is not possible, Diamond. I cannot let you take Lizbet.”

Misty and I give each other a quick look. 

“Here, Mrs. Dance,” I say. “Let me hold her.” I’ve never told a grown-up what to do before, but in a way, Mrs. Dance seems more like a child right now. I’m surprised when she nods and hands Lizbet to me.

I lift Lizbet in my arms, and I swear it, something electric happens to me. Lizbet’s warm body hugs close to my chest, and I feel a zzzzzzzt! go straight up my spine. Her big, fat, sick eyes are looking up at me, and her mouth is moving, like she wants to say “da da” or something.

I love this baby.

I stand up, Lizbet cradled in my arms. Mrs. Dance and Misty are both looking at me.

“Mrs. Dance,” I say. “Misty and I are going to take Lizbet for a while. There’s nothing more you can do. I have a way to get home. I will take good care of Lizbet while we travel, and Misty will bring her back to you, no matter what. I can’t promise I’ll save her, but I’m going to try.” 

Wow. I sound like a school principal or something. Mrs. Dance must think so, too. All she does is nod. Her face is chalky white, and her eyes have greenish-gray blotches under them—like she’s been up all night. Come to think of it, she probably has.

I keep going. “Mrs. Dance, I want you to go lie down. We’ll be gone for a while, but trust me, we’re going to do the best we can for Lizbet.”

“But Diamond—” Tears are falling down Mrs. Dance’s cheeks.

I don’t know how I manage to keep sounding like a grown-up, but I do. “Don’t worry. Misty and I are going to watch out for your baby. I promise.” 

I nod to Misty. She’s leaning into her ma, but I need to keep her moving. 

“Misty,” I say. “It’s time to go. Your ma will be okay, and your pa will be back soon.” Listen to me! I’m, like, queen of the universe. “You don’t need to bring anything. Just come with me.”

I lead Misty out of the cabin. Me, the bossiest girl you ever saw. I’ve got Lizbet in my arms, and we hurry to the barn, which is hard to do without jostling Lizbet too much. I keep looking down at her. She’s the sweetest thing ever.

“Quick,” I say, as soon as Misty shuts the barn door, “get dressed.”

I can’t believe I’m holding a baby; it’s the first time I ever have. All I can think about is how warm she is up against me. Misty’s gone behind a wooden post to get dressed, and when she steps out, she’s got on my tee shirt and shorts. She’s hugging her arms across her chest and stooping over a little, like she’s butt-naked or something. 

“Girl,” I say, “that outfit looks way good on you!”

 “I am uncertain about this clothing,” she says.

“Don’t worry. Everybody looks like that where we’re going. Come over here. We all need to be touching when I throw the stones.”

Something bothers me when I say this, but I can’t think what it is. Misty comes over to me and we hold on to each other, Lizbet tucked between us. 

“Here, take Lizbet,” I say, shifting my bundle into Misty’s arms. “I have to get the stones out and hold my apron open.”

I reach in my pocket.

Empty.

Now I know what’s bugging me. It’s coming to me the same way you remember a bad dream after you wake up. You know, how you have a glimpse of it at first, then you start remembering the whole thing? When I traveled back to Misty’s this time, I forgot to roll the stones in my apron. And since I’ve been here, it’s never crossed my mind to wonder where they are. 

So here I am, stuck in the 1800’s, with the ticket to me getting home scattered on the ground under the oak tree in my backyard. 

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STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
What do you think about Diamond choosing 'the truth' as the best plan?
Have you ever felt in charge when you talk to an adult?
​How would you feel if you were stuck in the 1800's?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

THE PROBLEM: I’m afraid my 13-year old son has gotten into some stuff on the internet that’s causing him a lot of anxiety. He’s convinced the world is going to end soon, and he can’t stop talking about it. He’s lost interest in the activities he used to enjoy, like playing guitar and watching sports on TV with his dad, and he’s trying to convince everybody else to worry, too. (Again, by talking about it all the time.) He has also confided to me that he feels hopeless, and he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him after the world ends. He is suffering so much, and I feel awful for him, but I don’t know how to help him.

MARY SAYS: Have you ever found your mind grinding away at something you said in a work meeting or obsessing on an imagined health scare? You’re bee-bopping along, happy, and all of a sudden, bam! In an instant, your thoughts turn into a runaway train without brakes.

At best, it’s annoying, but at worst, obsessive thinking can consume you in a most uncomfortable way, which is what is happening to your son.

Unfortunately, heightened anxiety is a common fallout from a global disaster, which we have been in since—since—wow, it feels like forever. There’s no shortage of bad news to fuel endless doom-scrolling, which an anxious mind loves to feed on.

Common sense might tell you to limit your son’s internet use. But aside from dealing with the pushback you’ll get, it’s not that simple. To revisit our earlier metaphor, the train has already left the station.

Your son is in desperate need of coping tools. For whatever reason, he has joined the thousands of children who have lost the resiliency that comes so naturally to young people. He may be a particularly sensitive boy, or he might be dealing with another issue that is too overwhelming to look at, which makes obsessing on the end of the world an easier option.

He also might be picking up on how you’re feeling.

If you are a parent, you’ve probably met your own demons this year, having to deal with the demands of raising a family and having a pandemic thrown in just in case you didn’t have enough going on. How are you managing? What races through your mind while you’re lying in bed, eyes wide open, at 3 in the morning? Are you experiencing heightened anxiety or depression?

Most significantly for your son, what are you saying about all of this?

If you’re not doing the ‘everything’s coming up roses’ thing, that’s good. Trying times are best dealt with honestly, rather than putting on a happy face even when you don’t feel like it. But if your son is only hearing about your worries and fears, perhaps it’s time to share the helpful strategies you use for dealing with them.

And if you aren’t using any, now’s a good time to start.

First of all, be aware of projecting gloom into the future, which might sound like this: “COVID 19 is just the beginning. They say what’s coming down the pike will be a lot worse.” Or: “Kids are so behind in school. How will they ever catch up?” Or: “Now that I’m working remote, I feel far away, like I’ll lose my job any day now.” Indeed, you may believe all these things, but unless they come to pass, they’re just scary stories, invented to feed that insatiable anxious mind.

Mind your words, please. Our children need us to. At the age of 13, children want to be autonomous, and they want someone to be in charge. These opposing ‘wants’ create a breeding ground for uncertainty and fear, but they also offer an opportunity for growth.

True, we may find ourselves facing another pandemic in years to come. But does that portend a dark fate, or have we learned something about how resilient we humans can be? Yes, many kids have had a less-than-desirable school experience over the past 12 months. But could this gap in our children’s education possibly be a chance for them to get off the hamster wheel of pushing through? I mean, what’s the hurry? And have you ever lost a job? How often does that turn into something better?

These are not small issues. But a shift in perspective can turn setbacks into opportunities, while at the same time relieving suffering for everybody in your household.

I would also encourage you to give your son a device to use when he feels himself beginning to ruminate about death and destruction. This simple, 3-step ‘box breath’ is extremely powerful at calming down the nervous system. It’s quick, easy, portable, and nobody ever needs to know you’re doing it.
Here’s how it works:

• Take a slow, deep breath to the count of four.
• Hold the breath in, also to the count of four. (Stay relaxed while suspending the breath—not that puffy-cheeked, nose-holding thing kids do when going underwater. Rather, simply don’t breathe out for a moment.)
• Slowly release the breath to the count of four.

​Try it. Right now. You’ll be amazed how relaxed you feel. Your son may need to use this device 20 times an hour when he first begins, but over time, just thinking about the box breath will prompt his system to chill out.

And finally, keep in mind that although you might try to convince your son the world is NOT going to end, do we really know for sure what will happen next? Trying to control an outcome only offers temporary relief from anxiety. For a more sustained sense of wellbeing, one needs to come from a centered place, knowing deep down that no matter what, everything is as it should be.

People spend a lifetime trying to find that eternal nugget—through faith, centering practices, nature, and many other sources. Seekers always find. Share your own journey with your son, and perhaps you will discover in each other a companion to journey with—a hidden gem, buried deep inside these crazy times we’re living in.

Kristi is on vacation this week. 

ASK MOM offers parents two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues—one from a mom with grown children (Mary), the other from a mom raising small children (Kristi). If you’re looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn’t around to ask, drop in! If you have a question for Mary and Kristi, we’d love to hear from you! askmomyourquestion@gmail.com

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Read more ASK MOM advice.

If I could, I’d call 911. 

“This your place?” the boy asks again.

“Why, yes it is,” I say. “And where might you be from?” 

“You ain’t from around here,” he says. “You talk funny.” 

Can you believe it? He’s acting like he’s suspicious of me. “Well. Some nerve. You telling me where I’m not from,” I say.

He looks at me and doesn’t say anything, just kind of eyeballs me.

“Sure is hot, ain’t it?” I say. He’s still not talking, so I keep going. “It’s been nice chatting. But if you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way. I’ve got to get back inside with Pa and my ten brothers. I’m the one who has to cook for them, you know.”

The boy squints at the cabin. “Ten brothers and that’s all you got?”

Good point. Quick, Diamond. Think. “We’re building a mansion on the other side of those woods,” I say, waving my arm toward the spot where the mansion is going to be. “You should go look at it.” 

I don’t think he buys it, about my ten brothers I mean. Maybe I should have settled for three.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks. 

I hug the oranges to my chest, tight. 

“Horse dung,” I say.

“Odd, you squeezin’ it like that.”

“Well, it’s mine, ain’t it?”

“It don’t look like horse dung. How come it’s orange?”

Like, duh. The bag is practically see-through. “Too many carrots,” I say, knowing I sound like an idiot. “We feed our horse too many carrots. And Kool-Aid. He likes the orange-flavored kind. We can’t hardly keep it in stock.”

“Kool-Aid?”

“Did I say Kool-Aid? I meant—I meant—” What did I mean? I’m wondering what he’ll do if I try to make a run for it. 

He takes a step closer. I can smell him, and believe you me, it’s not pretty. 

“Open the bag,” he says.

“Nothing in here you ain’t seen before. And you sure don’t want to get a whiff of it.” I try to act like I don’t care, but inside, I’m freaking out. Misty told me she hasn’t seen an orange since she moved here. What will this boy do if he sees five of them, all in one bag?

“Open it,” he says.

He’s bigger than me—and stronger, I bet. I wrap the handles around my fists and open the bag, a crack. 

“Kidding!” I say. “You got me! Not really horse dung!”

He grabs the bag, but I’ve got it, tight. He glances at the cabin. Maybe those ten brothers weren’t such a bad idea after all.

“Don’t scream, little miss,” he says. “But I’m going to take them oranges.”

God, no. 

“Please don’t,” I say. “How about if I give you one, and then you go home?” I take an orange out of the bag and hold it out to him. 

He snatches the orange and shoves it in his duffel bag. The thing looks like a plucked turkey, sitting there on his shoulder. 

“How come you get all those and I only get one?” he asks.

“Please,” I say. “I’m bringing these oranges to our baby. She’s sick. She’s got scurvy and if she doesn’t get oranges soon, she’ll die.”

“Other people’s got to eat, too,” the boy says. “Gimme another one.”

I’m not sure what to do, so I take another orange out of my bag. I hand it to him. The most precious gem a princess could ever own, and now it’s going to end up in that turkey. But this one doesn’t go in the duffle bag. Instead, the boy peels back some of the rind and sucks on it. He’s making loud, smacking noises, like he can’t get that orange in his mouth fast enough. 

I should take this moment to run, but I don’t. 

He grabs my wrist. “I want two more,” he says, his mouth full of orange. “You can take the rest to your baby.”

“No!” I say. “You can’t have them. She’ll die. One orange isn’t enough to save her.”
“One’s enough. Gimme two more.” He squeezes my wrist harder, but he does glance at the cabin. (I’m lovin’ those ten brothers.) 

“You’re hurting me,” I say.

“I can hurt you worse than that. Gimme two,” he says. With my free hand, I give him two more oranges. 

They go in the turkey.

Now he’s seriously squeezing my wrist. “Gimme that last one and I’ll let you go.”
I try to yank my hand out of his, but he’s got me tight. 

Okay, so now I’m mad.

“Get off me, you creep!” I kick him with the sharp toe of Misty’s boot, right in the shin. 

He yelps. 

Now he’s mad. “I don’t care how many brothers you got,” he says. “Nobody doin’ that to me!”

He twists my arm, and the ruffle on the edge of my sleeve rips. I see it dangling. I think of Misty—she’s gonna have a hissy fit. The kid’s got me turned around now, my arm wrenched up behind my back. 

It hurts like you wouldn’t believe. 

I start screaming. 

From here, everything happens fast. I see Misty’s pa out on the porch, holding a shotgun aimed right at me. Or us. The boy reaches in my bag, takes my last orange and runs toward the woods, his duffel bag flopping on his shoulder. Misty’s pa doesn’t shoot. But I bet he would have, if he knew what that boy had just stolen from me.

Mr. Dance is looking my way. I don’t think he can tell what I am, but he lowers his gun. 

“Hello, Mr. Dance,” I call out. I’m waving like a mad homecoming queen, so he’ll see I’m the kind of person you wouldn’t want to shoot.

“Who’s that?” he yells.

“It’s me. Diamond Joy.” I’m walking through the garden, up to the cabin. My legs are wobbly, and even though my heart’s still in my chest, it’s banging around like it wants to get out. My arm hurts. The oranges are gone. All that’s left is an empty plastic bag, which I tuck in my apron pocket. I’m not sure how I would explain plastic to a hundred-some-year old frontiersman.

“Hello, Mr. Dance. I’m Diamond Joy,” I say. I look up at him, standing there on his porch. With his gun.

“Hello, Miss Joy,” he says. “Are you hurt? Did that boy do anything to you?”

 “He was about to. You came out just in time.” Then, so he doesn’t think I was with that boy, I add, “I’m a friend of Misty’s.” 

“Ah, yes. She told me about you. I understand your family is new to these parts, and that you’ll soon be moving on. It’s nice you’ve come around again, but times are troubled here, Miss Joy. I’m afraid we can’t offer you a warm welcome.”

“Misty told me about Lizbet. I’m sorry about your baby,” I say.
 
“And young lady,” Misty’s pa goes on, like he didn’t even hear me. “Does your pa know you walk about these woods by yourself? We’ve got young ruffians like that boy passin’ through all the time. Most of them aren’t bad seeds; they’re just hungry. But a hungry man’s been known to kill for a small amount of something to fill his belly with. Do come in. Misty could use the company. I’m going to walk on down the road a spell, make sure that boy is on his way. Then I’ll hitch up the wagon and take you home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dance. I’d like that.” 

 He steps aside, and I walk by him—and his gun—into the cabin. It’s dark as ever inside, but I can see that not much has changed since I left. Timmy isn’t there, but Misty and her ma are still huddled around Lizbet.

Misty’s got her eye on the door as I walk in. 

“Diamond!” she says. She rises off her stool, halfway up, halfway down. “Have you—are you—did you bring—?” She looks at her ma, not sure how to ask me about the oranges.

I shake my head, a small shake, which is how I feel about now. I see Misty lower back down to her seat. “I see,” she says quietly. Then she asks, “What happened? Are you hurt?”

I shake my head no, but I hold up my torn sleeve. “I’m sorry, Misty. I’m so sorry,” is all I can say. 

“Think nothing of it,” Misty says. “I only care that you are unharmed. Was that boy looking for something to eat?”

I nod.

Misty’s ma looks up at me. I can’t tell you about her sad eyes without getting even sadder myself, so I won’t. From where I stand, Lizbet’s face is hidden from me. She’s just a bundle of blankets, not moving.

Misty’s ma nods at Misty, so Misty and me go out to the front porch. We see her Pa walking along a dirt path at the edge of the woods, his gun on his shoulder. She takes my hand and leads me toward the barn, where we can talk, just the two of us. When we get inside, she doesn’t bother to close the door. 

She lets go of my hand and turns to me.

“Thank you for coming back,” she says. “As you can see, Lizbet isn’t doing well. Ma says she’ll go soon. Pa has already started digging her grave in my garden, seeing as there’s no churchyard close by. He’s also been working on a little wooden box to lay her out in. It’s a wee box. It’s—it’s so tiny.”

So the hole I saw by the oak tree is a grave. 

For Lizbet.

An even bigger hole opens up, this one inside of me. 

“I wish I never found those stupid stones,” I say. “At least I wouldn’t have gotten your hopes up. When I got here, I had five oranges. I had five, Misty.” I start to cry, even though I’m trying not to. “That kid—he took them from me. Right out of my bag. All of them.” I pull the empty bag out of my apron pocket for her to see. 

Misty puts her hand on her heart like it’s about to break, but this time, for me. “Diamond Joy, you’ve been very brave. I’m sorry you had a run-in with one of our wayfaring young boys, after all you’ve tried to do for my family. You did your best to save my sister”—here she stops, like it’s hard for her to keep talking, but she does—“and for that, I am grateful. But maybe it’s God’s will that Lizbet die as an infant. Many do, and it isn’t our place to question it.”

Speak for yourself, I want to say, but I don’t. 

“No way!” I say instead. “She can’t die, Misty! She can’t!”    
  
“I’m sorry, Diamond, but I fear she will, and quite soon. This is a hard day for my family, but there is nothing more we can do.”

“I can try again!” I’m practically begging now. “We’re all out of oranges at home, but I can ride my bike to the grocery store and buy more. Then I’ll bring them back here!”

Misty looks at me in a strange way, but doesn’t say anything.  She walks over to a box-shaped bale of hay and sits down. She pats the empty space beside her.

“Sit down,” she says.

I go sit by her on the hay. Through my dress, I feel how scratchy it is. I’m sniffling a little, and I wipe my nose with my torn sleeve. The dress is pretty messed up, anyway.

“I feel obliged to tell you that I am the one who brought you here,” she says.

“What do you mean? I found the stones. I’m the one who brought you to the twenty-first century. Not the other way around.”

Misty sighs. “When you first came here, we didn’t know Lizbet was sick. Remember?”

I nod.

“But on your second visit, she was already dying. When you said you could bring us some oranges, my heart was filled with joy. Then, after you left, I feared you would not be able to find your way back.” Here she looks at me, kind of sideways. “So I sent you a message.”

A message?

“I went into my garden and found four stones. On each of them, I scratched out a letter with my knitting needle. I imagine you know what those letters were. I took my ma’s wooden treasure box to put them in. I am ashamed to confess that I stole it from her, but it was all I had that would protect the stones from getting separated over time. So you see, Diamond Joy, I did bury those stones. And if I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here. I tampered with the natural order of things, but it appears that all will turn out as it was meant to be.”

You coulda knocked me down with a feather when Misty told me this. I would never have guessed it. But now it all makes sense. That’s why the stones brought Misty to me, and that’s why they took us straight back to Misty’s cabin. 

“But how did you do it?” I ask. “How did you make the stones magic?”

“I did nothing. Perhaps it was my wishing so hard that made them work.”

“But they’re stones, Misty. How can they have that kind of power? And why us? Why you and me?”

Misty’s shaking her head. “I don’t know. But it’s the most curious happenstance, wouldn’t you say? We live in one another’s yard. We share a single oak tree. My dress—and my shoes—fit you the way they fit me. I feel a kinship with you, Diamond Joy, even though we have lived over a hundred years apart.”

When Misty says this, I can’t help myself. I think about Emma Jackson. She would be way too small to wear Misty’s dress. And forget about the boots. I can see it now—Misty and I are like, walking down the hall at school, and people think we’re twins. Emma is staring at us. I can tell she’s wishing Misty was her friend, not mine.

Misty’s looking at me, waiting. 

“I don’t know what it is,” I tell her. “But I think you’re right. There’s something totally freakish going on between you and me.” 

“Freakish. Hmm, yes. Indeed, we do seem to share many qualities.”

 “Yeah, but I can tell you one thing that’s very different about us,” I say.

“And what would that be?” 

“I don’t believe Lizbet is supposed to die.”

Misty shakes her head. (She keeps doing that and I wish she would stop it.) “I long to share in your belief. But I can’t.” 

“She’s not gone yet, is she?” I say. “We should at least keep trying. Maybe you did bury those stones, but you didn’t make them magic. Somebody somewhere is helping us. How can we quit now? Think about it. As long as the stones keep working, there’s somebody out there who hasn’t given up.  Whoever it is, we can’t let them down.”

Even though I’m making all this up, Misty seems to think there’s something to it.

“But we don’t have time for you to go back and get more oranges. Lizbet is near the end,” she says. 

“Well then,” I say. “If we can’t bring the oranges to Lizbet, we’ll just have to bring Lizbet to the oranges.” 

“Pardon?”

“We need to go get your sister, Misty Dance. You, me and Lizbet are going for a ride.”

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​STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How did you feel when the boy stole Diamond's oranges?
Why is Misty so calm, even though her baby sister is gravely ill?
Were you surprised to find that Misty DID bury the stones? Why didn't she know she buried the stones when Diamond first met her?
Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

I’m standing there, staring at the spot on the windowsill where my stones should be. No time for blubbering, I tell myself, even though all I want to do is cry. 
Out loud I say, “Think, Diamond. Think. Maybe you took them.” I pat down my apron and dress, in case there’s a pocket I don’t remember having, full of stones I don’t remember putting in it. 

Nope. 

“So now we know you don’t have the stones,” I say. “Maybe they fell off the sill.” 

I drop to my hands and knees and scramble around, slapping at the floor beneath the window. I squeeze my fingers under the refrigerator. A Lego, a raisin, clumps of dust, and pretty much nothing else. I sit back on my heels.

“Maybe it was Mom.” I doubt it, but just in case, I peek in the trash can. That’s where she would have thrown them.

“Stu.” I can’t tell you why, but as soon as I say my brother’s name, I know. “Stu! STU!”

I go racing up to his room, two steps at a time. Holding my skirt up sure makes it easier to run. I barge into Stu’s room. The door swings open and bangs against the wall. 

“Where are they?” 

Stu looks up at me. The army man he’s dangling over the edge of his bed falls to the floor. “You look like little Bo Peep,” he says. “What are you looking for? Your sheep?”

I’m spittin’ mad, and he’s only making me madder. “Where are my stones?”

“Oh, those. They’re on the bridge.” When he says this, he eyes the window kind of funny, which makes me suspicious. That’s what liars do; they look all over the place except at you.

“You’re lying,” I say.

“Am not.”

“You’re a liar, you little troll!! Where are my stones?” I’m about to cry, but I hold it in.

“They’re on the bridge,” Stu says, this time like he means it. 

“Stu. I’ve got to find those stones,” I say.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Your dumb stones are on the bridge. I think your sheep are there, too.” Now he snorts, which makes it hard for me to know if he’s making it up or if he just thinks he’s the funniest thing since—since I don’t know what. 

He’s not funny.

I’ve got no choice but to believe him. If he’s telling the truth, I can pick up the stones on my way down to the oak tree. 

“I’ll kill you if you’re lying to me,” I say.

“Murder’s against the law. You’ll go to jail.”

“It would be worth it.” 

I turn around and stomp off, down the stairs, to the kitchen. I grab the oranges and stuff them in a plastic grocery bag, the same one Mom just took them out of. A quick jump over the back door stoop and I race on down to the bridge.

I’m running like my hair is on fire. The oranges are banging up and down, and I’ve got my skirt bunched up in one hand. On my way to the bridge, I’m playing a game in my head. I tell myself that if the stones are on the bridge, Lizbet is going to live. But if they’re not there, I wasn’t supposed to go back and save her anyway. Either way, I can’t lose, and history ends up being whatever it’s supposed to be.

I get to the bridge. 

It’s empty.

So here I am, standing on the bridge, staring at the creek. The creek bed is full of stones, but none of them look like mine. My only choice is to go back to Stu and threaten him with something I haven’t thought of yet. Trouble is, I don’t know what that would be. 
I lean on the bridge railing. The water is making a soft, trickling sound, and it sort of calms me. There’s my oak tree, a silent giant, like it’s got nothing to do but stand there. Does it remember seeing me in Misty’s yard when it was still a sapling? I wish I could ask it. Just think, if my oak tree could talk, it could tell me what happened after I left. 

Maybe Lizbet is already gone. 

I tell myself I’m glad I’ve lost the stones. It’s too dangerous for me to go back to the 1800’s, anyway. Besides, the entire Dance family has been dead for years. What does it matter now if Lizbet lives or dies? 

It does matter. 

To me. 

I feel a tear roll down my cheek; it tickles my neck. I can still see Lizbet, reaching her pudgy hands out to me, two dumplings. And when she smiles, her eyes squeeze almost shut. “Da, da,” she kept saying to me. “Da, da.” 

I’ve got to get back there. 

They’re on the bridge, Stu had said. 

They are NOT, I want to scream at him. 

The funny thing is, I kind of believe him. What you don’t know about Stu is that he stinks at lying. When he lies, he says things over and over. Mom asks if he’s the one who ate half the Oreos, and he’s like: “Not me, Mom. Nope. I didn’t do it. Wasn’t me”--which pretty much tells you the little piglet wiped out a whole row. When he said the stones were on the bridge, I think he meant it. So if Stu was telling the truth, did someone take them off the bridge? Some kid, maybe? A crow? Emma Jackson?

I look around. I’m shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand, and I’m scanning the horizon, looking for signs of a stone thief. Nothing moves. The more I think about it, who would even cross this bridge? It’s in our yard, and nobody uses it but us. It hardly makes sense that anyone would come here on purpose to swipe four stones.

“They’re on the bridge,” I keep hearing Stu say. What bridge? Am I on the wrong bridge? I close my eyes and go back to his room. 

They’re on the bridge. 

 Then it comes to me. When Stu told me the stones were on the bridge, his eyes flew toward the window. 

Only for a second, but I swear I saw it.

Now I look at the window in my mind’s eye. Curtains, a trophy on the windowsill, a fish tank under it. They’re on the bridge. The fish tank! At the bottom of Stu’s fish tank, there’s a miniature bridge with a wrecked pirate ship crashed into it. 

I’m betting those stones are in that fish tank.

You can probably guess where I go now. By the time I get to Stu’s room, I’m breathing so hard it hurts. His door is still open. I run in and grab the net he uses to take the fish out when he and Dad clean the tank. 

“Hey!” Stu’s where he was when I left him, on the bed. “You can’t just come in here and mess up my stuff!”

I turn to him. I’ve got the net in one hand—it’s this tiny mesh pocket on the end of a long wire handle—and I’m holding it up like a sword. 

I’ll use it like one, too, if I have to. 

“If you know what’s good for you,” I say in my evil queen voice, “you better stop talking.” 

I can tell Stu is thinking twice before saying anything else.

I look in the fish tank. Goldfish, neon tetras and guppies are zigzagging all over the place. I see my stones, lined up on top of the bridge. Stu’s got them spelled right: H-E-L-P. I scoop them out, one by one, with the net. Funny, you would think I’d be all crazy happy about finding them, but I’m not. The truth of it is, now I have to go back to Misty’s cabin and save Lizbet’s life. Playing doctor scares me. All four stones are back in my hand, cold and wet, and they feel a lot heavier than they did when I first dug them up.

Stu’s talking again. “Those are mine! I found them on the windowsill. Finders keepers!”

I hardly hear him ‘cuz I’m running now. Whatever came over me back there is gone. All I want to do is get to the cabin. I’ve got the stones in my fist—you better believe I’m squeezing ‘em tight—and the oranges, which are doing that banging-against-my-leg thing. 

As soon as I get to the oak tree, I throw all four stones on the ground. I see one of them bounce against a tree root and zing off to the side. Right then, the wavy feeling kicks in. 

I shut my eyes. I’m clutching the bag of oranges to my chest—I hope they make the trip okay. In two seconds, I’m in Misty’s garden. I’m getting pretty good at this. Everything looks the same as before, except under the tree, it looks like somebody started digging a hole. There’s a shovel leaning against the tree and a small mound of dirt beside it, which kind of messes up the garden, but maybe they’re planting another tree. If they are, I can tell you it doesn’t grow old; our oak tree stands by itself. I open my bag and stick my nose in. All five oranges are piled up in there, about the prettiest things you ever saw. 

I look over at the cabin. It’s eerie quiet outside, but there’s smoke coming out of the chimney.

I wonder what I should do now. Knock on the door? Try to get Misty to see me? I’m staring at the cabin, but before I can make a plan, I hear a soft shuffling behind me.

“Pardon me, miss,” somebody says, so close to me it gives me the heebie jeebies. “Is this your place?”

I turn around to find myself standing in front of a boy who looks a year or two older than me. He’s got on what Misty would call pantaloons—big, baggy ones—and he’s wearing a wool cap, even though it’s hot outside. He’s got a filthy duffel bag hiked up on his shoulder. I tell you, it’s nasty. Everything about him looks worn out. We stare at each other, eye-to-eye, and I get this funny feeling.

Something tells me this boy is not just stopping by to say ‘howdy’ to the Dances.

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​STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
Do you think Diamond is doing the right thing by going back and changing history?
Do you have a brother, sister, or a friend that makes you mad the way Stu makes Diamond mad? What do you do when you feel that way?
What do you think is going to happen when Diamond goes back to the 1800's?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

THE PROBLEM: My daughter, who is now eight, was so easy I couldn’t wait to have another. As a baby, she had a smile for everyone. She’s the kind of kid who will busy herself with a coloring book in a restaurant, and she hardly ever puts up a fuss when I ask her to do something. But then, a year-and-a-half after she was born, we had Adam, who was unhappy from the beginning. He screamed a lot for the first two years, and still fights with me on EVERYTHING, even though he’s seven, old enough to know better. The problem is, I’ve finally admitted to myself that I love my daughter more than my son, which is about the worst thing I could do for both of them. I feel so ashamed, like I’m a terrible mother. Shouldn’t I love them both the same?

MARY SAYS: Aaahhhh, the blessing and the curse of an easy firstborn. When new parents have the kind of baby who coos at strangers, sleeps through the night, and naps on long trips, it’s tempting for the happy couple to believe they’re pretty good at this ‘parenting’ thing. It might even tip into judgy, especially when their friends pop out a screamer: “Just pat him on the back and he’ll go right back to sleep,” you say, or “Try a pacifier, that worked like a charm for us.”

Unwittingly, these two think they’re the ones who created such a model human being. And to a degree, they have. But then along comes baby number two, an alien who drops into your otherwise happy home. This one takes charge from the get-go, and you’re never quite sure how to please your new boss.

In other words, children are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.

What complicates the situation is that children often have personalities similar to one parent or the other. I am guessing your daughter’s temperament is like your own, which is why it’s been so easy to engage with her. Adam, however, sounds like he has a different personality type, one that may even remind you of someone you were never too crazy about. (Mom? Dad? Aunt Lil?)

But they are both yours, which is why you are concerned about your feelings toward Adam.

For starters, let's talk about the word ‘love.’ Love can’t be divided or split in two, it can’t be measured. Be assured, you have plenty of love inside of you for both of your children and all the other children in the world. Love is whole and complete, impossible to ‘parcel out’ to one more than another.

When you conclude you love your son more than your daughter, it’s more likely that Adam is triggering something inside of YOU you don’t like. Or that you’re triggered by. Or ashamed of.

And for Adam’s sake, it’s important you figure out what that ‘something’ is.
​
Using pen and paper, write down everything about Adam that drives you crazy. (Something about writing by hand helps to reveal the truths we are trying to get to.)

For example:

• Adam is impulsive.
• Adam is loud.
• Adam won’t listen.

Now it’s time for reflection, pen still in hand. Was there ever a time you were scolded or shamed for acting out? Talking too loud? Maybe your teachers complained that you never listened, talked too much, or couldn’t follow directions. Maybe the opposite was true, and you NEVER spoke up. Early on, perhaps Mom or Dad convinced you that what you had to say wasn’t worth hearing, and now you have this child who says whatever is on his mind as loud as he can. 

Try and recall when the original wound was inflicted, and you might understand why you react so strongly to Adam. Once you are able to identify these characteristics in yourself, you will see your son as a gift you’ve been graced with to help you embrace your own injured places, ones that have been hidden in shadow for too long.

If you do this, the healing can begin—for yourself, and for the beautiful boy who has been placed in your care.

KRISTI SAYS: The idea that we should love two people the same way only sets us up for failure. However, in parenting, it’s important to treat your children with the same amount of love and respect if you don’t want to breed resentment. Children pick up on our emotions and behaviors. They know when they aren’t the favored one, and this can lead them to behave in unlovable ways.

There are two separate issues at hand here, and both need to be addressed. One is how you feel, and the other is how you behave.

Let’s start with your feelings. It sounds like your daughter was one of those babies that most people can only dream about. Easy, compliant, and smiley. Your time with her peaceful disposition was cut short by Adam, who entered the world with needs you struggled to meet. You wanted to make him happy like your daughter, but he didn’t comply. On top of that, they were so close in age you were raising two babies together.

Adam just felt hard, which can lead to disappointment.

You’ve been holding onto that letdown for 7 years, and now you’re admitting to yourself you love her more. It sounds like you’re throwing in the towel and giving up on what could be a beautiful mother-son relationship. Comparing him to her and wondering why he can’t be more like his sister may be what’s at the crux of this issue.

It sounds like you LIKE your daughter more because she complies and listens to you. It also sounds like you LIKE your son less because he’s harder to manage. (Liking is not the same as loving, by the way.)

A few important things to understand:

1. Boys and girls are different. They have different temperaments, different personalities, and different needs. Boys tend to be more ‘rough and tumble,’ making them seem more aggressive.
2. Each child requires a unique approach to discipline. I’ve learned this important lesson with my three children. With two boys and one girl, I find myself continuing to learn and develop what works best for each of them. One responds well to a quick time out, another needs toys removed temporarily, and the third one needs time away from technology to correct behavior.
3. Boys develop differently than girls. Adam may not be as emotionally or mentally developed as your daughter was at his age. While you think “he should know better,” he still needs your continued guidance.

Now let’s talk about how you behave. Your response to your feelings is something you can control—and improve upon. Think about your recent interactions with your son. How many of them were positive? How many times did you praise him for doing the right thing? How many times did you tell him you love him this week? How many times did you do something special with him? Can you count the times you gave him a hug or showed him affection?

All children need to be shown love. They also need your time and attention. If your feelings toward your son are causing you to withhold love, then I would encourage you to work on this. If you are withholding love because your son isn’t doing what you think he should, then your love toward your children is conditional. Perhaps that was how you were raised, so it’s understandable, but it sounds like you want to do better.

If you want to improve your relationship with your son, start by treating him as a unique individual. He’s not the same person as your daughter, and it’s unfair for you to expect the same things from him.

Try carving out 30 minutes each day, just for him. Go to the park and kick a ball around or do a messy art project. Read him his favorite book for the millionth time.

Also, watch your words. Have you ever said: Why can’t you be more like your sister? or I can’t believe you did that again, or even When are you going to grow up? As parents, we say things out of frustration, but starting now, you’ll want to be more intentional about what you say to your son. Use your words to build him up, not tear him down. If you observe something positive, praise him for his efforts, no matter how small:

“I really liked how you built that tower with your blocks. It was so smart and creative.”

“I enjoyed playing at the park today. When do you want to do that again?”

“You’re doing a great job getting ready for bed. Thanks for putting your pajamas on so quickly.”

Correct his behavior when necessary, but don’t compare his behavior to his sister’s. Gently correct him if he’s disrespectful, give him natural consequences when he acts up, and understand that he needs a different approach than your daughter does.

If you change your behaviors, your feelings will eventually follow. You’ll discover one day that you don’t love your daughter more, you just love your children differently. The truth is, they are two exceptional, beautiful human beings who need to be loved by their mother in unique ways

ASK MOM offers parents two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues—one from a mom with grown children (Mary), the other from a mom raising small children (Kristi). If you're looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn't around to ask, drop in! If you have a question for Mary and Kristi, we’d love to hear from you! askmomyourquestion@gmail.com

Read more ASK MOM advice in Fredericksburg Parent & Family magazine.

Learn about our online phonics program.

So here I am, alone in the barn, a little sick about what I promised Misty I would do. What if I mess up? I tell myself not to think about that. Instead, I hold my apron out and roll the stones in it. Soon I’m back where I started—under the oak tree. It takes a minute for me to figure out where I am, but it helps when I see my house in the same place it was in when I left. 

I gotta tell you, this traveling through time thing is like nothing you’ve ever done before.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure Mom and Stu are inside. The trick’ll be getting past them, dressed like a pioneer girl and making off with our whole supply of oranges. As soon as everything around me stops swirling, I go up to the kitchen door and peek inside. Nobody’s there. I see oranges piled up in the fruit bowl. Funny, most days I couldn’t care less about oranges. But today, I see them: fat, round, beautiful orange balls of juice. I open the door an inch at a time. It creaks some, so I need to do it slow. 

A second later, I’m in the kitchen. It’s almost too easy. 

I set the stones on the windowsill and grab a plastic grocery bag from under the sink. I stuff it full of oranges—all five of them. I imagine Lizbet sucking on them. Then I see her playing in a pile of oranges, even taking a bath in orange juice. 
Lizbet, covered in oranges.

I let the screen door slam behind me when I leave, but I don’t care. No Mom, no Stu. Got the oranges. I’m running again, back down to the oak tree. The bag is swinging and banging against my thigh, and let me tell you, it’s not easy running in a long dress and boots. I don’t see how Misty can stand it.  I get to the tree and remember a way important thing I forgot. 

The stones.

I left them on the windowsill. 

Brilliant, Diamond. Just brilliant. 

Man, do I have a knack for messing up. As soon as I think I have everything under control, wham! I’m back at the beginning, starting over again. This gets me thinking about all the stupid things I’ve ever done, like the time I asked Emma Jackson to come over to my house to play. Even though she acted all nice about it when she said “No,” I heard later she told somebody (who told somebody else who told me) that she almost died when I asked her. 

She would never come to my house. 

Then there was the time Stu and I--

Shut up, Diamond. Just shut up, I say to myself. You’ve got to get the stones.

Off I go, back up to the kitchen. Unlucky me, Mom and Stu both walk in at the same time I do. 

“Diamond?” Mom asks. 

“Oh. Hi Mom.” Here I am, trying to act like I’m not in a hurry to get back to the 1800’s to save somebody’s life. Not an easy thing to do, by the way.

“Get a load of that dress!” Stu says. “Where’d you get that?”

“None of your beeswax,” I say.

But Mom wants to know, too. “Where did you get that dress? And what are you doing with that bag of—what is it, oranges?” She looks at the fruit bowl: apples, bananas, and grapes. 

No oranges.

I think about Misty, not lying to her mom and all. 

“This old thing?” I say, looking down at my dress. “Don’t you remember it?” 

“I can’t say that I do.”

“Neither do I. It was in my playhouse. I think the oranges would look pretty on my table in there, don’t you?” 

I’m acting totally weird, I know, but no lies. 

“Diamond, what’s gotten in to you?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with you?” Stu asks.

“Don’t be ugly,” I tell him.

“Can’t help it,” Stu says.

Mom turns to Stu. “That’s enough out of you. I want you to march upstairs and finish packing your boxes.”

“How come I have to and Diamond doesn’t?”

“You worry about yourself. I’ll take care of Diamond. Now march.”

“Yeah, but she—”

“March.”

Stu gets all in a huff. He blows on his arm and makes a noise that sounds like, well, you know--flatulence, aiming it at me. He does leave, though, which gives Mom a chance to lay into me. 

“As for you, young lady” she says. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on? You’re acting awfully suspicious. What are you up to?”

“Nothing, Mom,” I say. “I’m just going to miss this place, that’s all.” What that’s got to do with anything, I don’t know. But it works. My mom comes over and puts her arms around me. She rests her chin on my head. 

“I’ll miss it too, sweetie. It’s been a wonderful house.”

I think about Lizbet, and something about my mom hugging me makes me cry. I’ve got to get these oranges back to that little cabin, or Lizbet’s going to die. I want to tell my mom about it, but I can’t, or she’ll never let me go back. Not that I could even get her to believe me. She sure didn’t believe me when I first tried to tell her about Misty.

My mom’s stroking my hair, which does sort of make me feel better. “Don’t worry, Diamond. We’ll like our new house, too. You’ll see.”

I don’t say a thing. When I stop crying, my mom starts in on me again, only nicer. “Alright, honey,” she says. “We really do need to keep moving. Have you finished packing the boxes I left in your room?”

I’ve got those crying hiccups that make it hard to talk. I shake my head, no.

“Why don’t you go on up and take care of that? I need to run a few errands—” she takes the grocery bag from me and dumps the oranges back in the bowl “—and you kids have got to get those boxes done. Take a peek in Stu’s room and make sure he’s packing, will you?”

“But, Mom, I have to—”

“No buts, Diamond. You’ve had plenty of time to pack up. I want you to go up there and get it done. Now.”

Dang. 

I stomp off.  

On the way to my room, I stick my head in Stu’s door. He’s sitting on the floor, in the middle of his junk and two practically empty boxes, dive-bombing army men into one of them. 

He doesn’t even look at me. 

“Mom says you gotta start packing,” I say. 

“Mom says you gotta start packing,” he says.

“Cut it out.” 

“Cut it out.” 

“Snot rot.”

“Snot rot.”

“I know you are but what am I?” 

“I know—” he says, but I slam the door. 

I’m pretty sure I know what he’s going to say.
 
                                                                #
 
So here I am, stuck in my room. My mom took my unicorn poster down yesterday, and my rug is rolled up, a burrito standing in the corner. I can hardly tell it’s my room. Misty’s boots sound hollow on my wooden floor--click, click, click—a stranger’s footsteps, coming from my own feet. 

When I was a little kid, I thought a humongous ogre hid under my bed, waiting to pull me into his hovel, which in my mind was a treacherous place to get pulled into. One day my mom got tired of hearing about the ogre and made me look under my bed. I still remember squatting down and lifting the dust ruffle, knowing I’d see two bloodshot eyeballs staring back at me. 

No eyeballs. Just dust and a comic book, one I’d been looking for.  

Not being able to get to those stones is much worse than anything I ever made up. I wish you had seen Lizbet, then you would know how crazy I feel, being kept prisoner here. If I don’t get back in time, she’s not going to make it. 

But then I get to thinking, and I wonder if that’s what’s supposed to happen. I mean, wouldn’t it mess up history if someone like me goes back and keeps somebody from dying? What if Lizbet grows up to be President of the United States or something, just because I went back and saved her? Now that I think about it, did I save her? Did she grow to be an old lady, or did she die after I left? Misty seems to think we’re messing with something we shouldn’t be. 

I wonder if she’s right.

I’m in danger of a serious melt down, trying to figure it all out. I’m also listening to my mom’s footsteps, wandering around downstairs. She sure is taking her time about leaving. I hear a thud, thud, thudgo across the kitchen, and a drawer slide out. That would be her getting her grocery list. Now to the front hallway, the sound of keys jingling. At last, the front door opens, then closes. 

Wait! How come her footsteps are still inside? 

She forgot something. 

I hear Stu down the hall, having a battle with his army men. There’s a lot of bap bap bap’s (machinegun fire) and eeeeeeoooow’s (planes falling from the sky). 
Stu’s noises stop. He leaves his room and clomps down the stairs, jumping over the bottom two like he always does. Thump!

“Mom!” he yells.

What now? I’ve got to get those oranges to Lizbet. I’ve made up my mind. Even if I change the course of history, I’m going to save that baby. Now that I think about it, what if I need to save her to keep history from changing? Maybe her growing into an old lady is what makes everything happen the way it does. I feel a heavy burden on me to keep history the way it’s supposed to be, but I can’t seem to figure out what that is.

Mom and Stu are downstairs, blabbing about something. 

“Stop talking,” I say.

They stop, almost like they heard me.

Now I hear Mom open and close the front door. From my window, I see the top of her head. She’s moving fast—down the walkway, into her car. She starts the engine, turns it off, gets out.

No, Mom. Stay in the car.

But she doesn’t. I hear the front door open and close. (By now, I’m like, dying.) This time, she turns around pretty quick. She’s back outside, in the car, pulling out of the driveway. I’ve got my hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt downstairs, grab the stones, and get back to the oak tree. 

I see her car go up the street and I’m outta here.

I tear down the stairs. I’m not even thinking about the dress, so it bunches up around me as I run. Stu stays in his room, thank God. Not that I care if he sees me. As long as I get the oranges to Lizbet, I can figure out what to tell everybody after I come back.

I race to the kitchen, over to the window. 

I stop. 

Save for a potted cactus and a ceramic frog, the windowsill is empty.

My stones are gone.

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​
STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How do you think Diamond felt when she saw the oranges in her kitchen, knowing they could save Lizbet's life?
Try to remember a time you were trying to do something but you kept getting interrupted. Can you imagine how Diamond must be feeling now?
Where do you think the stones have gone to?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

So here I am, sitting on the floor, leaning against my bed, trying to write it all down before I forget. I guess you’ve figured out by now that I haven’t gone back to Misty’s. It’s not that I don’t want to. But there are a few things that got in my way:

1. My mom. When I checked in with her, she made me sort my laundry and put it in my drawers. I would much rather poke at a fire or tend—I love that word, tend—to my baby sister, if only I had one. But no. I get stuck folding underwear. 
2. Hunger. I wish I had eaten some cornbread and beans when I had the chance to, but I didn’t, so I had to go make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 
3. Me being freaked out. Since putting clothes away and eating a sandwich only takes about a second, you might be wondering why it’s been four days and I haven’t gone back. I keep meaning to, but every time I start rolling those stones, I get nervous. I’m gonna do it, though. Believe you me, I’m gonna do it.

 
Yeah, right. 

My notebook is killing me. 

I chuck it up on the bed. 

I keep thinking about me hugging Misty and her baby sister. I swear it, I felt like she was my sister, too. If I close my eyes right now, I can pretend I’m picking green beans with Misty in her garden. Only it’s our garden. And her ma is my ma. I know you’re thinking I’m just wishing it, but you’ve never gone back in time before. When you do, it feels like you belong there.

I’d give anything to see my sisters again. 

But I’m not sure about that traveling thing. It felt weird, me floating around in who-knows-what. I mean, how can I be so sure I’ll get put back together in the right order at the end of the trip? What if my feet end up on my hands, or my head is screwed on backwards? Even worse, what if part of me gets left behind? I can see Stu now, telling Mom he found my butt sitting in front of the TV. 

The more I think about it, the more of a scaredy-cat I become about throwing those stones.

But each day I sit here and do nothing, I turn into a bigger liar than ever. I swore I would go back and do what I could to help. Not that it looks like anybody needs my help, I keep telling myself. Over and over. Unless you count bringing back some twenty-first century powder for Lizbet’s bottom. But no matter how many times I think about everybody all happy in that cabin, I can’t seem to shake this bad feeling I’ve got. 

It takes me almost a week to talk myself into going. I have to go. We’re moving tomorrow, so I’m almost out of time. The problem is, it’s hard to get away from everybody. My mom has a zillion things for me to do, and Stu’s freaking out about the move. He keeps following me around, whining, as if I can do anything about it.

Finally I say, “Come on, people! Can’t a girl get a break around here? I need a minute! Just give me a minute!” I lay that on Stu and Mom at the same time, so they’re both standing there in the kitchen, mouths opening and closing like baby chicks when I go stomping out the back door. 

They know better than to try and stop me.

I go straight to my playhouse, which is where I’ve stashed Misty’s dress. I hurry up and put the dress on, even though I can’t reach all the buttons in the back. I grab the apron, tie it around me. Just putting the dress on makes me feel wobbly, like I’ve already stepped partway into that other time. 

Off I go to the tree. If you’re wondering where the stones are, don’t. They’ve been with me since the day I found them. I even sleep with them under my pillow. 
Right now, I’ve got them in my hand.

I get to the tree, scoop my apron up, and drop the stones in, all at once. When I make up my mind to do something, I just do it. I’m the kind of person who jumps in the pool right away, no matter how cold it is. I’m not going to put my toe in first. 

To me, that’s torture. 

In seconds, I’m back in Misty’s garden. I won’t even tell you about the ride; it makes me feel throw-uppy to think about it. This one was a head buster, so much air was whooshing inside me I thought my ears might fly off. You know how it is when you twirl until you fall down? That’s how it feels. Only, not like that, I just can’t think of any other way to tell you about it. But since I told you I wasn’t going to tell you about it, I’ll shut up.

Everything about the cabin looks the way it did when I left. Smoke’s coming out of the chimney and the windows are dark. The sun is shining—just like it is at home—and the oak tree hasn’t grown an inch. I wonder where Misty is. Maybe they’re all inside, except for Misty’s pa. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so I’m guessing he’ll be out in the field.

Okay, smarty-pants, I say to myself. You’re here. Now what? Do you just go bang on the door? I can see it now: “Hey, Mrs. D., Wazzup? Remember me? Diamond Joy? That weird girl who showed up and stole Misty’s dress? Well, here’s the dress. If you don’t mind, I’ll just take my little boy outfit out of the barn and head on home. Seein’ as all looks just fine here. I’d be most grateful if you didn’t call the sheriff or anything.”

So here I stand, like a statue in Misty’s garden. I don’t know what to do. Then I think about Harriet the Spy. The first thing she would do is snoop around, which I’m pretty good at. I figure I’ll start with the barn, circle back around to the cabin, and then go home. It would be totally fun to talk to Misty, though. Maybe I can work that in. 

Before I do anything, I look up and send out a warning, big and loud: “I want you listen to me, whoever sent those stones. If I don’t find anyone in trouble this time, I’m done. I’m not coming back anymore. I’ve kept my promise. Are you good with that?”

No answer, which is probably good, since I’d pee my pants if a giant voice started talking to me out of nowhere.

It crosses my mind that Harriet probably doesn’t talk to made-up people when she snoops. I glance around—nobody there to hear me, thank God—and make my way through the garden up to the barn. I slide open the door and get a big whiff of—well, you know what a barn smells like. The first thing I see are two horses, each in a stall. Their humongous noses turn my way when I come in. One of them snorts, which makes me jump. It seems weird to me that the horses are in the barn. Shouldn’t they be out in the field with Misty’s pa? 

I wonder why Pa isn’t working.

Anyway, I back out of the barn. The horses look mighty fine to me. Listen to me. I’ve only been here for about a minute and I’m already talking like a pioneer girl. (Emma Jackson would totally diss me if she heard me say “mighty fine.”)

Okie dokie, now a quick peek in the cabin and I’m done. I creep back through the garden and up to the side of the cabin. Good thing the windows aren’t too far off the ground. I don’t even need to tiptoe. I stick my head in one of them. Now that I think about it, Harriet probably wouldn’t have done that. The idea of spying is to make sure no one sees you. 

But nobody does. In fact, it’s dark inside the cabin, and I can barely see them. When my eyes get used to the dark, I see Misty’s mom and Misty. Mrs. Dance is holding baby Lizbet, and Misty’s sitting on a three-legged stool by her mom’s side, a rag in her hand. Misty’s pa and Timmy are at a rickety-looking table by the stove, watching. Pa’s got his elbow on the table, his head on his fist. Timmy’s eyes are wide open, like he’s spooked or something, and one small hand is opening and closing. 

The other is stuck on his face, his mouth sucking like crazy on his thumb.

Misty is crying real soft, but her ma snaps at her.

“Hush, Misty,” she says. “Get some fresh water on your rag.” Misty dips her rag in the bucket on the floor between them, wrings it out and wipes Lizbet’s face all over, her forehead, under her nose, in the creases of her neck. She dips her rag again and wipes Lizbet’s baby hands, her tiny feet.

This is the hardest part for me to tell you. Lizbet isn’t moving. I lower myself to the ground and grab my stomach. I wish I hadn’t seen what I just saw. Lizbet isn’t doing so good, and from the looks of everybody in there, she must be pretty sick. 
So I guess in a way, I was right. There was trouble in Misty’s home. The part I was wrong about was me helping. I’m not a doctor. I’m not even too good at aiming when I put a Band-Aid on. I’m the last person on the planet who would know what to do for a sick baby, no matter what century we’re in. 

I stand up and look back in the window. I guess my head popping up catches Misty’s eye, ‘cuz she looks over at me. She looks sad, the way my fourth-grade teacher looked after her husband died, the kind of sad that stays on your face a long time.

I’m not sure what to do. I feel like a peeping tom, and I’m wishing Misty hadn’t seen me. I’m afraid she’s going to think I’ve come back to help—like I said I would—and she’ll think I can actually do something. 

She drops her rag in the bucket. 

“I need to step outside, Ma. I’ll be right back,” she says, her voice hushed. 

Her ma doesn’t say a word. She just goes on holding Lizbet, not taking her eyes off her baby. She’s wearing her pretty yellow dress again today—the one with the lavender flowers on it—but it doesn’t look as cheery as it did when I first saw it. 
I sit back down again, waiting for Misty to come around the corner of the cabin. I see her, and she signals for me to follow. We walk down the hill to the barn without talking, but when we get inside, Misty slides the door shut and turns to me.

“Diamond Joy!” she cries. “Please tell me you’ve come to help us!”

“I—I—what’s wrong with Lizbet?” I ask, not sure what to say.

“She’s ill.” Misty’s all out of breath, even though she hasn’t been running. “She’s dying. Ma says she won’t last ‘til morning.”

When I hear this, I feel worse than I’ve ever felt in my life. I think of Lizbet, reaching her stubby hands out to me, saying “da da.” She’s about the sweetest baby I ever saw. She can’t be dying, but Misty says she is. And I’ve practically promised I would save her. 

Me and my big mouth. 

“What happened, Misty? What’s wrong with Lizbet?” I ask again.

“She’s very ill. Pa fetched the doctor, and he says she’s got scurvy.”

“Scurvy? What’s that?”

“People get scurvy when they don’t eat oranges. Or lemons or limes. Sailors get it at sea, but babies whose mas can’t feed them get it, too. When Lizbet was born, Ma was in bed for a long time. She couldn’t nurse the baby, so we had to feed Lizbet milk from our goat. And now she’s going to die. She’s going to die.”Misty puts her face in her hands and starts to cry. Her hands are red, her knuckles all flaky and chapped. 

I stand there, not knowing what to do. But after she calms down a little, I ask, “Can’t we go to the store and get some oranges for her?”

Misty shakes her head. “Pa’s been all over Wisconsin looking for oranges. Nobody’s got them; last winter brought such heavy snows. Trains couldn’t get through, and a lot of goods were never delivered, especially food. We hardly scraped together enough wheat and corn to make anything to eat. But oranges? I haven’t seen an orange since we came out west.” 

 “Misty, are you sure this—this scurvy would get better if Lizbet eats oranges?” 
“The doctor says so. But there are no oranges.” 

You can probably tell I’m working on an idea, an ingenious plan that’s showing up in bite-size chunks, coming together the way a puzzle does when you put the last piece in. 

I step in front of Misty and put my nose up so close to hers we’re almost touching. “Misty Dance, you listen to me,” I say. “I’ve got a whole bowl full of oranges sitting on my kitchen counter—honest to God. All I need to do is go back and get them.”

I open my hand and show her the stones. 

“Oh, Diamond Joy!”  

I swear, Misty’s excitement is catching. Now I’m excited, too.  “I just need to go home, get the oranges and come back. We’ll squeeze out the juice and give it to Lizbet. See?”

“Oh!” is all Misty can say.

“I just know this will work! You go back inside with your ma and Lizbet. I’ll bring the oranges around to the front door when I get back.”

“Oh, Diamond—”

“Go on! I need to get going if I’m going to get back here in time.”

“But what about—?”

“What about what?”

“Lizbet’s fate. Should we attempt to change what is meant to pass? And my parents. How will we explain the oranges to them?”

“We won’t need to. If Lizbet gets better, they won’t care where the oranges came from.”

“I am not certain this is the proper order of how things should be. We have already tempted fate enough.”

“Jeez, Misty. Where I come from, you’d totally be a Negative Nellie. You’ve got a problem with everything.”

Misty stands up, like she’s going to do a bossy hands-on-hips thing. But instead, she whispers, “Could you really get back here in time? You will come back, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be back.” 

Misty comes at me, and honest to God, I can’t tell if she’s going to shove me or hug me. She doesn’t do either, but instead, grabs my hands in hers, squeezing hard and closing her eyes. “No,” she says, still whispering. “You have to swear it.”

I know that’s a word she’d get in trouble for saying. When she says it, I’m like, like, proud of how much faith she has in me.

“I swear it, Misty,” I say. “I won’t let you down.”

Misty kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” she says. “I must hurry back inside now. My ma will be looking for me.” 

Before she slips out the door, she turns to me and says, “Godspeed, Diamond Joy. Godspeed.”

Then, she’s gone.

STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How do you feel about Lizbet being so sick?
What do you think it would be like to live in the 1800's with no grocery stores or doctors offices?
What would you do if you were Diamond? Would you feel confident telling Misty you could help?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!  Learn about our online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with my easy english program that is fun for your kids!

My Daughter Repulses Other Kids
by Mary Follin and Kristi Crosson
Read on Fredericksburg Parent & Family Magazine

THE PROBLEM: My daughter is desperate for a friend—even ONE friend would do—but every time another child pays attention to her (which is rare), my daughter does something to make herself as annoying as possible, like starting these odd clinging behaviors. And by clinging, I mean following kids around and talking nonsense. She might get stuck on a knock-knock joke, or a silly song, and most kids don’t know how to respond. She even reverts to baby talk when the other child ignores her. I’ve seen this happen before, but now her (third grade) teacher is bringing it to my attention, too. What really makes me sad is that my daughter is so sweet—and loyal—and would make a wonderful friend if she could only get through the awkward stage of getting to know somebody.

MARY SAYS: For whatever reason, some children are less adept at picking up on social cues, and your daughter might be one of them. While there may be other issues going on here (and I think it’s important you check into that possibility), there are some behavioral techniques you can share with your daughter to help her make friends more easily.

But first you need to put yourself in her shoes. While it’s obvious to you that she is intentionally turning off the exact people she wants to spend time with, she most likely doesn’t realize she’s doing it. To her, the other kids ‘speak’ a language she doesn’t understand, so she’s made up her own set of signals to use, like: Follow that kid.
​
Then what? She has no idea, but she knows she needs to do something. Thus, the knock-knock jokes and baby talk.

So please don’t point out to your child how she is bothering the other children. Right now, these annoying behaviors are all she has. Instead of encouraging her to give them up, offer her some more powerful tools and explain to her how much better they work.

Open your conversation with what she truly wants. Ask her how she feels about making a special friend, and if she’d like to come up with some ideas about how to do it. Describe in detail why she would make a wonderful friend for a very lucky person. (You describe your daughter as sweet and loyal. Who could ask for more?) Then, share with her a time when you felt awkward about meeting someone new, and tell her it can happen to anybody.

Next, let her in on the ‘secret’ to making friends that a lot of people don’t know. People love when you ask them questions! Tell her it can be tempting to talk only about yourself, but people feel good when you care enough to ask about them. This may be a tricky concept for a third-grader, which is why she'll need to practice with you.

Here are few questions to get her started:

What’s your favorite color? 
What do you like about school? (Or what DON’T you like about school, depending upon where your daughter is coming from.)
How has your life changed since the pandemic?
Do you have any brothers or sisters?
What’s your favorite food?
What’s the best book/movie you’ve ever read?

Once your daughter has chosen a few favorites, she’s ready to go deeper. She needs to learn to ask a second question about the same topic. For example, let’s say her new friend tells your daughter that ‘yellow’ is her favorite color. A second question could be, “Do you like bananas?”

The second question is harder because it can’t be memorized, so role playing with you is particularly important. Let your daughter play herself, and you be the new friend. Have her practice asking you the same few questions—many times. Each time, throw her a curve ball and help her think of a second question, based on your new answer. Stick with this until she can do it on her own.

Then switch. YOU be your daughter and let her be the friend. (She’ll love this!)

Learning a different way of relating to other people isn’t easy. But with enough practice, she’ll get more comfortable with it. She will also begin to exercise her ‘listening’ muscle, which is a critical part of relationships that many adults have yet to master.

KRISTI SAYS: I think making friends is harder for children in this generation. Some kids are so used to being in front of screens, let’s face it, they don’t know how to respond when real children want to interact with them. Add to that the hover-parenting culture and the prevalence of leveraging technology for “face-to-face” learning in the past year, and you have a recipe for social disaster. And at that age, kids have always been awkward.

At least, I was.

While I am quite the extrovert now, we moved every couple of years growing up and making friends was tricky. I’d get nervous and sometimes the only thing I could do was act silly. Not everyone liked that. I got rejected a lot. But sometimes kids would laugh about it and be silly with me, and it was wonderful.

As a mom, my heart breaks when my kids get rejected. My daughter (kindergarten) has the opposite problem to yours. She is very shy when she meets new kids. While I just want to jump in and introduce her to all the kids and get them to like her, I know I need to let her navigate these new surroundings in her way. She is learning to watch for opportunities to “be brave” and ask if she can play with others.

The problem is that when a new person is too bold, she gets intimidated by their strong personality. She gets fearful if the other child starts following her. It’s not that she doesn’t like the attention, she simply doesn’t realize the other child just wants a friend.

As a parent, I’ve had to sit down and talk about certain social cues to help her feel more comfortable. It’s my job to model these behaviors and to offer her ideas that can help her out. If I watch her struggle to say “hi” to a new person, all she might need is a gentle reminder that sometimes even a wave and a smile is a good start if she’s feeling too shy.
I also take time to tell her “great job” when I see her do something a little outside of her comfort zone to make a new friend.

Here are a few things that have helped us navigate the friend-making situation:

1. Visit with the same group of kids regularly. Sometimes strong personalities can be off-putting to kids, especially if they are shy like my daughter. By spending time with the same group of kids more than once, your daughter will get a better chance to connect with them and make a friend.
2. Get involved in something she can lead. It’s clear your daughter has some great leadership skills. There are programs like 4-H and Scouting that can help her use those skills and make new friends.
3. Let her play a new sport. Competitive team sports are excellent for development and also help kids make new friends more gradually.

Here are some other things you can try.

• Remind her that it takes time to make new friends and it may take a few tries.
• Teach her to listen and watch. She needs to listen to the other person and watch for cues. It’s great to talk, but good friends also listen and give their friends a chance to say something, too.
• Help her come up with 3-5 questions she could ask someone when she first meets them. Teach her to ask, then wait for a response. For instance, “What’s your favorite toy?” or “What do you like to do outside?”

There is nothing wrong with your daughter. She sounds amazing. The key is to help her learn how to take a different approach when trying to connect with someone new. Since she’s not shy, remind her that some kids are, and they might need time to warm up to her.

ASK MOM offers parents two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues—one from a mom with grown children (Mary), the other from a mom raising small children (Kristi). If you're looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn't around to ask, drop in! If you have a question for Mary and Kristi, we’d love to hear from you!  

​* Learn about Mary's online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with my easy english program that is fun for your kids for kindergarten phonics!

askmomyourquestion@gmail.com

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Read more ASK MOM advice.

“Misty,” I say. “It’s time for you to go home. And I’m coming with you.”

Misty’s mouth drops open. “You can’t come! My folks will not know what to do with you!”

“Yeah, I thought about that. But people around here don’t know what to do with me, either. I’m used to it. Still, I have to come. I think somebody back there needs me. Somebody in your family.”

“You are frightening me again, Miss Diamond. You are an awfully strange girl, and you may not come back with me.”

Wow. We’re talking seriously rude here. Maybe I should send her home. I mean, she’s the strange one, talking all funny, wearing a long dress and everything. And that apron! If she’s going to act like such a priss, why should I risk my life for her? But then I think about my promise, one that I can tell you right now I wish I hadn’t made. I told SOMEONE I would help somebody. 

Turns out that somebody is Misty.  

“Look,” I say. “I’d just as soon stay right here. But too bad for you, I made a promise.” Then I think about how an old-fashioned girl would say it. “A vow,” I correct myself. “I vowed I would help if the stones asked me to. Then they brought you here. You wouldn’t want to make me break my vow, would you?”

“I should say not.” 

“So let’s think this through. If it’s the stones that brought you here, my guess is they’ll take you home, too. We just need to make sure we bring them with us so I can get back. Last time, I rolled the stones like dice. That’s when you showed up. I’m thinking we should try that again. You hold out your apron, and I’ll roll them in there. The main thing is, the stones have to come with us. My mom’ll kill me if I don’t come back.”

I’m talking like a know-it-all, but inside, I’m scared. I have no clue how any of this works. What if I get stuck in the 1800’s and never see my mom and dad again? I would even miss Stu.

I step closer to Misty, and I’m rolling the stones around in my hand. They’re making a clackity, clack, clack sound. Misty stands there, looking at me. I can tell she thinks I’m nuts.

“Hold your apron out,” I say. 

She does what I tell her, like I’m the boss or something. 

“I’m going to hang on to your hand, so we stick together. Whatever you do, DON’T let go of your apron.” I grab her hand. I don’t know why, but I’m shocked to find that a pioneer girl’s hand feels just like mine. I get ready to throw the stones, but I stop, mid-air. I close my fingers around all four of them, holding on tight. 

Misty looks at me funny, then drops her apron.

“HEY!” I say. “Remember the part about not letting go of your apron?!” I can’t believe I’m yelling at her, but just think what would have happened to me if I had let go and the stones had ended up on the ground. 

“I say,” Misty says. “Do you recall the part about rolling the stones?” 

“Oh. Right. It’s just that—well, I couldn’t go through with it. I mean, we don’t really know what’s going to happen.”

“Diamond Joy, you hand me those stones. Whether or not you’re coming with me, I’m going home.”

Believe me, it’s tempting, but I don’t do it. 

“Look,” I say. “I made a promise. If I let you go without me, it’ll bug me for as long as I live. I’ll roll them this time, swear, but don’t let go of your apron.”

Misty holds her apron out. I grab her hand and toss the stones in. The funny thing is, deep down, I don’t expect much to happen. So, I’m shocked when I feel this strange kind of melting thing going on. My body turns all soft and wavy. Then comes the hot air, and now, here’s Misty and me, staring at each other again. But this time, we’re in a garden, standing beside an oak tree. A tiny one, like Misty said.

Turns out, everything Misty said was true. God’s honest truth—I’m in her garden. The sun is shining the way it is at home, but it looks fake, like I’m in a play or something and the stage is all lit up. Even Misty looks fake; I see this fuzzy haze around her. 

I’m wondering about myself, too. Am I really here? I want to find out by touching things: the oak tree, the ground—my face—but I’m way too freaked out to do anything. What if I can’t get back? I mean, it’s not like I know anything about Misty, or this place, or if all my body parts will even work here. I wonder if I’m still the same girl. Me, Diamond Joy. 

How could I be? I haven’t been born yet.

Now I know why Misty was so bossy about those stones. If I get stuck here, I’m in big trouble, and not the kind I know how to get out of.

Misty drops to her knees. She reaches her hands out on the ground and lays her cheek on the dirt. Her butt’s sticking up. “Thank you, Diamond Joy,” she blurts out. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

I see the stones tumble from her apron. That gets me going. I grab them and stuff them in my pocket. They’re smooth and cold, and I tell myself only a real girl could feel that.

Misty looks up at me. “They won’t approve of your dress here. Make haste. We must get you to the barn.”

It’s not like I have anything else to do, so I follow Misty to a large, woodshed-like thing she calls a barn. We tiptoe through rows of green plants, past the tiniest log cabin you ever saw. There’s even curtains in the window, made from the same cloth as Misty’s dress. 

You wouldn’t know it was my yard, and I keep wondering where my neighbors are. There’s a garden, a cabin, a barn and a field in the distance where the trees have been cut down. Other than that, we’re all alone in the middle of a forest. 
Spooky, if you ask me.

“Everyone’s inside eating supper,” Misty tells me. “I won’t get any since I’m late to the table. I need to go in, though, and get you some clothes.” She slides the barn door open and shoves me through it. “You wait in here,” she says, and slams the door shut.

At first, the barn looks empty. It smells like hay and there’s two empty horse stalls; the horses must be out in the field. Then I hear a shuffling. I see chickens scratching around, paying no attention to me. There’s other noises, too, but I don’t look too close. I pretty much just stand there. It’s dark in here and I don’t want to step on anything the animals might have left behind. 

I want to go home, but my house hasn’t been built yet.

I start to get all sniffly, but Misty opens the barn door, and I don’t want to start blubbering in front of her. She’s got a dress over her arm. Baby blue. 

 “I must have been at your house longer than I thought,” she says. “Supper is over. Ma says they were looking for me—and my green beans. Pa likes green beans. He’s back out in the field now.” She hands me the dress. “Here. Put this on.”

I do. It’s about the prettiest thing I ever saw. It falls to my ankles, and it’s got tiny buttons up the back that Misty has to help me with. Lace on the sleeves, too. She also brought me an apron and boots, but no bonnet. I fold my shorts and tee shirt and tuck them underneath some hay beside the door. I stick my flipflops in there, alongside my pile. I figure I’ll need to grab them quick when it’s time to go home. 

Oh, and one more thing. You better believe I take those stones out of my shorts and drop them in my apron pocket.

After that, we stand there, looking at each other. I’m pretty sure she’s waiting for me to say something. “So, tell me,” she finally says. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Now that you bring it up,” I say, “the stones weren’t too clear on that.”

“Have you no plan?”

The short answer is ‘no.’ All I can think of is checking in with Misty’s family. But what would I say to them? And what am I looking for, anyway? 

I have no idea. 

 “Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” I say. 

“It’s too late for such misgivings,” Misty scolds me. “You might have listened to me when you had the chance.”

“But the stones—” 

Misty butts in. “I dare say, we’re in a fine fix, Diamond Joy. Mighty fine. Now you’re here, and we don’t know what to do with you. Perhaps I should take you up to the cabin to meet my family, so you can see for yourself that everybody is fit as a fiddle. Then you shall have what you’ve come for, no?”

 “I guess so. But what will you tell them about me?”

“I’ve got between here and the front porch to figure that out. I shall not tell a fib, so I will leave most of it up to you. Now come along.”

 Back outside, I walk behind Misty, up to the cabin. I’ve seen pictures like this in books—and on TV—but this is real. A thin curl of smoke comes from the chimney, and from here, the tiny windows in the cabin look dark. We go up two steps to the porch. Misty stomps her shoes and walks in the front door, which is open. I do exactly what she does. Stomp and enter. It smells like a campfire in here. It’s so dark I have to blink a few times before I can see.  

Misty’s ma is right there, like she heard us coming.

 “Ma, I’d like you to meet Diamond Joy,” Misty says. Then she turns to me. 

Dang. I thought Misty was going to come up with something for me to work with. Now I’m the one who has to tell a big, fat fib—as Misty calls it—to Mrs. Dance, right to her face.

“Hello, Diamond. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Misty’s ma says. She looks slightly surprised. “And where might you be from?”

“I’m, uh, from Wisconsin, Mrs. Dance.”

“How is it that a little girl like you is all alone in the woods? There aren’t many folks out this way. And I don’t recall anyone with the surname ‘Joy.’ Are you lost?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m as lost as can be. I’m most grateful to you for inviting me in.” Listen to me, saying stuff like ‘most grateful.’ 

Now Mrs. Dance is looking at me kind of funny. “You shouldn’t be out in these woods by yourself. Unsavory characters and bandits have been known to pass through on occasion. And my goodness, is that Misty’s dress?” 

“Yes ma’am,” I say. “And I’m most grateful to Misty for letting me borrow it.” Then I add, “Most grateful.” 

“Think nothing of it,” she says. “We’re not ones to turn our backs on a stranger in need.”

Behind Misty’s ma, I see a baby and a small boy in bib overalls. The baby is in a wooden cradle, asleep. The boy is doing something with the fire; I can’t tell what. He keeps looking at me, though, but doesn’t say anything. I get this idea they’re all a teensy bit scared of their ma.

Mrs. Dance turns to Misty. “Misty, tend to the baby’s napkin. I’ll fetch a plate for our guest. Diamond, would you like some cornbread? We have a spoonful of beans left, if you would like me to set them out for you.”

“No ma’am. I don’t want to trouble you. I just stopped in to say howdy. I’ll be on my way now.” I’ve read all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books—twice—in case you’re wondering how I’m so good at pioneer talk. 

“Don’t be foolish, child. You can’t be off by yourself. Sit with Misty for a spell. When her pa comes in later, we’ll figure out how to get you back where you belong. I shall be out back with the laundry, and when I return, I’d like you to tell me how you have come to lose your family.”

I sort of feel like she’s mad at me, but when she turns to leave, I’m pretty sure I see a sort-of-smile. From behind, Mrs. Dance looks like an American Girl doll. She has long hair, like Misty’s, piled on top of her head, and a few loose strands curl around her neck. I love her dress, a pale yellow with lavender-colored flowers. Lavender is my favorite color. I have a lavender notebook, a lavender tee shirt, and a lavender jewelry box at home. In case you don’t know what lavender is, it’s light purple, the color of the prettiest flowers you ever saw.

Misty’s taken the baby out of its cradle. “This is Lizbet,” she says. “Isn’t she pretty?”
I look at Lizbet, and she looks at me. She has a moon face, round and sweet. She does this big, wide-mouth smile. Funny how red and puffy the inside of a baby’s mouth is—I never guessed it would look like that. She’s got two bottom teeth, like grains of rice, and her fat baby legs pump up and down, she’s so excited to see me.

Misty’s brother looks at me, too. “I’m Timmy,” he says.

“Hi,” I say, feeling all shy, which isn’t how I usually am. “I’m Diamond.”

“You have brown hair.”

I do, but it’s odd to have somebody tell me that, like it’s news to me. I can’t think of a thing to say, so I don’t.

Timmy keeps talking. “Misty says I shouldn’t suck my thumb.” 

Timmy seems barely older than a toddler, which to me, is a good age for thumb-sucking, but maybe it was different in the 1800’s. “When you get bigger, you won’t want to anyway,” I say. 

One thing Misty is right about for sure. Everyone here is ‘fit as a fiddle.’ Lizbet does a few tiny baby coughs, but Misty bounces her some and she stops. “Lizbet’s always done that,” she says. “She’s what Ma calls ‘delicate.’ She gets rashes, too, and she fusses most dreadfully. But Ma says she’ll outgrow it.”

“I cough sometimes, too,” Timmy says. 

“Yes, you do. But our Lizbet coughs an awful lot, doesn’t she?” Misty talks to her brother like a big sister should, not how I talk to Stu.

“I have a brother,” I tell Timmy. “But he’s not as nice as you.”

“Can he come see us, too?”

Uh-oh. I’m about to get myself in trouble here. “He doesn’t travel like I do,” I say. 
“Timmy, hand me a napkin, please.” Misty is busy now, peeling Lizbet’s diaper off. “And the flour jar.”

Timmy scrambles to an iron rack full of cloth squares by the fire and tugs one down. It’s got ties on it, two tails. For a moment I’m picturing Stu doing whatever I ask him to. 

Nope. Can’t see it. 

“Hmm. Only wet,” Misty says. She takes the diaper—napkin, I mean—and tosses it to Timmy, who drapes it over the rack. I wonder how they know which ones are clean?

Lizbet does a tiny baby cry when Misty sprinkles the flour on her bottom. Since I’ve never seen a baby’s bottom before, I don’t know if Lizbet’s bottom is how a baby’s bottom is supposed to look, but it sure looks all blistery and red to me. 

“Great idea,” I say. “Using flour for powder, I mean.”
“What else would I use?” Misty asks, tying the cloth tails into loose knots. 

I’m still wondering why Timmy put a dirty diaper up with the clean ones. “What do you wash those napkins with?”

“We don’t wash them unless they are soiled. They dry just fine by the fire.”

Yuk, I think, but I don’t say it out loud. “Lizbet looks sorta rashy. Are all babies’ bottoms like that?” I ask. 

“Timmy’s wasn’t,” says Misty.

“I don’t have a bottom!” Timmy crosses his chubby hands, fingers spread, over his bottom, the one he doesn’t have.

“I’m sorry, Timmy. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But Diamond’s right. Lizbet’s rashes are most unusual, and we can’t seem to figure out how to make them go away. The flour does not appear to be of much help, and the oozing is getting worse.”

So that’s it. I have traveled over one hundred years—and risked my life, I might add—to rescue a baby with a nasty case of diaper rash. 

Oh, brother.

I lean into Misty, talking low so Timmy can’t hear. “Looks like everything is hunky dory at your house. I guess the stones had nothing to do with you. I’ll probably never find out who buried them, but I better get back home. I mean, I don’t want to get stuck here or anything.” 

“You can’t leave now,” Misty whispers back. “Ma will worry about you, and she’ll chide me for letting you go.”

“Tell her I was bossy about it. And believe you me, you wouldn’t be lying. My brother says that about me all the time.”
Misty stands up. She’s got Lizbet on one hip. “Timmy, I’ll be right back,” she says. She waves me on through a doorway, into what looks like the only other room in the cabin. There’s feather ticks all over the place—one on a bed, two on the floor. A wooden chest has a candle on it. 

Just like in old-timey movies, I swear.

Lizbet is wriggling in Misty’s arms. She reaches a chubby baby hand out to me. I want to smell it, but I don’t. “Da, da,” seems to be all she can say. She says it a lot when she looks at me. I’m not sure how to explain this to you, but it almost seems like she knows me. 

“Diamond Joy,” Misty says. “I didn’t like you when I first met you. But I do now. I’m going to miss you, and I’m most grateful to you for trying to help us.” (I guess she was on to me the whole time, me trying to talk like her.) 

She laughs and gives me a hug with her free arm. Me, Lizbet, and Misty are all squished together, like we’re sisters or something. 

“Maybe I’ll come back and visit.” I say. “At least, until we move. Then we won’t live in Wisconsin anymore. The stones probably won’t know how to find you after I move.”

“Do come back. I’d like that very much.”

I take the stones out of my pocket. I cinch two corners of my apron in one hand, making a fold to catch the stones. I let ‘em drop, easy-like, into my apron. 
​
“Goodbye, Misty Dance,” I say.

Right before the wavy feeling starts, I look up and see something that tells me I’ve rolled the stones too soon. Over the bed I see a shelf. On the shelf is a wooden box, the same box I found the stones in. 

Whoever sent those stones sent them from here.  

When I see this, I know for sure that someone at Misty’s house needs me. I’m already on my way home, and I have no idea how to drive this thing, so I can’t turn around. But as soon as I check in, I swear it. I’ll come back as fast as I can.
After all, I made a vow.

STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How do think it would feel to travel through time? Is it even possible?
Have you ever changed a baby's diaper? Held a baby? How did it feel?
Why do you think the box is at Misty's house?
​Leave your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below!

At first, all I feel is a puff of air. A hot one, like I’m standing behind a school bus with the engine turned on. Everything looks kind of hazy, too. But then it clears, and I’m standing eye-to-eye with the strangest girl you’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a dress that goes to her ankles, and since you’ve probably guessed it’s Misty, you already know she has black hair piled on top of her head. With her hair up, her ears stick out a little. She’s staring at me, I’m staring at her, and I couldn’t tell you which of us looks more bonkers.

You would think one of us would say something, but we don’t.

Misty’s dress is a faded red, practically pink. There’s tiny white flowers all over it, and on the cuffs you can see a strip of white lace peeking out—on the hem, too. She has an apron on; it’s got ruffles and a bib. Hanging from one of her hands is a red-and-white checked bonnet, the kind I always wished I had when I was a little kid. 

Finally, she goes, “Pardon me, miss. Who are you?”

“I’m—I’m—who are you?” I feel funny telling her my name. Stranger danger, I guess. It’s been drilled into me since I was five.

“My name”—she stops here, like she’s about to tell me she’s somebody famous—“is Misty Dance.”

“Oh, I love that name! I’m Diamond. Diamond Joy. Joy’s my last name, not my middle name, in case you’re wondering. People usually do.” So much for stranger danger. If she offers me candy, I just won’t eat it.

“Diamond,” she says, like she’s not too sure about it. “I’ve not met a person who goes by that name.”

“My mom picked it. She said my eyes were sparkly when I was born, like diamonds. My brother’s name is Stu. I tell him Mom called him that because he’s stupid, but Mom gets mad when I say that. Most of the kids at my school know me. My name, anyway. I’m pretty popular. Not as popular as Emma Jackson, but close.” Now I’m wondering if Misty goes to my school. I hope not. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard her name, either. “Where the heck did you come from?” I ask.

It’s like she doesn’t even hear me. “Where am I?” she asks. 

Well, duh. She’s in my yard. What I want to know is how she got here. I didn’t even see her walk up. And even weirder, she has no clue where she is. Now that I think about it, if I was her, I’d be pretty scared. I step forward and stick my hand out, like my mom does when she meets somebody new. “You’re in my backyard,” I say. “And trust me, I’m not going to hurt you.”

She doesn’t take my hand, so I pretend there’s a bug on my neck and slap around back there. I probably say something like “Ew, get off!” too, but I’m not sure about that. 

“Pardon me,” she says. “I believe you are mistaken. This land belongs to my family.”

“Ohhhh. I get it. You’re moving in, right? Well that’s not ‘til next week. How did you get here? And where are your parents? Didn’t they put moving day on your kitchen calendar? My mom did. In red. There it is, watching me all the time. I can’t even eat a banana without thinking about how my life ends next week. How come you’re wearing that dress?”

Misty is looking around like I’m not even here anymore. She looks at the shed, our house. She squints at my playhouse. 

 Now before you think anything about me, let me tell you, I don’t play house anymore. But I hang out there when I don’t want people bothering me, people meaning Stu. My dad made it, and it’s hidden behind some bushes in our backyard, so no one can see me when I’m in there. It’s got two windows and a door where you can open just the top half. It’s also got a wooden stove, a sink, and a refrigerator. Table and chairs, too, and a cradle I used to put my dolls in.

“Diamond Joy,” Misty says, with a prissy stomp of her laced-up boot, “tell me this instant where I am. Where is my house? Where is my garden?”

I tell her, “I swear it. This is my house, and we still live here.” 

Now we’re giving each other the stink eye, like we’re going to stick out our tongues or something, but she gets all teary, so I back down. “How come you’re wearing those clothes?” I ask. “Your dress is pretty.”

Misty is sniffling. “My ma made it.”

“Did she make your hat, too?”

She nods.

“Can you tell me where you’re from? I mean, I’m just standing here, playing with a bunch of stones. Then bam! All of a sudden, you show up, like a magic trick or something.”

“I—I do not know what to tell you. I was merely picking green beans. I set my basket down, and I looked up to find myself in this strange, unfamiliar place. I don’t even see my garden. It was right here.”

“So you’re telling me you have no idea how you got in my yard?” 

“I do not. What I do know is that I was standing next to the oak tree my pa planted when we settled in Wisconsin,” she says. “He brought acorns on the wagon when we came from back east. It’s a little tree that stands yay high.” Here she bends over and pats the air with her hand. Then she eyeballs my oak tree, all the way up to the top. “Now I’m beneath a tree that towers above me. How can this be?”

“You were by an oak tree? Only it was little?”

Misty is still staring up at the tree, but then she turns to me. She nods. Her eyes are opened wide, like, HUGE.

I get this sudden tingle in my spine, a strange feeling. My dad says this tree is over a hundred years old. Either Misty’s telling a serious whopper, or she’s, like, ancient. If she is telling a whopper, she’s pretty good at it. 

“So, wait,” I say. “You’re saying this is your garden. Or was your garden. And you’re wearing those clothes. And your dad planted that tree. What year do you think it is?”

Misty tilts her head, funny like. “What do you mean?”
“Do you know today’s date?”

“I am not certain of the date, but I do know it is June, and that the year is 1885.”
I can hardly make myself believe what she’s saying. My mouth drops open and I practically yell: “Shut UP!”

Misty’s face is white, like a ghost. Come to think about it, she might actually be one. “What has happened to me?” she asks.

“I don’t know what’s happened to you,” I say. “All I know is that I found these stones, buried right here. And when I threw them on the ground, kapow! You were standing there. And now you’re telling me you’re from the 1800’s? I can’t believe it! You do talk funny, though. And we don’t wear clothes like that. I mean, 1885 was way over a hundred years ago! If what you’re saying is true, you’re a—a pioneer girl.”

Misty is, like, totally spooked. “How do I get back?” she whispers.

This I have to think about. I’m not really sure. But if she can’t go back, she can borrow some of my clothes. She wouldn’t blend in so good at my school the way she looks now. She could sleep in my room, too. I’ve got two beds, but one of them has all my stuffed animals on it. I could put those in a box--

“Are you a boy or a girl?” Misty asks.

“What?”

“Your dress is that of a boy. Are you a boy?”

“I am not a boy,” I sniff. “I’m a girl. We don’t have to wear dresses all the time like you do. Here, girls wear pants.”

“Pantaloons?”

“Whatever.”

“Your pantaloons are dreadfully short. The gentlemen must look at your knees.”

I think about my knees, for the first time in, like, ever. I also think about the boys in my class. “Yeah, well, good thing there aren’t any gentlemen”— here I do air quotes, even though I’m not sure Misty knows what they are —“at my school, since I’ve been wearing shorts since May. So, back to your little—problem.Do you have any idea how you got here?”

“As I have already told you, I was picking green beans. I set my basket down, and then I was standing here looking at you.”

“But what happened? What did it feel like? Getting here, I mean. Did you fly or something?”

 “It was an odd sensation,” Misty says, thinking about it. “I felt like a piece of fabric. As if I were a feather tick instead of a real girl.”

“A feather tick? What’s that?”

Misty looks surprised. “Why, we sleep on them. They’re lovely cotton bags filled with feathers. It was quite peculiar to feel such a thing—as if I were floating and flapping.”

I’m staring at Misty, trying to imagine her whipping in the wind on top of a flagpole. I can’t do it, even though I’m pretty good at making stuff up.

 She closes her eyes. Then she opens them and says, “As I stood amongst the green beans, I had a sense I was being summoned.”

“You mean, like, somebody calling you?”

 “Yes, actually. It was quite like a voice calling to me, but I didn’t hear it with my ears. Rather, it was as if it were coming from inside of me. I felt peculiar, and I looked up, skyward. The next I knew, I was floating.”

“What did it say? The voice, I mean.”

“Miss Diamond, I believe I was quite clear. I did not hear a voice. It just seemed as though I did.”

I look down at the stones. It feels like they’re looking back at me, even though they’re just lying there. “I’m guessing it was the stones,” I say, more to myself than Misty.

“Stones?”

I nod toward the stones. A tiny nod. I know this sounds weird, but I don’t want those stones to know I’m talking about them. And by the way, they don’t spell help. Two of them are flipped over so you can’t even see the letters.

 “Is everything okay at your house?” I ask.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. You know. No danger. No trouble.”

“I believe so. I haven’t been there for the past few minutes, but as far as I know, all is well.”

Of course, by now, your whole family is buried in some graveyard, I can’t help thinking. But I know better than to say that out loud. Instead, I gather up the stones and hold them out for her to see. They feel warm, but I tell myself I’m just making that up. I ask: “Are these yours? Did you bury them by the oak tree your pa planted? Hoping someone would find them, maybe?” 

Misty hardly even looks at them. “I did not.”

“Are you sure?”

“I should think I would know if I buried stones by an oak tree. That is something I’ve never done. I have too much work to do to engage in such childish games.”

Suddenly I get that hunch again. Like something’s wrong, but I don’t know what. “There’s a message on these stones,” I say. “Do you have a brother or sister who might have put them there?”

“Message?”

“Yeah. Look.” I arrange the stones in my palm to spell out the word help. “See what they spell? For some reason, when I threw these stones on the ground, you showed up, right in front of me. It’s like they called you here. These stones have something to do with you.”

Misty looks closer at the stones. She picks up the h and stares at it, all sides. Then she puts it back.

“Miss Diamond,” she says. “I have never seen these stones before. But here I am in what used to be my garden, only now it’s your backyard. Instead of a log cabin, you have a clapboard house. My family’s garden and our fields are gone. I do not know how your family feeds itself. You have a most unusual carriage in front of your house”— here she nods towards my mom’s car—“and your stable is too small for a horse.” Now she nods at my playhouse. “You summon me with the word help on four stones, and you say my family is in danger. I dare say, Diamond Joy, you have frightened me.”

I can hardly believe what this girl is saying. I don’t know where she’s from or how she got here. But I have this feeling that somebody at her house is in trouble. And even though I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m pretty sure I need to go back to the 1800’s with Misty and do whatever I can to save whoever it is that needs saving.
​
I mean, why else was I the one who found the stones?

STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How would you feel if you suddenly found yourself in the future 100 years from now?
Do you think Diamond helped Misty feel safe? 
If you were Diamond, would you go back with Misty? Why or why not?
​Write down your thoughts about this chapter and leave it in the Facebook Group comments!

Read in Fredericksburg Parent & Family Magazine

THE PROBLEM: I’m a little afraid of my five-year-old son. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but whenever I need to tell him he can’t do something, he gets extremely agitated, to the point where he’s red in the face. And he gets soooo angry at me! Too often, I give in. When I’m honest with myself, I realize I’m being overindulgent, but I can’t stand when he has these meltdowns. I feel like I’m walking on thin ice all the time. (Btw, It’s worse with me. My husband is better at being firm.) I know the obvious solution is to not give in so much, but I don’t seem to be able to do that. I hate to see him so unhappy.

MARY SAYS: It’s not always easy to balance this dynamic. If we’re constantly telling our children ‘no,’ they’ll end up thinking the world is a tough place to navigate. But when parents let children have their way ALL the time, Junior takes charge, and the home becomes a battleground. Even worse, kids know when they’ve gained control, which can be a scary thing for a five-year-old. A tendency toward anxiety can emerge, which is most likely what you are seeing in your son.

If you really ‘hate to see him so unhappy,’ you need to change this unhealthy dance you’ve got going between the two of you. Take the helm, Mom. He desperately needs you to. Your son will have a hard time collaborating with other people if he doesn’t learn he can’t always get what he wants.

Furthermore, when children are little, their boundaries include their parents. To him, you are an extension of who he is. Because you’re letting your son mistreat YOU, you are showing him it’s okay when people mistreat HIM.

If you can’t figure out how to hold your ground with your son, please seek help. And watch how your husband manages your son. It sounds like he gets it, and with a little practice (and a firm resolve), you can, too.

KRISTI SAYS: Giving in is jus­­t feeding the cycle. While it’s difficult to see our children unhappy or having meltdowns, it’s better they hear ‘no’ now and learn how to deal with it. After all, what happens when your child gets used to having his way when he throws a tantrum?

I love the fact that actions always have natural consequences. I remember one time when my oldest was three I told him he needed to put away his toys before he pulled out new ones. He had a huge meltdown, threw his cars and trucks all over the place, flung himself to the floor and yelled, “I don’t like it!”

It was so dramatic! After taking a minute to breathe, I took away his toys for the rest of the day.

Goodbye Lightning McQueen, Mater, and Duplos. I put them in boxes and bins and stuffed them into his closet. I did bend a little and let him keep his lovey stuffed llama and a couple of books, but that was it.

Needless to say, he never did that again.

If your child pitches a fit when you say “no” and you give in, they’ll keep on doing it. But when “no” means “no,” they learn there’s a boundary they can’t cross. They will try and cross it, but the more often you remain strong, the less likely they’ll try.

For instance, if you are heading out to do something fun, and your son doesn’t clean up his room like you asked, the natural consequence would be to stay home. While it may be inconvenient for you, it teaches your child he can’t refuse to do as he’s told and get away with it.

ASK MOM offers parents two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues—one from a mom with grown children (Mary), the other from a mom raising small children (Kristi). If you’re looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn’t around to ask, drop in! If you have a question for Mary and Kristi, we’d love to hear from you! askmomyourquestion@gmail.com

* Learn about Mary's online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with Mary's easy english program that is a fun way to learn kindergarten phonics for kids!
​
Read more ASK MOM advice.

Learn about our online phonics program.

Misty Dance isn’t like anybody you ever met. She has licorice black hair, past her butt, but you wouldn’t know it because she wears it in a bun. Like an old lady, even though she’s only eleven, like me.

“Diamond,” my mom says. “Misty’s not real. She’s an imaginary friend.”

No, Mom. She’s real. 

I might as well tell you I’m acting all in a huff around my mom, and not just because she doesn’t believe me. We’re moving next week and I’m mad at everybody. I’m not exactly a genius at making friends, and now that I have one—if you count Misty—wouldn’t you know it, we have to move. 

People at school like me, but they don’t come find me at recess or anything. Standing by yourself on the blacktop, you have to act like you don’t care, which I’m pretty good at. Mom says I shouldn’t talk so much, and it might be easier for me. Making friends, I mean.
​ 
“Other people need to talk, too,” she says. 

But I can’t help it. I got a lot to say. 

Mom thinks I made Misty up because of the move. She says I’m having a hard time with it, and I just need someone to talk to. Puh-lease. I’m way too old for invisible friends. Anyway, you’d have a hard time, too, if you looked like me. I’ve got mousy brown hair, sort of stick-out teeth, and if you like blue eyes, you would like mine. 

Me, I like brown. 

Sometimes, mostly when I look in the mirror, I wish I was somebody else. Like Emma Jackson. Emma’s the most popular girl in my class. She has curly hair that, like, cascades down her back.

But I digress. My dad says that a lot. He tells never-ending stories, then forgets which one he’s on and starts telling another one. You better pretend you have homework or you’re in for a long night. My brother, Stu, who’s two years younger than me, always says, “TMI, Dad, TMI.” My brother also says things like “easy peezy, lemon squeezy.” 

Total proof he’s a dork. 

Anyway, back to Misty Dance. Mom’s wrong about Misty. I didn’t make her up. You’re not going to believe it when I tell you this story. 

But first I have to warn you. If you’re reading this and it gets chopped off in the middle, you can bet one of three things happened to me:

1. I didn’t live to tell it. Hint: What I’m about to tell you involves serious danger.
2. We moved right in the middle of me writing it, and my notebook got buried in one of those big boxes my mom left in my room for me to pack. She only gave me two. Two. Like I could really cram all my stuff in two boxes.
3. I need to say goodbye to my house. Every bit of it, which is going to take forever. 

 
I love my house. One thing is, it smells old. It makes me think of my Grampa Sam. He lived with us from when I was a baby. After he died, I thought I would never stop feeling bad. If I had to tell you the God’s honest truth, I was right about that. 

Grampa Sam always used to say, “Penny for your thoughts, missy.” Then he let me talk as much as I wanted to. His grampa built our house, and it doesn’t seem right that we’re selling it and leaving Wisconsin just because my dad got a better job in Virginia. Kids on my bus think my house is haunted, but it’s not. 

It’s just old. 

I’m also going to miss the oak tree in my backyard, which is where I go when I need to get away from things, like Stu. It’s humongous and has a swing on it. You have to cross a bridge to get there, since the tree is by our creek. “That old tree has been waiting a long time for Diamond to show up,” my dad tells people, mostly in front of me. “It’s a good thing they found each other.”  

Anyway, what I want to tell you about starts here. You’re going to think I’m making this up, but I swear it’s true. So last week, school gets out, and I’m down at the oak tree on the swing, wondering what Emma Jackson does over summer break. She probably sits home alone because no one likes her. Yeah, right. I’m pumping pretty hard, you wouldn’t believe how high I’m going. When I swing up and stick my feet out, it looks like I’m standing upside down on a cloud. 

So I’m swinging back to earth and I see this pointy thing sticking up between the roots of the oak tree.

I drag my toe on the ground to stop the swing. A mystery! How cool is that? I look closer and see the corner of what looks like a box, poking out of the ground. A coffin. No, wait. Maybe a trunk full of jewels that fell from an Arabian princess’s caravan, which is what our last module in history was about.

I push at it, but it’s stuck. Off to the shed I go. I come back with a garden shovel that’s got pink flowers on it and dig around the box. Turns out, it’s not all that big. Still, you’d be amazed how long it takes to dig up a box that could only fit a pair of baby shoes in it. It’s all covered in dirt, but I can tell it’s pretty. I brush it off with my tee shirt. It’s made out of bare wood, and it’s got these teensy leaves carved on top. On the sides, too, like a vine that runs around the whole thing. 

There’s no latch, so I open the lid, easy. 

At first, I’m kinda let down. The only thing in there is a bunch of stones, like the ones in my backyard. Not jewels. Not even pennies, which I could have used to buy more beads for the bracelets I’m making. I take the stones out so I can look at them up close, and here’s where it starts to get interesting.

Each stone has a letter carved on it. Not like those fancy stones you see in garden shops that say things like Believe or Fairies Live Here, but more like somebody tried to scratch the letters out with a knife or something. I spread the stones out on the ground and line them up. Here’s what I get:

P-L-H-E

PLHE? What does that mean? Some kind of code? It makes me think of the way Stu’s breath smells before breakfast, so I fast make up a new word. L-E-H-P. Nope. P-L-E-H. Wait a minute. Now I’m getting somewhere. I switch the stones around and line them up in reverse.

H-E-L-P

Help.

My blood runs cold. I’m not sure what cold blood is, but I’ve seen it in books when something scary happens. The way I’m feeling now must be what cold blood does to you. 
But in about a second, I figure out it’s probably some kind of joke. I bet a kid from school put these stones here, hoping to fool somebody like me. I start to think this kid (boy? girl? Emma Jackson?) is hiding somewhere, watching, waiting for me to find their oh-so-hilarious box with stupid stones in it. 

I laugh, big and fake. “HA HA. That’s a good one! I can’t wait to tell my friends about this!” I’m doing a loud kind of not-yelling, in case the kid needs a little help hearing what I’m saying. I also stuff the box back in the hole, like I don’t care about it. 
I should have put the stones back in, too, but I didn’t.

“So much for THAT!” I say. 

I wipe the dirt off my hands. Then, in a major freak out, my mind starts counting up everything I’ve done since I started swinging. No nose picks, thank God. But it’s possible I was talking to myself. Out loud. Knowing me, I said something about Emma Jackson, even though I thought I was only thinking it. She’s the one who’s probably hiding behind the shed, sending pictures of me to everybody she knows, which is, like, the whole school.

I look down at the stones. Now it feels like they’re staring at me, too. 

Help, they keep saying. 

“What kind of help do you need?” I ask. “I mean, on a scale of one to ten, how bad is your problem?”

 Stones can’t talk, but I sure can. “Hel-l-o-o. Can you at least show me a sign? Maybe jump around a little? I’ve got these jumping beans my dad gave me. If you put them in your hands and warm them up, they jump around. My brother put one up his nose. Don’t ever do that. Then you’ll need help for sure. Anyway, it would be nice if you could show me a sign.”

The stones keep staring at me. As you might have guessed, they don’t do a thing. But something grips me. I’m going to call it a hunch, since I don’t know what else to call it. Deep down inside, I know these stones are trying to tell me something. That word, help, is starting to scare me. I rearrange the letters, but all that does is make it look like help spelled wrong. 

By now, I’m pretty freaked out. I pick the stones up. I’m thinking I’ll just throw them out in the yard. Get rid of them. But for some reason, I can’t do it, so I make a deal with myself. I’m going to roll them like dice. If they land spelling out the word help, I’ll spend the rest of my life if I have to, finding out who needs me. 

I swear it.
​
If they spell anything else, I’ll throw all four of them in the trash. The box, too. 
I squat down, thinking about all the things I could do before rolling the stones. Then I just do it. You’re not gonna believe what happens when I let go of those stones. Let’s just say, this is the part of the story where Misty Dance shows up.

STORY CLUB CHAT TOPICS:
How would you feel if you were Diamond right now? Scared? Excited?
Why do you think Diamond has a hard time making friends?
How would you feel if you were moving to a new house?
Who do you think Misty is?
​Write down your thoughts about this chapter and leave it in the Facebook Group comments!

Unless you remember what it’s like to be a child, you might have a hard time writing for one. Here’s what kids want hear about:

• The way you almost died when you found out your skirt was tucked up in your waistband in Mrs. Kramer’s fourth grade class
• How you felt when you went shopping for school clothes in August; the smell of the dressing room; the empty hangers on the floor; the excitement/fear of going into a grade you’ve been saying you’re in all summer
• The heartbreak of watching your best friend pass your seat to sit with someone else on the bus; that rubbery, gasoline smell; forest green seats; kids bouncing up and down (or slumped by the window) and yelling over the gunning of the engine

If your characters aren’t culled from the swirl of emotions you felt every time anything happened when you were a kid, your young readers might not stick with you.

Here’s some stuff they don’t want to read about:

• Waking up in the morning
• What the main character’s bedroom looks like
• Parents
• Teachers
• Morals/lectures​

​When you’re writing for kids, write for yourself. The person you outgrew years ago, but who’s still hanging out somewhere inside.

Writing for Kids is Like Therapy
Funny thing, when you really get into writing for kids, it kind of wakes you up. It’s as if that child is snoozing in there, hibernating under a blanket of all of the ‘shoulds’ that we tend to weigh ourselves down with when we get jobs, houses, and children.

You’ll know you’ve nailed that cafeteria scene when something inside you stirs as you type the final word. If you once sat on your bed with your ten-year old best friend whose mother just died—and you didn’t know what to say— you’ll know you’ve captured that awful day when your eyes blur as you watch the scene unfold on your screen.  

It’s a remembering that reaches inside of you and cleans you out. You begin to see the world through your little girl eyes again—in small glimpses, sure—but it’s there. You laugh when people walk into things. You might find yourself putting a quarter in a gum machine to get one of those big, stale gumballs. You might even pet the neighbor’s cat. 

And do make sure you have a real, modern-day kid read your stuff. Someone needs to check it for ‘language.’ You don’t want Beaver Cleaver narrating your story. But go too far on the edgy side, and you might be topping out of your age group. (Unless you’re writing YA, which pretty much has everything in it that adult books do.)

Maybe you're writing for yourself. If that’s the case, do whatever feels good and throw it in a drawer when you’re done!

​Learn about my phonics program for kids. Learn about Mary's online phonics program! Teach Your Child to Read with Mary's easy english program that is a fun way to learn kindergarten phonics for kids!

by Mary Follin and Kristi Crosson
Read more advice from ASK MOM in Fredericksburg Parent & Family Magazine.

THE PROBLEM: My daughter (she’s in sixth grade) lies about everything. I can’t tell if she’s living in a dream world, or if she’s doing it on purpose. I sometimes wonder if she is just exaggerating to try and impress her friends, but she also does it with me. The other day, I asked her if she had done her homework, and she said ‘yes.’ But she knew I was going to have to sign-off on it later, and when I checked her workbook, it was blank. This sounds like a small thing, but it happens all the time. It’s not like she didn’t know I was going to check it! I punish her whenever I catch her lying, so she knows I don’t like it. But she only tries harder to get out of trouble by telling even more lies. Sometimes I get angry at her, but mostly, I’m afraid the problem is going to get worse unless I do something about it. I’m just not sure what to do.

Some children's book authors are so good they become a part of you—forever. Each generation has its beloved writer(s), but for me and my sisters, Laura Ingalls Wilder was who we wanted to be. And if we couldn't be her, at least we wanted to know her. But since she died before we were born, we had to make do with what she wrote and where she lived.

This fall, my sister had occasion to get close enough to the town of De Smet, South Dakota, to justify a trip to Laura's girlhood home. Now a shrine to Laura Ingalls Wilder, De Smet was backdrop to the The Long Winter, By the Shores of Silver Lake and The Little Town on the Prairie, which spanned my favorite years in Laura's growing-up life.

The long winter was too short for me. I wanted to get up every morning and bust the ice off my wash water, like Laura. I also wanted to teach in a one room schoolhouse. (Laura hated it, by the way.) My future husband would ride up in a sled—or cart, depending on the weather—and pick me up after I rang the cast iron bell. School's out! And of course, Nellie Oleson would just happen to be passing by, furious that she wasn't the one riding shotgun in whatever sweet ride Almanzo had chosen to bring.

I wanted to wear dresses made of organdy, which I pictured being the orange color of those marshmallow peanuts you have to hold your nose to eat. I wanted to make those dresses. Me, a wooden bench, a sewing needle and yards of fabric on my lap—cascading to the floor—is what I dreamed of.

I wasn't alone in this. If you've read this far, you're probably one of the thousands of children—now grown—who was smitten by a plucky pioneer girl named Laura.

So my sister rides into town in a rented car. While De Smet is home to only 1,200 residents, it boasts a tennis court, a swimming pool, a nine-hole golf course and a nursing home. In other words, you'll need to squint if you want the little town on the prairie to actually look like one. That said, many of the old homes and buildings are still in use, and some people might describe modern day De Smet as a 'one horse town.'

But others might describe it as All Things Laura. Devotees are strategically situated throughout the town to reveal tidbits about Laura and her family that you might not have heard before. (We want them all. Every single one.) The First School of De Smet, where Laura was a student, is still standing, but the Brewster School, where she taught, is a replica. There are all kinds of staged scenes in each of Laura's dwellings with period furniture, clothing and toys like the ones Laura 'might' have used.

Laura Ingalls Wilder described her early years as being full of "sunshine and shadow." The books were about the sunshine—the shadow, not so much. My sister was surprised that Pa had to abscond with his family in the middle of the night from Burr Oak, Iowa, due to the landlord 'not being reasonable.' And apparently, while Almanzo Wilder saved the starving town by making a dangerous run in a blizzard to buy some harvested wheat, the Wilder home MIGHT have harbored a false wall, behind which the family was secretly hording its own stash.

But the biggest surprise was that the entire Ingalls family lived in South Dakota until they died—either together in one home or within spittin' distance of each other—except for Laura. Laura settled in Mansfield, MO, with her husband, Almanzo, and only saw her parents once before they passed away many years later.

What?! Only see Ma one time over a period of 35 years? Good, kind, gentle Ma (even if she was a bit stern)? And Pa, who played the fiddle that Laura so loved? What are we missing here? As kids, we wanted to live with the Ingalls, yet Laura appears to have left them behind in De Smet, no hurry to go back.

We may never understand this. But living was hard on the plains in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and the Ingalls bore their share of tragedies, many of which were not included in the books. If the pioneering life wore them down, we can only imagine the toll it took on their family.

If you're thinking about visiting a favorite children's book author's home town, brace yourself. You may end up feeling sort of sad. Your journey through the books was yours alone, and adding facts to your memories might not play out the way you think it will.

But if you're OK with reframing your childhood fantasies, have at it! Just be aware that you might alter forever the part of you that was formed by a complete stranger who felt like a friend.

ASK MOM offers parents and caretakers two perspectives on today’s child-rearing issues--one from a mom with grown children, the other from a mom raising small children. If you're looking for creative solutions, or your mom isn't around to ask, drop in!
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THE ISSUE: I’ve always heard how important it is to let children make their own decisions about little things, which I try to do with my three-year-old daughter. (What shirt to wear to school, if she wants to go to the park, etc.) But it feels like it’s backfiring on me! She takes forever to make a decision! She also becomes resistant to anything I suggest, and even throws tantrums when she can’t have her way. Help!
 
MARY SAYS: When children are young, they need trusted adults to show them how to make wise decisions. A three-year-old doesn’t want to be in charge—it’s too scary! Your daughter’s ability to make her own decisions will mature after watching you make decisions for her. Instead of presenting multiple options, offer her one and tell her why you’ve chosen it: “We’re having oatmeal today because it’s cold outside and it will warm you up!” Gradually, she will ‘get it’ after watching you, and she will be able to make her own decisions with confidence—and without tantrums.
 
KRISTI SAYS: I'm right in the thick of things with my threenager. If your kids are like mine, they say they want something one way, then change their minds moments later! It drives me crazy! The most important thing is that when a tantrum ensues, don't try to placate your child or give her whatever she wants. This will only teach her that fits work. Go ahead and let her have a fit (in a safe place of course). When she's calmed down, she's much more likely to be a reasonable human. I find that too many choices can be overwhelming. I stick with letting my kids make choices when time doesn't matter, and only giving them two options when it does. 

Learn more about our online phonics program to build your child's independent learning.  

Photo by Ketut Subiyanto

Celebrities who make it big in one way (say, making movies) are often gifted writers, artists and athletes, too. Not fair, I know. But that’s just how it is. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that famous people have written some terrific books for kids.

Here are 7 books for kids written by celebrities that you and your children might enjoy:

Books for Kids: In this beautifully illustrated tale, actor and comedian Billy Crystal writes a poem to his grandchild before they meet. It might appeal more to grandmas and grandpas than to kids, but it’s a heartfelt love letter, penned before the child is born.

Books for Kids: When her great grandma dies, a little girl named Kate contemplates what heaven is like. The illustrations are to die for. (Sorry.) Shriver’s view of heaven is a traditional one. If yours is, too, you might enjoy reading this book to your child.

Books for Kids: A New Earth, by Eckhart Tolle, was one of the most important books I’ve ever read. I think Tolle’s writings are changing our planet—in a good way. Why am I saying this? To soften the blow. I felt that Milton’s Secret was preachy and contrived. But it is one of the few books that teaches children how present moment awareness can relieve suffering, so hats off to Tolle for writing it.

Books for Kids: You know you’ve made it when you don’t use your last name and people still know who you are. (It's Ciccone, by the way.) Madonna wrote this charming book, adding to her repertoire of things you can buy from her. It’s cute! It reminds me a little of the Madeleine books, maybe because it takes place in a European school and stars a bunch of girls. It also deals with the human capacity for judging someone harshly.

Books for Kids: I always wanted to ask Guinan for advice! But if you can’t have the bartending Star Trek sage, this book is the next best thing. Maybe Goldberg was bemoaning the lack of manners in our culture, but whatever the reason, she did us all a great service by writing this guide for kids. And the pictures are fun, too.

Books for Kids: This is a simple story about a tiny wave who ultimately discovers he is part of a vast ocean. A metaphor for our planet and how we are all one, Jim Carrey writes about How Roland Rolls: “The message of the story will help [children] feel connected, worthwhile and a part of something vast and grand.” What greater gift could a story offer your children?