For Emily.

The words that I share today are lovingly dedicated to my youngest sister, Emily.

(She also answers to Emmie, Emmie-Pop, Emmawee, Mommy and Memmy.)

And here’s the story.

When I was eight years old, a lovable little bundle came into our lives that my mom brought home from the hospital in an oversized red stocking.  She was born right before Christmas and her name was Emily Ann.  She was pretty much the neatest thing I had ever set eyes on, and I decided right away that I would take this little person under my care. 

Yours truly (Dorothy Hamill haircut and all) and her cute-as-a-button little sister, Emily.

My mom may have been worried about having a fourth child, but I was perfectly happy to assume all maternal duties from the get-go.  I did many of the bottle feedings, changed the diapers, rocked her to sleep, carried her around like precious cargo and made sure she never cried a peep.  Or at least not much more than a peep.  In no time at all she became quite spoiled rotten.  I would hurry off the school bus each afternoon consumed with thoughts of playing baby, while lip synching to Madonna with my two best friends, Kim and Jessica, ran a distant second.  I was also very protective of the youngest and bossed my middle sisters around to the nth degree any time they were around Emily.

The years passed by, and she was the one sister I never fought with.  Never argued with over toys, books, jewelry or clothes.  We were too far apart to be interested in the same things at the same time.  For a few years we shared a room, and I assume all responsibility for transforming her into somewhat of a neat freak.  When I moved out of the house during my first year of college, she was only in the fifth grade. 

The next several years went by in a flash – college, studying, dating, Greek parties, work, graduating, getting engaged, planning a wedding, getting married, going to everyone else’s weddings, starting a career, buying a first home.  During all of this, while my life was spinning wildly to arrive at a destination, Emily went and grew up on me.  Somehow I missed a significant segment of her growth, right between middle school and adulthood.  Not because I was disinterested or indifferent, just simply because our lives were individually transforming us in very different circles that only semi-overlapped.  So you can see how it was hard for me to accept that at some point she became a grown-up. 

I was unaware until a few years later that after all of those years of me caring for her, the big sister protecting the smaller, that the tables would turn significantly.  The hourglass would take another turn, and the protected would become the protector – not of me, but of my children.

You see, Emily has been the weekly caretaker of my boys for several years now.  It started with G-man, and then B-man, and now she is down to just Wee-man.  The older two are in school and growing up quite quickly – too quickly, really, and Wee-man will be joining them later this summer when he starts at the same preschool B-man attends.  In just one week from now, Emily will take on two newborns – our niece Miss C and a friend’s baby boy – and a final paragraph will be written in a long chapter of the Three Small Men. 

We both knew this day would come, but that won’t make it any easier.  We are saying goodbye to a ritual, a slice of time, a piece of the boys’ childhood and even a stage of our own lives.  It is hard in some ways for me to accept that my boys are moving on, growing up and becoming more independent.  I know it will be just as difficult for Emily to accept that, besides some babysitting here and there, the days of one of my boys sleeping soundly in her bedroom, leaving small handprints on her glass door or snuggling with her on the couch at eight o’clock in the morning have almost come to a close.  What will make this transition easier is the presence of her own son, as well as other precious little ones who will fill the gap and offer their love, adoration and another half-decade worth of memories.

Looking back, I cannot imagine a better person to help raise my baby boys into the little men they are becoming.  I never worried for their safety.  Never lost sleep over what their day was like while I was at work.  Never feared that they would suffer any lack of love, compassion or attention.  They had all of those things and more.  They had an aunt who loved them as her own, and for that there is no price tag and no comparison.  My sister adored them, coached them, encouraged them and protected them in the hours I was separated from them.  I owe her more than I could ever express in these mere written paragraphs.

All of Emily's men.

Emily – you are a beautiful old soul, a born nurturer and a blessing to our family.  Thank you for loving my boys all these years with an open heart and open arms. You are an amazing person, and we love you.

Earth Day MVP & a Crossing Guard

I am lounging tonight in a fresh smelling room, the byproduct of today's professional carpet shampooing in an attempt to eradicate evidence of recent (and not-so-recent) household events.  I won't gross you out, but let's just say that three small boys and two dogs means that our carpet perpetually looks like a splatter mat underfoot.  Okay, it's really not that bad, but about every three to six months I decide I can't stand staring at the offensive spots anymore and I pay a small fortune to a very nice and super competent guy who can make the ole' shag look almost new again.  Just kidding - we don't really have shag carpet.  But sometimes I wish we did, because it would most certainly hide some of the atrocities so much better.  Anyway, my tactile senses love the results too, because you feel this crisp crushing underfoot as you walk across newly cleaned carpet that is beginning to dry.  I know, I know - totally absurd.  Yet still satisfying.

Apparently this carpet cleaning got me in a rather proactive and productive mood, because I really shocked myself earlier by encouraging G-man that we should start on his Earth Day lunchbox project that's due this Friday.  It's only Tuesday.  This is a big deal for me - Miss Procrastinator Extraordinaire that I am. 

The instructions said to create a lunchbox out of something recyclable at home that they can tote their lunch in on Friday and parade through the other classes for all of their friends to oooh and ahhh over.  Well, this for sure demanded that I break out the fancy scrapbook supplies.  Don't worry - I didn't "girl" it up.  We found a sports paper pack and he made a baseball-themed lunchbox out of an old shoebox I had in the closet.  We cut and glued various paper to the box to camouflage the fact that it once housed a coveted pair of Arturo Chiang pumps, and then adhered some cut-outs of favorite players as well as several baseball stickers.  My husband broke out his power tool (project coolness factor: +25 points) and drilled two holes in the top and we created a handle out of a string looped through and tied underneath.  To make sure the box stayed together without the top falling off when he picked it up, we put some Velcro stickers on the underside of the box top and then on each side of the box so that the lid can be secured.  I'm guessing that Velcro isn't exactly "green", but I can't have his lunch falling out all over the hallway or who knows where else, because I know my son, and I can guarantee this thing will be put to the G-man test.  Only the strong survive.

And so voila!  We have a "green" lunchbox that is pretty cool if I say so myself.

Who's the Earth Day MVP?  G-man!

After cleaning up our mess and patting myself on the back for not only starting but also finishing this project so early, I revisited a pile of teacher notes and classroom work that B-man had brought home yesterday (he goes to an intensive pre-school three days a week).  I read more about the songs and letters they worked on, studied a very interesting abstract finger painting masterpiece, and then came across the below paper that I somehow missed in my quick flip-through yesterday.  

It seems his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grows up, and she wrote down his response.

It made me smile.  Totally putting this one in my pocket for a rainy day.

Zoo Sunday

I know what you're thinking.

TWO posts, back-to-back??  What is going on here??  I don't know what's gotten into me either, but just go with it.

This morning's glorious arrival seemed to whisper the promise of a beautiful day, so we loaded up the three small men and the red Radio Flyer wagon and set off for the zoo.

If you've never been to the Fort Worth Zoo, you are missing out on one of the best in the country.  Don't quote me, but I think it is nationally ranked.  It really is quite amazing, and they are currently hosting a unique exhibit called Dinosaus Unleashed, which features life-size robotic replicas of the prehistoric beasts.  Some of them (the more imposing ones, of course) move their heads, tails and claws and even roar.  Wee-man did not care for them whatsoever, but the other two thought they were pretty neat.  The T-Rex and her baby garnered the most "whoa!" and "awesome!" accolades from G-man and B-man.

Mama T-Rex and baby

We are looking forward to an event later this month that we have attended for the past two years, which is Friday Night at the Zoo.  It benefits The Warm Place, a local non-profit grief counseling center that supports kids who have lost a loved one.  Our friends (and neighbors) are very involved with this group and asked my husband to reproduce the headboard he recently made for our bedroom as one of the auction items, so he's been busy in the garage again.  I hope it gets some good bids!

I am excited about the event because it's great people, good food, fun auction items, a scavenger hunt for the kiddos, carousel rides and a nighttime train ride.  I don't know why, but there's something kind of cool, primal and even somewhat eerie about being in the zoo at night.  Probably because you can hear the animals, but can't see them!

I'm signing off with a few photos from today.

You know how they say everything's bigger in Texas?
Check out the humongous suckers.
Not dentist-approved in the least bit, but totally kid-approved.

The Yellow Rose Express - we're not allowed to leave until we ride it.  Every time!

G-man and Wee-man on the train.  Choo choo!

A Week in a Nutshell

You know that old phrase, "in a nutshell"? 

Well, that's what today's blog is all about, 'cause I'm way behind in my posts.  But I do have some good excuses.  And, I'm summing up my week in a nutshell with one-liners (or maybe two) and photos.  So here we go.

SATURDAY:

One sick child, backyard water slide for the other two, roses galore and 2 birdhouses made.



The amazing rose bush in our front bed.
It was here when we moved in, and we have no idea what kind they are,
but the first bloom is always incredible.



B-man painting his bird house.
  

Wee-man didn't paint a birdhouse, but he did put his cute face in some
wooden frames just for grins.

SUNDAY:

Donuts with kids, mojitos with friends, Chuck E Cheese with kids and then one sick, sick mama.  My weekend blogging plans went down the toilet.  Literally.

Where I spent my evening.  Not by choice. 
 A damn shame all those mojitos went to waste.
I can't say the same about the Chuck E Cheese pizza.

MONDAY:

Mom still sick.  'Nuff said.  Oh wait, some "stylist" butchered my son's hair when Dad took him for a haircut.  He's not trying for monkhood, okay? 


See? B-man is horrified, too.  Thank God his hair grows fast.

 TUESDAY:

Hallelujah, Mom discovers her tight pants aren't so tight anymore.  Thank you, stomach bug!  And enough work piled on her desk that she had to stay late at the office. 

WEDNESDAY:

I got nothin', but I was so exhausted that I went to bed early despite my best intentions to blog.

THURSDAY:

I became an aunt again! We welcomed a new baby to our family - Miss Charlotte, 9 lbs 10 oz!  Reminded once again of the miracle of life and all its beauty. 

Me, my sis and Miss Charlotte.  She has no idea how much she's loved.  Yet.

FRIDAY:

Strolled through the local arts festival at lunch, visited my sister and Miss C again after work and tried to teach B-man how to use my digital camera.


As you can see, his centering skills are exceptional. :)

TONIGHT:
I have a hot date.  Gotta go get ready. 

Happy weekend everyone!

Take Me Out to the Ballpark….And Feed Me.

We took the two older small men (G-man and B-man) to Opening Day at The Ballpark in Arlington Friday afternoon for the Texas Rangers vs. Boston Red Sox game, and it was a phenomenal day.  The sun was shining gloriously, it was a balmy 85 degrees and there was a light breeze carrying the unmistakable smells of baseball – hot dogs with onions and relish, fresh roasted peanuts, sweet cotton candy, ice cold beer and sunscreen.

Only G-man had been to a major league baseball game before, but neither had experienced the ritualistic ceremonies of Opening Day and all of the fanfare that goes along with it.

Their little minds soaked it all in – the chants, the cheers, the songs, the players, the fans, the colors, the sounds, the smells. 

G-man about to give the ball a good whack at Little Sluggers Field.

And their bellies?  Well, their bellies soaked in all sorts of caloric goodness.  First it was hot dogs.  Then nachos and popcorn.  Then cotton candy and ginormous pixie sticks.  Then ice cream sandwiches.  All washed down with an icy Orange Crush.  The sugar high was off the charts, like out in homerun territory or maybe even past that.
  

G-man: 1.  Giant pixie stick: 0.



B-man and his pink cloud of cotton candy.



To top this off, we find out a few innings in that we’re sitting right beside The Cookie Lady.  No seriously – this woman has “The Cookie Lady” engraved in a silver plate on her chair.  As in, permanently.  I couldn’t be happier about this, because I love, love, love cookies.  So much so that my husband often calls me the Cookie Monster.  I peer over while she’s engaged in conversation with a friend and see that she has about six dozen homemade snickerdoodle cookies carefully stacked away in two large plastic containers.  Jackpot, baby.

Every usher in site and half the concession walkers working that day stop by to chat with The Cookie Lady and collect their sweet treat.  She asks them all about their kids, their wives, their jobs, their college classes.  I realize she is a fixture around the ballpark and a real gem as well.  She sweetly offered us cookies about halfway through the game, once she realized there was a small boy behind her fixated on the cookie container and repeating over and over, “I really do like cookies.”  And who could say no to his sweet face?  Certainly not a grandmother toting baked goods.

The other angels at the game who couldn't tell him no was the couple behind us - grandparents as well, with a brood of 8 boys and 2 girls (not with them - they came alone).  So, while they weren't rookies to the noise and activity of small boys, I figured they wanted to enjoy the game in peace on their Friday date night.  So much for that.  B-man talked them up the entire game, managed to eat half the guy's Snickers bar and a few of his cheese fries, and by the 8th inning was playing some game of arm wrestling with him.  I turned around several times to apologize, but they were so nice and understanding that they would hear nothing of it.  What I think is that most Rangers fans are just nice people.  Good folks.  And we hit the lottery Friday night in terms of seat-mates. 

The boys had a blast and can't wait to go back.  I was thinking that their affection for the game (at least for now) was entirely related to the endless sugar buffet, but then they surprised me this evening by joining their dad in the living room to watch tonight's game on TV.  I walked into the room and G-man was giving me the play-by-play on what I missed.  I love that they are developing a love and understanding of one of America's favorite past times.  I am all for any activity that will further sew the threads of our life closer together.

In fact, we basically turned the entire weekend into Texas Rangers family weekend, with dinner outdoors at our neighbor's house on Saturday night followed by the game on their patio TV.  I captured two photos that made my heart happy that evening on our way over - one of my husband toting our son's backpack (full of diapers and wipes for the youngest) and one of G-man and Wee-man manning the Radio Flyer wagon full of caesar salad and deviled eggs up the street, with B-man way ahead of the group (as usual). 

To me, it's the needle pulling the thread through more loops and a little tighter.  Like the stitching on a good ball glove.

"That's the way baseball go."  ~Ron Washington

 

P.S.  The Rangers won 9-5 that first afternoon (and continued their winning streak to sweep all three games of the series).  Off to a great start!

P.P.S.  We also went to Sunday's game with my sister and brother-in-law, and it just so happens The Cookie Lady was back – this time with homemade pineapple sandies with brown sugar icing.  Heaven.

A Burger and a Bet.

So, something really funny happened yesterday evening.

Well, something good and something funny.

The good part first.  My ever-creative chef of a husband whipped up the best burger ever.  No really, the best.  We quit eating red meat (for the most part) a few years ago and we have turkey burgers now.  Once you get used to them, you suprisingly discover that you actually prefer them over beef.  Well, we do anyway. 

So, I come home from work and he's cooking:

FETA AND MUSHROOM-STUFFED TURKEY BURGERS WITH BACON AND GARLIC MAYONNAISE.

I felt that the A-list ingredients needed their own banner of capitalized letters.  Because the burger was amazing.  It was soooooo good.  I mean really.  He even made the garlic mayonnaise himself.  I'm not biased or anything, but he's a culinary genius.

Anyway, we're sitting at the table enjoying our burgers alone, in rare peace, because the three small men are out back doing their normal boy stuff, and they had already scarfed down their slightly-less-than-gourmet meal of grilled hot dogs and mandarin oranges.

Our kitchen table is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, which give us a clear view onto the back porch and the backyard.  I usually open one when they are out there so I can hear when someone starts their shriek of terror from a) self-inflicted injury, or b) the more common sibling-inflicted injury.  We also hear all kinds of conversations that they believe to be confined to the perimeter of their outdoor sanctuary.  Last night was no exception.

I'm halfway through my gourmet burger and I hear, "Hey Bman, I will give you ALL of my money if you stick your whole head in this ice chest of water."

Gman was referring to the 3/4 filled cooler of icy cold water (six bags of melted ice specifically) from his birthday party the previous day. 

There it sat, a beacon of sloshy, slushy perfection just waiting for the ideal victim.

I see Bman open the chest and take a longgggg look and then he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Well, okay."  Followed by a nervous laugh.

My husband and I sit there watching this spectacle unfold, curious to see how this would play out, although I had a pretty good idea.

Bman, with Gman and Wee-man anxiously looking on, grabs both sides of the cooler and KERPLUNK - confidently dips his face and head right in the ice bath.

He comes up quickly with a look of sheer panic and pain, then the tears start.  Big crocodile tears on a strawberry-red face dripping with ice water.   I ran to get a towel and new shirt and of course wrapped my baby up and told him it was all going to be okay.  It was a weird combination of hilarity, sympathy and pride all rolled into one moment.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry with him.

While I'm tending to Bman and his brain freeze, we notice that Gman has casually strolled in and plopped himself right in front of the TV, (seemingly) oblivious to his poor brother's predicament.

My husband authoritatively announces, "Gman, go get your piggy bank.  You have to pay Bman ALL of your money."

"WHHHAAATT??"  (Gman's response, with eyebrows raised)

My husband looks him in the eye and says, "That's right.  We heard your bet. You told Bman you would give him ALL of your money if he dunked his head in the ice.  Well, he did it.  So you are going to make good on your bet."

Gman's mouth fell open so wide I thought he might tip over.  This was followed by shuffling and skulking down the hall, and one minute later he walks back into the room and begrudgingly hands over the plastic container to his father.  And also points out this is the "stupidest" thing ever.  He proceeds to get a glassy-eyed stare while watching my husband count out $26 and some-odd cents that then gets deposited into Bman's piggy bank.

My husband turns to Gman and says, "Let this be a lesson.  Never make bets with people unless you want to pay up.  Next time, bet someone one dollar, two dollars, five dollars.... but NEVER bet all you have.  Also, I hope you know that your brother is not scared of anything, for future reference."

Then he turns to Bman and says, "You don't have to do everything your brother says.  Also, next time you make a bet that is going to hurt, ask for more money."

So, one kid's richer and they're both (hopefully) wiser.

I got a great laugh, a funny story and a kick-a burger in the same evening.  Monday nights are rarely this good.

Taos.

Well the dust is slowly settling from spring break madness and our trek across Texas to the white-capped mountains of northern New Mexico.  We took the small men skiing in Taos last week, and that was an adventure of epic proportions. 

First off, we’ve never spent that much time traveling with our kids, and we definitely had never experienced the pure bliss and delight of being trapped in a vehicle with them for twelve hours straight.  It's going to take a high-powered vacuum and some Goo-be-Gone to transform my ride back to its previous state.  If you happen to see an SUV around with about 50 dinosaur stickers stuck to the inside back window, it's mine.

Secondly, we’ve never taken a vacation that required so much crap gear.  We’re typically beach bums – a few flip flops, some sunscreen, a couple arm swimmies – all set.  Well guess what.  Skiing (or any snow-related sport for that matter) is not so minimalistic. 

Finally, only one of the five of us actually possesses any winter sports ability worth claiming, and it sure as heck ain't me.  I grew up knee-boarding and skiing on bouyant salt water, which is a far cry from the unforgiving nature of frigid, hard-packed snow.  I had only skiied twice before, and that was in high school. 

Anyway, all-said, we had a grand time.  The two older boys spent three days in ski school and loved it - Gman was skiing blues by the third day.  I spent one day skiing, remembered that I totally sucked at manuevering those narrow and gangly sticks attached to my boots, and opted for snowboarding lessons on day two and three.  I loved it.  Granted, I wasn't very adept at the intracacies of looking like Shaun White, but I did okay.  Good enough to stay upright for a few turns before eating snow.  I worked muscles I never knew existed (and definitely felt the next day), but there was immense satisfaction in knowing I opened myself up to something new and embraced it.  And I was incredibly proud of the boys for tackling a fresh, unfamiliar challenge with valor, optimism and enthusiasm.  They inspired me.  And, Gman thought it incredibly cool that his mom was snowboarding.  So, apparently my newly acquired skill has upped me a few notches on the motherly coolness scale.  Score.

I'm in the middle, pretending to know what I'm doing.

As for Taos, a kitschy, quirky, laid-back atmosphere prevails.  Many of the locals and ski instructors work on what my husband and I call "island time", which is ironic considering it's in the mountains, but truly they are in no hurry around there.  There's less hustle and bustle and more attention given to small talk, and many people there really try to live green.  The women wear minimal make-up, the men sport beards and dreads and I swear that every local has at least three tattoos.  I noticed that the really popular spot for one was right on the breast plate/neck.  Honestly.  I went into a local pizza parlor one night (which was incredibly unique, cozy and the perfect spot for a Jack Kerouac poetry gathering) and every single one of the employees sported huge, intricate tattoos right on their chests - even the women.  And by the way, the pizza rocked.  Truly one of the best I've ever had.  Ever. 

When I showed up for my snowboarding lesson, the instructors all routinely used words like gnarly, rad and bitchin' - and they knew instantly (and pointed out I might add) that I was a snowboarding rookie.  Apparently I stuck out like a palm tree on the mountain top.  But you know what?  I sort of just went with the flow and soul of the place and kind of fell into a relaxed rhythm.  Don't get me wrong, there were many stressful moments with six kids in one house (we shared with our cool neighbors and their kids), a hundred pounds worth of snow gear to haul back and forth, minor injuries, altitude sickness and respiratory infections - we had to tote coolers just to keep antibiotics preserved. 

But even through all of that, Taos infused itself into our conscience (and maybe our subconcious too) and shared a secret or two about how to let go.  Unravel.  Decompress. Enjoy.  Live. 

It was gnarly, dude.