Family Time

We spent the weekend visiting MB's family and it was pretty wonderful. We don't see them as often as we probably should, but it's hard when we're the ones who do the traveling. Our last visit was in July, and Nico was still pretty shy around everyone. This time, it was so much better. He walked right in and started calling MB's parents mamaw and papaw. (What? He's half Southern.) Nico has traditionally had a good time playing with his mamaw but has been shy around his papaw. This time, no worries. Papaw brought out the remote-controlled trucks and it was all over after that.

We spent Friday night and Sunday at MB's parents' house and most of Saturday at his grandparents. BoMB and Nie made the trip from Memphis and it was great to see them. I've been missing them badly these last few weeks. We ate too much, we played games, we chatted, we ate more. All in all, a pretty ideal Thanksgiving.

It was funny, but somehow seeing Nico with my inlaws really made me notice how big he's getting. I guess it was just that I hadn't seen him in those houses or around those people since he was much smaller, and it was like putting him in front of one of those police line-up walls with the height marks on it or something. Last time you were only 1/3 the size of that countertop! Holy shit, now you're half as tall as your grandmother!

I've often said that I feel like I won the inlaw lottery, and it's still true. They may not be perfect, but they're pretty great, and Nico is so very lucky to be surrounded by so many people who love him.

Gobble gobble

We had a pretty great Thanksgiving this year. We had dinner with my mom's extended family on actual Thanksgiving at my aunt and uncle's new ridonkulously huge house. Nico spent about an hour after dinner crawling around the first floor with my dad following close behind. Their dining room is about twice the size of ours, and there were two living rooms (two!) and a giant foyer besides that. Grandpa also let him practice climbing the stairs. I forgot to get a nice posed shot of him in the adorable outfit my mom gave him for the holiday, so we snapped one at home when he was a little bit punchy and not too keen on sitting still.


On Saturday we headed to MB's hometown for dinner with his family. We ate at MB's grandparents' house, and after some time to acclimate, Nico drove his toy school bus all through the small living room and dining room among the feet of family members. I snapped quite a few photos of him looking entirely too much like a toddler. After dinner, MB's cousin and her boyfriend invited a friend over to play bluegrass banjo for the family. He was really good and Nico seemed enthralled by his first encounter with live music.



Nico made out like a bandit with his grandparents, MB's parents. He scored a rattle, a chew toy, a cloth crinkle book, a teddy bear, a stuffed Donald Duck, a farm board book (which was a huge hit), a huge electronic alphabet / spelling board, and a ride on / walk behind car with a bunch of knobs and whatsits that make noise. He'll have to grow into the ABC board, but he loves the toddler car. As soon as MB's dad got it out of the box, Nico started pushing it around the floor and making his car-driving noise (halfway between a raspberry and a grown-up vroom vroom sound). He hasn't quite figured out the riding-on or the walking-behind, but he's definitely worked out the noisemaking parts. And needless to say, I'm no longer worried that my restraint will result in Nico not getting very many toys for Christmas.

Rotten? Me? Surely you jest.

Baby, baby

In a box of dolls somewhere, there is a redheaded boy Cabbage Patch Kid that belonged to my sister. He was never her favorite -- that honor was reserved for Birthday Baby, the bald Cabbage Patch she received for her second birthday -- and so at some point he ended up packed up with my remaining dolls when I got ready to leave for college. I remembered the redheaded doll a few weeks ago and thought he'd be perfect for Nico. My sister gave the okay to hand him down, so I made a note to track him down as soon as I had a chance. I had convinced myself that the box of dolls had made its way into our attic, and climbed up there this evening to find it after Nico babbled happily at a photo of a baby in one of his books and it reminded me of the baby doll I'd meant to find for him. I didn't see the box (and am now hoping like hell that it didn't get misplaced in the course of several purges and moves since I last saw it), but I did rediscover a box of sentimental childhood stuff that I stuck up there when I was cleaning up the house pre-Nico.

And in that box was what must be my oldest surviving doll. It's a typical genderless baby doll but used to be dressed as a boy, blond and blue-eyed, made of soft rubber with fully rotating arm and leg joints so that he can be moved into many different poses, somehow more realistically floppy than I remember. He was supposed to be a drink and wet type of doll, but there was always something amiss with his works, and the water that went into his tiny pursed mouth never made it into his little cloth diaper. I loved him anyway. My mom bought him for me as a big sister gift. Memory is a faulty thing, especially when we're talking about a memory from 23 years ago. My instinct is to say he was my gift for when my sister came home, and that I remember Mom giving me the doll outside my preschool. But my sister was born in October of 1986 and didn't get placed for adoption until December, and I was in Kindergarten by then. It's a strange feeling when your personal mythology has holes in it, for certain.

Wherever it happened, whichever year, I have a very fuzzy but specific memory of Mom picking me up from school in her pale green Impala and pulling the doll out of the trunk, still in his big box with the crackly cellophane window. Was that this doll? It almost had to be. I rarely got "just because" gifts, and never anything so luxurious as a brand new baby doll, so that's probably why I remember it. I'm pretty sure he was my favorite. His white-blond hair used to lie straight and smooth against his scalp, but when my sister was a toddler, she latched onto this doll and dragged him around by his hair every day while I was at school. At some point, she also drew all over him with a red Sharpie, and there are still a few marks left. When I got him, I named him after my best friend at school, a boy. In a strange coincidence, that boy's name was the same as MB's middle name, which is also Nico's middle name.

After hesitating for only a moment, I pulled the doll out of the box in the attic and carried him down to Nico's room. Possibly he won't survive Nico's childhood, but he survived me and my sister, and leaving him in a dusty tub of old diaries and mementos seemed a bit of a waste. After a hasty baby-wipe bath, divested of the dusty baby shirt I dressed him in when I was in high school and felt bad about his long-lost original outfit, I set him on Nico's bookshelf. Nico gave the little naked baby a few glances and then moved on to something else, but it still felt right to pass the doll that welcomed my sister home on to my own child. Maybe he'll be Nico's favorite, too.

Catch the moments as they fly

Friday again. Not sure how this keeps happening. We had a very nice visit to MB's family down South(ish). We stayed at his aunt and uncle's house on Saturday, and MB's grandparents and mom came over to hang out and visit with Nico. MB's papaw, who declined to hold Nico at the hospital, came straight over and scooped him off my lap. "I told you I'd hold you once you got big enough," he said. "Gimme some sugar." Once the sun was behind the house, I dressed Nico in his tiny swimming trunks and the smallest rash guard I could find (which was still too big) and took him into the above-ground pool. And oh my hell, you guys, he loved it.

I suspected he would since he enjoys splashing in the bath, but even I didn't predict how much he would like it. I had him in a hip sling that my mom made for me out of an old crib sheet because I was worried he'd wiggle out of my arms in the water. He started splashing with one hand, then turned and leaned way down so he could splash with both hands while the whole family stood in the yard laughing and cheering him on. It was a pretty great moment, I have to admit. After a while we stuck him in the float that Julia loaned me for the weekend, and he spent some time splashing and kicking around in it. MB's 18-year-old cousin hadn't met Nico yet, and she came home while we were in the pool. She threw on her bikini and jumped in with us, and we have a video of her blowing bubbles in the water to make Nico laugh. After our swim, I rinsed Nico off in the bathroom sink and put him to bed, and then MB and I stayed up and played guys-against-girls Cranium with his aunt and uncle, his cousin, and her boyfriend.

We don't see them as often as we probably should, and we had a really great visit. Time with them is always time well-spent, slower-paced and comfortable. We get loud and twangy and we eat too much and swear too much and drink too much sweet tea and I'm always a bit sad to leave. No family is perfect, but I really feel like I won the in-law lottery most of the time. In the early years of our marriage, I felt in my gut that this was a family I'd be glad and proud to bring a child into, and so far they are proving me right. From MB's papaw holding my little son in his huge farmer's hands to MB's slightly disreputable second uncle toting Nico around the kitchen on Sunday morning promising him a ride on his motorcycle (just around the yard, with a helmet on) and a pair of Harley boots from Paducah to MB's mom carrying him down to the fence so he could see the horses, the weekend was full of small, sweet moments.

And for his part, Nico was a champion of courting grandparental affection. He was mild-mannered and charming and tolerant of being passed around by people he hasn't seen since he was teeny-tiny, and slept well in two different houses in the playpen we borrowed from my parents. He is totally banking points toward getting his own pony one day.






And dude. DUDE. Look what my kid can do all of a sudden! What the heck are you playing at, child?




Reading:  The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest by Stieg Larsson

Playing:  Sigh No More by Mumford & Sons

Halls, decked

Instead of shopping on Friday, I stayed home and made two loaves of banana bread, a batch of blueberry muffins, a cheesecake, and two sweet potato casseroles. Then my awesome sister came over in the afternoon and helped me put up the Christmas decorations. It's kind of hilarious how many times the tree poked me in the belly while I was trying to put the lights on it.






MB and I had a really nice weekend visiting with his family. We came home with a truly obscene amount of leftover Thanksgiving food and three bags of baby gifts, including these, knitted by MB's mother's cousin, whom I've never even met:


Indy spent the weekend at my parents' house playing with their dogs, and this is what he looked like at 7:00 this evening:


Overall I'd say it was a pretty fantastic holiday. How was yours?

Family time

We're spending the weekend visiting MB's family. Because they are clever (and accommodating), they celebrate Thanksgiving on the Saturday following the actual day. It's awesome because we never have to choose or alternate, which is extra great since Thanksgiving is MB's favorite holiday. We're going to eat ourselves stupid in the afternoon at Mamaw and Papaw's house and then go back to MB's aunt and uncle's place and play games into the wee hours if the past several years are any indication. Or at least MB will. The brachiopod and I have a severely limited ability to stay up past 11:00 PM these days.

Speaking of the brachiopod and inlaws, MB's aunt and uncle bought the baby a crib! We knew they were planning to, but we didn't see it until last night. I'll have to add a picture once we get back home. When we got here, they had it set up in the dining room with a sheet over the top and then MB's uncle pulled it off, all voila! They also got him a mattress pad (the packaging says it will absorb 8 cups of liquid. Don't get any ideas, kid.), sheets, a big fuzzy blanket and a package of little flannel blankets, some puppy dog onesies, dinosaur thermal jammies, a safety kit with little clippers and scissors and such, and a big teddy bear. I pretty much won the in-law lottery, right?


Speaking of babies, a huge epic congrats to Assertagirl, who welcomed Nathan James on the 24th! Seriously, go look...he's gorgeous.


Update, pics:

These are pretty terrible pictures, since I didn't have a camera with me:

(the mattress is crooked because we were futzing around with the adjustable height right before I took the picture)

Get me to the church on time

Last Saturday, my cousin Sunny got married in a lovely little Baptist church about three hours away. To account for the long drive and the hour time difference, my mom and sister and I left town at 6:30 AM. I'd called Sunny a few weeks before the wedding to RSVP, and she gave me the address of the church so I could plug it into googlemaps. The trip went off without a hitch, really. The weather was pleasant, we had lots to talk about, and we only hit one relatively short stretch of construction before reaching smooth sailing on the interstate.

We got to the cute little touristy town where the wedding was to be held at about 10:45 local time, almost a bit too early for the 11:30 ceremony. We eyed cute little flea markets and touristy antique shops. We exclaimed over a sprawling bright yellow historic house, transformed into a bed and breakfast. We carefully followed the directions to the address Sunny had given us, and ended up on a narrow backroad surrounded by trees, a machine shop, a storage unit, and a barn. Uh...

We'd been traveling along State Road 4, and there were multiple offshoots marked Old State Road 4, so we theorized that we'd taken the wrong branch. We continued on along State Road 4, and finally conceded that we'd definitely, definitely gone too far. Mom reminded my sister that her iPhone should have a GPS feature, and Sis plugged the address in and verified that we were pretty far off course. We retraced our steps, only to end up on the same backroad by the same storage unit. Mayday! I tried calling Danger, who was at the wedding. No answer. I tried calling MacGyver, Sunny's brother. No answer.

While following our course on her iPhone, Sis had noticed an Old State Highway 4 on the map. Theorizing that perhaps Sunny had made a mistake in the address she gave me -- and realizing that we now had about 20 minutes to get to the ceremony and no choice but to take a wild guess -- we set off again. As we drove, we recalled that Sunny had mentioned that the church was just down the road from the fairgrounds. We had left our invitation at home and couldn't remember the name of the church, but with this clue, we were saved. We pulled over at a Shell station and asked the clerk, a nice lady named Peg, if she knew of a little Baptist church near the fairgrounds. Lo and behold, she did! We hauled ass and found the church, walking in just as the bridal party was lining up in the vestibule.

We later found out that lots of other people had the same problem. Sunny's other brother and one of her aunts had ended up at the same storage unit that we located. Three of her friends got so lost that they didn't even show up until the reception was almost over. Lesson learned? Brides, be EXTRA SURE that you have accurate directions to give to your guests. (And the church's listing on the county website has the incorrect address, too, so it wasn't entirely Sunny's fault.) Otherwise, your guests might be standing by a barn in the woods, instead of watching you walk down the aisle. (Or, you know, shopping at a flea market. Not that we considered that as an alternate option or anything...)


Reading:  The Seance by John Harwood

Playing:  some mix CDs

Violets are blue

For as long as I can remember -- probably longer than I've been alive -- my mom has kept a pair of miniature vases on the kitchen windowsill. When we were kids, my sister and I would bring in handfuls of violets and dandelions, and Mom always let us put them in the little vases. They stayed in the window until they were wilted and crispy, and only then would they be thrown out. My mom never complained that dandelions are a weed, she never acted like she was tired of getting identical handfuls of little purple and white flowers.

My mother is not a perfect person. There are things about her that I actively seek not to emulate. But those things are few in comparison to the things that I believe she did right, or at least as right as she knew how. We were never made to feel like our questions were dumb. We were always expected to do our best, to act right, and to be as kind and patient with each other as we could (not always easy when you're the much older sibling). We were encouraged, supported, pushed and pulled, held up and talked down from ledges. And even at our weediest, we were never treated as anything less than flowers worthy of a pretty vase in the window. One of my greatest hopes is that someday my kids will feel the same way.

Slipping away

My last living great-aunt went into a nursing home last weekend. She suffers from Alzheimer's, and my mother has been checking in on her several times a week for a few years now. Mom got power of attorney over Aunt Mary's finances when it became clear that Mom's cousin (Aunt Mary's sister's son) was exploiting her for money, brazenly and frequently. I firmly hope there is a special hell for unemployed, alcoholic grown men who purposely extort money from little old ladies living on tiny pensions and Social Security checks.

Mary's mind sort of comes and goes these days, but she was getting along fine for the most part. Mom and Dad would pick up her groceries once a week, and Mom took her to appointments and made sure she got her medicine and that her bills were paid. But late last week, Mary fell and couldn't get up, and so she sat on her floor and waited. It's hard to say how long she was there, but luckily she wasn't injured. After a night in the hospital, the doctors told my mom and her sister that they would only release Mary if she was moving into a nursing home or if she was going to have 24-hour in-home care. No one in the family is well-off, and everyone works, so 24-hour care was pretty much out of the question. Luckily, there was space for Mary at what is supposed to be a very good home for Alzheimer's patients, and she was able to move in right away.

My mother's family is not a particularly tight-knit family. Everyone cares for each other, but we don't regularly hang out or share our deep, dark secrets or anything. Of the three great-aunts, sisters of the grandfather who died before I was born, Mary was the only one I really knew at all. When we were kids, she occasionally babysat us while my parents went out. She's in her eighties now, so even when I was a child, she was old to my eyes. She's always been the little old aunt in the little old lady skirts and cardigans. She always had curly gray old lady hair and old lady glasses. She always lived alone in a little house and had too many cats.

She used to make me roll my eyes when she babysat for us, because she never wanted to make any of the kids behave. If one of the younger kids broke the rules and I sent them into a time-out, all they had to do was cry and Mary would feel bad and let them out early. She was nice, possibly to a fault. Mary and I were never close, and probably the only thing I can tell you for certain about her is that she was kind. She was stubborn and set in her ways, I'm sure, but ultimately she was a good person. I feel a little regretful that there's not more to say. Then again, if at the sunset of my life the only thing someone can say about me is that I was kind, I think that wouldn't be so bad.

Comfort fail

Every Summer as far back as I can remember, my parents took us camping. They would find respite care for the foster kids and we would take a week for just us, camping in our big musty canvas tent until the year I turned twelve, and camping in our RV after that. Back in the tent days, when my sister was still really little (she's six years younger), I was usually allowed to invite my cousin Amethyst along to keep me company. She's three years older than I am, but until she started high school we were pretty much inseparable.

One year, we got to go to a cave as part of our trip. My love of caves goes pretty far back, clearly. I don't know for sure how old we were on this particular vacation, but I'm guessing I was about ten, my sister was about four, and Amethyst was about thirteen.

As with most "show caves" -- ones that are set up to give guided tours to visitors -- the guide had a talk to give that mixed cave facts with local lore. Near the high point of the tour, the crowd was ushered into a large cavern with benches, where we sat down to listen to the tale of an old cowboy who had done something-or-other in the cave. I don't remember anything about the story, only that at the end they insinuated he was still in the cave without being too overtly scary. Another guide put on a cowboy hat and walked up the back side of the giant rubble pile we were in the cavern to see, so that his or her be-hatted shadow was cast across the top of the rubble mountain at exactly the right moment. It was all very well done as far as I was concerned.

After the story, the guide announced that it was time for us to all experience total darkness. Every cave tour I have ever been on has included this. You're thirty, fifty, eighty feet underground, and they instruct everyone to stay put, and then they turn off all the lights. You literally cannot see your hand in front of your face. There is no light at all. None. It's wicked awesome, quite impressive, and a little bit eerie. As the lights went out that day, just after the end of the semi-spooky cowboy story, it occurred to Amethyst quite suddenly that my rather sensitive little sister was probably pretty scared. The crowd fell silent as the guide doused her flashlight, plunging us all into impenetrable black, and Amethyst quietly reached over and squeezed my sister's hand reassuringly.

As thirty people sat quietly in the dark, listening to the nothing of the soundless cave, a tiny, quavering voice broke the silence:   "Who's holding my hand?!"

Daddy's girl

I usually hesitate to call myself a daddy's girl, because to me it means prissy princess types and those horrid girls who end up on My Super Sweet Sixteen. But I do have a good relationship with my dad, and there are some memories of him / with him that I treasure. Today's playoff games reminded me of one of them. I was a cheeky monkey as a little girl and liked to show off and impress people. I also already had a freakishly well-developed knack for memorization.

Because of this, my dad and I had a game we would play. He'd name a city or state, and I'd name the pro football team that played there. There were only 28 teams back then, but that's still a bit of a trick for a kid under the age of ten, right? I knew the entire NFL roster, though for years I couldn't figure out why the Steelers were called the Steelers if they didn't steal stuff. I also thought the Redskins played in Washington State. For some reason, I always had trouble remembering the Seattle Seahawks.

One day we were going through the list while Mom made dinner. New Orleans? Saints. New York? Jets and Giants. Houston? Oilers. Philadelphia?

I didn't answer fast enough, and Mom called from the kitchen, "Cream cheese!"

To this day, every time I watch an Eagles game, I remember that night and I smile. I think I am a bit of a daddy's girl after all.

What I go through for you guys

Here's how Kitters "helps" me blog, most nights...all fifteen pounds of him:



Let me preface what's about to come by saying that if you have a weak stomach or hate bugs, you should probably just go watch the Kitters video a few more times and then come back tomorrow. Also, if you really like Shredded Wheat? Uh...I recommend the cat video. Seriously.

So I was driving home from dropping my sister off at our parents' house, and trying to come up with a blog post to go along with my cat video (which you should totally be watching instead of reading if you're not sure about this part LAST WARNING TURN BACK NOW), and it dawned on me. Why not tell the Shredded Wheat story?

When I was a kid, I spent the night at my cousins' house a lot. There are three of them, and we're what my mom calls "stair-stepped" -- I'm nine months younger than MacGyver, who is sixteen months younger than Anthony, who is a year younger than Amethyst. We only lived two blocks apart and Amethyst was one of my best friends growing up, so I spent many weekend nights at her house, and she spent just as many at mine.

I don't recall how old I was when this happened, or what caused me to choose the cereal I did that day. I had never actually eaten Shredded Wheat before, which makes it even more mysterious that I'd choose it over whatever all my cousins were eating. I do remember my aunt telling me that the Shredded Wheat was kind of old, and telling her I didn't mind. So she poured me a bowl, and I have to admit the cereal was kind of terrible. This wasn't cute little bite-sized Frosted Mini Wheats, it was the kind without frosting, where the pieces of Shredded Wheat are huge, like small hay bales in your bowl. But I couldn't exactly change my mind after she'd poured the cereal and added milk, so I slogged grimly forward.

Until the moment, that is, when I looked down and saw a two-inch-long multilegged thing hotfooting it across the surface of my Shredded Wheat. I do not know if it was a millipede or a centipede, and I do not know how it came to be in that box of cereal, but I can tell you that it was years, years before I could eat Shredded Wheat again. And just telling you this story, I'll probably end up with an all-night case of the heebs.



So yeah. I warned you, right? Hey, at least I didn't tell the one about my mom and the Twinkies...



(And yes, this post was written with the help of my faithful assistant, which is why I am rapidly losing feeling in my left hand. Send helpaslk;awlie'oaf l oie[oawi

That would be a 'trebuchet'

This evening I attended a birthday party for my cousin Amethyst's daughter Pie, who just turned six. I was trying to convince Pie that my present would be the best, since I got her broccoli and a miniature cow. (Ok, not really, but it was fun to pretend.)

other cousin Sunny:  I think Amethyst's present will be the best. She got Pie a bike.

VBG:  Yeah, that will be pretty hard to beat.

cousin-in-law Dave:  I got her a flamethrower.

VBG:  That would pretty much trump all presents, ever.

Amethyst:  Unless you got one of those things...what are those things? You know, that they use to throw cows?

Yet hope remains while the company is true

By straight accounting, this weekend has pretty well sucked. My zucchini plant, the plant in the garden I was most hoping would last until Fall, died. Our air conditioner went out. Again. The night before a 93-degree day. The fans we set up to move the air around so we wouldn't cook to death have sucked the smell of cat pee out of the office (where the litterbox is) and spread it all over the first floor of the house. And, just over a year since the last time, one of my family's dogs had to get put to sleep.

Tasia was sort of my dog, since when we got her Dad could claim Wolf as his, and Mom could claim Kojak as hers, and my sister had Shadow the Pom. I didn't have a dog, so when my parents took Tasia in, they said she could be my dog. To be honest, though, I think she always preferred my dad most. She was the sweetest dog I've ever known, and would do anything to earn a human's love. Her previous owners had not been good to her, and I never truly understood how anyone could hit a dog so loyal she would've literally laid down her life for a human if she was asked.

She was thirteen years old, and Mom didn't really expect her to make it through last summer, but she'd pulled through. Lately, though, her age was starting to catch up with her. Even before the summer heat really set in, she had given up on climbing the stairs by herself. If she wanted to go out or come in, one of my parents had to carry her out. I dreaded this, always worrying that my mom -- who has no business toting a 65 pound dog up and down basement stairs -- would get hurt.

As the weather got worse, so did Tasia. I called Mom from work on Friday afternoon to see if she'd be home the next morning, and she told me that she'd made an appointment to take Tasia to the vet and have her put to sleep. Tasia's four cups of daily kibble had dwindled to one cup a day, and she didn't always eat that. She was pitifully thin under her thick coat of fur. Her stomach was almost constantly upset, and she'd even stopped taking her favorite treat, rawhide chewsticks. Mom couldn't bear to see Tasia suffer any longer, when it was clear she was sick and so very tired. I told Mom I'd come by in the morning and go along to the appointment.

An hour later, Mom called me back. She'd gone down to check on Tasia and found her barely breathing. She had called the vets' office, and one of the doctors was coming to the house as soon as the office closed to end things. I went straight to the house after I got done at work, and arrived just ahead of the vet. Mom and I sat with Tasia, even though it was clear she was barely there any more. The end was quick and easy and gave her back some of the dignity that old age had stolen from her. We had our chance to say goodbye and tell her what a pretty dog she was and that we loved her. The old pack is back together again, somewhere.



Despite all this, despite all the pain-in-the-ass-ness and the pain in the heart, the weekend was really not so bad. Straight accounting aside, it was actually one of the better weekends I've had in a while. On Friday night, the bibliophile had the gang over to celebrate her birthday (Happy birthday! <3). I was able to let go of most of the day's sorrow in games and laughter and way too much sugar. Saturday night I went out to the country to kidsit. You're going to have to excuse the crappy photo quality here as I show off the best Lego ship I have EVER built:

wings in

wings extended

engines added
We had a fabulous Star Wars Lego ship battle, watched a DVD about natural disasters, chased fireflies (which are much faster than I remember, incidentally), collected the eggs from the chicken coop, and headed upstairs for story time, followed by sleep (him) and quiet time to read (me).

Then tonight, the bibliophile was kind enough to host the domino game I was supposed to have at our house, and so I got to hang out with her and rabidmonkey and the apathetic one and my closest friend from back during my craft store days. More sugar, more laughter, and more reminders that my life? It's pretty damn awesome, even when sucky things conspire to bring me down.

Thanks, sincerely, to all of my friends. Thank you for being who you are, and for sticking with me. I don't know what I'd do without you.

Delusions of grandeur

This is Rusty:


Rusty showed up on my parents' porch about a week ago. My dad would probably claim he never wanted another cat, but we wouldn't believe him since he told my mom there was a kitten on the porch. "If he didn't want me to keep him," Mom said, "he should've just shoved him right off the edge with his foot and kept walking." Mom and Dad let the kitten in the house, then put him back outside again when they went out to see if he'd wander off. He was still there when they got back, so they let him in and named him. As our family knows quite well, once an animal is named, it stays for good.

Rusty spent his first few days in the family feeling a bit under the weather and sluggish, but as of yesterday was back in fine form. Even hale and hearty, Rusty weighs about two pounds.


This is Maggie:


Maggie is a one-year-old Border Collie / Australian Shepherd / German Shepherd mix with the energy of five Suns. Maggie weighs 44 pounds. Maggie LOVES Rusty. When he first moved in, Maggie fawned over him for days. She brought him toy after toy and tried to get him to play with her. She sniffed him so hard Mom said it looked like she was trying to hoover him up her nostrils.

According to Mom, the other morning Maggie was chilling on the couch with her and Rusty came around and started bugging Mags. Finally, Mags had had enough. She gently took Rusty's entire head in her jaws, as if to say, "All right, you little shit. I am the boss of you."

Rusty pulled his head out of Maggie's mouth and stared at her with disgust and disdain. Then he wrapped his twiggy little cat arms around her neck and started chewing on her face. I bet if you look up "self confidence" in the dictionary, you'll find a picture of a small marmalade-colored tabby kitten.

Benediction

Last Friday morning I walked the dog over to my parents' house so I could use my mom's sewing machine to make some pillows for a friend's little boy. I chatted a bit with my mom and sister, and solicited lots of advice since I haven't made much of anything on a sewing machine since college.

I was both surprised and pleased at how easy it was to use the machine. As happens when I sit down at a piano, my hands just sort of knew what to do and didn't really need much help from my brain. All the little things you must remember to do, like holding the loose threads to the side so they don't get pulled under the foot at the beginning of a seam, like pressing the button on the side of the machine to reverse the direction and backstitch, I just kind of did them without thinking. Until the day I die, the sound of a sewing machine whirring away will be the sound of home. Mom made most of our clothes when we were kids, made her own clothes, and for several years made completely amazing "busy books" to sell at craft shows.

Mom left for work and Sis went to the last day of her volunteer daycamp counselor gig, and I was alone within the comfort of my mom's sewing room, in the peace of the house where I grew up. At some point I looked around and noticed a sheet of lined paper taped to a cabinet door, covered in my mom's handwriting, the arches and loops of it as familiar as my own face in the mirror. At first I didn't think much of it, assuming it detailed instructions of some craft idea or sewing technique. But as I got to the less-exciting stage of stuffing pillow forms into the cases I'd sewn, I had time to let my eyes wander. They returned to the handwritten sheet, and I realized it was a verse of some kind.

Maybe it was the thunderstorm that was rumbling outside. Maybe it was the cocoon-like quiet of the home that held me safe for most of my life. Maybe it was feeling sappy about sewing and seeing lovely words in my mom's writing. Maybe I'm just a drippy girl. But the words on that page? They were beautiful. I have no idea where Mom found them. Google, for once, wasn't super helpful, other than an indication that they come from an old African verse. If I could, I'd pull that sheet down from the cabinet door, frame it, and hang it in my house. Maybe someday I will.


Each thing that goes away, returns, and nothing in the end is lost. The great friend throws all things apart and brings all things together again. That is the way everything goes and turns around. That is how all living things come back after long absences, and in the whole great world all things are living things. All that goes returns.

Where you are going, go softly.

Aananom, you who have gone before, see that his body does not lead him into snares made for the death of spirits. You who are going now, do not let your mind become persuaded that you walk alone. There are no humans born alone.

You are a piece of us, of those gone before and who will come again. A piece of us go, and come a piece of us. You will not be coming, when you come, the way you went away. You will come stronger to make us stronger, wiser to guide us with your wisdom. Gain much from this going. Gain the wisdom to turn your back on the wisdom of Ananse. Do not be persuaded you will fill your stomach faster if you do not have others' to fill.

There are no humans who walk this earth alone.

Sticking up for the underdog

Although she never hesitated to inform us that life isn't fair, I think in her heart of hearts my mom is dedicated to Making Things Fair. When we had foster siblings, everyone got the same number of toys at Christmas, the same video renting and library book privileges, the same expectations of behavior (besides being a champion of Making Things Fair, my mother above all raised us to and expected us to Act Right). Bigger kids were never permitted to pick on smaller ones, beyond a harmless level of teasing.

My parents' house came with an old-fashioned gas light on a pole in the backyard. The gas light was already out of commission by the time they moved in, but the lamp and post remained. One year a basketball went astray and busted out one of the light's glass panels, and before long a small brown sparrow built a nest inside the lamp. The sparrow laid eggs, the eggs hatched, and then Mom discovered one afternoon that a blue jay had come along and thrown all the baby sparrows out of the nest. She got a towel and put all the babies back. The mother sparrow returned to tend the babies, but the blue jay came back, too, and tossed the babies out of the nest again.

This time, Mom was not messing around. The blue jay was violating three of the most major rules of the house:  Make Things Fair, Act Right, and Pick On Someone Your Own Size. The baby sparrows went back into the nest, and then Mom taped pieces of cardboard around the lamp to create a box that enclosed all but a tiny space in the front, large enough for a mama sparrow to fly through, but much too small for a blue jay. She used the most convenient cardboard she had -- a cut-up, bright purple Luvs diaper box--and secured the whole thing with pale yellow duct tape. When it's time to defend the underdog (or underbird), who the hell cares what the neighbors think?

Completely, totally, and utterly busted

Today the Cheesefairy posted a funny story about her kid outing his daycare provider and her habit of letting him watch TV.

It reminded me of one of my favorite kid stories of all time.

My aunt Pony has always watched my cousin Amethyst's kids, starting when Amethyst's first daughter, Custard*, was a baby. Amethyst preferred that Custard not have things like TV or fast food, but Grandma Pony had other ideas. Ideas which she kept secret from Amethyst. Or so she thought.

You see, one day Amethyst was in a hurry, so when she got to the bank, she decided that instead of taking Custard inside with her, she'd just go through the drive-up window. As she loaded her deposit into the little vacuum tube and greeted the teller, a small voice piped up from the backseat:  "Fries, please."



Reading:  The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory

Playing:  Pressure Chief by Cake



*not their real names, obviously

Foundations

When my parents got married, they bought a little house. When they were ready to start a family, they sold their little house to my mom's brother and his new wife and bought a bigger house two blocks away. In 1979, my cousin Amethyst was born. Almost exactly one year later, my cousin Anthony was born. A year and three months later, my cousin MacGyver was born. And then, ten months later I was born. And thus, there were four little children living within two blocks of each other, with two twenty-something stay-at-home-moms. My cousins and I spent most of our childhoods together. They were my surrogate siblings, my constant playmates. During the summers, Amethyst and I had sleepovers at one house or the other nearly every weekend. We'd spend the night in the yard barn clubhouse my parents built for me and my sister, or in the loft in the giant garage her dad built behind their house. We rode our bikes down to the neighborhood supermarket and blew our allowances on gum and Funyuns.

In March of my freshman year in college, Amethyst had her first kid, a girl (Custard). In the years since, all four of us "big kids" got married. The "little kids," our younger sisters--cousin Brie, born in 1984, and my sister and cousin Sunny, born in 1986--have dated and dismissed various boys, graduated high school, started college. Amethyst married her baby daddy, had another daughter (Pie), and last year got divorced. Anthony has two little girls with his wife. MacGyver married Danger, of course. Younger cousin Brie has a little son. Tonight I went over to my aunt and uncle's house--to my parents' first house--to have birthday cake and celebrate Custard's eighth birthday. Eight years, my God. Can it have been so long?

My parents still live in their second house, two blocks away from my aunt and uncle. All of us kids went to the same high school, two blocks in the other direction from my parents' house. Even now, our lives draw us back to these places, to these memories, to the solid foundation that our parents built for us, before we were even born.


Reading:  The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory

Playing:  Comfort Eagle by Cake (sound warning)

An auspicious day

Today, my little sister turns 21. I can hardly believe it, really. Because she's an awesome and brilliant math major, I made her this cake:



Today is also my two-year blogiversary! Woo! Sorry, blog...no cake for you.



And, because SSFB suggested that Fridays need more lolKitters action, I made this for her:





I also need to make a formal apology to all my blog friends for my continued ignoring of my blogroll. I promise as soon as I finish the three giant brainsucking projects that I'm in charge of for work, I'll open my Google reader again and try to catch up. I miss you all! xoxo