Franklin5

What the yell?

2011-11-03T11:31:00.000-07:00

In certain places and circumstances, yelling is expected. Fun, even.

A football game. A roller coaster. A concert. ["FREEBIRD!"]

In other places, yelling is not expected. Not fun. Really, the pits for everyone involved.

Like, say, my kitchen. At my half-clothed children, making syrup monsters with their waffles, when the clock is at five past We Are Late For School Again.

Or Whole Foods. When a five-item shopping trip turns into WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES.

Homeworking.

2011-11-02T21:35:00.001-07:00

When it became clear that the big kid would, in fact, be moved up to first grade, I immediately began to fret about homework. Because, well, I thought I was supposed to.

MOM TO-DO LIST:
Fret about homework. [Check.]

And then he started first grade, and the homework began, and...there wasn't any fretting to be done. The kid got the homework. The kid did the homework. And that was that.

And I was...sorta mystified. There wasn't any cajoling on my part, no stalling on his. He acted like it was a nuisance more than anything, a minor obstacle between him and playtime. Like swatting a fly away.

I couldn't figure out why other parents I knew were complaining.

And then...the twins started first grade.

Um.

2011-11-01T15:41:00.000-07:00

So: I guess I said I'd start blogging again? But I have nothing to say? So I asked the girl-child? And she said HEY MOM WRITE THIS:

Ummmm.

Hi. My name is K. I like to play soccer. I am very good at tackling my brothers and using them as punching dummies. I like to eat candy and hang out on the hammock. I have a dog whose name is Wilco. I like him a lot. My favorite stuffed animal is my oversized giraffe, Spot. My favorite food is a juicy mango. Okay. I need to go do my homework now, so bye.

Okay! Um: more later? I guess? Argh?

Reprise

2009-04-08T00:24:00.000-07:00

It's thoroughly surreal to pore through the pages of this blog after months of cheerful neglect: what greets me is simultaneously familiar and foreign.

On one hand, I know every picture and every word, intimately... but did I actually think that? Type it out? And post it for absolutely anyone to see? Murmur.

The problem is, whenever I've made sweeping declarations and solemn promises to faithfully update these pages on a consistent basis, I've rather quickly stumbled and tripped. (Clumsiness: I has it.)

And I joke with regularity that my brain has atrophied to such a degree that I can no longer write or read anything longer than 140 characters. The niggling fear, of course, is that the joke's on me.

So I'll resist the temptation to pledge that this content will be refreshed with any regularity or coherence. I'll just say that it's good to be here again. What happens next is anyone's guess.

First steps

2008-11-05T23:41:00.000-08:00

My poor head's been fogged today by a happiness hangover... enhanced, perhaps, by a wee infusion of gin from last night's impromptu election-watching party with the Weintribe. So I'll just let this one picture speak my thousand giddy words:

Wasn't it absolutely amazing? Do you find yourself listening to the speech over and over, pinching yourself that, yes: this actually happened? And do you tear up at the words and the realization every single time?

Do you admire how beautifully Chicago, the hometown of my heart, served as its backdrop? Oh, giddy squeal; oh, contented sigh. Oh, sweet mercy: yes.

Of course, I did realize this morning, when I awoke to my throbbing head and my cheeks, still tear-stained and sore from all the smiling, that the world today plays host to the very same troubles and challenges that plagued it yesterday.

But somehow, it feels like a new world, a more hopeful place. The potential for change, for one and all: it feels tangible to me now.

All because of a few first steps, taken long ago. Can't wait to see where the journey leads us...

Widget

2008-11-04T00:56:00.001-08:00

Fidget

2008-11-03T23:52:00.000-08:00

On and off throughout the day, I've considered and rejected any number of ideas for my daily dose of bloggy obligation.

Some ideas are, for the good of all, better off dead (what I ate for lunch today; which came first: the chicken or the egg).

Some ideas may yet see publication before the month is over (what's going on with my right foot; the heretofore unanticipated perils of memes).

But ultimately, the one idea that's captivating me tonight, that's moved and stirred me for the past year, and that will keep firm grasp on my attention for the next sixteen-plus hours, at least, is the presidential election.

Wildly do I vacillate between strutting, giddy confidence that my candidate of choice will easily sweep up the necessary electoral votes to secure victory and residency in the White House... and anxious, hair-chewing fretfulness that things won't go my way.

Tomorrow, I'm sure, I'll feel a heady mix of nervous energy and hope and a desire to do something, anything that feels minimally active and participatory.

The best solution, I find, is to plug in, keep a finger on the pulse. I don't wanna wait until Wednesday morning to read the headlines in the paper; I want to know, minute by minute, what's happening, when, where and why.

To kick things off, I'm downloading a widget from msnbc.com that promises to stream updated return information as it happens.

I'll also drain the battery on my iPhone, I'm sure, by refreshing Twitter at a generally obsessive pace, as well NPR's Election 2008 site.

What about you? What are your preferred resources for election news and numbers? Would you rather fast-forward to Wednesday, or focus your attention on celebrity gossip? Talk to me.

Sixty winks

2008-11-02T23:43:00.000-08:00

I won't do it. You have my word.

I won't give in to the urge to rant and rave and froth at the mouth about the absurdity of today's time change.

I won't gripe in petty detail that it mucks with absolutely everything that matters, casually tosses me into a weeklong "No, wait: what time is it, really?" panic, plunges us into darkness just as the muppers ask to play outside for that narrow band of time betwixt dinner and bath.

I won't do it, because I? Have, by and large, slept through it.

And it's been quite lovely, actually.

This morning's sleepathon was prompted by a busier-than-usual Saturday night: first, a three-year-old's birthday party that ended with, um, absinthe, and second, a football game so horrendous and hateful that it prompted me to imbibe a whole lot more, if only to keep pace with my depressed and mumbling spouse.

So. Yeah. That was fun. Think I slumbered until... well, not until noon. But within sight of it.

Eventually, under some duress from still-depressed spouse and none-the-wiser muppers, I did rally: grateful, I'll add, for the extra time on the clock. It was decided that an outing was in order. Lunch! Chuy's. GOOD.

It didn't seem that unreasonable, really, to think that a nap might follow the consumption of all that Tex-Mex deliciousness. Just twenty minutes, I told a skeptical mr. f5. Promise.

Two hours later, it became apparent that the howler monkeys wreaking havoc in my dream were, in fact, my own three hyperactive muppers, dispatched by their father to wake up the slug in bed.

Oops.

By now, of course, it was dinnertime. The adults, still bloated on chili con queso, declined to partake in the evening meal, so I whipped up some couscous, spooned it out to the muppers and summarily crashed on the big red couch.

Because I was so very tired. From all the sleeping, don't you know.

Honestly, I'd still be there now, happily sawing logs and paying no heed to the clocks that still need to be turned back, or the messy wake from my day of sloth... if a tiny voice in my head hadn't forged through the ether and reminded me of my bloggy commitment.

And here we are. Not complaining about the time change; just yawning and yearning for more time in dreamland.

So, g'night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs snnklrrzzz...

When it began.

2008-11-01T23:44:00.000-07:00

Hi. Allow me to introduce myself. My nom de plume is mrs. f5, and I'm a blogger.

Except... well, lately, not quite so much.

It's not that I've lost interest in blogs; far from it. I voraciously read other people's posts and musings, and obsessively micro-blog my own daily comings and goings.

But keeping up the pages of this, my first and foremost blog, launched only two years ago... yeah, that's not been happening lately.

I can't say exactly why, although I have a few half-formed theories, but I can say, decisively, that I've missed the regular practice of writing... anything of any substance, really... and sharing it with a predominantly invisible forum.

So, when Mrs. Kennedy, for the third year running, threw down the gauntlet for NaBloPoMo, I resolved to pick the thing up and dust this thing off.

I'm hoping to revive, recharge, reconnect, reach out and remember why blogging ever seemed like a good idea. And to relive and realize how much fun it was, when it began.

I'll fumble and trip along the way, I'm sure. Already it feels awkward, to string together thoughts in more than 140 characters.

But I'm no masochist; I'll cut myself some slack when needed. So expect to see a smattering of pictures or back-links or video clips to fill in the spaces where the words get stuck.

And so it begins...

Back to school

2008-06-04T23:20:00.000-07:00

As a general rule, I'm not an enormous fan of the meme-as-blog genre.

It's not that I don't adore the process of answering six dozen questions about what I enjoy for breakfast and what I wear whilst eating said meal of champions.

I do. So much.

But there's something about putting it all out there for the world (or, in my case, a half-dozen haplessly loyal friends and family members) to read. Because, well: why would you care?

Tonight, however, I fling aside my concerns for your well-being. Because when my sister sent the following meme to me, I just knew it should be shared with the blogosphere.

It's fun. It's compelling. And above all, it's a marginal fit with the alleged reflections-on-home theme that I'm hanging on to by the most gossamer of threads.

It is (wait for it... ) a recollection of your ninth-grade year.

Now: when you read those words, did you squeal with glee and clap your hands?

Or, perchance, did you visibly squirm and feel perspiration bead upon your forehead?

You squealing clapper types, with your perfectly aligned teeth and bouncing-and-behaving hair: bless your hearts for feeling any positive association whatsoever with what many recall as an awkward age in their lives. Now go sit down.

The rest of you? The ones who barely survived with your dignity intact, and who still, years later, involuntarily check the mirror after a meal to ensure that you don't have entire spinach leaves stuck in your braces?

Welcome, my friends; this is a safe haven for us.

As I've mentioned, my high-school years were somewhat nomadic. But the ninth grade was an extra-special time, because smack-dab in the middle of the year, we moved to a different state.

OH MY WORD at the angst as I was moved, against my will, from a lush and sleepy southern town that I absolutely adored to a stark, small city in west Texas that, I was convinced, resembled the terrain of Mars.

So, the answers to my meme are noticeably schizophrenic. Don't be alarmed. And by all means, feel free to play along.

THE NINTH GRADE

Who was your best friend?
Debelah Stallperson. (No. This isn't really her name; I have taken minor liberties herein to protect the innocent. Or the unwitting. Not that Debelah falls into either category, of course. Debelah, honey, feel free to step in and defend yourself at any point in time.)

Who did you "go out" with?
We didn't go anywhere at all, of course, but for about sixty seconds in my first semester, I "went with" an utterly adorable boy named Wade. And then, stupidly, broke up with him for no good reason.

Toward the end of my second semester, I went steady with a tall Texan named Lucas, who towered over me by a full twelve inches. At no point in my big-boned life have I ever felt so petite and precious.

Did you have a crush on anyone?
Consistently, yes, and always on older, slightly nebbish boys who were none the wiser of my existence. This ensured a steady stream of bitter tears and unbelievably bad poetry.

What sport did you play?
Not a darn thing in the first half of the year. I didn't even take p.e.; we were given the option of taking art classes instead. (Seriously: volleyball? or cross-stitching? badminton? or wood-carving? I LOVED THAT SCHOOL.)

After we moved, I played tennis. Not well. Badly, as I recall. Nevertheless, I was allowed to join the school team, and thus spent many an hour riding a bus along dusty roads to places like Iraan and Notrees for dismal tennis matches that I consistently lost.

Did you buy your lunch?
Honestly, I don't remember either school even having a cafeteria, although I'm sure they must have. I do recall thinking that foods like pita bread, alfalfa sprouts and kiwifruit were terribly exotic, so they made frequent appearances in my lunch box.

Did you skip?
Ooh, no, ma'am. And I'm not just saying that because my mother will read this; I was definitely a by-the-rules girl. Until my senior year, anyway, but trust me when I vow that there will be NO MEME OF ANY SORT ABOUT MY SENIOR YEAR.

Did you get suspended?
Never. Ever.

Were you in any fistfights?
Good heavens, no. YAWNSTRETCH, I was dull. Although I did get caught in the middle of a zany-but-dangerous Bible fight in my second semester, when I attended an itty-bitty Church of Christ-affiliated school. Interesting place, that school. Very interesting.

What was your favorite class?
Well, I loved English, of course, but in both schools, I pledged my undying loyalty to Yearbook. An hour a day was not nearly enough.

What was your school's name?
My first semester was served at Trinity Episcopal Day School, which boasted a graduating class of, oh, I'll guess fifty. Probably fewer.

For my second semester, I attented Midland Christian Academy: class of six. SIX.

If you could go back, would you?
Sure, for a day. Maybe two. And then I'd come running gratefully back to my life as a grown-up with all its responsibilities and challenges and sweet, sweet freedom.

Where did you sit at lunch?
Usually in the lunchroom, but sometimes in the parking lot. None of us could drive yet, but it seemed the thing to do.

Was there a smoking lounge?
No. The following year, I attended a much larger public high school and was shocked, shocked, I tell you, to see kids with cigarettes dangling from their lips.

Who was your science teacher freshman year?
Well, at Trinity, of course, it was Mr. OHMYGODWHATWASHISNAME? How in the world have I forgotten his name? The one? With the crazy eyes? You know! THAT guy! Yeah.

At Midland Christian, I had the distinct honor of being in Mrs. Isenberg's science lab. I'll never forget the care with which she introduced me to the class on my very first day, explaining to my new classmates that I'd just moved from Mississippi and would, naturally, be going to Hell because I was a Methodist and wore nail polish. Hi; nice to meet you, too.

Who was your English teacher?
I cannot believe that I can't recall one name from either school in what was, for all practical purposes, my favorite subject. This early-onset dementia really doesn't mess around.

Who was your history teacher?
The adorable Gina led our history class at Trinity. She gets special props for teaching us the chronological listing of our country's presidents, set to the tune of "Yankee Doodle." Also: a song listing the Greek alphabet, which served me well in my exceptionally short-lived career as a sorority girl.

I'm sure I must have learned a few nifty historical tidbits in my second semester, but from whom? The mind reels, but does not click.

Did you think you were cool?
No, because I so desperately WANTED to be.

Describe your outfits in ninth grade.
The overarching theme, as I recall, was Things That Are Big: big paisleys, big vests, big chunky sweaters from the Limited, big Tretorn tennis shoes, big BIG hair, big letters on our shirts (FRANKIE SAY RELAX), big jewelry.

It was all big. Except for gloves. Inexplicably, gloves were small and fingerless.

Did you even have a cell phone?
A what? A who? If you had a dime, I suppose you could use the pay phone in the lobby.

Who was your favorite teacher?
Joe came to Trinity from New York with almost no teaching experience. The girls in the class all thought he was a stone cold fox, and somehow preyed upon him to allow us to watch Purple Rain in lieu of our Latin mid-term final.

What? I wasn't asked to name the BEST teacher. Just my favorite. And Joe was my favorite. Because, well, have you SEEN Purple Rain? It's, like, totally awesome. And Latin's a dead language, anyway. Veni, vidi, vici.

What's your most memorable moment?
I'll grant you: it's hard to imagine this now. But at Trinity, it was absolutely accepted that on Serf Day, each freshman would be kidnapped from his or her home sometime before sunrise by a senior. We were dressed in outlandish and embarrassing garb, paraded through school and around town, and generally forced to do the seniors' bidding for laughs.

It was definitely memorable. It was mostly fun. It was a blessing that Debelah's big sister, Sus, whom I utterly adored, kidnapped me and took it pretty easy on me. 'Cause otherwise it might have resembled something like this.

What were your best accomplishments?
Bouncing back after the complete and total emotional devastation of that mid-year move. And then managing to kiss the impossibly tall Lucas.

What action do you regret the most?
Oh, that's easy: taking every tiny thing so friggin' seriously. Thank goodness I learned my lesson. (Note sarcasm. Which, as I recall, was not appreeeeeeciated by our art teacher.)

What did you spend the most time doing on weekends?
Afternoons would be frittered away at the mall, either in the video arcade with our friends Q*bert, Frogger and Ms. Pac-Man, or catching the newest John Hughes flick at the two-screen mall cinema.

Time also would be dedicated to shopping for high-fashion accessories at Claire's, with special priority given to Duran Duran buttons and anything from Madonna's Borderline video.

Evenings might be spent cruising around town with Debelah in Sus's Herbie the Love Bug with the top down and, ideally, Rock Lobster playing at maximum volume... so that all might share our joy.

I swear that I don't remember leaving the house in Midland until the end of the school year.

Got invited to any proms?
There was Trinity's Homecoming Dance in my first semester, but nothing at Midland Christian, because, of course, dancing was for sinners. Those kids were crazy 'bout watching Footloose.

However, I did attend the athletic banquet with Lucas and wore a perfectly lovely Gunne Sax frock.

How many years ago did all this transpire?
Twenty-FOUR. OH, MY HELL.

Mercifully, this draws to a close my recollections of this special time in my life. And now I need a nap.

Homeward bound

2008-06-03T13:24:00.000-07:00

"Home, Jeeves!" ordered Fussy.

Oh, so I paraphrase. What Eden Marriott Kennedy actually said, was: if you're the masochistic (or foolishly optimistic) type who's looking for a reason to blog every day for a month, I'll give you a theme.

This month, she dictated, the theme will be home.

As luck would have it, it just so happened that I was, in fact, looking for an excuse to start clacking away at the keyboard again. I may not make it for thirty consecutive days (taking my prior failed attempts into consideration), but the goal of breaking through my self-imposed writer's block, even if it's short-lived, seemed achingly achievable.

And home: well, lately, I can't stop thinking about the subject. Where it is now, where it was, what it will be and who I see there: my mind's just been a-churning as I've both metaphorically and literally been reconnecting to my home bases recently.

So: if you're so inclined, follow along as I spend the next few weeks sifting through the good and the bad, the absurd and the awkward, the sweet and the tangled musings I have on the topic at hand.

C'mon in. Pull up a chair. And make yourself at home.

Mis hermanas

2008-06-02T23:20:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Tracey by way of Jenny, this is the song that's been running in a constant loop through my head all the livelong day. Can't make it stop. DON'T WANT TO. Love you girls.

And fresh off a showing of Sex and the City on the big screen, I'm thinking in all seriousness that fab red sequined jumpsuits are poised to make a comeback any second now.

By the way: the sweet Sledge sister who's stuck in the back, trying desperately to hide the fact that she alone wasn't blessed with the family dancing gene? Yeah: TOTALLY ME.

From the beginning

2008-06-01T23:43:00.000-07:00

"So, where are you from?"

It's an utterly innocuous question, a standard ice-breaker, a door to potential familiarity and friendship... but it gets me almost every single time.

Almost every single time, I stammer or stutter, trying to deliver the goods as succinctly as possible.

It seems misleading to answer, "Oh, all over... " because that makes my childhood sound far more exotic than it really was.

To my sister's and my disappointment, we weren't members of a carny family. Yes, our father was in the military, but by the time we came on the scene, he'd earned the luxury of staying in one place, which meant that we had no need for passports until our early twenties.

For two girls with wanderlust, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

So, no: there was no especially fascinating reason for our moving hither and yon. And really, it wasn't even all that hither or terribly far yon; for the most part, I grew up in only two states: Mississippi and Texas. But within those states, we danced a little jig.

Vicksburg to Jackson for a while, then Natchez. A side trip to unincorporated Mendenhall. An enormously abrupt change of pace, to the dusty Texas town of Midland. Back to Vicksburg: specifically, the blink-and-you'll-miss-it suburb of Bovina. And for me, at least, Austin.

Ultimately, I met and married a long tall Texan, which cemented, I believed, my citizenship in the Lone Star State. Of course, the Texan had actually been born in Philadelphia to a man from West Virginia and a woman from Georgia.

So I devised my own label: I was, I proudly proclaimed, a Texsippian.

That suited me just fine for some time. But then we moved from Houston to Chicago, and pretty soon, the Windy City felt like home. It was settled, then, once and for all: we were Chicagoan Texan expatriates.

My identity crisis sprang anew when we moved back to Texas, this time to Dallas. And, as I was reminded on our sojourn south last week, my self-imposed label should really be expanded to incorporate Florida, home of my birth, into the mix, too.

Thirty-eight years. In thirty-eight years, I've inhabited approximately eighteen dwellings in ten cities and four states. More than many, I like to imagine, with no small sense of pride, but fewer, I'm sure, than others.

And still I manage to stumble and trip over any sort of efficient explanation of where I'm from.

But that's never once stopped me from asking the question in kind.

So. Where are you from?

Seaside Sunsets

2008-05-30T18:21:00.001-07:00

These were worth several thousand words to me.... Mr. F5

cARTer

2008-04-21T18:51:00.000-07:00

Hello, Mr. F5 here. Since our primary author seems to have a case of writer's block (aka "a good nights sleep") I thought I would make a quick addition to the blogosphere by adding some of the original artwork creations of the eldest junior Mr. F5. Enjoy. Lithographs are available upon request.

Submarine

Spiderman meets the aliens (aliens played by Sam and Nia)

"Pirate ship" (modern)

"Happy Aliens"

"Prisoners into outer space"

"A moment in the Loo"

"Thinking about Mom"

"Dinosaurs need hugs"

"Super space man blast off"

My heart skips a beat

2008-04-06T23:43:00.000-07:00

My big hunk of man, snoring on the couch? Of course I love him. This day and every day: that's the deal we struck nearly two decades ago.

But this guy? The guy wearing the fedora? Well, I might love him a little bit, too.

Jeff, darling: please, come back to Texas. We can enjoy a sumptuous picnic lunch in this adorable park I know. Just you, me and your mighty red pen.

Sigh.

Golden

2008-04-03T23:34:00.001-07:00

What makes a vacation so spot-on perfect that you're still glowing and yearning and yammering about it two weeks later?

Was it finding myself in a coordinate on the map that I'd only imagined before?

Did the anticipation make it that much sweeter?

Was it the brief walking tour of a foreign land, followed by the step back in time?

Or slipping the surly bonds of earth to temporarily overcome acrophobia?

Did it help that we landed in a spot that felt like our very own pied-a-terre?

Is it because we toured fabulous vineyards as VIPs because we were FOCs? (You know: Friends of Chuck. Oh, you don't know Chuck? You really should.)

Was it driving along winding roads that hugged lush green hills, with the wind in our hair?

Or could we have been anywhere in the world, really, as long as we were together?

To that end, maybe it was returning home to a trio of happy, healthy muppers, not one iota the worse for our absence, and realizing: we could totally do this again sometime! We need to do this again sometime. Once the grandparents recuperate, of course.

Was it any one of these things? Or the combination thereof?

The answer, of course, is yes. Yes, yes, yes. See for yourself, if you're so inclined.

Playing the fool

2008-04-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

I was sitting at the clean, industrial desk of a cubicle in a quiet office, my pen hovering over a to-do list.

I was thirty-one years old and drove a shiny black Jetta. Which on this evening, six years later, sounds absolutely precious, and a little exotic.

Almost a year after moving to Dallas, I had a public-relations job that I mostly loved, and I happily shared a wee house with one tall, handsome husband and one sweet, grizzled dog.

On sunny afternoons, of which there were many, we'd stroll down the street to our favorite pub, grab a seat on the patio, and have a few beers. We'd just, you know, hang out.

On this late Monday afternoon, I still had a few hours of work ahead of me, even though most of my cubiclemates had already gone home.

I consulted my to-do list. An interview to transcribe, an article to write, a deadline ahead. Check, check, check.

Oh, and note to self: on the way home, stop by Walgreens for tampons and condoms.

Huh, muttered I, to self. Do I need to go the bathroom again? What's this: my tenth trip down the hall today? At least? This, coming from the girl with the iron-clad bladder?

And whoo boy, am I tired. Did I really fall asleep in mid-sentence with Trey's mom the other day? And then sleep, undisturbed, for two hours? Well, it was a pretty big lunch... and it is, in fact, an incredibly comfortable chair.

Wonder if I'm coming down with something. Oh, man: I'll bet I'm coming down with something. Perfect. That's just perfect.

What the heck is wrong with me lately? My moods are all over the place. Just last week, when Sarah was in town, I was throwing a tantrum about something or other, and she spat in exasperation:

"What the heck is wrong with you lately? Are you pregnant or something?"

Crazy. I mean, yes, she's my sister, but honestly, sometimes she just...

Oh, shit. OH, shit.

No. No way. Can't be. Lesse: last period here, anniversary there...

And in that moment (pen hovering, office quiet, desk clean), a light bulb clicked on over my head, flickered for a second, then began to hum.

My bubble of panic drowned in a sea of barely guarded, giddy anticipation, with "what ifs" bobbing up all around me, and a ridiculous, delicious grin on my face.

And a few minutes later, when I screeched into the Walgreens parking lot in my shiny black Jetta, I bypassed the tampons and condoms, and headed for the pregnancy tests instead.

It was the best April Fool's Day ever.

Housewarming

2008-03-30T22:28:00.000-07:00

To begin with: I'm fine. Honestly.

Touched by your concern, eager to hear your very own favorite weeper songs and films, and utterly amazed that anyone, up to and including my mother, read that whole long post.

I am, to quote Mary J., just fine.

Interesting side note: although I amuse myself with the notion that I share with my better half the things that are on my mind and (awww... ) in my heart, I'm never really sure how much of my blah blah blah actually penetrates his consciousness.

He is, after all, from Mars, whereas I hail from Venus.

Still, I was surprised to awaken Saturday to the realization that a large chunk of the morning had easily come and gone without my involvement.

The kids were fed and dressed; the kitchen was sparkling clean. And I got the sense that everyone was, I don't know, tip-toeing around so that I could sleep even longer, if I so desired.

"Wow," I yawned and stretched as I shuffled out of the bedroom. "What's going on here?"

"Oh, I just figured you needed your sleep," Trey said. (Awww... )

"Also," he added, a little hesitantly, "I read your blog this morning, and now... well, I'm a little worried about you. Are you okay?"

Fine. I really, truly, honestly am just fine.

However, I may be blogging about depression again pretty soon. Like, next Saturday. Because sleeping in? Is probably my favorite activity on the planet.

So that's how the weekend began. And get this: it ended on an even better note.

Because today, we all piled into the car, and we drove north. Oh, so far north. I mean, we could not have been more northerly if we'd had a sleigh and eight reindeer.

That's how much we've missed our wonderful, irreplaceable, formerly across-the-street neighbors: so much that we were willing to drive halfway to Kansas just to see them again.

Yes, I exaggerate. But at one point, Carter did actually pipe up with the observation, "Mom, we've been driving so long that it feels like we're on vacation!"

And you know, it was a vacation to see our friends again.

Kirsten, who kept me from falling apart that infamous day Spencer decided to take an unchaperoned tour of the Arboretum, and kept me in the loop on all the neighborhood gossip.

Rod, who brought over a tray of Kirsten's famous banana cake on the day we moved in, and who made a mean platter of ribs for us tonight.

And their two sweet, handsome, blonde-haired, blue-eyed boys, both of whom I utterly adore. Even if they have this odd notion that burnt orange is the world's ugliest color.

It was such good, relaxed fun, seeing them again. Laughing and swapping stories. Bickering about politics. Watching the kids play together, just like they used to in our back yard.

And although I've finally stopped clutching my chest every time I see the strange brick building that stands where their sweet house used to be, I still miss them all the time.

Here's the thing: you fall in love with a house for its floor plan, back yard or school zone. But you don't always get terrific neighbors as part of the deal.

We did. We know how lucky we were.

So if Kirsten calls tomorrow with news that the house across the street from them is absolutely perfect for us, and it's just been listed at a Franklin-friendly price... well, then: halfway to Kansas, here we come.

And now that I've got Jen all riled up, I'll end with one last happy house note: this one.

It's not halfway to Kansas, but it is the perfect place for one weekend, twelve adults and (seriously?) fifteen children.

Cannot wait.

Lighten up

2008-03-29T22:44:00.000-07:00

Did you know that it's physiologically impossible to cry while listening to this song?

Did you know that Jeff Lynne is not directing his diatribe toward a woman named Bruce?

Did you know that in 1980, when I was ten years old, I wore out the ELO side of my Xanadu LP?

True. All true.

Watershed

2008-03-28T09:38:00.000-07:00

Post-trip blues. First-of-spring funk.

Body dysmorphia. Escalating social anxiety.

Monthly hormonal fluctuations. Run-of-the-mill stress and strain.

An unexpected barrage of heartbreaking news from friends near and far.

Whatever the root cause or diagnosis, I've been beset by a deep and abiding funk lately, one that's left me feeling as fragile, raw, ragged and thin-skinned as my chin after a hateful and incredibly ill-advised chemical peel.

And while I'm well aware that a dizzying array of mood-balancing medications and remedies are available for the asking, I'm absolutely convinced that the only cure for me is a good, cleansing cry.

You know the kind: a full box of Kleenex, get-it-all-out cry. A no-holds-barred, unabashedly ugly cry.

But suddenly it's like I forgot to pay the water bill: I can't seem to squeeze out one salty, therapeutic drop.

I used to be able to cry on cue. And off cue. Truthfully, I cried pretty much anytime, and, to Trey's horror, with stunning regularity. But now, for reasons I can't quite explain, crying seems like a luxury I can't afford.

Maybe it's because I feel guilty: why would I willingly wallow in sadness when I have so much happiness in my life?

Maybe it's because I usually have an audience of three adorable muppers who, I suspect, might be a wee bit traumatized if Mommy curled up in a little ball on the floor and began weeping and wailing.

Maybe I'd simply cried myself out by my thirtieth birthday.

I don't know. But I do know that if I can somehow flip that stubborn release switch, I'll feel so much better.

And so I'm assembling a mercilessly masochistic list of sure-fire tear triggers. Truthfully, any one of these items could make me more than misty, but as a group, I think they'll set off the cascade of catharsis I so desire.

I'll begin with the obvious, the low-hanging fruit; then I'll work my way up (down?) to the inexplicable, absurd and enigmatic.

1. A wedding is proposed; vows are exchanged. A baby is born, or maybe two. A family is made complete when a child is adopted.

Thank you, The Learning Channel, for your sensitive selection of daytime programming, which consistently makes my nose run.

2. And while I'm thinking about the award-winning, amazing Jennifer Weintraub: her pictures alone move me to wordlessness (which is, I assure you, no small feat), but when she puts them in motion and sets them to music, I just... I can't... I wish... oh, see for yourself.

Note: if you quickly, but quickly (do not tarry, do not pass GO, do not collect $200) click this link right now, you'll find an insanely beautiful slideshow of our wee family.

Which is perfect, because the profusely wordy post I've been working on since, oh, December, about that session (Miracle on Elm Street: In Which the Franklins Are Uncharacteristically Cooperative Before a Camera) is still firmly embedded in my cavernous Blogger draft folder and may never find its way to publication.

But for the record, it's not just Jen's photographs of my very own offspring that make me cry. Friends, distant acquaintances, local celebrities, complete and total strangers: if she shares a link to any Sugar slideshow, I will watch it and weep. Repeatedly.

3. Oh, Mr. Jones: I owe you a sincere apology. All through my youth, I rolled my eyes whenever your song was played, and folks both old and young instinctively reached for their threadbare hankies.

I hope you'll forgive me when I confess that I failed to comprehend the weight, much less the meaning, of the line, "they placed a ring upon his daughter."

But now that I know he stopped loving her because, in fact, they placed a wreath upon his door... well, sir, I've discovered that one hanky is woefully insufficient. Well done, you.

4. Sticking with the genre, but giving it a good tweak, I will tell you that the Dixie Chicks can, nearly without fail, get my tear ducts working overtime.

Sure, there are obvious weepers like Cowboy Take Me Away or the achingly beautiful Lullaby. But magically and mysteriously, even their toe-tappers and knee-slappers Goodbye Earl and The Long Way Around take my breath away and temporarily blur my field of vision.

5. I fully intend to write a strongly worded letter of protest to the station managers of XM Kids for their newfound crush on the song The Babysitter's Here.

No, it's not because it contains the words "guts" and, I cringe to report, "butt." It's not because I have a fundamental opposition to hippies or tie-dye; I rather like both, as it happens.

It's that, seriously? Every single morning without fail? I'm driving the kids to school, we're late and I'm pissy... but once Dar starts in on her clear-as-a-bell warbling, I've got to fake-cough to muffle the sounds of sniffling and snuffling from the front seat.

6. The last five minutes of The Way We Were. Ditto Gone With the Wind.

From opening scene to final credit of Out of Africa.

Because I am a card-carrying member of GRITS: Steel Magnolias. Because I am, well, breathing: Terms of Endearment. Because I am warped: Little Miss Sunshine.

7. There's a reason, you know, that if Miss America were granted only one wish, she'd gladly exchange it for world peace. (What? You don't believe her?)

The reason is: war. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Say it again, y'all.

Due in part, I suppose, to my career as a military brat, I am almost always overcome by any images, moving or still, of soldiers.

Soldiers, freshly enlisted. Soldiers, being deployed. Soldiers in the field. Soldiers who come home. And (I can barely see to type the words) soldiers who don't. Ever.

So when my sweet and brave friend Mandy sent me this link, I'll be honest: I put it aside. I knew I couldn't go there lightly. I knew it would shake me to my core, and leave me shaken for a long, long time.

I was right. And then some.

WHOO. Deep breath. Lots of them, actually.

I feel sadistic, pressing on after that, but I'm a woman on a mission to create the longest, most depressing post in the whole history of the blogosphere, and I cannot, I will not, be stopped.

8. Ultrasounds. Ultrasounds make me cry. Blurry, maddeningly indecipherable black-and-white images of blobs printed on shiny, curly paper: they get me every time. Especially this one.

9. The day after we brought those babies home from the hospital, in bundles so tiny we weren't even sure how to hold them properly, Carter woke up in the morning, with the sun... and began to cry. For six hours. Without stopping. Without saying one. single. word.

He cried through breakfast; lunch, too. Wouldn't eat a bite. Cried when Granddaddy took him to the park. Cried when we cried as we begged him, Carter, sweetie, please, tell us: what's wrong? Are you tired? Are you hungry? Are you hurt?

No answer.

We were gobsmacked. Our sweet, bright, two-year-old chatterbox had never really shed tears of any quantity before. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I hysterically called the pediatrician, convinced that he'd developed some horrible form of overnight autism.

The nurse who had the misfortune to take my call said, well, you never know how a child will react when first he meets his sibling. SibLINGS, I spat into the phone. He has siblings. And now he's broken! I have ruined my son!!

I hung up on her and called my mom, mother of four and fountain of wisdom. "Honey, Carter's so bright," she said. "He has so many words at such a young age. But how could he possibly find the words to describe what he's feeling about this enormous change in his life?"

I hardly ever think about that day now. Now, when I see the three of them running around like wild monkeys and digging up the backyard and reading books together.

But when I remember that day, it brings me to my knees.

I'm drained. I'm weak. I'm burned out on tears. But weirdly, I feel better.

Maybe I backburned my blues: you know how firefighters will purposely torch a ring around a raging wildfire? The hope is that it'll act as a control line.

With that theory in mind, allow me to add one last item to my abominable list of That Which Makes Me Weep:

10. Laughter. Laughing so hard your sides hurt and your eyes involuntarily well up. Giggling right past the point of tears. Belly-shaking, bigtime guffawing at something that you know is so utterly ridiculous, but you just. can't. stop. laughing about it.

Submitted for your approval: best laugh ever. Bonus points, I think, for the German dub:

Busted

2008-03-27T14:36:00.000-07:00

It absolutely never fails.

You've been avoiding a sticky conversation with someone, because you know it's probably going to open up a whole series of awkward questions and comments that you're simply not prepared to field.

So you keep your head down. You hope for the best. And you're stunned to realize that your luck actually seems to be holding until...

The two of you are in a car together.

Oh, yeah. Now there's nowhere to run; nowhere to hide. Time to face the music, my friend.

"Mommy. Emma told me today that she went to a place called Disney World, and Sponge Bob Squarepants had lunch with her in a restaurant. And I said, you're being silly, Emma. Stop teasing me. But she said, no, she wasn't teasing me. There really is a place called Disney World. (Indignantly.) Did you know about this, Mom?"

PST

2008-03-23T23:37:00.000-07:00

Well. We're home.

And it's good, no: wonderful to be home. To blink at the familiar with renewed eyes.

We've tossed aside suitcases, to be unpacked in approximately nine days, when we finally become sick of digging through a tangled mess of clothes and souvenirs.

We've thanked the grandparents and delivered a brief, slightly brain-dead summary of what we saw, experienced and ate.

Trey has, of course, begun downloading nearly seven hundred pictures of same.

Most importantly, we've tiptoed into dark and quiet rooms to gaze, smiling and shiny-eyed, at our slumbering muppers.

We've tempted fate by kissing their cheeks and damp foreheads, breathing in their sweet smells, and murmuring in their ears, "We're home. Mommy and Daddy are home."

We're home. And it's all good. No: wonderful.

But could I be forgiven for confessing that, given the option, I probably wouldn't refuse just one more night beneath the California stars?

Countdown

2008-03-20T00:31:00.000-07:00

In just a few hours, Trey and I will kiss our sweet, sleepy muppers and remind them how very much they are loved.

We will shower my mother and brother with platitudes of gratitude and a final word of warning (e.g., should you leave the house for any reason or length of time, promise us that Spencer's Green Dog never, but never leaves your sight).

Armed with suitcases (Trey) and a box of Kleenex (me), we'll pile into the car and try to beat the morning rush to the airport.

We'll find a parking space. Lug our bags (Trey) and tear-stained tissues (me) into the proper terminal. Check in.

We'll make our way through the security checkpoint, and make haste to a newsstand to load up on periodicals and Twizzlers.

And then, Jen promises with the voice of wisdom, THEN: we'll relax. Because then, we'll officially be on vacation.

Just the two of us. For the first time in a long time. And fourteen years to the day after we said, "I do."

It's just a few hours away. I can't believe it.

I can't wait.

Peanut gallery

2008-03-19T13:28:00.000-07:00

No need to check the thermometer: we've got a raging case of cabin fever, en masse.

For a while we were sick and couldn't do much of anything. Then we were sick and tired and didn't want to do anything. Then we were just plain tired of anything and everything.

And today, when we'd decided that we were going to get back into the swing of things, by golly, the skies quite literally opened up and rained out our grand plans.

It's really thrown the muppers for a loop, stuck in the same house with the same few people, day after day after day.

The silver lining is that, in the midst of all this quality time together, I've picked up a few mupper quips worth sharing. To wit:

1. Spencer is granted the rare treat of a big-as-his-face glazed doughnut. Wary of any new food, even one that smells like deep-fried heaven, he tastes it with the very tip of his tongue. Immediately, he beams a sunshine smile at me and chirps, "Oh! It's very licky."

2. Brother turns against brother a hundred times a day around here, but it's highly unusual for Katie to land in the middle of a skirmish. So everyone's surprised when Carter loses his patience and shoves his sister... including Carter. She starts to cry; he's instantly contrite.

"I'm sorry, Katie," he says, tenderly wrapping his arms around her. "S'okay," she mumbles unconvincingly into his shoulder.

He looks worried. "Will you still marry me?" he asks. She nods her assent. "Can we still get the Barbie Jeep?" "Sure," she says, and they skip off together as Trey and I exchange glances in equal doses of shock and amusement.

3. Our walls are covered in crayon-imprinted manila paper. Katie draws smiles, Spencer scribbles, and Carter creates his very own Spiderman comic strips. With aliens.

Spiderman confronts a pair of aliens with glowing green eyes. Spiderman casts a web at a ne'er-do-well alien invader. Spiderman sternly commands an alien to "FET," which of course means "fight."

You get the picture. Like, two dozen of them.

So it's a nice change of pace when Carter presents me with a non-Spiderman illustration of a girl with a huge grin. "Oh, Carter," I say, "I love this happy face. Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome," he says. "It's you."

"Me? Really? You drew a picture of me?" I'm gushing.

"Wow! I can see it now, with the blue eyes, and the... short arms. It's wonderful, sweetie; thank you so much. And can I just tell you? I am loving the curly red hair."

"Well," he explains, "before I was born, I thought you had red hair."

"Really?" I ask, barely containing the giggles. "Yeah," he says, "but then I was born, and I saw that your hair was brown."

For the record, I think I prefer the red. Although I like my arms just the way they are.

Nutty kids. Love 'em.

Dooby-doo down down

2008-03-18T07:39:00.000-07:00

If I had to describe the past week in one word, that word would be: craptastic.

And yes, I realize that such a sophomoric, scatalogical sentiment is probably more approprate for an emo adolescent boy than a thirtysomething mother of three, but guess what?

It just so happens that I'm a slob with acne who thought that Jonah Hill totally rocked the house on SNL the other night. So, you know, suck it.

Anyhoo. Back to the craptacularium.

While I'm indescribably relieved to report that the muppers seem none the worse for the bug that settled in for a spell last week, I have, despite testing negative for the flu (oh, yes: twice), felt like utter poo.

I've had no energy at all, of any kind.

I've abandoned almost all pretense of personal hygiene.

I've been exceptionally thin-skinned and short-tempered.

And I don't think I've yelled at my children this much since they were, I'm sorry to say, coming out of my body.

In short, I've been a crappy (there's that word again) mom, sister, daughter and friend.

And wife. The fact that my husband hasn't served me with divorce papers after this week gives me reason to hope that we'll make it to our fourteenth wedding anniversary after all.

Which is such a relief, because it's this Thursday. So I'm trying like heck to shake these blues before then.

As I attempt to adjust the dial on my mood-o-meter, a quote keeps bobbing about my head:

"Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle."

I've done a pretty crappy job with this concept lately. Got nowhere to go but up, though... so here I go.

En plein air

2008-03-15T16:20:00.000-07:00

And so this is Texas in March: one morning, it's snowing; less than a week later, it's beginning to look a lot like spring.

Ah, spring. When historically, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

And a suburban housewife says: for heaven's sake, let's throw open the doors and windows and get some fresh air moving around this joint.

Because with two boys and one generally-potty-trained-but-hey-nobody's-perfect girl under our roof, I'm sorry to report that my nose is frequently assaulted by eau de pee-pee.

Lovely.

Happily, we now have a nice infusion of cool breeze, lightly scented with notes of new green grass from our backyard, and pear blossoms from our neighbor's.

Unhappily, said neighbor's backyard also plays host to a beagle.

A beagle who spends the vast majority of his waking hours (which, it should be noted, often conflict with our nonwaking hours) outside, and unhappy about it.

And if you have any experience with the breed, you know: when a beagle is unhappy, every living creature in a three-mile radius shares the sentiment.

We don't know why the beagle's people turn a deaf ear to his unerringly consistent howls of righteous indignation, although Trey has been driven to seek them out and ask them this very question.

Would you believe? Their phone number is unlisted. Go figure.

Me, I'm not a huge fan of confrontations. I don't know; maybe it's that whole child-of-divorce thing.

No, I like to take the indirect route and, whenever possible, keep things light.

So I wrote them a letter. In the form of a poem. That rhymes!

"Dear Neighbor:

We once owned a beagle, so we feel your pain.
But your dog is driving us insane.
Whatever the hour, day or night,
He barks and he bays: it’s just not right.
We lack helpful suggestions, but we’re begging you: please
Try bark training him, or we’ll call the police.

Best wishes,
Your Neighbor"

I hate to brag, but I consider this a crowning achievement in prose. I believe I've struck a near-perfect balance of sympathy and smackdown: that's no small feat, friends.

However: this letter will, despite Trey's protests, go undelivered.

Why? Three reasons: the past. The present. And the future.

1. The past: I wasn't exercising poetic license in my opening line. Trey and I are, in fact, reformed beagle people.

For nine long and trying years, we owned a beagle named Boo who, for so many reasons, deserves (and, had she possessed verbal skills, would have demanded) a blog post of her very own.

Whilst in our care, Boo was always an inside dog. With her own couch.

But occasionally, and often against her will, she did spend time in the great outdoors. And on those occasions, she might have barked once or twice or three trillion times.

Mercifully, our neighbors never taped a note of complaint on our front door. Because I'm sure that would have stung. Even if it had rhymed.

2. Currently, we are not only beagle-free, but altogether pet-free. However, I assure you: wherever we go with three muppers in tow, we generate our fair share of noise pollution.

But other than the occasional surly comment slung our way in the dairy aisle at Whole Foods (correct me if I'm wrong, Trey, but I believe the exact rebuke was, "You should really learn to control your children."), people seem surprisingly good-natured about our varying decibel levels.

I don't always succeed, but I do try to find my own measure of gratitude, humility and tolerance in others' gestures of grace.

3. Last but not least, I worry that if I share that gem of a poem with my neighbors, they of the noisy beagle, I might somehow find it smeared across the blogosphere.

And I can't say for sure, but I'll bet that passive-aggressive notes are only hysterically funny when you're not the author.

So: our doors and windows will stay open for a few more weeks, until the temperature goes hot and stuffy on us and we're forced to turn on the air conditioner.

The beagle will continue to bark. Because that's what beagles do.

But we'll try a little harder to find a happy medium. Or maybe I'll just try my hand at more epic poetry. Who knows?

Note: although he may never read it, I'd like to dedicate this post to my father. Not only because he's survived a few beagles of his own and lived to tell the tale, but because today is his birthday.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

Cold comfort

2008-03-13T23:26:00.001-07:00

Comfortable. Being comfortable was our primary goal today at House of Flu.

So we stayed in our jammies all day. Became one with the couch, watching the best stories ever come to life on the television screen.

And at lunchtime, we ate our favorite sandwiches: ham for Carter. PB-and-J for S and K.

For me? Avocado something-or-other.

Allow me to explain.

My sister Mary is one of those special people who always seems to leave a place better than she found it. It's just one of her many endearing qualities.

So when she comes for a visit, whether it's for a few days or a few months, she brings with her a mental to-do list. She's kind of like Santa Claus, channeling Martha Stewart.

Maybe she'll attack my kitchen pantry, which is, on any given day, so disheveled and disorganized that the sight of it would easily bring the Queen of Clutter to her knees.

She might order me to pitch six-foot stacks of unread magazines into the recycling bin.

"You cannot convince me that you need this Southern Living from two years ago," she'll say. "If you ever actually get around to making Florentine Potato Gratin, which is doubtful, I promise you can find the recipe on-line."

And she's right, of course.

Occasionally, she attempts to improve the children, using techniques she has gathered from watching episodes of Supernanny and Dog Whisperer. These efforts are usually short-lived.

When Mary drove up to Dallas a few weeks ago, we had big plans for how productively we would employ her brief two-day stay. We were gonna whip this house into shape, by cracky, one room at a time.

And then we learned that her visit coincided perfectly with that of another v.i.p.

So instead of digging out my walk-in closet, we spent the better part of our time together standing shoulder-to-shoulder with 17,000 new friends, all eager to see and hear some guy from Chicago.

We weren't disappointed.

In true Mary style, however, she refused to leave town until we'd made two surprisingly efficient runs to The Container Store, delivered one hefty donation of gently used clothes and toys to Goodwill, and totally reorganized one bathroom cabinet.

As a final gesture, she also left me with the recipe for avocado something-or-other sandwich.

Or, as I now call it, A No-Fail Plan for Gaining Fifteen Pounds in Three Weeks.

Here's the blueprint:

Two pieces of multigrain bread, slightly toasted and thinly smeared with mayonnaise. On one side, layer cheddar cheese and half of a medium, al dente avocado, neatly sliced.

The other side gets a thick coating of alfalfa (not brussels) sprouts, sprinkled liberally with sunflower seeds.

Smush together. And savor.

Sounds like a strange combination, I know. But it's seriously delicious. Absolutely satisfying. And definitely comforting.

Thanks, Mar. Love you, sweets.

Fluke

2008-03-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

The good news, first:

I am so pleased and relieved to announce that we are once again able to hear the entire Little Einsteins theme song, from stirring introduction to dramatic finish, on our family-room television set.

After yesterday's wailing had ceased, and after everyone's tears had dried, including mine, I sprawled onto the floor with a flashlight and double-checked every. single. cord. snaking into the cable box.

Then I yanked out the main power cord, counted to ten, plugged it in again, and said a silent prayer.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back in business. A few hours later, Trey was back from Boston. And for a while that was small, all was well.

Which brings me to, yes, the bad news.

During the night, Carter, who'd stayed home from school yesterday because, and I quote, his body told him to, spiked a fever. Couldn't really sleep. Tossed and turned and sweated and called out to people and things that weren't in the room.

In general, he scared the bejezus out of me, so I didn't really sleep, either. Just held him, when he'd let me. Administered Tylenol and Gatorade. Wiped his brow. Tried to calm him.

In an effort to calm myself sometime before sunrise, I finally called the night nurse, who said what I already knew: kids are dropping like flies all over town. It's just a virus, shouldn't last more than a day or two. Keep him hydrated and get some sleep.

Although they seemed clear-eyed and healthy, and, quite frankly, because I was too exhausted to get them dressed and out the door, Spencer and Katie stayed home from school today to hang out with their big brother.

And to enjoy, yet again, the happy rocket theme song.

Just as I started feeling foolish for keeping them home unnecessarily, and began mentally plotting an ambitious to-do list for my mupper-free hours tomorrow, I got a call from Jen.

Her kiddos had just tested positive for influenza B. And some of our other close friends and classmates weren't feeling so hot, either.

Now, even as I called the doctor's office to secure an afternoon appointment, I knew, just knew, I wasn't looking at a boy with the flu.

My bright-eyed boy, the one racing around the house on a scooter, wearing his superhero cape and firefighter hat, instructing his siblings on how best to rearrange the couch cushions to construct a spaceship? No way.

The doctor, when we saw her, was in total agreement. "I've heard this story a hundred times in the past few days," she said, smiling and nodding. "A kid's got a high fever and he's been exposed to flu. And I haven't had one positive test all week."

"I tell the parents: if your kid's head is off the table, he doesn't have the flu."

When she came back into the room to tell us that, well, actually, the test was positive, Carter was racing cars along the table. Head upright.

So now we're as fully armed as we know how to be. While we waited for our Tamiflu prescriptions to be filled, I dashed into the bookstore and grabbed a stack of parent-friendly magazines, and a few new-to-them mupper movies.

And yes, the shelves are well-stocked with Tylenol and Gatorade.

I'm sure we'll be absolutely fine. But there's a part of me that wishes I could just yank out the power code, count to ten, plug it back in, and wait for life to properly reset itself. In fifteen minutes or less.

Big audio dynamite

2008-03-11T15:33:00.000-07:00

It struck me just a moment ago that, unless you have the singular joy of knowing me personally, you gentle readers have absolutely no idea what I sound like.

For the purpose of reading this post, you should imagine that my voice is exceptionally shrill, steeped in sarcasm, and tinged with notes of helium and a few shards of glass.

Got it? Okay.

Now: here's my side of the phone conversation I would be having with Trey right now, if only I could reach him.

Hey, it's me. Guess what?

No, "chickenbutt" is, as always, an incorrect answer.

Get this: Spencer mashed every button on the cable box all at the same time, and now the audio's gone!

No, I'm not exaggerating for humorous effect; there is no sound emanating from the television of any sort. Cable, DVR, DVD: all's quiet on the western front.

Which was perfect timing, really, because I'd just reached the frayed end of my daily rope and promised that each mupper could select, in birth order, an age-appropriate program of his or her choice, which would have bought me almost ninety blissful minutes of not worrying that my skull might literally implode.

Yeah, I already checked the toaster-sized television in our room: works like a charm. And to the best of my ability, I confirmed that the brain-shaped jumble of cords in the back are, for the most part, snugly connected to the cable box.

Sweetie, why are you asking me questions that you know I can't answer? All I can tell you with absolute faith is that your offspring are now rolling around on the floor, wailing that their lives have been ruined because they can't hear the Little Einsteins sing the happy rocket song.

So, to recap: pretty moving pictures, no sound.

Mmm-hmm. Yep.

So. How's Boston?

And... scene. (Optional: cue dirge.)

The Blizzard of 2008

2008-03-09T07:20:00.000-07:00

Hello, Mr. F5 here. As everyone knows, I am not the wordsmith; that title goes to my lovely bride. I do own a camera, however, and I am starting to get the hang of it.

Getting to the point: here are a few shots of the Blizzard of 2008.

TMI

2008-03-05T22:07:00.000-08:00

'Twas not a typical Wednesday night for the mister and missus.

Dinner was about $150. Plus tip, of course. (But scrumptious and hilarious and absolutely fabulous, even though the Robinsons were notably absent and missed.)

Child care ran just shy of $100. Worth every penny, too.

My best attempt at a party-perfect outfit set me back $250.

A cute pedicure was $45.

Shoes that not only covered, but marred, the cute pedicure? $100.

A donation to our charity of choice was $450, which will help purchase half of a laptop for a cancer-stricken child. (The Weintraubs generously footed the bill for the other half, plus some. Okay: a lot. Love them.)

We got into the party for free, because we have friends in high places, but even so, it was a pretty spendy evening for us non-socialite types.

However: we had a blast. It was for an indisputably wonderful cause. And the final tally, while impressive, doesn't even touch the one we incurred the last time we walked through those majestic doors.

Because the last time we were there, six years ago this month, we were celebrating our wedding anniversary. Such a good time was had that night that, nine months later, we were parents.

Tonight, however, I blog.

Affirmation

2008-03-04T11:53:00.000-08:00

Here's the thing: to me, it's not just another stump speech, set to a wee rambling ditty sung by a handful of vaguely familiar faces.

Perhaps I am, despite my howls of protest, just being brainwashed by the cult of personality, but I honestly believe, deep in my soul, that it's bigger than one candidate. Or one party. Or one election.

I hear it as an irrationally exuberant call to action. A rousing reminder that one person can, actually, make a difference. That a few like-minded individuals can link arms and commit hearts and minds to creating positive change in the world.

That's my opinion, anyway. What do you think?

Yes, We Can.

It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation. Yes, we can.

It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail toward freedom. Yes, we can.

It was sung by immigrants as they struck out from distant shores, and pioneers who pushed westward against an unforgiving wilderness. Yes, we can.

It was the call of workers who organized; women who reached for the ballot; a President who chose the moon as our new frontier; and a King who took us to the mountaintop and pointed the way to the Promised Land.
Yes, we can to justice and equality.
Yes, we can to opportunity and prosperity.
Yes, we can heal this nation.
Yes, we can repair this world.
Yes, we can.
Si, se puede.

We know the battle ahead will be long, but always remember that no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change. We want change!

We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics who will only grow louder and more dissonant.

We've been asked to pause for a reality check.

We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.
We want change!
I want change.

The hopes of the little girl who goes to a crumbling school in Dillon are the same as the dreams of the boy who learns on the streets of L.A.; we will remember that there is something happening in America; that we are not as divided as our politics suggest; that we are one people; we are one nation, and together, we will begin the next great chapter in America's story with three words that will ring from coast to coast, from sea to shining sea:

YES.
WE.
CAN.

Tune in, turn on, drop out.

2008-03-03T22:46:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, which in my pea-sized brain feels like yesterday, I was tagged by my virtual twin-by-another-mother, Annie McQ.

The assignment? Identify my most recent media selections.

Strictly speaking, I believe I'm supposed to report what I've seen, heard and read in the course of seven days, but in the interest of generating something snappy, I may have to get creative with those boundaries.

Let's begin with the written word, shall we?

Or, actually, not so much, because my reading list has been a bit on the puny side lately.

For example, I've been slowly but steadily making my way through a scintillating issue of Pottery Barn: March 2008, and the suspense is nearly killing me.

Is yellow, as the author boldly claims, honestly BRILLIANT IN EVERY WAY?

Don't let me spoil it for you, for heaven's sake; turn to page four to discover the answer for yourself.

Meanwhile, a short but stylish stack of books patiently awaits my attention atop my nightstand.

There's the generally entertaining Helping Me Help Myself, which I purchased in January in lieu of drafting any new year's resolutions of my own.

Just below that is Same Kind of Different As Me, which I'm not sure I would have chosen of my own free will, but, in a rare stroke of serendipity, is the selection for both of my book clubs this month. Two birds: one stone.

And last but not least, I have Loving Frank, which will receive only a cursory review in the car tomorrow morning, as it's expected to be returned to the library bright and early. Alas.

Now: to the screens we go.

On the big one, I watched Atonement tonight for, believe it or not, the second time.

It's rare that I see any movie in a theater, so setting aside ten bucks and two hours not once, but twice? Clearly, a ringing endorsement.

Prior to this feat, Trey and I saw Juno. Loved the quirky cast, dug the snappy dialogue, adored the soundtrack. Two enthusiastic thumbs up; can't wait to catch it on DVD.

The only other semi-current flick I've seen, which I've already documented, was the Veggie Tales pirate movie. And really, one showing of that was enough for me, thanks.

I've got less to say, if that's possible, about what captures my attention as of late on the small screen.

Five years ago, I was a thoroughly happy couch potato. And I still lurve me some serious slacking time, but it's usually spent staring at this computer screen, not the television.

On the rare occasion that Trey's not tuned in to a dry Canadian documentary about anything sold, bought or processed, I will gladly catch a rerun of Sex and the City. But you know, there are only so many times you can watch Carrie break Aidan's heart into a bazillion pieces before you become a little jaded.

So I made an attempt recently to bust out of my rut. I decided to really go out on a limb and watch something totally new and groundbreaking.

After careful consideration, however, I'm sorry to say that Cashmere Mafia and Lipstick Jungle have yet to rake any leaves, much less break any ground.

What? That idiom made no sense? Well, what can I say: I'm no Tina Fey. And must I seriously be forced to wait until April 10 for a new episode of 30 Rock? Grumble.

Last but not least, for the two of you still reading this (hi, Mom, and greetings, hapless stranger): iTune. Tunes. Whatever.

Sadly, I lack Annie's technical prowess and have no idea how to share with you a snapshot of my current-favorite playlist.

So you'll have to take me at my word when I tell you that it channels my alter ego, my true inner self, which is that of sbg, or sassy black girl.

My sbg persona, who, by the way, can sing AND dance when no one's watching, is happiest with a streaming soundtrack of Jill. Angie. Mary J. D'Angelo.

For fun, I infuse a little Christina, Rihanna and, because I can, Mariah.

Then I take it old school with the Commodores, Cornelius Brothers and Carl Carlton.

And that, for this week or thereabouts, is how I roll. Et tu?

A thousand words

2008-03-02T13:41:00.000-08:00

Well, there you have it. In an attempt to get back into the bloggy swing of things, I dashed off a succinct and, I hoped, dreamily poetic post last night.

You know what I made? Gobbledygook, that's what.

Brevity and mystery have never been my friends. And so I go running back into the warm and comforting arms of long-winded rambling. Ahh...

The target of my wordiness today? Pictures. I'll start with this one, taken two years ago:

In our vast virtual album of photographs snapped by the papparazzo-in-residence (that would be Trey) and Dallas' favorite family photographer (that would be Jen), this picture is noteworthy because it was taken by an outsider.

Two years ago, for two days, we took a leap of faith by volunteering to have our life, warts and all, recorded by a complete and total stranger: a budding wedding photographer from Pennsylvania named Nicole Polk.

Participating in a highly regarded photography seminar based 'round here, Nicole drew as her assignment: us. For forty-eight hours, she pointed her camera in our general direction while we went about our daily routine.

Changing a diaper: Nicole was there.

Playtime with the muppers: Nicole was there.

Enjoying an afternoon snack: Nicole was there.

Nursing twin toddlers: I'll spare you the photographic evidence, but trust me when I say that Nicole? Was there.

It was long. It was exhausting. At times, it was grueling and it was life-altering.

For Nicole, anyway. For us, it was just life, with a chaperone. And at the end of the experience, we got these amazing snapshots of utterly ordinary moments that we might have otherwise forgotten.

Like, for example, what it felt like five minutes before Trey got home from work.

Or why it was that toilet paper was always, always on my grocery list.

Nearly the best part of the whole experience was meeting Nicole, although I fretted for months afterward that we'd irrevocably scarred her impressions of parenthood.

So when I received a call last week from esteemed photographer and workshop organizer Huy Nguyen, asking if we'd be willing to volunteer again, I ever-so-coolly allowed that, sure, we'd be interested.

And then I did a happy dance of glee in the middle of IKEA.

Which was followed, ninety seconds later, by a rather prolonged anxiety attack.

Because the dig is this: unlike our talented friend Jen, who deserves a medal, a satin sash and a jewel-encrusted crown for using every trick in the book to try to make us look good when she photographs us, the workshop photographer is instructed to catch the nitty gritty.

The wrinkles. The sweat. The tears.

And oh my Lord, hold my hand: the clutter. I would somehow have to hide the clutter. Which, in this house, is not unlike trying to hide an enormous pink elephant wearing a party hat.

In addition to that exceptionally real concern, lurked the fear: what strange photographer would walk through our front door on Tuesday morning? We'd felt so fortunate to be matched with Nicole; surely, lightning wouldn't strike twice.

Enter Kerry Ryan. Who just happened to be the nicest guy, possibly ever.

Father of three. Seattlite. (Seattlist? Oh, fine: Washingtonian.) Seriously mellow adventure junkie.

Polite. Respectful. Professional. Genuine. Caring. And utterly unruffled by our shenanigans, even whilst running on three hours of sleep and indescribable peer pressure.

We put him through the paces and dragged him all over town; he didn't blink. Soccer practice. School. Starbucks. Lunch, the grocery store, even an audience with a former president. He snapped it all, or as much as he could.

It will be a little while before we're privy to the photographic results of his brief visit. But it will be a great deal longer before the kids stop asking, "Where's Kerry?" or before Trey and I forget his kindness.

He came into our house as a stranger. But by the time he said good-bye, a mere forty-eight hours later, he'd been made, totally without his permission, an honorary family member.

And for now, at least, I'm out of words.

Enjoy the silence. It's only temporary.

In like a lion?

2008-03-01T21:06:00.000-08:00

So, um: this is me, tentatively emerging from the fog.

The happy fog of Mexico.
The not-so-happy fog of a faux flu.
The lingering fog of the election.
The leap-year fog of February.
Not to mention the photo fog.

Tonight, though, I'm just testing the waters. Clearing the mist. Tomorrow, I promise, I'll talk about more than just the weather.

Redux

2008-02-19T21:25:00.000-08:00

So: am obviously incapable of typing out original thoughts of any kind, because tonight's post is yet another copy-and-paste job.

Remember this?

Substitute this guy for those birds. It's a different venue and purpose, but the all-atwitter feeling still applies.

However: cute husband has to work, and remains stubbornly uncommitted to any particular candidate, so sweet sister Mary will be my date.

Also: muppers should be happily ensconced in school, so services of exceptional household staffing agency shan't be necessary.

And this time around, another pair of dear friends are expecting not one, but two chicks to add to their nest. Prayers and good wishes: they are most welcome.

The song? It remains the same. I hope, I hope; oh, how I hope.

Talking 'bout Mexico

2008-02-10T22:30:00.000-08:00

Way down here, you need a reason to move.
Feel a fool, running your stateside games.
Lose your load; leave your mind behind, baby James...

Oh, Mexico:
It sounds so simple, I've just got to go.
The sun’s so hot, I forgot to go home;
I guess I’ll have to go now.

Americano got the sleepy eye,
But his body’s still shaking like a live wire;
Sleepy señorita with the eyes on fire.

Oh, Mexico:
It sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low;
Moon’s so bright, like to light up the night...
Make everything all right.

Baby’s hungry and the money’s all gone;
The folks back home don’t want to talk on the phone.
She gets a long letter, sends back a postcard; times are hard.

Oh, down in Mexico:
I've never really been, so I don’t really know.
Oh, Mexico....
I guess I’ll have to go.

Oh, Mexico:
I've never really been, but I’d sure like to go.
Oh, Mexico...
I guess I’ll have to go now.

If you wanna know what I'm talking 'bout, read this. Then this.
If you wanna know more, check back here tomorrow.
If you wanna see for yourself, go here.
If you'd rather hear J.T. talking 'bout Mexico, then by all means, watch this.

But for now: adios, amigos... from the sleepy señora with the eyes on fire.

Because

2008-02-01T19:25:00.001-08:00

Because I have words of my own: many. But sometimes it's nice to borrow another's.
Because it's the first day of febbraio, the month of amore.
Because... well, just because.

TO MY DEAR AND LOVING HUSBAND
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

Mother of invention

2008-01-16T20:57:00.000-08:00

You know, we're so privileged to live in a marvelous time and a wonderful country in which we are afforded a vast array of inventions and advancements to improve the quality and comfort of our lives.

Side note to Wikipedia: are you kidding me? The last major technological innovation in the United States was the production of compact discs?

Don't get me wrong: I'm a huge fan, but they're nearing obsoletion, right? Am I right? I think I am. Yes: and they were actually hatched in Germany.

Ach du lieber.

Okay, Americans: clearly, it's time for us to get cracking on some fancy new widgets to make the world a better place. Might I make one teeny-tiny suggestion?

Could someone smarter and much more engineery than me please, for the love of Pete, develop some sort of tracking device for essential toys and transitional objects?

So that, when you have reached the end of the day and the very end of your rope, and your not-quite-three-year-old bursts into tears because he has suddenly misplaced the small blue car that's been clutched in his hand all day long, until this very minute, which he must have?

BECAUSE HE JUST MUST. HAVE IT. RIGHT NOW.

And so you go scouring the house, high and low, top to bottom, while he and his siblings gleefully untuck themselves from their beds and begin running wildly around the house in their footie pajamas, and if it weren't so incredibly cute you might completely lose your mind.

Eventually, you do unearth the car, which is, of course, hiding behind your bathroom door, even though you don't remember ever seeing said child anywhere near your bathroom, but you basically have to begin the entire bedtime routine over again.

And that's when you realize what genius, what ingenuity, a tracking device would be. Far more useful than, say, a cotton gin.

So get to it, people. Time, it is a wasting.

P.S. To end things on a note of hope and optimism and sheer innovation so brilliant it may frighten you, I lead you here.

Friendly tip

2008-01-15T23:40:00.000-08:00

I have a... well, uh, we'll call her a friend, even though she's not especially friendly.

Stay with me.

This... friend has a propensity for dropping by about once a month, and it's never pretty. One minute, I'm reasonably happy and mellow, but then she arrives and I feel all shouty and screechy.

It's fun for everyone, really.

This has been going on for years... like, since I was thirteen? Um, yeah. So you'd think I'd have developed better coping skills by now, but: not so much.

The worst bit is that it's almost always a complete and total surprise when she... shows up. I mean, if I knew she was coming, I'd have baked her a cake, you know? Euphemistically speaking, of course.

However, I have another friend.

No, really: I do have another friend. This is where I quit being coy for just a second.

This friend told me about a web site she found that's specifically organized for tracking the travel plans of guests everywhere.

Now I get an e-mail every month that says: WATCH OUT. Your friend, she is en route.

And even though I'm still not overjoyed to be the recipient of this visit (although, for the record, the alternative would also make me shouty and screechy, and not necessarily in a celebratory way), I'm at least grateful to have a heads-up.

And I just felt compelled to share this on the exceptionally off-chance that you also have a friend who needs tracking.

Whew. I'm glad we had this little talk.

Season's greetings

2008-01-14T22:35:00.001-08:00

I don't know how it goes in your neighborhood, but 'round these parts, there's one day a month that warrants a little extra excitement: Big Trash Day.

The muppers love Big Trash Day because they know there's a possibility that they'll catch a glimpse of the Big Trash dump truck and its counterpart, a flatbed carrying a mobile crane.

On our street! In front of our house! Can you believe our good fortune?

Trey loves Big Trash Day because it provides him with an excuse to pitch a wide assortment of junk that I'd otherwise cling to for life.

A broken sconce from a house we haven't lived in for four years. A cast-iron skillet that's rusted almost beyond recognition. A high chair, still bearing witness to its last meal, long missing crucial parts. A cardboard box full of yellowed notes I wrote and passed to my friends in the eighth grade.

It doesn't matter how much I whine, bargain or plead that I could fix that sconce, if only I knew how to fix things. Mercilessly, Trey piles them by the curb.

And there they sit, until I sneak back out to rescue the items I'm positive I can't live without.

Did you know that I did some of my best writing in the eighth grade? It's true.

But today, I was so grateful for the advent of Big Trash Day that I didn't retrieve one thing from the heap. Because today, I was finally able to say good-bye to the holidays. And I don't just mean Christmas.

Travel back in time with me for a moment, won't you?

It's a few days before Christmas. The muppers and I are eating a late breakfast, so late it may as well be lunch, when the doorbell rings.

For a second, we all glance at each other with raised eyebrows. We're in our pajamas, the house is a wreck and we're not expecting any visitors. Hmm. Curious.

The only way to sate our curiosity is to, yes, go to the door. So we all trample through the front room, each of the muppers desperately hoping to reach the door first, because hearing your siblings wail in defeat absolutely never gets old.

As I make my own dash after them, hoping to separate victors and also-rans before blows are exchanged, I catch a glimpse of a FedEx truck through the front window. Ah. A package. An early delivery from Santa, perhaps?

I battle through the scrum to open the door a few inches and crane my head outside, looking for a big brown box.

Nothing: I see nothing. So I swallow my pride and walk out onto the front porch in my shabbiest jammies, and this time I really look. Still nothing.

I'm starting to think the whole thing's a joke when the FedEx guy, who's just about to drive off, pushes open his side window, grins at me and bellows: "Check the pumpkins!"

Then he snickers and peels rubber.

Because yes, on December 22, my porch gourds are still artfully arranged as though trick-or-treaters could show up at any moment.

Except that, in an attempt to hide the pumpkins and acknowledge to passers-by that Christmas, it is observed here, I have laid a decorative evergreen wreath and garland atop the gourds.

As the FedEx guy has helpfully pointed out to me, I'm not fooling anyone with this ruse. The bright orange pumpkins are clearly visible beneath the foliage, and provide a perfect paperweight for the envelope he's left behind.

It's a humiliating moment. It's the moment when I realize that I probably won't be participating in BooMama's Christmas Tour of Homes. Again.

It's the moment that brings us to this morning in January. This morning when I actually make, for the first time in memory, my own contribution to the Big Trash heap. It's a colorful heap that includes a broken sconce. A rusty skillet. A dilapidated high chair.

And eight pumpkins, lined up beside a pile of dried-out evergreen.

Now: if I can just get my Christmas cards in the mail...

Moving pictures

2008-01-13T21:59:00.001-08:00

Please, don't ask me to analyze why it is that I struggle so with change. Just know that I've always been like this, the happy, beady-eyed ostrich with my head stuck firmly but comfortably in the sand whenever a new page threatens to turn.

My trio of muppers wasn't born just yesterday?
Pshaw: they're infants! Infants, I tell you.

Our five-year-old is ready for sleepovers now?
Begone, and take your blasphemy elsewhere.

You suggest, as gently as possible, that perhaps it's time to exchange cribs for big-kid beds?
But they're not even three yet! For five whole days!

And you have the audacity to suggest a movie for our Sunday afternoon entertainment?
Well, sure. Why not? Afterward, we can stop by the tattoo parlor.

Okay: so I was really pushing it on that last one. And yes, I knew it, too.

But suffice it to say that it was a rough weekend for the ostrich. The muppers, however, they've never known such glee. And their cute daddy's been wearing a smug grin about it all.

First, there was, in fact, the sleepover. Totally unprepared was I to receive a call from our favorite neighbor family, inviting Carter to stay the night with his friend Daniel.

With some prodding from Trey, I mulled it over. Thought about how much fun he and not-quite-five-year-old Daniel have whenever they play, whether it's at the park, on the soccer field or at either of our houses.

Thought about how highly we regard Daniel's family. Realized that sleepovers probably would be happening sooner or later, and what better way to begin than at a house that's just a few doors down from ours, in the event of a midnight phone call asking for a return to one's own bed?

So, with only a shadow of hesitation remaining, I pitched the idea to Carter, who was pretty excited about the whole shebang. And, of course, the boys had a great time, there was no midnight call and Trey and I were stunned at how quiet and melancholy our house seemed with one less person around.

One milestone down. Two to go.

Finally feeling better after a week of infirmity, Trey woke up this morning with a mission: to clean out the garage. Not to clean out the whole thing, mind you, but to create a little space. A little space that, just coincidentally, could hold two cribs, if two cribs were to be deemed unnecessary.

As of tonight, anyway, the space is still just a space. The cribs are still in place. But the clock, it is ticking over my head. Which is in the sand. Sigh.

Last but not least: the big screen.

For weeks now, Carter's been asking to see a movie. It's a reasonable request, I suppose; he's only ever seen one movie in a theater, and that was nearly two years ago. And my no-media-is-good-media parental stance of old no longer has legs.

Spencer and Katie, they had yet to experience the cinema. As a result, no doubt, of my aforementioned stingy attitude toward children's programming, they're pretty easily rattled by anything more intense than an episode of Little Einsteins.

Oh, sure: they've seen The Jungle Book. And Toy Story. Cars, too. But each of these viewings has been, at some point, punctuated by wails of "Too scary! Too scary!"

So we try not to mention Cinderella when Spencer's in earshot. Curious George, the same movie Carter loved as a three-year-old, has been deemed verboten. And they still speak of Little Mermaid in hushed, awed tones.

So, an actual movie in a real theater, sitting in chairs that don't belong to us and eating exotic snacks like popcorn and Twizzler: it's a pretty big deal. Choices must be carefully weighed and analyzed.

In the end, the decision was made for us. Somehow, Carter had learned of a nifty movie called The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything, and, whaddayaknow? There was a two o'clock showing close to our house.

It certainly didn't hurt that BooMama had given the flick an enthusiastic kid-friendly review, because I had no firsthand knowledge of the movie's talking, singing vegetables.

You know what? It was really not a bad way to spend ninety minutes and, well, a hundred bucks. Not that I'm counting.

Predictably, more popcorn was spilled than eaten. Multiple potty breaks were required. Whispering voices got louder and louder as the movie wore on. And "Too scary! Too scary!" was invoked repeatedly, to the delight, I am sure, of our fellow moviegoers.

But when the ostrich gingerly raised her head, she saw three gorgeous, happy kiddos entranced by the pictures on the big screen, (mostly) loving the whole experience. She saw them growing right before her very eyes, and she knew that it was good.

She saw a father who didn't even blink when his children, the lights of his life, used his shirt as a giant napkin for their small buttery hands. Who laughed when they got the giggles, and wrapped his arms around them when they were frightened.

She was moved. It was moving. And I'm not saying that I'm ever going to embrace change, but: my feathers that were so ruffled before? Are feeling pretty smooth right about now.

Alter ego

2008-01-12T19:24:00.000-08:00

Filling in the blanks of my passport application the other day, I found myself pondering some classic existential questions, such as: who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going?

The process was mentally taxing at times, but ultimately rewarding. Kind of like this meme, now making the rounds.

1. ROCK STAR NAME (first pet + current car): Maggie Odyssey
2. GANGSTA NAME (favorite ice cream flavor + favorite cookie): Peppermint Double Stuf
3. “FLY Guy/Girl” NAME (first initial of first name + first three letters of last name): A-Fra
4. DETECTIVE NAME (favorite color + favorite animal): Red Giraffe
5. SOAP OPERA NAME (middle name + city where you were born): Katherine Ft. Walton
6. STAR WARS NAME (first three letters of last name + first two letters of first): Fra Am
7. SUPERHERO NAME (“The” + second favorite color + favorite drink): The Green Mojito
8. NASCAR NAME (grandfathers' first names): Sammy Spencer
9. STRIPPER NAME (name of favorite perfume/cologne/scent + favorite candy): Twizzler Bulgari
10. WITNESS PROTECTION NAME (mother’s and father’s middle names): Marion Irene
11. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME (fifth grade teacher’s last name + a major city that starts with the same letter): Miami Mermelstein
12. SPY NAME (favorite season/holiday + flower): Spring Freesia
13. CARTOON NAME (favorite fruit + article of clothing you’re wearing right now + “ie” or “y”): Mango Cargosie
14. HIPPIE NAME (what you ate for breakfast + favorite tree): Waffle Sycamore
15. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME (“The” + favorite hobby/craft + favorite weather + “Tour”): The Bloggin’ Snow Tour

Feel free to share your own dissociated identities in the comment section...

Happy trails

2008-01-10T23:50:00.000-08:00

This week, I've had travel on the brain. I'll offer up a more detailed explanation tomorrow; tonight, I'm much too enthralled with the distant past to chat about the near future.

Unfortunately: my memory is, as a general rule, incredibly spotty and unreliable. And the distant past, it is so very distant that I find myself easily confused.

Was it me who sat alone in a cafe in Florence, scarfing down pizza after inspecting every inch of the Galleria degli Uffizi? Or have I just borrowed the memory from a movie seen long ago?

And so I turn to a small stack of woefully incomplete travel journals.

...

EDIT: But before I can blather about the scintillating details held within said journals, my daughter awakes. Sobbing. Calling out for me.

And so I fetch her. Carry her back to my bed. Snuggle her up between her daddy and me, and begin to snooze.

Within minutes, I hear the sound of her brother, staggering through the dark house, weeping that he has been left alone. And so it is that he joins us in bed.

The two of them wriggle and squirm between the two of us until their daddy, who is a patient man who still, has his limits, carries the two escapees back to their room.

And they actually stay put, for a couple of hours, until the process, it repeats again.

So my travel memories from another life will have to wait for now.

It's so easy

2008-01-09T23:05:00.000-08:00

Oh, yes, ma'am: I fully confess that I am phoning in tonight's post.

It's not that I'm trying to make a total mockery of the Blog 365 movement. And it's certainly not that I don't have actual words of questionable value and potential entertainment that I'm eager to share in this space.

It's just that all I can think about, ever since reading this, is:

Beep beep, beep beep, beep beep.
Beep beep, beep beep, beep beep.

It's a subtle reference, I know, so allow me to share the embedded earworm in its entirety. Take a gander. See if the same thing doesn't happen to you.

And then, by all means, feel free to thank BooMama personally. Who knows? You may even score a new household appliance in the deal.

Heigh-ho

2008-01-08T21:43:00.000-08:00

It's late and I'm weary after an evening of flying solo while Trey's away. But before I hit the hay, a wee bit o' happiness:

This morning had me marching the muppers into school today, after an absurdly long winter break.

I'd anticipated trepidation, maybe even a meltdown. I was prepared, if necessary, to peel various children off of my shins and dump them, unceremoniously, into the outstretched arms of their teachers.

I fretted: if they banded together, could they scare up some industrial glue and affix themselves to heavy pieces of furniture?

Nah. All worries of a dramatic farewell dissipated when the three of them gleefully ran down the hallway to find their classrooms before I'd even navigated my way through the school lobby.

Now, running in the halls is an outright violation of the school's rules, and generally prompts a lecture from me, if only to keep up appearances in front of the other parents.

But today, they got a pass.

And I? I got groceries. Without miniature accompaniment. Oh, happiness.

Meanwhile, the amazing, talented, indispensible Celli managed to work some magic on the house, which we'd rendered a complete and total pigsty in her two-week absence. I like to think it went a little something like this.

So: happy kids. Clean house. The only thing missing is Prince Charming, and he's promised to be home for dinner tomorrow.

Cue the orchestra and roll the closing credits. On this day, at least, we lived happily ever after. The end.

Artwalk

2008-01-07T21:55:00.001-08:00

When I believed, on Saturday, that my better half was deeply, deeply relaxed... and not, in reality, beset by some malicious strain of rhinovirus... I suggested that we might take a jaunt to a local museum for a much-needed influx of culture.

Gamely, he agreed. And so we set forth to the Nasher, haven to a rather extraordinary collection of sculpture not far from our hotel.

What a sophisticated destination, I thought, for two adults without a care, or an apparent diaper bag, in the world.

That's what I thought. Until we walked through the minimalist lobby, and smack-dab into Kiddie Central.

Didn't we know that on the first Saturday of every month, the museum opens its doors to families, with giveaways from Target?

Oh, I can assure you: we did not. And so it was quite the shock to discover that the normally serene, airy space was chock-full of children in various stages of indifference toward the arts.

For example. Zigzagging through the main gallery, which boasted an impressive collection of larger-than-life zaftig female nudes by Gaston Lachaise, were two adorable bow-headed girls in matching pink dresses.

Close on their heels: a mother with her jaw set and an all-too-familiar fire in her eyes. Joining in the chase was a slightly older boy, arms and legs akimbo, and a handsome but, I reckoned, slightly bewildered dad.

In a flash, the mother had all three kiddos lined up and, with finger pointed, began firing off admonishments and warnings. When the lecture was finished, the children looked unabashed, and their mother rolled her eyes heavenward.

"Let me guess," Trey said. "A five-year-old and three-year-old twins?"

"YES!" was the exasperated reply. We allowed that we were familiar with the dynamic.

We commiserated for a bit, trading war stories and laughing together at the sheer insanity of it all, while agreeing that it was absolutely impossible to imagine life any other way.

After a minute, we said our goodbyes and wandered off toward the outdoor cafe for a quick snack before exploring the sculpture garden. I glanced back over my shoulder and noticed one of the girls in pink looking after us, holding her dad's hand.

And in that instant, I felt evenly cleaved between wanting to savor this rare afternoon of just-us time... and wanting to dash back to the car and drive home to hug the three who make up our family of five.

We stayed, of course. We savored. We even had a little fun with the camera: check it out.

But I have to say: the welcome-home hugs were pretty unforgettable.

Epiphany

2008-01-06T21:17:00.000-08:00

So. Shortly after we returned from our brief but loverly jaunt across town, it became clear: Trey's omelette was not, in fact, laced with sedatives.

No: Trey was, unfortunately, laced with ick. This particular brand of ick has rendered him either unconscious or coughing uncontrollably for the last thirtyish hours.

It's been fun for all, I assure you.

An original, introspective post? I don't have it in me tonight. But a meme? I can totally tackle.

This one's been making the rounds for a few days, but: well, no one's ever accused me of being prompt. And technically, we're still within the first week of the new year, so it's marginally seasonal.

Hey: beggars can't be choosers. Here, then, is my retrospective view of the past twelve months.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you’d never done before?
Purchased a minivan. Housed a complete and total stranger. Took an honest-to-goodness family vacation, just the five of us, and utterly adored it.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
For two years running now, I have, apparently, been too consumed with fielding a meme than formulating a list of good intentions. Perhaps this is for the best.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Well, my initial response to this was: yes, my friend and former neighbor Kirsten. But I'm inclined to discount her, because she moved oh, so far away, practically to Oklahoma, and took the baby with her. Harumph.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
First: my fabulous, funny, one-of-a-kind great-aunt Josephine. Who singlehandedly made the world a brighter, more vivacious place and who, I kid you not, moved from Mississippi to Dallas at her first opportunity "because of Neiman Marcus."

And then: Trey's beautiful, gracious, strong of will and sound of mind grandmother. Two amazing ladies, both beloved and much missed.

5. What countries did you visit?
In my memories, supplemented by dusty old travel journals: several. In reality: just this one.

6. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007?
Patience. Perspective. Grace.

7. What dates from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Two especially happy birthdays stand out: my grandmother's ninetieth, and Trey's fortieth.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Motherhood: Now In Its Fifth Smash Year!

9. What was your biggest failure?
Seriously? Feeling like a fraud, a flunkie, a flibbertigibbet of a mom much too often.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Oh, I suppose I might have busted my face doing yoga.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
I badgered Trey into giving me an iPhone for Christmas. It's unnatural, how much I love it.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Wow: I couldn't possibly single out just one person. So I'll begin with Nanny, for kicking it nonagenerian-style. Sarah and Carl, for becoming affianced. Jenny, for taking Heroes for Children to new heights. Friends and family who moved into new and improved houses over the year. And, of course, Trey, for continuing to humor, comfort and adore me against the odds.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
I won't say me, because Trey will insist I'm too hard on myself. So... not to kick a girl when she's down, but I have to call out Britney Spears. I just can't watch the trainwreck anymore; it's become gruesome.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Have you by any chance checked into the tuition for a Montessori preschool lately? Pretty absurd, huh? Now take that number and triple it. Gulp.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
The truth? I felt incredibly ambivalent about sending S and K to school this year. Yeah, I knew they were ready. Yeah, I knew I was ready. However, actually making the leap was a tough move for me.

But. BUT. I LOVE THIS SCHOOL. Love it. Love the teachers, love the classrooms, love the families. Have oh, so completely adored the social activities for parents. But most especially, have been thrilled to the point of tears at seeing my three babies happy to be there. Learning there. Thriving there. And the truth? I thank God for there.

16. What song will always remind you of 2007?
The Little Einsteins theme song.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Happier, I'd like to think.

b) thinner or fatter? Definitely fatter. The only weight-loss plan that's ever worked for me was birthing twins, then breastfeeding them for a year. Can't do that again, unfortunately.

c) richer or poorer? I'd have to double-check this with my accountant, Trey, but I feel confident in guessing that the answer is: poorer.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Fun mommy stuff.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Unfun mommy stuff.

20. How did you spend Christmas?
First with Sarah and Carl, the day before Christmas. Then just us, on Christmas morning. Then in Houston, on Christmas evening. Then in San Antonio, a few days after Christmas.

I'm pretty sure we're responsible for denuding an entire forest with all of the gift wrap we discarded.

21. Did you fall in love in 2007?
Times four.

22. What was your favorite TV program?
We finally, finally found a show we both enjoyed: 30 Rock. And then the writers went on strike. So now we're back to documentaries about manufacturing (him) and Sex and the City reruns (me). Sigh.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
I have no doubt that you're a super nice guy, James Blunt, but your voice? Has the exact same effect on me as sharp, pointy fingernails scraping a newly cleaned chalkboard. Sorry.

24. What was the best book you read?
Eat, Pray, Love.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Did you know that you can buy this device that stores electronic files of music? I didn't before. But now I do. It's, like, the most awesome thing ever.

26. What did you want and get?
For my friend sha to come to Dallas. And how much fun did we have? SO MUCH FUN.

27. What did you want and not get?
To take the whole fam damily to Chicago and show the muppers what winter really looks like. Another Longhorn national championship would have been a nice touch, too. Maybe next year, on both counts.

28. What was your favorite film of this year?
On the big screen? Waitress: now three for three. On the small screen? Knocked Up. Left the screen before we got a chance to see it, and I'm still feeling peevish? The Darjeeling Limited.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Good grief, my memory's getting spotty in my old age: I was 37, and I'm sure it was properly commemorated, but I can't recall a single detail.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I can't immediately think of one thing that might fit that tall order, but I am filled with remorse and regret that I didn't spend more time recording the muppers' wee precious voices and hilarious bon mots.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007?
Ann Taylor Loft. A size larger than I'd like it to be. And dull, don't-look-at-me shoes. Perhaps a revamp, it is in order.

32. What kept you sane?
My posse, my peeps, my homegirls. You know who you are.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
I might have a little platonic crush on Barack Obama.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?
The upcoming election. Two hundred and thirty-one days till the convention. Three hundred and seventy-nine days till, for better or worse, the Oval Office has a new resident.

35. Who did you miss?
A host of lost friends, both near and far, but Debelah nabs the top spot.

36. Who was the best new person you met?
Officially meeting Tracey, off the blog and in the flesh: an absolute highlight. Getting to know Jenny. Meeting Deb and loving her instantly. Ditto Jenn and Stacy and Megan. Kelly, too. Fab women: fab year.

Psst: hey, St. Richard and nodnarB! You guys rock, too.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007.
The Neti pot, she is tricky.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
I'll bet we've been together for a million years...
And I'll bet we'll be together for a million more.
It's like I started breathing on the night we kissed,
And I can't remember what I ever did before.

Because, well, there really ain't no nothing we can't love each other through. So here's to the F5 in '08. Sha la la la.

Petit dejeuner

2008-01-05T15:54:00.000-08:00

Oh, don't worry: I shan't bore you with a full description of our sumptuous pied-a-terre.

I know you don't care to read about the delightful eighty (oh, yes ma'am: eighty) minute massage at ZaSpa.

Details of the lovely food and lively people-watching at Dragonfly? My lips are sealed.

But I will share with you a recap of breakfast. Because it is, after all, the most important meal of the day.
So here's what breakfast looked like this morning, as we sat in jammies on our private balcony, soaking in the bright blue sky and the city soundtrack, with nary a sippy cup in sight.

You know, it wasn't half bad.

And this: this is what Trey looked like after consuming his omelette.

Which was, apparently, laced with sedatives.

And yes, it's also a self-portrait. Because I'm not quite brave enough to post a snapshot of me sans makeup and avec thoroughly unkempt hair.

So you'll just have to imagine me looking naturally beautiful and radiant. And deeply relaxed and happy.

Merci beaucoup.

Bla bla bla

2008-01-04T12:02:00.000-08:00

Well, here we are.

Napa? Nada.
No thanks to the Mamas and the Papas.
But now we're going to ZaZa.
Which ain't no ca-ca.
Nana says: de nada!
So we tell the muppers na na na na.

Till tomorrow: ta-ta.

Dream state

2008-01-03T12:50:00.000-08:00

All the leaves are brown,
And the sky is gray.
I've been for a walk
On a winter's day.
I'd be safe and warm
If I was in L.A.
California dreamin'
On such a winter's day...

So: not this weekend, then. Maybe in March.

Sigh.

Step it up

2008-01-02T21:32:00.000-08:00

Confucius say: the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

So it was that, armed with zen wisdom, newly minted resolutions, and bright and shiny intentions, I began my day with that first, all-important step.

And promptly tripped, falling flat on my face.

Atop my to-do list today? Return a few books to the library.

Minor details, potentially pertinent to the tale: sixteen books, there were, several of which had been in my possession since early 2005.

I'll start this new year off on the right foot, I thought, by wiping the slate (and, by extension, half a bookshelf) clean, and returning these poor, hostage books to my fellow library patrons.

Who have, I am sure, been waiting for three years, with bated breath, to get their grubby hands on a free copy of Southern Fried Divorce.

After major wrangling, multiple wardrobe changes, bribes of all shapes and sizes, occasional threats and some yelling, which only served to exacerbate my ill-conceived hair-of-the-dog hangover, I finally piled the muppers into the minivan, and steered toward the general direction of our neighborhood library.

Once we reached the grounds, I reviewed a brief list of Rules and Expectations.

- There will be no running madly through the parking lot. Or the lobby. Or the stacks.

- We will use Inside Voices. Which means that our evil pirate cackle, the one we've been refining for weeks now, will need to stay within the confines of the minivan.

- The librarians neither anticipate nor appreciate our assistance in reshelving errant books.

- And no matter how pretty the pictures are that we find inside the library's books, we are not, under any circumstances, to tear the pictures out and present them as gifts to Mommy.

Although I recited the Library Commandments in my Most Stern and Scary Voice, occasionally pausing for a pop quiz to gauge comprehension levels ("Now, if you sweep the contents of an entire bookshelf to the floor, then shriek, 'STRIKE!,' what will Mommy do? That's RIGHT: Mommy will put Lightning McQueen into her purse for an all-day time-out."), I was plagued with the fear that my charges were merely humoring me by nodding their heads and looking wide-eyed and adorable.

Confucius say: a mother's intuition, you can steer a ship by it.

Mayhem is what we brought to our library today. Sheer, unadultered mayhem, as the muppers tumbled through the front door in a giggling heap of arms and legs and Outside Voices.

Quickly, I recognized that my best course of action would be to return the books, clear my fine and get the heck out of dodge in record time. I settled the muppers as best I could into the children's section, and prayed mightily for a quick line at the counter.

My prayer went unanswered as I shuffled for an eternity while pretending to turn a deaf ear to the din emanating from the kiddie corral. Or perhaps it was some form of penance for keeping my big bag of books out of circulation for so lengthy a period.

That would, of course, have been in addition to having the annoyed librarian issue me a tsk-tsk and a withering glare as I wrote out a check for sixty dollars. And ninety cents.

Penance served: the deed was done. Tail tucked, poorer but wiser, I crossed the room to fetch the children.

Katie had culled a neat stack of books, all in Spanish, that she wanted me to read. Right now. NOW, Mommy.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry," I said, in my most impressive Inside Voice. "Mommy fully intends to learn Spanish some day, but right now: nada. Do you think you can find Maisy en la Granja in Italian?"

Before she could answer, I glanced around the nook and realized that, naturally, Spencer was missing. What never fails to entertain him continues to scare the crap out of me. My heart now reflexively leaps into my throat whenever those blond curls scamper out of sight.

Thankfully, I heard a giggle in the distance right before my palms began to sweat in earnest. The chase, it was on.

I had just about cornered him when I heard snickering near the travel section. Carter, who'd been working on a puzzle when last I saw him, had decided to join in the fun.

With impressive speed, Katie abandoned Maisy and chose a different quadrant of the room in which to hide.

Is there a more descriptive phrase in the English language than "herding kittens?" Or, en espanol, reunion de gatos?

Ciertamente: non.

After an interminable game of chase that had me using, ineffectively, my Outside Voice, I corralled my offspring and marched them out of the door and into the minivan.

And then, after two separate claims of Needing to Go, only one of which proved fruitful, out of the minivan and back through the door.

At last. Sing it, Etta: at long last, they were buckled. I was sweaty. The doors were closed, the vehicle was in gear.

Tummies were grumbling, so we limped across town to Chick-Fil-A. Morsels of chicken were consumed, indoor playground equipment was put to the test, and, just for a moment, this mommy was relaxed.

Until Spencer sought me out and, with a mournful look on his sweet face, took my hand and said, "Green Dog is sad."

Oh, yeah. Green Dog, Spencer's constant companion, was sad indeed. Hiding in some corner of the library, patiently waiting for us to recover him. Sad, lonely, loyal Green Dog.

So it was that we retraced our steps. And eventually, after a joyful reunion with el perro verde, made our way back home.

Confucius say: the journey of a thousand miles? Can wait till next week. When school begins again.

<366

2008-01-01T15:54:00.000-08:00

Is it because I am, at the very heart of it all, a masochist?

Or am I taking the easy way out because I'm still much too bleary of eye and hazy of mind, after last night's festivities, to type up a proper new-year post?

Is it just an excuse to keep that bright and cheerful NaBloPoMo badge hanging out in my sidebar a little longer, like my porch gourds?

Or does it seem like a less taxing and infinitely more feasible resolution than eating less and exercising more?

Thank heavens I have one. whole. year to examine my motives, my navel, and my ability to survive, nay: thrive! on not quite enough sleep.

That's right, people. I've officially accepted the challenge to blog every day in 2008.

Oh, please: join me, won't you?

Wrunkle in time

2007-12-10T12:20:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season for coughs and sneezies. So please, kids and parents alike, take a tip from the Jimmies: be pachydermal, not germal. Check it out...

Fete set

2007-12-09T23:14:00.000-08:00

Happily but wearily I report tonight: the big guy's birthday has, I believe, been properly celebrated.

Muchas gracias to those who called, sent and e-mailed greetings and salutations.

And enormous thanks to the gaggle of friends and neighbors, past and present, who spent their Saturday evening with us in exchange for a wedge of black-and-white birthday cake.

Because he's crashed out on the couch, I'll go ahead and speak for Trey when I say: we are so richly blessed to have such a merry band of friends.

It was big-time fun to mix up your diverse personalities, backgrounds, stories, jokes, drink preferences and kiddos (by my count: nineteen of 'em) under our roof.

Now we turn our attention to the second Sag in the house, as we prepare for Carter's fifth birthday celebration. No rest for the weary: not that I'd have it any other way.

Blankety-blank.

2007-12-08T13:28:00.000-08:00

_____ winks.
UB__.
_____ acres. (Mule optional.)
__-hour work week.
_____ days and _____ nights.
__-oz. malt liquor.
Life begins at _____.

Happy __th birthday to the love of my life, my (truly) better half, the answer to my question, my sun in the morning and my moon at night: my husband, partner and co-conspirator, Trey. I love you more with each year that passes, even though it seems they pass by much too quickly these days.

xoxox
Amy

All-purpose

2007-12-07T11:43:00.001-08:00

I feel certain you'll be relieved to learn that, should you leave your preschool-age twins unsupervised for two minutes, tops, during which time they determine that Wright's Silver Cream might serve quite nicely as a facial masque, actually, that the calm and pleasant voice on the other end of the poison-control hotline will neither mock your unnecessary hysteria nor report you to the authorities for absymal parenting skills, but will simply reassure you that this mild skin irritant, once rinsed off the skin, should cause your children no permanent harm.

Please note, however, that your heart will race wildly, then break a little when, after a proper scolding and thorough cleansing, you ask your daughter what on earth possessed her to do such a thing and she looks at you, clear-eyed and beautiful and, yes, tarnish-free, and answers, "Because I wanted to be grown up, Mommy."

Embarrassment of riches

2007-12-06T14:03:00.000-08:00

So Carter is now convinced that I'm the coolest mom on the planet, because every day he comes home to discover that I have bought him yet another toy catalog.

Oh, if only you could bear witness to this joy. He devours them first, then pores over each page; stashes them in every room of the house; ruthlessly dangles them just out of his brother's reach and discusses each item with us in-depth.

And just as his very favorite one falls apart at the seams, a fresh supply magically appears in our mailbox. Surely there was never a more thoughtful, prescient, loving mother.

Is it even remotely shameful how I bask in the glow of this adoration? Don't answer that.

Every other day of the week is fine.

2007-12-03T10:28:00.001-08:00

Oh, Monday, Monday: can't trust that day. Fortunately, I have unwavering faith that this song will kick my post-weekend blues square in the teeth.

Turn it up and dance like no one's watching. Trust me.

Five

2007-11-30T23:26:00.000-08:00

In two weeks, Carter will be five years old. Five. And I realize that I'm one of maybe three people on the planet who find this statement amazing and astounding, impossible and incredible, but such is a mother's privilege.

So, fair warning: there may be much navel-gazing and teeth-gnashing and hand-wringing as the big day draws near.

Oh, what? You think that just because NaBloPoMo is drawing to an unceremonious close, I'll allow the blog to fall back into disrepair and neglect?

Well, it's possible, yes, and at the moment, marginally tempting: this nightly game of Beat the Clock feels like a bit of a grind on Day 30. But no: it's been good for me, on several levels, to chronicle current events and ponderings.

Sleep, however, it is also good for me, so I may take five on the blogging gig this weekend and attempt to reclaim a few zzz's.

Because mercy, I am tired. And I suspect my almost-birthday-boy is, too, because today was his first-ever five-day week of school.

When Carter started preschool last year, he made the large leap from two days to three. All went well. So well that, by the middle of the year, he'd started making noise about attending school five! whole! days! like some of his friends did.

I wasn't ready, and I wasn't convinced that he was, so we put the conversation on the table. And there it sat, gathering dust and becoming irretrievably commingled with the stacks of catalogs and mailers that are pushed aside to be read and processed, which never happens.

But this week, Carter took it upon himself to clear the table.

After school on Monday, he came home with woeful tales of Things He Had Missed while we were criscrossing Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. His class Thanksgiving Feast, for starters. Storytime. The Hundred Board. Snacks.

I listened and commiserated and gently reminded him of all the fun things we'd been able to see and do while we were away. Nanny's party. Our family's Thanksgiving Feast. The space museum. Playtime with cousins. Lots and lots and lots of television.

Yeah: not so much. So at bedtime, he told Trey that he really wished he could go to school every day. FIVE days.

And so it was that Carter went to school Monday through Wednesday, as usual, then yesterday, and yet again today. When he woke up this morning and realized it was a school day, he giggled maniacally and got to work, prepping for the day.

Naturally, I'm over-the-moon thrilled that he's so enthusiastic about school in general, and this school in particular. And I'm bursting with pride to see him growing up so well and so eager to do, see, learn more, more, more.

But I'll confess: my warm and fuzzies are tinged with melancholy. I'll miss our pancake mornings. I'll miss our intermittent Friday playdates. I'll miss having two days a week with no real obligations, two days when the four of us could hang out in our jammies if we pleased.

Oh, can I just say it? I miss my baby boy. I know, I know: he'll always be my baby. When he's five, twenty-five, thirty-five, forty.

But it's not the same as it was, and it never will be again, and while I know that's exactly the way it's supposed to be, it still stings just a little.

And he doesn't get this at all, nor should he, but I know that there will probably be a time in his life when he chafes against the demand of going to school five days a week, and working five days a week. At least.

So I want to remember this time, this day, when five days was a treat, a privilege, a gift so thrilling that he giggled before he even got out of bed.

I do.

2007-11-29T23:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, mi hermana loca, otherwise known as Sarah, e-mailed me this must-see video clip. Young, blushing newlyweds take to the floor for their first dance as husband and wife: truly, it's a tender moment captured in time for their children and grandchildren, not to mention 1,242,000 complete and total strangers.

Please, count yourself among the masses:

Now, I may be a tree-hugging, heart-bleeding, bed-wetting liberal when it comes to politics, but where matters of matrimony are concerned, I'm actually a pretty traditional girl.

Yes, Trey and I were betrothed in a garden, and it's true that our vows were partially plagiarized, but our wedding day was otherwise a blissful if basic affair. We were in no way striving to be unique or creative; we were much more concerned with making things, you know, legal. And, because we were fresh out of college, affordable.

Anyhoo. My point, and I do have one, is that I tend to be a bit prim and staid in my expectations of what constitutes a wedding celebration.

Verily, I say: to each her own, but I fail to fully grasp the whole cake-smashing concept. Ditto the trash-the-dress phenomenon, although I have to admit that the results can be lovely.

And wedding pranks? I still wince when I recall the time a college friend kneeled for prayer next to his blushing bride, unwittingly revealing to the gathered congregation the words, painted in fuschia nail polish on the soles of his shoes, HELP ME.

Having said all of this, I'll tell you that when I saw the video above, I laughed myself nearly out of my chair and into a large heap on the floor. I laughed until I cried. And not just a little cry, mind you; it was a messy, mascara-running-down-cheeks, gasping-for-breath cry of the very happiest sort.

Why? Two reasons.

First, because it was such a fabulous reminder that my narrow views of what a wedding should or shouldn't include were only relevant on one day: March 20, 1994. I was the bride, he was the groom, and together, for better and for worse, we called the shots and created a day that was a reflection of us. And so should it be for every marrying couple.

You want to dress up in full Star Wars regalia for your wedding day? Best wishes, and may the force be with you. Because if you've dreamed your entire life of being married by Chewbacca and a squadron of Jedi knights, and you were blessed to find another like-minded soul in the world, then what anyone else wishes or thinks should matter not one whit.

And the second reason I cried big fat tears of joy at the Brubakers' first dance? Because... well, the thing is, it's not my news to share, so I really shouldn't open my big mouth, but I'm just so happy that I'm quite literally about to pop, and you wouldn't tell anybody, would you? You'll just keep it between us? Promise?

Okay. C'mere, and I'll whisper it quietly: my sister Sarah? The one who sent me the video? My very first best friend, war buddy, maid of honor and traveling companion from the time we were in car seats, to the time we bussed across Europe? She's freshly engaged, as of this weekend.

And I'm so ridiculously over-the-moon happy for her and fiance extraordinaire Carl, who already feels like a full-fledged member of the family, that I get weepy every. single. time. I think about the two of them tying the knot and embarking on a shiny new life together. And I absolutely cannot wait for the day they take to the floor for their first dance as mister and missus.

Cake-smashed face and trashed dress optional. Congratulations, y'all.

Garnered

2007-11-28T23:06:00.001-08:00

Because I really have nothing of consequence to say tonight, but am still compelled to post.

Because apparently, and unwittingly, I touched a nerve or two last night.

Because, whatever your thoughts on the man, then or now, this is hands-down the coolest theme song ever.

Book 'em, Danno.

2007-11-27T22:44:00.001-08:00

It was one of those unfortunate but inevitable glitches in the life of a modern family: tonight, we were double-booked.

On my calendar? An evening meeting with my book club. On Trey's, an all-day meeting with some muckety-muck corporate-type people in Manhattan.

I know: tough call, right? Nearly as tricky as the judgment of Solomon.

In the end, we arm-wrestled for the kitchen pass; Trey won, of course, but I suspect that he cheated somehow.

Anyhoo. I gnashed my teeth for a bit, then remembered the lovely and talented Courtney, who carefully tends a super-secret list of the very best nannies in the metroplex.

One quick call to Courtney, and presto: a younger, blonder, cuter Mary Poppins landed on my doorstep, ready and willing to watch the muppers while I ventured out to discuss a book I'd only partially read, eat, rehash for the kabillionth time the challenges of finding the perfect preschool, eat some more, dish some gossip of both the local and celebrity variety and, yes, eat even more.

After all of that strenuous activity, I returned home to Ms. Poppins' cheerful recap of the evening's activities, a sparkling-clean kitchen and three gorgeous, dozing, happy children. Oh, LIFE.

The only thing left to do, then, was to aimlessly surf the web in my ongoing quest to read every last page. I was making decent progress until I stopped short at this article on msnbc.com.

Read at will, but the gist is thus: the government filed a subpoena demanding that personal information about thousands of amazon.com book buyers be released. You can probably guess what happened next: first-amendment privileges were invoked and successfully used to stand ground against the subpoena, which was, in fact, dropped today.

And so a small victory for the right to privacy is won. But it's not hard to see the writing on the wall, which is why I'd like to preemptively explain some of my more curious recent purchases.

To begin with: I only ordered the Bobby McFerrin CD last week for my grandmother, who wanted to know all of the words to Don't Worry Be Happy. I did not, I repeat: I did not order this item for myself.

And if by some chance that's because I already own said CD, there's only a small likelihood that I actually play its peppy tunes on the rare occasion that I'm feeling blue. Whilst, yes, dancing about the house.

Next item in my order history: a DVD of The Notebook. Again, and I'm not trying to frame a sweet and innocent nonagenarian, but this was also a gift for my grandmother, and is in no way a reflection of my own personal opinions about the delicious hunk of manliness that is James Garner.

Ahem.

Moving quickly if awkwardly along to books: I did buy P.S., I Love You, and in hardback, to boot. And no, it wasn't for my grandmother this time; it was for myself. However, the purchase was made under duress, as it was a book club selection, and I loathed every word of it. Gave it a large thumbs down. Didn't even cry at the weepy parts; nope, not me.

Hmmm: another selection for the book club. Recall, please, that part of the book-club experience is permitting someone to choose a book that, left to your own free will, you might never have given a second glance.

But in my defense, it wasn't until after I'd recommended it to the group that I realized that the book's title, The Best Awful, was in no way a misleading review of the book's content.

Why, no; my book purchases aren't strictly limited to fiction. As you look over my order history, you'll note that a disproportionate number of titles are instructional guides on how to parent: with love and logic, with a nifty zen approach or per the recollections of a beloved childhood hero.

And you want a handle on Montessori? Oh, I've got you covered. Anything you want to know, please, just ask. Just don't ask me, because I've yet to crack a single one of the books open. They're almost entirely decorative.

So there you have it. It's not criminal, my order history; just criminally embarrassing. But if it's all the same to you, unspecified governmental entity, I'd still like to keep it private. Thanks ever so.

Unrest

2007-11-26T23:12:00.000-08:00

Trouble, it is brewing.

Spencer woke up in a sweaty, screaming fit about twenty minutes ago. Trey settled him down pretty easily, but just as he was coming back to bed, Carter came stumbling into our room, rubbing his eyes and mumbling incoherently. He's curled up in a sweet little ball next to me.

But wait. What's that I hear? Why, I believe... yes, we are three for three: Katiebird is shrieking and crying my name. Gonna be a long night, I'm afeared.

I'm a little teapot

2007-11-25T23:52:00.000-08:00

Cannot tell you how much I'm loving your comments, discussion and general support re: my Neti situation. Literally cannot tell you, because I'm too engrossed by the surprisingly wide selection of YouTube clips demonstrating the proper use of a Neti pot. And also, a few demonstrating incorrect use, theoretically to humorous effect, but I'm too repulsed to laugh.

Thanks, Jen, for pointing this out to me. No, really: thanks heaps.

Also, my mother called me tonight to remind me that, honestly, the best way to ease the pain of sinus congestion? High kicks. Interesting. And oddly effective.

Snot funny

2007-11-24T22:55:00.001-08:00

Unpleasant experience today. Far more stressful, even, then taking three high-strung children under the age of five to the mall on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. For lunch. With no real game plan, or even a restraining device.

No: that was leisurely when compared to my first attempt with a Neti pot.

Over an uninterrupted four-year span of either gestating, birthing or nursing babies, I developed this weird quirk: I eschew medication whenever possible.

Drives my mother bonkers. But that's not why I do it. No, that's just a fringe benefit.

I just figured, with my own warped logic, if it's of questionable risk to take these compounds and pills when I'm growing a kiddo, then how safe is it when it's just... me?

Now, I'm not completely consistent about this philosophy: when Trey came down with strep last year, I took note of what a miserable lump he was, and went running to my doctor the instant my throat felt a little scratchy. I knew he'd toss a z-pack my way without blinking, and he didn't disappoint.

A pretty hypocritical act from the same person who rages against the overuse of antibiotics, but there you have it.

And I do recognize the blessing, the luxury I have, of being able to forego medication most of the time. Because most of the time, I'm pretty healthy. [Knock on wood.] So most of the time [knock on wood], if I come down with a little bug [knock on wood], it's nothing that some extra sleep, better hydration and steamy showers can't cure. [Knock on wood.]

So that's my feeling about this current ick, which is why I spent most of Turkey Day thudded over, under the covers. And I do feel better, much better. But my sinuses: well, I'm really sick and tired of my sinuses, and I suspect they're not too happy with me.

I can breathe, but only from one nostril, and only when I'm hopping on my left foot. Or: I'm totally congested no matter what I do or say or think. Or: I sneeze once, then spend the next half-hour camped out with a box of kleenex. And always, always, my nose is noisy. Blech.

So today seemed like the perfect opportunity to try out the nifty Neti pot I saw at Whole Foods a few weeks ago. My friend trabilcobb had given the practice rave reviews, and I'd read the testimonies of total strangers: sold, I was sold. Excited, even.

Trey eyed the whole business with skepticism and a note of anxiety tinged with humor. What if you die? he asked. I seriously doubt this will kill me, I said, but why don't you stay close, just in case?

So I read the directions for the dozenth time, warmed up the water, stirred in the non-iodized salt, poured it into the small ceramic pot and... stared at it, a little petrified.

Oh, go on, said Trey. Nothing to be scared about. Look at the picture on the box: she's smiling. She's happy! This will be fun.

Fine. Nothing to lose, everything to gain. I took a deep breath, leaned over the sink, tilted my head, gently poured warm salty water into my right nostril, and immediately began hacking and coughing and gasping for air. Aw, this sucks, I said. I can't do it.

Sure, you can, Trey said. You just have to tilt your head a little more. See? See the picture? And it says you have to put your forehead in line with your chin. Are you putting your forehead in line with your chin? Although, really, isn't your forehead naturally in line with your chin? What the heck are they driving at here?

Of course, this gave me a case of the giggles, but I decided to give it another try while Trey offered support and advice.

No, he said, you're not forming a seal. You need to form a seal! A SEAL. You know: ark ark ark. At which point he began clapping his hands together.

That did it. Now I was laughing AND drowning in lukewarm salty water of my own making. Which is, really, more fun than should be allowed on a Saturday morning while the muppers sit in the happy thrall of another episode of Max & Ruby.

I gave it a few more attempts, but they only left me with burning nostrils and a deep-seated loathing of the happy woman on the Neti pot box. Dejected, I e-mailed trabilcobb and told her of my failure. Totally without her permission, I'm copying her reply here:

Oh, to have been a fly on the wall. The Neti pot, she is tricky even without laughing. But saltwater in the nose and giggling definitely do not mix. In fact, you are not supposed to make a seal (or to be one. I can't imagine a seal would need a pot to flush its sinuses.), at least if my yoga teacher was showing us right. I think if you do it right it is supposed to go in one nostril and out the other. (I just realized I don't think I ever in my life written out the word nostril.) I pour it in and try to swish it around the sinuses while leaving the whole facial cavity open. The more I type, the more I realize I will just have to bring mine when we come up to Dallas for a visit.

I just love her. How many friends do you have who will offer a demonstration of sinus irrigation for your illumination? Not many, I'll bet.

But just between you and me, I'm seriously considering a late-night run to Walgreens.

Rewind

2007-11-23T23:25:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, please do not adjust your televisions. We are, in fact, broadcasting live and uninterrupted from the Dallas studio.

Yes, that's right: we voluntarily packed up the car and hit the road yet again today, this time for home.

We tackled the final leg of our journey a day earlier than anticipated, which was a bummer for all involved. But: a second member of our crew woke up with the crud this morning, and someone else was suffering back spasms from the latest round of musical beds, and a quick check of the weather let us know that, if we were planning to beat the rain home, today was our day.

So, we enjoyed a last lunch at one of our favorite H-town spots, said good-bye to the grandparents and headed north.

Along the way, we listened to a rerun of last year's Lone Star Showdown. That is, we assumed it was a rerun, until we tumbled through our front door and turned on the television, only to discover that our brother-in-law's Aggies were, in fact, beating our beloved Longhorns.

Oh, well. At least said brother-in-law was, for the second year running, a good sport about the whole thing. That profane text message is something we'll treasure for some time to come. Thanks, big guy.

Anyhoo.

A much happier rerun occurred at the dinner table; my mother-in-law took the time to pack every. single. fixin' from yesterday's Thanksgiving feast, and can I just say? Even better the second time around.

Then we decided to kick off a new tradition for our little gang: movie night.

On nearly every road trip we've taken over the past six months, the muppers have requested a showing of Toy Story. And every time, Trey and I have listened intently from the front seat, wondering aloud just what it must be like to actually see the darned thing.

So after we'd consumed the last crumbs of turkey and stuffing, we all changed into jammies, curled up with quilts, sipped (and slurped and spilled) hot chocolate and marshmallows, and watched the flick together.

And after the big finale ("Mommy, Daddy! Mommy, Daddy! LOOK! Buzz Lightyear is FLYING!"), we put our happy, sleepy, chocolate-crusted muppers to bed, and then we did something we hardly ever do anymore: we crawled back onto the couch and watched a decidedly non-G-rated movie.

Now, at last, the television's off and we're tucked into our own beds for the night. We're grateful for the wonderful week we've had, which we hope to revisit tomorrow by going through pictures and unpacking various souvenirs.

But as the credits roll on this adventure, we're oh, so happy to be home. Because really, there's no place quite like it.

Full

2007-11-22T21:38:00.000-08:00

It's pretty much a spot-on description of the day's events.

The Houston clan, gathered 'round? Check.
A sumptuous, scrumptious feast, prepared with love? Check.
Gleefully disobedient muppers? Check, check, check.

The only real difference is that this year, I have some variation of the upper-respiratory ick my mother-in-law had last year. But instead of soldiering through and preparing a fabulous meal like she did, I slept through most of the day, rousing only occasionally to eat gorgeous food that I couldn't completely taste: a cruel punishment, indeed.

Tomorrow, then, I'll be thankful for an abundance of leftover food. Tonight, I'm thankful for this post from last year, which does a much better job than this stuffy head could of capturing the day and my many blessings.

Car tunes

2007-11-21T22:37:00.001-08:00

First, as we all know, there was Dallas.

This was followed by a night at my sister's house in Mississippi before steering east.

A few days in Alabama: everyone made merry, then we piled back into the minivan and returned to the city by the river, where I graduated from high school nearly two decades ago.

You think I exaggerate? Sorry: no.

After a lengthy day on the road with much whining by all (including, yes, me), interrupted only by repeated airings of The Jungle Book, we limped into Houston, where we're assured of a restorative meal and festive day with the kinfolk here.

All of this to say: after traversing more than 1,550 miles in five days, I have nothing especially worthwhile to blog about tonight.

But really, who would have guessed I'd still be hanging onto my NaBloPoMo pledge (albeit by the skin of my teeth) three weeks into the month? Certainly not me. So blog I must, despite the obvious lack of content.

Which is why I'm turning to my iPod for tonight's post. What, pray tell, will a random shuffle of ten songs get me? Let's find out, shall we?

1. Say Hello, Wave Goodbye: David Gray. Murmur. Wasn't expecting to kick things off on such a mellow note; frankly, I was pulling for KC and The Sunshine Band. But this song is lovely and slightly more poetic than I'm Your Boogie Man, so, you know, all is well.

2. I Feel Lucky: Mary Chapin Carpenter. Okay, now we're vaguely rocking. I'm not an especially large fan of the c-and-w genre, but it's a catchy ditty that gets props for invoking one of my favorite musicians on the planet, Lyle Lovett. Also? Makes me want to run out and buy a lottery ticket.

3. King of the Road: Roger Miller. An odd choice, yes, but who am I to argue with the iPod? This comes to us courtesy of the Swingers soundtrack, and reminds me fondly of a time and place when Vince Vaughn was less... well, fluffy. As was I.

4. The Ark: Gerry Rafferty. Seriously? Could this list please be any less impressive? Could we not see one tiny example of how deeply eclectic and funky and soulful my true musical inclinations lie? Oh, no: instead we get a song that makes me cry every. single. time. I hear it. Curse you, Gerry Rafferty, for your melancholy melodies from the 1970s.

5. Piranhas Are A Very Tricky Species: Mark Mothersbaugh. Indeed. It's a truism, it's a twee tune by one of the founding members of Devo, it's a throwaway line from my most favoritest movie ever and yes, by gum, it's eclectic. Well played, iPod.

6. Arizona: Alejandro Escovedo. Meh. I'd probably have chosen another Alejandro tune, but this does serve as a pertinent reminder to order this year's KGSR compilation when it hits the stores on Friday. You have been warned.

7. Drunken Angel: Lucinda Williams. Ah: Lucinda the divine. Pure poetry from an utterly flawless CD. Nice. Depressing as hell, but oh, so nice.

8. Long Tall Texan: Lyle Lovett. Love, love, love this man. Love, love, love this song and album. Cringe viscerally at the memory of thrice meeting him, and thrice stammering and shaking and nodding my head spasmodically whilst Trey stepped in to fill the awkward silence. Arrghh.

9. Fur Elise: Vince Guaraldi Trio. Some people have rules about wearing white shoes after Labor Day. I'm not sure white shoes are ever a great idea, but I do feel that Christmas music and decorations should be verboten before Thanksgiving. Notable exception: A Charlie Brown Christmas. That's good listening any day of the year.

10. Long Dead Gone: John Wesley Harding. Oh, I see how this works: we begin on a slow, sleepy tempo and end with something poppy and peppy. Now I'll be awake all night, with this college-days fave blaring through my brain. Fine.

Happy tunes to you... and, needless to say, feel free to add your own to the list.

Trouble brewing

2007-11-20T22:11:00.000-08:00

Two entries today for Carter's nonexistent baby book:

1. This afternoon, for the first time in his young life, my sweet boy rolled his eyes at me. And sighed heavily and dramatically as if to say, How, exactly, did I manage to end up with the world's drippiest mother? I cannot wait to leave home.

And in an instant, my heart shattered into a kabillion tiny shards. Because what precipitated this wee snit was that I'd played for him the silly lullaby I've sung to him nearly every night since he was old enough to request it.

However, by the time he shot me his third eyeroll for some other petty aggravation, this one accompanied by a surly glare, I was pretty much over it.

2. Also, and I'm not implying there's a connection between the two events, just recording the facts: Carter committed his very first crime today. Yep, pocketed a piece of gum from a little gas station about a half-hour north of Birmingham.

It was pretty innocuous, really; he was milling around the place while Trey waited in line to buy a Diet Dr Pepper, and he grabbed a handful of candy, which he was promptly told to put right back, mister. And he did, except for that lone wrapped gumball, which he revealed to Trey in the parking lot.

Trey marched him back inside, of course, made him apologize to the cashier and pay for the gumball with a quarter he'd been saving. The cashier, who'd obviously played this role before, solemnly told him he'd done the right thing, as she made change for the quarter.

All's well now. No big deal. But this parenting stuff? Not for sissies.

Landmark

2007-11-19T22:46:00.000-08:00

This is how it happens.

The strong, consistent pull of deja-vu and the crazy quilt of childhood memories give way, more or less, to actual bearings and a sense of place.

We know most of the hotel staff by name, both morning and evening crews, and Miss Karen remembers to put aside a bag of stale biscuits so we can feed the ducks and catfish out back.

After we've dispersed every last morsel, after we stroll back into the hotel and board the elevator, Spencer and Katie take their places at the handrail to watch as we magically levitate above the lobby. Carter needs no prompting to push the number for our floor.

We're slightly, irrationally miffed when someone takes "our" space in the parking lot.

Laundry has been done, groceries have been purchased. And everything we own is infused with the faint, sweet smell of Nanny's house.

The revelers have gone home. The cards have been opened, the presents unwrapped. The balloons have deflated. There's still cake, but we've quit craving it entirely, and now eat it only out of a vague sense of obligation.

We see a car with a Texas license plate, and it rings a distant bell. Yes, Texas: we remember something about that.

We can't quite recall a time when the morning sun didn't rise over the mountains. And the stars: well, they've always been this bright, haven't they?

We go out for barbecue and run into a former neighbor.

Everything that was strange and foreign just a few days ago now seems utterly normal.

There hasn't been enough time to visit. Not nearly enough. There never will be, of course, and that's why it hurts to leave.

But we know that it's time to move on. And we know that, when we return, we'll happily start all over again.

Detour

2007-11-18T22:12:00.000-08:00

So: the plan for tonight's blog was to explain why Lynyrd Skynyrd does, in fact, bring me back to my childhood (good guesswork, nodnarb) and how it is that we came to Alabama in force to officially celebrate my grandmother's big birthday in style.

But: well, it's late. I am oh, so weary, probably as a result of this marvelous, memorable, action-packed day, but possibly because I have a wee bug of some sort that I'm unwittingly sharing with the fam who've gathered 'round. Which means I'm getting stink eye every time one of my sisters sneezes.

And: to top things off, poor Spence is having a rough night, the likes of which can, apparently, only be smoothed by sleeping wedged between his parents. So I'm thinking that clacking away at the laptop? Perhaps not the most brilliant idea at the moment.

Ergo: I am safely steering the blog to the shoulder of the road for the evening. Tomorrow, I'll rev it back up. Keep your seatbelts fastened...

Turn it up

2007-11-17T21:42:00.000-08:00

Big wheels keep on turning:
Carry me home to see my kin.
Singing songs about the Southland,
I miss Alabama once again.

And I think its a sin, yes.

Sweet home Alabama,
Where the skies are so blue.
Sweet home Alabama,
Lord, I'm coming home to you.

Here I come...

Ninety

2007-11-16T04:32:00.000-08:00

She doesn't have call waiting, much less a cell phone.

Her microwave oven predates my two youngest siblings.

And she doesn't have video games to entertain visiting great- and grandchildren; Nanny kicks it old-school-style with a seriously vintage Pachinko machine.

But it's never too late to embrace technology. So today, in honor of her ninetieth birthday, we're presenting my grandmother with a computer.

The learning curve, it may be steep. I don't think I'm going too far out on a limb by predicting that she won't be Googling with confidence for at least a day or two.

So to make things a little easier on her (and yes, myself), I'm bumping a pair of Nanny-specific posts from last year.

Here's my recollection of the time we accidentally killed her. (I hasten to add that she recovered nicely. Honest.)

And here's my list of seventeen fascinating tidbits about this remarkable woman, born on this day in 1917.

Happy birthday, Nanny. I love you.

That's a peach, hon.

2007-11-15T23:10:00.000-08:00

So, a personal creed: do you have one? It shouldn't surprise anyone who knows me that I don't, because this would imply a certain level of structure and purpose that's sorely lacking in my life. For heaven's sake, I still need to write a few outstanding thank-you notes for wedding gifts.

Why, yes, the wedding was in 1994. You're so kind to mention it.

I can't say that Trey's the type to put much stock in personal creeds, but if I could be so bold to select one for him, it would be: Work Hard, Play Hard.

This probably sounds more impressive in Latin, but the only thing I've retained after dedicating much of my adolescence to the study of maddening little words that end in the letter "a," is: Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres. Which doesn't get me very far these days.

Anyhoo: Trey. Daily, he quests to strike the best possible balance between what he must do and what he wants to do.

For example, he must, on occasion, travel for work and, after the work part has concluded, he must eat in nice restaurants with wine lists and no high chairs. However, he really wants to bathe three shrieking, splashing, uncooperative muppers while I fall into a weeping heap on the couch.

I kid! I kid because I love. And also because I don't have the foggiest idea what Trey does for a living.

I mean, I know he markets... something. And meets about... things. And I'm absolutely certain that he has marketing meetings. But after that, it gets a little fuzzy for me. Does his company manufacture widgets? Does he worry about the WENUS? I can't be sure.

Whenever we're introduced to new people, and the question, "So, Trey, what do you do?" inevitably arises, I try very hard to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. But it's no use, because I'm listening, I'm listening, and then: look! A butterfly! Look at the butterfly! And so another learning opportunity passes me by.

Still, I have the distinct impression that Trey works extremely hard from nine to five. Or, more frequently, eight to six. Seven to seven? Sometimes, yes.

And it's not like his work is done when he metaphorically clocks out, because his offspring show him not one shred of mercy as he walks through the front door at the end of a long day.

So he'd more than earned an uninterrupted day of play today. And in keeping with his personal creed, he played really, really hard.

Specifically, Trey played golf today. FIFTY holes of the stuff. In ONE day. And here's the best part: it was for a totally awesome cause.

My friend Jenny, who just happens to be the most remarkable person I've ever known in real life, organized not one, but two golf tournaments in the span of one month for her organization, Heroes for Children, and invited Trey to participate in both.

So a few weeks ago, Trey played in the Heroes for Children Golf Classic, which was, as it turns out, a great warm-up for today's Golf-A-Thon. He also e-mailed friends, family and co-workers to ask for their support, and thanks to their astonishing generosity and great big warm and fuzzy hearts, he personally raised more than $1,700 for HFC.

For a glimpse at how that money will be used to help families in Texas whose children are battling cancer, read this. Pretty heady stuff, huh?

I'm so impressed with and so incredibly proud of Trey's part in helping HFC today, and I'm so grateful to everyone who supported him in the endeavor. He'd thank you himself, I'm sure, if he weren't crashed out on the couch, sawing logs, cheeks ever so slightly windburned. He's pretty darn cute, my hard-working man.

Sleep well, husband. And sweet dreams: you definitely earned 'em. Because tomorrow? It's back to work, buddy.

Harmony

2007-11-14T23:35:00.000-08:00

Because one of the singular joys of motherhood is seeing my children fall in love with the music that I adored a generation ago.

Because the catchy tune, the groovy threads and the seriously funky moves? Every bit as fresh today as they were then.

Because I'm not sure it's ever too early to begin the indoctrination, and that girl would never lead us astray.

Because lately, I feel as if I should be wearing a black-and-white striped shirt with a whistle dangling around my neck, as I clutch in my sweaty palms a book that I desperately need to read, because oh, my WORD, the daily angst and strife and conflict amongst the muppers. And maybe, just maybe, watching this video twelve times before breakfast will help enact some positive change, even if it's at the most molecular level.

Quandary

2007-11-13T21:52:00.001-08:00

I heard the wildest rumor on the radio today. Just completely unbelievable.

Naturally, I went running to Snopes to check its veracity, and I was stunned: stunned, I tell you, to learn that it was the straight dope. Apparently, we are halfway through November.

NOVEMBER, people. O, October: we hardly knew ye.

Let's briefly put aside the fact that we'll be saying good-bye to this whole year in a matter of weeks, because then I'll need to breathe into a paper bag to stave off a panic attack.

No, let's focus on a more pressing issue.

What, exactly, am I supposed to do with the small but adorable pile of ornamental gourds on my front doorstep?

A brief survey of the neighborhood reveals that mine are, in fact, the last pumpkins standing.

And I freely acknowledge that, even in its prime, this wasn't an especially impressive display. After all, it's de rigeur to hire professional crew to install Christmas lights 'round here, and I'm pretty sure that our house was one of the few without its very own pumpkin stylist.

I just know the neighbors shake their heads and tsk-tsk as they drive by.

So, fine: the gourds have to go. But it just seems cruel and heartless to toss them in the trash can along with the edamame shells and splintered chopsticks from tonight's dinner.

Especially the green curly-tailed watermelon-looking thing that looks as if it were designed by Dr. Seuss himself. I secretly wish I could give it a name and keep him as a pet.

Gourdo. Yes, that's it: I'll call him Gourdo.

Sigh. Perhaps I need a hobby. Or, more likely, a decent night's sleep. Off to bed I go...

Checking it twice.

2007-11-12T22:35:00.000-08:00

I love paper. There: I said it.

I don't love paper in an unhealthy way; I've never been tempted to eat it, for example, but I do wince when I hear the phrase "paperless society." I'm sure that's all well and good for the trees of the world, but it's a terrible omen for paperphiles like me.

My heart skips a full beat when I come across an especially lovely journal, stationery set, notepad or sketchbook. I swoon at clean, white, unlined pages that swear to store whatever silly sentiment, botched poem or mission statement bobs into my head at any given time.

And once such thoughts are recorded, there's nothing more delicious than stumbling across them a few years down the road. That's why I've had such fun this week, paging through an old diary from my post-college years.

I confess that I'm sorely tempted to shred a few entries that seem too awkward and foolish and emotionally overwrought for posterity. But somehow I manage to resist the urge, and leave them be.

After all, I have to force myself to throw away grocery lists, so I could never truly part with the lunatic, rambling retelling of, and I quote, "the forcible, non-optional removal of my four wisdom teeth." I had never, but NEVER, known pain even remotely like this before.

Needless to say, I had never birthed a child before. Adorable naivete.

Because I was (yes: am) an intermittent diarist, this one slender book, featuring Matisse's silhouette of Icarus, encompasses nearly five years of scribbles and scrawls.

Among them, my favorites are the lists. I kept lists of things that made me happy, relevant quotes, itemized intentions, witty musings from co-workers and, of course, resolutions at the cusp of each new year. A snippet from the early hours of 1994:

Enjoy this wedding.
Watch my posture.
Find an apartment with a good, clean kitchen, and start cooking again.
Start an exercise routine, and keep a record of what I eat.
Buy a few good bras.
Smile more.
Either water my plants daily, or throw them away.

Lofty goals, indeed.

I haven't written out resolutions for a few years now, but it doesn't matter; I can borrow pretty freely from these lists gone by. I suspect I'll forever intend to start an exercise routine, for example, and maintaining a decent selection of bras is always a good idea.

If I ever tire of my own lists, I can even sneak a peek into the lives of others, thanks to a book I bought today. It's a compilation, with commentary, of the to-do lists of complete and total strangers. Such voyeuristic fun to read the pro v. con chart of someone else's job or boyfriend. Or both.

Also fun? Sarah Kate's challenge to list your childhood celebrity crushes. Join in the fun, check out the comments to find out what Trey and I had to say about such, or just enjoy the eye candy. You're welcome.

And that, for now, is all that's fit to print. THE END.

My little eye

2007-11-11T22:48:00.001-08:00

Seen, in the crowd spilling out of Scholz's biergarten before yesterday's game: a frat brother Trey's hasn't talked to in years. "We used to go to the Broken Spoke," Trey says, adding quickly, "long before you came on the scene, find the two tallest girls in the place and dance with 'em all night long."

Seen, in the crowd spilling out of Memorial Stadium after the game: a friend of ours from the Houston years, and his daughter, now a junior at Texas. With some prompting, we remembered attending his wedding. We traded tales of old times, then exchanged contact information and promises to stay in touch.

Seen, below our hotel window this morning: the Veterans Day parade, streaming slowly down Congress Avenue. Included: flags of every size, many motorcycles, marching bands, a crew of Corvettes, a fire engine (preceded by a curious Dalmatian), bagpipers, and troops: soldiers, past and present, and scouts, all sorts.

Seen, outside our ground-level window at breakfast: much of the parade and its spectators, winding their way back home; the thrilled face of a valet, inspecting a ten-dollar tip; a surprising number of mixed marriages, with one spouse clad in red and black and the other still wearing last night's burnt orange. What's their breakfast conversation like, I wonder? Ours is happy and easy and quiet. Too quiet: it's time to fetch the muppers.

Seen, just before we leave town: all things musical at our favorite Austin outpost. We grab as much as we can carry before we hit the road in my mom's Jeep.

Seen, shortly after we arrive at our meeting point, halfway between us and them: the three most beautiful kiddos I've ever seen, with enormous grins on their faces and their arms outstretched. Also: their weary Nana and uncle.

Seen, rolling below our patio table at the Gristmill: the Guadalupe River.

Seen, after a large lunch: a brief but satisfying snippet of my first-ever show at Gruene Hall. The muppers refuse to comply with my request to dance, but that leaves the planked floor open for others to gracefully twirl and step in time to the music.

Seen, once we've said our good-byes and buckled the muppers into their seats: an enormous blue Texas sky stretching up and out and oh-so-wide.

Seen, shortly after that: the backs of my eyelids, for a little while.

Seen, just on the horizon, well after the sun has set and the muppers have been placated with their favorite movie and the final credits have run and they have just begin to completely lose their cool: the Bank of America building, glowing green, which means that Dallas is within reach.

Seen, after a few twists and turns: our house. In the middle of our street. Our house: it's our castle and our keep.

Goodnight, all...

'Tis the season

2007-11-10T20:59:00.000-08:00

Like children pining for Santa Claus, Trey and I eagerly await his arrival every year.

We know he'll darken our doorstep on some steamy summer day, bearing a special delivery, but we don't know exactly when. We have a pretty good idea of what's coming, but there's always the potential for surprise.

And then: oh, the joy. The doorbell rings. The package arrives. We squeal with glee, join hands and dance around the room while the muppers regard us with skepticism. They don't get it, and they won't for some time, but we know.

The season, it has begun.

It's college football season, and Dave, our mailman, capably plays the role of Santa in a faded blue suit.

In exchange for our signature and some polite banter about the weather, he hands us a large Priority Mail envelope containing about a half-dozen color-coded tickets to Texas Longhorn home games.

And it really is a bit like Christmas morning: we spend so much of the year in giddy anticipation... and then, before we know it, we're sitting in the middle of a room filled with crumpled wrapping paper, stunned that it's all over till next year.

Tonight, we opened the last present under the tree, and it was exactly what we wanted: a thrilling victory over our rivals from the west, Texas Tech.

It really couldn't have been more perfect: it was a gorgeous day, warm enough for shorts and t-shirts and sunscreen, but with a nice breeze blowing from the Hill Country. Texas in November, y'all.

Before the clock started ticking, we were treated to a flyover of Apache helicopters, a grateful Veterans Day nod to those who've served our country, and enthusiastic recognition of the seniors on and around the field.

And once the game began, there was lots of action and just enough suspense to keep things interesting until the very end.

But some of my favorite moments and memories happened, as they so often do, in the stands.

This is the sixth year Trey and I have held season tickets, with the last five years spent in the same seats. Our corner of Memorial Stadium is like a neighborhood in miniature. We might not have hand-picked the people around us, but for the most part, we respect and look out for each other.

We collectively roll our eyes at the guy who always seems to be looking for a fight. Or the two women who chatter from beginning to end about anything under the sun that's not related to football.

Or that loud-mouthed girl who yells and hoots and hollers and stands up when all around her are seated. (Hey: I am my father's daughter.)

We trade tickets to games we know we can't attend. We high-five after a big play. We ask after children and grandchildren, proudly displaying pictures when prompted. We celebrate birthdays. We share our peanuts.

And after Smokey the Cannon fires for the last time, and the Texas faithful join together to sing The Eyes of Texas, we pat each other on the back and say, "Next year. You take care, and we'll see you next year."

This year isn't really over, of course. We still have our final regularly scheduled game, and we certainly hope we'll have some postseason football to enjoy. But the last home game is always a bittersweet reflection of the year that was.

Football players linger on the field, high-fiving the fans before they finally make that walk through the tunnel and into the locker room. Cheerleaders gather on the fifty for group portraits and hugs all around. Band members hold their instruments aloft and savor their view of the stadium.

And we mentally begin the countdown till our blue-suited Santa rings the doorbell to kick off a brand-new season.

Hook 'em, Horns.

Mixmaster

2007-11-09T23:25:00.000-08:00

To the amusement or annoyance (or both) of family and friends, Trey and I still celebrate the anniversary of our first date.

Goofy? Yeah. But it's a fun and easy day (11.11.88) to remember a fun and easy time. Although I do wince at the memory of the spiral perm, acid-washed jeans and bedazzled ankle boots I so proudly sported that night. Yeesh.

I should note that it's not always an elaborate observation; according to a 2005 calendar I recently unearthed, it appears that I marked the date with an eyebrow wax.

I feel certain that I was thinking of my beloved as each errant hair was torn from its follicle.

This year, we're taking the show on the road, back to where it all began.

In the morning, we'll kiss the muppers good-bye and leave them in the very capable hands of their Nana, Uncle John and Aunt Mar. Then we'll be free to spend twenty-four hours 'round our college stomping grounds, in Austin.

I think every one of the forty acres holds some memory of Trey and me, young and in love. The love, I'm happy to report, hasn't faded one iota with the passage of time, but some of the memories have gotten a little hazy.

Thank goodness I kept a journal. Too bad I don't have the foggiest idea where it is.

However: I was able to dig up and dust off a diary from 1993, in which I rather melodramatically recalled the events that had led to my happy status as FIANCEE, y'all.

Rereading it this afternoon, I was struck by a pair of revelations. First, at one point in my life, my writing was actually legible. Today, not so much.

And second, I dedicated less of my adorable twentysomething scrawl to the night of our first date, and much more to the night we met. Which was nineteen years ago this very evening.

Now, I'm no Ree; I lack the material, mad writing skillz and attention span to weave a breathtaking tale with more cliffhangers and hiney tingles than a Friday-afternoon episode of Days of Our Lives.

But I think our little story warrants one blog post, at least. So, with minor editing for only the most cringeworthy snippets, here's my account of how it all began.

+++

In my first three months as an Austinite, I occupied the world of a wide-eyed freshman: classes, dorm life, new friends, a vast dating pool and the demands of sorority.

Sorority meant near-constant meetings and regular mixers, all of which required my attendance. I chafed at the rules and regularly questioned my decision to go Greek, but I had a small, comfortable group of friends in my pledge class who made it easier for me to stick things out a while longer.

Said friends were excited when, at yet another meeting, it was announced that our next mixer would be with the Betas.

One friend bemoaned the fact that her ex-boyfriend would probably be in attendance. We repeated his name and solemnly agreed that, at the request of our sister, Trey Franklin would be declared off-limits.

I cared as little about the ex-boyfriend as about the mixer itself. I'd been invited to another party that sounded like more fun, but when my friends Bry and Jenn asked me for a ride to the mixer, I reluctantly made the commitment to attend.

So on Wednesday, the night after George Bush was elected president, I donned a cream turtleneck, a black argyle cardigan and a black miniskirt, and Bry, Jenn and I struck out for a bar called Sixth Street Live.

Downstairs, a guy was cranking out some sad country tunes. As we walked upstairs to join the mixer, I spied a group of unfamiliar faces sitting around a table. I guessed that they were Betas, but there was a girl in their midst, and they weren't making any efforts at mixing.

I remember feeling a little indignant: were they interlopers? Or did they think they were above this scene? And why was the best-looking guy in the room just sitting there, not smiling? Who did he think he was, anyway?

I shook it off and kept moving. But the crowd was lethargic, and in short order, I was ready to go somewhere else. Bry and Jenn seemed content to stay a while longer, so I put on my best party face and chatted with friends, biding my time.

Meanwhile, the best-looking guy in the room had decided to stretch his legs. I saw him maneuvering through the crowd and hoped he would come over to me. There was just something about him: he was tall, of course, and handsome, and I wondered what it would be like to talk to him.

But he didn't seem to notice me, so I talked to other people instead. In mid-sentence, I'd glance around the room to see where he was, who he was talking to. Occasionally, I thought he was looking my way, too, but he never acknowledged me.

Now I found myself forming an opinion of the guy with no name.

I know you, I thought. You're one of those cocky frat guys with not much going on upstairs, and a wallet in your pocket stuffed with your dad's credit cards. You're not gonna waste your time chatting up a freshman from some town in Mississippi that's so small, it's not even on the map.

This was the monologue playing in my head as I chatted idly with a gaggle of pledge sisters staged opposite a group of Betas, with Mr. Obnoxious front and center. My friend with the broken heart nodded toward the boys. "That's the guy I was telling y'all about."

As we all tried unsuccessfully to look without staring, I followed the direction of her nod, and my heart caught in my throat. "Which one is he?" Jenn asked. "The one in the striped shirt," came the answer.

I glanced again, praying that Mr. Obnoxious was wearing plaid. Nope: stripe city. In a desperate bid at subtlety, I gestured in his general direction, asking my friend, "Him? The tall one?"

"No," she said, "it's the guy standing next to him."

Why was I flooded with relief when he obviously wasn't interested enough to talk to me? This was getting ridiculous. It was definitely time for a change of scene, so I found Bry and Jenn and gave them a five-minute warning.

As they wandered back into the crowd to say their good-byes, I broke away from the pack and found where I'd left my purse. Feeling disgusted and dejected by this utter waste of time, I leaned over... and felt someone tap my shoulder.

Turning around, I looked up... and up, into the handsome face. It said, "Hi, my name is Trey Franklin." I smiled at the face, swallowed hard and tried to be cool.

And then we talked. We talked about Austin, about the South, about names, about our families. He was a history major working for a law firm, a junior from Houston with Georgia roots wearing, I noted, a triple-starched Brooks Brothers shirt.

Lo and behold, he actually seemed like a really nice guy, if a little too suave. God, that smile: my heart must have been beating double-time.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing when he told me that the Betas were having a burgers-and-beer casual at the house on Friday. Would I like to come? I said yes just as Bry and Jenn suddenly materialized, ready to go.

And then, feeling so giddy I was nearly reeling, I got in my car and left without giving him my phone number.

But you know what? He has it now.

Vegetative state

2007-11-08T10:54:00.000-08:00

Because I try not to make a habit of carefully inspecting the chompers of gift horses, I cannot explain to you why it is that Carter, one month shy of his fifth birthday, suddenly loves carrots.

Three weeks ago? A few tender baby carrots, surreptitiously nudged next to a stack of dinosaur bites, would have elicited howls of protest. Today, I've had to stop him from inhaling a family-size bag of the stuff, lest his skin take on an orange cast.

I can't account for the change, but I can and will confide that the discovery of this small but significant breakthrough has had me pirouetting 'round the kitchen with relief and joy.

Because it means, and I say this with all love and respect for my better half, that at least one kiddo of our three may have dodged their father's screwy eating gene.

I'm terribly sorry that I'm not at liberty to go into detail about this quirky gene, which mystifies me no less today than when I learned about it two decades ago, because it is, for Some People, a Sensitive Topic. And Some People, I have discovered, don't relish sharing All Personal Aspects of Their Lives with Complete and Total Strangers.

Personally, I can't begin to understand this odd philosophy, but I do try to respect it. Usually. Unless it's irresistibly blogworthy.

I will tell you that it's quite a sight to see a handsome, strapping six-foot-four-sized man shrink in fear at the notion of eating a lettuce leaf. Or a banana.

So: Carter chomping carrots was a very good thing indeed. So good, in fact, that I happily looked the other way as he methodically dunked each carrot into a little cup of ranch dressing, nullifying at least some of that fabulous nutritional goodness.

THE BOY IS EATING VEGETABLES, I rationalized. Ranch dressing, chocolate fondue fountain, a vat of melted butter served with a giant paintbrush: accompaniments can be phased out later, I figured.

It was a pleasant scene. Until Katie walked into the kitchen.

"Orange juice," she said, tossing her empty sippy cup in my general direction. Just as I began to launch into my kabillionth lecture of the morning about manners and magic words, Carter bounded toward his sister with a smile and a handful of bunny snacks.

"Katie, would you like a carrot?" he asked. "No," Katie said, with a bit of a snip to her voice. "I don't like carrots. Orange. Juice."

"You should really give it a try," Carter persisted. "Taste it with ranch sauce. It's so good!"

Katie softened her tone, but shook her head again. "Ranch sauce is spicy. I don't like ranch sauce."

Carter was only slightly deflated. "No, it's not spicy. Look at me! Mmmmm. It's yummy."

I admired Carter's attitude, but knew from first-hand experience that no way, no how, was Katie backing down from her stance. Sure enough, she held out her hands in the universal gesture of "back off, wise guy" and reiterated her opinion. Ranch? Spicy. Bad.

Satisfied with a fresh supply of o.j., she began to make her way out of the kitchen, but my born-again veggie fiend wasn't giving up that easily. He followed her, wielding a carrot and now openly begging her to try it. Please! Just a taste! You'll see! It's not spicy!

Katie broke into a run. Carter dashed after her. Somehow I became the center axis of the fray, so now they were whirling around me, with Katie screeching, "SPICY! NO!" and Carter yelling, "COME HERE! COME HERE AND EAT THE CARROT! STOP TEASING ME!"

And I thought: gosh, maybe that quirky gene isn't such a bad deal after all.

Eventually, an impasse was declared. Katie went skulking off to a corner to read a book and channel her inner moody thirteen-year-old.

Plucky Carter was down, but not out. So I wasn't especially surprised to hear him peddling his wares in the den.

"Hey, Spencer, do you want to try a carrot with ranch sauce? It's not spicy at all."

Framed

2007-11-07T22:29:00.001-08:00

Set up, I tell you.

People, I have been set up, and I'll confess: I never even saw it coming.

The con artists? So clever and crafty that I had nary a clue they'd been quietly scheming against me, much less using me as an unwitting accomplice. Oh, the shame.

For two months, apparently, I've been oblivious to the whispers and handshakes and secret plots being hatched behind my back. But really, this story began unfolding two years ago this very week.

That's when, after months of deliberation, I bit the bullet and scheduled a session with Sugar Photography. Some girl named Jennifer Weintraub showed up at our front door and just... well, hung out with us for a little while.

With a camera at the ready, she immediately won over our wily mupper trio. Carter, not quite three, showed off his very best tricks for this cool new friend. Spencer and Katie, mostly bald and nearly toothless, smiled and drooled on cue.

Jennifer managed to put me at ease in front of the lens, an unprecedented feat, and indulged Trey with some photography talk. By the end of the afternoon, all five of us were thoroughly smitten with the lovely and talented Ms. Weintraub.

I knew I wanted pictures of our kiddos, a snapshot of our life in the autumn of 2005. I had no idea what we were in for.

The pictures? Quite literally, took our collective breath away. And that snapshot grows more valuable, more cherished and more breathtaking as time marches on.

Two years down the road, I'm so sorry to say, I've forgotten all about the sweet little notch at the top of Spencer's right ear... until I look at the photographic results of that afternoon. Then it all comes rushing back to me.

And as if all that weren't enough, we somehow scored this fabulous new friend out of the deal, who just happened to have adorable children the same ages as ours, and a husband who loved music and was a wine distributor.

We couldn't quite believe our luck. Still can't.

At roughly six-month increments since that first session, we've had the enormous privilege of being Sugar subjects. Sometimes, I like to think, we've been cooperative, but more often than not, we've been dificult. Obstinate. Royal pains in the arse.

Someone invariably has a secret double ear infection. Or runs away in the middle of an absolutely perfect photo op. Someone else steadfastly refuses to smile, even when promised lollipops.

Someone (and really, there's no need to name names) has an unfortunate attack of adult-onset acne. You get the picture.

Correction: we do. Doesn't really matter how it all goes down, we get these incredible photographs, these priceless treasures, on the other side of it.

The only problem is that we don't do anything with the pictures. Well, that's not really true: we put them out and prop them up and ooh and aah at them, and smile and nod and defer praise to Jen when we have visitors who invariably ooh and aah at them.

Even though the propped-up pictures are, I cringe at the confession, wrapped in cellophane.

It's not that I don't want to find frames for them. I don't for a minute believe that they're best showcased in plastic wrap. I know they deserve more.

It's just that I'm one of those nincompoops who becomes nearly debilitated by the question: "Ma'am, would you like paper or plastic today? Ma'am? Paper bags, or those of the plastic variety? No, really, either one is fine with me; it's your choice. Ma'am? Ma'am?"

So selecting frames for my gorgeous Sugar pictures? Would require heavy doses of medication. Sigh.

Last week, and I knew it was coming eventually, I got an angry call from Jen, demanding the immediate return of my still-naked portraits.

Oh, fine: I exaggerate for dramatic effect. C'est moi.

Actually, what she said was that she needed some examples to show a potential client. Huge favor. Just for a few days. Would I mind terribly?

I only lied a little when I said no, of course not, keep them as long as you need to. What? You're coming over now? Well, okay...

When Trey came home from work, he took note of the sad and empty spaces our cellophane-clad photos normally occupied, and asked just what in the sam hill had happened. I tried to keep my tone light as I told him that we were being punished for my inability to make decisions.

Jen had promised to return the pictures on Monday, but I hated to sound pushy, so I didn't bring it up when Monday was mostly over.

And anyway, we had a fun night on tap: a get-together with a group of mommy friends. I offered to drive Jen to the restaurant, and the husbands conspired to have dinner at our house and let the kids run amok while they talked of music and wine.

Good times were had by all. At the end of the evening, I dropped Jen off at her dark and quiet house, then made my way back to mine. The light in the muppers' room was off, so I tiptoed into the house, noting that the lamp I usually leave burning in the front room was dimmed, too.

I had nearly reached the kitchen when something inexplicably caught my eye. A flash of black over the mantle. A black corner connected to a... wait. Was that frame there when I left the house a few hours ago? And on the opposite wall...

Just then, Trey peeked 'round the corner, grinned at me and flipped on the lights.

The luminous photo of the muppers at the top of this blog? The one taken on a steamy day at the Arboretum last summer? Now in a gorgeous frame, hung above the fireplace. Ditto the how-did-she-do-that portrait of all five of us that Jen used for our 2006 holiday cards.

And on the opposite wall, a vibrant gallery of my three chickadees from this summer.

This snapshot truly doesn't do it justice, so please accept a standing invitation to come stand in my living room at your earliest convenience, and marvel with me.

And I did marvel, teary-eyed, at Trey's telling of how these stunning frames came to be ours: how he consulted with Jen and Deb on the sly to carefully select them, how Jen contrived that faux favor to get me to relinquish our prints just long enough to ferry them to the framer, and how they'd managed to sneak them back into the house so Trey could hang them before I arrived home.

I was nearly overcome by the Sugar showcase at the front of the house... and then Trey showed me a matched set of my favorite pictures from that very first session, now in beautiful twin frames and hanging over our bed.

That did it: I was a giant puddle. It's just... well, it's two years. The two of us. The two of them. (Don't fret; their big brother has been properly documented, too.)

But of the stacks and stacks of (predominantly unframed) photographs we've acquired in our nearly nineteen years together, I don't think there's ever been a more beautiful and organic illustration that captures how much Trey and I really, genuinely love each other.

How happy we are to be together.

How surprised and blessed and wildly entertained we are by our little family.

Truly, I've never been more grateful to be set up.