A Not So Ordinary Sunday Afternoon

We want our children to experience a lot of different things. Realistically, we're both lawyers land locked in Oklahoma.  We don't live a limited existence by any means, but we do find ourselves at the zoo, the park, and the zoo (if it's in another city it's new!)  more often than not. That is, we tend to stick to what works--places that welcome goldfish crackers, red Koolaid, and that don't close their doors to saggy Huggies and booger nose. Kid places.

In my perfect world, my children would be speaking two languages and learning to play their second instruments by now. My world isn't perfect. But, with the blessing of family, we've been able to introduce RJ (and ourselves) to a new culture. I have a cousin who's from Japan (technically, second cousin, two times removed or something like that, but I like to claim her as a cousin).  She's beautiful and smart, and as a bonus, she loves my kids. They love her too.

Apparently, she's also modest.  Yesterday, was just an ordinary Sunday afternoon, until she invited RJ to come learn the Japanese art of Kendo.  Google tells me that Kendo is a modern Japanese martial art or sport that combines traditional martial arts values with sport-like strenuous physical activity.  What my cousin and Google didn't tell me is this: Kendo is an incredibly physical sport that requires the fortitude of a boxer and the grace of a ballerina--all while wearing a full face mask and wielding a sword.

In RJ's world? It was just a tremendously fun afternoon. I hope that someday he'll realize what a unique opportunity he has to learn from one of the best in her sport.  Because, she's talented and graceful and powerful in her art. And, if you ask her about it? She'll tell you that it's just something she's been doing since she was five years old.

My five year old is just hoping that he'll get to sword fight again sometime soon. I'm grateful that he was able to spend a Sunday afternoon learning something new in landlocked Oklahoma:

RJ tries on the men (helmet)--he was scared of it, but if he wants to be a warrior, he'll have to learn to overcome those fears. 

Look closely. Her feet aren't touching the floor. 

RJ was the youngest in the class by about six years. And he owned it. 

I rarely see him so focused. 

But why wouldn't he be focused? He got to sword fight! (His feet are just barely touching the floor, but I think it's for an entirely different reason). 

See? I told you she's a beauty. And we're so very happy that she gives our babies (and us) the chance to learn about a different culture--even on an ordinary Sunday afternoon. 

For Love of Pets

It's 3 a.m., and GiGi is crying. I stagger out of bed and squish...cat barf.  They upchuck on the carpet. They spectacularly miss the litter box. And once, in a feat of unmatched intestinal fortitude, one of them hurled over the banister from the landing to the floor below.

So, why do I keep these furballs around? Why does anyone? Pets are messy. They stink. Some of them toot too much.  My mom has a cat who's not right and who requires antidepressants to quell his habit of methodically stripping the fur from his arms and belly.

He's not right. We call this "Sleeping with the Enemy." Because he's crazy. As in, he'll rip your eyes out if you blink too loudly.  But we love him anyway. 

We love  all of them. 

These are my current purveyors of hair balls. 

They're pretty naughty, and they barf a lot. But darned if they don't keep my toes warm at night and my smile a little warmer during the day. 

And they're pretty to look at too. 

Sometimes, I hear people call their pets their "fur babies." But really, we all know that pets aren't our children. They're better in some ways. They don't backtalk. They don't cause stretch marks, and they don't require midnight feedings (most of the time--the not right one did, but again, he's not right).  They expect nothing but love. Their preschool teachers won't expect hand-sculpted cheese pumpkins for Halloween parties, and tuition for obedience school just doesn't quite compare to private school tuition.

They love us unconditionally--even when we're ugly, even when we're hateful, even when we've said things we shouldn't.  They don't care about our salary or whether our houses are big or small.  There's a homeless man that I see downtown nearly every day with his Jack Russell. That tiny terrier thinks that his owner is just as fine and fancy as any Wall Street banker. They listen without judgment. They let us use their fur as tissue to dry our tears, and they're the first ones we tell every secret. My Katty was the first one to know I was going to have a baby, and she dried my tears when I thought I had failed the bar exam.

They make the best pillows.

They are our confidants. Our comfort in the storms (though sometimes we're their comfort in these crazy Oklahoma storms).  They get our jokes like no one else--even the really bad ones. They bring out the silly in us. They are our best friends.

She was old and fat, and she preferred Hubsie's laundry to her litter box any day. 

And, she didn't like him much. But she still brought out the silly. 

Her brother was far more dignified and much nicer. 

Sir Windsor was the perfect knight.  

And, he knew how to waste away in Margaritaville. 

So, we clean our carpets. We lint roll our winter coats. We let them beg from our plates, and we share our bacon sandwiches.

And, we mourn them when they pass. They're not our children. They're our true friends. And, we miss them. That's the thing with pets. They're our best friends. Our true confidants. Our bringers of smiles. In the best of times, we can pretend that they'll never leave us. But we know that they will. And, when they go, they leave us with memories of slobbers, snarfles, and snores.  Of nighttime snuggles, stinky breath, and squirrel chases.  

We miss this big lug. He was the best. The best of the best. 

But, darned if these memories don't make me smile just a little bit. 

Because, he was a friend. A true friend. I'm happier for having known him. He was stubborn. He smelled--particularly after a tangle with skunks. He walked me rather than the other way around.  And, even though I miss him (and I know a couple of others who do too), I think we know that we're better for having played his Boxer games, smelled his Boxer breath, bounced his Boxer bounce, and walked his Boxer walk.  

A Whole Handful

 My mom tells the story that when I was born, she looked at my teeny, red, angry face and thought, "I can't believe I have to take care of this for 18 years." (35 years later, we laugh, because everyone knows, once a mom, always a mom. She still takes care of me.).

Five years ago, I looked at a sleepy, hungry blond stranger and wondered if I'd every really get to know him. He had two perfect handfuls of fingers, and two perfect footfuls of toes. I knew he kicked when he got a taste of tomato sauce and that he hyperventilated when the nurses took him out of the room and away from me. I speak the truth. He had a "rapid breathing rate" (whatever that means) whenever he was away from me; but, put him in my arms, and all was right with the world. I kind of understood where he was coming from. For the first time in months, I felt strangely alone--even in a room full of people. Because, for the first time in months, my little stranger wasn't so strange anymore. No longer were his kicks and scratches things of wonder and mystery. I could see those kicky feet and scratchy hands--whole handfuls of razor sharp nails that I would choose to bite rather than risk sharp clippers. (Gross, but certainly not the grossest part of being a mom; having babies isn't for the weak stomached.).

RJ proved to be a handful. In jest, we call him high maintenance. He demanded to be held at all times and to be fed every two hours. I thought he was perfect and easy. First babies can be like that.

Five years later, he's no longer a stranger. He's my bestie, my shopping partner, my big helper.  I can't even really say he's a handful, because deep down, RJ is a pleaser. I joke that he would still be sitting in a high chair if I asked him to--while his baby sister sat in the big girl chair (she is not a pleaser).

But, today, he is a handful. A whole handful. Because, today, my baby turned five--four fingers and a thumb. We're one year away from needing both hands to respond to the inevitable little-boy question, "How old are you?"

He really was this little, and a whole handful ago, he was most content right in my arms. 

Now, he's most content in the arms of another woman, and I'm okay with that. 

We celebrated with a party just a few days before his actual birthday.  The shirt is from last year. I think we got our money's worth out of it. 

I really can't believe I have a five-year old. How can I be that old?

These two are ready to party.

And party he did. A special thanks to RJ's Coach Becky at Oklahoma Gold. She taught him for nearly 3 years and made his party something we'll always remember. 

He really has been going there for a long time. This wasn't quite a whole handful ago, but time sure has passed by quickly. 

The smiles are still pretty much the same. I love when my bestie smiles like this.

GiGi got to play too!

She's going to be the next Nadia. Just keep an eye out for this one. She's going to be famous (or not--I just really like her wee little chunky thighs in a leotard or puffy pants).

Zip line is serious business. He used to be kind of famous for his form (hanging upside down and generally causing every coach and every parent to cringe) until he came crashing down. Now, he plays it safer. 

Even with a haircut, his hair is still fabulous.

Happy Birthday to my big boy. My big boy with a big mouth. On arriving at the gym, he greeted his two grandmas, "Heeeeey, Nutballs!" It wasn't my proudest moment. 

He wanted to be sure he would have a candle. The rest was just a bonus, and apparently the singing wasn't quite up to his high standards. 

These three are buds. And, I'm grateful for that. Because I know exactly how much one special friend can mean, and what kind of difference that can make. 

Even the big boys want to swing. 

We spent the rest of the day outside flying a giant styrofoam airplane with our family. It was a perfect day. 

My bestie is a whole handful, with handfuls more to go. Happy 5th Birthday RJ!

Just A Couple of Mini-Milestones

One of the things I've learned being a mom is to celebrate the mini-milestones. Make memories; save memories (so that someday when I'm old and forgetful, I won't forget quite so much).  So, tonight, I'm celebrating a couple of mini-milestones.

From the time he was about six months old, RJ has always had fabulous hair. If you ask him, he'll tell you so. But really, he was blessed by the Follicle Fairy:

Boy Genius had fabulous hair. 

No really, it was remarkable. 

Women pay good money for hair like this. 

Who are we kidding, I would pay good money if I could have hair like this. 

Even when it was bad, it was good. 

Well, most of the time it was good. (I confess. I did this to my child.). 

Even he knew it was a bad haircut. 

He survived. So did his hair. But, it's hot. And he's a soccer star. 

So, we finally got the boy a real haircut (again). 

This was his first "real" haircut--the "Bieber" courtesy of the Disney World Barbershop. 

He and I both think that Sport Clips did an equally good job. Maybe even better--particularly since it didn't require a four hour flight. He still has fabulous hair.

(Can someone please, pretty please, slow down the clock? He's getting so big!)

GiGi is growing up too, though suffering from a chronic case of Second Child Syndrome. 

When RJ went to the dentist the first time, we took pictures--many, many pictures. And he got a toy and most likely some kind of trip to McDonald's too. 

I remembered the camera for GiGi's first trip to Dr. Garzon (we really like her): 

She wasn't too keen on the toy selection. But then again, it was 8 o'clock in the morning--well before the princess normally awakes. 

She wasn't too sure about all of it, but a Barbie car helped some. 

In the end? She was a champ. A total rock star. No tears. No tantrums. All GiGi. (She and her brother got donuts as a reward. I know. Donuts. Right after the dentist. I try to be a good mom. Sometimes being a good mom means forgetting momentarily that donuts are made of sugar.). 

Haircuts? Trips to the dentist? Not usually worth much more than a calendar entry to be forgotten by week's end. But, for a mom? These are the things we want to remember. The mini-milestones that make up my world these days. 

Mondays--The Real Reason Men Need Microwaves

You know those Mondays that come at you from nowhere? The ones that you could swear were really a Sunday? The calendar just got confused and now everything is cattywompus.

Today has been one of those Mondays. GiGi has been running a fever for two days, and it finally broke yesterday. Last night, she felt so good that she stayed up until 10 running from table to chair to appliance asking, "You see it?" This is my cue to identify the object so that she can repeat: "Chair." "Share!" "Table." "Able!"

It's a fun game, but not at 10 o'clock p.m. with a toddler whose bedtime is 7:30.

So, GiGi overslept. So did I.

I schlepped into the kitchen and tried to light the stove to put the tea kettle on. When, what to my wondering eyes appeared? Flames! Three inches high in the oven.

I stopped. Stared. Asked Hubsie, "What's on fire in the oven?"

"It's bacon!"

And this, this, is why men need microwaves. Ours is broken. Part is on order. Last week, I learned one of the best lifehacks ever. You can cook a whole package of bacon in the oven at 425 for 10 minutes.  I cooked a whole package just like this. It was life changing.

Cooking bacon  on "high" for an indiscriminate time also has the potential to be life changing. (I didn't even know an oven had a "high" setting. Learned something new today.).

While I ran to the garage to stare at the fire extinguisher, contemplating if the mess is really worth it, Hubsie took command over the bacon. Oven mitted, he took his flaming breakfast out the back door (while I stood guard over the cat--who smelled bacon obviously--and the four year old boy--who smelled adventure obviously).  The house smells a little worse for the wear.

But the smoke alarm didn't go off. Which would have been a tragedy, because GiGi was still asleep--in my bed. And, I think the oven is no worse for the wear (though somewhere the former immaculate owners of our house probably felt a little chill down their spines and couldn't figure out quite why).

I couldn't find RJ's insulated lunchbox, so he had to take peanut butter instead of pasta. Then, I knocked his decorator Lightening McQueen box off the counter and broke the handle. So, he marched to school like a man. A man with a Lightening McQueen lunchbox with a white satin ribbon handle.

I forgot my building card at school. And my building key for work.

And, of course, no Monday would be complete without my computer's daily greeting: "Outlook cannot find your local profile."

An hour later, I am at work. Nothing is on fire. Nothing is broken (so far). The week can only go up from here. (Right? Right??).

Easter Memories

When I was little, I loved Easter. The jelly beans, the stuffed bunnies, the chocolate, the dresses, and even the white patent leather shoes.  This year, I nearly missed Easter.

I can say it now that it's public: we filed the GMX Resources bankruptcy this past week. And, like any other chapter 11 filing, it took a lot of work.  I used to lament that I haven't been to trial since 2005. But really, a chapter 11 is a trial--with about 60 pleadings to go along with it on the first day.  We edited on the Saturday before Easter Sunday. I managed to put together a lasagna, an Easter egg hunt, some white dress shoes, and ruffled tights.  On Sunday, we managed church as a family, including Poppy, the great baby whisperer (GiGi was good almost the entire service!) and Grandma, who GiGi has now determined to call "Shotzy"--at least for this weekend.

I fell asleep in RJ's bed while trying to tuck him in for a nap, leaving Auntie Amy to fend for herself downstairs. (Not really, she and my mom had a great visit, but still, Emily Post would never fall asleep at her own party.). Then, I worked and edited and revised for 6 more hours. We filed the case at 7 a.m. on Monday.

To say I've been busy is an understatement at best. But, I did manage a few pictures:

This is the only hairstyle she'll let me do. She knows the deal. When she sees me coming, she begins, "Ow, owie, ouch!" She knows. It hurts to be beautiful. 

We made it to the church Easter egg hunt. These two are the best of friends.  They crack each other up. And that makes me crack up too. 

This is how little boys really want to celebrate Easter. 

Eggs! We got eggs!

Sissy got an egg too. Actually, she got two. But her brother helped make sure she didn't have too much to carry. She was happy enough with her bunny basket from Gma C. 

His school Easter egg hunt was nearly as exciting. 

This. This is what happy looks like. 

This. This is what friendship looks like. Look carefully, RJ's bestie is sharing eggs with him.

This is also what friendship looks like when you're a four-year old boy. (Someday when I'm 60, this will be the coolest picture ever. Did we really drive cars like that?!)

Easter cookies at our little Lutheran school.

Shhhhhhh, don't tell, but I think he's smitten. 

We managed a few hours out back. Some decisions I regret. The play set is not one of those regrettable decisions. 

They have lots to talk about, especially their crazy mom. 

The Easter Bunny brought a bubble machine!

He also brought books, toy cars, and a Samantha doll (quite possibly the best thrift store find ever). But all GiGi really wanted was jelly beans. Lots of jelly beans. 

He's quite dapper. 

And she's quite the little lady. 

When I was 8, I asked if I could wear a suit for Easter. GiGi got her first suit a little sooner. 

She has her own sense of style. 

Did you hear?! Did you hear?! He has risen!

Optimus Prime. 

Or maybe just a little boy with a bubble gun on a sunny Sunday morning. 

She loves her little house. And, she's quite the clean freak. You'd never guess that this adorable little lady is the same little person who spits Koolaid on the floor and comes to find Mommy saying, "Juice! Ew!" Just so that she can get a rag to clean it up. 

Welcome to my home. Please come in. 

I won't tell you how many pictures I took to get this one. Let's pretend it was just one. Because it was Easter Sunday, and they love each other. 

Most of the time she's a little lady. But when she's not, she's really not. 

He planted these tulips with his grandma. Every morning, he wants to check on them. 

I look tired. I am tired.

Tired and happy. Happy to have celebrated with family, jelly beans, pretty dresses, and even six hours of edits, orders, and motions. But mostly happy just to have found 30 minutes to record another family milestone for the family album.