little happy

returning

As a family, we left town for spring break. Then we came home and two days later Craig left on an eleven day trip--his flight was the morning I decided to let Abbie go--and I'm confident that all the coming and going had a serious impact on our George. Everybody gone, everybody back, Craig gone, Abbie gone . . . panic. Our uber-confident, totally-chill George glued himself to my side and stayed there. Except for the few times that he could secure himself a spot here.

This is where The George prefers to set up camp for the day. He'll hop up in the garaged Pilot any time I open the hatch (sometimes straddling tiptoe through a trunkful of Costco groceries which often includes a roast chicken--Costco Day is the jackpot in George-speak) and he won't come out until we go somewhere. He can sit there, perfectly happy for hours. He'll take a nap and watch the world go by, from his secure and shaded outdoorsy spot, all comfy while he waits. Waits for Craig to come home, waits for Abbie to come home, waits for the call of the river to win me over, too.

There's a big blue truck that passes by our house a few times a day with a big yellow lab in the back. George nearly comes out of his skin and barks as if his life depended upon that big blue truck. I wonder if he thinks it's his friend and he's trying to remind her about him. And when I don't chase the truck down and bring his girl home, he sits and he waits.

It's been two weeks since our girl left us. The serious crying only lasted the first few days (which often prompted Ian to ask if I would stop crying when Abbie came home) but I'm pretty dried out now. I'll tear up while perusing pictures or when Jack comes home and talks about her with George while roughing him up "who's a good boy? who's a good boy? is George a good boy? George is such a good boy. and who's the best girl? who's the best girl? Abbie was the best girl, wasn't she George? yes she was, yes she was." And then there's the part where we all head out the door and quickly I count noses and when I don't see Abbie's nose and I literally turn to look for that one missing soul and then have to swallow hard when I remember. I'm sure it will go away, it just hasn't been long enough.

Keeping busy is the ticket. Not thinking about it, because that quickly turns from regular sorrow to wallowing in such a blink. I've known this for . . . well, forever, but somehow it fails to register late at night when I'm trying to stay up and get just a few more things done in my child-free time. And then the morning comes and I'm so unwilling to greet it. Which is an honest shame--a well greeted morning makes for a smashing day, I believe.

I did it right yesterday, waking before sunrise for a long run, then returning home to find an eager George, wondering where I'd got myself to and if I was willing to head out again. I sent him for a tennis ball, which he eagerly found, and we dashed down the hill for the river.

Thirty minutes of river retrieving was all it took to set us both in the right frame of mind. All that waiting and the deep breath we'd both been waiting for was right there at the river all along.

I tossed, he jumped and swam. I laughed and chased down the strays against the growing dam. It's the spot where we almost lost our girl a year ago in the heavy runoff and there it is, starting to pile up again, part of the spring surge. But this time the tears held off and I closed my eyes and drank it in--the rushing water, the green living forest, the wet dog. It filled me. It restored us both.

And then we headed for home--to chores and laundry and other boys who would be wanting breakfast and attention, too. And the world felt better. Almost right, even. Right enough that I was willing to rush back and tackle the whole lot. Turns out, right enough will work just fine.

my girl

Twelve years ago, just weeks after getting my new puppy, I was awakened in the middle of the night by a disturbing thought. When my wimpering woke Craig, I sobbed that one day our sweet baby Abbie would pass away and explained how the force of that fact was just setting in. It wasn't actual news--we both understood that the life span of dogs was significantly shorter than that of people--but it was upsetting all the same. She was my baby--the one that Craig had secured for me when my body wouldn't produce one of it's own--and the thought of her passing just didn't seem right.

He comforted me and told me it would be okay, just a part of life. That we couldn't spend the beginning of our lives lamenting that they would end. That that day was far off and when it came it would be a relief, as she would be a different dog then. Nevertheless, I couldn't sleep and I was bothered by the thought for a few days. It was then that I made my girl a promise--I promised that come what may, I would always love her and I would be with her to the end.

Yesterday I kept that promise. I stayed right by her side as she left me. I whispered that I loved her and told her she could go.

And then I cried out all of the tears I had and a bucket more that I didn't know were in me.

Craig was right--she had a long, lovely life and in the end death was so necessary, welcome even. But my heart is still broken and my house feels odd. And despite obvious dehydration, I've tapped a brand new well this morning that, for now, seems pretty deep.

daily chores

If this is sitting in your yard, does it make the poop less noticeable? The clean-up more inviting? The dog's more regal? Can't decide.

A pile of chores in front of me this morning--Wednesdays are for work. Cleaning up, always more dishes, attacking the laundry before it's crushes one of the children, attending to the smell coming out of the broom closet, sorting the serious box pile in the garage, vacuuming, vacuuming, vacuuming. Spring cleaning at it's best. And it's nice enough to tempt me outside to, yes, even clean up the poops. Two dogs make lots of poops.

I've got pre-school carpool today and probably a car wash in between. Clearly I feel the need to call down another rain/dust storm. And helping to sort papers at the school before tailing it back home to make sure dinner's in the works and the scout uniform is ready to go. Jack's got flag duty tonight--so excited he can't stand it.

There's also some treat shopping and basket making and decorating for spring, prepping and planning for a baptism and Easter Sunday, culling and early packing for spring break. I swear, before I die, I will pack early for a trip if only just that once. And it will be this time, so help me. But those are all fun chores--stuff I will allow myself to turn to only after the bathroom floor is scrubbed up and I've returned all the clutter-bin items to their homes.

It's gonna be a good day--best get to it.

How about you--what does Wednesday look like in your neck of the woods?

jack nicholas

+ Currently, Jack is obsessed with wars. They fascinate him completely. Ever since seeing the Arizona in Pearl Harbor and bits and pieces of the movie "Pearl Harbor" (he ratted you out, Grampa!) it's all he wants to know about and talk about and learn about.

+ His favorite books are the ones that his father has helped him collect from the B&N sale shelves about tanks and airplanes and guns. Every Wednesday (school library day) he returns with another war classic. There was one about Gengis Kahn (lovely Asian illustrations, but wow were the Mongols mean,) and then a detailed look into the mysteries of the HL Hunley, civil war submarine (that sank twice and killed nearly everyone that ever took her out--delightful piece of non-fiction.) Currently there is a lovely book sitting on my coffee table showing off the classic and haunting photography of Mathew Brady. For Pete's sake, child, pick up a Wimpy Kid book, won't ya?

+ He is planning to join the military. He'd like to start with the Air Force and then move on to the Army and Marines later. He hasn't quite figured out how to fit in the Navy, but he's working on it.

+ When Craig mentioned that you have to be pretty obedient to be in the military--taking orders and all--we thought we had him ready to change career paths. "Guess I better practice. Wow! You guys are just trying to help me be a better soldier, aren't you?" Not exactly what we were going for, but we'll take it for now.

+ He's incredibly good with the numbers. His logic skills are impressive and he explains things on a plain far higher than a kid of his age should be able to reckon. He just gets it.

+ His mother thinks that he would make a great CPA. Or attorney. And the fact that they don't get fired upon near as often is an added bonus.

+ The other thing Jack would like to do with his life (when he's mastered all the branches of the US military) is work with sick children in foreign countries. He's completely on board with his father's new job that takes him all over the world, setting up clinics to cure children of their club feet and cleft palates and cataracts. He can't wait to go with him and visit the children in person rather than send videos back and forth as we do now.

+ He can't watch the videos without tearing up. Whether they know it or not, those children are always near to his heart. He sets aside toys and books for them. And talks about what he will do when he can go and play with them and make them happy. Such a very tender heart, that one.

+ The other thing that will cause Jack tear up immediately are the ASPCA commercials, showing abused animals. "It's not fair, mom--they don't have a home," he'll sob. I can't tell you how much it relieved his heart when we brought George home from the rescue.

+ George and Jack are buddies. Jack finally has a friend that can keep up (or outpace him) in all of his adventures.

+ Not a night goes by that Jack doesn't point out how great George is being and so tired he's probably go right to bed and wouldn't it be a great night for him to learn to sleep on Jack's bed?

+ Jack is the best sharer I know. Whatever he has, now matter how big or how small, he will immediately divide it evenly to share will everyone present. He has no need to stash or save it--he gives freely. It is common for him to come home from school with a treat for Ian, declaring that he already ate his and saved this one for his brother. He also expects the same treatment in return, and though it's taken a while, his little brother has finally started to pick up on the custom. Ian will routinely come home with a snack and, without prompting, dish out a fair portion to his waiting brother. I try to remind Jack that it's that big brother example--the one that can so easily be used for evil--that has helped Ian learn to share.

+ Jack has an incredible memory. I'm scared at the things he can recall in detail that I can't even sort of remember happening.

+ When Jack found a copy of the digitally re-mastered Disney classic Dumbo at the store the other day, pointed it out to me and asked if we were every going to get it for our home collection, I said no. When he pressed and asked why, I reminded him that I'm not a big Dumbo fan and since we buy very few DVDs, we only purchase those that we really love. He didn't protest, but was clearly thinking.

When we got to the car, he ask me, with a much more philosophical tone, "Why don't you like Dumbo, mom?" I've told him before that I don't like that particular movie all that much and for some reason it has stuck in his craw and today he was getting to the bottom of it. So I explained that I thought it was dreadfully slow and boring and I didn't like the animation and it just didn't ever really hold my attention, and that's why Jack.

"Have you seen it, mom?" Yes, Jack, I have. Have you?

"Yes, of course. And do you know what it's about, mom?" Yes, Jack, it's about an elephant.

"Mom, it's not just about an elephant. That elephant could fly. And elephants aren't supposed to fly. It's about believing in yourself. He believed in himself and that was how he knew he could fly. He believed in himself and he could do it. Dumbo is about believing in yourself. Isn't that a good thing for a movie to be about?" Um, yes, Jack, I suppose it is.

"And it's more than that. His friend is the one who knows he can fly. His friend believed in him, too and helped him believe in himself. So it's about friendship. It's a movie about friendship and believing in yourself. Isn't that a good thing for a movie to be about?" Yes, Jack, it is.

"Don't you think you can give Dumbo another chance, mom?"

And that's how we came to own a copy of the digitally re-mastered classic Dumbo on DVD.

See? Clever, that one is.

+ He is still very health conscious about his food. He knows that the meat is protein for muscles and the vegetables are vitamins for good health and the rice is for quick energy, but he wants to know what part of his body that everything else on his plate will serve. With Jack as our first child, we've been able to get away with all kinds of good eating--currently we have Salad Bar Dinner twice a week (lettuce, chicken, random salad veggies) and the kids don't even bat an eye.

+ He likes sweets, but he can take 'em or leave 'em. No serious sweet tooth.

+ Unless it's Oreo pizza from the Pizza Pie Cafe--then Jack and his mother can finish a whole pie together.

+ After-school snacks are not optional. Miss the after-school snack and he's a bear by dinner.

+ And he is always off to play with his BPFs (Best Pals Forever) which is one step higher than BBF (Best Buddies Forever.) BFF is a girl thing, mom.

+ His favorite place to be is outside. That's his church. He is in awe at the details in a rock, the shape of a stick or the color on a bug. The empty lot next to our house is his favorite playground, bested only by a walk to the river.

+ When he comes home from playing outside or riding his bike home from school, I give him a big hug and smell his head. It smells like dry dirt and sunshine. I tell him he smells like "boy" and he laughs every time.

+ He's so ridiculously good looking.That shock of dusty blonde hair (that may very well be actual dust,) those deep hazel-green eyes, that little mark on his nose that I still try to kiss off. I'm completely smitten with him.

+ Craig and I were talking about how I so often tell our boys that they're handsome that by now, they'd never believe anything contrary. He asked where I got that from--if it was planned to boost them up or just random. I thought about it and realized that I only really gush over them being "so handsome" when I'm handling them--say, cleaning their dewing face and gelling up their hair, or cinching up Jack's Sunday tie, or wrestling them and I've got them laughing--and I stop to look at them, face to face, and I'm overcome by how breath-taking they are. I say it because I can't not say it. I say it because it's true.

+ I'm in awe of Jack and his handsomeness, his confidence, his carefree approach and his passion. I have a serious crush. And if he'd gone to my high school, he'd have been the unattainable perfect boy every girl had a crush on. Not unlike his father, who actually was that boy.

+ Each morning as he pulls his bike out of the garage and heads down the driveway, I'll flash him a little "i love you" sign, to which he will smile and belt out a loud, "LOVE YOU, MOM!" And my heart completely stops.

+ Jack has a crush on a girl at school. He loves her and has designs on marrying her--he tells me all about it. I asked him about this plan the other night as I was tucking him in bed and he said that's just how it was going to be. At least, he was pretty sure that he'll marry her, but if she doesn't turn out to love him back he'll just marry another girl. And then he paused for a moment, looked at me and asked, "But you have to like her, too, right? Your mom has to say it's okay, right?" Yes, sir--that is how it works.

Gosh, I love him--what girl will ever be good enough?

speaking of a new pack

Did I mention that we've got a new member of ours?

May I introduce George Henry Atticus O'Malley Oakenshield.

We just call him The George.

And when he turns on The Smolder like that, we call him Handsome George.

I should warn you that looking directly at The Smolder for too long might result in serious dog envy and rash decisions at the local pet rescue. So look quickly and cautiously--I don't want to be held responsible for your new puppy.

wolf pack jack

Geez, mom, could this shirt be any bigger? It's already tucked into my shoes!

Betcha can't get a shot of my face.

Wah Paah! Shoot the hand!

Ha! Told you I was faster than the camera.

Okay, but make it quick, mom--I can't be late for my first meeting.

There's just something about a boy in uniform. It makes him look slick. And put together--less rag-a-muffin-ish. And it makes him look much older than he actually is. Take this kid here, who by my records can't possibly be more than four-and-a-half years old . . . put on a BSA shirt and he could almost pass for eight. Eight! Ridiculous, I say.

Who am I kidding? He can pass for twelve (and has) with as tall as he is. How is it that in my eyes he's not big enough for Kindergarten?

We dressed him up for his first day with the cubs, and just after I got the neckerchief all set, he dashed upstairs to show his dad. And watching him fly out of the room and around the corner and catching his profile as he took the stairs two at a time . . . my heart hurt. He looks so much older than I'm willing to believe he is. And (surprise, surprise) I don't like it.

Just when I think that calendar can't get going any faster it really just shifts into a whole new gear.

what i see when I look up from making dinner

Craig and Jack playing Stratego (after Jack has begged.) A puppers at the feet.

Ian reading, BFF Batman nearby.

Ian's sense of style just blows me away. Dinosaur jammie bottoms, THE favorite Batman shirt (beloved by Jack until it was far too little and now Ian loves it just as much) and the blue bike helmet. Awesome. He's noticing that the M is a W if you flip it upside-down--also awesome. 

the bee

+ His smile lights up a room and his laughter comes from down deep, goes on forever and is infectiously funny. He loves to laugh.

+ The best way to get him going is tickling. He loves it. Roars with full body laughter and comes back for more and more.

+ Just recently I did my Swedish Chef impression for the kids (I really am quite brilliant at garbled Swedish) and my kids thought I'd lost what few marbles I have left. How'd I manage to get them this far without seeing the Swedish Chef? A quick trip to youtube caught us up and now I do it on request several times a day. Ian calls it The Muffin Song.

+ He lives almost entirely on a diet of cheese sticks, apple slices, clementines, carrot cake yogurt, fruit snacks, peanut butter sandwiches, granola bars, little smokies and milk. If that's how he keeps that adorable little tushie, perhaps I should consider eating the exact same.

+ The word "indecisive" doesn't cut it for this guy. Give him two options and it's a pretty safe bet that he will NOT end up with the one he chooses first. "Do you want an apple or a clementine?" "An apple . . . . NO a clementine! . . . . AN APPLE! . . . . I WANT A CLEMENTINE! Mom, you're not getting me a clementine." We've stopped listening and started just handing him things, knowing whatever we hand him will be rejected for the other.

+ Oddly, the word "opinionated" works, too. When he does decide what he wants, he wants exactly that or nothing else ever, ever, forever until he's dead. The term "drama queen" has been used on more than one occasion.

+ His personal style is heavily influenced by his big brother. If Jack is wearing long sleeves under short sleeves, then by all means he needs the two shirts as well. If Jack is wearing "football pants" (athletic pants with a side stripe) then I should be fully aware that jeans just will not do. And true football pants have numbers on them. And all the best t-shirts have the batman logo on the front. Color matching is for suckers.

+ And boy can this kid flirt. He's at his best with a room full of girls. Any age will do. The more, the better. He. Is. Rico Suave.

+ It helps that he is a stone cold fox.

+ That head of hair started at birth and hasn't stopped yet. It must be extremely chopped monthly or it turns into Don King, minus the white tips. Pomade is not optional.

+ He was born 5 1/2 weeks early, which means had he finished baking before his grand entrance his birthday would be this weekend.

+ Such a serious imagination, this one. With serious imaginary friends. All day, he whips around the house, talking to himself in the voices of his friends. Like BFF Mickey Mouse who goes everywhere and has an opinion on everything which, oddly enough, rarely matches Ian's own. Mickey's voice, however, sounds just like Ian. On helium. Recently, Ian told me that he was Mario (from the video game) and Mickey was Luigi, but Mickey must have heard our conversation from the other room and piped up with a voice thrown, "no I want to be Mario," but Ian countered, "no, I'm Mario," and Mickey was all, "no, I'm Mario," and then Ian shut him down with, "no, I'm Mario and you're Luigi," to which Mickey acquiesced and said, "okay."

+ Just today he caught me in the car and asked, "Mom, why are you talking to yourself?" I dunno, Bee. So, yeah, he might have gotten it from me.

+ I'm not ruling out multiple personalities. For either of us.

+ His other best friends . . . Bear, Momma, Jack, Chase (a real-life kid from next door,) Batman, Lightning McQueen, various Lego guys, and his new Storm Trooper action figure.

+ He routinely bursts out in song. Usually it's stuff that we know--preschool stuff, primary stuff, Little Einstien's classics--but his favorite is to sing the (made-up) words "Dass aw! Dass aw! Dah dah dah dah dah dah dah!" to the tune of Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underworld (or The Can-Can song.) For the longest time we thought he was saying, "That's all! That's all!" but he assures us, with a clever smile, that's not it. And he's not frustrated that we can't figure it out--on the contrary, I think he enjoys his secret. And the fact that if he sings it enough, we'll all join in.

On the same branch, occasionally, when we're talking about people, he will ask "What about Jousy?" and then do his level best to hold off a giggle. We don't know who that is either and he won't tell us. He knows it's funny, but I want to know how a newly minted four-year-old knows that. His humor runs deep.

+ He's learning his letter sounds at pre-school, so he walks around the house talking with an intentional sound-practicing stutter. "B - B - Bear" and "M - M - Mickey." But he's only halfway through the alphabet, so we also have "B - B - Balentines Day" and "B - B - Bacuum." He's a real stickler and already a little worried about his own name, as it doesn't follow the rules; as tenacious as he is, I imagine he'll have to head down to the county seat and change it to Ean before the school year is out. Though he has been heard sounding out his own name as "B - B - B - Ian!" It works.

+ For the last year or so, putting Ian to bed has been a serious endeavor. First, he would need all 7-9 animals to sleep with--including Mickey, Bear, Other Bear, Elephant, Monkey, Lion and Skipper with  Goofy allowed from time to time, depending on whether he (Goofy) had to sit time out or not. And if one was missing, the house had to be searched. (I tried laying down the law--you haul Mickey around the house and he's not in bed, then tough beans--but he would scream for hours as though we'd severed an arm.) Then, he would need all six blankets, in the right order and facing the right direction--which, in case you are wondering, is generally top-side-down. All that as a simple ritual, because the second you shut the door, he would kick the blankets off and toss everyone except Mickey and Bear who got snuggled under the prized Crayon Blanket.

Late last year, it started to get worse. To go to sleep, he needed the door open and the light on, which would be fine, except the nursery is in my bedroom and the light he wants on all night will shine in my eyes as well. Not an option for caveman-sleeper Craig, for whom the dark simply can't be dark enough. And with the light on and the door open, Ian felt an open invitation to talk. Or hop out of his crib--another fun new development--and come on down the hall for a visit. In the middle of the night.

Granted, we'd always planned for our boys to share a room as soon as they could, and build the bunk room with that specific purpose. When we first moved in last spring, we unpacked Ian in the bunk room with his brother, but he would get up and wander in the middle of the night. Couple that with the fact that he'd learned how to unlock the new exterior doors, and we moved him back to the crib after just two nights.

Just before Christmas, we decided to give the bunk room another go and we braced ourselves for what new brand of shenanigans this would unleash.

We told him big boys sleep in big bunk beds with their big brothers. We offered the animals, but only Mickey and Bear made the cut. We offered the blankets, but Ian insisted that those were crib blankets and he wanted only the big boy blankets on the big boy bunk. We tucked him in and he curled up and went to sleep in minutes.

And that's how it's been ever since. Wierdo.

+ That big family holiday in December? He called it Schristmas. As in "I'm getting Lightning McQueen for Schristmas." And I didn't realize how much I loved it until he called it Christmas just the other day.

Okay, that's it. Too much getting bigger over here. Back to the crib, baby boy.

and then he was four

It came awfully early in the morning (and heaven knows it seemed even earlier for the parental folk who were recovering from flu) but came it did, and it brought car-shaped gifts.

And what is coming to be known as "the face."

As luck would have it, the three cars came in the exact colors of Lightning McQueen, Dinoco's The King and Chick Hicks.

So there were also some really great impressions of famous Pixar racecars.

Momma had every intention of making cupcakes for the class, but luckily there were treats in the pantry to step in when flu-ridden momma dropped the ball.

We did a quick warm up for school: How old are you? Four! How old are you? FOUR!

And he ran off to school and was crowned The Birthday Boy. (But even birthday boys have to hold their treats up high, because doggies don't respect the birthday.)

And then we declared the ever-popular Snacky Dinner--which is really just a leftover smorgasboard, where we open the fridge and everyone picks what they want to eat, but because we call it "Snacky Dinner" the kids go crazy for it--before putting four candles in a not-homemade cake. There was a wish, there was a successful extinguishing and then much cake was eaten.

I did manage to get one thing right. The balloons provided at least 45 solid minutes of sheer joy as The Bee ran in circles around the kitchen.

At the end of the day, this little man was four. For the life of me, I can't figure out where those last four years went, but I know beyond all doubt, that Mister Ian just gets better and better all the time. And really, as long as he's still willing to snuggle me, it's all good, right?

death warmed over

I'm thinking flu. That's the only kind of sick that makes me feel as if Craig took to me with a tire iron in the night. The only one that warns I've got frostbite on my toes and arms and thighs while steam rises around my head and has me convinced that dying would feel better. I'm on day two and just walking from the bed to the kitchen requires me to sit along the way.

Not that there's a lot of getting in the bed--Craig's a day behind me on the flu front, and once the men decide that they're ill, no one can possibly feel worse. Being the mommy sucks. So the man's in bed and the boy is at school (his bout of flu was Sunday night) and The Bee is catching up on his Curious George and Little Einsteins. They just took Gramma Rocket some rocket soup so she could feel better, and now I'm really craving rocket soup--but I'd have to go the kitchen to make some, and it's all the way over there.

I'm starting to wonder if I'm at the point where I might be able to get better by sheer force of will--if I act like I'm fine, I'll probably be fine. Especially considering that we've got a little four-year-old birthday tomorrow. I'd resolved to make it special, as we will be without any gramma's this year, but my head is all cloudy and I can barely make it to the kitchen, much less the balloon store.

So, I just need to get up and move. And some sleep might help. And some rocket soup. And some cookies. Maybe just the cookies. Just as soon as I get up. Which I am totally going to do. Really soon.