Ava's First Communion

This Saturday, Ava will receive her first holy communion. This is a big deal in our family; we're Catholic. But, we also love puppies and Gene Wilder movies so don't go getting all judgey. My dad actually converted to Catholicism just recently, but he has always a been a fervent supporter in the Sunday morning ritual of 'waking' the 'sleeping' children who on this one day of the week when sleeping in and being seen as resting so beautifully with so much mercy would be an absolute Godsend except that of course you can't physically oversleep on a church day. You can't. Like you will not fall asleep as you lay in your bed staring at the clock knowing you are the only one in this hemisphere still awake even though if you don't fall asleep soon you're going to fall asleep in chemistry, miss the one vital key to understanding anything ever and drooling on your desk in front of cute, smart boys. Life is so unfair. Anyhow, we would be rousted from the beds we truly didn't want to be in anymore but you don't ever show your cards that soon. You never know when your parents might be hit by an errant puff of euphoria and nostalgia and maybe they'll want you to spend your Sunday morning in a sunny spot eating toast instead of standing, sitting, standing, kneeling, sitting, standing, singing, kneeling, audibly digesting your own empty, empty stomach, and then finally kneeling on a small, pointy rock. But, no. Here you are squished into the car on the way to church. Mom and dad are all cologne and perfume and breath mints in the front seat while in the back seat it's all pissy and tired, someone else's socks, not a damn thing to eat, and then out of nowhere, "HOLY JES**!! Someone is spraying perfume in my eyes!!! Why would you DO" "get out of the car! We're late!" "But my eyes!" "Stop yelling! We're late! We're almost inside, lower your voice!" And when it seemed it couldn't get any worse, dad would whisper in your ear as you slid into your seat "And when we get home, you need to clean the litter box. There was cat crap in the laundry this morning! (Pause) Where'd you find that shirt?" And then the priest starts in, "Good morning my friends. (I'm already losing consciousness) On this beautiful, faithful morning, we find ourselves giving of our time freely to The Lord. Today's mass is the longest in our season as we have much to discuss..." So, I was saying, we're Catholic. First communion is a big deal. To this point in our family, the girls have all worn the same traditional dress starting with Grandma Shirley. It is beautiful and delicate and I am terrified to put it on Ava. Probably just for pictures. We purchased a new first communion dress for Ava because the traditional one is so fragile. I would like to have photos of her in it. Tragically, the photos of me in this dress were lost due to a really bad perm and two front teeth that refused to stop growing. My train of thought may be derailing. Last night, I was telling Jeff about my first communion party. My grandpa and grandma, uncles and aunts, cousins a plenty; it was great. And I began to realize how things change over time. Uncle Tom won't be there force feeding me Teddy Grahams. We won't have a solid 45% of the state's cowboy boots and belt buckles on site. Probably no garbage can lid shields and sticks and HUGE VHS recorders. What will there be? There will be Georgetown Cupcakes. Lots of them. These are serious cupcakes. In flavors like salted caramel and Irish cream. And there will be family. Not all of us, but enough of us to cause some sort of issue for someone unrelated to our group. It's what we do. So, on Saturday Ava will wear her new dress and the traditional one, she will receive her first communion, we will eat cupcakes, and so help me God, no one will get perfume in their eyes. Should be a pretty nice day.

Spring

Its finally the time of year when everyone starts quoting poets and musicians recounting how they've survived the dark times and now realize that it is the season of rebirth. Baby bunnies, chicks, pregnant moms at church, etc. I'm going somewhere kind of different so...hang on. Spring, to me, is not about the rebirth of almost everything. It is about the sudden, unavoidable realization that Jeff and I are not nearly as great at rounding up the winter turds in the back yard as we thought. I just spent an hour of quality time with the poop scooper and a 15 gallon pail. The sun felt warm, the outside noises weren't the screaming of the wind across frozen chunks of land meant only for slipping on and awkwardly making your way across. But the poop. Oh the poop. We try to stay ahead of it but for right now and not much longer we are not only combating the build up of our own dogs' collective deposits, we are also wealthy in that of our neighborhood's dogs' poop. Not cool. We NEVER, and I do mean NEVER, let our dogs out of our yard to potty. We go on walks, we take bags for cleaning up after them. They need to go out, we put them on the tie down. But in our self-proclaimed dog friendly neighborhood, we are the minority and it makes me CRAZY. When I'm cleaning up dog poop that there is no physically possible way it was our dogs I get a little bit cranky. I know exactly which dogs are doing it too. It isn't worth going to the neighbors and saying, "Hey. I know we're all friends here but when your dog craps in my yard it makes me feel unstable" and I care too much about my own dogs' safety to accidentally intentionally let them wander directedly into the neighbor's yard for a good ol' poo full of legos and stuffed animal filling. But, I just really need to not know that the neighbors share table food with their dogs, that their dogs have a penchant for eating brightly colored something or other, and that their dogs have too little time to stop and poop so they must poop while walking thereby spreading out their gift to the maximum. Very, very, extremely soon our yard will be fenced. That makes me happy in the dark places of my soul. I'm mildly interested to know how the neighborhood dogs will survive without their (clearly) top choice dumping ground. I imagine the unfenced front yard will be extraordinary this time next year. But I will deal with it as I point and laugh from our fenced back yard. As I think about this all, I realize things about myself. First, I never thought there would be an internally developed dog poop ranking system by which I would find myself living. Example: I would rather use the corner of the poop spade to scrape the soft, water-logged poop out of the grass and onto my scooper than to fish the floaters out of the thawed pockets of ice where the sun hasn't yet melted the ice completely. I would MUCH rather, to an almost dinner table conversation worthy level, scoop hot, fly-covered summer poop than anything produced in the winter or spring. Also, scooping poop midwinter is NOT easy. Even if the snow is soft. You either end up with half your poop slurry being water depending on temperature or you have to chisel the poop out of the ice and you can absolutely expect to get a sudden sensation of something small and cold and mysterious right next to your mouth in the process. Was it a big snowflake? Could have been. But, you know that isn't what you're going to settle on. Nope. It was a bit of chiseled poop ice that flew up and landed right by your pie hole. You can be certain. And there is no way there was only one single tiny piece that came careening through the air toward your face. Is there something on my tongue? Was it there before? How come when I scream I smell dog poop? This is all possible. Getting back to spring, birds are chirping and guys in jacked up trucks with no money to fix the muffler AND feed their family (I tell myself) are frequenting the streets. They have their windows down and no matter what kind of mind-expanding music I'm certain they're listening to, it all gets washed out by other noise which leaves them sounding like a poorly maintained ice cream truck to me. And I would very much like to tell them that. I would also like to give them a bullet point list of the keen and correct observations my 5 and 7 year olds have made while sitting next to them in traffic briefly. But not right now because clearly by the way they just peeled out they're late for their Mensa meeting. So, like I was saying, YAY SPRING!!

Being Mama

This morning when I was going to get ready for work Sophia asked if we could do something together. I asked what she had in mind. "maybe, Mama, you could draw me another ballerina and I could paint her?" I love drawing for the girls and their friends. I've gotten proficient enough that if we all knew what it was I was supposed to draw we can all see the resemblance on the paper. But the girls make me feel like I'm a full blown artist. They are wowed by my ballerinas and horses and unicorns. I can also crank out a pretty serious sidewalk chalk dinosaur. The girls frequently bemoan their own drawings wondering why am I "so good" and they aren't. But, I love everything they draw. Everything. I love Sophia's people and I love Ava's three dimensional shapes. Our attic is packed with boxes of art, projects, hand prints, scratches of pencil on the notepad from the hotel, first signatures, and foot tracings. And it is gathering more all the time. I keep every sheet that comes home from school. Why? Because when they have a hard day somewhere down the line, I'm going to show them the attic and I'm going to tell them I read every word because in some way it had to do with them, I took in every detail of every piece of art because it came from inside their minds, I kept every finger print because someday I won't know if those are their fingers or mine but I can come back to these boxes and put my hand to their tiny hand and almost remember what that felt like. I keep everything because my girls are my world and they need to know they are important to someone. Regardless of age or size or title (I know Phia won't always want to be a horse). I want to show them these boxes and make them understand that I may have seemed to miss moments when I was sick and couldn't be there for first times on the beach or first times at a picnic. But in my soul, I was there and for every other moment I was there in person. They are important. Ava is fiercely independent, but when she asked me to eat lunch with her at school a week ago I knew it really meant a lot to her. I, of course, was just barely into what would be a week of relentless kidney pain. I took my meds and slept through almost three days. I cried at night because those days I wasn't a mom. I didn't play games or draw. I couldn't stay awake for one episode of anything. I told Ava, no. I couldn't join her for lunch because of my back. She said "ok. It's just that ever since I told you all that I wasn't afraid to eat hot lunch anymore, you all stopped coming". I hugged her, the bell rang, she went into the school stopping once to blow kisses to me. Before I'd made it home, I called my mom who immediately agreed I needed to go. Ava is seven years old and already, like I said, fiercely independent. How much longer will she ask me to eat lunch with her? So, I surprised her. I stood in the hall waiting for her class. When she saw me, it took a minute for her to react. She could not figure out why I'd come. I showed her my lunch and she smiled huge, her cheeks turned bright red, and she said "mama! You came!" The way she said it sounded like I'd been gone for years and had just now come home. She held my hand tightly as we walked. We sat side by side, but it didn't take her long to be under my arm and as much on my lap as she could get. I helped her get ready for recess and then we said goodbye. And that was all it took for her to be the happiest girl around. So, this morning when Sophia asked if we could do something, I hesitated at first and the realized that no one I work with is going to judge me for choosing time with my child over showering and dressing up. She asked if I would draw and then said, "no. How about this. How about if I hold the pencil in my little hand and you put your big hand over my little hand and we draw together?" So, we did. Best ballerina yet. And that one goes in the box that on my bad days reminds me I'm important to someone. It's a pretty great collection. I hope you have one too.

Observations Part 1

My girls have recently discovered their love for music. The kind of love that makes you belt out a tune like no one can hear you, dance in front of the mirror and LOVE what you see, or scramble for a piece of paper to PLAY-furiously write lyrics (as you understand them) then STOP-SKIP BACK-REPEAT AS NECESSARY. I love that the girls love music. When I was pregnant with Ava, she would start kicking up a storm in utero whenever I played Jeff Buckley (anything) or Pink Floyd (Dark Side of the Moon). Of course, I got the same reaction from eating bananas while I was pregnant with her and that resulted in her vomiting up and adamantly refusing bananas as a toddler. So, draw your own conclusion there. But, in Madison she was happiest running around naked to Bob Marley, or Tim Penn, or any local peacenik making music. Again, draw your own conclusion. She was decidedly NOT part of the minority in any of that behavior. In our house though, you are far more likely to find music as opposed to the TV. In Madison, we had a family dance party every single solitary night after dinner. With everything we've gotten involved in since moving back to Bismarck, though, dance parties have been hard to come by. On the weekends still it is a near constant onslaught of music. Old and new. I've gotten a bit off track. The girls have found their own voice in music. By way of Kidzbop. Here's the thing, it is a form of music, sure. But what you don't know about Kidzbop, "Music for kids by kids", is that their selection process for finding these kids who "sing" is relatively simple. Or, perhaps, nonexistent. They are not good. Someone dressed these children up like rock stars and said "You are amazing! Sing it as loud as you can and dance at the same time! You're a STAR!". Well, my girls have been bit by the Kidzbop bug. We bought the girls their very own noise-cancelling earphones a while back for flights. They have been miraculous investments until now. Now what happens is my girls plug the earphones into their Leappads and rock out to the PURCHASED Kidzbop. It seemed like such a great idea. As Jeff said, "there is musical talent flowing on both sides of the family, we cannot stifle that". This man is so patient. I, however, was changing the sheets on the girls' bunk beds (a process which under the best conditions is painful and frustrating) while I was first indoctrinated into this new musical world of theirs. The girls have large mirrored closet doors in their room. So, here they are, noise-cancelling earphones on, 5 wardrobe changes past, and they are singing their perfect little hearts out. Just belting it out. And dancing. Sophia yells "I don't even know what Spanish they're talking about!" Ava answers with "We should start a band!" Sophia looks like Ava just proposed sacrificing all the snugglies to honor some questionable Greek god. They have no idea what the other one is saying, but neither one knows this. Ava's soothes Sophia's worried glance by saying "Don't worry! I'll be in charge of singing! You just dance!" Ava decides at this point she needs to begin writing her own lyrics. As she's taking her earphones off, Sophia repeats in her most loving this moment screaming voice "I don't even know what Spanish they're talking about!". Ava now sees she's started a band with someone who may not be the asset she'd assumed and says in a regular human conversational level voice "That's kind of the point. They aren't singing in Spanish." Cue Sophia "I don't know!! But I love it!"

So, this is what we hear now when the girls have down time. The screaming of Kidzbop. But, my girls are good girls, kind and sensitive and smart as a whip. So, it makes me smile because I know someday when they're older and finally telling their aging parents live concert stories from college in hopes to entertain, but not kill, we will break this one out. And remind them that "its not about the bunny, bunny, bunny. Its not about the bunny, bunny, bunny. We juss hmnanana ba ba..."

Yeah. That'll Happen Again Next Year.

If you have lottery numbers, play 'em now. I'm writing two blogs in two days. Hot damn! I'm on a roll!

Every year Jeff and I talk about writing a Christmas letter. We make great plans for it and NEVER follow through. Well, technically we never actually start so that would make following through difficult. Our "plan" consists of witty banter back and forth while he's home for lunch. By the time he's home that evening we both realize how foolish we were to think we were actually going to get the letter out. So, what's the backup plan? A "Happy New Year" letter, which becomes Easter, etc. If you're reading this blog and thinking I don't care about you because you don't get a letter from me annually that is the result of several hours of me frantically digging through the archives of my brain for things that happened over the last year to/for/because of my family, don't. It would probably come across more like a schizophrenic's version of themed poetry. So we should probly all just be ok with the status quo.

Hey, check out my profile. I updated it.

Before Christmas, just after Thanksgiving, my Christmas hormone kicks in. I'm happy. Overly friendly with complete strangers. I make several mental notes about t-shirts I need to have made for people I know because "its just SO them!". I behave in such a way many of those close to me have scribbled in the margins of their Christmas lists "intervention for Ang...". I fill or cover any areas I can reach or at least get to via a good, lucky throw with Christmas lights. I break out the Christmas scented candles. No. The rest of the year nature does not, in fact, smell like that. I decide baking cookies with the girls is EXACTLY what we should do. I honestly think the messy process won't give any of us the development of a new personality. And Christmas music is listened to at all times. I approach Christmas like doomsday preppers approach the end of the world. But, I use more scotch tape.

Cue Christmas madness. We bounce from house to house. We eat and eat and eat. We watch the girls' minds get blown by the Christmas presents their family members have so graciously given them. Bedtimes fall to the wayside. Pistachios begin counting as a green vegetable. And somewhere around here, in all of this magic and happiness and family, all freakin' hell breaks loose. My patience shrivel to nothing. Jeff begins speaking under his breath and seeking patterns. The girls scream through the time-space continuum and turn 16. And hateful. They roll on the floor in public. They threaten the elderly. They lock me in closets. Jeff still seeks patterns and fuzzy surfaces. And then...I lose my shit. Publicly, privately, makes no difference to me. If you've never been to Disney World but have heard the stories of the 'happy' families there, don't feel left out. Stand near me about this time of year and you'll see all the Goddamn magic you need. Complete with fairies trapped in jars. Every year, I try to raise the bar on my shock and awe approach to coming down from the holidays. I'm not going to describe it here. You don't need to know.

The next phase is de-Christmasing the house. Hating myself for wrapping strings of light around everything we own. Laughing at the me who decided to incorporate some of the Christmas décor into our regular home. Stripping the skin from my cuticles shoving packaging into contractor trash bags in an overly aggressive kind of way. Looking at the girls' gifts that have yet to escape their plasticky prisons as things that if returned could buy me something shiny.

At no point in ANY of this, beginning to end, do I feel the need to be a better person next year and be a Red Cross bell ringer. FYI.

So, now we're up against New Year's Eve which has been handled a number of different ways over the years. When we were much more youngish, we would attend the Bismarck Mandan Symphony Orchestra New Year's Eve Gala with my parents. We got dressed up, danced to live orchestra music, ate amazing food. Then, we got married and moved to Madison. Our New Year's plans vacillated between house parties and bars. After we had kids, New Year's was another night in, but with champagne. Or not. Now that the girls are older, we're spending New Year's with friends whose daughter is Ava and Phia's "Bestie", thanks Tom and Brenna! We're looking forward to a New Year's eve with friends. One that is comfortable, but fun and festive just based on the guest list. There will be tasty foods, champagne, friends. I think I can say with certainty that its going to be our best ever way to end a year.

So that January 1, 2013 I can start stockpiling my holiday spirit for next year.

Did I mention I updated my profile?

Thank you, Sir. May I blog another?

I have been encouraged friendly like to blog, thank you Trish and Teresita, and I have been guilted to blog; you know who you are. Jeff. And here is the result of that nudging: *I'm sitting at the computer in the dining room. When I sat down it was quiet. Now, Ava is playing Lady Gaga Kidzbop style for me. I'm not allowed to look directly at her, but judging by her shadow, she is rocking OUT. Sophia is quite forcefully showing me how her puppy eats carrots. Celery. Now celery. Celery! MAMA!! Yes. Celery. Neat! Nnnnutssss!!! He eats nuts. Look. Look. LooK! (extra emphasis on the 'K'. Try it at the office. Got my attention.) He eats nutsssss! Ok,yes, nuts! Awesome! We have now maxed out the volume on the Leappad. And I think Ava is having a seizure. Don't LOOK! Ok. Not a seizure. She dances just like me! And, Phia is showing me, pay close attention here, how to write each and EVERY letter in the alphabet. After she writes the letter, we still watch because then her Leappad gives us a word that starts with that letter. And THEN, her puppy acts out the word. But, we have to see it ALL or we miss out on the point and have to do it again. Ava is spinning now. Spinning like she may never stop. If not for the Christmas tree. I did that once. Except I was rollerblading. And I didn't actually make it to the tree. Any friends out there who remember this story are now invited to draw their very best depiction of this event of athletic prowess and post it to Facebook. The winner gets a prize! So, why does it take so long for me to follow one blog with another? For the same reason I don't follow one "shower" day with another. God gave me a family. A vibrant, active, LETS SHARE THIS MOMENT ALL OF US TOGETHER RIGHT NOW family. Sitting quietly is not actually listed as an option in my mom papers. Kidzbop actually paid money, I think; not sure how the exchange of money happens with this "music", to have children sing a song whose main lyrics are "I whip my hair back and forth! I whip my hair back and forth!" Hey, um, guys? Someday that kid is going to be in a position of power. Does that concern anyone else? My sister and her two kids, who admittedly are adults trapped in children's bodies, came home from the Cities for Christmas. My nephew, who is 8, and I were watching a bit of TV when a really bad commercial came on. He asked me what the point of the commercial was. And I, forgetting his REAL age, said "Well, its just a silly commercial where they are playing with words that have a couple meanings." He said, "that wasn't silly. that was stupid." So, I said, "well then, I guess you better grow up to be the guy that writes better commercials." What does my nephew then say with exactly ZERO hesitation? "No. I'm going to grow up to be the guy that FIRES the guy who makes the stupid commercials." Ok. So, um, no Super Friends for you? Having been directed to blog has actually worked fairly well. It would seem I write better when I think less. Minus the complete lack of flow and direction. And point.

Happy Crunchbar To Me!

I have never feared the numbers part of my birthday. I really only have ever feared my birthday not being the source of a happy memory for someone. And ths year's happy birthday messages to me meant the world. I had a very, very good birthday. This year marks the first year both of the girls chose and legibly signed my cards on their own. I had a great lunch with great people AND a night out with my amazing husband. I got to put on a nice dress (no stains, tears, or peanut butter smudges), strappy heels, and actual jewelry. We went to a really wonderful fundraiser where we drank champagne, ate tasty foods of all kinds, and laughed a lot. We had a table with my parents and family friends from the beginning of time. At one point during the live auction my dad raised my hand for me. He "helped" me bid $3500 on something. I say 'something' because I have NO idea what was up for bid at the moment. Thank God I was almost immediately outbid, but then they kept coming back to me giving me the option of bidding back in. Nope. Just gonna sit here and sweat, thanks. I even saw my pediatrician and talked to him for the first time in as long as I can remember. He was one of the doctors that saved mylife when I was seven. Pretty great seeing him. Mom and I both got a little weepy. My kindergarten teacher was there also. And about a thousand other people I grew up in front of or because of. And the vast majority of them knew it was my birthday. That was HUGE. The last couple months have been a struggle for me, but today was pretty great. I got to laugh a lot and I got to see people I really love laugh too. Auby Doody Punkin to me!!! THANK YOU ALL!!!!!!