Kel and I regularly get out together, which baffles many people who can't imagine parents of 9 children EVER getting a moment alone. Ten years ago I would have understood the awe. But, we've been blessed with having our children one at a time, over a period of about two decades. The result is, of course, that the nine babies are not babies all at once. We now have "older" children who regularly provide babysitting for little to no financial compensation save the McDonald's caramel sundae Dad might bring home, or the promise of a night out of their own.
As a couple we highly value our time together, even if it's just driving in a car. Lately, though, we've been avoiding the 30 minute drive into town and staying local. Of course, this greatly reduces the evening's options. Offerings in our stoplight-less small town include Subway, McDonald's, and $1 hotdogs with fill-up... which honestly, for me, is just one step above a diaper retrieving excursion from Walmart. Recently, however, we have happened across a little local gem called The Brown Jug. It's a tavern!
The attraction for me is not the typical tavern escapades of bellying up to a bar for a few Miller Lites. I understand the bar camaraderie of meeting people and having a few beers, but I've never regarded myself as a tavern type of person. No, I go for a different reason. The Brown Jug has weekly kitchen specials, and my new hands-down favorite is the Monday night Bacon Cheeseburger basket for $3.50, "run through the garden" and with a side of fries.* Honestly, the burger is delicious and more than satisfies that "I Gotta Have A Big Hunka Protein" craving. And add it up: even with a beer it's a cheap date.
Now, those who don't know me would be very surprised to see me sitting in a bar, especially on a Monday night. It just looks bad that a mother of nine starts her week out in a location that could raise a few eyebrows. Admittedly, it's not like this is Book Discussion Night at the library. But I'm not going to try to hide my big white 15 passenger van by parking out back, because those who know me know I drink at home. (And it's not because I'm ashamed that a few bottles in my wine collection are from Aldi.) My real friends already know that I'll rarely turn down an offering of a cold beer, or two. They know I've even stretched myself to enjoy the likes of a pomegranate martini or an iced tea infused vodka. I'm quick to admit I am an imbiber.** My real friends also know I'm just too cheap to pay double the price in a bar in exchange for smokey ambiance and the marginal excitement of watching electronic dart throwers.
Now, I doubt I'll end up being a pub crawler, but it surprises even me that I have come to enjoy grabbing a beer and a bite to eat at The Brown Jug. Even better, I fully expect a few of my friends will join me. And won't they be surprised when the bartender calls me by name when we walk in the door and take a seat at my usual table! "Hey, Nooooooorrrrmmmm!"
Cheers.
* "With everything". Fries are 75 cents extra.
** Before my husband gets pegged as being married to a lush, keep in mind that I've had extensive pregnancy/nursing interludes, so my drinking days have been quite numbered. Someday I'll catch up.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Grand Theft
I'm honored that so many of my readers are enjoying this blog (I do have a big family). It's a joy to write. A true surprise for me is that, not only do others like reading it, they actually care what I write! What a blessing. This blog likely won't reach extensive or international readership, so I think I can take a risk and put this out there: We take things that don't belong to us. And I won't lie: it's sometimes not intentional.
Just this afternoon I looked into the diaper bag to retrieve Rosie's outfit from yesterday, and found we have heisted a bible from our dear General Practitioner's office, albeit a display copy and one the office likely got for free. I'm not sure when it happened. Was it Monday when we were seen urgently because of a potential burst eardrum? Or was it Tuesday for two sports physicals, in two separate rooms, and I was distracted with 6 additional children in tow who weren't supposed to join me. And technically it wasn't a real Bible bible, but one of those Bible Story books with the "I Want To Purchase The Entire Reference Library" postcards tucked inside. The cards were all gone, but I swear we didn't take those. (And can I add, our doctor and staff are WONDERFUL).
Even small children can grasp the concept of respecting ownership and property. Just ask any verbal 18 month old who can articulate the word "MINE." Maturation and development help some when a child can sit in front of a TV long enough to watch an episode of Dora The Explorer. In my opinion, one of the most endearing characters on this Nickelodeon show is a bandit masked fox who pounces on the belongings of others. Everyone in the living room has to yell out loud "Swiper, No Swiping! SWIPER, NO SWIPING!!!", to which the little sly guy then hangs his head, snaps his fingers, and says "AWwww, man!" There's obvious disappointment in not getting what you want, but in real life you can't always take what you want either. Thanks for reinforcing that life lesson, Dora.
Today I heard Finan maneuvering what sounded like some heavy equipment into the back door, and my radar was up. Here is a "just turned" 3yr old successfully hauling into my kitchen a 5 foot-freestanding-adjustable-Fisher Price-basketball hoop, and dragging it across the wood floor to set up in the living room. All this, despite the "No Basketball Playing In The House" rule. To make matters worse, this is a basketball hoop I've never seen before. Recalling the abundant sports equipment owned by the two little boys next door, I was quite sure of the source of this particular apparatus. He's always sneaking over there anyway.
I reprimanded our child and explained that we just can't take things from the yards of other people. When he said, "It's MINE" I was quite sure this was a throwback to the distant memory days of when he was two... a week ago. "I know you like this, honey, but it's not ours," and I hauled that hoop back to the neighbor's garage door, relieved to find the garage door locked and thankful that Finan did not have breaking and entering to add to the infraction. Would you believe this scenario was repeated no less than two more times! What an insistent little boy!
To our credit, we also leave things that DO belong to us, like frayed storybooks under church pews, one sock on a grocery store floor, and half-filled sippy cups of milk. (My apologies if you are the one who finds it a few days later). But I need to add one more note about today's events, especially since I do have such a small, but devoted, readership: Kel's afternoon Status Update phone call filled me in on one little detail not previously mentioned. He lifted that basketball hoop out of a pile of garbage set out for pickup at the end of our street. He said Finan loved it when he presented it last night.
"AWwwwww, Man!"
.
Just this afternoon I looked into the diaper bag to retrieve Rosie's outfit from yesterday, and found we have heisted a bible from our dear General Practitioner's office, albeit a display copy and one the office likely got for free. I'm not sure when it happened. Was it Monday when we were seen urgently because of a potential burst eardrum? Or was it Tuesday for two sports physicals, in two separate rooms, and I was distracted with 6 additional children in tow who weren't supposed to join me. And technically it wasn't a real Bible bible, but one of those Bible Story books with the "I Want To Purchase The Entire Reference Library" postcards tucked inside. The cards were all gone, but I swear we didn't take those. (And can I add, our doctor and staff are WONDERFUL).
Even small children can grasp the concept of respecting ownership and property. Just ask any verbal 18 month old who can articulate the word "MINE." Maturation and development help some when a child can sit in front of a TV long enough to watch an episode of Dora The Explorer. In my opinion, one of the most endearing characters on this Nickelodeon show is a bandit masked fox who pounces on the belongings of others. Everyone in the living room has to yell out loud "Swiper, No Swiping! SWIPER, NO SWIPING!!!", to which the little sly guy then hangs his head, snaps his fingers, and says "AWwww, man!" There's obvious disappointment in not getting what you want, but in real life you can't always take what you want either. Thanks for reinforcing that life lesson, Dora.
Today I heard Finan maneuvering what sounded like some heavy equipment into the back door, and my radar was up. Here is a "just turned" 3yr old successfully hauling into my kitchen a 5 foot-freestanding-adjustable-Fisher Price-basketball hoop, and dragging it across the wood floor to set up in the living room. All this, despite the "No Basketball Playing In The House" rule. To make matters worse, this is a basketball hoop I've never seen before. Recalling the abundant sports equipment owned by the two little boys next door, I was quite sure of the source of this particular apparatus. He's always sneaking over there anyway.
I reprimanded our child and explained that we just can't take things from the yards of other people. When he said, "It's MINE" I was quite sure this was a throwback to the distant memory days of when he was two... a week ago. "I know you like this, honey, but it's not ours," and I hauled that hoop back to the neighbor's garage door, relieved to find the garage door locked and thankful that Finan did not have breaking and entering to add to the infraction. Would you believe this scenario was repeated no less than two more times! What an insistent little boy!
To our credit, we also leave things that DO belong to us, like frayed storybooks under church pews, one sock on a grocery store floor, and half-filled sippy cups of milk. (My apologies if you are the one who finds it a few days later). But I need to add one more note about today's events, especially since I do have such a small, but devoted, readership: Kel's afternoon Status Update phone call filled me in on one little detail not previously mentioned. He lifted that basketball hoop out of a pile of garbage set out for pickup at the end of our street. He said Finan loved it when he presented it last night.
"AWwwwww, Man!"
.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Date Night
Relationship professionals and specifically those with marriage expertise highly recommend that spouses set aside time for one another. I think they are right. "Getaways", perhaps for an anniversary, are a good example. However, it's not a good idea to wait 4-5 years in between childless adventures as Kel and I do. Instead, experts suggest weekly "Date Nights", regularly scheduled time in which couples usually end up talking about their children even though they're not supposed to.
Now, there need not be anything fancy about these Date Nights. Tickets to a show followed by a nice dinner at a restaurant requiring reservations is not included in our weekly budget. Typically, Kel and I find ourselves on Friday nights going to Menards. If we haven't received a panicked phone call from one of our children, we might include a stroll afterwards through Borders Bookstore. They serve some great coffee with fluffy whip cream and a chocolate stick that gets gooey and melty at the bottom of the cup... a nice bonus after finishing the joe. If the weather is pleasant, we might visit a beautifully landscaped city park that has gardens and water features and is not designed around teeter-totters. That would be considered a really romantic Date Night, and we don't even need music to dance under La Luna. Let it be known, though, that we do have some standards. No longer allowed on ANY Date Night: a stop at Walmart. Going there just ruins everyone's mood.
On a rare occasion, we might actually plan something in advance and meet some dear friends for dinner. But, usually our adventures are last minute events in which we realize Kel needs a fastener or drill bit or a large piece of window glass. We assess the number of children in the house, determine if one constitutes babysitter status, and bolt out the door before the hardware store closes. It's hard to arrange a night out with another couple when we live like this, but we have some very nice friends who also need hardware.
Date Nights could be more romantic, but that's not the point. Getting out means getting a different perspective, even though it's easier to stay home, save money, and fall asleep watching TLC on separate TVs. And we need that change of perspective. Yes, we might spend too much time talking about the kids, but after the initial gripe, or rant, or expression of angst, we eventually conclude the night recollecting some cute remark or darling behavior. In between, we hold hands and find us. We end up fortifying the united front, critically essential for what we need to accomplish with those people at home. And, we can fix that broken window too. It's all good.
Now, there need not be anything fancy about these Date Nights. Tickets to a show followed by a nice dinner at a restaurant requiring reservations is not included in our weekly budget. Typically, Kel and I find ourselves on Friday nights going to Menards. If we haven't received a panicked phone call from one of our children, we might include a stroll afterwards through Borders Bookstore. They serve some great coffee with fluffy whip cream and a chocolate stick that gets gooey and melty at the bottom of the cup... a nice bonus after finishing the joe. If the weather is pleasant, we might visit a beautifully landscaped city park that has gardens and water features and is not designed around teeter-totters. That would be considered a really romantic Date Night, and we don't even need music to dance under La Luna. Let it be known, though, that we do have some standards. No longer allowed on ANY Date Night: a stop at Walmart. Going there just ruins everyone's mood.
On a rare occasion, we might actually plan something in advance and meet some dear friends for dinner. But, usually our adventures are last minute events in which we realize Kel needs a fastener or drill bit or a large piece of window glass. We assess the number of children in the house, determine if one constitutes babysitter status, and bolt out the door before the hardware store closes. It's hard to arrange a night out with another couple when we live like this, but we have some very nice friends who also need hardware.
Date Nights could be more romantic, but that's not the point. Getting out means getting a different perspective, even though it's easier to stay home, save money, and fall asleep watching TLC on separate TVs. And we need that change of perspective. Yes, we might spend too much time talking about the kids, but after the initial gripe, or rant, or expression of angst, we eventually conclude the night recollecting some cute remark or darling behavior. In between, we hold hands and find us. We end up fortifying the united front, critically essential for what we need to accomplish with those people at home. And, we can fix that broken window too. It's all good.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The Pace
I really wish there was a significant caloric burn factor for pacing. The reality is, I would be so skinny.
I'm not referring to the act of simply stepping, or using your feet to measure distance, or even the rate of speed that distance is traveled. I'm referring to the intense ambulatory movements of worried parents, as defined by the last two decades of my life. I've paced waiting for fevers to drop when infants have been sick. I've paced waiting for phone calls to be returned when the clock approaches curfew. I've paced waiting for medical test results about internal hemangiomas and nerve-entwined cholesteatomas. And I'm pacing right now.
It seems like, mathematically speaking, pacing plus waiting is equal to the sum total of worry... or, in my case: 9x(P+w) = W. I would like to think I've evolved into a big enough person who is okay with waiting, okay with being patient, okay with "letting go". But truthfully, I'm not. I have a tough time subscribing to the "c'est la vie" approach to life, and I've never been good at math.
For me, there is a common denominator in circumstances that result in The Pace: I'm impatient waiting to DO something. I'm on the cusp of action, or decision, or just wrapping my head around news that might forever change the direction of my life. And there are the infinite conversations in my head: "How will I word this?" "Should I start making phone calls?" "Who can I ask for prayer?" "When should I call 911?" "What will be the length of punishment and does the garage need to be cleaned out again?" So I pace.
My guess is that this struggle comes from a Life Value of "giving 110%". I wrestle with the issues of parenting because I can't stop caring. Trying my hardest means trying more. Giving my best means surprising myself with what I'm capable of, not giving up, not giving in. My wise mother once told me that marriage is not 50/50, but 100/100, and to fully expect to have to pick up the slack and give more. But no one told me about the math of waiting, and how your heart can be fractured, and divided.
I'm not referring to the act of simply stepping, or using your feet to measure distance, or even the rate of speed that distance is traveled. I'm referring to the intense ambulatory movements of worried parents, as defined by the last two decades of my life. I've paced waiting for fevers to drop when infants have been sick. I've paced waiting for phone calls to be returned when the clock approaches curfew. I've paced waiting for medical test results about internal hemangiomas and nerve-entwined cholesteatomas. And I'm pacing right now.
It seems like, mathematically speaking, pacing plus waiting is equal to the sum total of worry... or, in my case: 9x(P+w) = W. I would like to think I've evolved into a big enough person who is okay with waiting, okay with being patient, okay with "letting go". But truthfully, I'm not. I have a tough time subscribing to the "c'est la vie" approach to life, and I've never been good at math.
For me, there is a common denominator in circumstances that result in The Pace: I'm impatient waiting to DO something. I'm on the cusp of action, or decision, or just wrapping my head around news that might forever change the direction of my life. And there are the infinite conversations in my head: "How will I word this?" "Should I start making phone calls?" "Who can I ask for prayer?" "When should I call 911?" "What will be the length of punishment and does the garage need to be cleaned out again?" So I pace.
My guess is that this struggle comes from a Life Value of "giving 110%". I wrestle with the issues of parenting because I can't stop caring. Trying my hardest means trying more. Giving my best means surprising myself with what I'm capable of, not giving up, not giving in. My wise mother once told me that marriage is not 50/50, but 100/100, and to fully expect to have to pick up the slack and give more. But no one told me about the math of waiting, and how your heart can be fractured, and divided.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Tall Babies
There is a certain comfort about having an infant around. Well, not exactly "comfort". You worry yourself sick about every little squeak and whimper. You chalk up fussiness to gas, or teething, or potential fever with viral seizure. You learn to sleep with one eye open. So, I guess "comfort" is an inadequate term. But, at least the infant stays where you put her. That's what I mean by comfort. If you put her in the swing, she stays in the swing. Crib? Crib. Car seat? Car seat. Well, "car seat", only if the two year old doesn't drag it into another room so the baby can watch him pee all by himself in the big potty.
But, we have tall babies. And as soon as our infants start being mobile, the whole world changes. I recall one visit from my dear grandmother, who was absolutely appalled that our entire set of kitchen dining chairs were lasso-ed with a huge rope and intricate series of knots and loops. As she struggled to wrestle one chair free, she remarked with exasperation, "Why would you let the children DO this?" I just smiled and said, "Actually, Kel did it. So the baby won't get on the table." Nana had an Aha moment when she realized this was a safety measure, but she questioned our creativity.
Just as annoying are all the hook and eye locks at eye level (5'9" or higher) on every door in our house. These were installed when our 4th child, Kieran, was a tall baby. Not only could she maneuver simple locks on doors, she was quick to escape through them as well. The amount of "comfort" time with her was likely the shortest of all our babies. Kel still has some angst about the amount of time she was raised seat belted in her high chair. It's true that by her arrival we already had plenty to distract us... plenty to even sabotage us. But Nana doesn't even complain about all the locked doors now. Maybe they make her feel safer too.
Tall babies usually have long arms that accompany their stature. Rosie is no exception. For quite some time, she could reach a tall counter top from her high chair and unnecessarily scrunch up 125 crisp napkins all at once. (Please don't be offended if you are visiting and we offer you what looks like a used one. It's not. Honestly!) And for a few weeks now she has been able to access the buttons on the computer desk phone. It's a fancy schmancy one that looks like it should belong to a receptionist for a Fortune 500 company. It sits up at attention at an angle, it has a display screen you can see from across the room, and it has a myriad of buttons I don't have time to learn about. We bought it because the handset is actually connected to the phone, and the phone is connected to the wall. (We are always losing important things with buttons. But at least we can find one ringing phone now.) Rosie usually goes for the speaker button, but she has been known to call Papa once or twice. If you call and get a newly recorded answering machine message that is difficult to decipher, would you let me know? Now, even though I have knowledge of these SuperBaby powers which she possesses, it still totally took me by surprise today when I heard my prized camera clunk on the floor. I know I put it on the back corner of the computer desk, and even made sure to pull the neck strap up too. Honestly!
One would think I would be more preventative, considering all the tall babies I've cared for. Maybe I just suffer from a short memory. What I'm currently learning, however, is that tall babies become tall children. And it's awfully hard to shake your finger at a child who can look you straight in the eye.
But, we have tall babies. And as soon as our infants start being mobile, the whole world changes. I recall one visit from my dear grandmother, who was absolutely appalled that our entire set of kitchen dining chairs were lasso-ed with a huge rope and intricate series of knots and loops. As she struggled to wrestle one chair free, she remarked with exasperation, "Why would you let the children DO this?" I just smiled and said, "Actually, Kel did it. So the baby won't get on the table." Nana had an Aha moment when she realized this was a safety measure, but she questioned our creativity.
Just as annoying are all the hook and eye locks at eye level (5'9" or higher) on every door in our house. These were installed when our 4th child, Kieran, was a tall baby. Not only could she maneuver simple locks on doors, she was quick to escape through them as well. The amount of "comfort" time with her was likely the shortest of all our babies. Kel still has some angst about the amount of time she was raised seat belted in her high chair. It's true that by her arrival we already had plenty to distract us... plenty to even sabotage us. But Nana doesn't even complain about all the locked doors now. Maybe they make her feel safer too.
Tall babies usually have long arms that accompany their stature. Rosie is no exception. For quite some time, she could reach a tall counter top from her high chair and unnecessarily scrunch up 125 crisp napkins all at once. (Please don't be offended if you are visiting and we offer you what looks like a used one. It's not. Honestly!) And for a few weeks now she has been able to access the buttons on the computer desk phone. It's a fancy schmancy one that looks like it should belong to a receptionist for a Fortune 500 company. It sits up at attention at an angle, it has a display screen you can see from across the room, and it has a myriad of buttons I don't have time to learn about. We bought it because the handset is actually connected to the phone, and the phone is connected to the wall. (We are always losing important things with buttons. But at least we can find one ringing phone now.) Rosie usually goes for the speaker button, but she has been known to call Papa once or twice. If you call and get a newly recorded answering machine message that is difficult to decipher, would you let me know? Now, even though I have knowledge of these SuperBaby powers which she possesses, it still totally took me by surprise today when I heard my prized camera clunk on the floor. I know I put it on the back corner of the computer desk, and even made sure to pull the neck strap up too. Honestly!
One would think I would be more preventative, considering all the tall babies I've cared for. Maybe I just suffer from a short memory. What I'm currently learning, however, is that tall babies become tall children. And it's awfully hard to shake your finger at a child who can look you straight in the eye.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Getaway
I don't know anyone who has ever said, "It's easy to get away". Even my single friends have a hard time escaping from Something for a day or two. For our family of eleven, it's exponentially difficult. Even harder still? When it's just me and Kel.
Of course, there's the initial concerns of expense, time away from earning income as well as the time spent spending it. And there are the concerns about actually finding a few open days on the calendar that would accomodate a small excursion. But the greater logistics involve our nine children and who possibly could manage managing them. We don't get many offers. And, we don't often get away.
Lucky for us, we have my mom, a retired 6th grade teacher who doesn't scare easily. She regards our home as a small classroom with laundry facilities. Over many childbearing years, she has made it possible to survive labor/delivery/first few days home. She has cooked and cleaned and taken kids on endless trips to McDonald's playland. She has covered carpool obligations and carted kids to doctor appointments. She comes through the front door with a huge sweeping announcement of her arrival, and arms laden with grocery bags full of ice cream (for breakfast) and junk food (for whenever the mood suits you). She lets the kids eat on my livingroom couch, but swears them to secrecy. She does not enforce bedtimes. She thinks absolutely everything my children do is interesting and fun.
And she lies.
She lies that she loves getting rose scented perfume or another frog gift. She lies that my children are helpful and well-behaved. She lies that she is available the 4th weekend in July for an anniversary getaway.
She also lies that everything is "Just fine" when we call home to make sure that the kids are following the rules (they aren't) and we left enough milk in the fridge (we haven't). Friday night, a mere 6 hours after our departure, I detected a slight shrill in her voice in the background when Kieran answered the phone: "Well, it's pouring down rain, Mom. Mimi says I have to get off the phone." My fast fingered texting and subsequent phone calls had my children informing me that "Well, the tornado sirens are going off and we're waking kids up to get into the basement" and then "The power is out", and then "We're waiting for an okay from the fire department."
She lies by ommission too. Not only is my mom selective about the kinds of details she shares, she is quite inclined to embrace a martyr approach, at least until she has to own up when someone else spills the beans. Saturday evening I got to speak to Maddie, and she is an experienced bean spiller. "Hi Sweetie! How was the picnic and pool party?" "Oh, it was lots of fun Mom, until the ambulance showed up." And, our dear screaming Mimi was heard yelling in the background, "I TOLD YOU NOT CALL YOUR MOTHER!"
By all accounts, we had at our door this weekend every local emergency service organization except the National Guard. But honestly, we would have had to read it in the newspaper first. Now, I've matured enough in my parenting to not get so bent out of shape over such news and information, and more than likely I'm just numb to it. Shoot, I live it.
But mom? I fear she may never want to return.
Or, at least she'll lie about it.
Of course, there's the initial concerns of expense, time away from earning income as well as the time spent spending it. And there are the concerns about actually finding a few open days on the calendar that would accomodate a small excursion. But the greater logistics involve our nine children and who possibly could manage managing them. We don't get many offers. And, we don't often get away.
Lucky for us, we have my mom, a retired 6th grade teacher who doesn't scare easily. She regards our home as a small classroom with laundry facilities. Over many childbearing years, she has made it possible to survive labor/delivery/first few days home. She has cooked and cleaned and taken kids on endless trips to McDonald's playland. She has covered carpool obligations and carted kids to doctor appointments. She comes through the front door with a huge sweeping announcement of her arrival, and arms laden with grocery bags full of ice cream (for breakfast) and junk food (for whenever the mood suits you). She lets the kids eat on my livingroom couch, but swears them to secrecy. She does not enforce bedtimes. She thinks absolutely everything my children do is interesting and fun.
And she lies.
She lies that she loves getting rose scented perfume or another frog gift. She lies that my children are helpful and well-behaved. She lies that she is available the 4th weekend in July for an anniversary getaway.
She also lies that everything is "Just fine" when we call home to make sure that the kids are following the rules (they aren't) and we left enough milk in the fridge (we haven't). Friday night, a mere 6 hours after our departure, I detected a slight shrill in her voice in the background when Kieran answered the phone: "Well, it's pouring down rain, Mom. Mimi says I have to get off the phone." My fast fingered texting and subsequent phone calls had my children informing me that "Well, the tornado sirens are going off and we're waking kids up to get into the basement" and then "The power is out", and then "We're waiting for an okay from the fire department."
She lies by ommission too. Not only is my mom selective about the kinds of details she shares, she is quite inclined to embrace a martyr approach, at least until she has to own up when someone else spills the beans. Saturday evening I got to speak to Maddie, and she is an experienced bean spiller. "Hi Sweetie! How was the picnic and pool party?" "Oh, it was lots of fun Mom, until the ambulance showed up." And, our dear screaming Mimi was heard yelling in the background, "I TOLD YOU NOT CALL YOUR MOTHER!"
By all accounts, we had at our door this weekend every local emergency service organization except the National Guard. But honestly, we would have had to read it in the newspaper first. Now, I've matured enough in my parenting to not get so bent out of shape over such news and information, and more than likely I'm just numb to it. Shoot, I live it.
But mom? I fear she may never want to return.
Or, at least she'll lie about it.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
I Forgot My Camera
In honor of our 23 Wedding Anniversary, Kel found a way to solicit my mom's help in watching the children so we could enjoy a weekend in St. Louis.
But I forgot my camera.
No pictures of fireworks over the arch, the revelry and musicians on Laclead's Landing, or a foreign taxi driver from the casino. No pictures of the historic (but newly renovated) Mayfair hotel, back door tour of the Clydesdales at Annhauser-Busch, or Llewellyn's Irish Pub. No pictures of the reflecting pond in Forest Park, Chuck Close's amazing painting of Keith or Gerhard Richter's thoughtful grey glass reflection in the Art Museum. No pictures of the expansive city skyline, or tiny mosaic tiles at the Cathedral Basilica. (Or, the Archbishop giving us an anniversary blessing afterwards). No pictures to help me remember the characters in the European-like open market at Soulard's, nor the gorgeous fresh cut flowers, produce, meats, cheese, fish for sale. No pictures of us under the patio lights at the Italian restaurant on The Hill, nor meandering through the prayerful walkways at Our Lady of the Snows.
I don't have a photographic memory.
Fond memories will have to do.
But I forgot my camera.
No pictures of fireworks over the arch, the revelry and musicians on Laclead's Landing, or a foreign taxi driver from the casino. No pictures of the historic (but newly renovated) Mayfair hotel, back door tour of the Clydesdales at Annhauser-Busch, or Llewellyn's Irish Pub. No pictures of the reflecting pond in Forest Park, Chuck Close's amazing painting of Keith or Gerhard Richter's thoughtful grey glass reflection in the Art Museum. No pictures of the expansive city skyline, or tiny mosaic tiles at the Cathedral Basilica. (Or, the Archbishop giving us an anniversary blessing afterwards). No pictures to help me remember the characters in the European-like open market at Soulard's, nor the gorgeous fresh cut flowers, produce, meats, cheese, fish for sale. No pictures of us under the patio lights at the Italian restaurant on The Hill, nor meandering through the prayerful walkways at Our Lady of the Snows.
I don't have a photographic memory.
Fond memories will have to do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
