Eulogy

One week ago today, my father died. Ever since I've been sitting at this computer watching my cursor flash on off on off off on off, unable to commit anything meaningful about his death to this blog.

My feelings about my father resemble a game of pick-up sticks: there are jaggedy, pointy things buried at the bottom of the pile and as soon as you disturb one, several others come unloose as well.

My father was a brave man. He was paralyzed in Vietnam at the age of 21 when a bullet tore through his left shoulder and exited via his spine. He spoke many times about the men he served with - men of grit and valor who sacrificed for their country and each other.

In the early years of my life, he was often depressed and bitter. I don't blame him for this. I cannot even begin to imagine how he felt losing use of his legs - and with that, the ability to dance, walk, run, jump and make love - at such a young age. He comforted himself with substances both legal and illegal. His choices weren't always the best, and they sometimes got him into trouble.

Worse than any of that, it was sometimes difficult to connect with a man whose body had been so unfairly broken – whose emotions and spirit had been turned inside out. Our relationship was complicated and not always easy.

But he was my father and I loved him. He was a man who chased me and a friend around the house in his wheelchair howling like a wolf. He taught me how to take pictures and develop them in the darkroom he had in his home. He visited Ireland and sent me postcards every other day detailing his adventures. He took me to see The Rolling Stones. Twice. He paid for my college education because he knew it was my ticket to a better life and I have always been so very grateful for that.

I know he loved me and I know he knows I loved him, but that does not make up for years of other things never said. Missed opportunities. Chances not taken. I am full of grief and regret this week, and probably will be for a long time.

On Friday, we held his funeral; a mass and burial with full military honors - taps, color guard, a 21-gun salute and a flag folding ceremony. I spoke at the mass, delivering a short eulogy at the end. It was a send off that I hope made him proud. I will leave you with those words:

* * *

I am a writer. I write to process, to record and to destress. My father was a writer too. I like to think that my love of writing is a gift from him, one of many he gave me throughout my life.

My father was a war veteran. A hero. He was a philosopher and an historian. He loved politics. He was an avid reader and a painter. He always had a good story to tell. He was a genealogist who researched our family tree back hundreds of years.

He also loved astronomy. With his telescope, he could identify all of the planets. When I was a young girl, he would wake me in the middle of the night sometimes so that he share an eclipse or meteor shower with me. I remember standing on the back step of our house in Clarksburg in my pajamas looking up at the sky with him one night as a comet blazed overhead.

“See Kim, see?” he said. “Isn’t that beautiful? You won’t see that again in your lifetime.”

I saw.

And even back then – at only about 7 years old - I knew why that moment was so spectacularly awesome in so many ways.

Thank you, Dad, for many, many things. You will be missed; you will be remembered. Because for the rest of my life, I will look up into the night sky and imagine you out there somewhere – chasing that comet.



Michael Gorman
1947 - 2010

Can Mr. Gav come out and play?

Anyone who knows my husband, knows he’s a bit quirky. He’s also, usually, the funniest, most personable, most social guy in the room.

He’s the one at parties surrounded by a crowd of people. The one who makes people feel welcome and appreciated. He has a snappy, good-natured retort to just about everything. Sometimes his comments are a bit odd, but you can’t help but smile at them.

He has a natural gift with people – I’ve always said that you could drop him in a room with 100 people who don’t speak a word of English and within an hour, he’d have made a host of new friends (who he’d stay in touch with long after the event ended).

Well, it seems his gift extends to the thigh-high set as well. Yes, obviously, the girls adore him and all the silly things he does to help keep their lives interesting.



But, it goes beyond that.

Mark has acquired quite a fan club at the girls’ preschool. The school has a large common room where everyone congregates in the morning. On the days he drops them off, he often runs around that room barking like a dog with a throng of at least a dozen squealing kids running after him.

One day last month when I was bringing the girls to school, they entered the common room before me. Upon seeing them, a small group of boys got very excited and ran over to the door, anticipating Mark’s entrance and five minutes of insanity before classes start. When they saw me, they clearly could not have been more disappointed. Their little faces dropped like a stone thrown off a tower.

Oh, it’s you, one of them lamented, walking way dejectedly.

Last week after school, Mark spent an hour running around the common room with our girls and two other children who were signed up for Extended Day. The next day, one of them told me it was the “most funnest Extended Day ever.”

But the cream on the cookie came on Friday, when one of Peanut’s friends asked her mom – in complete seriousness — if Peanut “and her dad” could come over to her house this week for a play date because “her dad is so fun.”

Can you just picture it? Mark and Peanut arriving at this woman’s house, ringing the doorbell and then the two of them spending the day there playing? I can just imagine him chasing them up and down the stairs and all around the house.

The mom was even (sort of) in favor of it, thinking she’d go out and get some shopping done.

Someday in the future, Mark’s quirks are probably going to embarrass the hell out of our daughters. He’ll say something and they’ll give him the old Tween Girl Eyeroll and a “Daaaad.”

But for now, they get the honor of having the coolest, most entertaining Dad in town. So entertaining that, at the request of the school’s director, he’s playing the role of Santa at the school’s Christmas pageants next week.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

That's what cousins are for

So I've been having a tough time training for the triathlon I've pledged to do next year. As I mentioned, I'm not a very good swimmer.

I taught myself to swim, and not very well. My entire life I've been swimming with my face sticking out of the water and sort of moving my arms around in a part dog-paddle, part freestyle type of thing. It's not very effective or efficient.

Knowing my swimming wasn't up to snuff for a swim of any serious length, I signed up for a 20-week adult stroke clinic at the YMCA. It took exactly three lessons for panic to set in. Not only don't I have nearly the endurance I need, but my lack of form was actually alarming. During that lesson, I realized I don't really like putting my face in the water. Trying to will myself to keep my head in the water, I swallowed it or sucked it in through my nose several times and had to stop and grab the edge of the pool while I sputtered and coughed. My instructor criticized me for being too tense and hurried. Really? Ya think?

This is bad, I thought. Very, very bad. What the hell was I thinking agreeing to this?

And then the doubt: I can't do this. I'm going to need to get pulled from the water. I won't be able to finish.

I left that lesson in a state of depression and angst. I slept that night with the taste of chlorine still in my mouth and dreamed of being unable to breathe; of sinking slowly into deep, dark water.

Lesson four did not go much better. I started posting my weekly anxiety on my Facebook page, where my cousin Laryssa, who works for a sportswear company, saw it. She sent me a link and a blog post from Linsey Corbin. Linsey is a professional triathlete. She recently set a new personal record and finished fifth - the fastest American - in the Ironman World Championships in Hawaii. She is, in a word, awesome.

She has become my new hero. My inspiration. My muse. I've read her blog and looked at her photos and, while I have no desire to compete at the level she does, reading about her has given me a much-needed boost.

With renewed gusto, I decided to focus solely on swimming for a while. In the last two weeks, I've gone to the pool seven times. And you know what? It's getting easier. I still have a ton of work to do, but I actually feel like I'm going to be able to do it. It won't be easy. But I can do it. I will do it.

Despite that, I had kind of a bad swim today. I'm fighting a cold and I have a stiff neck (I know, I know. Bitch whine, bitch). I had to rest a lot and I found myself once again struggling to maintain my rhythm with the breathing. I left there feeling sort of meh.

Then the mail came. And there was a big envelope from my cousin. So I opened it. And this is what was inside:



How AWESOME is that?

Rys -thank you, thank you. I don't think I can even tell you how much this means to me. This picture is going in a very prominent place in my bedroom so I can see it everyday. I will treasure it and when I cross that finish line sometime next year, I will have you and Linsey to thank for it.

Happiness is a box of old plastic horses

They have sat in a box for more than 20 years: a collection of vintage Breyer model horses.

Some of them are well over 30 years old - remnants of my girlhood love of horses. In the heyday of my horse infatuation, my bedroom shelves were filled with dozens of them. But over time there were casualties: broken legs and severed tails. I gave some away to friends and others to charity. Some time after I went away to college, my mom packed what was left into a box, which sat in the bedroom closet of my old house for several years. One day when I was home visiting, she handed the box over to me.

"Your horses," she said. "Do you want them or do you want me to get rid of them?"

I stared into the box. What was I supposed to do with them? I wasn't exactly going to display them in my apartment. And I didn't really think I wanted children. So why keep them? But as I picked through the box, examining them, memory after memory came back. The names I'd given them (Movie Star, Lightning, Princess, Faithful). The games I'd played with them. The hours I spent arranging and rearranging them in my room.

I decided to take them. I wasn't really sure why, but the box went into the trunk of my car and then straight into another closet. The box moved with me from one apartment to another and then finally to this house - the home where we started our family. With every move, I questioned my rationale for keeping them, but in the end could never quite bring myself to let them go.

Recently, my daughters - like many girls - have fallen head over heels in love with horses. They gallop around and whinny like horses, sleep with their horse-heads-on-a-stick and take their My Little Ponies into the bathtub with them. Watching them gallop around the kitchen today, I started thinking about my own long-ago love of horses and suddenly remembered the box in the attic.

In a flash, I was upstairs, looking for it. It took a little digging, but squealing, I found it and carried it down to the kitchen. The looks on my girls' faces - the pure, unfiltered joy - when I started stacking the horses on the table, along with the rush of hugs and "thank you Mommys!" made the many moves and years of storage unquestionably worthwhile.

Many years ago, I brought home a box of plastic horses wondering why I was saving them. Now I know.

Across an ocean and over a day: good thoughts for an Olympian

As I wrote in June, my brother has been involved in judo since age 5 and is ranked 3rd in the nation in his weight class. He tried out for the Olympics twice. He missed having a spot on the U.S. team both this year and in 2004 by the skin of his teeth. He was crushed, but he’s a trooper and is handling it well.

However, his long-time girlfriend Sayaka Matsumoto made the Olympic team this year! She’s been in Beijing for a week and has been sending daily e-mails with all kinds of fascinating, behind-the-scenes commentary.

Judo is not a very popular or well known sport here in the USA, but it’s huge in most other parts of the world. If you’ve been following any of the Olympic coverage, you may know that there is a woman from Japan named Ryoko Tani, who is possibly the most famous and decorated woman judoka in history.

Well, Sayaka just learned that she will compete against Ryoko in her first match tonight at midnight eastern time. Her division (48 kg women’s ultra lightweight) is one of the first to compete in the games. The match will be broadcast here live tonight at midnight. The medal rounds will be broadcast on the same site at 6 a.m. on Saturday.

Because Ryoko is so famous, the match also may be rebroadcast on television on Saturday. Judo rarely gets television coverage during the Olympics, so if you happen to see it, give Sayaka a little wave through the TV. She is an absolute doll – exactly the type of woman I'd like to see my daughters grow into: sweet, smart, hard-working, honest, dedicated and tough.

And if you think of it, send a little good karma her way today. She’s going to need it. In her own words from her most recent e-mail message, "I'm very, very excited about the tournament tomorrow, especially since I am fighting Tani first round. What a great way to enjoy my Olympic experience. Ronda told me today, "Tomorrow if the first day of the rest of your life," and its true. Please send me positive thoughts!!"

You've got it, Sayaka. A thousand good thoughts and endless admiration.

Different styles of management

We have a huge thicket (which I’ve decided is my new favorite word – thick-KET, don’t you just love the way that rolls off the tongue?) of wild raspberry bushes behind our barn. This year, we have a bumper crop of them and the girls and I headed out there to pick, pick, pick today.

As I stood there in my jeans and rainboots drawing berries into a bowl, it occurred to me that it’s unlikely Mark would ever pull on jeans and boots on a 90+ degree day to engage in such an activity. But that’s O.K.

Let me explain.

As you may know, we have an arrangement where we both work part time. I go into my office two days a week and when I do, he becomes a stay-at-home dad.

Mark and I offer up very different parenting styles. I mean, we agree on the important stuff like rules and discipline, but the days they spend with me are wildly different from the ones they spend with him.

He is much more physical – rough and tumble if you will – than I. He stands at the foot of the bed and tosses them onto the mattress. He chases them through the house flapping his arms and screeching like a hawk. He grabs them and rolls on the floor with them and holds them down and tickles them until they’re laughing so hard they can’t speak.

The time I spend with them is more quiet and reflective. We like to go sit at the edge of the pond and “fish” with long sticks. We chase butterflies through the yard. We pick flowers and dig in the sandbox. We finger paint and color. We pick berries.

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I roll around and wrestle with them and he’s been known to sit on the floor and help them build things with their blocks. But for the most part, we stick to our “roles” not on purpose, but just because we’re both being ourselves with them.

The arrangement is good for everyone. One day, they’re running through the house from the Daddy Bear and the next I’m painting their toenails under a tree in the backyard. It’s really the best of both worlds – for all of us.

After all, variety is the spice of life.

Chasing a dream

Nate, my brother, is a spry 25. He has lived the better part of his life in pursuit of one goal: A spot on the U.S. Olympic Judo team.

He started judo at the age of 5, his interest in martial arts spurred by the movie The Karate Kid. When my step-father tried to sign up for karate lessons, he was told that Nate was too young. But my step-father knew someone who owned a judo studio and he said to bring Nate by. If nothing else, he'd get to put on a gi and roll around on a mat.

Today, over 20 years later, he is standing - right at this very moment - in a stadium somewhere in Las Vegas about to compete for that illustrious spot on the U.S. Team. His match, literally, is beginning any second (1 p.m. eastern time).

I sit here typing with a knot in my stomach. He has worked so hard for this. He has won a great number of prestigious matches. He has traveled the world more than I can ever hope to. He has had some heartbreaking losses and numerous injuries. He had his morale damaged by a coach who is too arrogant and thought it better to spend his time berating his students vs. building them up. He overcame that and is a stonger, better person today.

Through it all, he has stuck with a sport that is virtually unknown and barely watched here in America. He has sacrificed and fought and pushed his body beyond the limit.

When he was just a boy of about 8, he told me he wanted to go to the Olympics and win a gold medal. I think my reaction not far off of patting him on the head and saying, "That's nice, dear." Who knew that 20 years later, he'd be where he was? Certainly not me, and I don't think my parents did either.

Regardless of what happens today in that stadium in Las Vegas, I will always look at him as an inspiration. He is someone who knew what he wanted at a very early age and went for it. How many of us can say that? I can't.

Good luck today, Nate. Your NJ fan club is here cheering for you.

EDIT: He won his first match!! Yay! He still has a tough fight ahead of him, but he's off to a great start! I'll keep you posted.

UPDATE: Well, he didn't make it, but he fought a great fight. Nate, you'll always be an Olympian in my book.

What if . . . ??

(Warning: Shameless promotion ahead)

If you died today, would your family know what your wishes are? Would they know how you feel about burial vs. cremation? Would they know if you want to be embalmed? Would they think you want them to spend thousands of dollars on a top-of-the-line casket, or would they assume you’d rather the money be put to a different use? Would they know what your feelings are about organ donation or, if you were incapacitated, would they know how you feel about being kept alive on a respirator indefinitely?

Or would they be left to guess – and perhaps even fight – in the courts for years the way Terri Schaivo’s family did?

What about important documents? Does your family know where your safety deposit boxes or safes are? Do they know where to find your life insurance policies? Do they even have your social security number? Can they find the title to your car or your mortgage policy number or the key to the vacation home in the mountains? If you have pets or livestock, could they find the relevant vet and ownership records?

Would they know what you wanted done with your wedding band? Your great-grandmother’s china? The special Christmas ornaments you and your spouse have picked up on every single vacation together since you got married? Your baseball card collection or the tea towels you sewed with your mother when you were 10?

Would it bother you if any of the above items were given away to charity? Possessions don’t need to be valuable to be important to us.

And now turn it around. If someone in your close family died, would YOU know what he/she wants or where to find the critical pieces that help complete and close out that person’s life? And would you really want to be searching for them when you’re riddled with grief?

These are critical questions that few of us want to give thought to. No one really relishes the idea of his/her own death, but if you have any type of family—a parent, a spouse, a sibling, a grandparent—who would be left behind after your death, you need to answer these questions in an organized, easy-to-find way.

My husband Mark has put together a guide that pulls everything together in one cover. It’s called “The It’s All Right Here Life and Affairs Organizer.”



The idea for the organizer originated after his father died in 2003 leaving behind mountains of papers with no guidance on what was important and what wasn’t. He and is siblings spent many hours pouring through closets, rooms, files, boxes and shelves trying to organize, sort, code and distribute. It would have been a difficult task under the best of circumstances, but doing it while grief-stricken made it that much worse.

Had my father-in-law had access to a book like the one Mark’s written, his children would have been spared many difficult moments.

Because you are readers of this blog and I appreciate you stopping by now and then to say hello, we’re offering the book to you at a special discounted price of $29.99, a 40% discount off the $49.99 cover price. Email me (kimberly615@yahoo.com) for an order form. Click here to learn more about the book or take a peek inside.

I swear, even if he weren't my husband, I'd definitely buy this book. If it saves my family members even a little grief or anguish, it's well worth the price.

A growing tradition

I come from a long line of women who seek therapy in the cool, deep dirt of their gardens. Grandmothers, aunts, and of course, my mom are all avid gardeners. Their homes were/are surrounded by flowers. Their summer salads were/are punctuated by tomatoes and cucumbers that they’ve sown in a patch of dirt a few feet from their back door.

I recall my maternal grandmother’s peony bushes, full of fat, pink flowers every spring. Their lush fragrance filled the air for several feet in any direction. In her backyard, she grew vegetables that my cousins and I picked and ate straight from the garden.

On the other side of my family tree, my great-grandmother filled pots of colorful annuals and lined her steps with them. Rose of Sharon bushes grew high along the front of her house. My father’s mom had a lush patch of lily-of-the-valley that hypnotized me with its beauty.

Even in marriage I’ve connected with gardeners. Mark’s mother’s home is surrounded by a riot of color and beauty from May to September. A physical wall of daylilies brings joy to the entire neighborhood each year.

I have inherited this love. The gardening gene thrives in my cells, prompting me to begin plotting out my spring projects while snow still blows outside my window and bringing me delight at the first signs of plants coming to life after a long winter sleep.

When we bought our house in March 2001, I knew almost nothing about gardening and the beds around the home were a neglected, weedy mess. I had no idea what I was doing, but I forged bravely forward, planting with no clear plan or direction. Things shot up all over the place in willy-nilly fashion. Tall plants were in the front of the border while shorter ones were hidden the back. All the July bloomers ended up in one place resulting in a short-lived burst of color with nothing else blooming for the rest of the season. A bunch of plants withered away from lack of sun as others fried in the heat of August.

But I’m a fast learner and by the next summer, I had a plan in place. I moved some plants, divided others and began the traditional May draining of my wallet at the local nursery.

I learned about full sun and part sun and shade. I learned about spring, summer and fall bloomers. I learned to space things by color and size. I stopped pulling the relentless weeds and laid down thick black weed tarp instead.

And last year I hit paydirt:









There is still a lot of work to do. Whole beds off the driveway in the back remain neglected and overgrown. But it’s good to see such hard work pay off.

The best part of all is realizing that both of my daughters seem to have inherited the gardening gene as well. At the annual nursery wallet draining last week, they happily followed along, helping me pick out flowers, asking questions with great enthusiasm (“Oh Mommy, what’s this plant?”) and pulling the wagon as we piled it high with flowers, herbs and vegetables (a new experiment for me this year).

When it came time to put them in the ground, they were right there with me, digging with their tiny shovels, wearing the teeny gardening gloves I picked up for them in the dollar section of Target.

I used to relish gardening time as my alone time. For me, digging in the dirt in solitude was one the finest forms of stress release.

But on Sunday morning while the three of us filled a huge container with tiny herb plants, Mark stepped outside to marvel at us.

“This is so great,” he said. “You’re giving them a lifelong love of gardening.”

There is no better tribute I can offer to the fine women of my family than to ensure their passions and pursuits live on for another generation. So far, it appears the odds are very good.

A birthday story

Three years ago, I walked into the Labor & Delivery ward of my local hospital with a swollen belly, an overnight bag and an prodigious amount of anticipation. It was around 6 a.m.

I was pregnant with my second child – a child whose sex was unknown – and a stewpot of emotions swirled within me: excitement, happiness, guilt (at dethroning Peanut from her 20-month reign as center of our universe), fear.

Fear because my first pregnancy ended in a c-section and I was, with my OB’s blessing, going to attempt a V-BAC (that’s vaginal birth after cesarean for those of you not in the know).

It had the potential to be a whole new experience. Would I be able to do it? Would the baby be OK? (V-BACs carry some measure of risk, but for that matter, so do c-sections). Would it hurt?

But I was determined because even back then I had a strong sense that this was our last baby and I wanted to experience birth through the body’s natural door (mind you, that does not mean “natural” birth. When it comes to birthing, I am all about the epidural. I’m in complete awe of women who go without it.) The nurses checked us in, got us settled. My doctor confirmed I was in labor and “well on my way.”

A few hours and an epidural later I was ready to push. I had the most fabulous nurse-coach. She was exactly as supportive and encouraging as she needed to be. She gave me the direction and focus I needed, even talking me into using a mirror (something I NEVER thought I’d want to do) to see the progress of my pushing.

I watched – totally transfixed - as the top of my baby’s head appeared for ever increasing moments. There was nothing else in the world that mattered than the top of that head. It gave me the strength and stamina to keep pushing, knowing that each exertion brought me closer to meeting the child who’d been wriggling around in my womb for the last nine months.

And then, suddenly the nurse woke me from my reverie with a firm, “STOP!”

My little L&D room suddenly became a bustle of activity as everyone prepared for the birth of my baby. At that moment, everyone had a job to do. Everyone but me. I was told, most clearly, to just lie back and NOT do anything, especially push. It was surreal.

My mind danced around the idea of meeting our baby – of finally knowing if it was a boy or girl. Of cradling him/her in my arms right away this time instead of only getting a glimpse before she was shuffled off while my lower half was endlessly sewn back together.

Finally, we were ready. The doctor assumed his “catcher’s position,” the mirror was repositioned and I was told to give it one more push. And with that, I got my first glimpse at our baby’s face.

“STOP!” the doctor said while he suctioned her, but before he could even finish, she just literally slid the rest of the way out.

I can still remember the nurse’s shout of, “Oh my, she just delivered herself," followed by, "it's a girl!"

And just like that, Loaf was born in a manner that was a prefect prelude to her inability to wait, her total lack of patience and her leadership.

That said, she is my snuggler. My sweet girl who nuzzles into me several times a day and still bursts into our room a couple of nights a week just to be close to us. She is tenacious and calculating – a problem solver. She has a million-watt infectious smile and gives the best sloppy kisses of anyone I know.

She’s at times an instigator (she knows how to push her big sister’s buttons and loves to do it) and at others the most fragile and sensitive girl in the world. She is Peanut’s best friend and worst enemy and I don’t think either could survive long term without the other.

She found a way to make our hearts even bigger, our family stronger and our love more complete.

Happy birthday, Loaf! We are so blessed to have you!

Mutual feelings of need

For the first several months of her life, Loaf slept in bed with me. I was nursing and with a 20something-month-old toddler to care for on top of an infant, it made the most sense.

There came a point when she stopped eating in the middle of the night and I desperately wanted her out of our bed. Mark was sleeping on the couch and I missed him. I wanted him back with me, so into the room next door she went.

But in the beginning, it was bliss. Just she and I nuzzled up together. I loved reaching over and cupping her peach-fuzzed head in my hand. We’d sleep sometimes nose-to-nose, breathing each other in warm, deep slumber. Other times I’d wake up with her nuzzled in the crook of my arm like a cat, her fat baby cheek spread out on my shoulder.

Long-term co-sleeping is not for me. While I could sleep through fireworks as a youth, I am far too light a sleeper these days. I wake at the slightest sound or touch and anyone who has ever slept next to a small child knows they are restless and noisy even in sleep.

Yet I miss it sometimes. Those soft, hazy mornings when we’d wake in sync and she’d look up at me from under mile-long lashes before flashing me a giant, toothless grin and I’d place the softest of kisses upon her velvety forehead.

This week Loaf is sick and the nights have been rough. She’s waking every couple of hours, or whimpering in her sleep without really coming fully awake. I have laid in my bed for two straight nights listening to her struggles to gain comfort until last night it became too much.

At my request, Mark brought her to me shortly after I went to bed and she slept next to me for most of the night. I woke at one point when a foot slammed into the back of my head, but otherwise, it was peaceful and reminiscent of her early days. Placing a gentle kiss upon her brow I curled my arm around her and pulled her against me. She sighed deeply, finally finding the deep rest she needed.

Today, I woke before my alarm and watched her sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling, her small mouth drawing in slow breaths. The moment was so precious, so full of peace. I cupped her head in my hand. It no longer fits there the way it used to and her hair, once downy and short, is now full of long, wiry curls.

She has changed so much since those early days, yet she still needs me.

Little does she know how much I need her too. And in that, we both find comfort.

More than a thousand words

My brother-in-law is an extremely talented photographer (he's also finishing his residency in neurology, so he's no schlep in the brains department either). And, he has excellent taste in women (smootchies, Justine!).

For the past few weeks, he's been posting his shots on Flickr and they are AMAZING! I'm constantly awed by his talent so I just have to share.

Click here to take a look. You won't be disappointed.

Playing catch up

Forgive me readers, for I have slacked. It's been over a month since I last posted pictures of my children, and I have no good excuses.

So here is my attempt at catch-up: one month of my kids in photos.

We did a little reading:





No, Peanut isn't actually reading here, but she does have the stories memorized so they do this a lot. It's terribly cute.

We explored our artistic side:





Future Rodins?





Or perhaps, Picassos?

We logged some snuggle time:



We crossed our fingers, held our breath, and took the side rail off Loaf's crib, thus converting it into a toddler bed:



Given her somewhat ::ahem:: challenging sleeping habits, this was the moment I've been dreading. I thought for sure she would present herself at my bedside 86 times a night. But so far, she has slept in her own bed every night. And dare I say it? I think she might even be sleeping better now than she was before. Sssshhhh.

And, of course, we goofed around a lot:









Is this just the cheesiest grin ever? Don't you love it?

Whew! January was exhausting!



Thank God February is a short month so I can catch up on my rest. (HA! Riiiiiight.)

In memoriam

Jack Y. was Mark’s grandfather.

He was born in August 1904 and yesterday, around 4 p.m., he passed away. He was 103 (and a half). He had a full head of snow-white hair and an infectious, gregarious laugh that never failed to draw you in. He was an amazing storyteller and loved his family immensely.

In 1904, the average life expectancy in the United States was 47. Who would have guessed he’d double that, and then add nearly 10 more years to it.

Only 14% of homes in the U.S. had a bathtub, and only 8% had a phone. There were only 144 miles of paved roads in this country, which was fine, because there were only 8,000 cars on the road.

The tallest structure in the world was the Eiffel Tower and the average U.S. worker made between $200-$400 a year. Since Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Hawaii and Alaska had not yet been admitted to the Union, the American flag had only 45 stars. The population of Las Vegas was 30.

The year he was born was also the very first year of the New Year’s celebration in Times Square. There was no ball, but there were fireworks.

When I think of his age, I am amazed. 103 (and a half) is an incredibly, long life. When you examine what the world was like in 1904, the feat of living more than a century crystallizes into something nearly miraculous. The things he has seen – the joys, the sorrows, the wondrous inventions (from computers to squeezable ketchup bottles) — it is simply remarkable.

When he turned 100, we traveled to Indiana for a large family gathering. He sat talking to Mark while Peanut, just 10 months old, looked intently at him. While she doesn’t remember this trip, I’m so glad we took photographs of the two of them together so that someday we can pass his stories on to her and show her the incredible man whose blood runs in her veins.





Tonight, 103 years (and 2 days) after 200,000 people first gathered in Times Square to ring in the New Year, I plan to raise a glass and toast Jack Y., one of the nicest men I’ve ever known. We will miss you.

Um, and, oh yeah . . . we celebrated this little holiday recently.

Christmas? Maybe you've heard of it.

Anyway, it tends to take up a crazy amount of time to plan and prepare, as well as involves traveling all over the eastern seaboard (for us at least), which is why I've been so scarce lately. We had a really wonderful holiday. Our families are so incredibly generous.

Here are a few pictures.

Making cookies













Christmas Eve with my family







These are my cousin's girls and they all love each other immensely. It is too cute to see them together.

Christmas Day with my family



Here they are checking out the loot from Santa. They got these two dresses the night before.



The theme this year: Princess Crap. Yes, I am an enabler. So shoot me.





Christmas with Mark's family on 12/29



A little bite to eat with their cousin. (They all look so serious here).



More dress up stuff. And what's funny? The tutu, shirt and wings are from 3 completely different sets.





The aftermath. Whew! Christmas is fun, but it sure is exhausting.

You mean, he's coming TONIGHT??!?!

YYYYYYYYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

YYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

That pretty much sums up my kids' mood today.

We're at my mom's in Massachusetts.

Merry Christmas.

God bless us every one!

We'll frolic and play the Eskimo way . . .

I was home alone here with the girls this weekend.

My husband was away – way far away – in Oregon visiting his sister. I didn’t want to post that I was here alone for fear that stalkers or crazies or escaped convicts would read my blog and come after me in the night (yes, I am totally chicken that way and don’t think for a minute that I didn’t sleep with a big heavy club-like weapon beside my bed), but he is back home now and I feel much better.

That said, we fell victim to an ice storm while he was gone and I did NOTHING to clean up the aftermath.

By the time he pulled in from the airport this morning at 7 a.m. (after 3 hours of sleep on the redeye), the entire driveway and every walkway to the house was a solid sheet of ice. Seriously. If you live in the general area of northern New Jersey and need a place to bring the kids ice skating, come on by. It’s not just the driveway either – it’s the entire yard. We have well over two acres of skating rink right now. BYO skates.

Also? We have a really freaking long driveway. Which is a good part of the reason why I had no interest in going out in a storm and trying to clean it off. It would have taken hours and hello – it was hailing out there and I was soley responsible for two small children. What if I got whacked on the head by falling ice or a tree limb (they are all over the place) or something? So it wasn’t just rampant laziness that kept me inside, but common sense, solid thinking. (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it).

Anyway . . . Poor Mark arrives home after hurtling through the air at 35,000 feet for six hours and is nearly injured just trying to stay upright long enough to make it to the front door. It is treacherous. On my way to the gym this morning, the truck did a gentle, slow slide right toward the gate until I finally remembered (duh) that it has four-wheel drive. Thank God. Though the car may not see the street again until later this week when it warms up above freezing. Mark just sort of slid it 2/3 of the way down the driveway and left it there. (Thanks, dude).

So what, you may be asking, is the point of this post? The point, my dear readers, is that despite the fact that I spent four truly terrifying trips down the walkway to the car and back today, shuffling my feet an inch at a time along a surface so slick I saw a squirrel wipe out as he leapt from a tree (hysterical) and cursing myself for not at least shoveling the walkway (OK, really, if we’re being honest, I was cursing Mark for not being here to do it), late this afternoon while Loaf napped, Peanut and I ventured out – bundled up like Eskimos – and slid all over the yard.

As soon as I relaxed and stopped worrying so much about falling, I found my balance was actually decent. I could get a little speed and slide across the yard in my boots and Peanut did the same. We then sat on our butts or lay on our bellies while we propelled ourselves – sled free – down even the slightest incline. We laughed and squealed and sometimes wiped out, which only made us laugh and squeal more. We held hands and giggled and helped hold each other up. And when it was over, we went inside and sat at the kitchen table sipping hot chocolate and reliving how much fun it was to “ice skate” in our yard.

When she asked me if we could go outside, I didn’t want to go. It was really cold today and I'd already convinced myself that it was foolish to try to walk around on the ice. But in the end, she persuaded me and I’m so grateful she did. What fun! I hope it’s one of those things she always remembers. I know I will.



Our Winter Wonderland

Once upon a time . . .

Today in the living room, Loaf noticed for the first time a framed photo of Mark and me on our wedding day. It has been in the same spot for years, but she’s never paid much attention to it before.



“Mommy, wear crown,” she said pointing to my tiara.

“Yes, that’s right. A tiara. And this was my veil,” I said, running my finger along the fluff of white behind my face.

“Pretty white dress, Mommy.”

“Thank you.”

“Mommy, hair up. Pretty.”

“Thank you again. And who’s this guy?”

“That Daddy!” she said with surprise, seeming to notice him in the photo for the first time. (She has obviously inherited the female gene that recognizes the wedding day is All. About. The. Bride.)

“Do you like this picture?” I asked.

“Yeah!”

“Me too.”

“Happily ever after,” she said, still studying the picture.

Wow.

A look back: Thanksgiving '06

Getting ready for the big day tomorrow, so here's a look back at last year. I can't believe how much the girls have grown and changed!



The centerpiece I made. Considering I am about the least crafty person on the planet, I think this is pretty great.



Grown-up table before the feast.



Patiently waiting for everyone to arrive.



Posing with Grandma and Grandpa.



Loaf in her high chair (!) last year. This kills me. She's still such a baby here. What a change.



And here's Peanut. Something tells me she'll be able to reach the table a little better this year. Oh and no worries, that's not her wine. ;-)



Kids' table.



Another view of the kids. There will be a few more there this year.