Sing It, Dory

Birthdays.

Graduations.

Goodbyes.

Career Changes.

International Travels.

Medical Challenges.

Medical Diagnoses.

More Career Changes.


My family is experiencing a tsunami of major events this June, a month that trembles, as Neruda said, "like a butterfly."  There's really only one thing to do when life throws so many curve balls and momentous events at you all at once.  Dory knows:

I'm swimmin' my way to the SF Giants game tonight, with four of my short people, one of whom I can't call a short person anymore.  But will forever anyway.

For tonight, I will celebrate my new 11 year old and hope our boys deliver a win, and then I will come home, go to sleep, and start swimming again tomorrow morning.

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All I really need to know I learned from Finding Nemo.

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London is Following Us

There are songs that follow us along the pathways of life.

Consider one morning, five and a half years ago, when The Clash got me through the mundane challenges of school-morning.

And today, that same song sees off my oldest on his first International Adventure.  London is calling, kid.  Today, you answer.

Have a wonderful time, Sam!

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Spooky

Little T.  She loves me so. She expresses her love by sobbing, whining, hanging on me, and being generally unbearable whenever we must spend the day apart.

Today is one such day.

The tears!  The angst!  The annoyance!

She's almost 7.  I would have hoped this would be slowing down to a crawl by now, but no, it seems rather to be ramping up in intensity.

She is not, however, one to miss an opportunity.  After an hour of pleading and cajoling with me to PLEASE let her come with me today, she settled on the following:

"Then I just want to keep your wallet with me today, to remember you by."

My wallet.  Riiiiiiight.  Opportunistic little monkey.

I would be touched by her need for some momento of me, except for the realization that she just wants to bleed me dry, and if she can't do it physically, then she's just as happy to drain my bank account.

I informed her that I would be taking my wallet with me, but I offered to draw her a picture of the two of us, so she could have something to keep with her today.  Thankfully, she loved the idea, and even expanded on it:

"You draw one for me, and I'll draw one for you!"

Awesome, right?  Well, yes, until this:

"I'm just going to need to know how to draw some spooky hair.  

Ya' know, like yours."

I didn't know I had spooky hair.  I did, however, know that I have a spark plug on my hands with this kid, and that she'll find new ways to remind me of this fact daily.

And now, I'm off to locate my hairbrush.

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* * *

How Do You Do It?

This is not a rhetorical question.  This is a question seeking real answers, from real people.

How do you get yourself up from the couch and motivate yourself to make and serve dinner, monitor bath times, straighten the house, prepare the entire family for tomorrow's day at the beach, referee the arguments, the endless, endless arguments, ensure that the kids do their chores, in short, do everything that needs to be done, when you're tired, demoralized, otherwise engaged in a pity party, down on everyone (especially your children), and wishing everyone would just go away?

I need something.

I need to be something.

I need to hear something.

I need to get something done.

How do you do it?  When it all needs to get done, and you are the one who needs to do it and you would rather be the one who doesn't have to do a damn thing?

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Two Sides of Parenting

Good day

Parenting: 18+ years in a front row seat, watching a person unfold her wings and learn to fly.

Bad day

Parenting: 18+ years of cringe-inducing moments.



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May your day be filled with wing-watching!

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5 Minutes Ago

The older I get, the more I realize that life really is about holding on by your fingernails and hoping for the best.

This week, my little tiny baby boy is graduating from 8th grade.  That can't be.  He's so little!  Look!

If you want to get technical, that picture is a tad old.  But if you want to talk about something non-technical, something much more real, then that picture was taken like five minutes ago, and I can hardly breathe.  Because five minutes has gone by, and this is what he looks like now:

How did that happen?

Grammar school is behind him.  Nine years is a long time.  Nine years of brand new school years each Fall.  Nine years of fresh binders and long, sharpened pencils.  Nine years of renewed commitments -- his and mine -- to be better.  Nine years of watching a wee child grow up, perform Shakespeare, play guitar, win a State Cup soccer championship.  Nine years of listening to his outrage at an unfair world.  Nine years of being proud of his willingness to take risks and do new things.

Four more, and it's launch time.  So tomorrow evening, I'll watch him graduate from 8th grade, I'll wipe a tear or two away, and then I'll crack my knuckles and get ready to hold on for more.

Congratulations Sam!  I look forward to watching you flourish in high school.  Good things await, my son!

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The Must-Est Must Read Ever

The school year is ending.  Out with a whimper.  It would be a complete throw away, if not for this gem:

Worst End of School Year Mom Ever

Jen Hatmaker: this will go down in history as the greatest capture of the end of the school year of all time.  Thank you, from the bottom of my so-over-it, tired-of-hiding-from-the-Kindergarten-teacher, down-with-literacy, down-with-projects, cynical-ass heart.

(Also?  I cannot believe I read a negative comment on this post!  Are there really, truly, humorless people in the world?  How very sad!)

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