"Everything has rhythm. Everything dances.” ~Maya Angelou

“How ’bout Friday? We got ‘im on Friday.”

“I like Hank.”

“Caaaaaptain Awesome!!”

“Checkers? Phil?”

“Nnnnnnnnoooooo! I don’ like Phil! Friday!”

“So no on Captain Awesome?”

“Friday is good.”

“YAY! Friday!”

“I want to choose his middle name. It will be Racer.”

“Fine. But not Friday.”

“There’s always Captain Awesome…”

“Fluffy? Elephant? Rhino?”

“No. Other people used those.”

“Buddy?”

“Actually…he HAS no name. We’ll jus’ call him Buddy.”

“No. It’s Buddy.”

“I like Buddy. He’s a Buddy.”

“It’s Buddy Racer.”

“Buddy Racer Chaos.”

I have to be honest here. I was mad as a wet hen at Jon when Gracie convinced him that a turtle was THE thing to buy with her birthday money. I’ve been called a Playdoh mom and a nice mom and a mean mom and a dorky mom…but never a pet loving mom (frankly, I have a hard enough time keeping up with the monsters who live in this house already).

But Gracie has had her Daddy wrapped around her little finger for last ten years (a whole decade!). Add something cool and turtley to the mix and he’s putty in her hands.

Aaaaand, they are pretty cute together. Sigh.

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P.S. To my turtle loving, Daddy melting, color spreading, mess making, beauty seeking ten year old…Happiest Birthday (late). I love your face.

Several years ago, my sister in law gave me a set of six drinking glasses for my birthday. They were made of thick glass, and each one had a band of blue at the lip. Each one was a little bit different. They were a little quirky and imperfect and I loved them.

Notice I’m speaking about these glasses that I loved in the past tense. Over the years every one of them has been broken–most of them by me. If I’m being honest, dishes of the durable plastic variety are the the only ones that should EVER be allowed in our house. And even then we tend to lose them.

I shouldn’t say ALL of them have been broken over the years, because up until Tuesday night, I still had one. Until I managed to break into two very clean pieces in the sink.

I was in a bad mood that day anyway, and that just seemed like icing on a hopelessly falling cake. Evie was in the kitchen when grumbled and huffed under my breath as I threw the glass in the trash.

“Oh, Mom. Was that your very favorite cup?”

I huffed one more time and sighed.

“Actually, it was. And I’m mad that I broke it.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked up at me.

“Wellllllll. You know what you need to do. You jus’ needa find a new favorite.”

Four year old wisdom can sometimes be a needed smack in the face.

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At the beginning of the week, I had some impressive ideas for posts and pictures. I did! But a migraine laid me pretty flat today.

It’s a good thing Evie whispers my lines to me when we play with her pets and dolls and pretend cousins, or I’d be totally useless.

Happy weekending!

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When I was in the second grade, my best pal Andrea and I scraped together all of our nickels and quarters to buy each of us a set of artificial fingernails.

Later that night, my mom spent what I’m sure was a terrific amount of time filing each nail down so they would fit my eight year old fingers. I have very clear memories of feeling fabulously sophisticated and very important sitting at the Holly Hobbie table in my bedroom watching her work on something that was convinced would make me a stunner (goodness, I was a dreamer!).

The next day was Saturday, and we went to the library. With our wonderful long nails, Andrea and I felt so grown up that we ventured to an area of the library we never had before: upstairs to the Non-Fiction and Reference sections. Surely only older people with long painted nails would go up the escalator!

While students from the local university hunkered down to study and do research, we used our luxurious nails to point out books on the shelves and paintings on the walls. It was so exhilarating!

The nails didn’t last, of course–I don’t even remember having them beyond that afternoon–but the memory sure has. Really, what my mom did was pretty simple. She filed down plastic fingernails and then let me march around in public showing them off. But oh how it mattered to me!

Every January, I hear a lot about people choosing their Word of the Year. Even though I’ve thought about it, I’ve never found a word that really works for me, so I’ve never done it. Until this year, anyway. This year I found it: Open.

This year I want to be more open. I want to give my kids more open space (which means getting more organized–ahem) to play and think about how they can change the world. I want to be open to new ideas, to new experiences, to more spirituality, and to plain old uninhibited joy.

And I want to be more open to little experiences with the people around me that lend themselves to making big, long lasting memories. Even if it means spending a terrific amount of time filing down drug store fingernails that will likely be lost within the week.

Open.

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P.S. It’s my 16th wedding anniversary today. Jon bought me a bunch of wild flowers, a box of strawberries and a can of black olives. I wouldn’t have wanted to spend these last 16 years with anyone else. We fit.

Confession: I am a terrible personal event photographer.

I can take 147 pictures of my kids running around the back yard on a Wednesday, but a birthday or holiday rolls around and I click the shutter maaaaaaaybe 6 times.

I don’t know what my problem is. Give me a wedding to shoot, I fill up 32 gigs of memory. Ask me to take your family pictures, I sift through hundreds of shots.

Show me a sunny day and a willing four year old, I click for an hour.

Throw a family party at me, get me talking and I either forget I have my camera around my neck or realize half way through that I’ve forgotten the darn thing all together.

So this year I was determined to get some real pictures on Christmas morning…

…and truthfully, I still sort of failed.

But at least I tried, right?

Maybe next year I’ll manage to stop yapping long enough to take an even dozen. New Year’s Resolution number one…

Happiest New Year to ALL!

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This week, Evie had her dance recital. Because of the small facility where it was held, we were told we could bring no more than five people.

We should have been limited to three. We were packed in like sardines. When Evie’s group of Tiny Tots performed, I snaked my way to the front and watched her leap and twirl through my lens.

After her dance, since we were so crammed in, there was a mass exit from the performance area in order to make room for the parents and family of the next group of kids.

And even though I could swear she was right in front of me, Evie got away.

For 15 minutes we searched that place from top to bottom. Jon went outside and walked the parking lot. I even looked in a closet.

Finally, another mother noticed me coming apart. I’m pretty sure I hiccuped when I told her about Evie’s blonde hair and pigtails.

“She’s probably just downstairs where they practice.”

I shook my head. I’d looked there already. Twice.

Thankfully, that mother ignored my frantic dismissal, because she went downstairs–in the very place I looked and she suggested–and found my little Firecracker happily eating someone else’s food.

I sobbed like a baby when I saw her.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!”

She looked at me funny and asked me if I had brought her a snack.

It made me laugh. Laughing after that kind of experience feels a little hysterical.

It’s a few days before Christmas and my kids are alternating between The Naughty List and The We’re-So- Wired-We’d-Annoy-Even-The-Most-Patient-Grandma List.

But oh, I am so glad they’re here.

Merry Christmas to you all. May it be filled with laughter and warmth…and snacks.

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About a month ago, Jon bought a rake. A nearly $20 rake.

At the checkout, he was enthusiastic about it’s sturdiness and size.

“Seems like a lot of money to spend on a rake,” I grumbled under my breath.

In the wee hours of the morning last Thursday, a major wind storm raged across our neck of the woods. Over 100 mile an hour winds whistled through the giant trees in our front and back yards. When the dust settled, decades old pine trees were uprooted, trampolines were picked up and crumpled (Jon woke me up at 2 AM to help him secure ours to the big tree and our tree house, so it’s still in tact and happy), semis were overturned, and fences were flattened.

Miraculously, as far as I’ve heard anyway, no real injuries were reported.

The five of us spent a good chunk of Thursday afternoon cleaning up debris along the street. We did a lot of raking.

And it struck me that I was grateful for that $20 rake.

Grateful for it’s sturdiness and size (it was perfect for cleaning up all the branches our tree scattered around the neighborhood), grateful that it served as a tool for help, and frankly grateful that we were safe and able to use it at all.

On Sunday, in anticipation of another storm, the area leaders of our church cancelled most of our three hour services and sent us home to get into grubbies and help clean up more debris that could pose a threat if winds picked up again.

People put on hats and gloves and gathered saws, wheelbarrows and rakes. In big, cheerful groups they moved from house to house clearing fallen trees, branches and fence posts.

Once again, I am grateful. Grateful to be a part of such an amazing community and for the help we received. Grateful my kids have such fantastic examples of service all around them, and grateful that they were so willing to grab our rake and be right there in the middle of it.

And because Jon is the kind of guy who gets enthusiastic about things like a big, sturdy, nearly $20 rake, I am grateful to be reminded that life’s happinesses can come from the little things.

We’re raking in a whole lot of grateful around here.

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P.S. I guess I should have mentioned somewhere in there that power and cable outages were my excuse for not posting last week. It’s weird how cut off I felt not being able to check in with all of you. Hope your weekends are fabulous ones!