Wordless Wednesday: The Real Deal

Wordless Wednesday: Meet Me at the Regal Beagle

5:00 Fridays

You might imagine that I am difficult to live with. I'm testy, persnickety, hyper, emotional, opinionated, oh, the list goes on. Not many people can put up with me. I get that. I owe Mac Daddy a lot for putting up with me. He's a gem, that one. I might be foolish but I'm no fool. I know a good thing when I see it. Mac Daddy is the Mac Daddy of husbands. If I had fewer student loans and more dough he'd get more than a blog post for our anniversary.

Mac Daddy and I are celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary on Sunday, March 14.

That's 10 freaking years. Married. Happily. More than happily.

4 cities.
2 apartments.
4 houses.
3 home renovations.
2 kids.
2 cats.
1 dog.
7 jobs.
1 true love.

It's so cliche to say this, but really, where has the time gone? We met at work. We were friends. I used to set him up with my girlfriends. Wiley E. Coyote came around and dropped an anvil on my head to get me to see the light. We easily transitioned from friendship to relationship because, well, we were friends. Real friends. We celebrated our 30th birthdays together (Mac Daddy threw me a surprise party worthy of a blog post all its own). We traveled to some amazing cities, dined in dives and hoity toity venues, and gotten our groove on in juke joints all over creation.

I first fell in love with Mac Daddy when he unabashedly hopped onto the dance floor and rocked out to the likes of Andy Kim, Earth Wind & Fire, and The Gap Band. We have always laughed so easily together, though he doesn't think I'm nearly as funny as I do (rather, am). I like to say he has Funny Envy. Mac Daddy is more sarcastic than funny; the two are indeed mutually exclusive. Mostly we can laugh at each other's expense without getting our britches in a bundle. And when we do get our britches in a bundle...well, that's another story...

Mac Daddy and I got married in Key West on somewhat of a whim. That kind of no frills fun affair suited us perfectly. Our simple wedding was more about us, less about fuss. We were under the glorious banyan trees in the gardens of the Audubon House. Those trees are magnificent, seeming to defy gravity and the very assertions you had about nature. The limbs climb every which way, sweeping up, across, down, and back up again. Intertwining along the way, peppered with leaves so hearty you can carve your initials in them (As tradition goes at the Audubon House, we did just that, with our wedding date too). The banyan tree's trunk is sturdy and thick, elegant in its rugged simplicity. The kind of tree that beckons you to climb its branches in a fit of frolic, have a seat to chill in a comfortable silence, lean against it for unfailing support.

In typical laid back Mac Daddy and Key West fashion, today's drink would be best imbibed from a tin cup chalice.

Which incidentally, was our first dance.

And tin is the traditional 10th anniversary gift.


The Mac Daddy

2 ounces Hendricks' Gin
Juice from 2 key limes (Fresh! You can't possibly use imitation juice in Mac Daddy's signature cocktail!)
1/2 ounce simple syrup
Few sprigs of fresh mint
Key lime wedge for muddling and garnish

Muddle a couple limes wedges with the simple syrup and mint. Add to martini glass. Shake gin in cocktail shaker filled with ice. Pour over simple syrup, lime, and mint. Garnish with a key lime wedge. Have a sip with someone you love. And remember, the things worth toasting are the ones keeping you toasty every night.

Chalk this one up there with things that make you go hmmmm.

Happy Anniversary to Mac Daddy! You make my world bright and have given me the life I've always dreamed of. I love you.

Read Read, It's Good for Your Heart

I remember when Bird was born some people from the church we had joined threw a baby shower for us. Being the most clueless of mothers, I asked the pastor at what point we should start reading to our son. She emphatically charged, "NOW! It's never to early. Read now. Read often. Rejoice." And so from that point on we have cuddled our son in the crook of our laps and read to him. All the classics and treasures and gems from Indian folklore to add a bit of culture to our repertoire. Thank you, Pastor Julie, for your sage advice.

Fast forward several months. Norman, ranking among the kindest, most generous guys I know, gave me and Mac Daddy one of our most favorite gifts to welcome baby Deal into our family: Honey for a Child's Heart.

We loved flipping through this book pointing out our childhood favorites. Sadly, one my favorites isn't listed, and it's not available at my local library. I'll give you my firstborn* if you can get your hands on Andrew Henry's Meadow. I can still picture the tattered lime green cover and ink illustrations. I remember never tiring of that book and daydreaming about escaping to my own meadow. Honey for a Child's Heart speaks to the value in reading aloud to your children and really creating a reading culture in your family. Setting an example is key. Read here about the example I set for Bird. I have about three books on my nightstand at any given time. I carry a book with me practically everywhere (Note: I need an eReader to lighten the load.). My kids see me reading All. The. Time. Reading trumps TV in this house (because we have DVR to watch stuff later).

When I was a child, life at home was rather tumultuous. I craved an escape but had nowhere to go. Books were my light, my savior, my sanity. My most happy times were when my nose was pressed into a book. Then, and now, I was careful not to bend the spine, maintaining the primness of the books I held so sacred. I've lately been reliving my childhood through books that moved me way back when. So far I've read the likes of A Wrinkle in Time, The Borrowers, Sounder, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Bridge to Terabithia, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. It is remarkable to see these tomes through my 41-year old eyes. Most remarkable is that I still love those stories. I cried at the end of Sounder even though I knew the ending and had been anxiously anticipating it through the whole book. Bird just finished a couple Roald Dahl books -- Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Danny Champion of the World. Tonight he embarked on the ambitious journey of the first in the Harry Potter series. I applaud him!

You have no idea how proud I am to see my Bird read. His first experience of "the book was better than the movie" was with The Indian in the Cupboard. Throughout the movie he kept remarking how it had taken liberties with the book. Well, he didn't phrase it that way, but you get my drift. I swell with pride at the very sight of Bird curled up in what we call the comfy chair with a book. He stays up late with his nightstand lamp illuminating the words that beckon him to dreamland. He recounts tales to us at the dinner table and on a good day, he reads to his little brother. The beauty of those two little boys nestled shoulder to shoulder in the comfy chair makes my heart pitter patter and my pride gleam.

Deal, while only four, loves books too. He can sit quietly for ages with his face pressed to a book. At a glance he'd fool you into thinking he's actually reading. He could spend everyday at the library, and they know us by name there. Once, when given the choice of the library or the park, both boys screamed "Library!" in unison. You have no idea how proud I was. Deal and Bird both love when we read aloud to them. Even though Bird can read on his own now, he still relishes that lap time when he gets to hear the words leap from the pages in our character voices. Our laps are getting smaller, but our love for books is growing deeper.
Read on.



*You shall get my firstborn when he is in the throes of disobedience and defiance, not to be returned until he is docile and ducky in demeanor.

Wordless Wednesday: Melt

Kids & Pets: All the Same

There are days I'm a better pet owner than I am a mother. I seem to have more patience with Lark, perhaps because he doesn't whine or throw temper tantrums. He also does not kick me or scream "NO" in a volume that would raise the OSHA red flag. Did I mention that Bird kicked our babysitter last weekend? Twice. Buh-bye date night.

Back to today's regularly scheduled post.

I have learned a few things from my recent life as a pet owner. The funny thing is how raising children is so similar to having a pup. Seriously, the physical demands are much the same, and the mental capacity is huge. The similarities have been enlightening. My three boys, two of the two-legged variety and one of the four-legged variety, have taught me a thing or two.

Shit happens. Often in places it shouldn't. Like the time Bird pooped on the dining room floor when he was two. And when Lark did his business on the bathmat. While I was in the shower.

Accidents happen, as in things get broken and shit happens.

No one pees, poops, eats, drinks, or sleeps on demand.

Fleece feels as good to wear as it does to chew.

Treats are better than meals. Always.

A back rub is never long enough.

Dry clean only outfits stay in the back of the closet.

Don't play tag in the house.

A potted plant or vase of fresh flowers set just-so on a side table will end up catawampus in minutes.

It's hard to distinguish what's a dog toy and what's a plush toy. Poor Deal, who has an FAO Schwartz sized collection of stuffed animals, has battled Lark for sneaking under his bed and stealing his stuffed bear, dog, hamster, yes hamster, and cat.

Selective hearing runs in the family.

No one comes when called. Unless treats are at stake.

The most expensive piece of furniture is the most coveted.

No one gets water after 6:00 PM.

It's easier to clean pee out of a dog crate than it is to change crib sheets.

Christmas sweaters do not belong on children or dogs. Or anyone else, if you ask me.

It's important to let the least out a tish as trust and responsibility grow.

Kisses are best when wet.

Clipping nails is no fun for anyone.

Bacon is good.

Potty training blows.

A warm head nestled on your shoulder is divine.

A queen sized bed is only comfortably big enough for two people.

I might need to change my blog's name to Dirt & Noise & Stink.

The biggest thing about being a mom to boys as well as a pup? They make your heart swell. With pride, affection, love, humility. They make you laugh. Every. Single. Day.

On a Lark

Meet Lark.

He is one and every bit a toddler.

He is more affectionate and sweet than any pet I have ever known. Truly.

He is an 18 pound beagle/corgi mix. This means that we are part Charlie Brown, part Queen of England.

We got him on a lark.

The SPCA had given him his moniker.

He is aptly named.

Did you see that face? Those ears? The ever-so-slight cock of his head?

While Deal is the self proclaimed animal lover, Bird has turned out to be the real Dr. Doolittle. All he wants to do is sit next to Lark with his hand or head in contact with his new pup. Deal loves when he gets Lark time, but I'm afraid he is feeling pangs of jealousy when we are all home together cooing over him.

Lark is still getting used to us. He is the consummate lap dog who revels in our presence. He is sweet, affectionate, peaceful, and gentle. All the things we want our companions to be yet rarely are at one time. Lark is humble, grateful, pensive. My friend Lisa noted that those eyes are filled with a dollop of trepidation and a dose of mischief. He is not a banshee who insists on hopping from lap to lap. Lark is much too loyal for that.

The boys are having a grand time taking turns walking Lark, though Deal has some leash skills to hone. He's only four so I'm not being hard on him. In the two days Lark has been a part of our family, we have already spent even more time together, gabbing on walks, frolicking in the yard, snuggling on the couch. I'm certain the novelty won't wear off. This kind of love, while novel, doesn't get stale.

I remember Skip and Toto and Sambeau and Adam from my childhood. Dogs who graced our home when I was a kid. Each one mysteriously disappeared, and all these years later I have no idea the fate they met. We weren't dog people. We weren't pet people. Hell, we were barely kid people. I am thrilled to share the joy of a pet with my boys.

They are too young to really remember my beloved Casey and Capote, the cats I had for 16 years. Bird and Deal remember that they used to hide under foot when a storm blew in, and that they were our meteorologists foretelling wind gusts and thunder before we even heard a thing. The boys know I get weepy time to time, and that reading "Cat Heaven" is cathartic. I never even blogged about finding Casey in the guest bathroom, curled up as if she were napping from a tuna juice hangover. I'm still numb from saying goodbye to Capote, his liver failing, his weight dropping. It's still too painful to conjure up the words to do them justice.

And now, more than a year since Casey's passing, I am filled with love again. I am admittedly facing Guilt just a tad. I don't want my Casey and Capote thinking they are replaced, for that is impossible. All this time my heart gaped a tish, pulled at the corners from losing my sweet kitties. Bird and Deal are painfully aware of that. They know how much I loved having a pet. They know that Mac Daddy grew up with dogs. They know that pets graced our lives once upon a time.

What they don't know is how our house was filled with love when pets shared our walls. I knew unconditional love from my pets. And I'm hoping Lark will in turn teach Bird and Deal that lovely lesson.

"The dog was created specially for children. He is the god of frolic." ~Henry Ward Beecher

PS
We adopted Lark from the SPCA. I urge you to save a pet's life too. Your home and your heart are the best gifts in the world. And your home and your heart aren't full until you let a pet share a piece.

Thanks. Giving.

At the risk of ringing the cliche bell and sounding treacly mushy, I'm going to tell you that today I am feeling particularly blessed. I am thankful for Mac Daddy and my family. I am most thankful for my Bird and Deal. I cannot imagine what I was thankful for before I had them. I am thankful that they gave me the kind of family I longed for.

On this day of pies, crumbles, brown bettys, cakes, dressings, gravies, turkeys, hams, taters, casseroles, and elastic waistbands, I want to just say that I am most thankful for the little things.

Those little things that are actually quite grand.

I am hugging my family a tish tighter.
I am counting my blessings a bit slower.
I am saying my prayers a pinch louder.

This Thanksgiving my heart is full. My belly is full. My life is fulfilled.

And in my prayers are my dear friend Jen who is battling stage 2 breast cancer, Anissa, 35-year old mother of three who suffered a massive stroke one week ago, my nieces who are desperately missing their mother, Mac Daddy's sister, who passed away eight years ago, and my father-in-law, the grandest of grandpas, whose gracious gravely laugh and 'Sconsin accent I still hear.

Let's take today to show Thanks for those who have touched us. And to be Giving of our hearts, our tolerance, our grace, our goodness, our selves.

Happy Thanks.Giving.

Getting Down with Pink Gloves

Melting

Today I asked Deal, my four-year old son, what I was going to do without him and Bird for five days when I leave town on a little jaunt to New York and Asheville. He pondered my question a moment and then very matter-of-factly, replied, "You can dream about us, Mommy."


I am a Hershey's Kiss, while Deal brandishes the hot August sun.

I'm 6 Years Old. Today.

I started first grade yesterday. I just walked right in, green backpack that my mom made me monogram, slung across my shoulders, and started whooping it up with my boys. High fiving and smack talking and giggling and stuff. I didn't miss a beat considering I missed the first three days of school. I even got all sorts of attention, being the birthday boy and all. I just might be the only kid who was five when first grade officially started. Well, no matter because today I am six.

Let me repeat: Today I am Six.

Six.

I was born six years ago, a so-called "Ice Storm" baby of 2003. Mommy says I popped right out after three pushes and 20 minutes. Her friends roll their eyes and turn away when she tells that story. Mommy and I shared an inferno burger and vanilla shake just before that. And we rocked the prenatal yoga classes. Apparently I had some feeding issues a few days after I was born, making me all weak and whiny and wobbly. I think they official term is "failure to thrive." Wow, Mommy and Daddy would croak if that were ever on my report card. Anyway, that's when the doctor ordered the syringe.

You have been wondering why they call me Bird, right? Well, Daddy christened me Bird when I was three days old, and it's clearly stuck. Sometimes my teachers even call me Bird. Mommy calls me Bird on the playground when it's time to go. She even called me No-Strike Bird when I played T-Ball, claiming that would make a fantastic headline-grabbing nickname when I play for the Brewers one day. Actually, I bet it was Daddy who mentioned the Brewers because Mommy doesn't know a thing about sports.

Anyway, when I had trouble feeding from my mommy the doctor told my parents to let me suck my mommy's pinky while my daddy used a syringe to shoot some formula into my mouth. It was apparently the only way to nourish me while keeping my suckling in tact. I don't really get the ins and outs but I do know that Daddy said feeding tiny little baby me with a syringe was like feeding a baby bird. Hence the name. By the way, Mommy still has that syringe in my baby box. And obviously they still call me Bird.

Mommy tends to get all weepy on my birthday. She says that her vision improved after I was born so I'm not sure why she gets all emotional, seeing that she doesn't need glasses anymore. She also loves a good party so I bet the luau I requested for my 6th birthday party is gonna rock. All I know is that boxes from Oriental Trading have been littering our living room. I'm just excited to wear the tiki shirt my Dadu gave me. For some reason Mommy refuses to wear the grass skirt and coconut bra I found for her at the party store.

So today I'm looking forward to a few of my favorite things: playing the Star Wars LEGO Wii game that my Uncle gave me, eating beignets for breakfast, engaging in a fierce dart launcher war with my brother (thanks to the Nerf shooter from my Nani), chowing on cheeseburgers and shakes at Red Robin, and generally being spoiled. I'll squeeze in some LEGO time and an art project or two with my Mommy too. And I get to go to a swimming party since my friend Sarah and I share a birthday (Happy Birthday shout out to you, Sarah!). I might even test my limits and whine a bit just to see if Mommy and Daddy have the heart to scold me on my birthday. heh heh heh. I mean really, six won't come around again.

Mommy tells me that I'm just like her. I guess that means she's smart, funny, and clever, Ha ha ha. I swear I am the funniest person I know! Strangers stop me and Mommy on the street to comment how our smiles are so much alike. I guess it's a good thing we make each other smile...most of the time. I share my mommy's temperament but I am definitely a daddy's boy. I also pretend that my little brother Deal drives me crazy but I actually love him and race home from school to play with him, even though my interpretation of "play" is wrestling and shoving decorative throw pillows on his face.

The birthday horoscope my parents have for me says that I will grow up to be creative and mathy. It claims I will make a living as an architect or engineer. It also says I will inherit a sweet tooth from my Mommy. Right on all counts so far!

My name is Bird, and I am six today.

Wordless Wednesday: Breakfast Made By My Biggest Fan

Joy to the World

The best thing I can do for my children is raise them in a home bursting with joy. Unabashed, no-excuses-for-laughing-obnoxiously-loud, snorting-and-squirting-milk-out-your-nose, pee-in-your-pants, jokester joy. Joy, unlike happiness that is often misconstrued as a destination, is happenstance, free, serendipitous. It prances on us unsuspectingly, melting us into giggles and grins.

Joy is a team sport.

For much of my life I thought I grew up in house that was devoid of love. I realize now that I was indeed loved, albeit shown in ways different than how Mac Daddy and I raise our children. For starters, we have marital love, which is a far cry from my house growing up. I never doubted that I was loved but I did doubt that I was adored in the same way I treat Bird and Deal. I was cared for, fed, warm, clean, educated, and given all the opportunities in the world. But no one ever tickled my funny bone. No one nurtured and caressed the orb of innocence and delight that lollygags around in all of us, especially in children. That orb shrivels if it is not stimulated. Oh no, it was not love that my home lacked. It was joy.

I have one photo of my parents laughing. I don't even know where it came from. I recognize the clothes they are wearing so I am figuring that picture is from about 1980 or so. They are looking in different directions, but it is clear that the same thing struck their funny bones. It is a beautiful candid moment that looks like the kind of picture that comes with the frame. I have never seen my dad laugh like that in person; all I have is that photo.

My home was shrouded in a veil of stress, anger, discomfort, trepidation. Those walls rarely heard laughter. We were not a family of pranksters or joke tellers. Mine was a serious house. I never learned the philosophy of work hard play hard until I went to college. We didn't play much. At least not as a family. No one played tag in the yard, built obstacle courses out of bean bag chairs and hula hoops, or trashed the kitchen decorating Christmas cookies.

We had our share of issues, as all families do. But no one was violent or drunk or enraged. We were safe. In fact, we were guarded. We lacked spontaneity, a sense of fun, and the freedom to laugh until our bellies ached and cheeks stiffened. It was not all unhappy times. But there was no joy.

The best thing I can do for, and with, my sons is chisel my face with laughlines so that they know joy and can pass it on to their own children one day. Memories of joy is what will bring them home.

Father's Day Interview

What do you like to do with Daddy?

Bird: Go to the park
Deal: Go to the pool

What is your favorite thing about Daddy?

Bird: That he's really good at basketball.
Deal: That he's always gentle.

What does Daddy do to make you laugh?

Bird: He tells really super duper funny jokes.
Deal: He makes funny faces.

What has Daddy taught you?

Bird: How to play basketball
Deal: How to swing

What does Daddy like to do with you?

Bird: Go to the greenway to ride bikes
Deal: Play dress up

What is Daddy's favorite thing to do?

Bird: Play basketball
Deal: Play the siesta game


Is Daddy more like a Storm Trooper or a Higglytown Hero?

Bird: Storm Trooper
Deal: Storm Trooper, but he looks like a Clone Trooper

What is your your favorite food that Daddy makes?

Bird: French toast that we saw on TV with strawberry sauce
Deal: Pancakes

What would Daddy's super hero power be?

Bird: To make himself sleep
Deal: Goo power!

What is Daddy's least favorite thing to do?

Bird: To have to stay awake when he's really tired
Deal: Hates to go to work because he hates when he's not with me

What would Daddy do in our family band, The Curried Cheeseheads?

Bird: Play the guitar
Deal: He'll just dance. (Bird interjects: A snoring dance)

What is special about Daddy?

Bird: That he always plays with me
Deal: That he always plays games

What would you like to tell Daddy on Father's Day?

Bird: That he's a really good dad. He's the best dad!
Deal: Happy Father's Day! I love you.


Happy Father's Day to Mac Daddy and to my Dad!

No One Cares More Than Girlfriends

Since I wrote this post 24 hours ago, I found out that a friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer. That makes three friends in the last 12 months.



My Girls have been under the knife twice. First in 1999 when, after a two year battle with the insurance company and a fantastic surgeon as my advocate, I had the much needed reduction I had pined for throughout my teenage years. And again in 2005, with an infant and a two year old son to care for, to have an egg sized lump removed.

I knew Mac Daddy was a keeper when he took one week of his vacation time to care for me after my reduction. Keep in mind the man only had two weeks for the whole year and used half of it for me. We weren't married, engaged, or living together; we were just dating at the time. He drove me to the hospital, wrung his hands while I was under general anesthesia, changed my bandages, and cared for me. The man recoils at the sight of blood yet kept it together for me.

The other people who cared for me after both surgeries? My girlfriends.

Back in 1999 my dear friend Shan came to my little apartment almost daily to fix me breakfast, help me bathe, and get dressed. Courtney strolled over with her newborn baby to bring me sushi for lunch. Cathy came after work just to keep me company. Pam brought me magazines, crossword puzzles, and cookies. A team of girlfriends kept my kitchen stocked, my spirits up, my dressings fresh, and my heart filled. They drove me to doctors appointments, picked up prescriptions, bought me tampons, baked me brownies, cleaned my apartment, brushed my hair, cleaned the snow off my car, poured me wine, listened to me babble, wiled away the hours.

And in 2005, with little baby Deal and almost two-year old Bird in my arms, I faced surgery and general anesthesia again. My fate was more daunting this time around. Finding an egg sized lump couldn't possibly bring good news. I played the "what if" game over and over, lying awake in bed, zombie walking throughout the day, tearing up at the oddest and most inopportune moments. For weeks I was unable to lift or carry my children. When Deal cried I couldn't get him from his bassinet. When Bird needed a boost up the slide I couldn't give him a lift. When the boys fell asleep in their car seats I couldn't carry them to their beds. I couldn't hold Deal to feed him or perch Bird upon my lap to read Richard Scarry books to him. My mother's touch was reduced to pets and kisses and faces pressed cheek to cheek. I couldn't care for my family. And again, my girlfriends stepped in.

Carmen came to sit with me for hours at a time to pick up Deal from his nap, help me feed him a bottle, and change his diaper. Kathy brought diversions for Bird and took him to the park. A whole throng of friends from work brought me lunch and books for Bird. Lisa traipsed in with groceries and stayed a while to do puzzles with Bird. My girlfriends stepped in to not only care for me this time, they cared for my children. My babies. My sons. They loved us like we were family, and then some.

Without my girlfriends, my Girls would have never recovered.

And so what better way to honor my girlfriends (and my Girls) than to walk/run/sashay across the finish line in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure? My dear friend Christy, of artichoke wack n' cheese fame, came up with our cleverest of clever team names: Stop the War in My Rack.

Click here to donate your latte money for the day. Every penny, dime, nickel, and Euro will help. My Girls thank you. And I implore you to start those monthly self breast exams. Schedule your mammogram. Pay attention to your body. Be your own advocate.

And oh, you wanna buy one those fantabulous T-shirts? Just leave a comment with your email address so we can contact you regarding sizes and payment. All proceeds from your purchase will help Christy cross the finish line of the 3 day walk she's gonna conquer in October. Your Girls will look so great in the pink camo that your girlfriends just might want a shirt too.

Wordless Wednesday: Melt

Wordless Wednesday: What happened to brotherly bliss?

Wordless Wednesday: Mini Me in Looks and in Temperament

Defining Moments to the Tune of Bad Music

There is one defining moment that made me realize that Mac Daddy would be my soul mate, my partner in grime as I affectionately refer to him at the House of Dirt & Noise. This moment had nothing to do with carnations or a Whitman's sampler. Really folks, those would be deal breakers. Let's add baby's breath to the list too. Mac Daddy knows my favorite flower and sent them to me in my favorite color many a time. Purple dendrobium orchids, in case you ever have a hankering to send me some floral fawning.

But first a flashback.

It was about 1994. I was in the living room of the first house we bought. The radio was blaring some bad oldies tunes while I was cleaning. I've always been partial to the likes of Neil Diamond and Abba for my cleaning soundtrack. It was a gloriously sunny spring day in Minneapolis (nevermind that it took until June for spring to spring). I moved the heavy drapes we bought to insulate us just a wee bit from the bitter subzero chills of the Minnesota winter. I now had a clear view out the ginormous picture window and delighted in seeing the neighborhood kids scampering about, dogs rummaging for long lost bones peek-a-booing from a much anticipated thaw, neighbors sipping coffee and catching up. The sun streamed in making the rays look like an ethereal galactic slide.

And then what made my ears perk, my hips sashay, my feet flounce? I had lost control. I released it all to Barry Alan Pincus. Have a listen and see if you don't unknowingly tap your feet, bob your head, shimmy your shoulders, or belt out the lyrics.

Well, in my delerium of spring fever, I grabbed a hairbrush and sang along, with passion. I added some suave dance moves and had my self a plum great time bee bopping singing about Rico and Lola.

Cut.

My husband gasped, eyes bulging, giving him the odd appearance of a toad with a hyper thyroid. He whisked the drapes closed lest the neighbors see me dancing around like a Mandy-crazed lunatic. He screamed, "Stop that! The neighbors are going to see you!" Note that I was not nekkid or doing a strip tease or anything. I was fully dressed all the way to covering my head with a blue bandana. I laughed, thinking he can't be serious. But boy was he red and raging.

So I took my hairbrush outside and sang and danced up and down our front walk. Some neighbors bust a gut and joined in. Jeff fumed and flushed with embarrassment inside.

SCREECH.

I suppose I never talked about being married before I met Mac Daddy. I'll save the deets for another post. Suffice it to say my starter marriage didn't last long. Soon after the Copacabana incident I moved out. You see, that was also a defining moment for me. That one small exchange showed me that he was a boring dud with no sense of sponteneity. He was bringing me down, and I him.

A few years later, enter Mac Daddy stage left.

We had been dating for just a short while. We were still in that googly-eyed phase in which you don't dare fart or admit you have to take a dump in front of each other. There for sure was no post-poop commentary. Sidebar: Is it just mine or do other husbands feel the need to tell you about their bodily functions? I feel that there is no need for editorializing one's private bathroom time. Please do chime in so I can use your fodder to make Mac Daddy stop this turd laced commentary. Anyway...

We were watching some goofy movie that I'm sure he acquiesced to, thinking it would add to his action currency. The ending credits were to the consummate 80s Friday Night Videos tune by the Buggles. Video Killed the Radio Star. True to my nature, I grabbed a pen off the coffee table and started jumping around a la Bananarama and sang along. Mac Daddy had scooted off to the kitchen to grab something. When he peeked around the corner and saw me bopping about, he grabbed himself a wooden spoon and joined me. He took to the air guitar like a natural while I tickled the ivories on the air keyboard. Note that there was no alcohol involved. We were simply having a good time.

I was smitten.

Now 12 years later, we continue Dance Party USA, as we have dubbed it for our children. Our family favorite is an aptly named song by Journey. Bird and Deal rock out with toy guitars. You'll find Mac Daddy on air drums. And I'll grab whatever's in my reach that can stand in as a mike.

And no one cares who's watching.

Life Lessons

While the economy is top of mind in the media internationally, nationally, and locally, here in North Carolina the two wars we are waging still make the top headlines. North Carolina's fallen make daily headlines around here. There are two major bases close enough to my home that their stories make our local news. Fort Bragg is home of the elite 82nd Airborne and Special Ops. Camp Lejeune is the largest marine base on the East coast. Soldiers from the esteemed bases of Fort Bragg and Camp Lejeune continue to depart to war zones, some never return, some return broken, none returns the same.

Recent estimates count over 4200 U.S. military deaths since the war's start in March over six years ago. Those fallen 4200 were someone's son, daughter, first born, namesake, middle child, only child, flesh and blood, heartbeat. The data is comprised of people; we choose to dehumanize it to make the news more palatable. Let's not forget that each soldier killed, injured, missing, or scarred is someone's child. That soldier's heart beat inside a woman's womb for nine months, and his head sleepily rested upon his father's chest for what seemed a lifetime ago. I know North Carolinians don't forget that.

The Iraq War began in March 2003, before I became a mother.

Motherhood has given me perspective. With every staid military portrait of a young man in uniform flashed on the 6:00 news B-roll, I see a cooing infant expressing pure love, a babbling baby learning to crawl, a curious toddler peeking beneath the tablecloth, a deliriously happy and innocent preschooler collecting rocks in his pockets, a restless kindergartener squirming in his chair. And then the slideshow stops because I have not yet ventured past kindergarten with my oldest son. I am still making memories.

It was an unremarkable morning when I was taking my Bird to school. As we approached the car pool line we were both flummoxed by the stream of soldiers in dress uniform walking silently by. I was struck by their exceedingly perfect posture and shiny patent shoes. Bird was fascinated with their hats and trappings of decorated men in uniform. Soldiers are glamorous and glorified to a boy of five. I followed the path of those soldiers with my eyes and realized they were walking to a funeral home. How could I have been coming to this school all year and not even noticed the funeral home across the street? The subtle signage and beige brick faded into their elements, almost camoflouged within the backdrop of the neighborhood. Suddenly the sight of an elementary school, where children come to grow, and its neighbor, a funeral home, where people come in their passing, was hauntingly ironic. I gulped and tried my damndest to keep an even tone when Bird asked me what all the soldiers were doing.

Because it was a rare moment we had alone, without my three-year old son in the car, I told my little Bird the truth. I explained that a soldier died and his friends and family were coming to celebrate his life and their love for him. I told him that America is waging war in two different countries and that war is scary, dangerous, and scarring. I told him that the soldiers sacrifice an awful lot to help keep America safe. Sometimes they sacrifice their own lives. I struggled with what I had just done. Will this be a moment my son recalls in his adulthood as the time his mother punted him into reality? Will he have nightmares? My Bird, my oldest son, simply looked more sad than bewildered. He told me he didn't think he wanted to be a fighter pilot anymore, and I was secretly relieved. Granted, he will choose 734 different professions before he's 16. He'll engage his imagination and ask questions and keenly observe the world around him. I won't stop his flirting with the military at this tender age but I won't encourage it either. He will eventually make these choices on his own, and I will support him.

Bird has seen death and what it does to a family. He understands why his daddy cries on Father's Day. We still talk about Grandpa and Capote and Casey. He understands that we'll never see his grandfather or our family cats again. And so he stated, in an innocent, heartfelt manner, "Well, I hope the soldier can see Grandpa and pet Capote and Casey in heaven."

I exhaled. And brushed the welling tears from my eyes as I thought about that soldier's mother.

Cross posted at Deep South Moms.