Load Up the Bases

Rowan’s first t-ball practice and scrimmage was today. He exhibited a tremendous amount of enthusiasm, sportsmanship, effort, and love for the game. He makes his Mama so, so proud.

Christmas Day, 2013

My life isn’t perfect. In fact, I could list alphabetically, categorize, sub-categorize, and include an outline and works cited page for every single issue(most of which are my own fault, but I digress…), but every once in a while a day like Christmas comes along, and I’m with my family, my kid can’t stop smiling, and the love is palpable. How can I complain when I’ve got that kind of bliss just tossed into my lap? I’ve got a happiness hangover today, my kid is so overwhelmed with new toys that he’s developed a temporary case of attention deficit, and is unable to concentrate on one thing for more than a half hour. He’ll be happily amused with his Lego airport and plane, when SUDDENLY! Out of the corner of his eye he spots a gigantic remote control truck that’s calling his name! OH LOOK! A Playmobil bank! BUT WAIT! SKIS! (We don’t have any snow, but meh…) OHMYGOSH! OHMYGOSH! OHMYGOSH! NEW SOCKS! (Seriously, he played with socks for ten minutes this morning. He got a pack of brightly colored, striped, and playfully adorned socks for Christmas, and darn it if he didn’t try on every single pair.)

My son was spoiled rotten yesterday with many beautiful toys. The one he keeps returning to though is the MOST. OBNOXIOUS. TOY. EVER! Thanks so much to the guy who got my son the Despicable Me fart blaster. Great. Thanks so much. At least that same guy also got me a Wii U, so I can drown out the incessant farts ringing in my ear with familiar “boing” of Mario jumping up to collect a coin from a floating box. Also, what’s up with the millions of little stickers that come with Lego and Playmobil sets? I’m not trained well enough to get those suckers on straight. Without fail, my hand twitches right as I’m placing one. Every racing stripe, every flame decal, and every store sign are crooked, and bent over the corners of the piece. *sigh* Not that I’ve ever performed surgery, but I imagine(I know) it’s that kind of stress level. Not that getting sticky(insanely sticky! What are on those devilish tiny pieces of misery?!) little labels to line up perfectly on the first try is life threatening (it is), but come on, I’ve aged like five years since last night!

It’s 5:00, and we’re still in our pajamas, a mountain of new stuff is begging to be played with, and I’m faced with the herculean task of finding places for our new treasures. A measly 144 pictures were taken yesterday, but don’t worry, I won’t make you look at them all. You really don’t have to look at any, but I’m vain, and I think my kid is adorable, so I’ll put some up anyway. LOOK! Here they are now!











































Culture Corner plus BONUS STUFF!!

I thought that for sure that as soon as my semester ended, and I was able to let out the breath that I had been holding in since finals week started, that I’d be able to simply sit down and write. Foolish, I know. Plans usually have a way of staying just that-plans. Reality tends to sneak up on plans and knock them upside the head.

Intensity coupled with an overwhelming need to be perfect dominated my last two weeks of school. (I can hear all my psychologist friends, and my family therapist friends scrambling about for their notebooks, and a pen they can click incessantly as they ask things like, “Tell me about your childhood?” or “Why do you feel you have to be perfect?”) The truth is, I stress out really easily. The second I feel as if that rug is being pulled out from under my feet, I panic. I like knowing what to expect, so I can anticipate my next move. Things like not knowing what’s going to be on a test, or not understanding every aspect of a concept is enough to make me implode. I got through that difficult season, seven pounds lighter, with all A’s, and with a wee bit more confidence in myself.

Shortly after the chaos of a semester ending, we jumped right into the Christmas season.

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We did all the normal holiday stuff: We made cookies.


We did arts and crafts.

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We participated in a Christmas Cantata again, where I was dubbed the “audio engineer” for being the AV nerd. (My dad had to complete how many years at MIT to be an engineer again….?)

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We performed the cantata at the nursing home my grandmother passed away at too. I literally cried on one of the resident’s (the lady in the front middle wearing blue) shoulders as we talked about my grammy. She was just so…wonderful.


We chased cows out of the road.


Rowan cut his foot and had to be bandaged up for a while.

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We played games, we shoveled snow, we built with Legos, and we shaved.




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A couple of days ago I went and picked up my niece so she could spend Christmas with us, something I’ve been doing for years now. In an effort to save time, here’s a photo recap of our visit so far…my children are delightfully crazy!

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Also, there’s this guy ❤ <3:

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November 15th, 2013

In the grand scheme of things learning to ride a two-wheeler isn’t that big of a deal.  There’s learning to drive, graduating from high school, getting married, or having your first baby.  Twenty years from now Rowan is barely going to remember this day, or the moments littered throughout it.  He won’t remember that for two hours he struggled up and down the hill in the parking lot, dirt and tears of frustration streaming down his face, but never once quitting.  He’s not going to remember how he felt when he screamed, “LET GO!” only to realize that I already had, and he had soared down that hill on his own.  He’s not going to remember how he fell, and scraped his knee.  He won’t recall how he sulked off to the side of the road, stomped his foot in indignation-sure that it was his bike that was at fault.  He won’t recall how his mom stifled a laugh when he beamed, “I did it!  I perseveranced and I did it!!  He won’t understand how his mom’s chest nearly burst with the amount of pride she felt at literally letting her son go and watching him hold himself up, all by himself.  He won’t know how tiny and how big she thought he looked at the same time.   He probably won’t remember any of these things…but I will.