What's In A Name?

We spent such a long time figuring out what we wanted to name these two babes of ours.  And yet, we rarely call them by their given names. 

Instead, they are and forever shall be:

Boo-Boo

Bo-Bo

Lovie

Baby Girl

Sweet Baby Girl

Gorg Porg

Gorgy Porgy

Gorgy Porgy Puddin' and Piesie

Lover

Lover Bover

Love A Dove Dove

Lova A Dove Dover

Sister

Nu-Nu

Mi-Mi

The Girls

The Twins

The Ladies

The 'Naners

The Crazies

The Giggles

Thelma and Louise

The Rugrats

The Knuckleheads

Goobers

When they were infants, I made up this song for them (to the tune of Clementine): 

"Mumma loves you.  Mumma loves you.  Mumma loves you, yes she does. 

Daddy loves you.  Daddy loves you.  Yes he does.  (Kiss)  Just because.

You're a coo-coo face.  You're a crazy bean.  But we love you just the same. 

And we always call you "Sister", so you'll never know your name."

Thankfully, they answer to them all. 

As my Usher Dupey always said, "You can call me anything, except late for supper."  I guess he had a point.

Who's Who?

Most days, I feel like this:  

But every now and again, I feel like a little of this pokes through:

Our children are typically like this: 

But even still, every night, I pray that they will not turn out like this: 

My husband is usually a cross between



and this: 

Our Four Family.  Pretty accurate, huh?



Crazy Train



This is one of my favorite pictures.  I am about 25 yards away from finishing my second (and last) marathon.  He met me at mile 25 and ran the rest of the way with me. 

As much as he drives me crazy, I love 'im. 

More importantly, as crazy as I make him (and although you may not believe it - I am nuts), he loves me right back.

Weight Lifted

You know when you say or do something and then you wish you hadn't?  And you know when that something you said or did was hurtful or offensive - even if you hadn't intended it to be that way?  And you know when you say to yourself, "I'd feel so much better if I could "fix" it.  All I need to do is pick up the phone, throw out a quick e-mail..." and you never do.

Well, today I was able to "fix" - not because I was the one to make the first step, although I should have been.  I just never got around to it and have no excuse.  I was able to fix because of a quick conversation that we had (okay, well it was a facebook message but isn't that the world we live in these days?...) where I could apologize.  That seems like a stronger word than may be needed, but the point is, in those few minutes of typing, a weight was lifted.  It was so easy. It's safe to say that no one lost sleep over my dumb-ass remark (I'm not pretending that my words are that important in anyone's lives) but I do think that it caused to take a step back and ponder.  In the end, my wise crack may help to teach.  I was joking but still shouldn't have said it. And I was able to tell them that I was sorry for being a knucklehead (in so many words).

Today, I am thankful that I was able to "fix" and I am grateful for those who allowed me to do so.  And they will take this little blip and use it to educate, inspire and - as I've said many, many times, amaze.

360

My life comes full circle a lot.  I think it's safe to say that it does so more than lots of others' lives.  I guess living in my hometown ensures that I will bump in to a lot of folks who, for a number of reasons, bring me "back" to the beginning.  I like being reminded of my life as a child, as a teen, a young adult and even more recently.  My life is what it is.  I like to look back, think forward, learn from the past and apply it to the future.  I am grateful for it all.

Today, my life came so full circle it was doing loop de loops right before my very eyes. 

We had two Little Music School recitals this morning.  Each was filled (and I mean FILLED) with family and friends of our youngest students, all enjoying a quick morning of music and lots of laughter.  Great morning.  It is these mornings that remind me why I love what I do.

In the recitals sat two woman, one at each recital.  These women each had their reasons for being there.  One has recently re-joined (to our sheer delight) the FSPA faculty.  She was there to support the program and enjoy seeing some of her students perform.  The other was there to see her grandson perform in his first of many (hopefully) recitals.  They both undoubtedly walked up the steps of 38 Main thinking that they were there to support the children in their lives under the age of five.  

Funny thing is, they also unknowingly supported another child over the age of 40.  Me. 

Both of these women were my teachers when I was a student at FSPA twenty-eight years ago.  

Both of these women are very much "why"  I do what I do.  

Both of these women, I'm sure, have not a clue as to the impact they have had on my life. 

In 1985, we were teenagers.  Not unlike many FSPA students now.  We were there because we loved what we learned there.  We learned a lot, all the while alongside our best friends (who, by they way are still best friends).  We were (we thought) way cool and, at the time, didn't look much past ourselves.  We were consumed with our lives, our thoughts, our friends, our, our, our....  We didn’t think, at the time, that we needed anything more than "us". We thought that we could conquer the world on our own, with no help from anyone else.

Both of these women knew otherwise. They, along with some other amazing adults, always stopped, listened, smiled, hugged, held, supported and loved.  

This morning, as they were sitting there, listening to me speak about the LMS program, they both nodded their heads as they did so many times, when I was working on a monologue or song as a teen.  They nodded their heads and smiled at me, offering encouragement simply by being there.  They nodded their heads and smiled at me, in support of me and what I hold near and dear. 

Once again decades later, they both stopped, listened, smiled, hugged, held, supported and loved.

And for that, I am forever grateful.

Cookie

It was my uncle's birthday a few days ago.   He is one of the loves of my life and I will surely write about him at some point in this blog.  He would do anything for me and me for him.  I know this to be true.  I love him so much it hurts.  But this blog (probably much to his happiness) is not about him. 

You see, M called him the other day because it was his birthday.  And she left a birthday message.  He texted me back later in the day telling me that M's message cracked him up because it reminded him of Auntie Maffie.  Auntie Maffie is always on my mind.  Always. I miss her every day.  This is Auntie Maffie.

Auntie Maffie was one of my gram's older sisters.  The fourth oldest of the six Pecci siblings.  If you didn't know her, you can't possibly get an accurate picture of her. Not a physical picture.  Not an emotional picture.  Not a social picture.  You truly had to know her to know her.  I promise.  But I will do my best. 

She had closets full of clothes, still with tags on them and yet always shopped like there was no tomorrow.

She baked without recipes and everything always came out nothing short of yummy.

She loved her house down the cape.  She would cry every Thanksgiving when she'd be leaving for the season.  Her cape house is one of the most treasured things in my life.  It connects me to her.  It always will.

She made THE most delicious salad (especially at the cape.)  It was nothing fancy or all that crazy.  But it was delicious.  Every time.

She had trouble hearing and admittedly didn't have much formal schooling.  As a result of both of these things (in addition to the fact that she really didn't care if she was wrong), she called many things by the incorrect (but close) name, no matter how many times we told her.  For example, Wendy=Windy, Davis Thayer-David Thayer, Hannah and Madison=Hannison, Ocean State Job Lot=Ocean State Job Lock, Betsy=Bessie, Cold=Coal, Dupe=Pooxie.  I miss hearing her say those words, right, wrong or otherwise. 

She would call every few days "just to say hi". She'd talk about the weather, what she had for lunch, and how we should wear a hat outside so we don't catch a head cold.  *And if you weren't there to answer and she had to leave a message, she'd always end the message with "Looooove, Auntie Maffie."

She had no shame.  If she needed to use the ladies' room and she was in the livingroom, she'd start pulling at her pants, right then and there.  I know that seems wack, and it was, but man, it was funny too.

She would walk by her husband, our Uncle Louie, (surely post will follow), suddenly start humming or singing a song and dance with him in the middle of the kitchen.  They loved, loved, loved to dance.

Every birthday, she'd call and whether you answered the phone or not, she'd sing the entire version of "Happy Birthday" to you.   * See above.  (As if we ever questioned who it was on the other end.)

When H and M were little, she would say to them, "Hiiiiiii, Cookie".  They started calling her "Cookie".  Always have.  Always will.

We all could, so easily, get on her Shit List.  It was remarkable.  If we didn't call, didn't write, didn't visit, didn't visit enough, didn't visit long enough...you get the picture-you heard about it.  It was just as easy to get off the List, but it wasn't fun when you were on It.  Believe me.

No matter what time of day, if you entered her house (and were of age), you'd be offered a shot of ginger brandy.  "A bukaruch".  I have no idea how to spell it, but many of you have heard her say it.  If you refused, she'd drink by herself.  Even if it was before noon.  That made no difference.  We still do that every time a visitor enters the house at the cape.  You can be sure of that.

When I was a teen, she would often try to talk to me about "boys".  I was so uncomfortable, I blocked it all out of my mind.  I do remember that she always told me and some of my friends to "be sure that we always keep our knees together."  Who says that?!!?  Auntie Maffie did. 

If ever you were wearing something that she liked or had something in your house that she liked, she'd say "Oh, I like that.  Did I give that to you?" or "Oh, that's so pretty.  I gave that to you, right?"  It was so funny.  She always believed it to be true.

She was able to crochet and knit like a champ.  Some of our favorite blankets in our house were made my her.  I often want to wrap myself up in them, just be close to her.

She loved the Red Sox.  And Wheel of Fortune.

She had an amazing sense of fashion.  She knew just how to wear a scarf or a piece of jewelry.   She dressed impeccably and always looked "like a million bucks."

She always called G "the surveyor".  I'm sure she had no idea what he really did for work.  But that's what she always said.  "How's the surveyor?  Good, I hope.  He's so lucky to have you."

She never got a license and yet she would tell Uncle Louie how to drive.  "Wait, wait, Louie, now wait."  I don't know what she thought he should wait for but he did, because he was a smart man.  A very, very smart man!!

She always had a fab tan in the summer.  And crazy long nails.  Oh and great jewelry.  Always.  I wear one of her rings every day.  With love, honor and respect.

She would sit on her front porch down the cape and say "hi" to everyone who walked by on their way to or from the beach.  She knew who was where, who was what, when who was coming.  You get the point.  Nothing got past her.

She taught me to be proud of myself.  She taught me to stand up for myself.  She taught me to love myself.  She taught me to love my family.  She taught me to be a better person.   She was a one in a million lady.  And there will never be another one like her.  Of that you can be sure.

Looooooooove you, Auntie.  Loooooooove you!!!!!


 

Red Bin, Blue Bin

My hands are so horribly chapped that I covered them in vaseline last night and then wore socks over them.  (Attractive, I know.)  Anywho...it made me think of when M and H were little and they wore those little mits over their hands so that they wouldn't scratch themselves.  As a result, I took a trip in the Wayback Machine and was reminiscing about Life when the girls were little and we were horribly sleep deprived and I thought I'd share.  (That is how my mind works, by the way.  Can you keep up?)

Everyone always tells expecting parents "get your sleep in now because once the baby gets here, you won't sleep for months."  Really, you can hear that come out of the mouths of 1,497 people but until you live it, you can't quite imagine or understand it.  I have never said that having "only one" baby at a time is easy (I've never said that because it's not true) but having two babes gives you permission to say that you are twice as tired...I don't know if that's really true but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.  I can see in my mind as if it was yesterday.  I went up to visit friends at work.  I cried and wept, sobbed, in the hallway.  I. Was. Just. So. Tired. I was laughing at myself at the time because I knew it was ridiculous and yet, I wanted to jump off a tall, steep cliff with no crying in the middle of the night babies in tow.

During the five days that we stayed in the hospital with the girls (or more appropriately the girls stayed in the hospital with me), I remember vividly the nurses telling us, "if you do nothing else, be sure you get them on the same sleep/eat schedule."  Looking back, we have never been offered such words of wisdom in our lives  We were great at keeping them on the same schedule.  I know that some in our lives mocked, joked, and teased at our Gestapo-like regime.  It worked.  These kids ate, slept and  breathed in sync.  Still do. 

H is on our left, M is on our right.  I love this picture. 
With G's hands, it shows just how tiny they were...



On Night Two of H and M's little lives, they were in separate bassinets in the the hospital nursery and both girls were apparently screaming.  They couldn't be consoled. They wouldn't settle down.  They changed and fed them.  Nothing helped.  They finally put H in the same bassinet as M and they immediately stopped crying and fell asleep.  Needless to say, they slept in the same bassinet for as long as their little bods would allow. Way cute. 

Because they were so itty bitty, we had to feed them every two hours for quite some time.  Then, we could do every three.  Of course, we had to wake them up during the day, but at night...not so much.  They were happy to wake us up with their wailing.  Of course, I'd feed them during the day and got quite good at feeding them both of them at the same time.  I attempted to breast feed, for literally, 31 seconds and immediately realized that that was not the route for me.  Never looked back on that decision and am proud of it.  [spoken as she steps off of soap box].  G would come home and we'd both feed them at 6 and 9pm.  Then, I'd happily hit the hay and get a good six hours in. G would stay up, watch ESPN with them and such and do the midnight feeding by himself.  I'd do the 3 am by myself and then he'd get up at six and head off to work.  It worked like clockwork.  Until, they moved out of our room and in to their own room...

Actually, that's not fair. They slept fine on their own for a few months.  Actually, that's still not fair.  At four months, M decided to sleep through the night and never looked back.  She was a great sleeper.

... and then ... there. was. H.  Sweet Mother Mary.  I can't begin to tell you the utter sleep deprived woe she caused in our lives.  The child wouldn't, couldn't, didn't sleep through the night.  For nearly 2 years.  I understand that.  Some kids just take longer to figure it all out.  I get that.  And I'm surely not talking about when she was an infant. Of course, as an infant, we did all that we could to be with her and help her.  I'm talking about when she was "old enough to know better". I know that some would say "She was only little.  She needed comfort.  She needed to know that someone was there for her.  She needed...she needed..."  I'll tell you what she needed...to. go. to. sleep.

Now, I tease H.  I tell her that in the middle of night, I'd say to her (in a mostly joking but with a bit of seriousness thrown in), "Choose the red bin or the blue bin.  Which one do you want?"  I was referring to the recycling bins.  I was going to put her in one of them in the middle of the night and see how she slept out there.  I would let her choose which color she preferred.  I wouldn't just randomly throw her the first one I could find!  That wouldn't be nice at all.  Of course, I wasn't serious, but we couldn't take it any more.

And neither could M.  Thankfully, when her Best Sister was in the crib next door screaming at the top of her little lungs, M would, as they say, sleep like a baby.  We were so worried that H would wake her up one too many times and suddenly we'd have two crazy babes on our hands.  That never happened. Every now and again, you'd see M raise her head from her mattress, cock it to the left, look at the Sister and think "Dude, are you effing serious?  Go. To. Sleep.  We get it.  You love Mumma.  You love Daddy.  They'll be here in the morning.  You're seriously pissing me off."  Then, she'd put her head back down and go to sleep until morning.  Thank you, sweet baby girl.

All this while H was sweating, turning bright red with eyes bulging out like they were unattaching from her body.  She wasn't hungry.  She wasn't wet.  She wasn't anything but awake.  For effing hours.

One night, G was out.  M was asleep.  H was screaming like a lunatic.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I left G a note on the counter for when he came home.  It said something like "I have not run away.  I am in the cellar.  So that I cannot hear her scream anymore.  She is fine.  I am not."  He says that he came home, read the note, and found me asleep on the couch in the cellar.  Blanket wrapped around my head (or more accurately my ears) to drown out the sound of the Crazy Child.  

We tried everything.  I read every stinking book.  Nothing worked.  It was madness. I thought we were never going to sleep again. 

And then, just like that, it ended.  And the child who couldn't stand to sleep is now the one who would truly take a nap if offered the chance any day of the week.  She is the child who is so mild mannered (in most regards) and lets things roll off her back like a champ.  She is the child who loves to go to bed early and sleep in late.  Funny how that happens. 

Maybe she's just trying to make up for all the stinkin' sleep she lost in years 0-2.  Who knows?  What I do know is that we love to tease her about it now.  "Do you know how crazy you made us?  Do you have any idea?!?!"  She just laughs because she knows we're kidding (sort of).  And M laughs too.  Because she knows that she was the poster child of a good sleeper. She thinks that she caused us no angst at all...but we have video to prove otherwise.  To be continued ...

Twelve Bags

Twelve bags. 

That’s it.  Twelve bags.

It’s what (at the least) we’ve promised to ourselves that our Four Family would give to the Franklin Food Pantry this year.  We can – and I’m sure we will – give more.

We want H and M to know that when we are out of double chocolate granola bars, it’s really not all that tragic.

If we have to use raspberry and lime shampoo because we run out of misty rain, we will all survive.  (And G will smell nice and fruity.)

When there is no more ziti macaroni left on our pantry shelves in the cellar and we have to have medium shells instead, life will go on.

We want H and M to know that there are people, right here in Franklin, who have trouble making ends meet.  People that they go to school with.  People that they see every day.

We want them to know that we can help.

We want them to know that they have helped.

I am so thankful that G brought up this idea at dinner last month.  I am proud of him for committing our family to doing this.  It’s easy to think about it.  It’s actually easy to do it.  You just have to DO it.  And now we are.

Big Fat Crabby Pants

First of all, that says "crabby" and not "crappy".  That would be an entirely different entry.

Big Fat Crabby Pants.  This is what I call M and H when they are a bit off their "A" game and in need of a smile and a chill out session.

Actually, more appropriately, I should spell it Bigfatcrabbypants.  It's to be spoken fast and unapologetically.  I have no problem telling them when they are in need of a readjustment.  It is what it is.  If I need to deal with them when they are in a mood with a 'tude, they are going to know about it.  (Those of you who have seen my interact with my children have surely seen this unfold.)

Well, yesterday, it was not H and M who were Bigfatcrabbypants.  It was their Mother. For absolutely no reason, I couldn't wait for the day to be over yesterday.  (Well, their Father was a bit of a Crabbypantsman himself but he had good reason. And to be fair, he wasn't nearly as high on the Crab Meter as I'd have expected given...shhhh...the outcome of The Game.

The only time when I wasn't rolling my eyes at Life yesterday was a) when I was talking to H and M's great friend's dad.  They had just returned from Disney and I LOVE talking about Disney.  Besides this, he is one of THE nicest guys on the planet. It would be criminal to not be happy when chatting with him, b) when talking to some bestest buds about a great weekend they had in NYC.  I love that they had a blast and I love that they got away.  I also love when they come home because life is just a bit outta wack for me when they are gone and c) when I spent time in the classroom with a dear mentor, friend and one of my fav peeps in the whole world.  Seeing her each week makes me giddy.

Other than that, yep - pretty much Bigfatcrabbypants.

Here was my day.  I slept in.  I watched the inauguration on tv  (God bless, America! - amazing day).  The girls were lovely and well-behaved and played with their friend all morning. (Their buddy is a doll.  See great dad above.  Apples don't fall far.  Great family!)  I left for work.  G painted walls and ceilings in our house that needed painting and they look great.  He hooked up our printer that we desperately needed.  My classes are prepared (putting this in print is the Kiss of Death) for their musical theater showcase next week.  We had a yummy dinner that was pretty much ready when I walked in the door from work.  We had no laundry or housework to do.  I went to bed. 

Nope.  You didn't miss anything.  There. Was. No. Need. For. My.  Crabbypantsness.  And yet, I couldn't get out of my way.  It was a huge pile of Crab, staring at me in the face, allllllll daaaaaay loooooong.

Even this morning, I woke up at 3 am.  I was not crabby because I woke up in the middle of the night (although that would be a good reason).  I knew I'd fall right back to sleep.  And I did.  I was crabby because I had been crabby all day.  It was a vicious circle.  A vicious crabby circle.  A vicious crabby circle of  ridiculousness.

When I woke up this morning, I knew I had to remedy the situation.  I wore mismatched socks provided by H and M.  I find it odd and fanTAStic that we can and do wear the same socks.  I wore hightop converse sneaks.  Really, if I had on my favorite jeans as well, I'd have been in heaven.  I packed a big bottle of tabasco to go on my soup for lunch and it was delish.  If those three things didn't set me in the right direction today, I don't know what would.

Thankfully, I made it out okay.  Phew.  I'm home making dinner, the day after.  (Must remember to fix time/date stamp.  I promise I'm not so nuts as to start making dinner at 3pm.)  Girls are done with homework.  G is on his way home.  I think we've turned a Crabby Corner.  Thank goodness for small, crabby miracles.

What?

I am good at many things.  I know this to be true.

I am not so good at many things.  I know this to be true as well.  I am very okay with this.

Of the things that I am good at, it is safe to say that I am very, VERY good with young children.  I am hysterical, encouraging, comforting, understanding, empathetic, sympathetic, witty, smart.  Dare I say brilliant.  Okay, I'm going a bit overboard, but you get the point.  I "get" little kids. If you've seen me in a Little Music School classroom, you will know what I mean.  I'm not being conceited.  I'm good at what I do and I am very proud of it.

I will tell you where I don't shine.  I'd go so far as to say that not only do I not shine, I dull and fade.  Right before your very eyes.  It's remarkable.  It is, in fact, a talent in and of itself. 

It is in a classroom of pre-teen or teen-aged children.  I am (sometimes) okay in one-on-one conversations with said double digit aged beings.  I can converse with them and be marginally successful.  I don't think a lone pre-teen necessariily wants to go away running and screaming from a conversation with me (although I can't promise that that's never happened).  By the same token, there are conversations I have had and I haven't  wanted to jump off a cliff either.   I can hold my own in that situation most of the time.  In fact, one on one with this age-bracket, I thoroughly (sometimes) enjoy myself.

But get me in a classroom of pre-teen/teens and I honestly may as well be on the moon.  Honestly.  They don't get me and I surely don't get them.  I don't understand how they dress.  I don't understand how they talk.  I don't understand how they walk.  I don't understand how they smell.  I just don't understand them.

And I don't mean this is a condescending way.  I am quite positive that they feel exactly the same way about me.  If you saw us in action, you would undoubtedly agree.  It's painful.  I say something that I think is drop dead hysterical and they look at me as if I am speaking another language. They say something to me or to each other and I look at them with a look of absolute despair.  Despair at my inability to understand.  I. Just. Don't. Understand.

I have tried for years.   I saw someone recently who I knew when he was a teenager.  He now is a grown adult, married and with three children.  (Oh, GOD, I am old.)  I knew him when I was helping direct "OSKEY", our high school's annual variety show.  When I saw him recently, I said "hi, you probably don't remember me, but..."  And he said, 'Oh I totally remember you.  I had a total crush on you when I was in high school."  I nearly burst out laughing at him.  I can't imagine anyone in high school ever finding anything about me (the adult me) to be remotely positive or enjoyable- with regard to my personality, my looks, the way I dress, the way I present myself, anything.  And I'm not saying this so that people will reply with a whole bunch of great things about me.  Really.  I'm saying it because I am honestly an alien when it comes to people in this age-bracket.  And vice versa.  So, while I was deeply flattered, I definitely questioned his judgement.

I have joked with RL that once M and H hit 13, I will drop them off at her house and will happily retrieve them when they are 21.  I will continue to see them at weekly hangs, cast parties and cookouts so I won't lose all contact with them, but I will not have to deal with the confusion of preteen/teenage-dom.  And probably, more importantly, they will not need to deal with me. 

I try. I really do.  I just don't get it.

I can't even put it in to words.  Maybe the next time I find myself in the company of such types, I will record myself.  You'll be in awe.  Complete and total awe.

I swear.

02038

I ended up running 11 by myself this morning so I had a loooong time by myself to think.  That's one of the reasons why I really like running alone sometimes.  I'm not often by myself for more than a few minutes and running alone, especially on a long run, gives me a chance to shake out the cobwebs in my head and think about whatever I want. 

Today, I thought a lot about good ol' Franklin, MA.  It is where I have lived for my entire life.  I can't imagine I'll ever live anywhere else.  My parents grew up here.  My husband grew up here.  So did my grandparents and most of my cousins, aunts and uncles.  It is my home.  I have a story here, decades and decades long.  It doesn't let me forget where I came from or where I'm going.  I'm pretty sure I'd have been a good kid anyway, but this town wouldn't let me be otherwise.  I didn't want to let the folks of this town down.  And I'm pretty sure I still feel the same way.

When I was growing up, I never really said that I wanted to stay in Franklin.  I think I just always knew that I would.  I'm not even sure if G and I officially talked about where we'd live.  It was a given.

I recognize that there are plenty of people who can't wait to get outta their hometown.  I totally and completely get that.  The idea of living in the same town (practically on the same street) for your whole life surely would suffocate many.  I get that too.  But for me, I can't imagine life any differently.  I love to travel and if our bank account allowed, we'd travel more as a Four Family, for sure.  H and M are a bit obsessed with Hong Kong right now and can't wait to visit there.  They are hyperventilating at the mere thought that I may be there again this summer and they won't.  I do think a lot about packing up and moving someplace far away for a half a year or so.  Someplace totally and completely different from here.  I'd truly love that and if our life allowed, I honestly think I'd do it.  I'd love to see more of the world and I'd love even more to see it with G and the girls.  Then, when that stint was up, I'd of course, happily come back to my hometown.  It's where I belong.

As I ran this morning, I can't tell you how many people I knew as their cars drove past.  Some were generation-old family friends, some were parents of students I teach, some were family members, some were friends who are family.  It made me feel deeply connected to this place.  Surely, if I lived someplace else, I'd know plenty of people and feel amazing connections with people.  I'd build amazing relationships with people, relationships that are unlike what I build here perhaps.  But - for me - I think I'd miss "this".  This deep rooted connection.  I'd miss not having a history with people that I bump  in to on a daily basis, at the bank, store or on the street.  I love that. 

Earlier this week, I posted an entry called "Four Men".  Today I went to Vinnie's wake to pay respects to an amazing man and to show my love for an amazing family.  The line of people paying their respects was super long, winding down Cottage Street, made up of people - young and old - all there to pay homage to a man who gave so much to this town.  It made me proud to be part of this town.  Its history, its present and its future. 

I surely don't know where H and M will end up.  If you ask them right now, they want to live in houses side by side each other, right next to our house.  They want to go to school in Boston and go out for lunch with G (and Poni, Jill and Catherine) on a weekly basis.  ( I guess they assume those folks will always be around too!!)  Who knows if they will.  But wherever they end up, I hope they never forget this town.  This place where their roots have been planted.  Alongside others who love this town too.  

Hope, Part Deux

I take so much (too much) for granted in my life.  No offense, but I bet most of you do too.  Don't we all?

This morning, our "Four Family" went ice skating at Patriot Place.  We had a blast.  G and I would switch off holding H and M's hands and finish our conversations where we had left off at the last switch. Only their second time on skates (we clearly will not win the Parents of the Year Award for that little fact), H and M were skating on their own without our help by the time we left.   H got that look in her eye and was determined to skate alone today.  She (not surprisingly) reminds me so much of me in that regard.  She's quite content, but if she wants something - look out.  M was a bit more hesitant at first, but not to be outdone by the Sister, she ended the day on her own as well.  They were psyched.

'Round and 'round we went.  Singing the songs played on the loudspeakers and trying to remember which "The Voice" contestant sang which song, reminiscing about their first time on skates last year and amazed at their improvement, talking about the restaurants at Pats Place that we'd like to try but haven't, what they will do tonight with their best bud at their sleepover, how the frozen ice cracks look like giraffe skin and how the poor little moth must have felt just before he was frozen underneath the top layer of ice. 

We came home to lunch and a little ESPN.  H took a snooze and now the girls are at rehearsal for "Cinderella", a ballet they will take part in next weekend.  I've been cooking all afternoon - homemade chicken soup and homemade biscuits for G's tailgate tomorrow, homemade sauce and meatballs for dinner tonight and ham and cheese "something or others" for T and L's house tomorrow where the girls and I will hang with friends and watch the game (while G will be freezing but happy - hopefully with a win).  Tomorrow morning, before we head over to T and L's house, H and M will go to the movies with my parents and I will run ten miles with friends and laugh the distance away.

The fact that this is typical "stuff" for us is amazing, wonderful, and scary.  Scary because I take it for granted.  Each. And. Every. Minute.  While all this happened, is happening or will happen, people are pouring in to The Cakebar.   Hundreds of people are walking away, bellies full of cupcakes, teas, hot chocolates, (and don't forget the frosting shots) - all for Livy's Hope. 

So many of us, some of whom know Livy and her family, others who only know their story, marked our calendars for this weekend to do our very small, miniscule part for Livy's Hope.  We made donations, we bought two cupcakes, we bought two dozen, we folded a box or two.  Because we can. It's the least we can do.  Because we can.  For some families, simply going in to a store to purchase a cupcake is nearly or truly impossible.   I'm not saying this in an "oh, isn't it great, this life we lead?" sort of way.  I'm saying this in a "holy shit, I take all of this for granted" sort of way.

Literally from Day One, I have been in awe of Livy and Hailey and their parents, Allison and Jon.  They live a life that I truly can't imagine.  I surely don't see them during their "I can't do this any more" moments.  But I can say with 100% certainty, that they have far less of those moments than I would have if I wore their shoes.  I have read their posts, looked at pictures and chatted with them, even if only for a bit.  They are, by far, THE most amazing people I've ever met in my life.  They don't take for granted a single moment of the little things.  They don't dare.  They live life and do EVERYTHING they can for Hailey and Livy.  Everything. And if you talk to them, they tell you that it is all of us who are amazing for supporting them or loving them or sharing their story.  Really?  Really?

I can't count how many times I have thought of them and have been horrified at how annoyed I was at the smallest inconvenience, annoyance or "thing not gone my way".  I can't tell you how many times I have read their blog and wiped tears away from my eyes, embarrassed at myself for my inability to realize how thankful I should be, how thankful G, H and M should be, for all that we have. I can't tell you how many times I have said a quiet little prayer for their family, praying they they know that their village is a vast, wide and strong one, filled with people honored to be a little part in their amazing world.

If you are reading this, and you've not already done so, head down to The Cakebar.  Or if you can't, (or even if you can) think about donating directly to Livy's Hope.  And as you do, maybe give yourself a little kick in the pants for all the times you've taken something - anything - for granted.

And while you're kicking yourself, give me a little kick too.  I could use it.

Check out Livy's story.  http://www.livyshope.com/

Hope

I just got a call from The Cakebar.  Their fundraiser for Livy's Hope is crazy, out of control nutso.  They are only a few hours in and have sold hundreds of cupcakes, the proceeds of which will benefit Livy's Hope. 

Tracie asked if I could help out this weekend.  In what capacity, I'm not sure, but I'm headed down there now. 

Honored to be asked.  Honored to help.  Honored to be a part of something so wonderful for such amazing people who do so much. 

Jon, Allison, Olivia and Hailey - you rock the world! 

For some reason, I can't post the link so that it will bring you directly to Livy's site.  And I don't have the time right now to figure it out. 

Check out www.livyshope.com.  You'll be in awe of this family.

Promise.

Four Men

I have a photo on our fridge of four men.  Four great men. Two of them (my grandfather and my Uncle Louie) and two other, what I like to call “Townies”.  Men whose families my family has known for years, decades, lifetimes.  These men depict to me a number of things – Faith, Family, Friends, Community and Love. 

I don’t know exactly when the photo was taken, but I think late ‘60/early 70’s is appropriate.  The Men are at the Knights of Columbus, making pancakes for the annual K of C Pancake Breakfast.  Two of them are cracking up, having a grand ol’ time, with pancake batter dripping off the side of the griddle, pancakes-half flipped haphazardly on their sides.  The other two are taking their roles quite a bit more seriously.  They are peering at the other two with a bit of “this is an important job here, fellas, let’s get this right.”  Their griddle is spotless with each pancake symmetrically like just like the others.  It makes me laugh because I can read the thoughts of the Four Men as I look at them in the picture. 

This morning, one of the Men passed away.  I didn’t know him personally all that well, but I surely have a history of conversations with him, always about our families, “old times”.  I like that we have that history.  I know some members of his family quite well and love them to pieces.  His family is an amazing one, for reasons too numerous to count. I am sad for them right now. A pillar of their family is gone – at least gone as we know him to be.

Only one of the Four Men in the photo is still walking with us on this earth.  That makes me sad.  As much as I love this generation of which I am a part, I feel as if they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.  Of course there are exceptions and I am blessed to say that I have some (lots) of exceptions in my life.  Amazing people. 

But still, I sit here and there is a bit of sadness for H and M.  I hope they have Four Men in their lives, in whatever capacity, to know that there is good in the world.  And there always will be.

Ticket To Ride

Once upon a time, there was an ass.

His name was Lance Armstrong.

The End.

Little Man

His name was Ascenzio Bertoni, but I called him Usher Dupey.  He was my mom's dad and I miss him every day. 

I cannot listen to a Red Sox game on the radio without being brought back to the countless nights we'd sit on their front porch (me, Gram and Usher Dupey) listening to the game.

Difficult crossword puzzle?  No problem.  He'd solve it. National Enquirer?  No problem.  He'd read it.

"Patience" was not his middle name.  It was surely a running joke in our family.  He was small in stature, didn't say much, but you always knew EXACTLY what he was thinking.  He'd roll his eyes, mutter under his breathe (usually "Jesus Christ") or just walk away.

He worked at Ficco's Bowladrome (what we always called "The Alleys") for years.  When my dad first started dating my mom, they were teenagers.  (Some apples don't fall very far from the tree apparently...) As my dad tells the story, at one point, he said to my mom, "Your father is the guy who works behind the counter at the Alleys??!!"  I'm pretty sure there was panic in his voice.  I bet my dad had given my Usher Dupey some headaches over the years.  Suffice to say, my dad was a bit of a Dennis the Menace-type.  Regardless of what may have been a rocky beginning, years later, my dad and Usher Dupey were BEST buds.

When my parents built their house in 1977, my Usher Dupey wallpapered many of the rooms. (Ahh, gotta love the '70's.)  I was only five, but I remember him standing on a plank balancing over their steps, whistling "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles".  I was so impressed by his balancing act.  In my young eyes, he may as well have been balancing over the Empire State Builiding. Come to think of it, I am known around these parts as someone who whistles - a lot.  I wouldn't say my Usher Dupey whistled as  much as I do, but perhaps I got my whistling bug from him.

My dad and my Usher Dupey walked me down the aisle at our wedding.  No one knew that we had asked him except G, me and my dad.  He loved having a little secret that no one else knew.  As much as I love watching every minute of our wedding video, I have to say that seeing the look on his face as he walked down the aisle with us is one of my favs.  When the doors to the church opened and we walked down the aisle, I don't know who was prouder - me, my dad, or my Usher Dupey. Well, I guess I do know.  He's the starring subject of this blog.

He and my gram didn't have much, but they didn't need or want much.  When I was in eighth grade, my parents, my Auntie Maffie, my Gram, my Auntie Ellie and my Usher Dupey visited family in Italy.  While there, Usher Dupey bought a pair of great Italian shoes.  I don't recall if they were super nice or expensive but every time he wore them, to me, he had a little extra spring in his step.

He was proud of his church, St. Mary Church.  He donated years’ worth of hours doing countless things – serving on the Knights of Columbus, chairing the sausage, pepper and onion booth at St. Rocco’s Festival, among much more.  But what I remember most about him with regard to church was his ushering.  Every single Sunday 9:00 (or 9:15 mass), he’d usher.  He’d seat people if they needed seats (and would surely be annoyed if they arrived late) and he’d collect money in the basket. Every time he walked by me, as he passed the basket across the pews, he’d bonk me on the head with his basket.  Every time.  Even when I was an adult.


For as many times as I told him that I loved him, for the first (probably) 25 years of my life, he never said "I love you" back.  To anyone.  Whenever, we'd talk on the phone, I'd say "I love you" and he'd say "Yup, 'bye 'bye" and we'd hang up.  I don't know why, for the last five years or so of his life, he started saying "I love you too".  I never asked why he suddently started saying it back to me.  And I NEVER, for one MOMENT, questioned his unconditional love for me. Always.

He loved working in his shed.  He’d cut out all sorts of wooden decorative things, cutting boards, etc.  Then he’d paint them and when he was no longer able to paint them, he’d ask my mom to do it for him.  When his hands weren’t steady any more (and when he probably shouldn’t have been handling saws…) he would color pictures and then glue popsicle sticks around the edges for a frame.  I still have some of his creations.  And I will treasure them forever.

He was very good with numbers.  I can still hear him spouting out a bunch of figures, none of which seemed to make any sense to me, but that would result in the correct answer for whatever he was trying to solve.  I thought he was brilliant.

In his mind, if you weren’t at least fifteen minutes early, you were late.  Plain and simple.

My Usher Dupey passed away on September 7, 2001 and his funeral was on September 10.  The following day, our lives changed forever as the horrible events of 9/11 unfolded.  I am surely not comparing my Usher Dupey’s passing to 9/11.  However, just as everyone’s lives changed on that day, across the globe, so did mine.  We just said good-bye to my champion.  He was, for sure, my biggest supporter and my biggest fan.  I will never know love as I knew from him.  I miss him every day.  But I know that he is my Best Angel, as H and M refer to him.  And this brings me comfort.

It's A Bird, It's A Plane! It's, it's ...

This morning, while getting something in the back corner of my closet, I came across two capes.  I mean Wonderwoman or Superman-type capes. The Real Thing Capes. Sparkly and fabulous.  One, with a big “K” on it and the other with a big “G”.  They were made for us eleven years ago by our dearest friends when they had just found out that we had won a major battle with our (at the time) insurance company.  I don’t feel it is appropriate to call out said insurance company because whenever I mention the name I am suddenly brought back to the time when they seriously tried to mess with our lives more than they should have. It makes me angry and disgusted all over again.  I don't want to speak ill of the company.  They were just doing their job.  Oh – okay – the company rhymes with Tarvard Shilgrim Fealthcare.   Our insurance battle story (and it’s not a funny one, folks…) is definitely a write and read with a glass of wine in hand. It’s a doozy.  In the end, we WON and rocked the universe, but this is definitely not the time or place for that story.  Maybe later.

Anyhow, I came across the capes just before my run this morning and for the next hour, thought about what I’d choose for a superpower. 

I wouldn’t want the ability to become invisible.  If I’m going to commit to talking and being with peeps, I’m all in – good, bad or otherwise ‘cuz it is, after all, all about me.  (Shameless plug for this new here hobby, I just took on…)

I’d not want the ability to fly.  I don’t love the idea of flying over big bodies of water.  I’ve clearly done it but in, what I believe to be, the capable hands of skilled pilots.  If I were the one responsible for getting myself from Point A to Point B, I’d not have such confidence.  Plus, I’m sure I’d get myself lost. Did I tell you that I once got lost coming home from Milford?  For reals.

I’d love to have the ability to eat whatever I want, but that is attainable and real superpowers aren’t…well, I guess superpowers aren’t real, but you know what I mean.  I could eat whatever I want if I was willing to exercise 23 hours a day.  Just not possible.  When would I have time to write my blog?

I guess that if I could choose my own superpower, it would be to be able to fast forward time to pass by the icky stuff and on to better things. 

For instance, when in the shower, I would fast forward to already being out with dry hair because I get crabby thinking about how cold I’ll be when the scalding hot water is turned off.

When starting my runs, I would fast forward to being done.  Plain and simple.

When in a situation where I have to meet someone new (in a social situation, not work related), I would fast forward past the small talk.  If you are reading this, youlikely know my feelings on small talk.  Thank you, facebook.

When home from work, I would fast forward to already being in my pjs. (Although I have to say that I do that with alarming speed without any superpowers at all.)

When  in my freezing cold car in the morning, I would fast forward all the way to June when my world is nice and toasty, but not yet too toasty.

I would love to fast forward to the end of conversations I have with H and M about Santa Claus and The Tooth Fairy  because I feel guilty and worry that they will never trust us again.  I swear I was 18 when I stopped believing in Santa so we've got some time.

If I could, I would fast forward getting off the plane and already have my feet in the sand – anywhere, any time – ever.

If I could, I would skip directly from walking in to a car dealership to walking out with a new car.  It hasn’t happened in a while, but I am always so uncomfortable at the banter that goes back and forth.  It makes me nuts.

Being able to fast forward through the Best Make-Up and Sound Effects Awards and get to the Best Movie Awards would be great.  I'd lose so much less sleep.  Sorry Avatar.

I wouldn't miss fast forwarding through the entire telemarketing spiel each night.  I'd just as soon be at the part where I'm back eating dinner with my family explaining to H and M that, while they are just doing their job, it makes us crazy. 

On New Year's Eve, let's just get to the part where they show the couple getting engaged.  Definitely don't need to see any more horrible performances of bands I don't know.  It just makes me feel ancient.

I could go on and on and on with what this superpower could do. I'm pretty sure that I'd love the idea. 

I'm also pretty sure that I would not want to fast forward what is happening upstairs as I type this.  Two crazy ten year olds are squooshed in to one twin bed, happy as can be.  ("It helps if we have bad dreams.")  Don't get me wrong.  I wouldn't want a superpower to freeze them.  We've loved every age they have been.  I know we will love every minute of them at any age.  But I definitely wish that this would last forever.

Book Him, Danno!!

As we find ourselves in the throws of Patriots playoff madness, I find it fitting to share.  One of my favorite stories.  Of all time.

Let’s go back to 1997, the year G and I got married.  This, however, will not be the story of how we got engaged.  Nor will it recall how the wedding plans unfolded.  It also won’t retell how we delayed our honeymoon due to a Monday Night Patriots game.  (Yes, you read that correctly.)  What you are about to read is how my husband, of 2 days, got PC’ed the night before our honeymoon at a Pats game.  Yep.  True.  Every single word to follow.

G and I got married on a Saturday and went to the Monday Night football game two days later.  (I'd have preferred to have already had two days of beach time under my belt, but the Kraft organization determined otherwise.  Not surprisingly, I won the Wife of The Year Award that year shortly thereafter.)   Anyway, in the end it worked out great.  The plan was that we would take a limo directly from the game to the airport and then, in the morning head out for some fun in the sun for a week. 

It was Pats vs. Jets. Or was it Green Bay?  Surely, he’ll clarify for me when he reads this. It really doesn’t matter to me who played the game.  I'm sure to G, it is very much an integral part of the telling.  Moving on.   We, along with his typical tailgate crew, had just parked our cars and were walking over to The Bus for the tailgate.  (“The Bus” may deserve its own blog at some point as well.)  Now, the details are a bit fuzzy but, the way I remember it, we needed to walk about a mile or so to the Bus' parking lot.  We had plenty of time and all was good.  How could it not be? Guy was heading in to a game with his best friends and his lovely new Bride, to be followed by a glorious week of Fun in the Sun. I was finally hitched (after what seemed, to me, much delay), to be followed by a glorious week of Fun in Sun.  What could go wrong?

As we walked along the street, we asked a cop who stood at a crosswalk if we could cross.  He said “no” and we kept walking.  No attitudes, no backtalk.  (Not so say that the guys didn’t want to give some to him, but honestly they didn’t.)  We eventually crossed the street and a few minutes later, we passed by the same cop again.  He yelled something completely snide and uncalled for – something to the effect of “are ya tired from that long walk guys?” I don’t remember exactly what he said but it was but it was obnoxious.  Truly.  Again, to the guys’ credit, there was nothing spoken back.  They were on a mission to see some football and drink some beer.  Word.

At some point, we ended up walking against pedestrian traffic and had to walk a bit out in to the street.  We were only yards away from The Bus so we kept on going.  Suddenly, our new best friend the cop, appeared and – you guessed it – started giving us lip.  As I remember it, G was the one furthest in the street.  And again, I have to give him and the rest of the guys credit (which I only do when absolutely necessary).  They just kept on walking.  At one point, Kev (I’ve decided not to put people’s full names in this blog but I miss him so much I speak his name whenever I can) said something to the cop in a way only he could.  He was a gentle and kind as can be, but clearly letting the guy know that he was being a complete jerk.  Even Kev's ways didn't work.  The next thing I know, the cop is screaming at G and only G.  Before we know what is happening, he was handcuffed and taken away in a little paddy wagon.  Happy Wedded Bliss. 

As he is being cuffed, I am yelling “But wait!!  We are going on our honeymoon tomorrow.  He can’t be arrested!!  Stop!  Stop!  Really?  This is really happening?!!?”  To no avail.

Some guys from The Bus heard/saw what was happening and tried to stop the ridiculousness but it didn’t work.  Off he went. In the paddy wagon.  Are you kidding me?!!?  The rest of us continued on to The Bus, where people didn't know whether to be annoyed at what happened or thoroughly entertained because it was G who was the subject of this madness.  If you had to choose someone, it should be him.  Not sure why, but it's definitely true. 

We had no idea where he was or when he'd be back.  (This was in the Olden Days before we had cell phones.)  Just as we were about to head in to the game, we suddenly see G running down the street, away from the police station, toward the bus.  I’m nearly positive that the Eye of the Tiger was being played along Route 1, but I’m not sure.  Maybe that’s my imagination…Anyway, he had a booking number written on  his hand, but other than that – he was no worse for wear.  Apparently, when they took him in, he explained what happened and I’m sure they understood how dumb it all was.  It was quite clear that he (thankfully and surprisingly) hadn’t had a bit to drink...yet.  Compared to all the other crazed fans, he was just a waste of their time!!  They let him go and off he went. 

The rest of the night was uneventful.  The Pats lost.  We left that night for our vacation and had a fantastic time.  Needless to say, while on our vacation, we re-told that story countless times.  And each time we told it, I was very sure to say that I was going on that honeymoon whether G was with me or not.  Drew Bledsoe was still playing for the Pats at the time. We'd have had a great time, #11 and I!

The Hills Are Alive

Before I really start this blog, I feel it necessary to say that not every post (as most have thus far) will be named a song title or lyric. I guess it makes sense, in a way, considering I always have approximately 1,947 songs going through my head at any given time.  However, this was not the initial intent of naming each entry.  I guess we’ll have to see if this trend continues.

I am writing this during "The Sound of Music" callbacks at the Franklin Performing Arts Company.  There were MANY, MANY people who showed up for the initial audition and a good amount are now here for the next round of auditions.  Lots of excitement.  Lots of fun.

This morning, while I was lying in bed with a cold compress on my face (yes, I am still a smidge swollen – see yesterday’s post…) I was thinking about how much H and M have gained from these auditions that they have been a part of since they were 6 or so.

I remember, for their first audition, they were so nervous.  They didn’t know what to expect , what to wear, what not to wear, what to do, what not to do, what to say, what not to say, where to look, where not to look.  Now, a few short years later, this whole process comes as second nature to them.  And I love that.  They are equally as excited for every single audition.  That thrills me.  But the comfort level they have with the process is what thrills me the most.  And the pride they feel.  That's what thrills me.

It’s not easy – auditioning.  It’s nerve wracking.  You’re throwing yourself out there for the world to see.  And more often than not, you are not what the world is looking for.  But the attitude and the perspective that you go in with has the potential of helping you grow so much.  Not only as a performer, but as a person.  Even for H and M who are so young.

This morning, G and I had the same conversation that we’ve had with them many times.  It has become old hat in our house. And yet we say these words every time. 

“HAVE FUN!!”

“Do your best.” 

“You know how proud of you we are, right?  No matter how proud we are of you, you should be even prouder of yourself.” 

“There are grown adults who would never have the confidence to do what you do in an audition.  That’s amazing!  No matter what you end up doing in life, the things you learn at each audition will help you.”

“Performing is so wonderful for so many reasons.  Have a great time.  That is what is most important.”

“You need to think about the fact that one of you may be really happy after this audition and one of you may be not quite so happy.  Of course, you may be disappointed.  That’s perfectly normal.  That said, it is what it is.  Things can’t and won’t always go your way.  We learn from the goods and the bads and do the best we can.  Always.”

“If one of you is thrilled about a casting and the other one of you is not, we are equally proud of both of you.  You may NOT gloat.  You may NOT mope.  You support each other.  Always.”

“At some point, and it may be today, you will get cast differently from each other.  When it comes right down to it, the only way it affects our lives is that you have different rehearsal schedules for a few weeks.  Otherwise, all else is the same as it always has been.”

 “DOES THIS MAKE SENSE TO YOU, THESE WORDS WE JUST HAVE SPOKEN?”

The roll their eyes because they've heard this before. I think they roll their eyes more so because they know they will hear it ... again ... and again ... and again ...

When it comes to parenting, there is surely no handbook.  We do the best we can.  And we hope that we do it well. 

Mirror, Mirror

This morning, I woke up and I knew that something wasn’t quite right.  I looked in the mirror and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  I called the girls in to look at me and the looks on their faces were priceless.  They didn’t know whether to laugh or cry either.  I clearly had an allergic reaction to something and my face,  especially my eyes, were impressively swollen.  And I don’t mean maybe.  I honestly can say that I never looked so horrible in my life.  Thankfully, within the hour, it was better.  I still was not going to win Miss America (I guess it’d be Mrs. America at this point in my life) but I, at least, was fairly confident that I wouldn’t make small children cry at the sight of my face.  I headed in to work, laughed about it all day and thought…well, this will be a great blog post.  Anywho…

All day, it made me think about how we are so caught up with how we look.  I surely don’t consider myself vain.  I mean I care about what I look like to some degree, but … I shop at Old Navy.  Let’s be real here.  I have been known to run in to Big Y to grab some milk and strawberries immediately after running 12 miles.  Clearly, this is not done by someone who is really concerned with the visual impression she will make on others.  However, I DO care when it comes right down to it.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we never thought about what we looked like? 

I saw a mom at school pick up yesterday who was wearing  a Kermit the Frog winter hat.  She CLEARLY didn’t care how she looked and she is probably much happier than most of us.  She’s certainly happier than ME right now, but truth be told, I’m still a bit swollen as I type.  I look approximately 73. 

Or how ‘bout kids (especially little boys) who leave the house with massive bed head?  They don’t care.  They have a great day and pay no mind to the folks who are laughing at them and running behind them with a wet comb.

It would be so refreshing to go to the beach and not worry about Every. Little. Thing. (Perhaps I’m the only one who thinks this way.  But I think not.)

It’d be so much easier to get ready in the morning.  “Clothes thrown on the floor from yesterday – sure I’ll wear you again. No one cares.  No one even pays attention!  Spaghetti sauce spilt on the knee from last night.  No mind.  Put ‘em on.  I’m walking out the door!”

It’d be so much easier to get ready to go out at night too.  “It doesn’t matter if this makes me look fat, flat, matronly or like I’m trying too hard.  It doesn’t matter.  It.  Doesn’t.  Matter. How. I. Look."

And yet, as I sit here it DOES matter how I look.  It affects your whole day. At least it does mine.  I don’t like thinking that way, but I do.  Except when speaking to a select few, every time I spoke today, I was feeling so awkward.  I talked to parents and even told them (not in this long drawn out blog kind of a way) about this reaction I was apparently having.  They KNEW what the deal was, but I still felt so self-conscious.  That’s silly. 

Even with this ridiculousness, I am happy to say that I very good at making fun of myself.  I always have been.  THAT’S important to me too.  As far as I'm concerned, there's no need to take myself too seriously.  G is the same way.   I hope that we are teaching H and M how important that is…unless they suddenly wake up and look like this. 

They may, then, want to re-think their perspective.

Name That Tune, Kathy Lee Gifford

Earlier today, M asked me, "Mumma, what is that song?  You know.  Something, Something State of Mind."  As the breath returned to my body (I am still horrified that she couldn't sing "New York State of Mind" word for word ... sorry Billy!), it occurred to me that there are countless "classic" songs (in my opinion) that H and M just don't know.  Never will know - unless we introduce them - starting now! Sure, they'll be okay without knowing them, but I think that they will be better if they do know them. Live them. Breathe them. Just as we did. Just look how we turned out!!

"Their music" (oh my God, I am so middle-aged) is just not the same.  It won't last for decades.  I just don't think it will. I could be wrong.  And if I am, I apologize to you personally, Taylor Swift.  Don't write a break up song about me, please. We can still be BFFs, if you want.

But until then, here's the start of my list of songs (in no particular order) that I will be sure our Four Family can sing at the top of its lungs at a moment's notice.  This is my list.  Right now.  It will change in five and a half minutes.  Don't go getting all huffy if there's not a song on here that you think should be.  Go make your own list.  Right now, these are my "must know songs" for our daughters.

Lessons will start tomorrow immediately following dinner, girls. Get your dancin' shoes on and grab a hairbrush. We've got some rockin' out to do!

1.  New York State of Mind - Billy Joel
2.  Sir Duke - Stevie Wonder
3. You've Got A Friend - James Taylor
4.  Runaway - Bon Jovi
5.  So Far Away - Carole King
6. Domino - Van Morrison
7. Hit Me With Your Best Shot - Pat Benetar
8.  Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles
9.  Crazy Train - Ozzy Osbourne
10.  Sweet Caroline - Neil Diamond

And speaking of Kathy Lee Gifford, (see title of post), remember watching "Live with Regis and Kathy Lee" every morning.  Painful.  And yet, I couldn't turn it off.  She's a complete and total train wreck. 

Peace out.