Charlotte Potts taught me first grade.  

We started every day by writing in our notebooks.  It looked like this:

Today is Tuesday, September 7, 1981.  It is sunny.  Today, we have Gym.

After carefully writing the day's details with our number 2 pencils, we had to write a sentence all of our own design.  They looked like this:

This weekend, we are going to the zoo.

Or:

My mom bought me a new dress.  It is pink. 

But usually, it was some narrow variation of this:

I love Mrs. Potts.

I loved Mrs. Potts with my whole six year old heart.  When the advanced reading group met at the table at the front of the room (on the left, up by the floor-to-ceiling chalkboard, you know?) for Open Court, Mrs. Potts invariably ate a bag of Fritos.  

To this day, I LOATHE Fritos.  I am pretty sure it was her only "flaw."

Also?  By first grade, I was pretty sure I had my shit together.

*     *     *     *     *

Jack completed kindergarten last week.  

He had a marvelous year.  He grew -- vertically, emotionally, academically, and socially.  He learned -- Pokemon, math, reading, and tall tale telling.  He bonded -- with his wonderful teacher, his best new friends, and even some friends who proved challenging to him.

And now, with the intrepidity of youth, he's ready for the next challenge.

*     *     *     *     *

I was pretty emotional the night before Jack's last day of kindergarten.  I can't lie.  I mean -- it's totally relatable and it's also platitude central, right?

The days are long but the years are short. 

Childhood is but the blink of an eye. 

There is no love like that of a mother's heart.

Or, as the Interwebz so poetically puts it:

Time is an asshole. 

The truth is that the years are short.  They fly by mercilessly as a blur of soccer practices, negotiating bedtimes, frantic dinner preparation, and weariness at the end of the day.  

But, dammit, they are also a handful of exquisite, crystallized moments -- our butterflies on the first day of school, the awesome field trip, the wonderful Ms. Voyce, the crazy fun Valentine's Day party, and so many laughs and memories and joyful bits.

And so once again, by first grade, I'm pretty sure I have my shit together.

I know Jack does.

Hope your day is full of sweet memories and free of corn chips.

Talk soon,

Heather

on bonbons and half marathons

I am a super Type A perfectionist. (Newsflash, right?)

When I stopped working as an attorney, a friend supportively cautioned me that it might take about a year to adjust.

I scoffed.  (I am also an occasional scoffer.)  

"I'm sure I'll be fine," I thought.  "I think it will take me about three weeks to adjust.  Yup, three weeks."

That was a year ago.  

*     *     *     *     *

I've learned a lot this year.  Here are some of my discoveries:

1.  It is not good for one's soul to do laundry every day.  

Nothing makes you feel like you're in a hamster wheel faster.

2.  Not having a commute is &*(##@ awesome.  

When Durel and I moved back to Austin from DC, I swore that I wouldn't complain about the traffic.  "Nothing will EVER be worse than 5 PM on the Beltway," I thought.  Nothing.  

Oh man,  I hadn't seen 620 at 8 AM, had I?  

3.  Moms need more yoga pants.

One of the best perks of my new job is walking Jack to school every day.  Those first few days of kindergarten, I had an existential wardrobe crisis.  It's 7 AM.  Am I supposed to get dressed?  Have on makeup?  I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

So, I got dressed and brushed my teeth and hair and put on some mascara and lip gloss.  And so did several other moms, I noticed.

You know what?  By Thursday of the first week of school we were all bare-faced in yoga pants.  We haven't looked back.

4.  Labels are dangerous.

I'm going to get sociological for a minute.  Labels are an intrinsic part of human society.  We need to define ourselves, and we do so in large part by comparing and contrasting ourselves with others.  I had (and still have, truth be told) a lot invested in my label of "attorney."  It's a prestigious one and it wears well, like an expensive suit.  

Beware, though.  The label of "stay at home mom" is a patriarchal booby trap.  It should be called CEO, because that's what it is.  Our society systematically undervalues the labor of the home, and that's some bullshit.  I have not started wearing retro dresses (any more than I ever did), and wearing an apron all the time, standing at the ready with freshly-baked, organic, gluten-free cookies.  I do not loll about on the couch eating bonbons.  Let me repeat:  I do not loll.

I also don't grow all my own food or work out for six hours a day.  We don't have a goat or chickens (though not for lack of asking by both Durel and Jack).  I don't stare at Pinterest all day.  I don't make my own cleaning supplies out of all natural ingredients.  

I work.  I do the work that is required to run a household smoothly.  And if you want to get tricky with details, I also do work to contribute to the smooth operation of my parents' household.  

Is there a job title for "double CEO"?

5.  It doesn't matter what people think.

This is the part that takes a year.  This is why I'm writing this post now, not after three weeks.

I lost a few friends when I stopped lawyering.  I saw their eyes glaze over when I told them about my decision to care for my family and take a break from the practice of law.  In large part, I ceased being relevant to them at that moment.  (Lawyers are big on relevance.)

I also made some new friends when I stopped lawyering.  Jack's amazing kindergarten teacher will become a happy hour buddy as soon as we decide it's appropriate.  Some of the moms I've met while volunteering at school are new, good, real friends.  

Apparently, I've inspired some friends, too, which I find surprisingly delightful!  One friend is moving with her family back to Michigan and changing up their work-life balance.  She told me I gave her the courage to think outside the box.  I think that's SO RAD.  

I got reacquainted with myself, too.  I've wrestled with my lifelong ambition of running at least a half marathon, if not a full one.  I pretended that I don't want to do that anymore, what with my 40 year old physique and creaky feet.  I then called my own bluff, because I do.  I remembered that I take a lot of joy in writing and reading and realized that I need to do them more.  I rediscovered cooking for nourishment and relaxation.

To Seussify it, I thought some thinks that needed to be thunk.  

And look!  How happy I am!

Hope your day is refreshingly free of patriarchal booby traps.

Talk soon,

Heather

the relativity of time (in a car)

My senior year of college, I had a car on campus.  Granted, it was one of my Dad's fleet, so it was ginormous and kind of slow.  Also?  I was damn glad to have it.

The drive from the Eastern Shore of Maryland to Lewiston, Maine is 500 miles.  I averaged a ten hour journey, what with my Diet Coke habit and bladder size.  With typical 20-something exuberance, I thought it was all great fun.  

In typical East Coast fashion, I went through at least part of 8 separate states:  Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine.  (I mention this because it would take me ten hours to drive to El Paso from Austin and I'd still be in Texas.)

I marvel at my parents' trust in me and confidence that I would make the drive safely.  I am a safe driver; this is true.  I was surrounded by massive amounts of steel; this is also true.  However, I am their youngest child!  And this was before cell phones!  Ugh.  I clearly have some lessons to learn.  I literally walk Jack to school every morning and watch him walk through the doors and into the cafeteria before I walk away.  (Today, I watched him walk through the cafeteria line and purchase a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos to have later for snack.  You're busted, kid.)

Anyway, I also marvel at my younger self's ability to drive 500 miles and like, not be dead tired when I got there.  I probably unloaded the car and then went to a party.  Oh, college.

In startling contrast to these good old days on the road to Bates, we drove to New Orleans for Thanksgiving this year.  

I learned a lot during this time on the road, which can be summarized thusly:

1.  I am not as young as I used to be.  

2.  Jack and Sawyer are not as old as I used to be (in those college driving days).  

3.  Eleven hours in the car with two children is *about* eight hours too many for it to go well.

Here are the highlights.

After years of visiting Durel's parents in Katy, our bladders and internal clocks are set like Greenwich Mean Time to stop at Hruska's in Ellinger, Texas.  So, obviously, we did.

That was a good choice, as it always is.

Sawyer had his first kolache -- ham and cheese.  Despite the bright morning light bisecting his face, he was enthusiastic about the entire experience.

Jack knows his way around a kolache, which means he was able to overlook their dazzling array and instead, hone in on a cinnamon bun as big as his head.  You can't say no to that.  Well, you can, but we were trying to stave off tantrums for another four hours, at least.

A few hours later, we stopped at Cracker Barrel.  Despite my stubborn support of Cracker Barrel, our experience was, at best, underwhelming.  There were some cute moments, though.

There are not pictures of the low points of the drive.  Trust me, there were low points.  Durel and I were a little punchy as we neared our destination.

And then, just as Cracker Barrel had disappointed us, the liquor laws of Louisiana did not.

Eleven hours and 44 ounces of daiquiri later, we were there.  (Oh Lord no, we didn't finish them.  But it was nice knowing that we *could have* if we'd wanted to.)

Hope your holiday journey has its own rewards.  Also, hope you get to mention bladders twice today and feel really good about it.

Talk soon,
Heather

lasagna and salad

When I was a senior in college, I wrote an honors thesis to complete my major in English.  My thesis was one hundred pages long and filled with enthusiastic interpretations of several schools of literary theory.  My argument, as it were, was that the literary theory of feminism must make room for Romantic notions of subjectivity and self, even as it attempted not to due to its frequent alliance with postmodernism.

Phew.  

It's not as embarrassing to read snippets of that thesis now as it probably should be.  I did a good job for an idealistic poet who was trying not to freeze to death in Lewiston, Maine.  And my premise is kind of cute.  I was arguing for The Self.  Take all your theories and be damned if you don't value The Self.  Theory doesn't necessarily work that way, but I tossed in some Baudrillard and some simulacra and argued it with my bad self.

*     *     *     *     *

A few months ago, I took a hard look at my life.  I was in the car, in bumper to bumper rush hour morning traffic, as I was every morning.  I had dropped my amazing boys off at daycare and would be, yet again, late to work.  Austin's population growth had made my commute downtown take about two hours in the morning and one hour in the evening.

My back ached.  I should do yoga.  But when?  I should meditate.  Sigh.  Yeah, right.

My case load at work was more than full.  I was literally juggling cases.  Part of me loved the adrenaline.  (Lawyers love adrenaline, even if they say they don't.)

I hadn't packed my lunch.  I had already driven through the Coffee Bean for More Coffee.  I would buy lunch later.  It probably wouldn't be that healthy.  

I had no idea what we were having for dinner.

My lovely parents moved from Maryland to a retirement community in Austin about 6 years ago.  About three years ago, Durel and I moved to the same part of town so that we could be right down the street.  Mom and Dad's house is 3.1 miles from ours -- a 5K.  

I hadn't seen my parents in a week.  

*     *    *     *     *

I'm taking a break from the practice of law.  I am CEO of our household.  I am in charge of knowing what color Jack's class wears every Wednesday.  I am in charge of costumes for Nursery Rhyme Parade day.   I am in charge of home repairs, vet appointments, dog grooming, grocery shopping, dry cleaning, flu shots, runny noses, meal planning, meal preparation, appliance repair, exterminator appointments, and about one zillion other things.

I am also present in the lives of my children.

I am also present in the lives of my parents.

I am also present in my own life.  Which is pretty rad now, in the wake of my scary ass health experience, which makes me value my time here, and with these people, more than ever.

Apparently, I'm still making arguments for The Self.  

*     *     *     *     *

Hope you know what you're having for dinner.  We are having lasagna and salad.

Talk soon,

Heather

my village

As I mentioned a few days ago, I have been recovering from an emergency surgery for the past 2 weeks.  Everything about this experience has been challenging.

Physically, getting over a surgery stinks big time.  Regrowing blood from lots of blood loss is more exhausting than I can describe.

For me, though, the biggest challenge is always asking for help.  I am really, really bad at asking for help.  (I didn't even join a study group in law school.  I was all, Nah.  I'll just LEARN ALL THE THINGS by myself.)

And so, the experience of this emergency and the surgery and the recovery is being defined, at least to me, by the help we've asked for, the help that has been provided, and the easy love that we've received from our village.

My dear dad drove me to the emergency room so that we didn't send our children into years of therapy by making them watch an ambulance cart Mommy away.

Andy just happened to be in town from Pennsylvania for work.  So, of course, he came to our house and watched the kids so that Durel could jet to the hospital to see me before surgery.  Oh, and he didn't just hang out with Jack.  He taught him to play chess. 

 

Cristy dropped everything and flew to Austin.  She arrived from Albuquerque a few hours after I got home from the hospital.  She walked Jack to school, made me breakfast burritos, and kept us going for those first days home.

Jenny dropped everything and flew to Austin.  She arrived from Delaware the day after Cristy departed.  She walked Jack to school, made me breakfast burritos, made sure I napped enough, and kept us going for the next days home.

Liz brought me a delicious lunch and freezer-friendly dinner, even though she's 9 months pregnant and I should be making her dinners, not the other way around.

Jen and Trevor knew, before Durel and I even realized it, that the best gift for us may be quiet time. And so, they whisked Jack off to the pumpkin patch with their family on a balmy Texas afternoon.  (Durel, Sawyer, and I promptly slept the entire time our little dynamo was gone.  I mean, has anyone had a five year old boy wear a Fitbit?  I would love to know how many steps that kid gets in.  My guess is like 40,000 a day.)

Megan brought me coffee and donuts and changed poopy diapers when I couldn't lift Sawyer and the rest of my boys were on the soccer fields.

I am so lucky.  To be alive.   (This was a life-threatening event.)  To have these friends (and everyone else that I didn't specifically mention, thank you).  To have this family.  To have safe and accessible health care. (I didn't say affordable.  Ambulance rides cost a grand a pop, by the way.  HEYOO, deductible.)  

I'm about to turn 40.  A friend asked me how I felt about it.  I told her that I think it's fantastic.  I get to be 40.  And I'm lucky for that, too.

Hope someone lifts you up today.

Talk soon,

Heather

steps

Sawyer is walking.  Huzzah!

When he feels like it, that is.

Jack is in an after-school running club called the Stallion Stampede.  The kids' miles are tallied annually and also linked with their membership to Marathon Kids, an AMAZING local charity that just received funding from Nike and is going BIG TIME!

He's pretty fast.

As for me, I am on the mend.  Roughly two weeks ago, I underwent emergency surgery to repair a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, which happened despite the fact that my tubes were tied.  That's both rare and dangerous.  The good news is that I'm on the road to recovery. 

Hope you step toward a goal today.

Talk soon,
Heather

love wins

Apparently, five years old is when you start contemplating marriage.

Jack has informed Durel and I that he will be marrying his friend, Caitlyn.  We are great with this.  Caitlyn is smart and pretty.  We are good friends with her parents.  This is a solid choice.

And there's no stress.  I mean,we don't even have to start planning the wedding for like 20 years.

*     *     *     *     *

We have explained to Jack that the person you marry is the person that you love.  We've also told him that marriage is for grown-ups who want to spend their whole lives together and make a family.

We have explained that sometimes that means boys marry boys and girls marry girls.  Love is what matters.

I am so proud that the Supreme Court made this the unequivocal truth today.

Hope you feel one step closer to real equality today.

Talk soon,
Heather

Napa, Part Two: morris and chuck

I forgot to finish my Napa story!  Where is my mind?  (Cue The Pixies, obviously.)

*     *     *     *     *

After the drive from San Francisco to Napa, we rolled into our delightful accommodations and were all -- now what? We were all that kind of tired where your eyes are burning and you think you're hungry and you barely know your name.

Ellen went to exercise (she is SO GOOD).  Nancy took a nap (she is SO SMART).  That left Mandy and I looking at one another with our crazy, tired eyeballs.

The conversation went something like this.  I don't remember who said what, because Mandy and I are basically brain twins, so it doesn't matter.

One of us:  What should we do?

The other one:  I don't know.

One:  Should we take naps?

[silence]

One:  I kind of want to explore.  You know, get the lay of the land.

The other:  Yeah!  Me, too.

One:  Find stuff.  See where downtown is.

In unison:  Totally.  Let's go.

*     *     *     *     *

We toured downtown Napa (cute!) and found Oxbow Market.

Oxbow Market is an industrial building converted into an open marketplace filled with outstanding gourmet food vendors, restaurants, and the like.  I could basically live there.

We walked in and saw an Italian restaurant, with a bar.  And I instantly could not believe that we HADN'T HAD ANY WINE YET.

So, we fixed that.

We decided that a selection of deliciousness from Oxbow would make a great dinner for us at the hotel.  Meats and cheeses!  Breads and olives!  Yes!  (Seems logical, but we were so tired, this was a pretty big idea for us.)

Rather than have too much fun without our friends, we drank our wine and then responsibly head back to the hotel, but not before stopping at the grocery store to buy (obviously) Diet Coke and water for our rooms.

And then we had this conversation:

Me:  You know, this is exactly what Morris (my dad) did every time we went somewhere.  Left us in the hotel to rest and then went off to "get the lay of the land."

Mandy:  Um, that's exactly what Chuck (her dad) did, too.  "Just gotta scope it out."

Me:  We are turning into our dads.

Mandy:  We are turning into our dads.

[smiles and silence]

*     *     *     *     *

If taking a 40th birthday trip to Napa didn't make us feel like real grown up adult type people, turning into Morris and Chuck certainly did.  And we really couldn't be happier.

Hope you are delighted with your own adulthood today.

Talk soon,
Heather

Napa, Part One: The Sappy Stuff

I moved from DC to San Francisco in 1998.  It was the high point of the "dot com boom."  

People talked a lot about angel money.  CEOs were like, babies. Corporate Foosball table ownership soared.

I worked for Burson-Marsteller, one of the big PR firm greats.  I did brand marketing.  One of my clients was Evite.  (They had a Foosball table AND a baby CEO.)

I lived in Nob Hill and walked to work in the Financial District because it was downhill the entire way.  I took the cable car home, because it was uphill the entire way and because, CABLE CARS.

I had not been to San Francisco since I left in 2000.  I went back last month.  I hadn't left my heart there, per se.  But a piece of it?  Yes.

Oooh, a plane trip without a baby.  That was nice, dude.

*    *     *     *     * 

We all moved to Lewiston, Maine in 1993.  They lived in Page.  I lived in Parker.  I think we all met at the orientation clambake.

(Yes.  We had an orientation clambake.  Bates is a divinely preppy place.)

None of us had gone to, like, Andover or Choate, so we didn't have automatic groups of pedigreed instafriends.  But, we found one another pretty quickly and have been friends ever since.

We realized that we've been friends now for longer than we haven't been friends.  (I love that.)

We decided to take a trip to Napa for our collective fortieth birthdays, all of which happen in 2015-ish.

I wouldn't say that I left part of my heart in Lewiston, per se.  But I did leave part of my heart wherever these ladies are.

And yes, the next post will have annoyingly gratuitous pictures of wine.  Just had to get the sappy stuff said first.

Hope you annoy someone with your unbridaled sentiment today.

Talk soon,

Heather

Mardi Gras, part three. The Property.

When I was in third grade, my parents took us to New York in November.  To see the windows, of course.  (Christmas window displays in Manhattan are hard to beat.)  We took a horse drawn carriage ride around Central Park.  We ate breakfast at some fancy place where I got a hot chocolate that was literally to die for. We rode in checker cabs.

Checker cabs could seat four passengers, because they had flip-down seats attached to the back of the driver and passenger seats.  Checker cabs are not safe and are extinct.  I thought they were amazing.  I thought pretty much everything was amazing.

I also gaped at the world from the top of the Empire State Building.  I couldn't believe all that city below me.  I couldn't believe all the cabs.  I started counting.  I got to thirty or so when the light changed and they all zoomed away.  

*     *     *     *

As a kid, Durel recalls his Uncle Larry's property as a huge place full of adventures.  There were pigs.  There were trees, maybe hundreds.  There were alligators in the creek (right, Durel?).  There were fishing trips.  There was always a boat.  And there was Uncle Larry and Aunt Sue.

I'm sure "the property," as it is still known to us, is smaller to Durel now that he's a legit grown-up, but we saw a glimpse of the mystique it had to him when we took Jack and Sawyer there on our recent trip to New Orleans.

Jack will never forget it.  He is already asking when we can go back.

Because:

Baby chickens!

Grown up chickens!

Eggs to gather! (And pants to pull up!) 

Crawfish to eat! (Once Mom peels them for you.)

His world was busier that day than my view from the top of the Empire State Building.  He had to feed the baby chicks (Green grass.  GREEN, Mom.)  He had to feed the grown-up chickens.  (Bread, Mom.)  He had to gather the eggs with Uncle Larry.  (So carefully, Mom.)  He had to play with the dogs.  He had to eat the crawfish.  He had to do it all again.

Watching him gave us all a rosy glow.

As for SawDog, he had a rosy glow, too, in the arms of his new favorite, Aunt Sue.

He's still deciding about Uncle Larry.

I think that means another trip is required.  (And this time, I want a drive-through daiquiri.)

Hope you remember the grand scale of things today.

Talk soon,
Heather

are those bad guys?

Jack knows the difference between good guys and bad guys.

I didn't realize there was so much treachery in Star Wars, but though his love of the trilogy, Jack has honed in on the  phenomenon of "started as a good guy, turned into a bad guy."

Oh, George Lucas, you bard of eternal themes.

*     *     *     *     *

We don't watch the news when the children are around.  Sawyer is too young to understand it, of course, but Jack certainly is not.  We made an exception and watched about five minutes of the news last night.  Jack was playing; he wasn't really paying attention.  

There was a snippet about the current terror threat and response in Egypt.  Jack's head snapped to attention and turned to the TV.

"Are those bad guys?"

"Yes, they are, Jack."  [CHANGE CHANNEL]

*     *     *     *     *

I know that it is my responsibility as a mother to not only protect my children, but to teach them to be safe and wise and use common sense.  Jack has my cellphone number memorized (and has for some time!) and knows that he is to run away from strangers who try to offer him gifts or get him into their car.  He knows that if he can't find a parent, he is to turn to a police officer, firefighter, or teacher for help.  We are doing what we can.

However, one of the most profound things no one tells you about becoming a parent is this, the fear.  I'm sure my parents felt it -- they brought us into a world with a Cold War and nuclear weapons and the Cuban Missile Crisis.  They taught us with love and compassion.  They rock.

And now, we've brought children into a world with mutant viruses and too many terrorist groups to name.  And we will teach them with love and compassion.

*     *     *     *     *

For the present time, though, I am glad that Jack's concept of bad guys is as simple (and adorable) as this unscripted and unprompted display from this weekend.

Hope your day has some classic literary themes in it.

Talk soon,
Heather

carnivals and the paradox of fear

Every summer on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, there is a Brigadoon known as the Cecil County Firefighter's Carnival.

Cecilton is forgettable, and that is kind.  But the carnival was always fun.  I give full props to the volunteer firefighters (many of whom I knew from my summer job at the marina, where they worked as mechanics or painters on yachts and sailboats).  They are a dedicated bunch, and they know how to throw a carnival.

I have a fuzzy memory of bright lights, funnel cakes, rides that make you *almost* puke, and the sweet freedom of a pocketful of tickets.

*     *      *     *     *     *     *

Going to a carnival as an adult is different.  

It's sort of like when they turn on the "ugly lights" in a bar at last call.  It looks a lot different than you thought, and not in a good way.

Durel and I learned this last weekend.  Luckily, we had enough Tums and Advil to get through it, and were able to enjoy Jack's view of the event, which is utterly carefree.

[I mean, it's just scary to think of all these rides being taken apart into transportable bits, nuts, bolts, and pieces and then reassembled, ridden, disassembled, transported, reassembled, and then ridden by you and your child, the most precious thing to you in the entire universe.  In retrospect, I prefer the firefighters and mechanics.]

[But you know what?  Everything is scary if you think about it wrong.  So, we got our bad selves in line and rode the rides because that's what you do.]

Jack and I rode the Ferris Wheel.

It's really pretty from up there!

Jack and Durel rode the roller coaster.

Raise'em like you just don't CAYAH

We did not take a camel ride, go inside the weird tent to see the "World's Smallest Horse," which the sign said in bizarre, Wizard of Oz style wording, was "Positively Alive!" or pay $12 for a turkey leg.

Sawyer maintained a Zen-like composure while watching us.  Wise baby, he is.

Hope you feel the fear and do it anyway today.

Talk soon,
Heather

catching our collective breath

You guys.  The past month has been totally ridonkulous.

Here are the highlights:

Durel and I went to ACL.  

We had three day passes because we are nothing if not ambitious.  We got babysitters and cash and went to HAVE SOME FUN, PEOPLE.  We drank beer, saw music, people watched, ate awesome food, slogged through mud, got tired of slogging through mud, and left early to go see a movie.  That might make us old, but it also makes us happy.  

In other news, we've decided that we are now "one day pass" people.  I think it's a sign of maturity.

Bright eyes, full hearts, can't handle that much mud.

Sawyer started sitting up.  

We had been wondering when SawDog would deign to sit up in our presence.  He seemed quite happy to roll everywhere he wanted to go.  I really think he just didn't feel like sitting up.  But then, he decided to throw us a bone in the form of a developmental milestone.  He's thoughtful like that.

This will also [drumroll] signal his transition from a Lamb to a Duck at school!  And that means that crawling and sippy cups are in our near future.  Apparently, I am in a time warp.  

How YOU doin'?

SickFest 2014 happened.

Sawyer had a yucky virus where he coughed a heartbreaking amount.

Jack had a yucky virus where he projectile vomited everywhere.

Sometimes motherhood is harder than law school.

Soccer stars emerged.

Last weekend, at Jack's soccer game, he and his teammates lined up, three kids across, to protect their goal from the oncoming opposing team.

I almost fainted.

They've learned how to play soccer, people.  And they are FOUR YEARS OLD.  And, they're damn cute.

Though they are really in it for the snacks.

Here's hoping you get a snack today.

Talk soon,

Heather

don't cut barbie's hair, and other important life lessons

Once upon a time, I was a snoopy little sister who read her big sister's diary.  I was about 10 years old, which would have made her about 17 years old.  

I thought her diary was full of VERY SHOCKING THINGS.  (Side note:  I was ten.  Cutting your Barbie's hair was VERY SHOCKING.  Context, people.)

I was smart enough not to tell anyone.  Because I knew that I would hate life if my sister knew that I had read her diary, and I also knew that I shouldn't have read it in the first place.  I think every kid is instinctively has the "fruit of the poisonous tree" concept hard-wired into them.  I certainly did.

So, I did what any smart-ass ten year old with a shred of self-preservation instinct would have done:  I went to my OWN diary and recounted what I had read.  I reacted to it, and I'm sure there were a lot of exclamation points.  I wasn't ever one for puffy hearts.

A few days later, I went to write in my diary again (replete with the "lock" for your secretive 1980's self) and found a note from my big sister.  I don't remember exactly what it said, but it was the emotional equivalent of a horse's head in my bed.

Message received.  "Hey kid.  Don't read my diary again.  You got it?"

I got it.

*     *     *     *     *

The other morning, Sawyer and I went to wake up Jack.  And this look happened.

Message received.  "Hey Sawyer.  I think you're amazing."

He got it.

*     *     *     *     *

For the record, I don't read other people's diaries anymore.  And my sister has long since forgiven me.  And I did cut my Barbie's hair, and it was shocking.  And it does not grow back.

I'll do what I can to pass on what I know to my amazing boys.  Clearly, we're all learning here.

Hope your sibling dazzles you today.

Talk soon,
Heather

saturday morning jumped out of bed

When I lived in San Francisco, my mom used to call me every Saturday morning.  

She was in Maryland, waiting impatiently until a "civil" time to call.  She usually waited until 9 or 9:30.

The trouble with that is the whole pesky time zone thing.  So, alllllllllllll the way in San Francisco, my phone would RINGRINGRING at 6 or 6:30 AM.

The trouble with that is that Saturday morning comes after Friday night.

For example:  We used to go to a bar in the Mission called the Makeout Room.  They played Social Distortion and had a baby doll head in a jar of formaldehyde behind the bar.  We took cabs and stayed until closing time.  I had a black faux fur Hello Kitty purse.

*     *     *     *     *

Last Saturday morning, Jack had his first ever soccer game of life.

The game was on the fields just down the street.  They start at either 8 or 9.

Jack and his doppelganger, A., ran around, passed the ball, made shots, made those shots at the correct goals, and scored a few times.

Look at my soccer mom photobomb.  Look at it!

I, never one to cheer, found myself whooping on the sidelines with the best of'em.

The trouble with this is that I think I am now TECHNICALLY a soccer mom.

For example:  Durel is the team's coach.  I emailed all the parents to rotate who brings snacks to the games.  I brought them this time.  I brought Goldfish, orange slices, and 100% juice pouches.  I wore (hot pink, thankfully) sneakers.


*     *     *     *     *

Tell me how you spend your Saturday mornings, and I'll tell you who you are.

Hope you diversify over time.

Talk soon,
Heather

what we're thankful for

Right this minute, Sawyer is thankful for his thumb, that toy, his awesome teachers, and his cozy bouncy chair.

Right this minute, Jack is thankful for his new "blue and green running shoes" and his favorite dinosaur socks that he made at school recently.

 

Right this minute, I am thankful for this day, my beautiful boys, wonderful husband, and quite possibly a million other things.  I haven't counted.  But it's a super mega lot.  I'm a lucky gal.

Hope you take a moment to marvel in what's good today.

Talk soon,

Heather

stewardesses, then and now

Once upon a time, a long long, time ago, my family played Pictionary.

It was new then.  We were excited.  The Davies family is a creative lot -- skewing toward the nerdy side, even.  And we LOVE to get our board game on.

The time came for my beloved Dad to draw.  His word was "stewardess."  (Again, this was a while ago.  People still totally used that word.  Pre-PC.)  He drew an airplane.  He tapped on it.

We guessed everything we could think of related to planes and flight.  We didn't, however, go inside the plane with our guesses.

Dad grew frustrated.  He continued tapping on his pencil-drawn 747.

TAP TAP TAP.

We kept guessing.  In retrospect, we weren't that smart, because how many flight-related words do we really know?  And we STILL didn't guess stewardess?  

TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP!!!

We didn't get it. The timer ran out.

STEWARDESS.

That was the first and last time Dad ever played Pictionary.  We told him that we're glad his brain works differently than ours.  Business school and all that.  What would we do without him?

*     *    *     *     *     *     *     *

In some ways, raising a 3 1/2 year old is a lot like playing Pictionary with my Dad.  If you don't know what they're talking about, it's really up to you to get creative and figure it out.  They are going to TAP that picture until you do.

Last night, Jack asked me on the way home if he could watch "the Michael movie."  I wracked my brain.  There are no characters named Michael on any of his favorite shows or movies.  I told him that I didn't know what he meant.

"Momma, I want to watch the Michael movie!"  (TAP TAP)

"But, Jack, I don't know what that is."

"The MICHAEL MOVIE!"  (TAP TAP TAP)

"Ok.  If you can show it to me or find it, we'll see if you can watch it."

When we got home, Jack efficiently went through the drawer containing his DVDs and proudly pulled out the Michael movie.

It is called An American Tale.

Michael = Fivel.

STEWARDESS.

Phew.

Movie night was, of course, a great success.  (And wouldn't have been complete without a shout out to Uncle Dustin and Aunt Geri, who are fond of that movie and their nephew.)

Hope your streets ARE filled with cheese today.  Because that would be awesome.

Talk soon,
Heather

it's those preppy choices that can get you

I applied Early Decision to Middlebury.

To someone not from the East Coast and/or who doesn't treat liberal arts college admission as a competitive sport, that doesn't mean much.

Middlebury College is a gorgeous college in Middlebury, Vermont.  It is a very academic, very preppy, and very picturesque place.  I had decided that's where I would be an English major, run around in autumnal splendor, and spend four years becoming my most awesome self.

Here's a picture, so you can picture it:

Image credit.  Seriously, right???

 Apparently, Middlebury was not as enamored of me as I was of them.  My application was deferred to the regular decision applicant pool, which was a hard core slap in the face to my idealistic, enthusiastic, overachieving high school self.  That means you have to apply to other colleges and, like, wait it out. [Insert Kristin Stewart's one facial expression.]

So, the search continued.  The family search committee, led by Captain Dad, the College Hunter, explored New England, because that's where I had decided I wanted to be.

We visited a lot of places.  [Smiley face.]  One of them was Bates. Bates is cool.  I walked around the campus to do a "vibe check."  I liked it.  I didn't feel out of place, like I was dressed like an idiot, or like people realized I was a stranger.  Hmm.  

And, let's not overlook that Bates is also gorgeous, very academic, very preppy, and very picturesque.

See?

We totally had classes sitting outside on the Quad.  Not even joking.

 

This picture does not show a lot of snow.
When you live in Maine, this is not a lot of snow.

As it turned out, Middlebury did accept me.  But by then, Bates had already accepted me, too.  Faced with the decision of where to go, I found myself totally happy about the thought of going to Bates.  I also found myself completely annoyed with Middlebury for making me wait for so long and feel all icky and half-rejected.  

I realized that I was just a name on a list.  (Granted, this was true at both schools but it pissed me off vis a vis Middlebury.)  And that if I didn't take the spot, they would call some other girl and make her happy that she'd finally gotten in.  

Screw that!, I thought, with a lot of emotional bravado, to myself, at age 18.  

I'm going to Maine.

And so, I did.  It was awesome. And I, as predicted, was an English major, ran around in autumnal (and snowy) splendor, and spent four years becoming my most real self.  It was fan.tas.tic.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, it was cold today in Austin, and this happened.  

And my heart burst into a million pieces, and I don't even want to think about him going to kindergarten, much less college, and I got all nostalgic for Maine and changing leaves, and how was college so long ago? and sunrise, sunset so quickly go the days...you know?

Hope you find an unexpected wellspring of emotional bravado today.

Talk soon,

Heather

my cute mom

The other day, I had the pleasure of a luxe Sunday brunch with my parents and two dear friends.

They charmed, as they always do, that Jan and Morris.

In fact, my sisters and I have a running list of our friends who would like to be adopted by the Davies, should they suddenly start adopting extra, fully grown children.  That's a testament to their unique brand of cute and cool.

This picture was taken that day, and it's too damn cute not to share.

To know Jan is to love her.  And to help you know her just a smidge, here are a few things about her that I find notable/fascinating/funny/cool.

1.  Though she humors Dad and I in our tastes for fancy food, she would really always prefer a cheeseburger.

2.  She lurves her some John Denver.  

3.  She also lurves her some lavender.  It is her favorite color.  Big time.  (Note:  Her blouse in the picture above.)

4.  When I was in 7th grade, she had a benign brain tumor the size of a grapefruit adjacent to her occipital lobe (related to vision and short term memory).  After 13 hours of open-head brain surgery, she essentially did her own physical therapy by doing daily crossword puzzles and resuming her intricate sewing and embroidery.

5.  She never curses.  (And wishes I wouldn't, either.)  

6.  She LOVES Christmas.  And boy oh boy, so do I.  We decorate, play Christmas carols as early as possible; decorate huge trees -- the whole nine yards.

7.  She taught me to embroider.  She taught my sisters, too.  Admittedly, Cristy is doing the most with this knowledge.  

8.  At her linguistic peak, she was fluent in Spanish, Portugese, and conversational in French and Italian.  She is still fluent in Spanish.  It's awesome.

9.  She cares not one bit about cars.  She doesn't know a Gremlin from a Rolls.  My dad and I marvel over it, but it's endearing nonetheless.

10.  She does not "do the computer."  Therefore, to be fair, I will print this and show it to her.

Hope your day is all fun like a top ten list.

Talk soon,

Heather