Ragged and Worth It

*tap tap tap*
Is this thing on?
Is anyone out there?

....Ahem.

I figured it was time for a post.  I mean, I know it's only been A MONTH since my last check-in, but I'm an overachiever. 

We are settling into being a family of four, and I am just ridiculously busy between caring for babies, working more than full time, nursing/pumping/changing diapers and all the other boring blahblah minutiae that comprises a life.  I wave at my husband in passing...  If we're lucky.  First world problems, I guess.  And trust me when I say I always remember how blessed I am. 

Here's the reality of my life at this point, which I don't mind sharing with the interwebs. My house is a mess.  My hair usually air dries and ends up in a ponytail (thank you God for a casual workplace), I don't wear anything that requires ironing, and I am typically quite sleep deprived.  My horse barely recognizes me and I haven't found time to start the post-baby workouts I crave.  I'm not organized, and I will not be participating in one of those "show the contents of your purse" reveals anytime soon because it might scare even me. The laundry is never completely clean, folded, AND put away.   I am not Supermom. 

My blog is totally neglected (surprise!) and when I tried to get in to share this post, I discovered I've reached my photo storage limit.  Aaaaand in trying to fix that issue, I created another.  So with that note I'll ask you to please ignore the yawning black holes of nothingness where photos formerly resided in my posts. 

This is when you should take a moment to marvel at my AWESOME COMPUTER GENIUSNESS RAY-Of-LIGHT READY-FOR-HIRE. 

Anyway, I'll fix that little photo apocalypse problem.  And then I'll pay the extra storage fee I was trying to avoid.  Lesson learned.   

So yes, I'm feeling a bit ragged these days and it's easy to start to think I'm in over my head.

But.  Then there's this.

She melts my heart.

And this tableau confined my perspective to the three people who comprise the center of my universe.

 Suddenly it doesn't seem to matter if I'm in over my head.  We'll figure it out together.  Together, we share sweet moments of fleeting infancy.

We have everyday joys fueled by cookies as we ruin our dinner.

 There is wonderment while we watch our baby girl becoming a big sister. 

And finally, there's this. 

Yes, that's right.  We got a donkey. Her name is Roxy.  

Heavenhelpme. 

Hello Again

Hi, friends.

Sorry for the disappearing act.  I hope you'll understand that I took some time away from blogland for the happiest of reasons.

Our son was born September 9th at 10:16pm.  Since then we've been learning who he is, learning about being a big sister, learning about being a mother and father to two little ones.   

Now that I am re-entering my normal life, and trying to find my balance with an even busier pace, I hope you'll bear with me still.  I do intend to continue this blog and have much more to share with you, even as my days have become fuller.  My goal is to carve out time to write regularly again because I miss doing this, and sharing our life, and hearing from you.

Thank you for reading and sharing your life as well.

Katie

Dance is Spelled D-N-A

My dad is a lover of music and has a knack for staying current despite being able to get senior discounts at the coffee house.  He has great taste in rock, but a spin through his CD changer will reveal an eclectic assortment of albums that change often, and may include Amy Winehouse, Bob Marley, Van Morrison, the Rolling Stones, and whatever else strikes his fancy.  He has better taste than most people and definitely better taste than, well, me.

A related talent is his fabulous dancing ability.  Many times he's taken to a crowded (or empty) dance floor and proceeded to spin, gyrate, wiggle, point, and shake his way into the dancing hall of fame.  To the casual onlooker (or mortified offspring) it looks a bit... weird.  Like something he should only do in the comfort and privacy of his own living room.

Fortunately, I know what it's really about.  Music moves him.  It moves him in ways that bring him happiness, and unselfconsciousness, and he just has a good time.  And why not?  I love to see him dance.  It makes me laugh and reminds me that happiness and mirth and a sense of abandon are all a healthy part of balancing life in our microanalyzed world.

This is where it gets even more interesting.  Soon after Beep was born, my dad gazed at her tenderly and, in an awed tone, made a profound and profoundly sweet comment on the family genetics carrying on into the future.  And so they will, in our sweet little girl with my eyes and her grandpa's long fingers. 

But if Grandpa ever needed proof of her lineage, he need look no further than this video I shot of the two of them dancing in the car.  Music moves her, too.

Love Like a Deer

I'm sitting in our living room, watching Amish: Out of Order.  My pregnancy accessories, cankles, are propped up and a ceiling fan stirs the air, just enough.  The baby in my belly, whom we've taken to calling Bean, squiggles and squirms from time to time.  In the kitchen Cabbage is doing the dishes (even though he also cooked dinner) and a few feet away Beep has barely gone to sleep in her crib.  Just a few minutes ago we saw Tabor and one of her babies outside the window, and I told Beep about how a mama deer licks her babies to clean them.  She thought about that, then nodded, smiled, and started licking me and we both giggled.

Tonight, and the past few days, parenting Beep has been difficult.  Her moods swing wildly and she is insistent on pretty much everything... anything... whatever strikes her fancy...  She will be denied nothing, and any attempt to control her impulses or budding independence leads to tears and heartbreak. 

I was gone four days last week- the longest we've ever been apart- and although she did fine while I was gone, this is the fallout.  She needs me, and wants to be carried and coddled.  She sometimes refuses to eat unless in my lap and will stop at nothing to have my full attention.

It's been a delicate balance to pick our battles with her.  Tonight she railed at her high chair and sobbed that she couldn't sit with me to eat.  I've indulged her in that impulse a couple of times recently, but I usually end up wearing half her dinner and I just wasn't up to it tonight.  Beep wasn't taking no for an answer and a fit ensued... Ultimately she was placed in time out (one of her few time outs ever) and invited back to the table two minutes later.  Then she melted down again so we repeated everything.  Cabbage and I sat in silence, listening to her shudders and sniffles, eating our salad and miserable that our beloved baby was struggling.

Back to the table and she sat well, did not eat, and tried her best to hold it together.  It was enough.  Cabbage finished and offered to pick her up. "No!" she told him, and laid her head against the side of her high chair.  I finished a couple of minutes later and gathered her to my shoulder.  She breathed, shuddered, her mood lightened, and happiness dawned on her again.  Eventually she started eating, sitting on my lap and chattering.

"Do you think it matters that she still ultimately is sitting on my lap to eat?"  I asked Cabbage.
"Nah," he said.  "Hold what you've got.  She sat quietly and waited for us to eat.  She did what we asked."

So I kissed her, and snuggled her, and let her eat the few bird bites she wanted. 

Then we ventured outside, Beep attached to my hip, where we hosed the day's sweat off the horses and petted Tabor.  I talked to her about where and how Tabor feeds milk to her babies and I rubbed my tight, swollen belly and found myself wondering how Beep will adjust to our new baby in a few months. 

Finally, I carried my baby inside to get her ready for bed.  Washed dirty little hands and feet, put on her beloved jammies, brushed pearly tiny teeth, read two books and pointed at the little mouse on each page.

That was when Tabor made her appearance outside our window.  Having my baby giggle and try to lick me clean more than made up for the drama and misery of the tears earlier.  One thing's certain: she loves me like a deer.

Beep and me, along with Tabor and her baby, 2010

A Well-Balanced Breakfast

You could see this photo and take it at face value.

Observe the angelic child eating her wholesome breakfast: whole-grain french toast, fresh oranges, raisins, a modicum of syrup, and milk.

Or, you could sense the impending doom in this well-planned scenario.  In which case, if your toddler glasses are adjusted correctly, you'd see the following:

It turns out this meal had a nutritional value of approximately zero. And the baby had a pretty good range on her sugar-enhanced throwing arm.

These Little Bruises

I learned a phrase in high school French class that means "these little bruises."  I remember it as les onges petits.  Except it turns out that may not mean what I think it means (or anything at all) because I can't verify it online.

And anything not verifiable online is definitely not true.

The phrase came to mind a few weeks ago while I held my crying baby. I had just firmly told her no to something little- a small misbehavior, a whiny demand, or some such little thing.  It was the kind of misdemeanor I can't even remember anymore just a short time later.  I won't soon forget, though, the way her eyes cast down, her lip turned out, and those small, almond-shaped eyes filled with tears.

One look told me she wasn't playing the situation, she was genuinely hurt.  My baby is an old soul, and a kind one, and she is gentle to those around her and sensitive to small things.  I love that about her.

I'm relatively new to motherhood, but not to discipline or judgment calls.  Consistency comes easily to me and Cabbage, and our child and our animals live with clear behavioral boundaries and expectations they are taught to understand.  With my child, as with the many horses in my life, I've learned that sometimes I need to hold the line, force the issue, and harden my heart.  Winning the small battles means there may not be a war.  Other times, though, there is no battle; there is just another soul to understand, another method that should be tried, another path that would be better to take.

These judgment calls are never-ending with my baby, and they're the most important ones I've ever made.  I want to be her parent, her guide, and eventually her friend.  I need to be her disciplinarian, her rule-setter, and her enforcer.  I don't want her to someday face an addiction, a bad relationship, or a dangerous situation without knowing what she can do and to whom she can turn.  And yes, I think all these little daily interactions absolutely lay the foundation for those larger life decisions.

I weigh all those things every time I make a decision affecting her, and I do my best to make them mindfully.  That's why I looked down at Beep, her tears spilling over, and my breath caught in my throat.  I picked her up, held her close, and soothed her.  I didn't need to make my point that time, I needed to love her sensitive, generous, big, wide-open heart. 

"Les onges petits?" I asked her.  These little bruises?

"Yeah," she sniffed in her little voice.

"I love you, Baby.  Hold Mama." 

Date-Filled Oatmeal Cookies

Let's make cookies.  Whaddya say?

These are old-school cookies.  They were my grandmother's recipe, and to this day they're my dad's favorite.  They require rolling out, and making filling, so compared to drop cookies they take a little more time... but the end result is so worth it.

That's something my grandma was good at: waiting for things to unfold.  From my memories, limited to the first 9 years of my life before she died, she was good, and kind, and loving, and incredibly patient. 

When she smiled, the world lit up.  When she hugged me, and said "There's my girl," I knew I was the most special, most loved, most cherished child in the world.

When I asked her how much she weighed, and she gently said "You don't ask a lady her weight," I inferred there was a difference between a woman and a lady, and categorized Grandma as a lady of the highest order.  I never asked her again.

My mother was just 30, and I was only a baby, when her own parents were killed by a drunk driver.  Mom loved her mother-in-law so much that she allowed her to help fill the void left by their sudden passing.  And Grandma helped my mother, and even "adopted" my mom's sister and called her "my other daughter-in-law."  I wonder how Grandma knew what to do to give them comfort in that dark time.  She did, though.  That's the kind of person Grandma was. 

She was Midwestern to her core; she loved well, worked hard, laughed often, put her family first, lived simply.  As my dad says of his mother "She was so smart.  God, she was smart."  She raised four outstanding children who proved capable of great successes.

My mom sometimes tells the story of confiding in my grandma that she was concerned about my quiet ways, which was an oddity in a family as boisterous as ours.  As Mom tells the story, Grandma just smiled and said "Still waters run deep."

I still send thanks to her for that.  My mom was able to give me the space to become myself, and I have to think she did so gracefully in some small measure because she was reassured by Grandma's simple phrase, revealing an insight as broad and high as the sky.

And just in case you were wondering how that turned out, now I am as loud and outspoken as everyone else in my family.  Almost.  Nobody beats my sister. (Love you, Bhan!) 

For all those reasons, and a million more, Cabbage and I named our beautiful daughter after my grandmother.  

I'm not asking you to name your firstborn after her, but I do think you should make her cookies.  You'll definitely enjoy their flaky pastry crust and the sweet, soft fruit filling.  They're made of simple ingredients, take a little time and care, and come from the files of one of the best people to ever grace this green earth.  

Listen.  Just make 'em next time you want something akin to an oatmeal cookie. 

They're Date-Filled Oatmeal Cookies.

Start your filling on the stove, then measure some dry ingredients, mix, and cut in butter.

  

Roll out and cut the dough...

Spoon on the filling and cover with more dough.

Bake and eat.

Hmmm... that wasn't so hard after all. And they're so, so good.  They'd have to be, or they wouldn't have been Grandma's.
 
Date-Filled Oatmeal Cookies
Filling
1 c sugar
1 pkg pitted dates, chopped
1 c water
1/2 t vanilla

Crust
1 1/2 c flour
1 1/2 c quick-cook oatmeal
1 c brown sugar
1 t baking soda
2 t baking powder
4 T milk
3/4 c shortening

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a small saucepan, combine sugar, dates and water.  Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until thickened and dates are very soft.  Cool and add vanilla. 

Meanwhile, make cookie dough by mixing dry ingredients, then add milk.  Using a pastry cutter or two knives, cut in shortening.  Add more milk 1 T at a time to get a workable dough.  On a heavily floured board, roll dough flat.  Flour the rim of a cookie cutter or drinking glass and cut dough into circles.  Using a floured spatula, carefully move dough to an ungreased cookie sheet.  Place 1 t of filling on each circle of dough, fold over (for a round cookie, place another circle of dough on top).  Using your fingers or a fork, press the sides to seal.

Bake for 10-12 minutes.  Allow to cool several minutes on the cookie sheet, then remove to a cooling rack. Enjoy!

Last Time at Nanny's

Since Cabbage's mother died almost four years ago, we've spent countless hours managing her house.  She built the home and would have never wanted it to become a burden, but it definitely had become just that.

Initially, it was just a matter of locating paperwork, taking over the maintenance, and learning to juggle multiple properties.  We leased it, listed it with realtors, and took good care of the house.  Over the years we painted, landscaped, cleaned carpeting and rugs, installed things and spent many hours sorting, packing and removing personal belongings.

Hours spent there came directly out of our own homemaking time.  The better that home looked, the worse ours did.  Mow the lawn at that house?  Ours was neglected.  Scrub the floors and porches?  Leave ours dirty.  Spend a weekend painting?  Our guest room will not be redone.

My mother-in-law would never have wanted it that way.  Although she loved her home and carefully chose her furniture and artwork, she was not particularly concerned with material belongings.  They were just things to her.  We tried to keep her perspective every time we needed to make the house less personal or  part with some of her things.

Finally, though, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.  We received a good offer to buy the house, and accepted it.  Hallelujah.  We notified our renter, passed inspection, and this weekend it was time to close the long chapter on her home.

Yesterday we moved furniture and artwork, southwestern pottery, took several loads to Goodwill.  We also loaded- slowly and carefully- a potted cactus that's practically a family member.  [surely one of you have a family plant- an aloe from a grandmother or a cutting from an aunt... right?] 

 

(My mother-in-law died before we were married, and long before Beep was born.  She won't remember this home, but we'll make sure she knows all about Nanny.)

Before we started this morning, it was time for one last breakfast at Nanny's house.

Then, Beep helped me clean.  We scrubbed bathrooms, washed windows, checked for cobwebs, and mopped floors. 

And I do mean we.  Check out Cinderella.

Eventually Cabbage left to haul a load home and took the baby so she could nap in the truck. 

I was alone in the house, cleaning and scrubbing like mad.  Racing the clock, and subduing the memories.  I loved Nanny and I spent a fair amount of time in that house with her. 

I mopped the front hall where Nanny and I first met, and she hugged me and said "Oh, isn't she pretty?" to everyone else, thereby setting the tenor for my welcome into their family.  I vacuumed the couch Nanny rested on and remembered how her bruised hand reached out to stroke Georgie's head.  I wiped out the freezer I once stocked with homemade chicken soup, trying to tempt her failing appetite.  I dusted the table we carved pumpkins at while Nanny convalesced a few feet away.  Cleaning the baseboards in the bedroom, I remembered this was where we all- adults, kids, Georgie- piled in to watch a movie together in the darkness.  I wiped the window, and on the other side was the back porch where we all ate a happy Fourth of July lunch.

I stopped and surveyed my work.  Finally, every inch was spotless and shining. 

Time to go.  I wrote a note to the new owners.

Welcome Home.
The woman who built this house was called Nanny.  She loved this house, and we hope you do too.  Best wishes. 
 

Rockin' Baby Boots

 I may have stumbled across the best pair of baby boots yet. 



If loving these is wrong, I don't wanna be right.

I found these Circo Galaxy boots at Target for $14.99.  $14.99!  I bought tan, but they also come in pink and dark brown.  As my mom would say, you can't go too far wrong for that price.  If you have (or know) a little girl, buying these may just make you a hero. 

What's that I hear?  Angels singing?  And Christmas lists being crossed off?

I thought so.

They're incredibly cute, inexpensive and will go with everything this fall and winter.  Beep also scores them high on comfort and stepability.  Stepability rates any awkward baby footfall patterns due to weird engineering, random straps, or stiff soles.

She devised this rating scale herself.

Jimmy Choos they're not, and there's no room for shoe snobbery here.  These Circo boots have a suede-ish exterior.  On the synthetics family tree, I'm assuming suede-a-like is a close cousin to pleather???  They're also fully lined with a fluffy faux fur.  So basically they're fake everything, and the only thing fer-reeeealllll about them is the cute factor.  Call me cheap, call me practical, call me indiscriminate.  (Just call me: 867-5309.) 

The boots also have a zipper up the inside which makes them a cinch to get on and off.  That would explain why Beep favors unzipping them and handing them to me while driving. 

We've been getting a ton of use out of them.  They look awesome with tiny jeans stacked on top, paired with itty bitty shorts and a sweater, or- my fave- over leggings.

Have a great Friday.

[I received no compensation for this post, and all opinions are mine.  But you already knew that, because this is my corner of the blogosphere and nobody puts Baby in a corner.]

Brew City Barbecue

My brother, Owen, received a double dose of mechanical know-how.  How do I know he got exactly two helpings?  He is in possession of his genetic share and mine.

Me: Failed at assembling a portable saddle rack each and every time I was confronted with it.  For a year.
VS.
Owen: Builds huge sets in a ginormous theater.

Me: Burned my finger lifting the top off my crockpot.
VS.
Owen: Welds complicated stuff out of metal.

Me: Challenged by changing a flat tire.
VS.
Owen: Converted a box truck to a portable scuba diving shop-slash-camper with solar panels.

When we were young, Owen wasn't satisfied with leaving our swingset alone.  It had to be bigger, better, more complex.  He'd rearrange our swings until every hook held a swing of different length.  It took a little guidance to use, but when the swinger was appropriately draped over each of the six(ish) swings, it was a pretty good- if somewhat awkward- ride.

He now channels his innate abilities to his highly technical job and also to his hobbies which include scuba diving in caves (nothankyou), feeding many people delicious barbecue and enlightening the world with his homebrewed beer.

It's all a good excuse to tinker with stuff.

Exhibit A:  Owen's smoker

It is not only fully portable (as demonstrated by Owen pushing it above), but also features a keg, working sink and seaworthy mounted beer holders.

We wouldn't want to chance spilling any of that delicious homebrewed beer.

He's fully prepared for any eventuality- hanging out, taking his show on the road to friends' houses, or going camping.

So Owen's got the market cornered on gadgetry and know-how.  This is how it's always been, and I may be a little bitter about it. 

I'll take it up with him just as soon as I can figure out how to free myself from my mangled saddle rack and change my car tire with my crispy finger.

Surely I'm not the only one with a sibling much more innately talented at a necessary life skill.....? 

Anyone???  Bueller?

*hello?*

Ok, then.

This Piece of Ground

We drove down the wide mowed track, making our way onto the ranch built by Molly and Troy.  This is where Cabbage sowed his childhood memories. 

He fell in love with ranching and agriculture here, and in these fields he made choices as a child that would shape the man he became.  I remembered his stories about life as a boy on the ranch, and little things illustrating his childhood...  Like how he learned to fall asleep riding on the floor of a tractor as it trundled back and forth.  He just wanted to be part of it all, even when he was too small to help and too sleepy to stay awake.

We drove to his part of the ranch.  This is a literally a piece of family history, green fields bordered by trees with the endless blue sky stretching above. 

He wasn't always here, but he moved onto the ranch when he retired from his crazy, road tripping, thrill-seeking career as a professional bullrider.

On this piece of ground, he made a home with his first wife and his first little girl.  She's the one Beep calls "Sissah."  Cabbage has always called her Hammer.  Although he loves many things about her, the nickname came from his pure admiration for her toughness and grit.

I have never been to this ranch or his piece of it, so until now this place has been just a series of stories and a few photos.  I'm so glad to see this tract of family land, to bring our baby here for the first time and to experience it all for the first time alongside Hammer and Cabbage. 

(Yes, we all have real names... and no, we don't go by them at home.  We do actually call each other the nicknames on this blog.)

For years I've heard about this tree.  Cabbage planted it many years ago, and its growth has measured the progress of his life.  When he moved off the ranch years ago to move to Hawaii, it was still a sapling.  On the day we visited with the girls, it stood taller than he expected.  It was large enough to drive under, and it shielded the car while Beep slept in its shade. 

There's not much here now.  A couple of outbuildings, lines of fencing, and ranching artifacts.

Hammer remembers her time here as a little girl.  Now, she's nearly grown and looking at colleges.  She is taller than me, blonde and beautiful, focused on school and a long-dreamed of career.  Cabbage is so proud of her and the person she's becoming. 

As I looked at all the open fields, I wished Sam was there.  He'd love it.  Plus, it's only a few miles to HITS.  Hooray for SHOW TIME!!!

I watched Cabbage wander a short distance, and I wondered what memories flooded his mind.  Was it thoughts of working alongside his grandad or his uncle?  Drinking beers with his friend Wayne?  Picking up the pieces after closing the chapter on a failed marriage... and desperately missing Hammer?

Or, since Cabbage is nothing if not a man's man...  Maybe he wasn't flooded with emotion.  Maybe he just enjoyed being there, surveying a landscape as familiar to him as his own hands, and feeling the warm fall sun.  He's good at living in the moment.

Hi yourself.

Eventually, it was time to go.  We drove back down the drive, and Cabbage got out to close the gate.

Until next time.

Owen and Me: Then and Now

Besides going to a 100th birthday party for Molly last weekend, we also spent time with my brother and sister-in-law who coincidentally live in the same area.  Isn't it convenient when serendipity allows for savings on plane tickets and vacation time?

Naturally, when I saw a favorite family picture on the fridge in Owen and Liz's house, I proposed a recreation.  Owen was game.  He always is. 

It's one of his most endearing qualities.

Owen and me then:



And our attempt to recreate the pose 3+ decades later, in front of a different stove, and (sadly) without a Tonka hard hat.

Not bad:

Better:

Best:

In the final analysis, today we may rate a little lower on the cuteness scale, but that is the way of the world with aging and it gives us reason to reproduce. 

I'll also note that Owen has a hairier face (in case you didn't notice) but happily that is not the case with me.  Whatever happened to the natural bounce and soft curls in my hair?  I demand them back.  Where do I send my complaint?

One thing I wouldn't change is having Owen for my brother.  Especially when he's willing to pose for Then and Now.   

Centenarian

We spent last weekend in Florida on a whirlwind trip to Cabbage's family home.  It was our first trip there together, and the first time I had ever been to their family ranch.  It seems strange that we hadn't gone before, but our life, other trips, and more pressing responsibilities had taken priority. 

Last weekend, we put aside the other trappings of everyday life and went for Molly.  Molly is Cabbage's step-grandmother, and she was turning 100 years old.

One hundred years of life bears some reflection.  A full century of laughter and love, learning and loss, faith and work and hope and struggles.

Molly still lives on their family ranch, and in her daily life she is surrounded by her children and their children.  Her home is the same one she shared with Cabbage's grandfather, who passed away three years ago in his late nineties.

She was born in Florida, married and had six children.  After her first husband died, she married Cabbage's grandfather, Troy, in 1953 and became a stepmother to his three children, including Cabbage's mother.  Molly and Troy also had a son of their own who is just ten years older than Cabbage.  

Molly and Troy worked hard all their lives.  Beyond raising their ten children, together they built a family ranch that covered a square mile. 

It's located just miles from the very heart of Ocala, which is serious horse country.  Fabulous horse farms, green fields, huge moss-covered trees, and arenas and tracks at every turn.  Color me happy. 

This ranch is no slouch, either, and I was really amazed by the endless, verdant fields.  The main ranch road is simply a mowed track, fenced on both sides, cutting through fertile grass and groves of trees.

Troy and Molly's ranch was a working ranch, and they raised award-winning Santa Gertrudis cattle.  At times they farmed oats, watermelon, and other crops.  Molly's life was not easy, and her days were filled with all the many chores that comprise the realities of being a mother, wife, and rancher.

In her younger years, she was particularly shaped by her life, her workload, and the times.  At her birthday party, Cabbage recounted a story while talking with his uncle and me.

Cabbage: I was about five years old and I was in the cow pens helping Grandaddy work cows.  I got kicked in the back of the head and it split my scalp open a little.  I still have an X-shaped scar there today.  The next morning, when I woke up I had bled on my pillowcase.  I got my butt chewed out by Molly for bleeding all over the pillow.

Me: You got chewed out for bleeding on the pillowcase?  Because you were five and your head was split open?  By their cow?

Cabbage: Yep.  [laughing]  She was tough.

My experiences with Molly weren't quite of the same tenor.  When Cabbage and I were married she sent a very sweet card, and when Beep was born she sent the baby a gift.  It was a thrill to receive her gestures and grandmotherly comments, written in her shaky hand and carried across the miles.

On Saturday we found the birthday girl sitting in the middle of a lovely party as her loved ones circulated and hugged each other.  She was truly the queen.

Everyone took turns visiting with Molly at the head table. 

Cabbage has such a nice way with people.  I think this was about the time she was tired of smiling for photos and confided to him "I can't make this face all day." 

Beep wore her best hand-smocked dress and shoved her face full of snacks.  (She did have an unfortunate episode of caffeine crashing at the exact time we sat down to eat... more on that later.  Let me assure you there was some excellent parenting involved in the lead-up to that situation.)   

I'm happy to say Beep gave Molly a hug. 

Although she's frail, Molly is still sharp.  We'd never met before but she knew exactly who I was, and who Beep was.  She hugged and kissed everyone, spoke on the microphone, ate a big piece of cake, and generally defied her age and all odds. 

It was such a pleasure to meet Grandma Molly and understand a little more about her, the family she helped create, and the man I married.



Bhan Goes

My sister is a little weird.  A bit wacky.  And to contribute to the wackiness, and share it with the wack-lacking world, she has her own blog.  In fact, she has two blogs and they're quite amusing.
Bhan Goes
Dinner Over Easy

I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who finds her funny, although I think our shared genetic material and childhood commonalities may skew me in her favor.  You can take your pick- Nature or Nurture- but please don't argue with me about the veracity of Evolutionism, fortheloveofgod, or the fact that Texas could NOT actually be self-sufficient after seceding from the United States.  I mean really.  It's called infrastructure, people!  Learn about it!

But I digress.

So we sisters both laugh very loudly and this is a trait we come by honestly, as evidenced by our membership in our family's Loud Laughers Society.  We laugh loudly at Saturday Night Live, and we find the world in general (and ourselves in particular) funny.

Just today I told her she looked like The Church Lady.  Apparently she agreed, because she posted comparative photos of herself.

Well isn't that special?