I'll Be Second

March 21st is World Down Syndrome Day (you know, because of 3/21), so there is no way I could pass up the chance to weigh in on this.  Outside of the fact that I've treated kids with this diagnosis over the past fourteen or so years, one of my all-time favorite people on Earth is a part of the DS family.  His name is Aaron, and he was born to one of my very best friends (a Saucy Six member, actually) four months before Emry, so he has literally been one of our crew since his initial little fluttery heartbeats.
Did we see him coming?
No.
Could we imagine life without him?
Absolutely not.

He is funny and smart, destructive and tireless, stubborn and loving all bundled into a fiery, adorable package of four-year-old boy.  And every time he points, exclaiming, "Gecka!" while lunging towards my hug, he melts my heart......which he totally knows and uses to his advantage when needed.

Aaron, like all children, loves to play and run and get his way.  His laugh is infectious, his smile is beautiful, and his frown a sad little sight.
He dances to any music, any time, any place.
He sings his favorite songs.
He loves Mickey Mouse.
He adores his sisters, his friends and his family.
He is impatient with difficult tasks, situations or people.
He gets cranky when he is tired or hungry.
He doesn't like vegetables.
He thinks his mommy is funny.
He throws toys or sand or food or tantrums, when we wish he wouldn't.
He knows his alphabet and his numbers to 25.
He distributes hugs or hits, depending on his mood.

So far, he sounds just like my three kids.  How about yours?

In the future, as he gets older, he will:

• continue growing
• go to school
• learn to read
• develop new skills
• get a job
• move out of his parents' house
• make new friends
• date

Again, sound familiar?  I did all those things....so did my friends......so will my kids.

Aaron, and the other people around us with DS, have an extra 21st chromosome.  If anything, they've got us all beat in the genetic information realm, as opposed to lacking anything.  This addition results in DS and the complications associated with it.  They may face health issues.  They may have to undergo surgeries.  They develop at a slower pace than their peers, and require a little more help to achieve their goals and learn new skills.

Ok.

So.....some of us need a little help from our friends.  The Beatles did.  No one had a problem with that.

And, interestingly, we learn a lot from those who are different than us.  We learn to slow down, and truly look at the world around us, often through a different lens than the one we normally wear.  We learn to have patience for our fellow humans, and maybe a little for ourselves.  We learn that love is unconditional, and flexible, and immeasurable.  We learn that beauty comes in unlimited forms, and is found in places we never thought to look.  We learn that things we thought we were scary aren't so bad once we become informed, because fear is in the unknown.

We learn that young children are often our best teachers when it comes to embracing their friends, and we should encourage that trait as they grow.

The other day, we were driving (as usual, because all I do when I'm not working is chauffeur people around) and my kids began a conversation about birthdays and friends, etc.  Emry, who is always looking for ways not to be the baby in the group, began listing her friends and asking about their birthdays.  Naturally, Aaron was at the top of the list.  Our conversation went something like this:

Em: "Mommy, Aaron is four, like me."

Me:: "Yes, he is."

Em: "When I turn five, he'll still be four.  He's the baby."

Me: "Well, no, he won't be.  Aaron's birthday is before yours, so he'll already be five when you turn five."

Em: "But, I'll be five first, right?"
Me: "No.  He'll be five first.  You'll still be four."

Em: "I'll still be four?" (I could see the wheels turning - foiled in her quest for non-baby of the group)

Me: "Yes."

Em: "Aaron's first?"

Me: "Yes, ma'am."

(silent pause - during which I am frantically trying to come up with an age appropriate explanation as to why Aaron doesn't have to be the baby and she does, in case she starts arguing her case with examples of why she must be the older one, given that she speaks more clearly or runs faster or jumps higher or......)

Em: "Okay, Mommy.  Then I'll be second!"

And just like that, she flashed me the hugest grin, and we were on to the next topic.  It was that simple. Because Aaron is her friend, and this time, he gets to be first.  

Because when she sees him, she sees her buddy, her lifelong pal, who generally is a pretty good sport about letting her boss him around.

Because friends take turns, and celebrate each other's accomplishments.

Because different is just fine.  Period.

When I look at these two together, I'm reminded of the childhood song, Jesus Loves the Little Children.  And I think we can change the lyrics just a tad for today.

Jesus loves the little children

All the children of the world

Extra chromosomes or not

We praise Him with all we've got

Jesus loves the little children of the world.

Solidarity, sisters.  Happy World Down Syndrome Day!

Cowboys and Parking Lots

One of my major goals in life is to never go grocery shopping with all three of my children.  I know....many of you may be thinking I should aim a little higher with my accomplishment expectations.  Those of you with multiple young children feel my pain though.  I mean, it's not that I don't love my kids or want to spend time with them.  And it's not that I am so overwhelmed by grocery shopping that I can't handle the thought of taking my kids....even though it takes three times as long....and involves pinching and shoving and threats (from a veritable treasure trove of combinations - we're like a math word problem. "If a mommy and her three kids all go to the store, and each person threatens bodily harm to the other in every possible variation of combinations, how many threats can you calculate?').  And, while we're at it, it costs more.  Because at some point, even the most strict and determined of mothers runs out of steam in the "no, we are not buying that" argument.  Plus, they tag team.  They alternate between acting like if we don't buy everything in sight the world will end, to getting incredibly excited over basic foods (like it's shocking I am providing sustenance for them), to distracting me with someone's meltdown or crazy social interactions so that the others can sneak goods into the basket.  I feel kind of bad, like I am painting a picture of crazy hooligans at the store.  Well, if the shoe fits....

By the time we get to checkout on these days, I am beyond frazzled and ready to trade them in for extra organic anything.  Our latest experience was no exception.  At some point, you just get past your capacity to handle to amount of sensory overload this adventure involves.  Drew thinks he can bag groceries.....and while it is precious that he wants to help, eggs cost too much to get smushed before you even leave the store.  Luke loves to pull Emry out of the cart, despite my (semi) strict she-rides-in-the-cart rule, and then after about ten seconds he forgets he promised to carry her around or be in charge of her in any capacity, so she runs wild throughout the front of the store...and she's small for her age.  Which means a) no one can see her before they trip over her or run her down with a cart and b) people without children or who have forgotten what it's like to have them glare at me as I try to pay for groceries/catch her/stop the smushing/shout for Luke to get back here/make it out alive.

This particular trip, we finally made our way out of the store into the light (I actually thought it might be dark outside, even though we arrived during the day....that's how eternal the session inside felt) and started across the parking lot.  It was one of those days that no one offered to help us with carry out, whether because they were too busy or the staff decided they don't make enough to put up with any more of our crazy.  As I pushed the cart (so full of groceries I couldn't see over the top....or steer....or fit Emry in the front, so she was hanging half on the cart and half on my leg), we made our way across the parking lot.  We walked all the way down the row.  All the way....as in, no more cars were parked there.  I stopped, looked around, shrugged, and started back the opposite way.  Calling out to the boys who were pummeling each other, I laboriously turned the Titanic of our cart and made my way up the next aisle, having overshot our suburban. We walked to the front of that row and then stopped.  Hmm....Weird.  No sight of our car here, either.  I shouted at the boys again, clutched Emry to my side, and repeated this pattern two or three more times.

Crap.  Either our car had been stolen, or I had totally lost my bearings and forgotten where I parked it. Which never happens.  Ever.  Unless, apparently, my mental capacity is completely over its limit by the multi-tasking it takes to shop with three children.  The boys began to grumble about walking in circles, and right as I opened my mouth with a less-than-motherly comeback, I heard a voice booming across the parking lot.

"Ma'am?  Ma'am!"

The retort died on my lips as I froze.  I really hate being called ma'am, for one.  And second, there is nothing quite like the humiliation of having a stranger witness your inability to find your vehicle in a parking lot.  I turned to locate the source of the voice, cringing.  Then I stood, mouth hanging open, as I found him.

Across the way and halfway down the lot, standing on top of his truck was a tried and true cowboy.  I kid you not.  He had it all - jeans with a giant belt buckle, handle bar mustache and enormous white hat.  Holy cow.  He was waving his arm above his head while shouting out to us, "It seems you're having some trouble finding your vehicle!"

Does it?  Does it seem so?  What was your first clue, my friend?  And how can you be sure I'm not just pushing this giant cart up and down every row out here as a new form of exercise?  It's all the rage in mommy resistance training.

Of course, I said none of those things, just nodded and smiled as my boys yelled out that we drive a tan suburban and couldn't find it anywhere, even though we'd been walking forever.  Do you know how many tan suburbans are in an HEB parking lot at any given time?  A lot.  We walked up to at least four of them.  Each time, my western friend would call out, "No?  Not that one?  Ok, well, I see another on over there!" and my boys would swear up and down that now they remembered!  It was that way!

Seriously...how big can one parking lot be???  This is not a large city we live in!  Finally, tired and cranky and frustrated, I turned on my heel, ignored the cowboy, left my sons arguing, headed in the opposite direction.....and found my car in about five seconds.  Emry, whom I had plopped on top of the mountain of goods, stayed wisely quite, slapping me a silent high five.  My sons came pounding up to the car as I finished loading the back with our wares.  We all piled in, and I took a deep breath, made myself eat humble pie, and drove over to the cowboy to thank him for his help (his trailer had four-wheelers, not horses, but still....hat + mustache = cowboy)

As we pulled out of the parking lot, Luke turned to me and said, "Mom, you have got to blog this.  I'm not even kidding."  You got it, kiddo.....

Reflecting on it later, and finally able to laugh about it, I was as surprised as I was amused at what a general life lesson this is.  Some days, some seasons, in life get so confusing and bogged down and turned around, that we lose our way and find ourselves confounded in situations that shouldn't be overwhelming or difficult.....but they are.  We get lost, unable to see where we want to go and/or how to get there.  These are times when we need someone with a different view, a perspective that is outside the immediate problem, to step in and offer a helping hand or opinion or angle to help us find our way.  We need to reach out to the ones who love us and are eager to forge ahead onto the right path with us.....or at least help us find it.  They are a blessing, these helping hands and eyes.  We should embrace their assistance and aspects.

And we should know as well, that there are times when they can't do it for us.  When all the well-meaning advice and vision and outlook and support in the world aren't going to do the trick.  Those times, and we all have them, we need to have the strength and wisdom and fortitude to smile and say thank you, then turn on our heel and head towards the destination meant for us....and us alone.  Because in the end, no one can do it for us.  No one can bring us to our destination, our destiny.  That leg of the journey is personal.

We did make one more stop, the kids and I, and went out to eat at a little cafe in celebration of surviving our shopping soiree (and because it took so long we were all starving).  Luke is in a phase in which he insists on only speaking in a British accent when we go places, so he ordered his food and interacted with the girl at the counter in this manner.....to be honest, his accent is amazing and totally believable....until you hear his mother speak.  My accent is not remotely related to anything British.  Which would be confusing enough in and of itself, but Drew (who is in a Spanish immersion program) decided he was in the mood to interact in Spanish, so my conversations with him took place totally in Spanish.  He even spoke to his siblings and the server this way.  And Emry.....well, what can I say?  Half the time she sounded like a valley girl (this is her new thing) and the other half she used made up words in what she feels is her own version of Spanish.

I've decided to view us as international....or cosmopolitan....as opposed to just really strange.  If nothing else, we amused the staff there to no end.  And perhaps contributed to the message of birth control.

Solidarity, sisters.  Sometimes you need a guy in a white hat....or with an accent.

The Thing About Grief

It's been eight months.
There are days, moments, milestones in our lives that brand us or change us or impact us in a permanent way.  Whether happy or sad, they are the times that leave their permanent mark upon us, and propel us into a new chapter in our life's story.  And as with all chapters, they deserve to be written.

So, here goes......

It's been eight months - time enough to avoid, deny, or hide.  That season is over.  Now it's time to share.

My Medzma, my grandmother, was one of the absolute most important, influential, amazing, beautiful, strong, incredible influences on my life.  She was, literally, a force of nature and explosion of life, love and energy.  No one who met her could ever forget her.  Anyone who spoke with her was instantly mesmerized.  Everyone who knew her was completely in love with her, none more than I, her first grandchild and namesake.
She was unafraid.
She was unconventional.
She was uncontrollable.
And she was unapologetic.

It's taken me this long to write about her, not only because my heart was completely broken by her death, but because she was such a funny, interesting, charming individual that I wanted to be able to communicate that in writing and to do her vivacity and sense of humor justice.

I'm not sure that is possible.

How do you explain such a colorful character?  How do you adequately paint a picture of an indomitable spirit?  Someone who lived a fascinating and tragic history - born in Jerusalem, child of Armenian immigrants, survivors of genocide; raised by a widow as the middle of six siblings (one who died in infancy); married at age 17 by arranged marriage; bore her daughter a year later only to be widowed a year afterward; survivor of the Israeli Wars; who moved across the globe to Uruguay and found a way to start a new way of life and bring her family over.  She worked and fought and saved, making sure her daughter had the best possible education - so much so, that the child in question went on to become a Fullbright scholar and was sent to the U.S. on an exchange program upon completion of her time at University.

She had big plans for her child, my Medzma did, and those plans did not include an American upstart with a Texas address.  So, when my mother began to write home about a guy, Medzma hopped on a plane, flew to Texas, and made her presence known.  When the young man in question invariably asked for his love's hand in marriage, her answer was, "No", followed by a promise to live with him permanently should he dare to persist and marry her daughter.
He thought she was kidding, tossing out empty threats.
She wasn't.
She moved in after the honeymoon, and remained a member of their household for the next forty years.
A lady always keeps her word.....

My entire life, I was blessed to have her near.  She was my third parent, the one who often advocated, begged and cajoled on my behalf when I really needed extra fire power for that fabulous outfit or concert tickets or special treat.  She interceded to decrease sentencing for grounding or punishment.  She was a fabulous negotiator, and lived for fun, laughter and adventure.  No wonder I was so in love with her.
She was tireless in her work ethic and drive to improve, both herself and those around her.
She had a sharp tongue and soft hugs.
She had a wicked sense of humor and quick wit.
She had a temper (oh, did she...), yet she forgave and forgot with enviable ease.

The stunts and stories of her youth were the stuff of legends.  One in particular resurfaces often in our family.  I won't share too many details here, since I am unsure of the statute of limitations on international incidents.  Let me just say it involved matches, a Jewish national monument, and a headline in the then-Palenstinian papers.
Her poor mother.
And my poor mother, sandwiched between us.  Bless her heart, truly.  We must have totally exhausted her with our drama and clashes and shenanigans.
Boy, did we have fun.

I wish she was still here.  The fact that she lived a full, beautiful, long life is wonderful and I celebrate that.  It doesn't make me miss her any less, though.  I'd give anything to hear her laugh one more time.  Her laugh was one of my favorite sounds on this earth.  Life isn't the same without it.

And that's the thing....the thing about grief.
The thing about grief, I have discovered, is that it always involves a one-two punch.  First, there's a loss.  It can be anything, really, anything dear to your heart - a person, a relationship, your health, a dream, an expectation, a job, a house, a vision of what should have been....the list goes on.  Regardless, it's someone (all too often) or something that is taken from us in some manner.  And from that point on, our life is changed forever.  The second punch comes in the form of change, because nothing is ever the same and our path veers away from what it was, whether we want it to or not.  We don't get to choose the what, when, where, or how.  And somehow, we are expected to move forward,  because life stands still for no one.

Sometimes, the changes brought about by a loss are good ones.  Sometimes, we see the big picture, grow from the circumstance, and get our "a-ha" moment in this lifetime.  We can embrace our new path with gratitude and forge ahead into the new opportunity afforded us.

Sometimes, but not always.
The loss of a loved one rarely leads us to react with gratitude.  Because that loss, that grief, just plain hurts.

The thing about this grief is, it's part of the human experience.  There are no exceptions.  We all live through it.  We all take part in it.  No one gets a free pass.  Jesus himself grieved during His time on Earth.  We know that when his friend, Lazarus, died Jesus wept (John 11:35, the shortest verse in the Bible).  He knew, knew without a shadow of a doubt what was waiting for Lazarus in Heaven, and how much better off he would be.  Yet, He still grieved.  Because loss hurts, and change is hard on our hearts.  It makes us uncomfortable, and resets our definition of "life as we know it".

We adjust and we grow because we don't have a choice.  There is an ebb and flow, and no matter how slowly or quickly we make our way through the stages, eventually finding our way to acceptance, our hearts beat a little differently going forward.

We spread Medzma's ashes on what would have been her 86th birthday, releasing them into the river we all love as our final overt act of closure.  As we sat on the banks together, a family bonded by love and grief, we sang one of her favorite hymns.
   When peace like a river attendeth my way,
   When sorrows like sea billows roll.
   Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
   It is well
   It is well with my soul.

She lived that, had that ability to find peace and joy and unassailable faith in all of the circumstances and seasons of her incredible and eventful life.  For us to do any less would be an insult to her legacy, a stubborn refusal to learn from her.....and would infuriate her beyond the telling.

Because the thing about grief is, it teaches us.  It molds us and grows us.  It pulls us along, and once we step out from under its crushing weight, it reminds us step into the sunlight where we belong.  After all, this is also a part of the human experience, isn't it?  The tentative beginnings of hope and healing that bloom when we least expect them to.  The reminders that we are loved and a part of something bigger than ourselves.  The ability to smile through our tears, and find joy through our pain.  Our hearts demand it, with their resiliency and need to laugh and love again.  Our memories pave the way, easing us back on course.

I sat that day, on the banks of the river, and I saw my Medzma there.  Not in the dust that floated away, returning her earthly body to the physical cycle of our planet, but in my mind, surfacing as one of my favorite mental and literal pictures of her.

She had come to visit, shortly after my wedding, and somehow convinced Gregg that she absolutely needed to sit out in the middle of the river.  Bless his athletic and insanely coordinated heart, my eager new husband carried her across the rapids on his back (how they made it without incident is amazing, and was a sight to behold, especially given how hard she was laughing the whole time) to set her up for sun a water fun.  There she lounged, happy and carefree, as tubers floated by, toasting her at the top of their lungs with various beverages held high.

That woman knew how to have fun.
She created it everywhere she went.

And that is how I see her.
I see her dancing and singing in a multitude of settings.
I see her holding each of my babies, tirelessly rocking them as infants.
I see her, head flung back, hands wildly gesticulating as she tells a story with dramatic flair.
I see her laughing until her tears run when something struck her as truly funny.
I see her hugging, kissing, loving and living, fiercely and fully focused on every moment under the sun.

She lived.  In her 85 years on this planet, she lived at a higher capacity then most of us could in two lifetimes.  Her life was a gift and a blessing, and she knew it with every fiber of her being.  She never lost sight of her self as a child of God, and she never lost clarity of her faith.

I miss her.....some days to the point of physical pain.  That's the thing about grief.  I celebrate her every time I talk about her, or write about her, or laugh or cry at her memory.  That's the thing about the gift.  May I always know the importance of both.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2, 4
There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven:
   a time to be born and a time to die
   a time to weep and a time to laugh
   a time to mourn and a time to dance.

Solidarity, sisters.  May God bless you in each of your seasons.

Randomness

So, I have had several different blog posts floating around in my head for the past two weeks, and since none of them have made it to the screen yet, you can see how on top of things I am right now.  And considering that my focus word for 2014 is "discipline", that does not bode well for the new year.  Which, let's be honest, any of you who read my last post are thinking, "Why would this surprise us?", since I melted down over dinner hijinks the second day of the year.  Sigh.

However, I got an e-mail that I thought might be a sign I should post something tonight, since it was a notification that someone had left a comment on the Girlfriends and Gummy Bears post.  And I was really excited about this because no one comments on my posts.  Ever.  I have been told, by those who love me, that this is because it is impossible to do so and takes forever and you have to keep typing in the secret word to be sure you're not a robot or automated techno-thingy that sends random e-mails or whatever out at intervals.  I know, my technological knowledge is astounding.  I don't understand how any of this works, really.  And I really don't understand why a robot would want to read this anyway - I hear they have minimal comedic appreciation.

I digress.  So, I opened up the e-mail to see what "anonymous" thought of vintage River Chick humor, and this is what I read:

 Another note is the fact that ports won't admit non-operable vehicle for roll-on 
roll-off transport service. If people are within the car along,
they will feel the tension inside air and you'll all wish you shipped the 
automobile instead. It's critical that when somebody realized the requirement 
to send his car, she must start gaining car shipping quotes as soon as he is able 
to.

It then had a link to a corvette site.  Now, we have established that I am no cyber-genius, but even I know that is not a genuine comment - it doesn't even mention gummy bears....or girlfriends.  And is probably an automated message (someone might want to tell Blogger that while the humans can't figure out how to comment, the machines are doing just fine getting past the squiggly secret word).  Or possibly has something to do with hacking - which I am paranoid about right now because someone in India and another someone in Buenos Aires keep trying to use my e-mail account.  And my Twitter account got hacked and is sending out "amazing business opportunity" links to people on my list (if you are one of those, I apologize.  Don't open it).  The joke is on the hacker, though.  I mean, really....I don't understand Twitter, either, so haven't been on there in 6-7 months.  Plus, if you know me at all, you would never for one second believe that I know anything about business, either, much less try to guide another person in an opportunity in that realm.  So, ha!

To continue my rage against the machines....I keep getting strange pop-ups.  Like the one I just saw, boldly and in all caps proclaiming the must-see Spanish video - tag line stating that if you don't know Spanish, you have got to watch this video!  What?  Why?  If it's in Spanish, how is someone who doesn't know the language supposed to get any of the amazingness out of it?  Aye de mi......

I warned you....random.  In my defense, I am very tired.  And a little anxious.  Gregg flew out for his National Sales Meeting today, and we all know how well things go for me when he leaves town.  I am approaching this week with a fair dose of trepidation.

On the up side, there should be plenty of fodder for my next (better written and much more interesting) post.

Solidarity, sisters.  A little random never hurt anyone.

This Beer Tastes Like Fish....

It's 2014.  Seriously....how on Earth did that happen?  And why aren't we all driving flying cars?  Because, honestly, when I think back to my (much) younger years, that's one of the features I always assumed would be a part of this time period.  I know I'm not alone on this one.  Anyone?  Anyone?

There are so many amazing posts and articles out right now about starting off the new year, renewed and refreshed, ready for the challenges and growth this affords us.  You can read a plethora of literature addressing how to find your mojo this time around, or challenging you to change/grow/etc.  There are "Best of" posts, inspirational reads, reflective memoirs and political statements.  You name it, they've written it.  I, myself, have started a New Year's blog three separate times, determined to join the ranks of writers aspiring to wow the masses with a fresh take on kicking things off.  I have favorite holiday memories, nostalgic moments from 2013, goals and dreams for 2014, and verses and/or quotes galore.

And I've decided not to write about any of them.  This decision was not born out of any particular design or statement of rebellion or creative genius....I'm not that profound today.  I simply don't have it in me to pull that off right now - mostly because it would not be at all authentic, since it's the second day of the year, and I already had an epic meltdown.  This evening.  At dinner.

It's embarrassing. 

Yet, in the interest of full disclosure and my continued commitment to entertain (or horrify) those of you who bless me by reading these posts, I will share my fallacy with you, my friends.

We had a great holiday.  It was crazy and beautiful and blessed, as are most events in my life.  The kids are enjoying being home.  I didn't work last week, and Gregg is off this week, which takes away the stress of child care as I go back to work, but also makes me a little bitter because every morning I have left for work this week everyone else is still sleeping.

I am also having technology frustration (which is nothing new, machines hate me) because my brand new I-phone 5 decided to stop working.  As in, weird screen issues leading up to the stupid thing not turning on at all.  I've had it 20 days.  Which is par for the course, since Sprint doesn't let you change them out without hassle or without the chance of getting a refurbished phone after 14 days.  Fabulous.  I'll be jousting with the Apple people tomorrow.  Wish me luck.

So, I got home from work, completely discombobulated from the phone issue, which is no one's fault (at least no one I live with).  The house wasn't totally trashed.......to be fair, the boys had cleaned their room and Gregg had cleaned the shed (insert wry face here).  Everyone came running to greet me, Emry wearing pajama pants and no shirt (seriously?).  We got dinner pulled together, got kids to the table after only five final calls and started a relatively pleasant meal....which somehow morphed into meal time at a frat house.  We went from crazy stories with incredibly loud interruptions to "that's what she said" cracks (even in my horror I couldn't stop laughing) to random name calling to belching rounds to milk spitting to a final culmination in a jalapeno pepper eating competition that ended with Drew freaking out and vomiting into my hands.  He then burst into tears, flapping his arms with an intensity that could have conceivably resulted in him taking flight.

And that is when I lost it.  The combination of my exhaustion, non-readiness to be back at work, phone frustration, lack of schedule and manners and anything remotely resembling civilized behavior that comes at the end of being out of school/routine for a prolonged period of time all served to push me completely over the edge and into crazy mommy land.  I believe my parting shot as I stormed out of the kitchen was, "I do not like any of you people!"  Say it with me, peeps.  Mother of the Year.

I then proceeded to bawl my eyes out for approximately ten minutes. 

Some days I truly pity my family.

However, the storm passed quickly, and we got (relatively) organized and cleaned up, did a popcorn and movie night (organic popcorn, popped in an air popper and topped with fresh rolled butter - I work very hard to balance back into the good mommy arena after my less than stellar moments), and everyone was good to go.  Gregg brought us each a beer, patted me on the knee and we settled on the couch to watch football and eat our popcorn.  I took a sip of my beer, and then turned to Gregg with this gem, "This beer tastes like fish."  Without flinching or looking away from the game, he answered, "I'm sorry to hear that."

I love this man's ability to adapt.

I'm also impressed with the way he is becoming almost unshockable with my randomness. 

2014 is off to an incredible start.

Solidarity, sisters.  Every day is a new slate.

A-Hunting We Will Go

Thanksgiving is always a fun time of year.  I love the holidays.  I love fall weather.  I love family gatherings, drama and all.  I love to cook.  So, all-in-all, this is win-win for me.  This year, I had the added excitement of embarking on a new adventure – I joined the annual Thanksgiving hunting trip.  Ta-da!

I’ve wanted to attempt deer hunting of the past couple of years (which, I realize, seems in direct opposition to my whole “I’m not a country girl” thing).  I like learning new things and I’m curious as to what all the hoopla is about.  Between toddler duty and letting kids have their first hunts, I usually end up giving my spot up so that someone else can have a shot (no pun intended).  So, this year’s plan was “Mommy gets a deer first.”  Don’t hold your breath, kids.

We headed west Friday – locked, loaded and ready to go.  As we drove in our unusually quiet car (we only took Luke and the dog, the two younger kids stayed behind), my mind drifted back to my very first deer/hunting interaction.  It was with Gregg, of course, and even though it was almost 20 years ago, I remember it with complete clarity.

We were freshmen in college and had been “hanging out” without actually dating (whatever that means) for a month or two.  Translated, we were still too cool to make the first move, but in the “I need to impress you with how irresistible I am without seeming to try too hard.”  Gregg was at his house which, to my mind, was out in the country and I had driven over to “hang out”.  We couldn’t go anywhere because he had shot a deer the evening before and it was hanging, field dressed and ready for him to skin and quarter.  Naturally, the super cute Wonder Girl persona I had on prompted me to volunteer my services and help him out.  After all, I was dissecting stuff in Anatomy lab and pre-med at the time.  How hard could this be?  Plus, for all my insect and scorpion phobias, mammals don’t make me squeamish.  And Gregg looked as impressed as he did shocked, so I figured it was the right call.

We went out to where the deer hung and, after a brief “Aw” moment, I was ready to work.  Gregg gave me a small handsaw and began reciting very specific instructions, which I actually listened to without allowing myself to become overly distracted by his dimples.  Or height.  Or muscles.  Did I mention he was really cute?  Believe it or not, in my younger years I was way more focused and less ADD than I am now.  I blame the children for this loss.

Sorry, I digress.  See?

Instructions: I was the quarterer, which meant I had to remove the legs (if you are squeamish, you might want to skip ahead.  If you are a card carrying member of PETA, just skip this post altogether).  The method I was to use was to saw halfway through the leg tendons, twist and pull, popping the leg off.  Repeat for each leg.  Gregg did the actual skinning, and was impressively fast at it, until he got to the head/neck area – he then sat on the ground to work with more precision (obviously, the deer was hanging upside down).  This was my cue to being working on the hind legs.  Show time.

As I stated earlier, this was a time in my life where I was incredible focused and very literal.  I took the handsaw and sawed through exactly 50% of the tendons with extreme specificity.  I may have even counted fibers.  So far, so good.  I carefully set the saw down, reached up for the leg, twisted and pulled.  Nothing.  Hmmm…. I twisted a little further and pulled with more force.  Still nothing.  I repeated the twist/pull pattern with incremental increased in force for three to four more repetitions.  No luck.  The leg was still firmly attached.  And now, it was personal.  I had followed the instructions without deviating and it was not working!  My type A personality could not reconcile this, so my mounting frustration may have made me a tad irrational.  I totally forgot about Gregg’s presence and became completely immersed in the woman versus deer leg struggle for dominance.  Bring it on, Bambi! 

I raised all the way up onto my tiptoes, wrapped both arms around the leg and turned by body so that the deer leg was positioned under my armpit and lodged against my ribs.  I placed my foot on the tree trunk, braced myself and started yanking with my arms and body while shoving my foot against the tree for leverage.  I’m pretty sure there was grunting.  I struggled this way for a good minute, hair whipping wildly, tree bark flying, the deer swinging back and forth…..until, breathless, I realized two things: 1) this deer leg was no closer to coming off at this point than it had been before I started  and 2) Gregg was still there.  Oops.

I slowly turned my head and lowered by eyes to where he sat; stunned, silent, not moving at all, as he stared with wide eyes at this lunatic hanging on his deer.  After an awkward pause, he asked, “What are you doing?”  There really was no dignified response here, so I simply said, “Twist and pull.”  We learned that day that I was not strong enough for the 50% rule.  My success rate with the other legs went up exponentially when I sawed through 90% of tendons instead.

Fast forward 20 years to the inaugural deer hunt.  We dropped off our stuff, our son (he had no interest in going since the focus was not on him…so much for supporting mom) and the dog, then headed to the deer lease.  I was quite excited, although more than a little apprehensive, truth be told.  I’ve mentioned on more than one occasion how busy we are, and the holiday season only magnifies this.  While I have shot guns before, it’s been a while.  With our crazy schedules, we never got around to letting me practice with the gun I was actually going to use.  So, when Gregg handed me the gun and said, “Ok, babe, rack a round and put one in the chamber”, I just sat there blinking at him.  I mean, really.  Who did he think he was talking to?  Where would I have just picked that up as a skill?  This was probably his first red flag.  The second came as we were exiting the vehicle and I turned to him with the question, “So, where exactly am I supposed to shoot the deer?”  Nothing like waiting until the last possible minute to get the basic info.

We set off on foot across the lease and I felt pretty official in my black wool beanie, five layers of clothes, Gregg’s camouflage vest and a rifle in my hands.  This particular lease doesn’t have many deer blinds and we got there after the feeders had gone off, so the plan was to walk the lease and find deer to hunt.  This requires stealth, a good eye and quick response time.  Perfect.  Sounds like a recipe for success to me.

Still, I had promised to be a good sport and follow directions, so I squared my shoulders and soldiered on.  Gregg led the way and we wound our way throughout the terrain.  It was really fun.  There was wildlife everywhere – we saw jackrabbits and hawks and foxes, and there was a veritable cacophony of birdsong.  It was so great to spend time, just the two of us, enjoying nature and fresh air.  I almost forgot we were stalking deer.  Almost…..the gun wasn’t exactly light.  At intervals, Gregg would turn to me and do the two fingers at his eyes, then at me, then out at the clearing.  I would nod and look around dutifully.  He would motion to get down.  I would duck and squat.  He also did a whole bunch of other signs that made no sense to me whatsoever and I couldn’t begin to guess at their meaning.  I just kept nodding.  He seemed so excited to communicate in that way, I didn’t have the heart to burst his bubble.

As the sun began to set, we became resigned to the fact that this trip was unlikely to garner the result we had hoped for.  We began walking back towards the suburban.  All of a sudden, Gregg started flapping and pointing wildly while squatting and motioning for me to do the same.  Okay!  Okay!  I got it.  He duck walked/ran over to me, put his chin on my head and began speaking under his breath.  I thought this was a great trick, by the way.  I know, focus on the point.  He had spotted a doe in the field across from us.  Sweet!  I turned to look where he was pointing.  Nothing.  He pointed again.  Nothing.  Again.  Nothing.  What the heck was he looking at?  I mean, the man can’t find his keys when they are six inches from his face, but he can spot a partially hidden deer at 200 yards?  Amazing.  He told me to sneak along the fence line past the bushes and I should be able to see her.  Ok.  Got it.  So I slowly began this awkward lunge/squatty/duck-like walk along the fence while hiding behind the bushes.  It was ridiculous, and only the thought he would kill me if my laughter scared off the invisible deer kept my giggles at bay.  I stopped and stared.  Nothing.  He pantomimed for me too look through the rifle scope to see if it would help.  Oh, my gosh.  Have you ever tried to do that?  How does anyone see through those things?  Gregg snuck over to me, told me not to put the scope so close to my face or the recoil would give me a black eye (great, something new to worry about) and said there were now two deer.  Because I was having so much trouble seeing them, he would go around and see if he could “encourage” them to come towards me by making a little noise on the other side.  What?!?  Then, he says, “This means you’re gonna have to be quick, Bec.  I mean, no hesitation.  Click off the safety, get your gun up, aim and shoot.  They’ll be moving, so you won’t have much time.”  Again, who does he think he’s taking to?  It’s like he’s never met me!

Needless to say, this plan was not successful.  I never did see the deer.  Maybe they flew away…..Christmas is coming, you know.

Walking back to the car, we each spent a few minutes in our own thoughts.  I was a little disappointed, but still had fun.  My main concern was that this had to be the most boring hunting trip ever for my husband.  The man has been hunting his whole life.  He doesn’t even rifle hunt anymore, preferring to use a bow.  Here I am, candidate for Clueless Hunting Rookie of the Year.  Gregg was walking a few feet in front of me.  He paused for a moment, turned, and said, “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you came along.  It means so much to me that I got to share this part of me with you.”  I felt my heart lift, my spine straighten and my face break into a smile.  As he turned to keep walking, he casually tossed out, “And you look really cute in that hat.”

Victory!!  As far as I’m concerned, this hunt was a roaring success.  Any time a good-looking outdoorsman walks away from an empty-handed hunt with a smile and a compliment, noticing your adorableness, you’ve won the day.  After all, isn’t that what we all hunt for throughout our lives?  Aren’t we tracking down people and occasions that leave us feeling loved and beautiful and worthwhile?  We equip ourselves as best we can to find positive reinforcement and incidences and individuals that are able to celebrate our relationships over our results and our company over our competence.  This is why community and friendship and sisterhood are so important.  We were created to embrace them…and each other.  So celebrate that every opportunity you get, and even stepping outside of your comfort zone won’t feel so daunting, I guarantee it.  It makes a cold, intimidating hunt much more enjoyable.

Getting to watch him walk around in front of me in his jeans was just a bonus.

Solidarity, sisters.  The hunt is on…..

Tradition....tradition!

This past week or so, I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of tradition.  Probably because we have been immersed in the phenomenon known as Wurstfest….and the holidays are looming over us.  Before we go any further, for those of you not from around these parts, let me elaborate on the ‘fest.  Wurstfest is an amazing local festival that occurs every year at this time.  It’s a crazy, fun, popular, tradition-soaked German ten-day salute to sausage and giant party, complete with carnival rides and polka music galore.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Ten days of sausage, sauerkraut, polka and lots of beer.  The men who are the host/workforce of this event bear the coveted title of “Opa” (getting in to this group is no small feat….it may actually be easier to join the CIA), and attend/party/run the show dressed in lederhosen, vests and hats.  Their wives/girlfriends don dirndls for the week.  Locals and tourists alike show up in droves, many also dressed in variations of traditional German garb.  Others simply choose creative expression in the form of crazy hats, hair pieces or random costumes – I personally witnessed a guy dressed as Miley Cyrus (not from her modest period) and someone who was quite convincing as Thor.  To my knowledge, neither of these two are of German heritage…..

                                                                 Gregg and I doing our "wurst"

People line up throughout the grounds, eager for potato pancakes, sausage-on-a-stick and deep fried everything.  Tents are crammed full of revelers ages eight weeks to eighty years, bouncing and clapping along to polka music.  You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Bon Jovi’s “Livin on a Prayer” done as a polka.  Or “Amazing Grace” performed through a beer bong.  I kid you not.  It’s epic.

So, the idea of tradition has been swirling around in my head.  Naturally, the soundtrack to Fiddler on the Roof has also been stuck in there.  If you have no idea about this reference, stop reading now and get to googling or you-tubing.  Seriously, people.  Make sure to check out both “Tradition” and “If I Were a Rich Man”.  Typing this out has just cemented those songs in my brain for at least two more weeks.  The irony is not lost on me that I am singing songs from a Jewish musical while discussing a German festival……

Rabbit trail over…back to traditions.  I started musing over traditions – those well-known and those particular to our family or background.  It’s still football season, so my mind wandered down a predictable path, since when I think football + tradition I get images of Texas A & M.  No, I am not an Aggie.  But even I know what a custom-heavy university that is.  Plus, I visited once.  Several of my good friends at PT school received their undergraduate degrees there, and one of them had a younger brother attending, so we took a road trip in order that I find fulfillment in the whole Aggie experience, complete with midnight yell practice.  Let me talk you through this experience as a non-Aggie, because it’s very different than the experience of the natives.

 First, I didn’t know any of the cheers/yells/whatever you call them…..and everyone else did.  Not knowing the yells = not knowing the movements, which means I didn’t know when to shift my weight.  As a result, I fell off the bleachers approximately every ten seconds…..for 30 minutes.  Who needs step aerobics?  Second, this group is very particular about who is allowed to point their fingers in which direction while whooping.  I got so confused by the rules (and nervous to invoke whatever curse inappropriate pointing brings), that I basically just clasped my hands together the whole time.  Finally, and perhaps the most fun part that no one warned me about, is what happens after the last yell ends.  I’m standing there, hands clasped, falling off the bleachers in a regular rhythm, when all stadium lights go out.  Silence and darkness ensued.  WTH?  No warning, nothing to prepare me.  About the time I began to suspect some sort of alien abduction, people start flicking on lighters.  Seriously? 

Let’s pause for a moment, lest any younger readers become confused.  I am aware that, at this point, no one uses lighters any more.  I know you all have cell phones for this purpose.  Believe it or not, we did not have cell phones at that time.  And the few that were in existence didn’t have lighter apps…..or LED screens…..or a battery charge that lasted longer than two hours…..and they were too heavy to hold for any length of time.  Stop laughing.

So, lighters.  This added to my already heightened sense of unease on many levels.  It’s weird.  Only certain people were lighting them.  And I believe I’ve mentioned my hair situation on more than one occasion.  This much hair with that many open flames is not a good plan.  Ever.

We have many unusual traditions in my family as well, seeing as how we are a blend of Armenian, American and German.  Holidays are the best, because we have a veritable smorgasborg of fun activities.  We do everything from the hidden pickle in the Christmas tree to Santa letters/cookies/gifts to Christmas Eve pajamas to the Wishbone Game (it’s an Armenian thing). We join our friends and family at Wassailfest and the tree lighting. 

As funny and out there as many of these stories and traditions are, I love them all.  Okay, not all, but I love the concept.  They give us a sense of history and belonging and self.  They remind us of events and emotions past, and give us a feeling of continuity.  It’s comforting to know that generations to come will experience the things we experienced and share the memories of our youth.  I look forward to seeing my children do the things I did as a child, and to watch their anticipation of the activities they love the most.  The memories and stories entertain us, and help us cope on the holidays when we miss those who are no longer with us. 

So, share, please.  I’d love to hear about your favorite (or least favorite or weirdest or most memorable) traditions.  Leave me a comment…..I’m always looking for a good laugh or great idea.  You can even tell me your favorite song or scene from Fiddler, if you’d like.

On the other hand….

Solidarity, sisters.  Tradition flows through us all.