A certain cousin, scholar, theologian, and #1 blog fan who turns a year older today has been nagging me to write about his birthday for a year. And besides the fact that I don't love doing the expected, it takes away the specialness of writing about him out of the overflow of love and friendship I have for him if he's asking for it. But I think we can all safely acknowledge that this little blog o'mine will have breathed its last by this time next year--it's been sputtering out its dying gasps for months now--so if I don't write about CST1BF today, it won't happen . . . and imagine the sort of tragedy that would occur if I never acknowledged my five favorite things about my #1 fan . . .
So today, under duress, I present the birthday blog of CST1BF. As I've been preparing it's come to my notice that many of the things I like most about Mac are traits that I also possess, so it may turn out in the process that I talk about myself more often than normal--but you're long since accustomed to me talking about myself too much--and that's something Mac would do too if he were writing this, so it seems too fitting to edit out.
So in some sort of order, here are the five best things about CST1BF:
5. He loves lists and favorites. A conversation with Mac often includes discussions about best books or movies or characters or super heroes or foods, and I love (usually) to evaluate what I like and why and attempt to rank them. It's one of the reason I do five favorites on birthdays, and probably the reason that Mac is so anxious for me to quantify my regard for him through this list. It's something we have in common that can spark lengthy conversations and healthy debate, and it's also a great way to get to know someone or learn more about them. For all that Mac claims that he'd rather talk than listen, these top five list conversations that he orchestrates end up being a brilliant way to get other people to engage in conversation, and I'd say at least part of the time, he's paying attention and learning about other people--and not just waiting for his next turn to talk.
4. The other day Shane lost a set of keys in the watch pocket of his jeans--lost them so completely that he retraced his steps to two previous locations to search for them before I made him empty his pockets completely to find the missing keys. When that happened, I called it a MacMac, who as I've mentioned tends to be a bit scattered, a trait she passed down to her son and to a certain blogging niece. Mac is disorganized, a bit careless, sometimes clumsy, and often seems physically like this barely controlled whirlwind, and most people reading the past few sentences are wondering where the nice favorite thing part is . . . but that's it. I love that he's kind of a mess because I'm a mess too. The fact that he still manages to function in most ways like a normal human despite these tendencies that we share gives me hope and makes me feel more normal when I'm wondering why simple tasks become so complicated in my hands. Misery loves company, so I'm glad I've got Mac to understand and sympathize when I'm at my MacMac-iest, and I hope that I can do the same for him.
3. In the past year, I've many more occasions than normal to hear Mac teach, so I've been reminded often how good he is at what he does. I'm ashamed to say that it's still sometimes surprising that my younger, former punk-kid cousin has serious theological chops, but he's great, often intellectually stimulating, challenging and still accessible. For someone like me who's been churched all her life--including four years of college-level Bible classes, it can sometimes seem like I'm hearing the same sermons and ideas over and over--and even when Mac's presenting something that I've heard before, his style has a way of engaging me anyway. That's a big deal to me, and I love him for it. And it makes me prouder than just about anything else he does.
2. Mac is hilarious (did you really expect me not to mention humor?), and not just because we are a lot alike. We do have similar senses of humor, but he is definitely more into shock value and skating the edge (or barreling over it) of inappropriate humor, and thanks to the previously mentioned clumsiness, he's a boundless source of physical comedy as well. He makes me laugh, and there's nothing wrong with that.
1. When I write these things it eventually always comes around to love . . . and my Mac tribute is no exception. Mac has a big, soft heart, and he shows it in how he treats his family and his friends and his students. He loves and values and cherishes. He spends time and gives great hugs and doesn't forget to say the words to express that love. And for all that and more, I love him right back.
Happy birthday, buddy. I hope I did you justice.
Showing posts with label birthdays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthdays. Show all posts
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
the rob-bob has a birthday
I think I mentioned last year around this time, that it's a busy birthday time in my family. My sister-in-law's birthday (which thus far remains unblogged--maybe next year, Susan) was last weekend. Yesterday we shared in the glory of Shane's birthday, today we celebrate my cousin Robyn (although we actually had her parties on Saturday and Sunday, today's her actual birthday), and on Thursday my moma and MacMac turn another year older. Thursday would also have been my Gramps's eighty-sixth birthday. We do a lot of celebrating at this time of year. Shane and Robyn's birthdays especially get smashed up around here, but thanks to my commitment to quality journalism, I will not be smashing up my favorite things about them, giving them each their very own, high coveted post here at the opinions. You're welcome.
Robyn is almost a year and a half older than me, but for as long as I can remember, that age difference has been completely insignificant (at least until I began to get some enjoyment from reminding her of her comparatively advanced age). We're both in the younger half of the grandkids and one of the natural pairs that seem to have materialized among us due to similarities in age and temperament. As kids we were usually not mature enough to play with the big girls, not willing to get beat up on enough to play with the big boys, and older and bossy enough to bend the little boys to our bidding. In my memory, it was a fairly perfect arrangement for us. As we've all aged, the big girls have come to accept us, the big boys stopped hitting, and the little boys are huge--but still bossable from time to time, and Robyn and I are still a natural pair, now more due to thirty years' experience being cousin-friends.
So to celebrate what is perhaps my longest-standing friendship, here are my five favorite things about Rob-Bob:
5. She keeps getting better with age. Probably most people do, but there aren't all that many people who I've watched do so across the span of their lives. Robyn is one that I have. I loved her and was her friend when she was younger and more selfish and more competitive and more rigid, and if she hadn't changed in those areas for the past twenty years, it wouldn't matter to me, so the fact that she keeps getting better and better is just a bonus. But it's also an often-inspiring lesson as I see her give generously and selflessly of her time and attention, as I see her devote herself to taking care of those she loves, as I see her heart grow. Robyn's always had a lot of strong opinions and ideas and words, and as she's become her grown-up self, she is the person I think of first when I think about people who live up to their talk. It's the thing that makes me want to be Robyn when I grow up.
4. Robyn loves our babies. From the time that the oldest great-grandchild was born thirteen years ago, she's been devoted to cuddling and playing and cherishing the little people in our family. And now that many of them are not-so-little anymore, she's still focused on knowing and loving and caring for them. If you quizzed her on the likes and dislikes and basic facts of their lives, she would ace it because she listens and cares about what they're saying to her. She has such a heart for our kids and the other kiddos she encounters in her life, and it's why they all love Rob-Bob. (And it's why nearly every picture of her I have also has a kid or two in it.)
3. Robyn speaks my language. It has been noted by people who encounter the two of us together that we can a bit difficult to understand. Part of that is the speed with which we communicate, a portion is the fact that we use a fair amount of obscure quotations from movies, books, and our shared history, but there's also a dash of the fact that we don't necessarily have to finish sentences or thoughts. Our family has its own short-hand of stories and oft-repeated phrases, and I have the same with most of my friends. Robyn is in that lucky overlapping category that she has both, which means that anything I might say to her (or she to me) is soaked in deeper meaning and memory and usually a healthy amount of hilarity. It makes for rich communication that is completely effortless, and it's awesome.
2. She makes me laugh. Have I ever mentioned the value I place on humor, imaginary readers? It's kind of a big deal with me. And Robyn and I have been laughing at the same things for the past thirty years. She can remember everything that's ever been funny in our lives together and brings out those references at just the right moment. Her storytelling rhythm is designed to maximize my laughter (and since she has a story for everything, there are lots of laughing opportunities). Last year when I included her (and CST#1F) as my second favorite things about MacMac, she commented that I would have to not be so serious if I ever wrote about her. We do funny. It's our default setting, and though I can't think of any humorous references to make here to actually fulfill her wish, I hope I'm adequately communicating the fact that Robyn and laughter and me are so tied up together. She may not know everything (there was a muffin, after all), but she knows just how to make me fall apart laughing.
1. I'm actually a little nervous that she's going to be unhappy that I didn't end on the funny thing, but I've got one more absolute favorite that's going to take the top spot. The adjective fierce could probably be applied to a few aspects of Robyn's personality. She's intense in several ways, but when I try to think of a defining characteristic, it is her fierce loyalty that comes to mind. She cherishes her friends and family, enveloping them in protectiveness and support and love. She makes time for people and knows the value of intentionally spending time them. She will take your side against outsiders, maybe even when you're wrong. She loves with all her heart and manages to show it in all the nicest ways. She's the best kind of friend and way better than I deserve.
Happy Birthday, Robyn! So glad you're mine.
Robyn is almost a year and a half older than me, but for as long as I can remember, that age difference has been completely insignificant (at least until I began to get some enjoyment from reminding her of her comparatively advanced age). We're both in the younger half of the grandkids and one of the natural pairs that seem to have materialized among us due to similarities in age and temperament. As kids we were usually not mature enough to play with the big girls, not willing to get beat up on enough to play with the big boys, and older and bossy enough to bend the little boys to our bidding. In my memory, it was a fairly perfect arrangement for us. As we've all aged, the big girls have come to accept us, the big boys stopped hitting, and the little boys are huge--but still bossable from time to time, and Robyn and I are still a natural pair, now more due to thirty years' experience being cousin-friends.
(in her natural habitat)
5. She keeps getting better with age. Probably most people do, but there aren't all that many people who I've watched do so across the span of their lives. Robyn is one that I have. I loved her and was her friend when she was younger and more selfish and more competitive and more rigid, and if she hadn't changed in those areas for the past twenty years, it wouldn't matter to me, so the fact that she keeps getting better and better is just a bonus. But it's also an often-inspiring lesson as I see her give generously and selflessly of her time and attention, as I see her devote herself to taking care of those she loves, as I see her heart grow. Robyn's always had a lot of strong opinions and ideas and words, and as she's become her grown-up self, she is the person I think of first when I think about people who live up to their talk. It's the thing that makes me want to be Robyn when I grow up.
4. Robyn loves our babies. From the time that the oldest great-grandchild was born thirteen years ago, she's been devoted to cuddling and playing and cherishing the little people in our family. And now that many of them are not-so-little anymore, she's still focused on knowing and loving and caring for them. If you quizzed her on the likes and dislikes and basic facts of their lives, she would ace it because she listens and cares about what they're saying to her. She has such a heart for our kids and the other kiddos she encounters in her life, and it's why they all love Rob-Bob. (And it's why nearly every picture of her I have also has a kid or two in it.)
3. Robyn speaks my language. It has been noted by people who encounter the two of us together that we can a bit difficult to understand. Part of that is the speed with which we communicate, a portion is the fact that we use a fair amount of obscure quotations from movies, books, and our shared history, but there's also a dash of the fact that we don't necessarily have to finish sentences or thoughts. Our family has its own short-hand of stories and oft-repeated phrases, and I have the same with most of my friends. Robyn is in that lucky overlapping category that she has both, which means that anything I might say to her (or she to me) is soaked in deeper meaning and memory and usually a healthy amount of hilarity. It makes for rich communication that is completely effortless, and it's awesome.
2. She makes me laugh. Have I ever mentioned the value I place on humor, imaginary readers? It's kind of a big deal with me. And Robyn and I have been laughing at the same things for the past thirty years. She can remember everything that's ever been funny in our lives together and brings out those references at just the right moment. Her storytelling rhythm is designed to maximize my laughter (and since she has a story for everything, there are lots of laughing opportunities). Last year when I included her (and CST#1F) as my second favorite things about MacMac, she commented that I would have to not be so serious if I ever wrote about her. We do funny. It's our default setting, and though I can't think of any humorous references to make here to actually fulfill her wish, I hope I'm adequately communicating the fact that Robyn and laughter and me are so tied up together. She may not know everything (there was a muffin, after all), but she knows just how to make me fall apart laughing.
(On her wedding day--and no, she didn't get married in flannel.)
1. I'm actually a little nervous that she's going to be unhappy that I didn't end on the funny thing, but I've got one more absolute favorite that's going to take the top spot. The adjective fierce could probably be applied to a few aspects of Robyn's personality. She's intense in several ways, but when I try to think of a defining characteristic, it is her fierce loyalty that comes to mind. She cherishes her friends and family, enveloping them in protectiveness and support and love. She makes time for people and knows the value of intentionally spending time them. She will take your side against outsiders, maybe even when you're wrong. She loves with all her heart and manages to show it in all the nicest ways. She's the best kind of friend and way better than I deserve.
Happy Birthday, Robyn! So glad you're mine.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
to my blogging brother
Shane warned me months ago that I needed to get an early start on this post, as it would be a lengthy hunt to find five likable things about him. To prove him wrong, I'm typing this sentence at twenty minutes past midnight on his actual birthday. I would have started an hour ago, but I read his most recent blog post, giggled until I could stop, and then traveled backwards through his archives reading comments on recent posts that I had missed along the way. I'm sometimes a terrible listener, and there are few conversational pairings that I can tolerate long-term, but the Mac and Shane duo, as long as they're staying away from too much comic book talk, is one of my favorites. Reading their interactions at Today I was Pompous is generally something to be savored, hence the lost hour of my night.
So today is Shane's birthday. Despite what you may have heard or observed about my higher maturity level, he's older than me--by a significant five and a half years. He's also the last of the sibs to get the five favorite birthday treatment. This should in no way reflect on my opinion of or affection for him. Last year his birthday got swallowed up in library renovations. This year, I'm not letting my tiny problems stand in the way of his birthday tribute (the way that I've let them stand in the way of responsible journalism for the past two weeks).
And so I present my five favorite things about one of my favorite brothers:
5. Shane is perhaps the most disciplined person I know. He's got rules about everything, and although many are of the quirky and arbitrary variety, all combined they end up making him a better person: kinder, smarter, more well-rounded, and for me, charmingly (but not boringly) predictable. I love that there are reasons behind all the things he does, and that he follows a plan. His rules make him consistent, which is a balm to my own erratic temperament. And his self-discipline gives me hope that we share enough genes that I might one day get my act together as much as he has.
4. I don't remember this about little-boy Shane, but apparently he was incredibly stingy in that stealthy way at which he excels. I have no reason to doubt this, but I can also emphatically declare that he has outgrown that trait. His generosity is a fountain, a trait (among many others) that he shares with my moma. I think part of Shane's generosity springs from the same place as hers: fierce love, protectiveness, an overwhelming amount of patience. But Shane is also perhaps the most contented soul I know, and it seems to me that he's taught himself contentment. He gives of himself, his means, and his time in countless selfless ways, without any expectation of repayment or acknowledgment. Last year when he won the $100,000, he gave away at least half of it. It boggles the mind, but it shouldn't because he was just as generous before he became a hundred thousandaire.
3. Although I typically like to downplay this trait (lest he think he can compete with me comedically), Shane is funny. Perhaps I've mentioned sometime previously that humor is a highly valued characteristic in my estimation. Lucky for both of us, he makes me laugh. Our senses of humor are immensely compatible, to the degree that we probably annoy those around us with how hilarious we find each other--and ourselves. Lately, Shane's been killing it, humor-wise, in his blogging. Seriously, if you're not reading him, imaginary readers, you should be. The only time he's funnier is when he's dissolved helplessly into giggles. It's a hoot.
2. Lest anyone think I have an unrealistic view of his many positive attributes, let me tell you about my favorite annoying thing about Shane. He's crazy-ridiculously stubborn. I don't want to keep using superlatives, but he's seriously the bull-headed champion in a family of unyielding individuals. I like his stubbornness for a couple of reasons. I think it helps manifest a few of those good traits I've already mentioned, like his discipline and generosity, and I think a certain amount of steadfastness is admirable. But his stubbornness can also be super-annoying and inconvenient and counter-productive, especially when it butts up against my own inflexible tendencies--and I still like it because it helps to remind me just how far from perfect Shane is.
1. Ultimately, Shane is an even-tempered version of me. We're just enough alike that we laugh at the same things, enjoy a lot of the same entertainments, and want to talk about the same topics, but we're not so alike that there's no surprise or debate or disagreement. It's a complimentary sort of relationship, the thing that makes us friends and not just siblings. Part of it is all that shared history and probably some shared genetic tendencies, and part of it is simple geography. We live in the same town, go to the same church, and see each other at least three times a week. Shane is my closest and best connection with family. He's my home when I'm not at home. He is my safety net, and I would have driven myself crazy and fallen apart and run back to Kentucky to live upstairs at my moma's a hundred times over in the past seven years if he wasn't here being my rock.
Shane's good people, and he deserves to have the very best birthday ever. And to help him celebrate, I'm going to force his indecisive soul into making a decision about where to eat supper. It's my favorite form of birthday torture. You're welcome, bro.
So today is Shane's birthday. Despite what you may have heard or observed about my higher maturity level, he's older than me--by a significant five and a half years. He's also the last of the sibs to get the five favorite birthday treatment. This should in no way reflect on my opinion of or affection for him. Last year his birthday got swallowed up in library renovations. This year, I'm not letting my tiny problems stand in the way of his birthday tribute (the way that I've let them stand in the way of responsible journalism for the past two weeks).
And so I present my five favorite things about one of my favorite brothers:
5. Shane is perhaps the most disciplined person I know. He's got rules about everything, and although many are of the quirky and arbitrary variety, all combined they end up making him a better person: kinder, smarter, more well-rounded, and for me, charmingly (but not boringly) predictable. I love that there are reasons behind all the things he does, and that he follows a plan. His rules make him consistent, which is a balm to my own erratic temperament. And his self-discipline gives me hope that we share enough genes that I might one day get my act together as much as he has.
4. I don't remember this about little-boy Shane, but apparently he was incredibly stingy in that stealthy way at which he excels. I have no reason to doubt this, but I can also emphatically declare that he has outgrown that trait. His generosity is a fountain, a trait (among many others) that he shares with my moma. I think part of Shane's generosity springs from the same place as hers: fierce love, protectiveness, an overwhelming amount of patience. But Shane is also perhaps the most contented soul I know, and it seems to me that he's taught himself contentment. He gives of himself, his means, and his time in countless selfless ways, without any expectation of repayment or acknowledgment. Last year when he won the $100,000, he gave away at least half of it. It boggles the mind, but it shouldn't because he was just as generous before he became a hundred thousandaire.
3. Although I typically like to downplay this trait (lest he think he can compete with me comedically), Shane is funny. Perhaps I've mentioned sometime previously that humor is a highly valued characteristic in my estimation. Lucky for both of us, he makes me laugh. Our senses of humor are immensely compatible, to the degree that we probably annoy those around us with how hilarious we find each other--and ourselves. Lately, Shane's been killing it, humor-wise, in his blogging. Seriously, if you're not reading him, imaginary readers, you should be. The only time he's funnier is when he's dissolved helplessly into giggles. It's a hoot.
2. Lest anyone think I have an unrealistic view of his many positive attributes, let me tell you about my favorite annoying thing about Shane. He's crazy-ridiculously stubborn. I don't want to keep using superlatives, but he's seriously the bull-headed champion in a family of unyielding individuals. I like his stubbornness for a couple of reasons. I think it helps manifest a few of those good traits I've already mentioned, like his discipline and generosity, and I think a certain amount of steadfastness is admirable. But his stubbornness can also be super-annoying and inconvenient and counter-productive, especially when it butts up against my own inflexible tendencies--and I still like it because it helps to remind me just how far from perfect Shane is.
1. Ultimately, Shane is an even-tempered version of me. We're just enough alike that we laugh at the same things, enjoy a lot of the same entertainments, and want to talk about the same topics, but we're not so alike that there's no surprise or debate or disagreement. It's a complimentary sort of relationship, the thing that makes us friends and not just siblings. Part of it is all that shared history and probably some shared genetic tendencies, and part of it is simple geography. We live in the same town, go to the same church, and see each other at least three times a week. Shane is my closest and best connection with family. He's my home when I'm not at home. He is my safety net, and I would have driven myself crazy and fallen apart and run back to Kentucky to live upstairs at my moma's a hundred times over in the past seven years if he wasn't here being my rock.
Shane's good people, and he deserves to have the very best birthday ever. And to help him celebrate, I'm going to force his indecisive soul into making a decision about where to eat supper. It's my favorite form of birthday torture. You're welcome, bro.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
happy birthday to the popster
The Popster turns another year older today. I don't think he's very sensitive about his age, so I'll go ahead and tell you that the particular age he's turning is old, old, very old. If I'm doing the math correctly, it's sixty-four, which is not such a bad age to be if you're a Beatles fan, but I'm not sure the Popster is (and yet I still find it in my heart to love him. So generous of me.)
Friends of the blog may have noticed that the birthdays of our young folk are events, causes for gatherings and cakes and pictures and presents and stuff. Sometimes that even happens for the not-so-young folks, but if there's a birthday in our family that gets neglected, it's the Popster's (and also Will's which is in two days, but he's just an in-law, so does it really even matter?). Part of the problem with the Popster is that he inconveniently has all his holidays in the summertime. Father's Day was just a few weeks ago (and I nearly always see him for Father's Day), and his anniversary (and my moma's obviously) was last Thursday, so we all spend the better parts of June and July trying to figure out multiple gifts for him, and it's a task. He's not the easiest man for which to shop (constructing sentences to avoid ending them in prepositions is so obnoxious). Plus it's hot in July which brings on lethargy. Plus we've just never made a habit of gathering for his birthday, and in my heart it's because he really doesn't care about making a big deal, but I'm rapidly becoming riddled with guilt as I type out our neglect of him. Sorry, Popster. I did at least give you your present already. That's love, right?
Before I mire myself in guilt any more (or make myself look any worse in your eyes with my bad daughtering), let me tell you my five favorite things about the Popster, so you can love him just as much as I do.
5. The Popster is a fixer. When he bought our new Kentucky home, it was old and neglected and the second floor was almost all open attic space, but my dad (with my moma's help) did all sorts of updating and building of upstairs rooms, and now it's a lovely home. He did all the work himself--except maybe the plumbing. He really doesn't like plumbing. He can also fix cars and give advice about washing machine hot-wiring over the phone. He's a careful and precise sort of guy in most ways, which makes him that much better at fixing things--or taking such good care of his stuff that it doesn't require fixing. I think he's probably where I got my own handiness. We are just two fixers fixing things, the Popster and I.
4. He doesn't show much emotion, does he? Okay, I have to explain that sentence with a story: a few years ago, the Popster was making some large purchase. I can't remember what it was now because that's not the funny part of the story. Maybe it was a boat or a lawn mower or a four-wheeler or something--the Popster likes vehicles. Anyway it was the sort of purchase that required the assistance of a salesman and some waiting around and talking. So the Popster had put in a significant amount of time with the little salesman but had not formed the sort of attachment that the salesman clearly would have liked. The Popster didn't want to trade secrets or braid hair or become facebook friends. He was keeping things professional. At some point during the sales transaction, the little salesman asked the Popster for his name for some sort of official form. My dad's last name is unusual and difficult to spell phonetically, so instead of saying his name, he showed him his checkbook cover which has his full name printed on it. The Popster's first name is David (though like three of his kids, he doesn't go by his first name), but though the little salesman got his name written down correctly, in further conversation he referred to my dad as Dale. The Popster chose not to correct him because it just didn't matter to him. Anyway, after using every trick in his little salesman arsenal, he still hadn't secured a long-term offer of friendship by the end of the sales transaction, so his parting words to the Popster were "You don't show much emotion, do you, Dale?" My dad answered with a simple "no" and departed forever robbing the little salesman of the joy of winning him over. We love this story in our family. At first glance, the Popster is the strong, silent type. In our family of emotionally overwrought, obnoxiously loud people, he's a man of few words, often solemn, and soft-spoken. Dale doesn't show much emotion, and sometimes that's just the sort of calming presence we need.
3. But the Popster is also witty and entertaining when he wants to be. It's entirely possible that he's funnier than me. He definitely has a higher funny comment to normal comment ratio. I think this is the secret to his comedic genius. My approach, by which I mean the nature of my psychosis, is to spew words nonstop. I throw every remotely amusing thought I have up against the wall to see what sticks. As a result, I speak volumes of unfunny things. But the Popster is more patient and subtle and in control of his tongue than I'll ever be, so he doesn't speak every thought in his head. But when he does speak: hilarity. And since, as faithful readers well know, I live for comedy, it's not wonder I'm the Popster's girl--even when he's making me the butt of his wit.
2. I've told my imaginary readers the story of how the Popster coined the term Handful to refer to his grandchildren after Thumb was born. What may or may not have come across in that story is that my dad is bursting with pride over his five grandkiddos. Before Pointer was born, I knew exactly the sort of Nana that my moma would become--it's very similar to the sort of moma she's always been except with more spoiling. I didn't know then about the Popster. He's cuddlier than he seems, but I didn't really see him as a baby guy or even really a little kid guy. He's spent the past twelve years showing me how wrong I was. He loves his Handful with intensity, a slavish devotion, and complete delight. He is calm and patient with them, and they are so drawn to their Popa as a result. He is a softer, sweeter man because they exist.
1. Last year I named my moma's decision to marry the Popster as my second favorite thing about her. And while the things I said about them as a couple and their choice to make our family bear repeating, the more amazing part of their story is him choosing us. We were not at our charming, most lovable best when the Popster walked into our lives. The four of us ranged in age from nine to sixteen. We were loud and ate a lot and sassed our mother and were all suffering more than we would admit from that whole broken home thing in ways from which we wouldn't recover for years. We were, in every quantifiable way, a bad bet, and even with the way that I idolize my moma, I'm not sure her many fine qualities could overcome all of our scary, needy ones. Except that he did choose us, all of us. And if he didn't love us all from the word go, then he at least faked it until he felt it, and he's spent the past twenty-one years being our dad in every single way that matters. I know some great dads who have fallen in love with their children as tiny newborns, who've raised them and taught them and nurtured them through their entire lives, and it takes a good man to do that. But men like my dad, who walk into the lives of half-grown, messed-up kids and change their world just by loving them and loving their moma . . . well, imaginary reader, I hope you'll understand why I think they're in a whole other class of fine men.
Happy Birthday to the best man I know. I don't say it nearly enough but thank you for for making my moma the happiest she's ever been, for seeing how much we needed you, and for completing our family.
Friends of the blog may have noticed that the birthdays of our young folk are events, causes for gatherings and cakes and pictures and presents and stuff. Sometimes that even happens for the not-so-young folks, but if there's a birthday in our family that gets neglected, it's the Popster's (and also Will's which is in two days, but he's just an in-law, so does it really even matter?). Part of the problem with the Popster is that he inconveniently has all his holidays in the summertime. Father's Day was just a few weeks ago (and I nearly always see him for Father's Day), and his anniversary (and my moma's obviously) was last Thursday, so we all spend the better parts of June and July trying to figure out multiple gifts for him, and it's a task. He's not the easiest man for which to shop (constructing sentences to avoid ending them in prepositions is so obnoxious). Plus it's hot in July which brings on lethargy. Plus we've just never made a habit of gathering for his birthday, and in my heart it's because he really doesn't care about making a big deal, but I'm rapidly becoming riddled with guilt as I type out our neglect of him. Sorry, Popster. I did at least give you your present already. That's love, right?
Before I mire myself in guilt any more (or make myself look any worse in your eyes with my bad daughtering), let me tell you my five favorite things about the Popster, so you can love him just as much as I do.
5. The Popster is a fixer. When he bought our new Kentucky home, it was old and neglected and the second floor was almost all open attic space, but my dad (with my moma's help) did all sorts of updating and building of upstairs rooms, and now it's a lovely home. He did all the work himself--except maybe the plumbing. He really doesn't like plumbing. He can also fix cars and give advice about washing machine hot-wiring over the phone. He's a careful and precise sort of guy in most ways, which makes him that much better at fixing things--or taking such good care of his stuff that it doesn't require fixing. I think he's probably where I got my own handiness. We are just two fixers fixing things, the Popster and I.
4. He doesn't show much emotion, does he? Okay, I have to explain that sentence with a story: a few years ago, the Popster was making some large purchase. I can't remember what it was now because that's not the funny part of the story. Maybe it was a boat or a lawn mower or a four-wheeler or something--the Popster likes vehicles. Anyway it was the sort of purchase that required the assistance of a salesman and some waiting around and talking. So the Popster had put in a significant amount of time with the little salesman but had not formed the sort of attachment that the salesman clearly would have liked. The Popster didn't want to trade secrets or braid hair or become facebook friends. He was keeping things professional. At some point during the sales transaction, the little salesman asked the Popster for his name for some sort of official form. My dad's last name is unusual and difficult to spell phonetically, so instead of saying his name, he showed him his checkbook cover which has his full name printed on it. The Popster's first name is David (though like three of his kids, he doesn't go by his first name), but though the little salesman got his name written down correctly, in further conversation he referred to my dad as Dale. The Popster chose not to correct him because it just didn't matter to him. Anyway, after using every trick in his little salesman arsenal, he still hadn't secured a long-term offer of friendship by the end of the sales transaction, so his parting words to the Popster were "You don't show much emotion, do you, Dale?" My dad answered with a simple "no" and departed forever robbing the little salesman of the joy of winning him over. We love this story in our family. At first glance, the Popster is the strong, silent type. In our family of emotionally overwrought, obnoxiously loud people, he's a man of few words, often solemn, and soft-spoken. Dale doesn't show much emotion, and sometimes that's just the sort of calming presence we need.
3. But the Popster is also witty and entertaining when he wants to be. It's entirely possible that he's funnier than me. He definitely has a higher funny comment to normal comment ratio. I think this is the secret to his comedic genius. My approach, by which I mean the nature of my psychosis, is to spew words nonstop. I throw every remotely amusing thought I have up against the wall to see what sticks. As a result, I speak volumes of unfunny things. But the Popster is more patient and subtle and in control of his tongue than I'll ever be, so he doesn't speak every thought in his head. But when he does speak: hilarity. And since, as faithful readers well know, I live for comedy, it's not wonder I'm the Popster's girl--even when he's making me the butt of his wit.
2. I've told my imaginary readers the story of how the Popster coined the term Handful to refer to his grandchildren after Thumb was born. What may or may not have come across in that story is that my dad is bursting with pride over his five grandkiddos. Before Pointer was born, I knew exactly the sort of Nana that my moma would become--it's very similar to the sort of moma she's always been except with more spoiling. I didn't know then about the Popster. He's cuddlier than he seems, but I didn't really see him as a baby guy or even really a little kid guy. He's spent the past twelve years showing me how wrong I was. He loves his Handful with intensity, a slavish devotion, and complete delight. He is calm and patient with them, and they are so drawn to their Popa as a result. He is a softer, sweeter man because they exist.
1. Last year I named my moma's decision to marry the Popster as my second favorite thing about her. And while the things I said about them as a couple and their choice to make our family bear repeating, the more amazing part of their story is him choosing us. We were not at our charming, most lovable best when the Popster walked into our lives. The four of us ranged in age from nine to sixteen. We were loud and ate a lot and sassed our mother and were all suffering more than we would admit from that whole broken home thing in ways from which we wouldn't recover for years. We were, in every quantifiable way, a bad bet, and even with the way that I idolize my moma, I'm not sure her many fine qualities could overcome all of our scary, needy ones. Except that he did choose us, all of us. And if he didn't love us all from the word go, then he at least faked it until he felt it, and he's spent the past twenty-one years being our dad in every single way that matters. I know some great dads who have fallen in love with their children as tiny newborns, who've raised them and taught them and nurtured them through their entire lives, and it takes a good man to do that. But men like my dad, who walk into the lives of half-grown, messed-up kids and change their world just by loving them and loving their moma . . . well, imaginary reader, I hope you'll understand why I think they're in a whole other class of fine men.
Happy Birthday to the best man I know. I don't say it nearly enough but thank you for for making my moma the happiest she's ever been, for seeing how much we needed you, and for completing our family.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
a birthday tribute
My Grams turned fifty the year I was born. It was a handy piece of information when I put that together as I never have to stop and wonder how old she was. As long as I can remember my own age, I can get to hers. Today she turns eighty-two (which means, incidentally, that I'm thirty-two in case that math was too much for you).
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Friends of blog will recall that I posted pictures from Grams's birthday last year but did not do the full five-favorite birthday treatment, a fact I intend to remedy today. I have found that it is sometimes tough to write the five-favorite posts about the youngsters in my life because I've known them such a relatively short amount of time and don't have years of shared experiences and memories from which to draw. The difficulty I find with writing these posts about the adult-types in my life is that there are too many stories and characteristics, too much specialness to narrow it down to five. So my favorites may be deliberately broad here so I can cram in as much Gramsy goodness as can be managed.
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5. Most every childhood memory of my Grams is wrapped up in food. Faithful readers may recall that I have occasionally mentioned my moma's cooking as the standard for all great things in the world, and she came by that skill quite honestly. My Grams is the mastermind behind the way I think Thanksgiving dinners ought to be. Her way of cooking a roast is the best way. And though my moma cooks many things just like her, there will always be dishes that are Grams's signature dishes, things that no one can do as well as her, like baked apples (which I foolishly didn't even eat as a kid) and banana pudding and chocolate pie and fudge and Sunday night popcorn. And cornbread--I could cheerfully eat her cornbread for every meal for the remainder of my life. The summer I was learning to cook like a grown-up, I tried to get Grams to give me her recipe for deviled eggs. The only exact measurement in the whole thing was the number of eggs to use--and even that was dependent upon how many people I wanted to feed. It was years before I worked up the nerve to try and make them on my own with a little of this and just enough of that. Of course, they were nothing like as good as hers, but I'm going to keep trying. I'm sure this idea came down the generations long before my Grams entered the picture, but she's the place where I learned it: feeding someone, taking the time to prepare meals and making sure that everyone gets their favorite is one of the purest expressions of love. Food fuels the body, but my Grams's food and the memories of meals at her table (even the card table in the utility room) will feed my heart for the rest of my life.![]()
4. My Grams is careful and meticulous. In this day and age, folks would look at her organized cabinets and storage solutions and mention OCD, but that's not really it. She has just always been a person who likes order and never had enough money to be wasteful. So she re-purposed things that others would discard and made lists on the insides of cabinet doors so you could find what you needed at a glance. In case you were wondering, while this is a trait that she passed down, I didn't get a drop of it. Michelle took all that organization and attention to detail and love of order and left me with the haphazard sloppiness of some other ancestor, but I can still admire the clever ways that Grams has of keeping things orderly. The one time she helped me move, I put her in charge of lining the kitchen cabinets and drawers. She measured and cut perfectly straight lines and lined everything with such precision that I was shamed into keeping everything orderly just to honor the lining. I can remember when she helped Michelle pack up to move one time, she had to clean the glass on every picture frame before wrapping it flawlessly in newspaper. The woman was born for detail work, and though I often lament that more of this trait didn't rub off on me, if I ever have a moment of ingenuity or an organizational breakthrough, it makes me feel like her girl.
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(The birthday cake I made her in 2006)
Friends of blog will recall that I posted pictures from Grams's birthday last year but did not do the full five-favorite birthday treatment, a fact I intend to remedy today. I have found that it is sometimes tough to write the five-favorite posts about the youngsters in my life because I've known them such a relatively short amount of time and don't have years of shared experiences and memories from which to draw. The difficulty I find with writing these posts about the adult-types in my life is that there are too many stories and characteristics, too much specialness to narrow it down to five. So my favorites may be deliberately broad here so I can cram in as much Gramsy goodness as can be managed.
(With the first 8 great-grands in 2007)
5. Most every childhood memory of my Grams is wrapped up in food. Faithful readers may recall that I have occasionally mentioned my moma's cooking as the standard for all great things in the world, and she came by that skill quite honestly. My Grams is the mastermind behind the way I think Thanksgiving dinners ought to be. Her way of cooking a roast is the best way. And though my moma cooks many things just like her, there will always be dishes that are Grams's signature dishes, things that no one can do as well as her, like baked apples (which I foolishly didn't even eat as a kid) and banana pudding and chocolate pie and fudge and Sunday night popcorn. And cornbread--I could cheerfully eat her cornbread for every meal for the remainder of my life. The summer I was learning to cook like a grown-up, I tried to get Grams to give me her recipe for deviled eggs. The only exact measurement in the whole thing was the number of eggs to use--and even that was dependent upon how many people I wanted to feed. It was years before I worked up the nerve to try and make them on my own with a little of this and just enough of that. Of course, they were nothing like as good as hers, but I'm going to keep trying. I'm sure this idea came down the generations long before my Grams entered the picture, but she's the place where I learned it: feeding someone, taking the time to prepare meals and making sure that everyone gets their favorite is one of the purest expressions of love. Food fuels the body, but my Grams's food and the memories of meals at her table (even the card table in the utility room) will feed my heart for the rest of my life.
(With my moma last summer)
4. My Grams is careful and meticulous. In this day and age, folks would look at her organized cabinets and storage solutions and mention OCD, but that's not really it. She has just always been a person who likes order and never had enough money to be wasteful. So she re-purposed things that others would discard and made lists on the insides of cabinet doors so you could find what you needed at a glance. In case you were wondering, while this is a trait that she passed down, I didn't get a drop of it. Michelle took all that organization and attention to detail and love of order and left me with the haphazard sloppiness of some other ancestor, but I can still admire the clever ways that Grams has of keeping things orderly. The one time she helped me move, I put her in charge of lining the kitchen cabinets and drawers. She measured and cut perfectly straight lines and lined everything with such precision that I was shamed into keeping everything orderly just to honor the lining. I can remember when she helped Michelle pack up to move one time, she had to clean the glass on every picture frame before wrapping it flawlessly in newspaper. The woman was born for detail work, and though I often lament that more of this trait didn't rub off on me, if I ever have a moment of ingenuity or an organizational breakthrough, it makes me feel like her girl.
(Christmas 2010)
3. My Grams is a woman of faith, and that is truly something she leaves as her legacy. My childhood memories of Grams and church are completely intertwined from her forceful, strong singing voice to her mispronunciation of Matthew to her unabashed arguments in Bible class. Her devotion to the study of Scripture has always been an example to me--and not one that I come close to living up to. If she'd been doing Project 4:4 last year, she wouldn't have quit in April. I always remember my Gramps as the spiritual leader of our family, but the truth is without Grams, he wouldn't have been. And while I sometimes think Grams and I don't see eye to eye on all things theological, she's such a huge part of why I believe at all, and her steady faith is a constant comfort to me.
(Fall 2010)
2. When my Gramps was alive, I think he overshadowed Grams a little. He was such a charmer, with such a big personality that it was easy to be drawn to him, and in my memories she was always stricter, more serious, the straight man to his comic. But they worked together as a team gloriously. Maybe it's just because I didn't know them until they'd been married for over thirty years, but the two of them fit together in a way that made perfect sense, which is not to say that they always agreed or got along perfectly. But when I think of them, I can remember how when she was exasperated, he just smiled and those blue eyes twinkled, and when he was frustrated, she soothed. Maybe that's selective memory, but that's how I want to remember them. They took care of each other in a million little ways, and so much of my idea of what marriage is supposed to look like comes from them. When I was in the fifth grade, I started riding the bus to their house in the afternoons to hang out with them until my moma got off work. When I think about them together, that's where I picture them--in the living room watching Club Dance or sitting at the kitchen table with their afternoon coffee (and if Gramps and I were lucky Twinkies), with their everyday, ordinary conversations and teasing and occasional bickering. In the fourteen years that I've gotten to know Grams without Gramps, I've come to appreciate her humor and personality a little more, but I also always think she's just a little incomplete, a little less than she was with him. That idea drives my vision of heaven as a place of reunion. I need to believe it will be for the two of them.
(A four generation pic with MacMac, CST1BF, and tiny Elijah)
1. One of my favorite things to do over the past dozen years or so is to watch Grams with our babies, the great-grands. She's got ten at the moment with number eleven due to arrive in November, and she adores those babies. Seeing her dote and laugh and fuss and fill up with pride over these kiddos gives me flashes of my own childhood, and I know that she doted and laughed and fussed and burst with pride over me (and the other seven grands) just as she does for them. It's the same kind of love she has for her three girls, and it's the basis for all the love that we all give back to her. It's continuity, linking us to the past and stretching us into the future, a love that will outlive her and someday me. It's a love that is making this last long good-bye the easiest thing to do and the hardest, both triumphant and heart-breaking.
Happy Birthday, Grams!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
happy birthday, thumb
(Thumb is the only of the Handful whose entire life is documented in photos of which I have digital copies, so we're going back to the beginning for this one. This was the first time I held him, but I almost didn't include the picture because of that funny thing my hair is doing, but ultimately the Ring and Thumb preciousness helped me get over my hair hang-ups.)
Four years ago today, I was wearing yellow (don't ask me why) with hair that clearly wasn't behaving and hanging out in my favorite Lexington hospital meeting my freshly-hatched second nephew. He wasn't quite as fresh as his sister (Ring) and brother (Pinkie) were when I met them, but that's because this little guy decided to be born in the wee hours of the morning, while I was staying at home with said sister and brother, who at not-quite-four and two weren't up for an all night hospital vigil. Anyway later in the day, we were at the hospital, and the Popster told me to ask him how many grandkids he had. I initially resisted, assuring him that I was well aware of the answer, but he insisted, and eventually I caved and asked with a complete lack of enthusiasm, "How many grandkids do you have?"
Almost before the last word left my mouth, he threw his giant hand up in my face, fingers splayed and proclaimed, "a hand-full." And the collective nickname for my parents' grandchildren, my nieces and nephews, was born, birthed in that Lexington hospital just as much as Thumb was.
Thumb, whose eyes have changed from blue to green somewhere along the line, at his first, second, and third birthday parties. 
I won't get to see and celebrate with Thumb until this weekend because he, like his brother, had the good sense to be born near a three day weekend, so we always have his birthday party Memorial Day weekend, but while I wait, let me share with you, imaginary readers, the best of Thumb.
I present my five favorites of a four-year-old:
5. The speech impediment. I know it's not going to last--or at least it's not going to be cute indefinitely if it does last--but right now how Thumb talks and messes up sounds is so deliciously endearing. I don't have any data to back me up on this, but it seems to me that Thumb might have the record for most/longest streak of mispronunciations of any of the Handful, which is only right I suppose considering that a few months ago he surpassed Pointer as having the longest streak as the "baby" of our family. And truthfully, he's already grown out of so many of those sound substitutions, so I know this special little trait is one that I'll have to savor for now and remember with fondness for years to come. Here's a ripped-from-real-life example of how Thumb's precious manner of speaking permeates our lives. Thursday night I was at the hospital seeing Grams, and when I went to leave I asked if she was going to give me a kiss, and she turned me down. In fact she told me that wasn't going to give me any "wugar," which is how Thumb says (or maybe used to say, as I think initial s's are finally within his grasp) sugar. When even your eighty-one year old great-grandmother who's been through so much lately she barely knows her name sometimes can remember and quote how adorably you say words, it's kind of a big deal.
4. Another thing that I'm totally digging about the Thumb is his cuddliness. Even though in so many ways (just wait, we'll talk about them) he's doing his best to grow up way too fast, Thumb is still the sweetest little, loving boy. And he's pretty decent at spreading that love around. I completely melt when he sticks his thumb in his mouth (yes, Thumb sucks his thumb--handy, isn't it?) and lays his sweet head down on my shoulder. He's the best little snuggler, and I'm really crossing my fingers that he doesn't grown out of that one.
3. This face. It's more than the fact that he's possibly the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. It's more than those ridiculous eyelashes or those giant green eyes or even the dimples. It's how that little face conveys every single emotion without saying a word. It's about the nods and blinks and grins, the pouts and the silly faces and the heart-breaking tears. He's got maybe the most expressive face of anyone I've ever known. Too bad for his daddy, but with that face, professional poker-playing is not in this boy's future.
2. Despite the way we baby Thumb and the sweet way that he indulges us in that, he has always been an independent little soul. He will fearlessly try to do anything that the big kids are doing, and "me too" has been an oft-repeated refrain around his house since he was able to talk. If Ring and Pinkie can do it, then Thumb is convinced that he should be able to as well, no matter what. Whether it's playing ball or doing homeschool work, Thumb is determined to run with the big boys, and I love the confidence and determination and single-mindedness that drive all those me-toos. And of course, a big chunk of his desire to to be big is the fact that he adores his big brother and sister and cousins.
1. When Thumb was a little baby, the grown-ups in our family were having a discussion about being funny. Yes, we talk about being funny in our family quite a lot. In this particular discussion we had two opposing theories. Shane thought that based on the anecdotal evidence of the sibling groups we knew that second-born children are the funniest in their families. I put forth the notion that it was actually youngest children, regardless of number. I was using as my examples most of the same sibling groups as it seems most of the siblings groups we know are two-kid families. The major point of disagreement was that Shane, as a second-born, considered himself the funniest of our siblings, and I, as the youngest, insisted that it was me. I did have to agree that my moma, who is technically the second-born of three, is definitely the funniest of her siblings, but since she's a twin, she's only minutes away from being the youngest. Shane then tried to use Pinkie, who was a hilarious two-year-old (and is still a very funny six-year-old), as the example to prove his point, but I maintained that we couldn't make that call until Thumb was older. So I've been watching Thumb's comedic development with avid interest And I'm proud to say (because it proves my theory) that I think he's the funniest of the three of them. He teases and jokes and tricks and has been doing so since he could talk (though he couldn't manage it without that expressive face). One of his specialties is keeping a funny thing going, like the time a very solemn and demure "me not know" was the only answer he would give to his Aunt Michelle, just for the sake of hilarious torture. And I'd like to offer a friendly kick in the pants to the first person to laugh at "in myyyyy notebook," thus making it Thumb's longest-running and most adorable joke. As we all should know by now, humor is my real love language, so this kiddo has me in the palm of his hand.
And as a bonus treat, I've got a video of Thumb doing what he does best: being adorable. Here for your pleasure, you get the voice (though he doesn't mispronounce anything too badly), the expressions, and a peek of that teasing humor. Please pardon how loud I am and the ridiculous amount of background noise. Enjoy:
Happy birthday to my little Thumb. Aunt Ellen is going to love all over you this weekend!*****A late-breaking update: Once again a Peep has just managed to ensure that I don't get to attend her child's birthday party. Today is already Peep Amy's birthday (Happy Birthday!) and tomorrow is the 4th birthday of her Carter, so I already consistently miss their birthdays. Earlier this afternoon, Peep Monica brought our newest little Weep into the world. I'm not going to give you any more details because I don't know if they've fully announced it to everyone they want to know yet. I'll come back and update it with pertinent info once I've got the all-clear.*****
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
happy birthday, bird
Eight years ago today in the wee hours of the morning, I was waiting for a phone call telling me that niece #2 had arrived. I was keeping three-year-old Pointer and had put her to bed hours earlier, but Bird was being contrary and slow in making her appearance. She finally arrived in the pre-dawn hours, and I got to meet this gorgeous girl a few hours later. I've been in love with her ever since.
This year the Virginia-residing Bird celebrated turning eight in Kentucky at Nana's with an Arkansas Razorback-themed party. All the moving in her little life has left her with a geographic-identity crisis, obviously. But other than that little oddity, my girl is just about perfect. Let me tell you my five favorite things about Bird.
5. I'm not sure she'll approve of this or think it's a good option for a five-favorite list, but I love her voice. Mispronunciations and substituting wrong sounds is a part of normal language development for all kids, and I can name any number of children who do so memorably and charmingly, but something about the way that Bird talks has always been sweet and special and endearing to me. She used to pronounce sister as shishter, and it was possibly the most precious thing ever. We made her repeat it endlessly in a manipulative and exploitative way. She's long since mastered all of her sounds, but something about her voice and manner of speaking retains that sweetness. When everything about her is entirely too big and grown-up, her voice connects me to the baby and toddler and little kiddo that she used to be, and I need that. I am dreading the day when her voice grows up as much as the rest of her and loses that quality.
4. Bird is our little melting pot. People have always said that she looks like her moma or sometimes her Aunt Ellen, but her personality can be (and has been) attributed to a host of other people. She has her daddy's sense of humor, and I think he's the source of her adventurous creativity. But she's also got Michelle's sensitivity and tender feelings when she's hurt. The way that she reacts to people is a lot like Michelle too. There are moments when she's exactly like her Nana (especially if she's being roughly affectionate), and I can see definite bits of her uncles in her stubborn determination or her competitive streak. She's such a mixture of so many people that I love that I can't help but love that in her. Some people have accused Bird of being like her Aunt Ellen, and I'd be lying if I said that wasn't another layer in loving who she is.
3. My girl is a creative genius. She can make just about anything. From the time that she was three or four she was supplementing her dolls' wardrobes by creating outfits or accessories out of paper. She's since moved up from paper to other mediums. The last time that they moved she commandeered cardboard boxes for building projects, and one time recently when she was at Nana's, she started making weapons out of sticks. She's got a fully functioning bow and arrow and now a gun that she created out of sticks and a few other odds and ends. She recently decided that she wants to be an engineer when she grows up, but not a boring engineer like Uncle Josh. When she gets it into her head that she needs something that she doesn't have, she just builds it--no matter how unlikely it should be that she can. That determination to make anything she decides upon is a driving force in Bird's life. She's always been the sort of girl who could accomplish anything once she sets her mind to it from learning to whistle to playing every sport available to building a sixty-three inch paper airplane. The kid gets stuff done, and I dig it.
2. It's a close race at the moment, but any day now Bird is going to surpass me as the funniest person in our family. And it's a fairly big deal that I love her humor enough to not become ridiculously competitive or pouty about that prospect. If you know me at all, you've heard me brag before at her mad comedy skills. She had a impressively-developed sense of comedic timing at age two. I knew we had a prodigy on our hands when she changed song lyrics to make fun of her daddy when she was two or three (Will is famous for doing this). Although in the past couple of years Bird might have relied more heavily on potty humor than is strictly necessary, she is completely hilarious. She is a master of little kid goofy, but she also teases like a champ and holds her own in our family of comedians. I know my imaginary readers are probably tired of reading about how funny my family is, but seriously, Bird is one of the best, and it can't be said or appreciated enough.
1. I feel like I'm going to do an inadequate job of describing this last, best, most favorite thing about the Bird because it's kind of a complicated thing, but I'll do my best. Bird doesn't love indiscriminately. She doesn't suffer fools, and she is a bit more reserved in lavishing love and attention than some of us. But when you've made her list and earned that love and attention, it's completely worth it. She loves intensely and sincerely, and being on the receiving end of her heart is a feeling to be treasured. It's a love strong enough to smother and sweet enough to make smothering seem appealing. And the slight rarity of it, that comes with knowing that she's discerning in bestowing her affection, makes it that much more dear.
Happy birthday to my complicated baby girl. Even though I saw you yesterday, I miss you already.
This year the Virginia-residing Bird celebrated turning eight in Kentucky at Nana's with an Arkansas Razorback-themed party. All the moving in her little life has left her with a geographic-identity crisis, obviously. But other than that little oddity, my girl is just about perfect. Let me tell you my five favorite things about Bird.
5. I'm not sure she'll approve of this or think it's a good option for a five-favorite list, but I love her voice. Mispronunciations and substituting wrong sounds is a part of normal language development for all kids, and I can name any number of children who do so memorably and charmingly, but something about the way that Bird talks has always been sweet and special and endearing to me. She used to pronounce sister as shishter, and it was possibly the most precious thing ever. We made her repeat it endlessly in a manipulative and exploitative way. She's long since mastered all of her sounds, but something about her voice and manner of speaking retains that sweetness. When everything about her is entirely too big and grown-up, her voice connects me to the baby and toddler and little kiddo that she used to be, and I need that. I am dreading the day when her voice grows up as much as the rest of her and loses that quality.
4. Bird is our little melting pot. People have always said that she looks like her moma or sometimes her Aunt Ellen, but her personality can be (and has been) attributed to a host of other people. She has her daddy's sense of humor, and I think he's the source of her adventurous creativity. But she's also got Michelle's sensitivity and tender feelings when she's hurt. The way that she reacts to people is a lot like Michelle too. There are moments when she's exactly like her Nana (especially if she's being roughly affectionate), and I can see definite bits of her uncles in her stubborn determination or her competitive streak. She's such a mixture of so many people that I love that I can't help but love that in her. Some people have accused Bird of being like her Aunt Ellen, and I'd be lying if I said that wasn't another layer in loving who she is.
3. My girl is a creative genius. She can make just about anything. From the time that she was three or four she was supplementing her dolls' wardrobes by creating outfits or accessories out of paper. She's since moved up from paper to other mediums. The last time that they moved she commandeered cardboard boxes for building projects, and one time recently when she was at Nana's, she started making weapons out of sticks. She's got a fully functioning bow and arrow and now a gun that she created out of sticks and a few other odds and ends. She recently decided that she wants to be an engineer when she grows up, but not a boring engineer like Uncle Josh. When she gets it into her head that she needs something that she doesn't have, she just builds it--no matter how unlikely it should be that she can. That determination to make anything she decides upon is a driving force in Bird's life. She's always been the sort of girl who could accomplish anything once she sets her mind to it from learning to whistle to playing every sport available to building a sixty-three inch paper airplane. The kid gets stuff done, and I dig it.
2. It's a close race at the moment, but any day now Bird is going to surpass me as the funniest person in our family. And it's a fairly big deal that I love her humor enough to not become ridiculously competitive or pouty about that prospect. If you know me at all, you've heard me brag before at her mad comedy skills. She had a impressively-developed sense of comedic timing at age two. I knew we had a prodigy on our hands when she changed song lyrics to make fun of her daddy when she was two or three (Will is famous for doing this). Although in the past couple of years Bird might have relied more heavily on potty humor than is strictly necessary, she is completely hilarious. She is a master of little kid goofy, but she also teases like a champ and holds her own in our family of comedians. I know my imaginary readers are probably tired of reading about how funny my family is, but seriously, Bird is one of the best, and it can't be said or appreciated enough.
Happy birthday to my complicated baby girl. Even though I saw you yesterday, I miss you already.
Friday, January 21, 2011
happy birthday, pinkie
Six years ago today my first nephew was born, joining a trio of nieces. It was a Friday and though he wasn't due for another couple of days (on his Aunt Michelle's birthday), the doctor scheduled an induction because he was kind of a big boy. The nice thing about scheduled inductions is that people like aunts and uncles and nanas and popas have time to make the five or ten hour trip to be there to meet new babies. It's handy.
The other handy thing about Pinkie's birthday is that often falls on or near MLK weekend, so I get a long weekend to make the ten hour trip to party. So far in their little lives the Handful have had thirty-four birthdays, and I've been at every celebration. Taking advantage of long weekends has kept the dream alive for me. I know there will probably come a day when I'll have to miss one, but I do my best, and so far it's working out for me.
Last weekend we celebrated Pinkie's sixth a bit early.
(Let me interrupt myself here to say that those freckles, those dimples and that missing tooth are scrumptious.)
I took way too few photos of the party. Before things got going, Pinkie put on his knight costume to get into the spirit of the festivities. Thumb wanted to get in on the thematic fun as well, but baseball player dress-ups were the closest he could get. Pinkie generously allowed Thumb to act as his squire. Pinkie discarded his get-up before I took any photographic evidence, but you can still see the remnants of the squire costume below. I also didn't get any shots of the super-cute and chocolatey castle cake. Bad aunt. It's a pretty standard tradition to get a shot of the birthday kiddo with all the gifts right before opening, and I would have managed that one if not for Pinkie's awkward attempt at smiling. Usually it's not necessary to request a smile when faced with the prospect of diving into a pile of presents. But Pinkie's expression was so priceless that I skipped the gifts and balloons and zoomed in on that funny face.
Someone reminded him that he should probably be happy, and this was what we got. It looks more realistic, but I'm pretty sure it's fake too.
As a faithful squire should, Thumb carefully assisted with all the gift-opening and examining.
I think it's a testament to Pinkie's six-year-old maturity that he was so generous in sharing the paper-ripping experience.
******Bad photographer's apology: Sorry about my moma's shoulder featuring so prominently in this photo, but I loved the excitement and the grabby hands too much to leave it out. If this weren't Pinkie's post, I'd get side-tracked and tell you about how the sweater covering that shoulder was originially purchased for me as a Christmas gift, but my moma ended up liking it so much she kept it for herself.******
Another testament to six-year-old maturity: immediately after this photo was taken, Pinkie hopped up and ran over to Ring on the couch to show her that because there was a girl character in the set, she could play with it too. (Yes, those kids are big into gender identification.) I sort of loved that one of his very first thoughts about this highly-prized gift concerned sharing.
Despite my lack of appropriate photographic documentation, it was a great party. I'm a big fan of six-year-olds as it turns out.
And to prove it, here are my five favorite things about my favorite six-year-old:
5. Pinkie is a giant ball of energy. He's almost not capable of playing sit-down games if he can't run laps or stand on his head between turns. He is perhaps the most kinesthetic learner I've ever encountered. All of his emotions are expressed in movement, and though this particular trait occasionally manifests in inopportune moments, his energy and acrobatics and constant activity are so entertaining that I have to love him for it.
4. Because Pinkie and Ring are fairly close in age, he's never seemed to be much of a little brother. They play together and occasionally fuss together mostly as equals, and though they have some skirmishes that are reminiscent of their daddy and myself as children, I think they both do a pretty decent job of being friends. Lately I've really taken note of Pinkie as a big brother though, and I think I like it. Now that Thumb is very much un-babyish enough to hang with the big kids, there are these adorable moments when Pinkie advises and instructs and indulges his little brother. From giving him Wii-gaming pointers to dressing him as a squire and letting him assist in gift-opening, he takes care of Thumb--and seems to get the concept more than most of our family that Thumb is not a baby anymore.
Watching the two of them together and seeing Pinkie brother-up like he does is so special. Reminds me of the happier moments with my own big brothers.
3. Pinkie is hilarious. Sometimes it's a result of his high-energy physical comedy, but he's also a big tease. He attempts all sorts of solemn, big-eyed trickery, but all too often his dimples give him away. Those dimples and his wide-open mouthed laugh are all part of his comedic charm. And if his own teasing and jokes don't provide enough of his laughter, he's the most squeally, ticklish little guy. I must admit to taking shameless advantage of this knowledge regularly.
P.S. When that tooth finally grows back in, I'm going to go into mourning.
2. I've made reference before to the fact that the Handful often display characteristics of their parents, but there is something about Pinkie both physically and in personality that reminds me so forcibly of Joshua that it amazes me. The energy, the big-brotherly moments, the hair that gets completely and adorably unruly if it gets even a speck too long, the giant blue eyes with eyelashes completely wasted on a boy, the love of sports, the stubbornness--everything except the dimples--are so obviously like his daddy that it's hard to see him without seeing Joshua as a little boy and a grown-up. Sometimes it makes it feel as though I've been loving Pinkie for longer than his six years--and that's a lot of love to have for a person.
1. And yet Pinkie is staunchly his own person. And though his energy and love of action--and all the very boyish pursuits that go along with that--are at first glance his more prominent traits, he's always had this layer of sweetness and genuine kindness that is just precious to see. He is tender-hearted and doesn't like to see people get hurt. He loves babies and is so gentle with them. He's demonstrative in his affection, and even though his current little-boy contrariness and that teasing nature I mentioned make him a bit more selective in the cuddling department than he used to be, the loving little soul behind it is still there.
So happy birthday, kiddo! I love you despite the bribery it took to get you to pose for this picture. Sending big, slobbery kisses your way.
The other handy thing about Pinkie's birthday is that often falls on or near MLK weekend, so I get a long weekend to make the ten hour trip to party. So far in their little lives the Handful have had thirty-four birthdays, and I've been at every celebration. Taking advantage of long weekends has kept the dream alive for me. I know there will probably come a day when I'll have to miss one, but I do my best, and so far it's working out for me.
Last weekend we celebrated Pinkie's sixth a bit early.
I took way too few photos of the party. Before things got going, Pinkie put on his knight costume to get into the spirit of the festivities. Thumb wanted to get in on the thematic fun as well, but baseball player dress-ups were the closest he could get. Pinkie generously allowed Thumb to act as his squire. Pinkie discarded his get-up before I took any photographic evidence, but you can still see the remnants of the squire costume below. I also didn't get any shots of the super-cute and chocolatey castle cake. Bad aunt. It's a pretty standard tradition to get a shot of the birthday kiddo with all the gifts right before opening, and I would have managed that one if not for Pinkie's awkward attempt at smiling. Usually it's not necessary to request a smile when faced with the prospect of diving into a pile of presents. But Pinkie's expression was so priceless that I skipped the gifts and balloons and zoomed in on that funny face.
******Bad photographer's apology: Sorry about my moma's shoulder featuring so prominently in this photo, but I loved the excitement and the grabby hands too much to leave it out. If this weren't Pinkie's post, I'd get side-tracked and tell you about how the sweater covering that shoulder was originially purchased for me as a Christmas gift, but my moma ended up liking it so much she kept it for herself.******
Despite my lack of appropriate photographic documentation, it was a great party. I'm a big fan of six-year-olds as it turns out.
And to prove it, here are my five favorite things about my favorite six-year-old:
5. Pinkie is a giant ball of energy. He's almost not capable of playing sit-down games if he can't run laps or stand on his head between turns. He is perhaps the most kinesthetic learner I've ever encountered. All of his emotions are expressed in movement, and though this particular trait occasionally manifests in inopportune moments, his energy and acrobatics and constant activity are so entertaining that I have to love him for it.
4. Because Pinkie and Ring are fairly close in age, he's never seemed to be much of a little brother. They play together and occasionally fuss together mostly as equals, and though they have some skirmishes that are reminiscent of their daddy and myself as children, I think they both do a pretty decent job of being friends. Lately I've really taken note of Pinkie as a big brother though, and I think I like it. Now that Thumb is very much un-babyish enough to hang with the big kids, there are these adorable moments when Pinkie advises and instructs and indulges his little brother. From giving him Wii-gaming pointers to dressing him as a squire and letting him assist in gift-opening, he takes care of Thumb--and seems to get the concept more than most of our family that Thumb is not a baby anymore.
Watching the two of them together and seeing Pinkie brother-up like he does is so special. Reminds me of the happier moments with my own big brothers.
3. Pinkie is hilarious. Sometimes it's a result of his high-energy physical comedy, but he's also a big tease. He attempts all sorts of solemn, big-eyed trickery, but all too often his dimples give him away. Those dimples and his wide-open mouthed laugh are all part of his comedic charm. And if his own teasing and jokes don't provide enough of his laughter, he's the most squeally, ticklish little guy. I must admit to taking shameless advantage of this knowledge regularly.
2. I've made reference before to the fact that the Handful often display characteristics of their parents, but there is something about Pinkie both physically and in personality that reminds me so forcibly of Joshua that it amazes me. The energy, the big-brotherly moments, the hair that gets completely and adorably unruly if it gets even a speck too long, the giant blue eyes with eyelashes completely wasted on a boy, the love of sports, the stubbornness--everything except the dimples--are so obviously like his daddy that it's hard to see him without seeing Joshua as a little boy and a grown-up. Sometimes it makes it feel as though I've been loving Pinkie for longer than his six years--and that's a lot of love to have for a person.
1. And yet Pinkie is staunchly his own person. And though his energy and love of action--and all the very boyish pursuits that go along with that--are at first glance his more prominent traits, he's always had this layer of sweetness and genuine kindness that is just precious to see. He is tender-hearted and doesn't like to see people get hurt. He loves babies and is so gentle with them. He's demonstrative in his affection, and even though his current little-boy contrariness and that teasing nature I mentioned make him a bit more selective in the cuddling department than he used to be, the loving little soul behind it is still there.
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