honeymooning (with kids) on relaxation coast

The hubs and I delayed our honeymoon until we could bring the entire family along for the trip. Weird, right? Well, with the combining of two three-person households, it seemed ideal to make our first family trip happen rather than escaping on a romantic adventure sans minors. (Our minors are majors, after all.)

[Texture Tuesday @ KK Cafe featuring "Little Things"]
So, we packed up our beach bum wardrobes, rented a van, and cruised down 95 south. Half a dozen stops and many hours later, we arrived in North Myrtle Beach - a seaside vacation spot with streets lined in souvenir shops and miniature golf attractions.

Our home-from-home apartment was a nice two bedroom, two bath place in Wyndham's WestWinds resort. Unfortunately, the biggest selling point of the location was its beach front location and friendly staff, because all other comforts and amenities I've been spoiled with at other timeshare locations were not featured here.

What is here in abundance is ocean waves that never cease. Dilapidated wooden fences are nestled in long grasses. And a serenity permeates even when storms threaten high tides and pelting rains.

Ok, did anyone happen to notice that I said I was driving a VAN? Yes, to fit my family of six (plus Oma), we had to get a bigger vehicle. Poor Celi sat at home and I missed my sleek, speedy sports car terribly as I whipped through traffic in the Chrysler Town & Country beast. I suppose this is one of those turning points in parenthood - when the car of choice is no longer functional for transporting the growing family.

We're still learning how this new family dynamic works. Our littles are used to being the "baby" in their respective family- but there can only be one and both of them have aged out of the role in our cast. Our bigs are always the oldest, except now one is no longer. Instead, she claimed the role of "princess" as the only girl in a house of boys.

Admittedly, I'm still getting used to this collaboration thing. I've been independent for a long time and it's still novel to have a partner sharing responsibilities and joys. I kinda like it.

So the "honey" in this vaykay is the sweet that comes from realizing that this man of mine gives my heart flutters whenever he says "I love you." It's his insistence that the pudgy girl I've always been known as is beautiful in his sight no matter what the mirror reports. It's those times when we say the same thing at the same time without intention. It's the hugs, hand holding, and kisses of someone who adores me (and it's reciprocated).

It's knowing that this active brood of youngsters is under our care - that together, we're developing wonderful and independent people who will enjoy family, adventure, and learning.

And it's saying good night or good morning to those whose company is cherished.

Mine (a poem by the evil stepmother)

I admit it, I feared her
becoming the evil stepmother to two
who are not mine by birth
but are every bit a part
of our growing family, of him
(whom I love, and it transfers).
There have been setbacks and strides.
Moments when I've second guessed this...
tremendous responsibility of sharing my heart
with those who call another "mom."
Not wanting to take her place.
Not trying to steal her honor.
But hoping to add something extra
to this parental equation we've created.
I've faltered sometimes. Revealed many mistakes.
But I'm learning quickly they're mine.
Maybe not sons from their first,
but hereafter holding part of me.
My heart is opened yet again.

Project Mama to Mrs.: Child-free Calamity

When I was 12 years old, my uncle got married. His wedding was one of those really fancy affairs. My mom was a bridesmaid, as was one of my aunts. And the hoopla before the wedding had everyone in the vacinity totally charged for his nuptials. I saw the reception venue - beautifully ornate with crystal place settings, dimmed lighting, and clothed tables and chairs. Or, maybe, that was what I envisioned. I wasn't allowed at that part of the affair. As a "not-quite-teen" and therefore child, I was uninvited. And because I was "old enough" to serve as babysitter to all my younger siblings and cousins, that's exactly what I was relegated to be. I begged an older cousin who made the cut to take photos for me - - to capture the event so I could experience it vicariously through prints. I never saw those photos. And, I think, I am still bitter about the exclusion.

My cousin was married when my daughter was five and I was expecting my second child. She, too, held a "no kids allowed" reception. When I first held the beautiful black and silver invite, I read that tiny clause and fummed. Where would I send my child off to if everyone who had ever watched her was expected at the event? I was saved by a second invitation to have her serve as flower girl. As part of the wedding party, she was welcomed into the adult-only festivities and she had a blast - - until bedtime. Then, the stress of the day's activities caused a meltdown and it put a damper on my enjoyment of the evening.

There've been many weddings in between (and after) these two, and most that I've elected to attend welcomed children. Some even catered to their enjoyment with blow up toys, bubbles, and specially selected kiddie tunes. I admit these were wonderful, family-oriented parties that made for oh-so-precious photographs. I resolved that I'd want to be all-inclusive with my own wedding.

Now, finally, it is my turn. And when I become Mrs., there will be four children officially under my safe keeping. That's right, four, ages from 3-12.

But we, too, elected to eliminate other people's teeny boppers from our reception. Hypocritical?

Well... I feel a little like "Father of the Bride" on this one.

Our reception space holds 75 for a sit down meal, and with that maximum capacity reached, it's a tight fit.

I'm already told I'll have to sacrifice my round tables for rectangles to make room for a dance floor.

If children come (and my family and friends average three per household), then the number of adult guests will dwindle to nothing. We'd already trimmed our guest lists to those we could not bear to have missing and those we absolutely knew would be crushed were they not invited. We eliminated many wonderfully faithful friends who've made us the people we are today. It felt horrible.

When Rob mentioned that his eldest sister recommended a "child-free" soiree (who, herself has three), I reluctantly agreed. In my head I tallied the number of effected parties - my closest friends have six among them, my few invited cousins have at least three in their party, and only a few uncles and aunts with young charges. Ok. Perhaps it was not so bad.

We sent out the invitations.

And then I got a phone call. How could I leave out kids? Who would watch the babies? Why can't they come? Can't you make an exception?

It wasn't a callous decision. It wasn't about economics. It wasn't meant to create the next family controversy that divides us into separate sides of the boxing ring. If I chose the chapel I fell in love with and its associated reception venue, this exclusion was the only one that maximized my beloved guests - - those I'd grown up with, loved forever, confided in, and cherished long before children were even born.

Play it again (on competition among lovers)

I've never been much of a competitive person. Of course, I like to win. Who doesn't? But I would rather lose in a fair and fierce competition than win because someone felt I needed to be recognized. That kind of winning, frankly, sucks.

And so, when my fiancee and I began a friendly game of "Words with Friends" (Zenga's version of online Scrabble), it began as a, well, a friendly game. We'd play while on breaks at work. We'd play sitting side by side on my parent's couch (facing our phone screens away from each other under our "no peeking policy"). Fast forward about 50 days, and our amicable competition has become a cut throat past time.

As the English teacher with a penchant for and affinity to unusual words, I'd just expected to wipe out my competition. I mean, I have a word wall in my classroom of interesting words I find in my readings (making the list are words like perclempt, cacophony, erstwhile, and clairvoyance). How can I not kick butt in a game about forming words?

I tell you, I was on a role. Game after game I was winning (I even made a 150 point come from behind victory and clenched the win by two points). I was pulling out words I've not heard or used for years. I'd seen him play, trying out a letter here or there, rearranging at arbitrary random until the game was "sending" his word. He'd gotten me with a few good ones - - words I would not have believed existed (qi, quop, et, jape, yock, zu). But he didn't know the secret. You have to be conscious of the TL (triple letter), DL (double letter), DW (double word), and TW (triple word) squares.

I told him. He listened. And then, I lost.

Imagine the devistation. I considered the initial win a fluke, meerly a lucky handout of letters (I was denied consonants, for heaven's sake!).

And then, I lost. Again.

Half dozen losses later, I decided I'd play him on his own game. Beat him in something he loved. We made a simple wager. I picked up an XBox 360 controller and selected a comic character to battle against his Mortal Combat choice.

I mashed those darn buttons. I twirled the little joystick with my thumb. I mashed more buttons. I moved the controller for extra oomph on my button pushing frenzy.

I lost. Badly.

Every once in a while, my frantic and obscure button punching resulted in more than just sore thumbs - a special combination or a glowing figure with what seemed like temporarily better talent. But for the most part, I was just depressing buttons and my morale while my defenseless character was beaten to a pulp.

It started out best out of five, but I lost three matches (six deaths!) so quickly, that he revised that to best of ten. And suddenly, with a new character (because, you know, it was the character and not my playing that sucked), I won. And then I won again and secured a match.

On a sudden streak of success, I picked another character. I mashed those darn buttons. I twirled the little joystick with my thumb. I mashed more buttons. I moved the controller for extra oomph on my button pushing frenzy. I won.

But then I realized that he wasn't really moving his fingers on his controller. Instead, his thumbs half rested on the buttons while he pretended to be shocked at my sudden burst of playing genius. He moved his controller slightly for legitimacy (he couldn't very well set it down without me noticing he was letting me win, could he?). It was clear, though, that he'd allowed me the win.

Hmmm... so was he giving me the wins in "Words with Friends?" Could I have found my intellectual match in this guy? And if I did, can I handle these occassional knocks to my pride?

*** He insists he did not and has never "let" me win... I'm inclined to believe this a sweet attempt at making me feel better.

For the inquisitive minds
qi (aka chi) is life force or energy in Taoism
quop (usually spelled quob or quab) is to throb or quivered
et is a simple past tense way to say eat (as in "Mommy I done et it already")
jape means to mock or jest
yock, like yack, is to laugh loudly or obnoxiously
zu is an Italian instrumental trio from Rome usually consisting of saxaphone, bass and drums

Looking Forward - SWF '12:1

Delicately I begin brushing away cobwebs
Softly blowing the settled dust covering.
Brittle paper below years of neglect,
mementos of a forbidden love affair.

Once, knowledge of lustful infidelity crushed - -
child of twelve couldn't handle Truth.
He chose pursuits not his own,
and tore to shreds marriage vows.
She was created in these passions
(an innocent born of what's not).
Selfish, stubborn, and loyal I declined
to acknowledge what he laid claim.
At her breast, I buried myself;
opened her old wounds and hurt.
She, the betrayed, allowed me comfort - -
as only Mother could, head high.
He no longer stood above me,
his pedestal crumbled with my discovery.
Foolishly, I had expected his perfection.
His word was bond - became law.
My father, merely human, was humbled.

Years passed and she grew apart:
my sister unknown in childhood's choice.
Our children, cousins and strangers alike.
The withered tree of family struggling.
But now adults with our own
vows spoken before God and loves,
attempt to understand what once was.

The aged testaments shared by lovers
without regard for right become guide.
Burning the evidence cannot erase it.
Instead, I offer these romantic tokens
as proof she's love's own creation.
Perhaps he was conflicted back then?
We wont condone, but will forgive.
(Mother taught me that with strength.)

Looking to future instead of past,
we seek to fertilize and grow.
Restoring health to long ailing limbs
and accepting one another as part.

*inspired by "looking forward" from Six Word Fridays ; shared with Write on Edge.

How we met... and again

It was 1995, and Rob had just graduated from high school. At the recommendation of a teacher, he'd applied to Howard University's Multicultural Journalism Workshop. He was one of 20 selected for the elite program. And Rachelle? She was another.

Begrudgingly, Rob packed an overnight bag and his father dropped him off at the dormitory where participants were meeting. He had no intention of staying, and was merely making an appearance because family insisted he try it out.

Then a rising high school junior, Rachelle was hyped about attending the workshop. Two weeks in a college dorm as a working journalist seemed like a perfect opportunity to hone her skills. And bragging rights for being chosen out of 65 applicants was a must.
Rob ending up staying at the workshop for the duration...

During the day, Rob and Rachelle busied themselves with interviews and how-to sessions at USA Today, and in the afternoons, they commuted together to their respective dorms. They spent several careless hours with their class mates playing truth or dare (though no one really dared take one) on the 50 Yard line of the Howard football field. Trips to Pentagon City were frequent. And - totally out of character for both - the relished in their horoscopes over breakfast in the dining hall. There was something about those fortunes of the stars that seemed to connect them (and it alienated several other participants). Rob and Rachelle talked for hours while Elton John's "The Lion King" soundtrack drowned out other dormer's crazy, unmonitored antics.

The two kept in touch through long letters written in the late night and predawn hours. The occasional phone call - in the days before cell phones and the time of her Dad's strict (or, perhaps protective) "no phone" policies - was cherished.

On occasional weekends, Rob and Rachelle worked for YoungDC newspaper. They sat at adjoining computers in the dusty, archaically equipped "press room" churning out stories. It was, unfortunately, their sole time 'together,' as Rob lived in D.C. and Rachelle in Virginia.

Early Spring 1997. A sociology project required Rachelle to plan a wedding - from invitations to thank you notes. She and Rob actually plotted their guest list together.

Prom 1997. Rob and Rachelle rode in a white limo to the Gar-Field Senior prom. He wore the white tuxedo she'd picked out (and has been teased ever since by close family). She wore a turquoise backless dress and high heels that didn't even begin to bridge their height distance. They ate at Sakura Steakhouse, toured Georgetown in their chauffeured car, and stopped for dessert at The Cheesecake Factory.

Summer 1997. Rachelle prepared to head out of state for college. In the last letters between she and Rob, they agreed to part ways. Their last correspondence was signed "love always."

Fall 1997-Spring 2010. Passing thoughts of whatever happened to Rachelle and to Rob were commonplace. But several moves meant lost or obselete contact information. In several searches, the internet proved useless for Rachelle, who quickly realized that his name was often used and he was virtually hidden from her. If only she'd kept those envelops his letters came in... Because of her employment, Rachelle restricted access to searches for her social network profile, rendering a search for her virtually impossible.

And then came FaceBook... July 2011. An impromptu search revealed no hits for Rob, but he remembered that prom. He joined her high school's alumni association on FaceBook and, though she was not a member, some privacy glitch connected Rachelle to the group. He sent her short a message.

Moving Up in the Dojo

KIHOP... NECK CHOP... KNIFE HAND... BLOCK... KICK... DOUBLE PUNCH...
AND THEN... BREAK BOARD... SPARE... THROW COMBINATIONS...
... "I'LL GIVE YOU PASS!"... GREEN BELT, BLUE TIP EARNED.
CONGRATULATIONS CHI, MOMMY'S SO PROUD.

Where Ya At Mama?

Oh, so many things are happening right now... and it feels so horrid not to be able to share freely. It's as though I've embarked upon a covert mission, and cannot divulge the specifics of my movements on penalty of death. Or, like one of my favorite shows [poTledoM] has proven of late, perhaps I have signed some iron-clad confidentiality agreement and to reveal information prematurely would thwart my chances at winning a title?

I'm still out in the universe... still writing... still dreaming... but right now I'm living in the moment instead of chronicling it.

But I miss you.

Skittles: quite the contradiction

I'm not spontaneous, but I'm not a planner, either. I think I might just be a skittle.

As a child, my vision of marriage was skewed. Most of the adults I was close to had husbands or wives and yet the distance between them and their other halves seemed contradictory to the union. Disrespect, infidelity, and physical distance seemed the norm. There weren't a lot of positive examples of marital bliss I'd witnessed - save the Huxtables, of course. It seemed like marriage, as I knew it then, was more comparable to Peg and Al Bundy's: a contractual trap that was too hard to get out of, so the couple merely endured. Everything I'd witnessed made me dread the very idea of exchanging vows.

It took a high school sociology project to get me thinking about weddings. The assignment required me to set a budget based on my family's income. Then I was supposed to plan everything for my big day. As I often was the case with school work, I was consumed by the assignment. I purchased every wedding and bride related magazine on the shelves of the bookstore. I poured through brochures, called (or wrote) companies for samples, and dedicated my sparse free time to sketching out the ideal wedding dress. That dress was a corset-style top akin to those worn by Renaissance aristocrats, but was full of vibrant colors across the bodice and featured a straight skirt rather than the ball gown flair variety. It was divine. Suddenly I could envision myself a bride. I was obsessed with preparing the perfect event - right down to a tentative seating chart to scale with the venue's dimensions. I actually thought I might like to have a wedding, but the husband was optional.

[Narrator interrupts: She began to think, "Dare I say that I had much the same thought about children: pregnancy as an experience might be interesting, but I didn't fancy being a mother?"]

By college I had a simple time line: married by 24 - finding a husband is the main purpose for higher education, right? And kids - three of them - before age 30.

In the years since that project - quite a few more quickly elapsing than I cared to admit - the time line became a measure of failure. Despite several promising adult relationships, I found myself becoming the girlfriend just before the wife. But I wasn't worthy, it seemed of being propositioned with forever.

It can make a person somewhat guarded, this history of being the unchosen. If I commit unabashedly to a theory of "this is the one" in each new beginning, it could become the set up for a terribly heartwrenching break up (or worse, an obsession akin to "The Cable Guy" fame). But if I move at a snails' pace and keep a distance of at least two car lengths between myself and Mr. Maybe, am I dooming it from the start? It's relationship skittles: How can I be the devoted one in a relationship if it is "likely" to end in nothing but an experience to file away in memory? But how can I not give all?

I have relished in a not-so-secret obsession for watching "My Fair Wedding with David Tutera." Occasionally, I catch myself hypothesizing my own "I do," dreaming up themes and motifs and envisioning the photographs of my happiness yet to be created.

Insert big flashing "DANGER" sign: I suspect this could be a bit scary for someone not ready to plunge into a marriage even if my musing wasn't a sign that I was...

Mr. Right At the Time, I think, suffered countless bouts of agita from my frequent rap sessions with my almost-sister-in-law during the planning of her ceremony. I was taken to bridal shows, given magazines of ideas, and sucked into the vortex of the business of weddings. In being her sidekick, I had unintentionally created a ticking clock - a time bomb of sorts - for him. A trail of skittles led from my house to his car as he sped away slowly from fear that I might give subtle hints or grandiose ultimatums about "us."

Throughout the years, my visions of the pomp and circumstance of becoming Missus DotDotDot has become a vague nod to the teenage dream. Skittle that I am, I have the framework of the ideal and no doubt meticulously plot the details if given the opportunity. But planning the big event?

[Narrator interrupts: Her chest rose and fell as she sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly in a sigh.]

I want it amazing. I want it something to talk about. I want to be the center of attention. But I don't like playing hostess with the mostest.

Multiplication mastery

The art of math was lost on me as a student. And while I often finished a term with good marks, the ugly in-between struggles with homework, the cram sessions, the agonizing and painful hours spent in review were true tests of my scholastic prowess. I couldn't bring home a grade less than a "B." Though I highly doubt my father would've truly thrown me out for a low report card grade, the threat was enough to keep me pushing to achieve.

Admittedly, Chi has inherited my lack of natural mathematical ability. She has little concept of the meaning of figures, and at eight she still confuses the value of quarters, nickles, and dimes. Plastic, it seems, doesn't have that kind of value gradation (uh oh!).

But when it comes to the mathematics of family, the figures seem to come about much more easily. One plus one made three. One plus two made four. And it made sense.

Life though, sometimes involves complex equations that no one accounted for. You see, while one plus one made three, there never really were three - only two. And when one plus two made four, one eventually became a fractional figure in the ebb and flow of our lives. Then there were only three remaining.

Now, as Mommy pushes forward in her own life, this little thing called a family seems to be working on multiplication tables. Surprisingly, this new mathematical endeavor is easy. We're doubling our number. It's new, yet, but it feels so... right.

I think I'll call it Mommy math.

REVIEW: The True Story of Puss 'N Boots

I have to start out by confessing that in this household, we are true Shrek fans. We've savored every new edition of the Shrek saga and have fallen in love with the characters. And we've eagerly anticipated the spin off that pushes sweetly cunning Puss and his doughy eyes into the spotlight. Of course, we know that these Dreamworks creations are merely inspired by the traditional stories and there is little connection to the original tales as the authors penned them.

When Phase 4 Films, through Team Mom, sent me a copy of their new CGI animated film "The True Story of Puss 'N Boots" and promised a movie based on the words of Puss'n Boots creator, Charles Perrault, I was happy to share the watching experience with my kids.

From the opening sequence, I was drawn to the beautifully painted landscapes that served as the backdrops for the action. Luscious color with attention to details proved a visual delight. The characters were delightfully eccentric, and their oddities of appearance made them realistically human. An animated Perrault begins the tale explaining that it is a story too unique not to share. The basic storyline follows his classic story: Peter inherits a special talking cat with magical boots. The cat, named Puss, promises to help Peter win the princess's hand in marriage. An evil ogre is tricked by the cat and loses his life and his castle to Peter.

Puss is voiced by award winning actor William Schatner, who has enjoyed a long and successful television and movie career. As we're most familiar with the Antonio Bandaras Puss - whose sensual Latino twang beckons to listeners, this new voice required some getting used to. At times, Schatner's Puss voice was annoying. There's something gravely and whiny about it that made us want to plug our ears and will him to silence. In fairness, though, Puss isn't a likeable character - - he's a self-proclaimed prankster, a trickster, a rebel. His whole being is devoted to double talk and conscious ommissions that further his purpose.

Directors Jérôme Deschamps and Pascal Hérold note that Perrault's story is "deliciously ammoral." And, true to his text, the movie presents the coniving (and well dressed) Puss as a complete manipulator whose sole purpose is to keep the promise he's made to his owner, Peter, by any means necessary.

The film features eccentric music with a distinctly foreign appeal (clearly we are Americentric in this household). I enjoyed hearing the French seranades by the princess and didn't care that I'd no clue what she was singing about. The soundtrack does not pull from the pop charts, but does tap into classical music and adaptations of lesser known songs and child-friendly rhymes. For someone hoping to sing along with a movie, this is probably not the one to pick. The unfamiliar music, however, gave my kids exposure to diverse cords and lyrics they appreciated.

Now Chi was completely turned off by the extended introduction songs by the Court announcer. His voice was not appealing and his tune carried far too long to be enjoyable or even comical. Chi sat grumbling through every diddy and squirmed in the chair impatiently waiting for the scene to move on. She also questioned the lethargic - or narcoleptic - king. He seemed to move from place to place in the movie while asleep.

I admit that I couldn't stop commenting on the over-exaggerated hourglass figure of the princess. And her ballet-tutu style skirts and leggings only served to accentuate her rotund behind. Despite her shape, though, I loved that her beauty was not the traditional "Disney Princess" look my kids are so often subjected to. Her freckles, close-cropped brown hair, and full lips were adorably average and told of a much more earthy concept of natural attractiveness.

And what is perhaps most endearing about the princess is her insistance that Peter tell the truth. She's already been alerted to his true identity and does not care that he is the son of a miller and not of noble birth. She accepts him for the man he is and appreciates that he supports her interests and praises her talents.


I was particularly fond of the Chamberlain, who has a despicable practice of turning would-be suitors of the princess into toads. He's apparently quite fond of the green beings. His melodramatic moods, crazily parted horn-like hair do, and bulbous nose and midsection make him an interesting character to watch. Chi, however, was not impressed by him. She preferred the ogre, whose temper tantrums turned him involuntarily into an octopus (and he so wanted to be a swan!) She also liked Marcel the chimp, with his gangly legs and pear shaped body.

Peter becomes Puss's pawn as he follows his father's decree, "Always trust the cat. Your destiny is in the cat." He is told he can be whom he wants to be, and his goal is to be the man who wins the princess's heart. His attraction to her penchant for performances (which her parents are decidedly disapproving of) causes him to be mocked by his brothers who berate him for wanting to move above his place. The princess and Peter find a common bond in their determined spirits.

I enjoyed The True Story. It is a carefully crafted story with touches of whimsy that make it unique. There is a quality in the animation that rivals the cinematic blockbusters. And there is a committment to telling Perrault's story that demonstrates a great respect for the classic. It's a movie that I am happy to share with my children and it invited a discussion about fibbing, stretching the truth, and lying that we needed to enter.

* The video was provided by Team Mom on behalf of Phase 4 Films. The views expressed are completely mine.

Why I Love Autumn #3: Festival time!

Fresh!

Fresh air. Fresh fun. Fresh color.

I can't think of anything better than getting my kids outside where they can have organized-chaotic fun. Fairs and festivals seem to sprout up in October and November in abundance. Oktoberfest, pumpkin parties, fall festivals, harvest festivals, pow-wows - regardless of the name, these are the kinds of events we thoroughly enjoy.

Free cider? Check.
Free face painting?
Oh yeah.

Free apples?
Uh huh.
You won't yell at my kid for running around like a chicken-sans-head?
Bonus.
No weird looks at me when my kids scream and laugh thus creating an ear-shattering cacophony of splediferous proportions?
Totally awesome. (And I know you love how I snuck in those BIG words...)

Most recently, we ventured to the Fairfax Fall Festival - a glorified street fair with vendors selling their food, crafts, and talents. Old Town shuts down several streets for the event. Crisp white tents line up along the asphault clearing with little space between them. Each houses a treasure trove of creativity. Weaving in and out of these instant store fronts is a feast for the senses. Sweet and sensuous lotions and soaps. Vibrant scarves, purses, clothing. Decorative statues, wreathes, and ornaments for every season. Street performers, balloon artists, entertainers-all.

The Fire Department uses the day as an opportunity for outreach - offering demonstrations, safety brochures, and an opportunity to explore the Fire House and its vehicles.

We loved playing fire fighter - - shooting at a target with the ferocious stream of water from the fire hose.

And the power of that hose was incredible. I'd never want to accidently cross through that flow of H2O.

Ok... I confess that I didn't actually try the hose out... but I did try on the hat, was goosed, and got caught in this scrunched nose shot that I'm still debating about hiding forever because I don't like the way I look. I suppose that since I'm posting the photo, it'll serve as a record that
#1. Someone cared enough to shoot me at an event (and I didn't have to cajole him to)
#2. I do on rare occassion find myself completely and totally overcome with laughter.
#3. My friend is a sneaky, sneaky woman to pinch me and run off like a silly school girl. And I love that about her because it keeps us young.

Why I love autumn #1 : a corny situation

The temperatures are quickly dropping. Crisp, cool breezes take over as we rush to find jackets just in case there's more chill than we can handle. Replaced are the warm and humid days of summer.
And just as quickly, the stores changed from beach and vacation themed displays to Halloween and harvest. Some are even showing off Christmas trees!

But I love the months of Autumn. I love that there are celebrations paying homage to Native cultures and to the importance of maize. I love that my kids can enjoy hours of fun outside together relishing in the harvest splendor.

And really, whoever invented the corn kernel "sand" box is one of my new favorite inventors. I so despise sand and how it remains long after the play is over. And while we did carry home enough kernels for a nice bowl of popcorn, it was pretty easy to find and eliminate.

Building a strong man

It would seem that I have children with military spirits summoned from our ancestors.

No playground, no curb, no empty pasture can be passed up for some good ol'fashioned hard core physical training.

Mommy is raising one heck of a strong little man. And when he's big big bigger, he's going to be a force not to be reckoned with. (Why does that expression seem to not make sense? Hmmm.)

It's a bit of deja vu for me. Afterall, Chi used to engage in her own P.T. regiment whenever we went to the park. She's even featured in a scrapbook layout that appeared in the now-extinct Creative Memories Lasting Moments magazine. Memories.

{Sweet} Fireman for Texture Tuesday

Ya has been pretty consistent with his dreams of becoming a construction worker. I'm told every boy fantasizes about working the big machines - pushing dirt and building mighty structures. Whenever Ya sees a "dump truck" (any construction vehicle - from cement truck to bulldozer), he starts talking. When he gets bigger (the magic age, he says, is five), he'll be big enough to drive a dump truck.

But last month, Ya's daycare class took a field trip to the volunteer fire department. I know from past attempt at getting my son into the engines that he's afraid of them. Afraid and yet, fascinated. He knows firemen put out fires. They help people. And like the EMT ambulances, when they sound their alarms and turn on the flashing lights, someone is saved. He thinks they're superheroes. (I tend to agree.) And, since Ya's always had a particular fondness for super power possessing people, he's decided that he too should consider a career as a fireman.

Right now; not when he's big, big, big, bigger! He already has the boots. And certainly, as good as they are for keeping one's feet dry in puddles, they must be perfect for fighting dangers.

At the local dollar store, Ya saw a yellow fireman's hat. He would not leave the store without it. I'm a sucker, I know. He got it. (And Chi got some fake eyelashes for no good purpose other than fairness). Add to his ensemble the rain boots and a "fire motorcycle" shirt, and Ya was ready. He was convinced we'd get to trade in Mommy's car for a loaner engine.

"I'm a fireman," he said. "That means they have to give me a car."
[caption id="attachment_2338" align="aligncenter" width="533" caption="this week's Sweet Shot :-)"][/caption]
They didn't. But, Ya says, "Mommy, look at my eyes. I'm not even a fireman. I'm a Yadon." You see, fireman have a look. It's kind of odd. Ya demonstrated.

We did try again on commandeering the engine. Well, actually... we walked near a station house and stared longingly at the shiny trucks in their garage. Ya stood in his hat and boots gazing with longing at the stationary vehicles and I think he willed them into action. An ambulance and a truck revved to life, turned on full siren and lights and raced off to answer a call. A few minutes later, a truck returned. One of the men noticed Ya standing on the hill across the street and waved. His colleague also waved. And as they turned the corner, the driver honked at Ya and saluted the little fireman. Ya was so shocked at the notice that he froze. Then, when certain the truck was in its space in the garage, he smirked and his eyes twinkled.

"I'm a fireman, Mommy."



About the edit: KK has done it again! This week's texture was a trio of Ugg Love - - and that does not mean ugly. I love that there is a sort of aged richness to the edges of this texture, with a smidgen of teal added for pizazz. I used the full original color texture with Soft Light at 100 percent, removing it from the face and hands. I wanted a little more of a dreamlike appearance to the photo, so I added Archives (multiply, 100 percent).

Addendum:
Dear dollar store,

We love you! I know of few (if any) places where I can get quality 'whatevers' for a buck. I don't need to be paid to endorse you... I save whenever I pass through.

The really awesome assortment of costume pieces is wonderful. We especially enjoyed playing with the medieval armor. And that clown wear? Well, I think we might be back to pick it up. I'm thinking mama banana might just be a hybrid clown-hobo this season.

So tell your purchasing crew that this mama thinks they're awesome. Keep it up. We really do love you.

Texture Tuesday: Autumn Burst

I wish I had something amazing to write about today. Frankly, though, I feel a little blah. Today was the Home Going service for my son's grandpa. In a series of unfortunate events, I found myself missing from this very important family affair. Try as I might, there was just no way to make an appearance and that is just not acceptable. It's a true epic fail.

Ya wont get the opportunity to really know the man that was his grandpa. At just three years old, his time with him was short and his memory of those visits will fade. I regret deeply that I didn't insist on bombarding the in-laws with my camera. I guess when it comes right down to it, I'm unreasonably shy about snapping away when I'm just coming into an environment. Now my family? They already know - expect - me to come with camera in hand, so though they may not be fans of my paparazzo persona, they accept it as Rachelle being Rachelle. I should've snapped more pictures. I should've insisted on grouping them together for a portrait or two. I should've snuck around a corner in stealth mode and just sniper fired snap shots. I should've... I didn't.

So... there isn't anything to write about. Nothing profound to say. So I'll retreat into what brings me a little peace in my otherwise tumultuous day.


Today's Texture Tuesday challenge was to incorporate the theme "do" with the texture Autumn Burst. First, I love the boldness of this texture offering by K.K. It's divine. I had a mediocre shot of a family of mushrooms (I'm thinking it's a new Smurf estate and condo offering that's not quite ready for market yet). Because I didn't have to worry about faces being distorted by the texture layers, I felt I had freedom to really apply them to the capture.

I adjusted the levels on the original image and chose to keep it on the darker side. I ran Pure PhotoShop Action's Brown Haze, which seems to really pull out the color I saw in the real mushroom collective. I used a "soft overlay" of the Autumn Burst in PS-CS5. I also added Break Free texture (at 35 percent) with "multiply."

I really liked the idea that the mushrooms were bursting from the ground (courtesy of the wet weather of late). Despite the carefully manicured lawn they appeared in, they were doing exactly what they wanted to where they wanted. Plus, their ability to break through the wood chips with complete abandon and freedom is always impressive.


Shared with Sweet Shot Tuesday @ My 3 Boybarians.

How exactly does one teach a child?

How exactly does one teach a child
About death
When the body can handle
No more
Of the pains of the world
The sadness
The turbulence of living
How exactly does one teach a child
That Grandpa is in heaven
And no
He cannot be fixed
Except by God
Who has chosen to keep him
In paradise
The place he’s earned with his Father
A place we cannot visit
(and this means he can’t be with your father – who is terribly said)
And yes, we may cry because Grandpa is gone
But we are happy for him
How exactly does one teach a child
That life is exciting
And fun
That we cherish every moment spent
With family,
With Friends,
Even with strangers who pause to say “hello”
But sometimes
We get sick
And our bodies need to rest
(we don’t wake up from death)
How exactly does one teach a child
That memories keep men alive
That love keeps their spirits strong
That even those who have gone home - -
Not to Grandpa’s house, baby, to God’s - -
Are with us still
Always
How exactly does one teach a child?

9.8.2011

{Sweet} Watkins Park Carousel

There's nothing quite like a carousel ride. It's a rush - mounting a horse or mythical creature as the music surges and you are thrust toward the decorated ceiling and slide down again. The world spins around you - family, friends, life itself a blur.

There is a frenzy of excitement as you whir around the circular path. The swelling melodies drown out the noise of everyday life - the idle conversations, the street noises. And then, as though melding with the sweet harmonies of the simple carousel soundtrack, laughter erupts.
[caption id="attachment_2203" align="aligncenter" width="700" caption="shared with Live Every Moment photo challenge: FAIR"][/caption]
You close your eyes, then. Allowing the swirling carousel to rock you with its undulating figures. You dance from within remembering sweet tasting cotton candy, holding hands with Mommy and Daddy, skipping along through county fairs and festivals without a worry or concern.

The music climaxes (too soon, it seems). The carousel spin slows to a stop. You are whisked back into reality - ushered through the "Exit here" swinging gate and into your everyday.

Oh, if only there were time and money for one more ride. If only.

Linking up with Sweet Shot Tuesday and Communal Global.

LEM: Animal Instincts

I mentioned in my Scavenger Hunt excuse that I was recently kidnapped and taken hostage at the Coursing Hounds Association of the Mid Potomac (CHAMP) competition in The Plains, Virginia. It's weird to say I was captive at such an event, because if you've ever been to an animal centered program like these luring trials, you know that it's more like being captivated by the immense love of the "owners" and their "pets." You might even realize (after watching the interactions of animals and humans) that the determining factors for deciding who is in charge are pretty skewed. These precious canines at the CHAMP event are loved, pampered, cherished by people who are totally devoted.

Luring isn't like dog racing. It relies on a dog's natural instincts to chase fleeing prey (in this case, three white trash bags). Wearing snazzy little racing vests in vibrant colors, the dogs give chase at the hollered, "Tally-ho!" of the luring officiant. They then run after the moving lure, turning here and there along the course.

I'm told by one of the veterans that the scoring is a bit subjective. There are points for maintaining chase, keeping close to the lure, and attacking the lure when it stops at the end of the course. Most dogs seemed to make it through 3/4 of the course before smelling something lovely and distracting near a horse jump along the way.

It was an interesting day. Despite the competition, everyone seemed so willing to educate the newbies (and we were so clueless that we really needed help).

Ya spent a little time hanging out with a new mama and her pups. "Look, she has nightnights!" Ya exclaimed as he observed her nursing her pups. At that point, he was hooked on the puppy playpen. I mean, they got "nightnights" - - and poor Ya is convinced that a mother's milk is a treasured drink. And that mama? She was a beautiful dog, who at one point took a break from motherhood to further her pro coursing career.

Oh my goodness, those pups! The cute quotient was far surpassed with those playful littles.

The wait for the practice runs was endless. Having been told to arrive at noon, it was painful to sit and wait for the coursing competitions and then the trials to conclude. What usually ends at 2 p.m. stretched beyond 5 p.m. But Mom was determined Dorado would get her chance to try out luring, so we stuck it out.

As Mom rattled off the names of the various breeds of dogs at the CHAMP event, I was again reminded of her passion for canines. She was meant to be a veterinarian, own a kennel, or do some other such dog-related career. And these were her people - these CHAMP parents - the kind who are passionate about their four legged family members.


Finally, it was over. The awards for best courser (by breed) were issued. The trials to test new competitors' instinct and interest in luring were completed and bright green ribbons were bestowed upon each successful pooch. The minivans, trailors, and wagons dwindled down to half dozen. Tents that once shielded participants from the glaring sun were gone. The whimpers, barks, and howls were mere echoes in memory.

And then it was Dorado's turn. We borrowed a sleek yellow racing jacket. Mom escorted Doh to the field. She looked at the officiant for instructions. She held loosely to Doh's slip collar and at the tuh of Tally-Ho!, released a very excited Dorado.

I admit it. I didn't think Doh would move, let alone hit warp speed as she trailed the lure. I figured she was cute in the jacket, we'd taken a few preparatory pictures, and we'd have a story of the beginning and ending of her luring career. I was so skeptical. I was so wrong.

Dorado took off after the lure and followed it around the bend. She turned with it as it zipped along. She kept her eyes trained on its path. And Mom squealed with delight, beamed with pride, and shook excitedly as her sweet Doh shined on the course.

So now, I'm told, Dorado has decided that anything white and flowing is free for the attack. It's just asking for her to give chase. It is demanding that she catch it - -even when the white, billowing thing she has spotted is part of a neighbor's beautiful sari taking flight on the wind of the morning. I suppose this means she'll be even more prepared for the next lure course event she attends?

Live Every Moment theme: animals
Show off your shot!