For Grandmommy, I shall steal.

I told my friend CCC, when I commented on this directorial masterpiece, that something about slide shows set to music makes me misty. But give me productions with MY sweet boys featured prominently and we might just have real tears! We were only looking at HYDRILLA for goodness sakes. It's not like they were taking their first steps or accepting a diploma! Hydrilla and wetlands. The occasional fish and SCUBA diver. And burbling springs. But, I love the music and the friendly faces and the fun memories. And the jazz hands! I think jazz hands should make one weepy, don't you?
Thankfully, all those crazy geese who used to chase your tail were gone the way of Ralph the Swimming Pig ... to a nice farm in the country, I'm sure.
I was proud to share lunch at my old college haunt, Grin's, with my boys and friends. (Mama, remember the first time we climbed that parking lot hill in the car? And then carefully tip-toed down? "Don't act like this is hard," I probably threatened. "And for PETE'S SAKE, don't FALL!!")
It's not as tho' I live hundreds of miles away and can't visit the former-SWT often. But, for some reason, I haven't. So, the drive thru campus was nostalgic. The company superb. And the day, special.
So, for Grandmommy, I break a commandment and steal CCC's video diary.
Thanks CCC!
You make us look really good.
The Short One is THRILLED to finally be on "television!"

07.08.09

My funny friend Katie Lou once vowed aloud to photograph her December baby in ANYTHING but red velvet. ANYTHING. Katie Lou, a December baby herself, comprised albums heavy w/ red velvet dresses. My late-Oct. birthday? I, myself, had one or two costume parties.
For my baby boy who was due and born just days after Independence Day?
At 8 a.m.?
On a Monday?
There will always be fireworks.
Cake plates and napkins with stars and stripes.
Party favors of glow necklaces and sparklers.
There will probably be sand.

There will be beach breezes.

Suntans and blond hair.

Powdered donuts and cupcakes w/ sprinkles for breakfast on the beach.
Ice cream man!
Jeep rides.
Outdoor showers.

Outdoor showers WITH fireworks exploding overhead?? (Well, your mommy thought THAT was damn cool.)

You are funny and you are fearless.
You are 53 pounds of sweet stubbornness.
You have always been big according to those outdated growth charts at your pediatrician's office. But, you are still small to me.
You surround yourself with friends but you are content to be alone.
You love your dog.
You love your mother.
Some days ... in that order.
You need your brother.
Your Dad? You're his biggest fan.
You have big shoes to fill.
We'll help you fill them.

All you have to do is ask.
Because if we suggest it? You're never ready.
You love music.
Live music.
Loud music.
The idea of being ON TV.
You love clothes.
New clothes.
Cool clothes.
And shoes?
You bet.
Be still my heart!

The possibilities are endless.
Those waves seem huge when you're The Short One.
But you take 'em all on.
With the yellow key.
The fastest one.
Since ... as long as I can remember.
Skipping all the steps.
From start alllll the way to the finish.
No in-between.
"Mommy, do kids ever skip grades in school?"
"Yes, I suppose they do. Why?"
"Well, I want to skip a grade."
"What grade would you skip to?"
"The LAAAAAAST one."
Like I said.
From start to finish.
All at once.
Just take your time.
Because seven years seems like last week.
Or last night.

Happy 7th Birthday!!
Seven is SUCH a lucky number.

Lopsided.

Bless his sweet little heart for FINALLY giving me something to post. I was determined not to talk about the heat. Goodness knows it's been hot, but it's June in Tejas and our a/c chugs along. I was determined not to talk about the late hour we've been waking on lo' these summer morns. Or the hours we've been going to BED. Mercy me, the Netflix Queue is a dream come true really ... all those INSTANT movies ... but I am LOSING some serious sleep! (I think I'm the only human who had NOT tuned in to Best of Show. Holy COW! Loved it. Dan in Real Life? Even better. Shopgirl? Quirky in sort of an icky and expected way, but I did LOVE Claire Danes' frocks.) I was determined not to talk about marathon training. CHOKE! What was THAT I just said?? Ack!!! WHAT marathon training? I crack myself up. So take a gander at The Short One minus a big ol' front tooth. It's just "preshush," really, the way he blows air thru it as he talks. He pulled it himself. "Well it was just hanging there and I couldn't eat my pizza." The day had finally come.

The day we saw "UP" wearing 3D glasses made me laugh so hard at the uncertain excitement in their faces, for fear of not knowing what would FLY off the screen, and the HILARITY of those ugly dang horn rims that I forgot how much we paid for matinee tickets and glasses. Movie was worth it. Touching, yes. Tears, yes. The beauty and loft of those multi-colored balloons just made me smile. But those GLASSES ... bwah ha ha ...

And THEN, THEN ... The Short One insisted on wearing them into Vacation Bible School the next morning expecting his group of 2nd grade "frogs" to "pop out" in front of his very eyes. I could not dissuade him. (I did not try very hard.) And when there was no popping? He left them on. Singing and dancing. In his glasses.

And, THEN, THEN, THEN, just the other day 'round 'bout 5:31 p.m., my Little Vanilla Bean, who also answers to Puddin' Pop but looks here like a Raspberry Parfait (or Sorbet ... or Beret!) and who I prefer to call Moonbeam ... turned one. She's perfect.


Moonbeam, who some call Monkey, Princess Grace and/or Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love with a Pink Bow on Top, loves her Grandmommy, who I call Mama. And I love 'em both.

Summer is just peachy. How in the world are you?

A step forward.

On the last day of school when the elementary community gathers 'round the flag pole for one last lowering of the flag, singing of the school song, and, inexplicably except it's tradition, dancing of the chicken dance, The Ones Big and Short seldom do more than stand silently. And sweat.
It is the hottest day of every memory of mine for every year I've been alive. (There was the time I passed out at Aquarena Springs in the middle of summer, but that was largely because I was an 8-year-old hell bent on wearing my new denim culottes and brown, winter, zipper boots.) The chicken dance/flag pole ceremony is the hottest in RECENT memory. Every year.
Today, my schedule was as precise as a neurosurgeon. The traffic cooperated w/ my last day of school errands. The traffic lights cooperated. My sweet hair stylist cut my hair in under an hour, which NEVER happens cuz she's so good. I dropped stuff off. I picked stuff up.
And I made it to the flag pole on time.
Without my camera.
Aside from pictures taken in the parish hall of our church, which are horrid shots simultaneously over-flashed and badly lit, of blurry images of green stage carpet, white tile floor and fluorescent lights, the chicken dance/flag pole pictures are the worst. Lots of asphalt, tree tops, blurry faces in motion and The Ones Big and Short. Standing. Still. And sweating.
Today, as brand new 2nd and 5th graders, they danced. They smiled. They do-si-do'd w/ their buddies. They interacted w/ their teachers. They hung their sweaty arms around the sweaty necks of their friends.
I have no pictures of the day they decided to sweat AND dance.
I have overloaded backpacks that need to be purged.
I have lunch boxes that need to be trashed.
I have water bottles that need to be scalded.
I have two PRIMO report cards. Richly deserved. And rightly earned.
I have boys who need hair cuts.
I have a list of chores and things to do and see.
I have summer.
We might be sweaty.
But, I'll take pictures.

Determination

When The Short One was just shy of four, our family registered for a short bike ride and hoisted him into the "baby seat" on the back of his daddy's bike. The Short One resented this act.
"I wanna ride my OWN bike."
"You'll be ready for a long bike ride just as soon as you learn to ride w/o training wheels."
"I CAN ride w/o training wheels."
"Wellll, not yet, but soon. Very soon."
"But, I COULD. If you'da let me!"
His Dad, who prides himself on teaching wee ones to cycle, didn't think he was ready.
I didn't think he was ready.
The Short One KNEW he was ready.
He endured the 6.2 miles in the disgraceful baby seat and bobble head helmet and chanted from the back seat of the car on the way home, "We get home. You take my baby wheels off. Right? Right?? Right Daddy? Baby wheels OFFFFFFF!"
His daddy did.
The Short One did.
Ride his bike w/o training wheels at 3.75 years.
He is younger than all his classmates.
It is HARD to not compare his status on all things academic and social because of his age. But, like riding the bike w/o the Baby Wheels, he is fiercely determined. Fiercely goal-oriented. Fiercely undaunted. Fiercely intent. Fiercely "angst-free." And due in HUGE part to THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH GLOWING ADJECTIVES IN THE WORLD THAT MEAN FIERCELY TALENTED Teaching Team in school this year and last, he is fiercely confident.
And fiercely innocent.
And blissfully happy.
Thank God.


Can't you just tell from his stance?

"Mama ... dig out the sunscreen cuz we're goin' SWIMMIN!" For the first time this season.


Walking in fins? Ain't no big thing. He can climb stairs in fins! Backward!

We did that bike ride again this year. He rode his OWN bike. With his own number. In his own jersey and padded pants. And other gear. Oh, the cute.



He left the house wearing gloves, glasses and bib number. He agonized on the way to the start whether to put his jelly beans in his back jersey pocket or the pouch on his bike. In the end, it didn't matter. He ate 'em all before we started peddling.



"I'm riding so fast I'm flapping," he said. This was an OFFICIAL ride photo. Good thing he slowed down and smiled so they could catch him on film. I told him to wave. He thought it better to "look busy." And he does.


He learns from his mama that rides are all about the food and the fun. It's a party, afterall. Right after this shot was taken, his big brother missed a turn and rode an extra 25 miles before we tracked him down with the help of a SAG wagon. "Those were some big hills," his brother said.

His daddy agreed.


During Track and Field Day/Week at school, there wasn't a child, it seemed, who did NOT have a concession stand Ring Pop attached to his or her finger. They all looked like they had pacifiers in place. Some bought more than others.

The Short One started the week w/ $7 in his concession stand spending account. It IS, after all, a PE fundraiser, so who am I to talk budgets and over-spending? And he did his best to spend it all on the first day. He emerged from the school on the afternoon of Track and Field Day One with: a sweatband around his melon, tattoos on both cheeks, a Ring Pop on his finger, two bottles of Gatorade peeking from his heavy book bag, "crispy treats for our pantry, Mommy," several bouncy balls, and a FIERCELY DYNAMIC set of bunny ears on his head, all the while working a weird "Japanese Yo Yo" thing made up of two drumsticks held together w/ string and a green Sippy Cup looking ornament in the middle.

"It was the BEST day," he said. "And I bought the last one of THEEESE," he said as he motioned at me w/ the Yo Yo Thing.

Why the bunny ears?

Those aren't bunny ears, silly Mommy, those are LISTENING EARS. A first grader wears those on the most important of classroom occasions. And today it was for a group discussion on respect. Most first graders are done w/ all the big lessons of the school year, so he was wearing his listening ears home.

The thing is, for all his "bigness" and determination and seriousness and confidence and NO BABY WHEELS stance about most things in his young life, his innocence and fierce indifference can still ROCK a set of Funny Bunny Ears.

Ah, angst.

Today is Symphony Day. It ranks right up there with Ballet Day. A day in fourth grade when the music teacher sends home instructions to "dress nicely."
A day The Big One would rather spend in bed.
Or at least in track pants.
Since his toddler days when I promised my chubby, sweet boy I would limit trademarked apparel festooned w/ dinosaurs and Superheroes and movie characters to PJs only, I have tried to "class up" his wardrobe, i.e. not embarrass him w/ Christmas sweaters or Scooby Doo sweatshirts or turtlenecks w/ cartoon-y trucks and trains. Or footy PJs in size 14.
This is evidenced by the much too expensive board shorts we chose together yesterday. "I don't know why swimsuits are so expensive," he said upon returning to the car. "You're under the water the whole time anyway." I'm thinking he could've shared this nugget of wisdom IN THE STORE, but by this time I was so happy to have a suit we agreed upon and he was so relieved to be OUT OF THE PUBLIC EYE SHOPPING WITH HIS MOM that I would've paid for the matching hat!
But, I DO BELIEVE "dress nicely" means "Your mama dresses you funny," in fourth grade vernacular.
"I AM NOT WEARING THIS SHIRT."
"That's fine. YOU choose. I'm just getting you started since you seem unwilling to get off the couch this morning."
"Fine."
"Please get dressed."
"FINE."
"Please GET dressed."
"I hate symphony clothes."
"Everyone has been asked to 'dress nicely'. You won't be the only one in clean jeans. And SOMEONE will wear a tie. Promise. You want a tie?"
"Fine."
"Please get DRESSED."
"Fine. But I'm not wearing dress socks."
Complicate this already embarrassing morning by having to heft a watermelon into the school for track and field day. I walked paces in front of The Big One and tried not to act like it was a heavy melon.
I offered to let The Big One carry it.
He refused.
And rolled his eyes.
And smirked.
"Fine."
And dandy.

A post in which I try to watch my tongue.

Today, in an early morning meeting, I released the location of this cool boots blog to a group of friends and fellow volunteers who didn't know I blogged and who I hold in the highest, HIGHEST regard, to say the very, VERY least.

Hello, MAMA ... there might be more than one of us (you) reading this today, so behave yourself ... 'k?

OH, and all I could consider as I'm rolling off this blog's whereabouts is ... HOLY CRAP I said ASS in my last post. ASS! And I was talking about my CHILD!!

So, I will behave myself today. And say, "Welcome. If you're really out there."

***

But, if I had been writing this POST yesterday, say, before I put on my party dress and used my big girl words, I would've said loudly and clearly that the staff at RunTex ... and one tall, sweaty individual in particular ... can KISS my ass!! Today's events at "Austin's Premiere Running Store" go way, way, down in my Customer Service Abominations Rolodex that lives on a desktop in my mind. It occupies a VERY large piece of my cerebral workspace. Its cards are all categorized by service and specialty. There are sub-categories w/ colored tabs and there is liberal use of highlighting. Oh, and each card is also written in blood.
There are groups of restaurants where I no longer dine. (TX Land and Cattle ... tho' I've had to relent since it makes Mama and Axe happy.) Shoe stores where I no longer shop. (Stride Rite.) Major department stores where even coupons won't lure me in. (Foley's. And Macy's, until I met Gary in menswear who acted even a little interested. And even convinced me to buy a purple shirt and tie for The Tall One, who was even convinced to WEAR it. By me.) Grocery stores that insist on stocking at peak shopping times or won't take my word on sale items that ring up full price.
And, while it may sound as tho' I'm a real retail tyrant, I'm not. I'm friendly and good-natured and NOT trying to take food from the mouths of the employee's babes. I'm NOT the lady in HEB who tries to by $116 worth of groceries for $.39 w/ coupons and insist my groceries be sacked alphabetically in eco-friendly shopping bags. I am as likely to write a letter of commendation to a manager whose employee excels as I am to write a letter of disgust. I like to shop locally and won't ask that my debit card be scanned as a credit card in those shops because it costs those Moms and Pops more. I DO NOT try to explain to the checker in Wal-Mart that her Express Lane sign should read "Fewer than 20 items" instead of "20 items or less." I heard a man do that last week and I swear his grammatical life must be EXHAUSTING.
I WANT the local retail and food scene to thrive. And I AM DOING MY PART to see that it does. But, Paul Carroza, for all the good he's done to keep Austin fit and promote good health and well-being will not shod my running feet ever again.
My entrance to that store this morning was met w/ stares and questioning glances. I really thought I'd walked in on something I shouldn't have. A staff meeting? A hold up? Was I unzipped? I couldn't tell who worked there and who didn't. And largely because everyone was sweaty. And breathing heavy. And STARING. I've been there many times, but it was NEVER this weird. Or sweaty.
I made it over to shoes. Folded my arms and shopped the selection for a good 5 minutes before I finally made eye contact w/ the aforementioned tall, sweaty individual, who had made his way from the men's room to the cash register.
"Do you work here?"
"What do you need?"
"Well, shoes. And I also need your help and patience," I explained.
It'd been a couple of years since I'd been measured and fitted for running shoes. In between big races Academy and other sporting goods stores suffice just fine for a novice like me. But, since this was my second step of marathon training (The first is the trainer and physical therapist who is booked for later this month.) it was a chance for me to ask about more than just shoes. He might've also "sold" me into a training or running group. Books. Clothes. Hats. Nutrition. Hydration. Endless possibilities for a marathon neophyte.
"What size?"
"Hmmm. I usually wear an 8.5 in running shoes, but ..."
"Give me your foot."
And here I have to tell you how SWEATY and SMELLY he was. ROLLING down his face and neck sweaty! Wet hair sweaty! Smelly sweaty. Which I don't mind on the trail or in a race, but IN MY FACE when I'm NOT sweaty and smelly, I DO mind.
He measured w/ indifference and brought out a size smaller than I normally wear.
"Do you have any socks I could use to try on wi..?"
"Go over there and get you some."
"Those are new. Don't you have a bin of ANYTHING I can try on wi ..."
"No."
He never moved from his seat. Never stood to help. Never stood to make the sale. Just sat there. Hairy and sweaty. And smelly.
I dug around in my purse for a sock. (I also have a ruler and a t-shirt in there. Just like Michelle Pfeiffer in One Fine Day.)
I put on the shoe and started to lace.
"Is there any particular way I should lace them based on my foot type, arch, support, stability? Anything?"
"What? You want me to lace them for you?"
At this point, I wanted to see how far he'd go ... or not go.
"Yes. Lace them." I made him tie me a bow.
They felt snug. And at this point another sweaty man started a conversation w/ my salesidiot and MY sweaty salesidiot never looked my way again.
"They feel snug. I usually wear an 8.5."
"Well, we have those too. Plenty of them. In the back."
Sitting.
Sweating.
Smelling.
Not offering to fetch the bigger size OR justify the need for the smaller size.
And talking FULL ON to the guy who ISN'T TRYING TO BUY A $135 PAIR OF RUNNING SHOES.
My phone rang.
I feigned emergency. (I could've gotten pissy about his service to his sweaty face. But, he wasn't worth my time.)
Took off the shoes.
Took off my socks.
Put them back in my purse.
And drove a few blocks to Rogue Running. Where the nicest guy w/ the finest scented hair gel or deodorant or cologne or whatever it was it wasn't SWEAT sold me the prettiest pair of Asics Gels in bright white and orange. I tried on NINE pair of shoes. I have VIDEO of me running in each of them. I have a FILE. He offered me a coupon for free socks. A brochure for running groups. A COLD BOTTLE OF WATER.
A bin of CLEAN socks for trying on. And a bin for DIRTY socks once I was done.
He called me by name.
He didn't try to up-sell me.
He treated me like a pro.
But he knew I wasn't.
It took 40 minutes.
And neither one of us broke a sweat.
Go there.