Who you gonna call?

I don’t write very often about my brother Joey, but I have to say that he is one of my favorite people. It was his birthday on Sunday and I wanted to write a story about him to share with you the happy go-lucky kid I grew up with. If you’ve ever met my brother, you know there is one story that has to be told before the others. One fascination my brother had as a little boy (and as a grown-up, let’s be honest) that stands above the rest.

My brother has always wanted to be a ghostbuster.

No, not just any ghostbuster. A Real Ghostbuster. (There seems to be a difference, if only in the minds of Saturday morning cartoon producers.) I don’t remember the first time he ventured into the world of Ghostbusting. I know that we were allowed to see the movie long before we probably should have. Let’s see…I know I didn’t see it when it came out in…ohmygoodness, 1984. Because I would have been five. Hmmm…I can picture us all sitting on the floor of the living room, my cousins, my sister, my brother…and Rhi might have been one-ish (no she wasn’t watching it). So let’s just say that makes me twelve. Joe would have been seven. Yeah, that seems about right. I remember so vividly, because we all argued over who got to be Peter Venkman. Who had to be Ray. Who was Egon. So on and so forth. We’d all yell out our lines. Joey could be anybody. He knew it all. He lived and breathed that movie.

But did the fascination with the movie come before the cartoon? I swear to god, in my brother’s life, this is the chicken or the egg question for to him, Ghostbusters is everything. The cartoon was just a part of it. He had the soundtrack to the movie and it was the only record my mom allowed him to put on by himself. (That rule was a little silly because it was the only album he ever wanted to play.) He would dance funky dances only seven-year-old white boys with no rhythm but a lot of heart could ever dance. He didn’t care – the music was all about his boys, his Ghostbusters, saving the world and having a kickass time doing it. So he learned to have fun.

Movie, cartoons, music…oh, and toys. I loved all the toys. So did he. And he had them alllll. The firehouse. The Ecto-1 car. All the playaction figures and hundreds of ghosts. And Slimer. My mom searched high and low across several cities and towns for that Slimer toy – and my mom is not one to shop or spend gas frivolously. A day or two before my brother’s birthday, she finally found him at a drugstore of all places. She baked a secret three-layer cake and topped it with the Slimer figurine, his arms outstretched and green “goo” frosting sliding down the cake. My brother’s face as we sang Happy Birthday and my mom carried in the cake was as close to pure happiness as I’ll ever see in this lifetime.

And then there was the wonderful sense of imagination that all of us kids inherited. Joey got his from all of the pretend-play Ghostbusters toys…and if that’s not where he got it, then he at least perfected it while playing with them. He had a trap, a proton pack, several nerf blaster thingies, and Egon’s ghost detector thingie. We all had fun playing with him, but my brother was obsessed. He and the neighbor boys logged hours busting ghosts. For his birthday, my mom even made him a jumpsuit just like the Ghostbusters wore. My brother wore that thing until it was several inches too short and my mother pried it away. What little boy do you know these days who plays anything other than video games?

So really, I believe it’s in all fairness when I say that my brother became the awesome, kind-hearted, hilarious root-for-the-underdog person he is all because of Ghostbusters. Happy Birthday, Joey!

Expect the unexpected.

You’d think I’d have learned this very important (and repetative) lesson by this point in my life as a mom. Reality TV show contestents might quake in their shoes at the mere thought of being told to “expect the unexpected.” We world-weary moms just sigh our world-weary sighs and move on with our world-weary days. Well. Usually we do. For some reason I forgot that I already knew that this weekend and instead was all, “What up with that?”

The weather, for instance, was all summery and on the brink of “Ladies and gentlemen, start your air conditioners!” But then it turned cold and rainy and (get this) frosty. I was baffled and angry at the nerve of the weather, changing on me like that. But then I remembered that it was my fault for moving all of the girls’ heavy sweaters into my closet. Silly mommy. At least they were still accessible and not yet in the attic!

Then there was the thing with the stores. I had to run some errands on Friday to pick up a birthday present for the next party my social butterflies will be attending, and a baby quilt for one of my fertile friends. (No, no one is actually pregnant yet. But if I put off working on the quilt until the announcement, I just know three of them will get pregnant at the same time and then I will have to choose whose baby I like best. For the price of one way-early baby quilt kit, I can avoid that. I think. I will still feel better when I’m a quilt or two ahead. Darn it, I’ve digressed.) I was looking for a particular quilt pattern that was supposedly hard to find, but it was a perfect fit for one of my friends. I didn’t think I’d have much luck there. The store was right next to a Barnes and Noble, however, so I thought I’d take a peek anyway. Don’t'cha know I found the hard-to-find quilt in two minutes but Barnes and Noble was out of the popular little girls’ story that I needed to pick up? Figures. I could have picked another book…if I hadn’t already picked up several accessories to go with the book in question. That means I get to make another trip across town later this week. Awesome.

Oh, and my doctor’s office is in on the whole “Gotcha!” theme we have going on. I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. MIT to make sure all of the asteroids leftover from my planet have passed from my lonely little universe. Er…or you could say that I have another X-Ray and consultation scheduled for Tuesday. Remember how I’ve been less than confident with the level of service I’ve received from his staff? Well, when I had received an automated phone call reminding me of my appointment, but not any instructions regarding any necessary preparations for the X-Rays, I went ahead and gave the office a call. Because, hello! if I can avoid the joyfest of laxatives and fasting that I so enjoyed last time, that would be lovely. Imagine my surprise when Dr. MIT’s receptionist assured me that I would not need to do anything other than show up for the X-Ray. (Note: if I show up for my X-Ray and it turns out that I’ve been once again led astray, I retain the right to remove this entry in my What Up With That? post.)

Finally, there was Bee. Oh, hush – sometimes a toddler’s mood can too be predictable! I swear! Just not Bee’s and just not on Saturday. We had the first of many, many birthdays parties that are currently looming. One of her best buddies from daycare was turning three and his mom had graciously included Gracie on the party invite. The party, by the way, was being held at a ginormous indoor arcade/eatery/funfest that didn’t feature any giant costumed mice. We were all stoked. So much so that the party was useful as a bribe all week (“You have to go to bed if you want to go to Friend’s birthday party tomorrow!” “You better stop whining if you want to go to the party!” Etc, etc). Unfortunately, the party was scheduled during Bee’s usual naptime. I expected high spirits all morning, followed by a crash (both literal and emotional) right around cake time. Of course, what actually happened was that Bee screamed all.morning.long. It was so far beyond her new routine of Whiney McFussypants that I even considered canceling our plans. Bee was slightly warm to the touch, but that could have been from all the screaming. I thought maybe she didn’t feel well. And even if she wasn’t under the weather, the meltdown would only get worse without a nap. But, I didn’t want to be the parent who broke yet another promise to her children, and so once Bee pulled it together (after I made her lie down with the lights off for 30 minutes), we headed out to the party. Where Bee was an angel. She ate cake, gave her friend hug after hug, and sat nicely in her chair for an entire hour, waiting to be let loose in the game room. It was a shame we had to leave early, because I was really enjoying that version of Bee. Thankfully, I turned her over to her dad for the rest of the weekend, so I didn’t have to find out how many other expectations were going to be blown out of the water.

And that’s why I’m sitting here, not expecting anything for the rest of the week. Except, maybe, to get reprimanded by X-Ray techs tomorrow.

The If Question with all the theft.

Why is it that so many of these If Questions have to do with illegal activity? Are we really all just hardened criminals underneath our sweet and sassy exteriors? I’m beginning to think yes. Yes we are.

If you could steal one thing in the world besides money (and get away with it), what would you steal?

So many answers, so little time. I would love to steal that dentist’s cabinet I found at the Antique Mall and use it to house my apothecary scrapbook supplies.

I would like to steal that gorgeous brown suede, double-wide couch from Ashley’s Furniture and install it in my living room. Of course, then I would only be interested in napping and would never remove myself from the depths of the couch again in this lifetime. That might pose a small problem when it comes to living the rest of my life. Meh. I would be sooooo comfortable.

I could steal the deed to my parent’s house back home so my fool father can’t try to up and sell it (or one of the lots) against the wishes of all of his children. Even though he hasn’t talked about this in a few months. But maybe that one strikes too close to home. (And is its own post altogether.)

Ooh, if we’re going to steal ownership of things, but not the actual possession, maybe I could steal Old Ironsides! I mean, c’mon, who wouldn’t love to own a boat?! Er…a ship!? The U.S.S. Constitution is the greatest ship in our nation’s fleet (even if she isn’t really, technically in active service). Still, it would be nice to say that boat was mine. (My precioussssss.)

We’re getting closer to my real answer. (Although that couch is looking mighty fine, I have to say.) I would probably steal the original copy of the Declaration of Independence. I don’t think I would steal the actual copy, per se. At the very least, I know it’s not coming back to my house; I mean, have you seen this place lately? We’d be Declaration-less in no time at all! It’d be left in one stack of papers or another, and pretty soon it, too, would disappear into all of the clutter. We can’t have that. Right now, the original Declaration is on display in the Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom in Washington, DC. Yes, you read that correctly: it’s on display. What are they THINKING?! Seriously! Leaving something so valuable out there for the whole world to steal. (Hey, I just did it, didn’t I?) So the first thing I’d do once I lay ownership would be to swap it out for a really good fake. Then I’d hide the original someplace really safe. The National Archives (away from the masses). The bunker where Dick Cheney lived for eight years. The depths of my new couch. Someplace where people just couldn’t get at it.

As for the why…I don’t really have a great answer. I love me some material comforts (have I mentioned that couch?), but I also love books and papers. And history and sentiment. Can you think of any paper, book, or document more sacred than the Declaration of Independence? Because I spent the entire morning trying to think of something better (the Magna Carta doesn’t count) and I couldn’t think of any. But if you do, let me know, because I might want to steal that instead.

Love shows up in the darndest places.

I have had Bee on my mind all week. Truth be told, aside from Gracie’s new rise-and-shine temper tantrums, Bee has been dominating the entire house this week. (Come to think of it, maybe that’s why she’s been so much on my mind.)I’ve decided there are many things about being three that drive me kinda crazy. Fierce independence that somehow she skipped over during her terrible twos. Laughing as she skips away, ignoring my request and her full name being bellowed behind her. The evolving sleep schedule, that somehow seems to be shortening with each approaching dawn. Opinions about EVERYTHING, oh yes she does. And the whining.

Oh, the whining! I feel like re-writing every Susan Boynton book out there. “The cow says Moo! The sheep says Baa! Three cranky 3-year-olds say Wah, wah, waah!” The crying is bad enough. It just causes every muscle in my body to tense up and my temper to shorten to a two-second fuse. Meh. That’s just mommyhood. What gets me is that Bee has this growing vocabulary and capacity to share her thoughts and yet when she starts with the whining, she’ll just cry and whine “Mooommmmy! Moooommmmy” over and over. On good mornings, I hold her hand and smooth her hair and calmly look her in the eyes and remind her to use her words (at least that’s why I say out loud). On my bad days, I might yell back, “What, what whaaaaaat?” Guess what kind of morning we were having today?

Ha ha! I tricked you! Today was actually a calm kind of morning, all because of a little heart of yogurt. I’ll tell you why. There are many things I really like about being three years old. Three is constantly seeking for approval and compliments, three is suddenly having a terrific sense of humor (and comedic timing), three is being able to play quietly with her sister for short periods of time (giving mommy a much needed break). And three is all about the manners. Every single time I hand Bee a napkin or a glass of milk or do any little thing, Bee pipe up with the cutest little “Tank you, Mom-meeee!”

This morning, despite the whining and the pallor of doom that had settled over the kitchen, Bee called me over to clean up her yogurt spill. (Chocolate yogurt. Very light blue jeans that were her last clean pair. We had our own Exxon-Casa de Katie spill going on.) Thing is, I swear one of the chocolate yogurt splatters was in the shape of a heart. (Insert perfectly edited photo of it here. You know. If I had that ability.)  The spontaneous yogurt heart made me pause and collect my calm. Bee’s sniffly “Tank you, Mom-meee,” sealed the deal. Grouchmeister or not, I love that little girl. Happy Love Thursday, everyone! May you find love in unexpected places today.

Idle hands.

Have you ever had one of those moments when you realize: Wow. I’ve really turned into a mom. I had one of those moments last night. Usually I’m overcome by a realization like that after I’ve soothed the girls back to sleep after a nightmare, or tended to a boo boo, or something else similarly magical. Last night, my Wow-I’m-a-Mom moment was much more ordinary.

I think I’ve mentioned that I was up late Sunday night finishing the baby blanket for Amanda’s baby shower. For all of my close friends, I cross-stitch a baby blanket. It takes me anywhere from 4-9 months, depending on the intricacy of the pattern and how much time I’m able to devote. It does seem the slightest bit dorky – a hot young single like me, cross stitching. Next thing you know, I’ll own a couple dozen cats – but the blankets are beautiful and come with the added bonus of keeping me busy while I watch television.

Ah, and there’s the catch. I started working on the blankets when I was watching football. It gave me something to do during all the dead time in between plays. Then it progressed to stitching while watching any number of shows (except Lost, because even the seemingly “dead time” means something on that show, or The Office because I would miss all of the pointed looks from the characters). Before I knew it, I was so used to working on this blanket or that blanket for all of my overly fertile friends that I lost any ability to just sit still and watch TV. Seriously. I can’t do it now; it’s painful.

But, as I’ve said, I finished my friend’s blanket earlier this week…and didn’t have time to pick up a new one. I was stuck at home with two hours of The Biggest Loser to watch and nothing to do. So I found a ball of yarn and my crochet hook and started making Gracie a doll blanket. Blankets (and scarves) are about the only thing I know how to crochet, and we don’t use too many scarves here in hell Texas. By the end of the two hours, I was three-quarters of the way through a nice Barbie blanket. That’s when I realized: crap, I’ve become my mom. Again. I had my feet propped up on the coffee table, instead of one foot tucked under me like my mom’s customary parlor-pose. And I had a glass of wine on the table instead of a cup of tea, but darn if I wasn’t her just the same, sewing in front of the television.

But if my girlies can walk into the room after a scary dream and be comforted just by the sight of me? Well, being one of those moms is okay by me.

We’ll love her, and squeeze her, and call her…

Remember all the cleaning and house rearranging and cooking and preparing for the baby shower? That is why I didn’t mind. Wow, what a party! Turnout was a little low for a work function, but we still had about fifteen ladies there and it made for a nice group. We’ve all known each other for awhile, which added a nice flavor to the round of games. Yes, even the games we chose were a great success…even though Bee won a bottle of wine. (Perhaps Mommy can substitute.)

The girls were, in fact, delightful. They were both quiet and shy at first. Then they quietly ate a plate of finger foods, and Bee drew pictures and helped “fill out forms” while I wrote down answers for a few of the games. Gracie latched on to my friend Jo. If Gracie wasn’t roaming around snapping pictures with my camera, she was sweet-talking Jo into playing a game with her. Or feeding her. Or <insert random four-year-old’s diversion here>.

Really, the girls surprised me with their picture-perfect behavior. Even when the Mommy-to-be opened her presents, Gracie and Bee calmly sat and watched. What toddler and preschooler do you know let someone open presents unassisted?! Perhaps they were taken by all the cute outfits and teeny, tiny little things that were opened and passed around. I tell ya, there was such a display of squeeling and oohing and ahhing…this baby simply can not get here fast enough or be loved more!

The only thing that didn’t happen at the shower that would have made it the awesomest.shower.ever was a big baby name reveal. That’s right. Mommy-to-be is keeping tight-lipped on her baby’s name. We know we’re welcoming a little girl, but beyond that, mum’s the word. What is with this new trend? It seems it’s the new thing to do. When my aunts were all expecting, we would hear potential baby names but not know the gender. Now, new parents are finding out the baby’s gender, but keeping the baby’s name under wraps! I suppose I can understand…to a point. Some people aren’t that shy about sharing their opinions if they don’t particularly care for the name you’ve picked out. It didn’t happen to me, but I can see how that would devastate a new mom!

Still. My friends and I threw a fab baby shower. AND I offered up my house (again). AND bribed my kidlets into behaving so I wouldn’t freak out the mom-to-be with what she had to look forward to. The very least she could do would be to tell me the baby’s name…Don’t you think?

You enjoy the party; I’ll enjoy the clean.

Whew. It’s been a few days! No, there was not a catastrophe at Casa de Katie (for once, although I’m not ruling it out [hear me, O Gods of Karma? I am NOT tempting you]). Nothing blew up (although the lawn mower did start smoking when it ran out of gas. Whoops). No appliances were harmed (just ignore that disturbing whirring noise coming from the DVD player). No, I’ve been busy careening around the house like a whirling dervish, trying to clean for the baby shower I’m hosting tonight. And lemme tell ya – that’s a treat when you’ve got two “helpful” little kidlets under five running around underfoot.

Still, despite my darlings’  best efforts to drive me out of my mind, Operation: Company’s Coming was successful. The house is (mostly) clean. The toys are gathered, the living room is rearranged for maximum seating, the kitchen was scrubbed and the table is set. I vaccuumed, I cleaned the girls’ room, I scrubbed floors on my hands and knees. I even busted my lungs last night blowing up 25 balloons to decorate under the table. Everything looks lovely. And on top of all of that, I was up way past my bedtime last night to finish cross-stitching the baby blanket I’ve been working on for five months. I thought my friend was going to have to unwrap it and give it back for me to finish! Thankfully, it’s stitched, laundered and dried and everything is picture perfect. Now I just have to trust the children to behave tonight so Amanda doesn’t leave wondering what in the world she’s gotten herself into.

I’m sure it will be fine! And better than that – fun! Let’s just hope something (wonderfully) bloggable happens because how many words can you drag out of: “all I did this weekend was clean?”

Friday Meme: Inside My Actors Studio

So last night I was planning on finding my If Question from my Great Big Book o’ If Questions, but The Ex flaked out on getting the girls, so my whole night was turned upside down. So. No If Question. BUT! I found another meme that struck my fancy! Have you ever watched Inside the Actors Studio? I used to watch it quite frequently in my life B.C. (Before Children). These days I don’t have time to throw on the television on a late Sunday afternoon. And even if I did, the stories – while fascinating – are not always children-friendly. But the point is, that at the end of every interview, host James Lipton always asked his guest the same ten questions. It was by far the most interesting part of the show. Here are my answers:

What is your favorite word?
Wicked.

What is your least favorite word?
Dyke. It sounds so vulgar and full of hate.

What turns you on [creatively, emotionally, spiritually]?
You mean besides alcohol? Heh. Making people laugh. Being complimented. Knowing the correct answer off the top of my head.

What turns you off?
People without common sense or decency. People who are proud of their bigotry, who think hatred and exclusion are cool. And Yankee fans.

What is your favorite curse word?
“Oh holy hell.” I had been saying it for quite awhile before I realized I picked it from from John Spencer’s character Leo McGarry on The West Wing.

What sound or noise do you love?
My text message alert. Or the theme to NFL football: Dunh dunh dunh dunh….dun-dun, dun-dun… (Pssst…do you know how hard that is to type out?!)

What sound or noise do you hate?
I was going to say nails scraping down a blackboard, but I got the goosebumps so bad just thinking about it that I couldn’t stop shaking. So I’ll say the sound of a newborn crying. I’ll go from zero to stressed in about half a second. My insides twist up and my entire body tenses.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A genealogist or historian, specializing in 19th century Massachusetts small town history. (I’m sorry, was that too specific?)

What profession would you not like to do?
Middle school math teacher. All those young people with their hormones and their drama…and all those numbers. Which is worse?

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
“I told you not to worry.”

There you go folks. What do you think? How would YOU answer some of these questions?

The love that remains the same.

One of the perks of this whole time change thing is that it’s dark outside when we have to get up in the morning. The girls – Bee, especially – are fascinated that we’re up when it’s still dark outside. “Almost late?” Bee still asks, confused. “No, it’s just really early. The sunshine isn’t awake yet,” I remind her every morning.

When we pour ourselves and all of our accoutrements into our Zippy Red Jeep and head off to daycare, work, and the rest of our day, it’s still dark outside. I love that the sun isn’t in my eyes. Gracie loves the new routine for an entirely different reason. “Mommy, I can see the moon!” she exclaimed in rapture. And as if that wasn’t already the height of cool, “and it’s following us, Mom! It’s following us! Wow. The moon must really love me if he is following only me!”

The way she so easily gave herself over to the magical belief that the moon was there to adore and protect her made me smile (a rare treat so early in the morning). I remember riding home in the car from my aunt and uncle’s house when I was a little girl and telling my mom the same thing. I was enchanted just as my little girl is. To this day, the sight of the moon on a clear night has a calming effect on me. I feel like she is there, awake, watching out for me. My Mother Moon Goddess, as the Ya-Yas would say. It’s the kind of love and magic that lasts throughout generations, I guess.

Happy Love Thursday, everyone! May love shine down on you today and bring a smile to your face.

They’re kids – let them act like it!

I had no idea that my casual mention of Gracie’s cap-and-gown pictures in yesterday’s blog would create such a controversy! Here’s how I see it.

 

Gracie is graduating from pre-school this spring and will start kindergarten in the fall. It’s a very exciting time! Gracie is more than ready. She knows all her letters, the sounds they make, and is even starting to read (my girl is hooked on phonics, yes she is. Also? She has an overdeveloped sense of curiosity and a hatred of feeling left out of things). Gracie is well-adapted socially. She can’t wait to turn five and go to her “five-year-old school.” She points out the elementary school she’ll attend every time we pass it. “There it is! My five-year-old school!” Of course, she also thinks she’s moving in. (Perhaps I should embrace this penchant for boarding school? Ahem.) The point is that we’re all very excited. But apparently not more than her daycare.

 

A few weeks ago, the girls brought home sign-up sheets to have their pictures taken at school. I signed them up for individual photos, sibling photos…and Gracie’s sheet said she was eligible to have her picture taken in a cap and gown, too. And not just any cap and gown, this was fancy polyester. I thought they were taking this who “leaving-preschool” thing a little too far, but just because I let her take the photo didn’t mean I had to buy the photo. So I let her do it. And the pictures came out great!

 

So where’s the hang-up, you ask? I think the whole thing is being blown way out of proportion. She’s starting kindergarten. We’ll cheer and snap pictures and maybe weep a tear or two on the DAY SHE ACTUALLY STARTS! But to have a full blown take-pictures and hold an invitation-only type big to-do over finishing pre-school? Talk about made-up holidays! I could see maybe having a small, 10-minute ceremony with construction-paper hats with cookies and juice afterwards, but that’s about it. My sister had a pre-school graduation just like that and it was lovely and very age-appropriate. Anything else is just ridiculousness. Let’s teach the kids to celebrate actual accomplishments…not just making it through another calendar year. (Because that is totally not the same as getting a glass of wine at the end of a work day. Just saying.)

 

Look: should she be taught to recognize milestones? Yes. Should we equate pre-school with the same significance as a high school graduation just because the munchkins look adorable in caps and gowns? Okay, maybe that’s taking it a bit far, but I don’t think by much. Let them have their moment, but don’t start diluting the real fun of what’s to come. I promise you the little girl who was so excited to find a chunk of concrete for her treasure box will be just as happy with a paper cap and a computer-generated diploma – or even just a party with sugar-laden treats.

 

Because seriously – is anything better than keeping life simple and full of sugar?