April 29, 2011

Swooning.

My friend hosted an English tea party (with real scones and lemon curd - oh, the wonder!) and wedding-watching extravaganza on Friday. I care not how shallow it may be...it was an AWESOME wedding. Loved the dress, loved the uniforms, loved the yellow, loved the tiara, loved the long walk down the aisle, loved the look of relief on their faces afterward, loved the flyover, loved the flower girl with her hands over her ears, and the two kisses. Lovely all the way around. Later I watched it on the internet with three of Princess Catherine Elizabeth's namesakes. We pulled out pictures from our 1999 trip to London, pointing...there we are at Westminster Abbey, there we are in front of Buckingham Palace! They asked to see my wedding gown (under the bed? what's it doing there, Mama?), which we pulled out, gently touched and ooohhed and ahhheed over. I was not brave enough to try it on...I might have broken down in tears if I wasn't able to zip it up (a most likely scenario). Big Stuff queried whether she could wear it at her own wedding one day. Talk about breaking into tears! Of course she had to throw in "IF I get married..." I think she and her sister have made some kind of pact about growing old together as spinster sisters/farmhands on their own farm, where they have already named all the horses and dogs and divvied up the daily chores. What need have they of husbands? To kill the bugs, I wonder? Nahhhh, peace and harmony will reign supreme on Biggie Small's farm. We hope the same is true in the English cottage housing two sweet newlyweds. Bless their hearts!

Happy Wedding Week

Pip, pip...Let's go all out, I say...this week, I shall be boycotting any news of Congress, budgets, war criminals and the state of public education. I will accept any news of wedding gowns, jelly molds, Corgies, guest lists, Bucklebury, tea, the line of succession and mementos bearing the British flag. Bad news is like the laundry. It'll still be there next week.

Swift Justice

I'm being very bad tonight. I'm playing hooky and also making these evil and yummy little guys for my children's dinner. Instead of a nutritionally balanced, homecooked family meal (the usual, I swear), I'm letting everyone fend for themselves.

I remember when I was a little girl, my babysitters took me to the store once to buy some cans of Sketti-gos for our dinner. They tried to get me to eat them cold right out of the can, saying it's how all the cool kids ate them. I refused. My mother worked for a doctor, and I well knew that you should not eat things without cooking them first. Bacteria, you see. Quite the square, even at the age of 8. Of course I had no idea of those wonderful things called preservatives that miraculously keep canned items edible 100 years thence. Later, in the safety of my mother's kitchen, I asked her if I could eat Sketti-gos out of the can. She said yes, and I tried it for the first time. So sublime it was I may have refused to eat them any other way for awhile.

As I made them for Big Stuff and Small Fry tonight, I guiltily wondered if half a can would be enough for each child's sad little supper while at the same time sneaking a big yummy spoonful for myself right out of the pot. Justice is swift, however. I totally burned my mouth, thereby destroying every last taste bud and my own leftover bowtie pasta dinner, which I had intended to eat cold right out of the tupperware. So bad.

Recovery of the Heart

I almost lost this picture. When my computer crashed in the summer, along with it went pictures taken over three years. Long story short, Cutie Pie is my hero and the Saver of This Picture. Look at those cheeks, look at those sweet pudge-alicious arms. Ahhhh. That is my aunt, by the way, smooching on Small Fry. That is my parents' backyard. The occasion was Big Stuff's 4th birthday. The other picture saved from this day shows her in a Snow white costume licking the icing from her birthday cake.

See how well I remember it? But memory is faulty, and you can't show it to your kids when they grow up. You never know when the memory hard drive in your head will crash. Better to have the pictures. Backed up. In four different places. Baby smooching and Snow White backyard birthday parties will never happen again, you know. Thanks for the memories....

Southern Snow Bunnies

Rain boots, pajamas under blue jeans, sleds of all varieties + a big hill = southern-style snow days. Now this is something we won't soon forget.

Raw

I suppose it is inevitable. If you live long enough, your holidays begin to be affected by tragedy and loss. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's: When we're children, they are characterized by pure excitement, anticipation and joy. They tend take on a deeper meaning each year, like the year when I saw Mary with a new heart as my baby jumped inside of me at the sound of the Hallelujah chorus. The holidays may even spark a new, raw emotion, which you are unable to name. Three years ago, our Thanksgiving brought news of cancer returning with a vengeance. Our Christmas was characterized by a final meal and one last Christmas tree, followed by a pain and suffering we had never known before. Our New Year's Day was a strange juxtaposition of a new start and a last goodbye. Today, one dear friend faces the first Christmas without her mother. Another gives her 4-year-old early Christmas gifts to help cope with a shocking diagnosis of cancer. Another stands by her family in a hospital room, savoring every smile and sign of appetite. At our church, we are reminded that human beings are curled under bridges, in below-freezing weather, hoping that they will wake up to see another day. This is hard. This is more than we can take. But this is the greater meaning and what inspires me and infuses my hurting heart with hope:

Graceful strength in the face of tremendous loss
Faith and trust in a big God to do big things for a little girl
Unwavering loyalty to family, implicit trust in God's plan
God moving in the lives of thousands of volunteers and setting compassion's fire within their hearts

And, AND... an improptu manger scene, now built in my playroom...where Barbies and Polly Pockets are dressed as wise men (and women), shepherds and angels. Where the baby's gifts are Chuck E. Cheese coins. Where the Littlest Pet Shop animals keep watch over a silent, amazing night of long ago when God came down and walked among us - Immanuel. This is why Christmas belongs to children. Excitement, anticipation and joy. They've got it all, and they're willing to share. Merry Christmas!

Please Pray for a Beloved Family Friend!

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