A Halloween Moment

Another Hallow's Eve done and Snickered away.  Frozen Snickers, that is.  I tossed one in the Frigidaire for later consumption.  To be had AFTER the entire tray of brown rice sushi from Kroger; the mineral water and the honey wheat beer; a sample of each mini-candy bar in our arsenal, au naturel; a carrot AND a handful of whole grain Pringles dipped in my daughter's onion dip; that barely-there slice of Red Baron frozen pizza; a wee shot of a custard-style drink reminiscent of egg nog; and sometime BEFORE a cupcake from our neighbors, topped with two of those candy corn-flavored pumpkin-shaped candies, and the four pizza bites I tossed back for good measure.

I was slightly hungry.  At least until that tray of rice-wrapped shrimp with mayo sauce wriggled its way down my gullet -- the rest was purposeful overkill.  After all, the fishies might get lonely!  I'd worked up an appetite, what with all of that last-minute activity to create a festive trick-or-treating atmosphere for the costumed kiddies who annually cruise our cul-de-sacs in search of sweets and treats.  Last year, I discovered a clearance bin of packaged fake spider webs.  They came home with me.  My kids helped me adorn the bushes and house . . . it was all so coo-o-l.  A black light from Home Depot helped funkify things, reflecting in that almost magical way off all things white, including the costumes.  I was hooked!  next year would be even better.  But NOT costlier.

This year, I invested in four bags -- two white, one green, one black -- of the incredible stretching web at a total of eight bucks and enlisted the reticent assistance of my son.  In a rapid flurry of search and create, I demanded creativity and action out of us.  "C'mon!  Think.  What can we use?  Whatever we have.  Let's put it together!"  My kids may be of the opinion that I went a bit manic in my hasty efforts.  It felt a bit like one of those timed-challenge reality shows.  You know the ones where the contestants have to shop, design, display, and use their spaces or foods or products with a few hours or a day or a weekend?  Things get a bit crazy in the making, but it pays off in the end.  And no one fell off the ladder!

We raked a generous pile of fall leaves onto the sidewalk to create crunch beneath the feet of our candy-seekers.  We spun webs from the house to the bushes to the redbud tree, spanning heights and dropping low enough to coerce the taller walkers into ducking.  I transformed a fuzzy black scarf into a spider hiding in the fern.  A military jumpsuit crammed with sweatshirts and blankets, dressed in a Bronco jersey, cleats, and a helmet, kept vigil in a rocking chair near the driveway.  We wrapped strings of orange lights on the river birch. The giant Pink Panther of Zachary's historical ring-toss fame several years back occupied another rocking chair leading up to the front door.  Several monkey teddy bears of varying sizes found their ways into the limbs of several trees on the footpath.  For the second year in a row, my daughter and her boyfriend carved up our pumpkin, creating a classic candlelit jack-o-lantern for display in our whimsical wonderland.

And the visiting kids had a blast.  Touching the stuffed animals; reaching for the gauzy film of the 'cave' they were entering.  The parents complimented the decor.  One harried mom and a lone cowboy dad found themselves caught up in our giant sticky web but escaped without further incident to ring another doorbell with their toddler superheroes and tv characters in tow.  I donned my traditional from-the-closet last-minute costume: I've been a gypsy, hippy, military jet pilot, and teen cheerleader . . . and, now, my husband.  (It seems he's highly useful fodder for this blog lately.)  My neighbor friend stopped by for a visit and couldn't stop laughing at her usually feminine walking partner, bedecked in business slacks (do they make my hips look fat?), button-up shirt, power tie, slicked hair, pen in pocket, and penciled mustache.  The fact that I was in character -- voice an octave lower but not exaggerated, shoulders squared and my chin tucked a bit, feet in a toes-out stance, one hand jammed into my pocket, the other holding a brewsky -- disconcerted her.  Just a touch.  When I invited her into the kitchen, "Hey, babe, how about a beer?  I won't bite.  I don't hit on married women," she hesitated. "I feel kind of strange going in there with you . . . him . . . " she stammered through her giggles, "It's so strange.  You.  Like this!"

She urged me to visit her husband, which I did.  Again, remaining in character.  Sitting.  Legs wide.  Burping as I clutched my beer bottle, by then filled with lime mineral water.  Talking on about work and how much more comfortable thongs were than boxer briefs.  He sat there on his couch, trying to place who I resembled.  "Uh, yeah.  Some say I look like a young Tom Cruise . . . 'You can't handle the truth!'"  He shook his head, "No.  Nope.  More like one of those slick car salesmen."  He took my picture, saying aloud how he thought sleep might be difficult that night after seeing me in my manly countenance.  I told him my work there was done.

All that remains from the bewitching hour is a dull ache in my burdened belly and a living room full of panthers, gorillas, and a half-unstuffed jumpsuit which formerly weighed almost as much as a real man.  I've yanked the tie from my neck.  Returned my husband's good work clothes to his closet.  Washed the feathered mascara from my upper lip though a four o'clock shadow remains behind.  Picked up the helpful boy from his bonfire party -- dropping of his girlfriend at her home in the process by means of another of those wondrous Tennessee side roads which lead to somewhere, anywhere, and back again.  The lights are out.  The candle snuffed.  All of the opened Twizzlers and Twix handed out.  My teeth are flossed and my blog now written.  Except for two things . . .

Did I mention that my fifteen year-old son attended a party last night, too?  Guests were urged to dress for the occasion.  He made plans with a few other boys and donned girl's clothing.  However, his biceps and reluctance to step into character hurt his interpretation; his father was so proud.  I guess cross-dressing runs in the family?

And I'm immensely glad that none of my children trick-or-treated this year.  I don't need the candy!

Correction!

Okay, okay.  So in the interest of keeping it real and representing truth, honesty, and the American way (though a few campaign commercials cast dubious dispersions on the very nature of the aforementioned triple threat) I must correct yesterday's blog.  In particular, the equine moniker my parroting husband used on me after listening to one of the tongue-in-cheek judges chastise a poorly executed performance on "Dancing With The Stars."  For the record, I'm a bit perturbed to have to mention that . . . that SHOW . . . in two separate blog entries!  That's entirely too much air time in my atmosphere.

It was not a 'trick pony' but a 'SHOW pony' that my husband called me.  Wow!  Big difference there.  Sound the alarms.  Ring the bells.  Clang the sirens.  Arrest me, officer, I got it wrong!  And, to further my abject humiliation -- not really -- concerning the entire affair, my sweet babycakes has decided that I'm due for a new nickname.  I told him that our cousin, and my very good friend, enjoyed that particular blog and thought him quite funny.  "I'm going to start calling you SP from now on, 'cause you are my little show pony," he whispered with a grin, holding my hand to keep me from leaving his side as he vacillated between an MMA match on the tellie and his wife of over 21 years.  THANK YOU, Len Goodman, a.k.a. Mr. Crankypants, a.k.a. head judge of that popular-to-the-masses reality competition.  (Yeah, that's his name.  I know.  I Googled him.  If I had to remember his name to save my life, I couldn't!)

Right now, I'm multi-tasking, as I blog and hold an amusing one-sided conversation with my brother.  His meds have kicked in and, after roundly cursing the phone for not staying in his hands, he has drowsed off, leaving me hanging on the other end.  "Gary Way-y-n-ne?  Whadda you doin'?"  Mumble, mumble.  Zzzz, zzz.  Or, as he's known to those passing life's time in a manner similar to his, 'Scratch.'  So called because of his affinity for tattooing -- himself and others.  It's been his main business, or hustle as the terminology goes, for the past few years . . . but he's gonna have to ditch it if he wants to program clean and get out of the hospital.  They don't approve of such clandestine hobbies -- needles, blood, transferable diseases, possibility of infection.  But I digress.

As of tomorrow morning, there are two days left in the countdown to my Sarah's 18th birthday.  There's much work to be done between now and then.  You have no idea how much it thrills me to know she desires a 3-layer coconut cake with lemon curd filling and a light whipped frosting.  Because it happens to be MY favorite cake, too!  I can almost taste the tangy curd right now.  Yes, I do believe I am actually salivating in anticipation.  Perhaps, along with the batter I'll concoct, I might be able to manufacture a bit more time?  If anyone out there has a perfected recipe, I'll take it!  There's a slice of delectable birthday yummy goodness in it for you.

I'm beyond pleased to report the sheer autumnal perfection of today's weather.  You wanna know why?  Because yours truly spent three midday hours standing, sitting, walking to and fro, at my son's high school, as a volunteer baseball parent, to sell parking tickets for the TSSAA volleyball tournament being hosted on grounds.  Make sense?  You betcha! 

I marched back and forth across the intersection under my watch, bedecked in camo pants, the cute STAY FRESH t-shirt with a dancing carrot, tomato, and celery stick across the front, and an already well-worn Denver Broncos cap to shade my highly sunscreened face.  It was all fun and games for about the first hour.  I even had a couple of good catch-up conversations with parents I don't see all that often.  The middle hour was fine.  My Girlfriend kept me company with Facebook, texting, my Scrabble and dictionary apps.  But that final stretch of 60 minutes seemed ready to pitch a tent and camp out for the week!  The temperature suddenly increased enough to cause me to glow in that lovely Southern lady way.  Never was a reluctant suburbanite happier to return to her laundry piles and dirty counters.  Never, I say!  I did my part.  I'm glad I helped out.  Thank goodness it's over. 

Did I mention I felt I needed to volunteer for another 3-hour stint tomorrow?  If you're a SHS baseball parent and you are reading this blog, and feel I may have cheated you out of a chance to catch up on your farmer's tan and Vitamin D intake, please feel free to leave me a message.  Most humbly will I step down!

This One-Trick Pony

Dancing With The Stars is taking up entirely too much time on our TV screen.  My daughter, a longtime fan of Patrick Swayze a la Dirty Dancing fame, just has to see the show this season because Jennifer Grey is a contestant.  Remember her?  The coming-of-age idealist who transforms into Swayze's dance partner and love interest?  "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!"  Well, I wouldn't mind if somebody stuck ME in a corner . . . facing the wall.

Actually, though I bemoan it in large degree, I get why it's popular.  The amount of effort these stars exert to actually kick up their heels with some degree of proficiency -- especially the women IN HEELS! -- is laudable.  Dancing is fun to do; it's also fun to watch.  It's lightweight entertainment, free of murder and mayhem, requiring very little thought on the part of the viewer.  The panel of judges juggle flip and flirty commentary with constructive critique.  Not to mention a few straight-arrow zingers.  I've witnessed more than a few tears from contestants after hearing the breakdown at the end of their performance.  "You look like a big dancing banah-nah!" or "You have no passion.  No spark.  You won't make it past today with moves like that!" And there are so many bright and shiny objects: mainly the navels and straining bosoms of the female performers in their partial outfits!

Dare I say, one or two of the dip-n-swoop duos have tweaked very minor chords of fanship within me. And it's generally not the dancing.  When the personality mixes with the routine, it's rather fun to witness the end result.  When someone busts their hind-end all week to lock it in and they finally hit it on the dance floor, that's pretty cool.  Bully for them!  But it's still not enough to keep me wondering and waiting all week.  I admire the will to improve, even if it's merely a personal best and not capable of attracting a trophy.  Trophies collect dust.  Self-improvement is the victory that keeps on giving.

Now, my husband is not watching the unfolding tripping-the-light-fantastic drama.  He doesn't feel the need to bond with our eldest child over tangos and cha-chas and two-steps.  However, tonight he came into our bedroom as I was wrapping up a study session for a major test with our son -- bio-diversity in Honors Biology -- with a funny expression on his face.  One of his many funny expressions.  After the boy left, somewhat ruffled by my insistence that he take a more in-depth look at his notes before bed, this man of my heart approached the side of the bed where I lay in partial surrender to my end-of-the-day fatigue.  Taking in my reclining form, he leaned in for a hug and playfully murmured, "You're all done up like a trick pony."  I sat up, trying to fathom his meaning.  "What.  Do.  You.  Mean?" I queried, "I don't get it.  How am I done up?  Where's the pony in it all?"  I figured this is what we could expect from one another at such a level of weariness as this.  What, pray tell, could I call him?  Finally, he said, "I don't know what the heck it means.  The judge on Dancing With The Stars said it!"

So, see there?!  That purveyor of the rock n' roll paso doble stepped its way into our inner sanctum, television virus that it is, with my husband as its carrier!  Grrrr.

Thoughts of A Tuesday Afternoon

I've got a few moments between tasks as we prepare for out-of-town company, so I'm taking the opportunity to post something lite and cheery.  I think.  My best intentions for humor and brevity often take an unintended alternate route: writer's ADHD?

This has been one of those beautiful mixed-up days.  Tired out of the gate but committed to accomplishing as much as possible before the sun goes down.  Excited to see one of our cousins from Colorado under lighthearted circumstances.  He's in Nashville for work-related training.  When last I saw him in the flesh, it was to see his eldest son buried before his time.  I've written about this beautiful boy in my other blog.  This time around, it's smoked wings from 'Slick Pig' (my daughter just texted to remind me to call and place the order for pick-up), pineapple-upside-down cake, and relaxed stories around the dinner table.

My son is mopping the kitchen floor.  He sings and whistles constantly.  Today is no exception as he hums a merry little tune to whatever is pumping into his ears courtesy of his iPod.  "Mom," he warned me, "Don't get down on me . . . I'll probably be singing as I clean!"  Thinking of what he said earlier about possibly joining choir in his sophomore year and seeing what his clear tenor is capable of made me just decide to hug him and let him make all the noise he wanted.  Did I mention he whistles while he drives, too?  It's rather endearing to me -- though his sisters don't share the sentiment.  I only wish I could record a sound byte to include with this post.

I learned about cotton fever this morning on my walk.  Little Brother Gary was on the other end of the line, chatting it up with me.  We latched on to the subject of illicit drug use for some reason or another.  He told me that though hard drugs aren't available in the state hospital, many patients sell pills which can be crushed, then dissolved and heated in water.  A piece of cotton ball is placed over the mixture and the liquid is drawn up away from the solids for a cleaner draw up the syringe; this method is used with other types of drugs, too, not just pills.  I asked if the tiny cotton fibers ever ended up in the final product.  "Yeah," he said, "Have you heard of cotton fever?  Not pretty.  Shakes and fever.  You feel awful."  If I can detach myself from the sheer hell of what drug addiction is to so many, including my brother who is working diligently to extricate himself from its bondage, the information viewed in a clinical light is very interesting. 

I watched two birds twittering and following one another about the air a few feet ahead near the end of my walk.  An unusual pair: a handsome male cardinal and a mockingbird.  As a regular admirer of our winged friends, I observe their behavior quite often.  This dynamic duo was not fighting or pushing one another away from a food source.  Honestly, they appeared to be frolicking in the last of the good fall weather.  Thank you, my avian companions, for your cheer.  You helped to solidify my growing good mood.

This past Sunday, I was a guest at a wedding between two residents of my mom's apartment building.  People of an advanced age, or those with disabilities, fill the the two floors. 

 The couple herein are in their late 60's, early 70's, and the bride has been a good friend to my mother since she moved there several years ago.  The small ceremony lasted about half an hour, including getting everyone seated, allowing songs to be warbled by a young female relative, saying the 'I-Do's,' and snapping the required group family photos.  Inevitably, the forgotten random cell phone bleated in the midst of the pastor's words -- it was the best man -- and at one point the bride, a bit nervous and giddy as a school girl, giggled as she tried to recall or recite a solemn section with clarity.  They are so enamored with one another, constantly hugging, leaning their heads toward one another, stealing a sweet kiss at odd moments, and always laughing over tidbits of conversation.  Seeing my mother so pleased for her friend was touching for me.  There's nothing better for the soul than the happiness we feel on behalf of another.  I recommend attending such an event if ever you have the opportunity.  Seeing two have been once around, finding another chance at love and companionship after a life of work, loss, and change, rekindles any failing hope one might possess unawares.

Well, that's all my time allows.  It's been real.  It's been fun.  It's even been real fun.  I've got a cake to bake and a shower to take.     

A Healthy Dose of Fear

Me and the pink Dell laptop are snuggled on the bed next to the slumbering husband.  Distressed screams can be heard at this late hour, coming from the hall just outside my bedroom door.  It appears that Zachary's name is contained within the high-pitched feminine utterances.  My suspicions are confirmed when big sister, Ashley, pops her head in the door to exclaim it was just her yelling at him for purposely scaring her.  BOO!  An early Halloween trick, perhaps?  Or, just another night in the Valdez household, more likely! 

The tradition of striking sudden and immediate fear in close family members for the sheer gratification of the prank goes way back.  It has its origins in a time when big sister ran up and down the length of the long hall in the apartment we shared with Jimmy's parents and his brother in Omaha, Nebraska.  Evidently, we were in need of free entertainment; Ashley was it.  She had this one sweet little nightgown in particular that her Grandma Olivia made -- red and white vertical stripes with a matching nightcap in the same pattern -- that she wore quite often.  A living, breathing, howling  candy cane of a toddler is what I recall. 

The scenario: her crouching dad would hide behind the turn at the end of the hall in front of the bathroom door.  Ashley would quickly cover the distance from beginning to end, wee legs a pumping, her anticipation evident to all observers.  "Uhh, uhh, uhh!"  Her voice would rattle up her throat and out her slack mouth in a funny wordless chant all the way.  Dad would pop out, bug-eyed, and his voice booming forth in the loudest of "Rawwwwwwwrrrrr!" growls which somehow always dissolved into even louder giggles in the speedy wake of his first child tearing down the hall.  Her open mouth as wide as her eyes, on the verge of terror, making more noise than one would believe humanly possible.  By the time she reached the living room at the opening of the hall, she, too, was high on laughter.  No matter how many times he performed this macabre ritual, she would unceasingly beg for more, "Again, again, again-n-n-n!"  Those were the days.

And then there was the time in Broomfield, when my neighbor pal helped me dish out a healthy portion of brain-numbing fright to my husband.  It was evening.  Dark outside.  I had returned home from the grocery store where I had rounded up easy to prepare and serve food for the family to eat in my absence because I was headed to The Big Apple the following day with our cousin, Tony.  While emptying the Pathfinder of its edible contents, who should JUMP out from behind the opened door but my husband.  That his week's worth of  groceries didn't go rolling down the drive and onto the street was a minor miracle.  I think my heart may have briefly ceased its beating!  When I told my friend what had gone down -- a last-minute borrowing for the trip necessitated a visit -- she informed me that she was most expert in the shock n' spook game.  "Really . . . " I said, visions of sweet horrific revenge dancing a quickstep in my head.

The trap was laid.  Our garden level laundry room was the scene.  I unlocked the large window by the washer on the pretense of checking the progress of the cycle; after I returned upstairs, my friend snuck in and situated herself behind a half wall constructed of plywood at the bottom of the basement stairs.  As she lay in wait, I was in the boudoir, deeply embedded in my role of deceiver, laying on the affection good and thick.  Saying my 'goodbye' for the upcoming week of my absence.  In the midst of this, I abruptly stopped our progress to ask if he would check the dryer because I wasn't sure I turned it off and the thought was distracting me.  He was on the task in seconds, eager to return to our farewell.  (I'm sorry, but after years of being tricked, cajoled, fooled, and otherwise teased, who can blame a gal for resorting to her feminine wiles?)

Tiptoeing behind him, peeking around the corners as I advanced, I made it to the door to the basement just in time to see my dear spouse make the bottom step.  Suddenly, my great sport of a neighbor jumped out from her hiding spot.  The rest played out in hilarious slow motion.  Her arms opened wide as she let out a chilling shriek.  He jumped in place, began to fall toward her, and raised his fist to punch in his alarmed state.  I say he let forth a very unmanly loud yelp; he says otherwise.  At the last moment, he registered the identity of his 'attacker' and opened his own arms before collapsing into her arms in a big shaky bear hug. 

You have never, NEVER, never I say, in your lifetime, heard two grown and tired women laugh so hard, so loudly, and so long.  Can't say the same for my Lothario.  Priceless.  Truly.  To this day, he maintains he was merely startled and it was a dangerous prank because someone could have been hurt.  I maintain that he was scared stiff and a bit too proud to admit that WE GOT HIM GOO-O-OD!

Endangering My Happy-All-The-Way Son

Just last week my son played in two action-packed freshman football games.  His team added two victories to their thus far winning season.  One was a makeup game.  I recall turning to my husband after a particularly hard, and exhilarating, hit to declare that perhaps we were just the slightest bit crazy to allow our son to play in this sport.

"It is, after all, really dangerous!  Unsafe, you know?"  I looked from the crowd of parents to the field of our collective sons, "I mean, say our boy is the one in one hundred or two hundred who lands wrong and breaks his neck.  Or accidentally injures or seriously  hurts another kid.  Will it have been worth it THEN?  Will all the spectacular tackles and spot-on bomber passes and touchdown runs balance out that outcome?  Why are we doing this?"  There's a pause as we both take in the next play, which was followed by screams and cheers from the crowd, including me -- gotta support the team.  My husband shakes his head.  Not even thirty seconds later, a player on the opposing team is downed.  Both sides take a knee, every player still and respectful as coaches rush on the field to check the injured kid.  Eventually, he is able to stand.  As he is led off the turf, we all breathe easier and clap our support.

This week, I am faced with a similar scenario.  That being the parental choice to allow my child to engage in an activity which could result in serious injury or death to himself or other persons based on the skill and thought he puts into it.  Today, in the late hours of a sunny fall Middle Tennessee morning, my son earned his drivers permit after correctly answering 27 out of 30 questions.  Test-takers are allowed to miss a total of 6; I say they should score 100% but no one asked me.  He came out grinning.  Told me he still missed the one he saw on the practice online test last night.  The one I tried to explain to him minutes before he entered the test room.  The one which says if two people of the same weight drink the same amount of alcohol, the one with more body fat will feel the affects of imbibing first because fat does not absorb alcohol and therefore cannot dilute it the way that a body with more water -- meaning less fat -- can.

One would think that having two older children already licensed and wheeling about the streets of our fair city would be preparation enough for the last one.  But it's not.  Alas, each one presents another level of letting go, of acknowledging the fact that I really have very little control of their well-being and safety, of hoping they listened in some degree or another to the pearls I've cast before their often s-whiny feet!

His exact words as we pulled out of Starbucks with our celebratory drinks and headed to Nashville for a spot of lunch with his dad, "Mom, when I passed that test and she handed me my permit, I felt complete."  Okay, little Tom Cruise wanna be.  I have humorous visions of my son cradling his laminated likeness in his nervous sweaty palms, crooning to it, "You complete me."  At least he had the discernment to declare after his first ten minutes behind the wheel on a main thoroughfare, "You adults make this look easy . . . but it's not!" 

After two hours of logged driving time, broken up by errands and stops at the homestead, he'd apparently forgotten how not easy the act of driving is.  The sweaty palms abated; the precision stops behind other cars became 'inching forward in anticipation of the light changing' stops; the strict placement of his hands at 10 and 2 morphed more than a few times to 4 and 6.  Though I'll say, away from his curious and perfectly formed ears, that he will one day be an excellent driver because he has instinct and a love for manning a wheeled gas-powered passenger vehicle.  Doubtless, we'll have our share of debates when I assert my years of practical knowledge and it butts up against his lesser years of knowing it all better than me.  I'll remind him constantly of the power he has when he joins traffic.  The responsibility.  We'll all impress upon him the importance of keeping himself and other drivers safe and alive to drive another day.

And as he continues to ask me to tuck him in several nights a week, I'll find reasons to stretch that permit out to its Gumby breaking point.  Perfect parallel parking comes to mind.  After all, it's not a license.  Yet. 

Did I mention he wants to be an organ donor? 

Birthday Month!

Hello and howdy, blog readers.  Welcome to Birthday Month for my two girls, Ashley Lynn and Sarah Olivia Valdez.  Let the trumpets trumpet.  Let the heralds herald.  And let the pen sign with a flourish across check and credit card receipt!

This practice of birthday month celebration -- an endearing and annoying exercise in happy-happy-joy-joy, depending on who's reading your constantly updated status posts on Facebook -- began last year during my 40th birthday month, that would be November, after a particularly lively get-together with the Earth Divas.  (One of you will have to chime in on the comment section and remind me who got this ball rolling!)  It was decided that one of our tenets would be the application of a daily merriment-making in recognition of our birthdays for the ENTIRE month in which the actual date was situated.  Brilliant.  Truly inspired. 

Personally, I feel it was a smashing success and has been the springboard for others who would benefit from adopting the habit: a best pal o' mine in New Mexico comes to mind who enjoyed a particularly joyous jubilee during August, and even a bit into September, for her watershed 50th birthday.  This brand of merrymaking works well for all ages and any age, but is super appropriate (first time with that phrase, folks) for those hallmark passages of time.  Think decades, coming of age, ability to imbibe legally, etc. 

My dishy daughters will hit the 21st and 18th years of their young lives.  A week apart.  One wishes for an ice cream cake and to spend the day at a vineyard owned by local country music celebrities; the other desires a three-layer coconut cake with lemon curd and a pass to attend various Halloween parties with her peers.  Homemade confections, of course!  And, they both declared an express need for one of my rare and humorously personalized Hoe-Bags.  Mom better be up for the task -- I sense in the near future a great many cups of my husband's stout leftover coffee laced with honey and almond milk, supported, perhaps, by a once weekly supplemental Starbucks soy latte.

In the meantime, each day is a celebration for me as I fondly recall their feisty childhoods.  Over the weekend, I dug through the box of 35mm pictures.  The circumstances behind every shot still fixed firmly in my memory.  They both flitted in and out of their toddlerhood in a halo of bird's nest curls.  Ashley was often caught in playful expression though she was prone to princess pouts and public displays of displeasure; Sarah generally waxed more turbulent when troubled or vexed but so precious when at play.  Now, it all seems an honor to have fumbled and fouled my way through mommyhood on their behalf.  Because, after all, don't most hindsight recollections reside in a dreamy haze whereby youthful fits of passion seem fleeting and ephemeral, and their wide-eyed sweetness takes center stage in an endless pirouette of little girl grace and beauty?

So, join me as I commemorate the births of my one and my two, with daily revelry and hullabaloo from here until November.  Start your own birthday month celebration.  For yourself.  For a friend.  For a loved one.  For a pet, if you must.  It's all for fun.  Intentional and purposeful fun.