twenty questions, volume three

"snowy volcano cake" (otherwise known as [near] flourless chocolate cake) made by my beloved and the younger lass.  I'm a lucky girl.

I am hellbent adamant about recording the collective memory of our bambini via interviews taken informally around birthdays.  Two years ago I launched this interviewing initiative (with some borrowed questions) on the occasion of my birthday.  Last year's birthday interview was about six months late, so it's only been half a year or so since I polled the bambini about their scatter-brained if well-intentioned mother.  I gave myself a little assessment yesterday.  Today it's their turn to weigh in on what Mama does best, what they seem to remember hearing me say, and the legacy I am leaving for them...

While I attempted to interview the two-year-old younger lass, it became obvious very quickly that doing so would be an exercise in futility.  Maybe next year.

1. What is something Mama often says to you?
7 year old elder lad: I love you.
5 year old younger lad: I love you.
3.5 year old elder lass: I love you.
2 year old younger lass: I sew.

2. What makes Mama happy?
elder lad: I love you.
younger lad: when [we're] not fighting
elder lass: when I smile

3. What makes Mama sad?
elder lad: I hate you. [I'm guessing he means the verbalization of these fighting words.]
younger lad: when [we're all] fighting
elder lass: when I scream

4. What does Mama do that makes you laugh?
elder lad: tickle me
younger lad: tickle me
elder lass: tell funny stories

5. What was Mama like as a little girl?
elder lad: I don't know
younger lad: I don't know
elder lass: I don't know

6. How old is Mama?
elder lad: 34
younger lad: 34
elder lass: ummm.... 33

cookie cake made by my dear dad, as has long been tradition,
with six happy little music notes for the six of us in my little family
and one grand piano with precisely-placed chocolate sprinkle keys.  I'm such a lucky girl.

7. How tall is Mama?
elder lad:  let's say about five feet tall
younger lad: eight feet high... [but] that would be taller than Dad!  Dad's six feet high.  Maybe... aha! You're five feet high!  You're a little bit shorter than Dad [demonstrates with his hand].
elder lass: We'll have to measure you again!

8. What is Mama's favorite thing to do?
elder lad: sew
younger lad: sew
elder lass: sew

9. What does Mama do when you're not around?
elder lad: clean house
younger lad: love me still
elder lass: sew

10.  If Mama were famous, what would it be for?
elder lad: her love
younger lad: loving us
elder lass: I don't know.

11.What is Mama good at?
elder lad: cooking
younger lad: sewing
elder lass: sewing

12. What is Mama *not* good at?
elder lad: crawling on the floor like a horse
younger lad: dancing?
elder lass: she's not good at..... [looks sideways at me] I don't know.

13. What is Mama's job?
elder lad: to watch [my sisters]... and me and [my brother]... to teach us things... to watch us so that we get along............taking care of us
younger lad: to take care of us
elder lass: to sew

14. What is Mama's favorite food?
elder lad: potato soup
younger lad: salad! [points upward victoriously]
elder lass: salad!

15. What makes you proud of Mama?
elder lad: [thinking long and hard on this one] I don't know.  (then later) I said I don't know what makes me proud because you do all kinds of stuff that makes me proud but I just couldn't say it.  I don't know.  ["so you're proud of me, but you're not sure why?"] yeah.
younger lad:  that she snuggles me
elder lass: 'cause she snuggles me

16. What is something we do together?
elder lad: bake
younger lad: sew
elder lass: sew 

17. How are you and I the same?
elder lad: We both have dark hair.
younger lad: We both are humans.
elder lass: We both have black hair. [Actually, we both have brown hair.]

18. How are you and I different?
elder lad: You're a girl and I'm a boy.
younger lad: You have long hair and I have short hair.
elder lass: We don't have the same color skin.  [This elicits my quizzical face, as we are both fair-skinned.]

19. Where is Mama's favorite place to go?
elder lad: Missouri
younger lad: [a local pizza franchise based in the town where I went to college, answering again with the victorious hand gesture]
elder lass: [a locally-owned purveyor of "crispy bite-size chicken"]

20.  How do you know that Mama loves you?
elder lad: 'cause she says so
younger lad: because she tells me that.  Am I done now?
elder lass: because she tells me that.  Am I done now? [yes, they both answered exactly the same in separate interviews}

I'll save the analysis and my response for another time.  For now I'll just say that I think I may have hit upon the way to conduct these interviews successfully -- that would be by parking them in the glider we've had since the elder lad was a newborn.  That way they can rock and fidget and gesture and wiggle around, thus allowing the answers to come freely and resulting in a quick and relatively painless interview that serves as a gift of sorts to Mama and fodder for much navel gazing.

hit or miss

man your positions...

On our recent Labor Day weekend getaway to my parents' house, my sister introduced the lads to Battleship, the maritime warship game.  They were familiar with Battleship via the Wii, but the younger lad was fascinated with the version that he could hold in his hands and position the ships and pegs just so.  He grew so attached to the game that my dad let the lad bring it home with him.  After Mass on Sunday, the lad set up the consoles to play with his dad and brother, team-style.  Later in the day the consoles became laptop computers for the younger lad and elder lass to pretend they were typing on. The younger lass is our "grease man," able to retrieve pegs that fall into the hinge part of the game console when it's open with her tiny little fingers.

The more I think about it, the game of Battleship and its hit-or-miss song and dance routine are the perfect analogy for daily life with young children.  One minute they're planning something spectacular, the next they're quarreling.  Sometimes there are warning volleys.  Sometimes not.  If only I had a radar screen to steer clear of troubled waters.  At least I have a life jacket.

life of the party

Our darling clementine is two today! She may be the smallest of the small ones, but she is (as Grandmare describes her) the life of the party. To her, everything is big: big excitement about all things strawberry (and tomato), big frustration over anything that doesn't go her way, even herself, as she considers herself every bit as big as her older siblings.

I played with Strawberry Shortcake figurines like these when I was a little girl.  Now they're considered "vintage"!

The relationships she is forging with her siblings are at once complex and simple. They dote on her (especially the elder lad), play with her (especially her sister the elder lass, who is often heard saying "I need my [sister!]), and find her both a snuggle buddy and an easy target (that would be the younger lad). From her perspective, life is better when they're around, and she's happiest when she's right in the middle of their games and shenanigans.

For us, she is a ray of sunshine, a precious and refreshing ball of energy and exuberance. She may keep us all on our toes, but she gives *great* squeezy hugs and laughs with every fiber of her being.

She's been heard yelling "Hi, kids!" to those in passing shopping carts, and she is quick to notice the distress call of an upset child, whether she knows them or not.  She's empathetic like that.

I've been a bit preoccupied making pinwheels.

To celebrate her birthday, we hosted a pancake "brecky" for the family, complete with our favorite pancakes (expertly griddled by my dad) topped with whipped cream and strawberries, yummy breakfast casseroles (thanks, Annie, for your help with those!), strawberry muffins made by Grandmare, fruit and yogurt parfaits,  cold-brewed coffee (my current preferred coffee concoction), and a few other fixin's.  The younger lass truly was the "life of the party", shrieking with delight as she opened lovingly-chosen gifts from her aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins.  Today we took a family trip to the aquarium and had a pizza party (at her request).

My kitty clock!" the lass exclaimed when she unwrapped this iconic clock, a gift from her great-grandparents.  She had seen one in a clock shop several months ago, and was so excited to hold in her hands one of her very own.

Imagine the ways the Lord will shine through her bright star if she allows him to. She does that already when she folds her little hands together to pray.  

Lord, please help us her grow in grace, wonder, compassion, and joy as the story of her life continues to unfold. May the twinkle in her dark chocolate brown eyes only shine brighter with each passing day. Thank you for entrusting this sweet rosy girl to our care. 

miniature roses for our rosy girl

for my favorite Anglophiles

With the London Olympics about to begin soon and my brother- and sister-in-law (the ones who lived in London for a while) about to arrive for a highly-anticipated visit, today I offer a selection of favorite children's books from across the pond.

Each one of M. Sasek's This Is... set of travel books for children is a trip of its own.  The books were written in the '60s, but some of them have been reprinted recently with necessary updates given in a list at the end of each book.  The fun watercolor illustrations and whimsical prose make these books great read-alouds to the younger ones, even if some of the references to historical events and people are obscure to the wee ones.  I find these books so charming and have been known to give them as gifts to adults (specifically This Is Edinburgh to my father, whose father -- my Papa Jack -- emigrated from Scotland with his family at the age of seven -- my elder lad's present age.) -- they're that fun.  With books on major cities of the world -- and Texas, oddly enough -- this series would be a fun collection to have if one had the shelf space.

My brother-in-law the Londoner once brought the elder lad (when the latter was an only lad) a stuffed Paddigton Bear and cup with super fun straw.  Thus began a long friendship with the bear from "Darkest Peru."  We've read most of Michael Bond's original story collections, listened to some of them on audiobooks, and pored over the picture books "for younger readers".  Suffice it to say, we are big fans of Paddington.

Dodsworth in London by Tim Egan. It's about a critter named Dodsworth who goes to London with his loquacious duck. They get separated when the duck gets on a double-decker bus without Dodsworth, who thinks the duck with the fascinator (who is the Royal Duck, pet of the queen) is his duck being silly. The pair end up lodging at Buckingham Palace at the queen's invitation.

What discussion of British children's books would be complete without mentioning Beatrix Potter?  Grandmare lent us her big book of Miss Potter's stories a while back, and we have yet to return it. 

As exciting as the Olympics are to witness, the best part for me will be the time spent with family in town for a too-short visit.  As with Britain's royal wedding a year and a half ago, the sporting events themselves don't affect me personally.  The connection to loved ones and opportunities to pore over good books with my bambini are golden.

do-over

We took the Bambini Ride to the car wash not too long ago, an outing the bambini usually heartily enjoy.  Even without my glasses or contacts on I could tell that the wash we'd been through was not satisfactory, with soap left on the vehicle as well as dirt.  At first I thought I'd go rinse it myself at the quarter car wash, but that didn't seem right. So I called the car wash manager, explained the situation, and asked for a pass through to rinse off the vestiges of soap and dirt.  He said to bring it back, so we did.  He gave us a higher dollar car wash on his nickel than the one we'd purchased, and the Ride looks great (snack remnants on the inside notwithstanding; vacuuming wasn't part of the deal to begin with).

My dad has been known to describe himself as essentially lazy, preferring to do a good job the first time with the requisite preparation and seemingly extraneous attention to detail that makes for the best end result than having to go back and do the job over again.  He says he learned this the hard way, having to wash his grandmother's windows more than once when his first effort didn't pass her muster. I've had to redo some lackluster jobs of my own, and I always think of him saying that bit about him being lazy, which is the last word I would ever use to describe him.

Speaking up for myself to ask someone else to redo a job they did for me that wasn't good enough does not come easily for me, like so many other conversations with conflict potential.  I did it anyway.  It's part of the growing up I'm doing as a mother.

We all make mistakes.  We all might even cut corners from time to time for whatever reason.  Don't we all hope for the opportunity to do it over when we know we need to?  That's a tactic we've employed with our very young bambini -- the chance for "do overs" when they've mishandled a situation.  Second chances aren't just for toddlers learning how and when to use their "inside voice".  Adults need second chances sometimes, too.

The car wash conundrum may have been a first world problem (and an insignificant one at that), but it afforded a teachable moment for our bambini (and for me) about the inherent dignity in and importance of doing a good job at whatever task is at hand, to take pride in the work we do for the glory of God, and to hold ourselves and each other accountable for doing that kind of good work, accepting responsibility for when we don't quite make the grade.

That's what I tried to tell the bambini on our second pass through the car wash, but I think the colored foam, octopus-like brushes, and blow dryer might have drowned me out.  That's alright.  Perhaps the actions of speaking up, going back, and seeing the final fantastic result spoke for themselves.

get this right

The younger lass rifled through a filing cabinet with some of my piano scores and found a spiral-bound booklet of the repertoire assigned to me my senior year of college. She slapped it up on the music desk and toddled off to do something else.

As I walked past the piano I caught sight of the score she had left open, and I stopped to thumb through the pages. It was the "working copy" where my piano professor and I noted all sorts of things related to the piece and its performance: fingerings, pedaling, dynamics, harmonic analysis, and phrasing, among other things like this note I scribbled:

 

get this right.

as in: quit making this same mistake here.  You know it's coming.  It's tripped you up enough times to merit a note in the score *and* a highlighter, so fix it already.  Don't make it again.

How many times in a day do I make the same mistakes or allow myself to edge too close to that line where I can't help but bungle a situation that presents itself over and over again -- one I've had the opportunity to address and learn from and traverse successfully going forward?  For whatever reason, I still make some of  the same mistakes.  

My dad says I use my music degree every day, even those days when I don't touch a piano.  Maybe this is what he means.  And thank the good Lord for his infinite mercy in forgiving those mistakes, even though I make them time and again.  Isn't that what Easter, which we are at last celebrating, is all about -- forgiveness of sins and everlasting life?

I don't operate under the delusion that I am perfect or will always handle every situation perfectly, but I would like to eliminate some of those oft-made mistakes by considering the factors that contribute to my making them and doing what needs to be done to set up a better outcome.  

Here's what I hope I did get right today:  I hope I made good use of the time God gave me this day to show his love and mercy to those around me.  I hope in those moments when I felt like I might lose my patience or withdraw from interaction in the face of some drama that I was able to recognize them inwardly and overcome them either by expressing those emotions in a healthy and respectful way or by waiting a minute to let them blow over.   I hope to have shown my bambini that Mama does make mistakes sometimes, as we all do, and that when I do I try my best to make amends, tend to the hurt I may have caused, and move on.

We do our best, says my Grannie, and that's all we can do.  Part of that is built on learning from our mistakes -- God willing, before warranting a highlighter's notice.

big kid stuff

My dad calls it "big kid stuff": appliances breaking, ill children, school decisions, relationships, which end of the lamb cake to cut into first on Easter Sunday and who is going to have that honor...

It's the stuff of life, really: the daily joys and struggles that we have the (sometimes dubious) honor of navigating ourselves.  We are blessed beyond measure to have family and friends whose help we can trust is available, but ultimately we are responsible for making decisions that affect our bambini and ourselves, for following through on those decisions, and bearing the consequences (good or bad) that result.

Sometimes I have moments where I wish I could defer this navigational responsibility to someone else -- to revert to a more childlike state, but ultimately, I don't really want to go back there.  I'm a pianist, remember, independent by nature.  Along with the considerable responsibility of being a "big kid" comes the freedom to decide for ourselves and our family -- always with a heavy reliance on prayer for discerning the will of God.

I am deeply grateful to my parents for helping form me into the person I am today, one who is able to take life as it comes and roll with the punches. My beloved and I are working diligently to do the same for our bambini so that one day they might each know the freedom that comes from living in the stream of grace. 

our first Pinewood Derby

Time for lads, dads, and papas out in the garage working with tools followed by a fun and exciting day of races (some lost, some won) has made for a valuable and memorable deposit in the bank of experience.

mama girl

Remember old school the first generation of Camcorders?  We had one like this when I was a wee lass.  My dad video-ed everything from a trip to Epcot to the annual family Fourth of July trip to Grannie's lake house.  He was a master of the "action shot" as well as a skilled editor, knitting the footage into a true "home movie" complete with synchronized soundtrack.

He also filmed "Bonnie's Sleepytime Stories Club," featuring a girl missing a few teeth dressed in her jammies reading The Berenstain Bears And Too Much TV (note the irony), then pretty much hot off the presses, reading a bedtime story to an imaginary audience and making sure they could see the pictures (like someone else we know).

Many years after its filming, the short video has been transferred to DVD, and found its way into the player this afternoon for a two-year-old lass who likes to read herself.

"Who that girl, Mama?" she wanted to know.

 "That's me when I was a little girl,"  I told her.  This was a surprise. 

When one of the brothers wandered into the room and noticed the young girl with the bangs and incredulous expressions, he knew who it was.  The lass still told him.

"Mama girl," she said.
That's me.

garden flower

On this day 36 years ago, my  mother carried gardenias (or "garden flowers") in her bridal bouquet.  In the Victorian language of flowers, gardenias symbolize joy and purity.  That's what I wish for her and my dad today, her birthday as well:  pure joy, with much love...

drive like mom

My dad drove me to school most of the time.  It was a special time for the two of us, triggered in my memory by hearing renditions of "Zippity Doo Dah" and other such ditties.  He and I have logged a lot of miles together, not just to and from school, but back and forth to Chicago lots and lots of times over the years. 

Sometimes we needed to make haste in the direction of our destination (which was usually not too far from our starting point, my hometown being small-ish and all).  At such times I am reported to have suggested he "drive like Mom."  That meant... with purpose (or something like that).  Nothing illegal or aggressive.  Just determined. 

My mom, you see, is a self-proclaimed gearhead and likes to get where she's going.  It's part of her charm.  We love her for it.

That's how I drove this morning when my beloved had to catch an early flight for a business meeting, which meant I needed to get our elder lad to kindergarten.  Four bambini plus Mama tripping over each other to get out the door at sunrise for the forty minute commute equals some fantastic feats of daring and silliness (such as Mama donning a sweater with a pretty butterfly -- a noticeable departure from my usual solid-color selections -- and declaring with great fanfare that it is "Fresh Contact Day" for Mama!!!), but we did it.  We made it to school on time. 

the high road

In every instance of interpersonal struggle for which I've sought advice from my dad, whose birthday we've been celebrating today, he's always told me to "take the high road" -- no matter how the other person chooses to conduct him- or herself.

It's time- and battle-tested advice from a man who treats others with compassion, kindness, sensitivity, and generosity.  He gives others the benefit of the doubt, and he applies his finely-honed analytical skills with gentle precision to sticky situations and other such dicey prospects.

The depth of my gratitude for this man being my father cannot be quantified.  Time and again he has shown me -- and many others -- the gentle, loving face of Christ.  Today and every day I pray he is blessed to experience the love of of Christ reflected in the faces of those my dad encounters.  I know he's looking for Christ in each of us simply by the way he treats us, as though Christ himself were standing in each of our places -- because he is.

I find myself telling my lads to "take the high road" time and again.  Delivered with "as Papa say... take the high road," the young squires often receive the advice with a different kind of openness knowing it's practically coming from their grandfather.

Happy birthday, Dad.  For all you are and all you do to care for all of us, we are so grateful.  I'm trying to navigate the high road.  Thanks for showing me the way...

young squire

The 1996 movie That Thing You Do! is one of my favorites. I could probably recite the entire thing. It's the story of a one-hit wonder band from the 1960s comprised of four clean cut, fresh faced young men. Their manager is portrayed by Tom Hanks (who also wrote the movie). He sees to it that they project an image of being "nice boys" (except maybe for the drummer, who is probably actually the nicest guy of them all).

Once they've made it big with their one hit, they're flown out to the west coast for some publicity maneuvers and recording. The porter at the hotel addresses them as "young squires." He treats them with respect and civility, in a way revealing his expectation of their behavior in return as living up to a certain standard.

My father addresses our lads "young squires," as does my beloved now. It's an appeal to the lads' love of a challenge and their budding understanding of character, integrity, and virtues. It has a profound and positive effect on the lads. They want to be young squires.

As we endeavor to raise these lads to be the men Christ calls each of them to be, many fine examples of honorable men to whom they can look for guidance in the family around them, family friends, and the saints help pave the way. How richly blessed the lads are for such men in their lives. I am humbly grateful for them myself.

Gran-tastic help

Grannie's lake house has been the family getaway for a good long time now.  We'd pack as many as 25 people in the four-bedroom cottage for the Fourth of July festivities.  What fun that was.   All the adults pitched in to help in various ways -- cooking, cleaning, taking people out on the boat, playing with kids, attending to household fix-it needs, etc.

While there were no boat rides this weekend and we didn't have 25 people staying under our roof, the same "many hands make light work" principle applied.   Among other things, my beloved manned the grill.  My dad put himself on KP.  Last night my sister made the breakfast casserole for this morning's brunch.  My mom picked up last minute groceries.  Grannie held the raven-haired lass as much as the wee one would allow her to before returning to me for some resetting.  Several of us chased after bambini on tricycles. 

As Grannie is at the lake, we might have been the hosts, but (at least we hope) everyone's at home here.

pandemonium

Sometimes I really surprise myself by the absurdity of my ideas -- or rather, that I would cook up **and act upon** such ridiculous things.

Why I thought taking the bambini to a fast food chain with an indoor play area was a good idea is beyond me, as we hardly ever eat fast food *or* go to indoor play areas where I fret about whatever germs might be lurking on the equipment and spend the entire time keeping track of three little people in the maze of plastic and mesh with the fourth one in the sling. 

Chalk it up to my sleep deficit.  Sometimes my cognitive abilities are consequently impaired. 

Alas, with the brave help of my parents and sister, we loaded up all four bambini (the elder lad had a day off from school, and my family came to visit for the day) and took a field trip to this eatery with a reputation among moms as *the* place to go.  To be sure, there were lots of families with young children, many of whom were probably there after delivering a spiel about eating "a good lunch" before going to play.  I gave that spiel myself.  I might need a new spiel writer.

Very little of the "good lunch" (as it were) was consumed.  The play area was held hostage by two unsupervised children too old to be in there anyway egging each other on to "scream louder!".   And were there naps taken after all that excitement?

Of course not.

Does any of this come as a surprise to anyone?
Probably not.

I suppose it's one of those lessons this mama had to learn by living it herself.  Standing by me while I learned it (and enduring the screaming) was truly a work of mercy by my parents and sister.

Now we've been there, done that, and don't need to again.  Whether we eat at home or out some place, we'll find another place to play -- preferably outside. 

birthday blessings

Birthdays have a whole new meaning for me now that I'm a mother.  On each of my bambini's birthdays I relive the day of their birth and how each birth transpired.  Each of these days is as much (or more) one of celebration for me as my own birthday, as each marks another gift from God, the Author of all life.

Today is my birthday.  In experiencing our elder lad's first birthday five years ago, I came to realize how much my birthday must mean to my own parents.  It's not just about me -- it's about them, too. 

So while I take great delight in all the festivities and am deeply humbled for all the expressions of love from so many, I am most of all grateful for the gift of life and the tender love and care my parents and family continue to lavish upon me as they have since the day of my birth.

steady, ace.

In days of yore when gift-giving time would be coming up (say Christmas or my birthday), and I would notify those in positions of ability to procure that which I had on my wish list (say my parents), I had what I'm sure was an annoying tendency to get a little mopey and fretful that I would not receive the requested gift when the time for gift-opening at long last arrived.

Charming, no?

And yet, they still love me.  And most of the time, I did receive what I was pining for, silly girl.
Thanks, Mom and Dad, for your forbearance and unfailing generosity.

Here we are at the 40 week mark of this pregnancy, and wouldn't you know? I have that same feeling.  Like it's never going get here -- Quattro's birthday, in this case.  

But it will.  And in the end we will have one of the greatest gifts we could ever receive -- temporarily entrusted to us, of course, as Quattro is not ours to keep but rather to care for and prepare to one day return to God.

As my dad would often have to tell me, so now I tell myself:
Steady, Ace.

mustang sally

Five years ago right about now I was due with our elder lad.  Looking for some diversion and exercise in an attempt to encourage the babe (whose gender we did not yet know; we haven't found out genders in advance of any of our children's births) to come out and meet us, we accepted an invitation from my dad to go to a car auction.  Having never been to anything of the sort, our curiosity was piqued.

It was a world entirely foreign to anything I'd experienced.  Most of the cars would merit a "vintage" label of one kind or another.  Some were souped-up hot rods or trucks. Others were classic cars from the mid-century years.  There were even some antiques -- as in, Model T's and those of that era.  There were a few late model cars, but the main offerings were of the collectible, tinker-around-in-the-garage kind.

The people-watching opportunities were vast and varied, and the auctioneer and his assistants highly entertaining. He'd say such things as "You're buyin' it today," or "here's a great daily driver!" or "this one's in mint condition."  The air in the exhibition hall in which the auction took place was heavy with exhaust in spite of all the doors and big wall vents being fully open.

The lad didn't make his entrance into the world for several more days (time enough to clear all the exhaust I'd breathed in).  His brother and sister have been similarly tardy.  We'll see if Bambino #4 (a.k.a. "Quattro") follows suit.

Last year my dad and my beloved took the lads to the car auction.  They had a great time looking at all the cars.  The noise was a bit much for them, though, and their interest waned after a little while (before Dad's and my beloved's had).

This year was a different story.  The lads remembered the auction from last year and thus had an idea of what to expect.  Dad and my beloved procured kid-sized ear plugs on the way to the car show.  We planned to meet for lunch and me bring the lads home for siesta time in case the adult gearheads wanted to look around some more.  I came home with a worn-out younger lad and the lass, but the elder lad returned to the car show with his dad and grandfather.  It might've been the most walking he's done in his entire life.

With stories of a "blueish-orange" truck, one painted with flames, and lots of interesting classic cars, the lads were happy to tell of their adventure.  When I asked them if there were any Bambini Rides like ours, they said no.  "Most of them," the younger lad told me, "were from the Ancient Sixties."

family ties

"Wednesday comes after Friday," the elder lad tried to convince me last week -- knowing full well the order of the days of the week.  For him and his brother, Friday couldn't come soon enough.  That was because they knew their grandfather (my dad) was coming to pick them up Friday morning for an adventure at my parents' house.  My beloved, the lass, and I planned to come over later in the day for an overnight getaway to celebrate Memorial Day.

When Friday finally arrived, the elder lad was a little less sure about the plans.  "I want to go with you," he said.  Excited as he was, it was the first time he and his brother would be traveling an hour away to my parents' house without me, and the "unknown" factor was weighing heavily on him.  They've been to my parents' house several times with me and us, and they're very comfortable there.  It was just the first time for them to do something like this.

I related to him feeling similarly when I was a little girl.  I spent a lot of time with my Chicago family, which I always loved.  I spent many weeks of summer vacation with my Grannie over several years.  I always looked forward to that, though when the time came for my parents to leave to go home, I was often uneasy.  I knew I was safe there and would have a good time, but I would miss my parents.  It didn't usually take long for me to face the sadness of saying good-bye and move on to having fun.  

Hearing this story seemed to help him, and he was further reassured when I walked through the day ahead with him, how they'd drive over in Papa's blue car, probably have some lunch, maybe some quiet time, then do any number of fun things of their choosing.  Before he knew it, we'd be there with him for dinner.  I told him he could call me if he needed to, and I made sure to say that we wouldn't be letting him and his brother go if we didn't think they would be safe.  We knew they would be. 

The younger lad, on the other hand, was practically out the door when my dad arrived.  "I want to go to your house!" he said excitedly to my dad.

A few provisions in hand, they loaded into Dad's car (the elder lad wearing a brave face) after a round of hugs and kisses.  The lass and I stood on the driveway and waved to them as they backed out and drove off.

By all accounts, they both had a great time with my dad, mom, and sister, and were so excited to tell us about their adventures when we got there that evening.  "I was having so much fun I forgot about the sad things!" the elder lad told me that evening.  "Sad things?"  I asked.  "Like missing you," he explained.

The fun continued all the way through last evening, when we reluctantly loaded up to come home. 

How blessed we are to have family living close enough to do things like this.  The bambini spend a lot of time at my beloved's parents' house -- a place synonymous with "fun" to the bambini -- fifteen minutes away from us.  Trips to visit my parents an hour away are always fun too.  A lot of my beloved's extended family lives close by as well.  I do wish my bambini knew my Chicago family better.  Some of them have visited us, but we've only been there a few times.  Here's hoping as the bambini get older we'll be able to make more visits. 

The time I spent with my family in Chicago growing up was both formative and fun.  Having the opportunity to form relationships with these members of my family I only got to see a few times a year is something for which I will always be profoundly grateful.  I'm so glad my bambini are having similar opportunities to get to know and form relationships with their family.

The lads are already planning their next adventure back to my parents' house.  They can hardly wait.

a man's man

Had our younger lad, who will turn three next week, been born on this day *and* a girl (which I thought he was the entire time he was in utero), I would've been strongly inclined to name her Lily.  This would be in honor of St. Joseph, husband of the Blessed Virgin Mary and foster father of Jesus, whose feast day we celebrate today.  The lily is one of the symbols associated with St. Joseph, as many stories speak of Joseph's staff flowering with lilies to indicate his being God's choice as her spouse.

Since the year my beloved and I became engaged (shortly after this feast day), I have made it a point to observe the feast of St. Joseph as a day to honor the husbands and fathers (and uncles and brothers) in my family and that of my beloved's.  In some countries it is celebrated as Father's Day, and I love the idea of incorporating the liturgical feasts into family life for days like today.

In past years I've tried to make the day special for these valiant men in my life -- my beloved, my dad, my father-in-law, and my grandfather-in-law, among the many other honorable men among our family and friends -- in a variety of ways, usually involving such things as lilies -- either fresh or pictured on a card, and/or by going to daily Mass to pray for their intentions.  None of that happened today.   These men I love and cherish and for whom I am grateful beyond words have been in my thoughts and prayers all day, even if I didn't make as big a deal out of the day as I might've liked to.

When it comes to seeking the counsel and prayers of a wise, honorable, holy, devoted husband and father to serve as inspiration and aid to men trying to live out these virtues in their own vocations, there is no better man either living or dead than Good St. Joseph. He was a fully human, hard-working man, one who knew all too well the struggles men face in their daily lives.  His prayers garner the attention of Christ, and I have every confidence St. Joseph prays in earnest for every man married or single, father or not, that each one may be the person Christ calls him to be in whatever station of life he may be, and that each man may serve Christ by serving those around him. 

So to the men who have worked and continue to work so hard to take care of me, our bambini, our family, and countless untold others, today I thank and wish you all the blessings of a happy feast day.  May Good St. Joseph remember you today and every day in his prayers, and may the humble example of loving service to his family always be a source of strength and inspiration for you as you endeavor to do the same with such devotion and tenderness.  I love you all so much.