The Burrow

FlapJilly is being promoted. She's leaving the world of The Two's  and crossing the parking lot to The Three's .  Her first friend at school moved over a month or so ago, so she'll have a familiar face in unfamiliar surroundings.  The play equipment is bigger and more challenging and the curriculum is less pre  and more school .  She's ready for the challenge, and her parents couldn't be more proud. And then Little Cuter and I exchanged the glance that said it all: OH, Where has my baby gone?   It's a mixture of joy and yearning and overwhelming heart exploding love.... and it left us both just a little bit teary.  She's such a big girl now.

Little Cuter's acorn didn't fall far from her mama's tree. These are her words and pictures. ****** I made a promise to my daughter before she was born that I would do everything in my power to keep her safe and make her feel loved. That is why I marched. I marched to show solidarity to my fellow Americans that the current political climate is NOT ACCEPTABLE to me and that I will do whatever I can in my power to stand against it and protect the future I promised to my kid. I also marched for strength. I marched because I didn’t want to feel removed, hopeless, rudderless or unable to turn on the television or open a newspaper. I marched for power - to share it with those who needed it and to siphon it from others who had some to spare. I marched because I am not entitled to the cushy life that I’ve led so far. I’ve spent 31 years benefiting from the fight that those before me have waged, and I want to show respect, and allow the generations before me to k...

Why work, when you can play in the sandbox? That's my girl, the one who has had a smile on her face from the moment that first real food - a Chicago, deep dish pizza crust - crossed her lips.  She wanted to join the party, and once she did, she's rarely found it wanting. Not to say that there haven't been moguls along the way. Simply to say that we've found our way through, relatively unscathed, and still speaking to those we love. That's the talent she has, my little girl. She's honest, and not shy about speaking her mind, but the words are so obviously true and from her heart and there's not an ounce of condescension or taunting to be found, so you are forced to listen and hear her and learn. Say what you mean, woman!  she would cry, and I'd stop dancing and start singing. And then, when we'd said what needed to be said, she would move on.  Why wallow in the past when the future's so bright, you have to wear shades? I admit that I h...

Today has gotten away from me, so I'm going to reprise, with some editing, an old post.  The Hormonal Demons are attacking a formerly delightful 13 year old.   I really hope this helps, MS. Would You? A question for my female readers over the age of 15: Would you go back to being 12 again? OK, you can stop screaming now. I am absolutely confident that the thought of living through that year or so makes you want to leave the room and begin drinking. Even if it is 6 am. And you're underage. Or your medicines contraindicate it. I don't care how old you are, you still remember. It's a horrifying idea. The year Little Cuter turned 12, I was sitting at the kitchen table writing the 10 or so holiday cards I'd send to my close but far-flung friends.  "I'm doing...... TBG is....... The Big Cuter's so...... and The Little Cuter is trying to survive being a 12 year old girl." TBG, reading over my shoulder, was appalled. How dare I? It wa...

I sent her furniture for the baby's room as her birthday gift. I think I forgot to get TBG to sign the card I remembered to mail. This morning, her email to me wondered what it meant that she kept forgetting that her birthday was approaching.   Is it weird?   Yes, sweetie, it's very weird.  It's not unusual, but it's weird. She's getting to the point where the individual years blur together. I remember it well.  She went to a 1980's theme party; I was bemused. I missed the 1980's; being pregnant and parenting little ones was as far as I could see. My musical tastes ran to Raffi and lullabies, my reading material centered on Margaret Wise Brown, and forget about fashion or lifestyle trends. Were I to be invited to that theme party, I'd have worn sweatpants. My birthdays came and went and I was happy to buy my own strawberry shortcake and take a long bubble bath and be done with it all.  I had decade-celebratory parties for TBG, but I wasn't ...

My baby is having a baby.   She's gone from "looking like I ate too much for dinner this weekend"  to having a small protrusion in the middle of her body.  Growing in size from a lentil to a grape to a plum to a kumquat, the baby is making its presence known. Everything smells weird.  Her pants don't fit anymore - "not even close." She's over the super-exhaustion that accompanied the start of the adventure - "It's not that I wanted to sleep; I needed  to sleep." Her 36 hours of nausea abated, and she's stopped wondering how anyone could be that sick for more than a day or so.  I try to keep quiet about the three or four months I spent hurling and napping while she was establishing herself in my body; she's already apologized. SIR is proud and happy.  TBG and I are still searching for the words to describe our joy.  We find ourselves looking from one end of the couch to the other, grins plastered on our faces, grins havi...

I get Dad because I am frighteningly like him. Thus spake Little Cuter.   It was via email, part of an ongoing conversation about a lifestyle change that makes me antsy but fills my loving husband with joy. I've been trying to lay out my concerns, my objections, my considerations, my rules, and my expectations.  I just seem to drive him further into a corner.  I look like the bad guy, when all I want is to set the parameters before we take the next step. I don't want to be in charge.  I will help, but I don't want to be the First Responder.  I'll do errands if they fit, but I don't want to be the one who thinks of them. I don't want to be the responsible party. I don't want to add one more thing to my To Do List. There will be daily chores and long term planning and clean ups and appointments and I start to sweat just typing them to you right now.  I've done it before and I'm not interested in doing it again. Why my sweet husband can...

I spent the afternoon in Little Cuter's backyard.  Their deck chairs are exactly as they should be - waterproof, classy, and comfortable.  Though the pillows are boring, they are fine for now.  Next year, when they are looking sad after 365 days of sunshine, she can replace the covers with something more fun. I don't know why she'd bother, though.  The rest of the yard more than makes up for these plain, brown, wrappers. My girl was never one for gardening.  Then, she became a homeowner.  Now, she barely waits to change her clothes before she and SIR are out in the yard, watering, pruning, tending, cleaning.  I watched the mourning dove poop on the ledge; she came home and wiped it off.  Is this the same human who quailed at the thought of bird droppings on the deck in California? Apparently, paying the mortgage causes a profound change in attitude. If I'd only known that when she was a child, I'd have had her contribute just to get her to love ...

The plan was to have boys.  Only boys.  Girls and I did not get along.  I didn't understand them.   Then, I got the flu.  I also got pregnant.  I got morning sickness, congested nasal passages, and insomnia.   I also got my little girl. If there were two items of clothing which matched, up the stairs she ran to change one of them. Tender-headed, she refused to put a brush or a comb through her hair... which she also refused to cut.  Hair in her eyes made Daddy nutty, so she agreed to headbands and colorful clips. Bangs were never an option; they take too long to grow out.  I chose my battles in those days. She went happily uncombed to pre-school and I didn't care. It's not that I was all that talented in the tonsorial department, anyway. She really wasn't missing very much. She learned to accept a compliment with grace when she was three.  It was a means of protecting herself from unwanted attention to just how cute she wa...

When travel is easy, I wonder why I ever stay home. There was no traffic on the way to the airport, the parking attendant picked up my car keys before I could leave them on the ground in the lot, all the boarding pass kiosks were available, and the gate agent let me walk down the jetway earlier than everyone except the First Class passengers so that no one would bump my still vaguely-unstable-on-uneven-surfaces self. With only one-third of its seats filled, the plane was blissfully peaceful.  Everyone had room to spread out, and the only baby on the flight screeched once and then was silent.  The flight attendants were helpful and unobtrusive, the tail winds got us into O'Hare twenty-nine minutes early, and no one was stupid about getting bags out of the overhead compartments.  I was in the car with Seret and Mr. Dreamy Cakes, on our way to Little Cuter and SIR, in no time.  The traffic was moving, the roads were dry, and we didn't get lost.  Not once. My ...

Google Maps told me it would take 53 minutes from the kids' house to O'Hare. They weren't counting on the drizzle, I guess. Going uphill when the roads are slick seems to touch a  slow down and take care  button in certain drivers, which wouldn't bother me if they slowed down 5 or 10 miles per hour. Tooling along in the left lane at 30mph in a 55mph zone makes no sense to me. ***** And then there were the gawkers. A sedan rear-ended a sports car. The tow trucks and the police were on the scene. All the vehicles were on the shoulder, lights blinking. The officers were taking information as the mechanics were attaching hoists to undercarriages while the drivers were waving their arms and trying to stay dry. How do I know all of this? Because traffic slowed to a crawl, delaying progress for miles. I zipped past as the road opened up in front of me, otherwise I'd have been able to tell you the make and model of the vehicles involved. I let the other cars dawdle...

Yes, that is what Little Cuter emailed me this morning: Throw out the artwork. Allow me to explain.  In preparation for her upcoming nuptials, hosted in our humble abode, I have been purging our personal spaces of detritus.  I have been cleansing with a vengeance. It's not cleaning, per se.  I am sweeping up major piles of dust and debris, but I'm saving the actual washing of the garage floor for Ernie and his big strong guys.  I'm old.  I'm achy.  I'm lazy.  I'll pay. But there are pieces of the task which cannot be accomplished by hired help.  Decisions must be made.  If I let TBG get involved, there will be nothing at all for my grandchildren to discover about their parents; he'd toss it all.  I'm closer to him than he thinks on this issue; what I save I save because I don't want the children to be angry if I dispose of a treasure they thought was safe at home. Big Cuter was horrified that the photo album I created after his G...

Chicago is the best city in the country. You may argue all you'd like, but my opinion is set in stone.  There is culture and the lake and shopping and, of course Little Cuter and SIR.  I'm sure I'd like any city in which my girl and her guy were living, but the best  will still be reserved for the city of big shoulders. There's public transportation with a pass back feature - the monthly bus pass can be used for the holder and 7 of her friends.  Hybrid and clean, the front seats are reserved for the elderly and the infirm and the signs above them remind passengers to Stand up if asked . I took the express bus to Water Tower Place to search for white Converse for the wedding.  It was cloudy when I boarded and pouring when I got off.  Unfortunately, the umbrella I grabbed from the hat rack sported broken ribs.... and I had the bloody thumb to prove it.  Paul Stuart, the upscale clothier,  used to be in the basement of the John Hancock Tower. ...

To Little Cuter, with love. All of a sudden they are grown-ups. You plan for it.  You set standards and expectations and examples.  You know it's coming.  You see the signs of maturity and you applaud them, encourage them, delight in them.  It's a gradual process most of the time. Unless you get shot. All of a sudden they are grown-ups.  They rush to your bedside and monitor your machinery. They hold your foot for an hour and don't complain - instead they laugh with you and try to distract you and they comfort you and, for a while, they are in charge and you are basking in the wonderfulness, the warmth, the excellence of being cared for by someone who gets you , who knows you, who loves you. It comes on like that last sentence, all in a rush.  Like the spring run-off from the mountain tops that turns the dry-for-eleven-months Rillito into a 9' deep raging torrent, you are floating on an unstoppable current.  Along with the discarded sofas an...

From the Little Cuter.  Everyone keeps asking how I’m doing. How we’re doing. There is absolutely no correct way to respond. Do you really want to know? Are you interested in the glossed over version? The version we’ve concocted that is shiny, protective… the Teflon version that we’ve created so that we can keep breathing? Because that version I’ve got down pat. We are doing great! Mom is incredible, a superhero, she is recovering at a rate that I can’t even keep track of. Emotionally, physically, spiritually… she is surpassing every expectation given to us from people who are properly educated in gauging their own opinions. 16 weeks of physical recovery? No way, she’ll be back walking in 10. Emotions? Yeah, this is unspeakable, but she’s got 24-hour access to therapists who are trained in walking you through these kinds of things… ..... These kinds of things … those are the kinds of phrases that keep coming out of my mouth, the kinds of phrases that, the second they enter th...

The Little Cuter and SIR spent the long weekend on a Chicago stay-cation. SIR planned the whole thing; all she had to do was pack. Here's her review of the experience --- my guest post for Friday: Wednesday & Thursday- Harrah ’ s HILARIOUS and good times at the casino … except it ate all my money … . Damn slot machines! I gave up on the slots after I lost $40 and then gained 10 back playing roulette. I ’ ve decided I ’ m no longer intimidated by the tables.... We stuck out like sore thumbs being the only under 60 year olds in the place, but we had a great time nonetheless. I also learned that winning a free dinner buffet might sound like a huge score, but using the coupon after having a few rounds of beers will leave one so uncomfortably bloated that one must retire to the room for an hour and unbutton one ’ s pants whilst groaning. Hint : never eat pizza AND mashed potatoes from one plate . Friday — Bulls Game The NBA is difficult to watch nowadays. The first hal...