The Burrow

"Put this on the doorknob."  Met by a blank stare, I commented that it wasn't a very complicated instruction. "You don't have door knobs,"  was Mr. 11's accurate if somewhat snarky response. And so it went, for minimum wage plus a tip, last Wednesday. They've been helping me for years; they know the drill. Carrying the ladder and the tall box of large, unbreakable, out-door ornament balls, they required no supervision to get started.  As I sorted and repacked and organized Halloween and Thanksgiving on the garage floor, my young assistants took to their task with all the importance it required.  My neighbors slowed down to wave and smile as my trees grew more festive.  Their work did not exist in a vacuum.  As their satisfied smiles proved, it really was important work. The inside was less prickly, at least as far as the flora was concerned. 11 and 13 are, by nature, testing the waters to see how far they can go, and Decoratin...

http://www.fathead.com/nfl/new-england-patriots/tom-brady-quarterback-wall-graphic/ Dear Mr. 11, I'm sorry, but your Tom Brady Fathead has got to go. I know. I know. I know.  You love your Fathead.  It was a present. It completes your Patriot's Man Cave.   It doesn't matter.  I am the self-appointed Keeper of Morality in Sports, Mr 9 & 11 Division.  Since the only thing I'd change about my Mom is if she knew more about sports  defines your maternal unit's relationship to grown men playing games for profit, it has fallen to me, your faux-grandmother, to intervene. We've already been through the Aaron Hernandez debacle; I remember your surprise when you learned that the first trial was for murdering the people who knew about the murder in the second trial.   TWO murders???  you gasped, and I had to tell you that, in fact, there were three dead people attached to this soon-to-be-former hero.   There were no arguments...

I took the boys to the card and comic store last week. Mr. 11 got off the bus as I was two cars behind its yellow rear. He stopped to get the mail and to pick up the blue recorder Miss Texas had dropped that morning, thus saving it from The Schnozz's tires entering the driveway. He wondered what adventure I had planned for his little brother; he was thrilled to be invited to join us.  "Just send him in to get me," he said, and I did.   The little one was very happy to share the joy with his big brother. It's part of what makes him the kindest kid I know.   We drove down Campbell, looking on the east side of the street. We knew it was near the old Coffee X-Change but we weren't precisely sure. "There it is!" "NO"  "Uh-oh... keep going" "YES!" Who needs Google Maps when there are little boys in the back seat? Walking through the door was a blast from the past. Messers 9 and 11 were easily interchange...

Is it a measure of our times that I re-read the title to this post and wondered if gender identity was implied?  I ponder and pause and parse what I've written because I've spent the last week with my children... and they never miss an opportunity to deconstruct and interpret and tease me about my verbiage.  I love every embarrassing minute of it.  It comes with love and respect and respect for the depth of the love we share.  They know that I can take it, they send it my way with smiles and twinkly eyes, and they are always always always on the alert for any sign that they've hurt my feelings.  Most important, they are very funny and very right.  I'm so involved in the moment that, as TBG reminds them, I often don't let the facts get in the way of a good story.  (I am aware of that as a fundamental truth to much of my life and so I made I conscious decision when I started The Burrow to type only the absolute truth.  Many a post would have be...