We're Glad It's Your Birthday, Dear Emi....

Happy Birthday

 Happy Birthday 

to You!

We gave you a bike

for your birthday.

Go and ride it,

and dream of chocolate cake, too. 

 We hope for a year

full of good things

May your wishes

and your daydreams come true!

It's this kid's birthday today:

Good-by 10, Hello 11!

And she's off, on her way to another great year!

Come on Eileen....It's Your Birthday!

It's my mother's birthday today. I think of her whenever I hear this song, so I decided is would be a fitting tribute for an amazing woman

• who was born during a bombing raid in WWII London sailed a ship to Canada when she was 21 (and during this voyage, she and her best friend had to take over some housekeeping duties due to a virulent bout of seasickness that struck much of the crew!)
  
• dated a man she thought had a horse, but it turned out to be his car (what's a young Brit to think when she hears other girls chatting about Stan and his mustang?) - and married him anyway, despite (or was it because of?) his farming, not, cowboy, stock
  
• is a true citizen of the world, having been recognized as a passport holding denizen of three countries
  
• has worked in industries spreading from Texas oil to the middle of the block, at the sign of the clock and all parts in between
  
• who, most of all, is just who she is. And I'm pretty happy about that.
  

I love ya, mom! Happy Birthday!

I Can Stop Any Time I Want.....

I have an addiction to weather.com. I just can't seem to stop myself from checking the weather report for my area. A couple of times a day. (Sometimes, I even check the conjectures for other locations across the globe, too!) I always look at the feature forecasting the next ten days, while only trusting it's accuracy for the immediate day and giving the next day the benefit of the doubt (usually). Obviously, I have a trust issue with the latest radar technology developed for weather prediction, exhibited by my tendency to check in 3 or 4 (even5?) times a day - usually scanning the current day's presage of temperature, rain, sun, humidity, etc..

See, if today's not panning out like weather.com publishes, then how can I trust any hunches for tomorrow? However, since the atmospheric activity determined for the next ten days, as shown on the climate projection site, is in the ballpark often enough (even if the game's already had tip-off), I still regard that data enough to gauge what laundry must be done so my girls will be appropriately clothed for potential weather conditions materializing in the next week-and-a-half. (It's all about motherhood, the compulsive need to ride the web to my weather website of choice. Just like my enslavement to chocolate. Dark chocolate.....'cause how can you be a mom without daily imbibing of chocolate? Seriously!)

So last night, armed with an insider's recognition of my weather neurosis, and perhaps in an attempt to to spin my mind into a maelstrom, Emi purposefully asked, regarding the weather, "Will yesterday be like today?" Perhaps instead of wearing my confusion all over my face, I should have given the obvious answer, "Why of course, as long as the-day-after-tomorrow's rain is like next Tuesday's wind speed."

Coming Soon.....

We are nearing the end of summer, folks, and you know what that means? My self-imposed hiatus from the world of blogging is also winding down. The new season of the smash hit, Around the Block, with it's cult-like following, promises more thrills, spills, tears and laughter. At once introspective and entertaining, Around the Block treats its 7 fans to a glimpse inside the ordinary life of an ordinary woman in an ordinary world. Her trusty side-kicks provide unexpected comic relief, while her partner-in-crime dispenses timely travel and political advice while inviting the reader to keep a dictionary handy. Need a preview to keep you going until the season is in full swing? Here it is:

In the wee, small hours of the morning, when the whole, wide world is fast asleep, I lie awake*....and wish Annie would stop calling out for me! But I realize, with knowledge acquired through trial and error, that unless I throw back the covers and drag myself out of bed and stumble into Annie's room, the solace I seek on my pillow will not be found. So I do what any other desperate-for-stillness-and-its-blessed-companion-silence mother does: I drag myself across the hall to said room of said child.

me: Annie, what do you need?

Annie: My tummy is hungry. Is it morning time?

me: No, Annie, it's not. Tell your tummy it has to wait until breakfast. See, it's still dark outside. The sun isn't even awake yet. Just go back to sleep. Morning won't come unless you go back to sleep.

Annie, saying calmly: The sun won't wake up in the morning until I am fast asleep.

(I was tempted here. Really tempted. It would be have been so easy to build off of Annie's assumption and run with it - all the way back to my cozy bed. But Ryan, uh, discourages me from telling our kids little white lies - even if  the lie will  take care of the immediate (and perhaps future) issues as well.)
me, struggling against the lure of Annie's conjecture: Uh, it'll just take forever.

Annie: It will? You mean the sun just won't get up in the morning if I don't go back to sleep? The sun doesn't wake up if kids don't go back to sleep?

me: Well, it'll feel like forever. Um, time just passes faster if you're asleep. Sooo, you'd better go back to sleep....so morning can come sooner. (Was that a lie? I mean, time really does seem to go in slow-motion when it's the middle of the night and you should be sleeping, right?)

There was a slight pause, then the conversation, as well as Annie's urge to get up, was laid to rest (no pun intended) with her conclusion, delivered very matter-of-factly:

"The sun will not get up in the morning unless I go to sleep, because the sun doesn't wake up when it gets tired of peoples calling out for their mothers. I think so. We'll ask it in the morning. We'll just wait and see. Good night, Mummy."


In The Wee Small Hours Of  The  Morning by songwriters Bob Hilliard and David Mann